Beowulf for Cretins

by Ann McMan

  “I’m not sure what you mean,” Grace replied.

  “You’re not?” Abbie reached out, took hold of Grace’s arms, and pulled her up into a standing position. The powder room was small, so they were plastered against each other. “How’s this for a show of solidarity?” Abbie asked from very close range.

  ‘Solid’ was definitely the right word to describe the sudden condition of Grace’s . . . parts. She knew they were cruising toward certain disaster if they continued any further along this road. “We can’t,” she muttered against Abbie’s hair. “I mean it. I’ll get your dress wet.”

  “I don’t care.” Abbie kissed her.

  “You need to care,” Grace said, after they finally broke apart to breathe. “You have a house full of new employees—and bosses. I can’t let you throw that away on a whim.”

  “This isn’t a whim, Grace. You know that as well as I do.”

  “But we can’t, Abbie. Especially not here, and not now.”

  Abbie leaned her forehead against Grace’s. “I know.”

  Grace sighed. “I wasn’t kidding about one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  Grace pushed back and smiled up at her. “Could you maybe lend me something to wear?”

  Abbie kissed her on the tip of the nose. “Stay right here and let me go see what I can find.”

  “Oh, I promise I’m not going anyplace.”

  Abbie laughed and turned toward the door.

  “Mon dieu!” she took a step backward. “Maman. Qu’est ce que tu fais ici?”

  “I came to speak with you.” Solange Abbot stood in the doorway, blocking their exit. “To suggest we set our differences aside for the remainder of the evening. I see now it was a waste of effort.”

  “Maman . . .” Abbie began.

  Solange stopped her with an upraised palm. “There is nothing to explain, Élisabeth.” She gestured toward Grace, who stood there like a chippie, clutching her wadded-up shirt to her naked chest. “Tu es juste comme ton père.”

  She turned on her heel and swept from the room.

  Abbie and Grace exchanged miserable glances.

  “Merde,” they said in unison.

  # # #

  The rest of the evening was a blur for Grace.

  Abbie did manage to find her a tailored white shirt to wear, although the sleeves were about a foot too long. They both laughed at how many times she had to turn up the cuffs. If anyone suspected where the garment came from, no one asked her about it. Not even Lorrie, who seemed subdued for the rest of the night. Grace was relieved. She didn’t have the stamina to care much about what caused the change in Lorrie’s demeanor—but she suspected CK.

  I’ll have to find a way to thank her for this, Grace thought. Maybe I should relax and let her keep hitting it with Dean in my guestroom.

  No. CK’s act of friendship was great, but not that great.

  After the meal, guests were invited to mill about outside and enjoy the warm evening before the dessert course. It was rumored there might even be fireworks on the quad after nightfall.

  Hell, Grace thought. They’d have to go some to beat the ones going off in that powder room about an hour ago.

  She had the good fortune to hook up with Grady outside. He was a guest at the dinner too, although he had been seated at another table for the meal. He looked very snappy in his lightweight suit and striped bow tie.

  “How’s your night been?” he asked. He was holding a glass of white wine with a couple of ice cubes floating in it—probably a spritzer. Normally, Grace would rag him for having such a candy-ass drink.

  “You really don’t wanna know,” she replied.

  “That sounds ominous.” He looked at her with concern. “You not feeling well?”

  “I’m okay. Just tired. You know how it is the week after a long break—the kids pretty much kick your ass.”

  “Things go okay on the island?” he asked. “I hated to bail on you like that.”

  Grace smiled at him.

  “Things were great.” Better than great, she thought. She wondered how Grady would react when the news got out—as it surely would. “How’s the new baby?”

  “Fat,” he said. “And loud—like every other woman in Karen’s family.”

  “Oh? She had a girl? That’s great. What’d they name her?”

  “Leaf.” He rolled his eyes. “Karen’s sister is a big Thomas Wolfe fan.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “Nope. Her firstborn’s name is Stone.”

  “Look Homeward Angel?” Grace asked.

  He nodded.

  “I hope she never has a third one.”

  Grady laughed. “I ran into your brother at Walmart. He said he dropped off some shiplap.”

  “He did—but I’d call it potential shiplap. It’s maybe enough to do a small section of wall—like behind the dining table. That was Dean’s thought, anyway.”

  “Yeah. Maybe.” Grady sounded uncharacteristically unenthusiastic about the project. Normally he’d be all about discussing improvements to the cabin.

  “What’s up?” she asked.

  He looked at her with a guilty expression. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re acting weird.”

  “No I’m not.”

  “Grady, come on. I know you. You’re just like me. You live and breathe to get out there and work on that damn cabin. What’s up?”

  He took a drink of his spritzer. “Nothing’s up.”

  “Dude.”

  “Come on, Grace. This isn’t the place to discuss it.”

  So, there was an ‘it’ to discuss. She knew it. There was only one reason for him to be so cagey—and it had to have something to do with Karen.

  “I don’t agree. Besides,” she said, “my week has been so shitty, I could use a good diversion.”

  He sighed.

  “Are you and Karen okay?”

  “Yeah.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “It’s not about us. Not directly, anyway.”

  “Well then, what is it? Come on, man. You know you can tell me anything.”

  He met her gaze. His brown eyes looked wary.

  “I got a job at St. Anselm. That’s partly why I went along with Karen for the damn labor vigil. They made the offer on Friday.” He reached out and took hold of Grace’s arm. “I really didn’t want to tell you like this, Grace. It was a long shot—and I never thought I had a chance at it. But it’s a tenure-track position, and I need to think about my family. You know? I can’t keep teaching here with no real job security. You know that well enough.”

  Grace nodded sadly.

  Of course, he was leaving. How could it be otherwise?

  Grady and CK were her best friends on the faculty. Hell. They were her best friends period—at least in Vermont. Losing him would suck. It would be a tremendous blow to her in just about every way. There were few things she enjoyed more than her days out on Butler Island with Grady, working to transform that indifferent fishing shack into something worthy of HGTV.

  “I’ll really miss you, man,” she said. “More than you’ll ever know.”

  His eyes softened. “There are a lot of things about leaving here that’ll be hard for me—but leaving you, and all our times together at the cabin—that’ll be the hardest.”

  Grace was doing her best to keep her focus on Grady and not herself. She was also trying hard not to cry. What she most wanted to do was go find a dark corner where she could sit down and wail about the cascading injustices in her life. “When are you gonna leave?”

  “As soon as finals are over. Eddie said he could hire an adjunct to pick up my spring classes. I hated doing that to him, but they need me to start teaching a winter-term seminar in January.”

  “Are you looking for a place in Manchester?”

  “Karen is,” he said. “But I’d rather find something out toward Concord. Away from her mother.”

  Grace squeezed his arm. “You’ll let me know how I can help? I
mean it.”

  “Sure.” He looked down at his shoes. “You can maybe help me clear out the cabin?”

  Grace felt her heart sink. “You aren’t keeping it?”

  He shook his head. “Karen wants to sell it. She thinks we can get a pretty penny for it if we put it on the market right away—before the season ends. Our hope is that it’ll give us a decent-sized cash down payment for a house. You know we’ve been living in college-owned housing here. The rent’s been so high we haven’t been able to save much toward buying a home.”

  The last thing Grace wanted to do was make Grady’s news about herself. But it was becoming impossible not to feel like god’s favorite whipping post. Losing the cabin was just about the last off-ramp on her joy ride along the highway to hell.

  “I know how hard this is gonna be for you, Grace,” Grady said apologetically. “It’s gonna suck for me, too. And I don’t think even I love it half as much as you do.”

  She had a thought. “There’s no one in Karen’s family who wants to keep it? As a weekend place or a rental?”

  He shook his head. “We already asked. I think family enthusiasm for the place waned once they learned the truth about how Uncle Martin used it as a trysting place.” He touched her on the arm. “I wish you could buy it.”

  She sighed. “I do, too. But there’s no way. I’m up to my eyeballs in renovation expenses on the house. I nearly lost my shirt when Denise departed the pattern—it depleted most of my savings. Besides, there’s no guarantee I’ll get tenure—and if I don’t, I won’t be far behind you getting out of here.”

  “Come on, Grace. You’re a shoo-in for it. Everybody knows that Blowjob is nothing more than a self-important windbag.”

  Grace had to smile at Grady’s use of CK’s nickname for Bryce.

  “I wish I could count on that, Grady. But you never know how things might turn out. I have to be prepared for any outcome.” Especially these days, she thought.

  “Well, I just don’t see them letting you go. You’re practically a poster child for the new St. Albans ‘Integrated Instruction Module.’ They’d like nothing more than to clone you.”

  Grace shrugged. She wasn’t sure how news of her getting caught, half-naked, in a clinch with the new president—by the president’s mother—would go over with the dean. And that was only if Abbie’s vindictive maman decided to make mischief. She also had Brittney to worry about. And Bryce—if Brittney chose to enlighten him about Grace’s cozy, weekend boat tour of the islands with Abbie. And then there was Lorrie—as crazed a loose cannon as she’d ever encountered. Not to mention anyone else who might have seen her doing the walk of shame when she snuck out of Abbie’s house at dawn the other morning.

  Oh, yeah. She’d teed this one up nicely. By these calculations, she’d be packing up her own shit by midterms.

  “Come on, Grady.” Grace squeezed his arm. “Get rid of that and let me buy you a real drink to celebrate your good news.”

  He looked down at his wineglass. “I thought the drinks here were free?”

  “Okay, then. Let’s allow the new president to buy us both a drink.”

  When they reached the bar, Grace wagged a floppy sleeve at Derek.

  “Hey, handsome,” she called out. “Hook a sister up?”

  # # #

  The event planners had to bail on the fireworks when a light rain began to fall. It hadn’t been predicted, of course. But in Vermont, weather predictions had the forecast integrity of fortune cookies.

  Grace wasn’t really sorry. She knew she probably wouldn’t have any more private time with Abbie—not after getting busted by her mother. For her part, Solange Abbot disappeared and didn’t return for the rest of the meal, or the dessert. Her husband made apologies for her and said she had come down with a migraine—an effect of traveling down from Québec City that same day.

  Abbie seemed to relax once her mother was subtracted from the equation. She moved among the guests with grace and ease, charming everyone with her keen intellect, personal warmth and good humor. When Grace could manage to step back and view her without the distortions added by her twin lenses of anxiety and attraction, she had to admit that Abbie truly was an exceptional choice for St. Allie’s—or for any top tier college. It was easy to imagine that under the leadership of President Williams, the little college that could might actually do—and by doing, accede to greater academic heights and more lucrative advancement prospects than anyone had reason to believe. Already, the normally cantankerous faculty was standing up a little taller and talking in guarded, although hopeful terms, of what all might finally be possible with a real academic at the helm.

  Grace just wished—as she always seemed to be wishing lately—that she could find a way to remove herself as a variable in Abbie’s potential for success.

  Damn you, Rizzo, for throwing us into each other’s paths.

  But that wasn’t fair. Whether she’d first met Abbie on a plane bound for San Francisco, or in the parking lot at Price Chopper in Alburgh—the outcome would’ve been the same. At least, it would’ve been the same for her. She knew that now. She was in love with Abbie. That was the truth—plain and unvarnished. She had felt stirrings of it within about five minutes of meeting her—but she understood it without a doubt when she opened that cabin door and saw Abbie standing there in the rain—looking uncertain and undaunted at the same time.

  Abbie’s bravery was a behavioral poser for Grace. She wasn’t used to it. She’d certainly never had much experience with it in her own adult life. Bravery had always been the provenance of other parts of the relationship domain—remote areas that Grace never had occasion to visit. But Abbie? Abbie was different. Abbie inhabited a realm where bravery was a first response—not a last resort.

  It took some getting used to. It was an acquired taste—like learning to appreciate things that didn’t naturally occur together. Salt and chocolate. Vinegar and French fries. Grilled cheese and fig jam. Grace and Abbie.

  Yeah. They were a walking paradox, all right—an explosive collision of diametric opposites. There was no earthly reason why they should work together.

  And yet?

  And yet, they did. In all those gloriously confounding ways that should have been celebrated as an eighth wonder of the world—next in line to the Lighthouse of Alexandria. Hell. They should be able to sell tickets. And offer concessions—comestibles that were testaments to all the other unlikely combinations that somehow worked.

  She felt the familiar chafing of her spiritual hair shirt. None of this would ever happen. The hoofbeats were growing louder. And this time, they were zebras—not horses.

  She glanced at her watch. It was nearly nine. She needed to make her goodbyes and head home.

  Tonight, she would join Grendel on the back steps and howl in the rain.

  Chapter Eight

  On Saturday morning, Grace decided to indulge herself and walk to the Catalyst Coffee Bar on Main Street. She was an early riser, and she figured if she got there before eight, she’d luck out and snag a table in a quiet corner of the normally bustling establishment.

  She was right. There were only three other patrons when she arrived—a retired professor from the religion department, Dr. Something-Slavic, and a couple of sweaty coeds in running clothes. Grace ordered her large siphon coffee and retreated to an obliging corner with her copy of The Burlington Free Press.

  The Saturday paper was usually a quick read. It always amazed Grace that the 24-hour news cycle more or less ground to a halt at midnight on Fridays. She prepared herself to be inundated with tales of whatever petty larcenies had occurred overnight, previews of live music concerts, obituaries, sensational pet stories, and rumors of what was likely to unfold in season eight of Game of Thrones. So, it surprised her when she opened the local news section of the paper and saw an interview with some of the headlining speakers at a UVM-sponsored #MeToo rally planned for the next day at City Hall Park near the Church Street mall. The three women profiled hailed from dif
ferent ethnic and socioeconomic backgrounds. Two of them came from retail and banking backgrounds, one had been a high school teacher. None of them were native Vermonters.

  She read the article’s profiles of the three women with interest.

  April Gagnon worked second shift in the grocery department of a Target store for more than five years. One night, the shift supervisor cornered her behind the walk-in cooler and threatened her with termination if she refused to perform oral sex on him. April was an unwed mother who was barely making ends meet, and she was terrified of losing her coveted job in a small town with few employment opportunities. As the abuse continued night after night, April became more traumatized, fearing disclosure as much as termination. She knew from experience that no one would believe her if she came forward. It was only when April discovered by accident that the supervisor was similarly abusing two other female employees that she summoned the courage to report him to the store manager. Predictably, he denied the allegations and April was terminated. The growth of the #MeToo movement gave her the courage and the community to finally tell her story without fear of censure or reprisal. After April’s public disclosure, five other employees of the Target store came forward to share their own stories. It took more than two years, but eventually, the offending supervisor was fired and faced charges in civil court for his crimes against the women.

  Former teller Ja’nelle Hopkins worked for many years at a large, suburban Boston bank. Because she was a woman of size, Ja’nelle endured a constant barrage of lewd comments about her body shape and was subjected to boorish patterns of behavior from three male managers, who frequently made her the brunt of crude sexual innuendos. She described a locker room culture that rewarded men who delivered consistently weak and inferior performances with bonuses and raises that far outstripped the advancement pace of any of the harder working women employed at the bank. Ja’nelle and eight other employees banded together and filed a group grievance with the HR department at the bank’s headquarters in Boston. Their courageous and unflagging efforts attracted the attention of local media outlets, igniting a broader investigation, which ultimately exposed an entrenched corporate culture that had suppressed and concealed similar complaints by female employees for many decades.