Beowulf for Cretins

by Ann McMan

  Had she accidentally left the printout anyplace where the pages might have become separated from the rest of the manuscript?

  The only thing that occurred to her was the night Abbie showed up on the island and the pages got knocked off the sofa when they . . . became otherwise engaged.

  But that couldn’t have been it because Abbie picked them up and re-collated them in the morning before she started reading the book outside. She remembered because Abbie told her about it. So, she knew the pages had been present when she came home from Butler Island on Monday.

  So what had happened to them?

  Dean?

  There was no way. Dean could barely read a TV Guide. And no one else had access to her house. Unless . . .

  No. CK would have no reason to snoop around in Grace’s office after her trysts with Dean. That would never happen.

  But if not CK, who?

  Grace bit her lip in frustration. Only one way to find out.

  She picked up her phone and punched CK’s number from her contacts list.

  “Hey,” CK said when she answered. “How was the rally? Did you meet her again?”

  “I did, actually,” Grace said. “It wasn’t at all what I expected.”

  “Really? What were you expecting?”

  Grace thought about it. “I honestly don’t know. Maybe for her to be more like she was?”

  “That’s an interesting idea. Are you like you were?”

  “No . . .”

  “Then why would you expect her to be as she was?”

  “I’m not saying it made sense, CK.” Grace was glad to have this confirmation that her instinct for not asking CK to go along with her had been correct.

  “Okay,” CK said. “So, how was she different?”

  “You mean, apart from her not being a nun anymore?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I think the biggest change is her attitude toward God and the church.” Grace tried to think about an expeditious way to frame everything that Merry Larry said about her new path. “She wanted the latitude to explore her sexuality in ways the church didn’t allow or sanction. I can understand that part—no problem. What’s a harder leap for me is to get a handle on why she felt she had to abandon all the things that formed her moral compass—things that, for me, exist in a place outside doctrinal definition.”

  CK was quiet for a moment. “So, you’re saying she’s now an agnostic?”

  “I’m not really sure. In fact, I don’t know if she’s really sure what she is. She said she still believed in God—but in God with a little g.”

  “Well, that’s a difference without a whole lot of significance.”

  “Maybe to you. But, then, you weren’t raised Catholic.”

  “True,” CK agreed. “I sometimes think my parents were raised by wolves.”

  “That would explain a lot.”

  “Did your apostate ex-nun have any other pearls of wisdom to impart?”

  “Yeah.” Grace wasn’t sure about how much to reveal. “Essentially, she eschews wishful thinking and blind adherence to any belief that things will just work out the way they should.”

  “Meaning, you should take life by the balls and go after what you want?”

  “Damn. You’re pretty good at cutting through the chaff to find the wheat.”

  CK chuckled. “Makes you rethink what I see in your brother, doesn’t it?”

  “Not really.”

  “And you think I’m a tough nut to crack.”

  “I’m not kidding, CK. The revolution in this woman’s character has rattled me to my core. It’s not that I’ve lived my life according to her precepts—I haven’t. But she was a seminal figure in my upbringing, and she functioned like a touchstone for me. I learned to understand the world and my place in it by defining things in relation to her—like an infant who struggles to learn the difference between me and not me.”

  “That’s a self-actualization process that each of us goes through,” CK explained. “If we’re lucky,” she added. “It always amazes me to confront how many unexamined lives are swirling around out there. Plato must’ve read Camus.”

  “I think you have that in the wrong order.”

  “You know what I mean. What was Camus’ immortal epitaph for modern man? Something about fornication?”

  Grace rolled her eyes. Of course CK would go straight to the basest summation of human frailty. “‘He fornicated and read the papers,’” she quoted.

  “Bingo. That’s the one. Genius in my view.”

  “Apropos of Camus, I have stumbled upon a narrative mystery of my own.”

  “What’s that?” CK asked.

  “I got home from the rally intending to grade a section of theme papers from one of my 101 sections. But the new heights of linguistic mutilation they presented killed any energy I had for the enterprise. So I thought I’d try something else.”

  “Binge drinking?” CK offered.

  “Close. I hauled out my manuscript and started reworking the chapter I wrote last weekend.”

  “So what’s the problem? You run out of ideas for ways to keep rewriting the same scenes? Or are you finally taking my advice and putting some skin in the game?” She chuckled. “Skin on skin, if you get my drift.”

  “CK, a painting cannot have sex.”

  “Grace, a painting can’t engage in Socratic dialogues, either. So, if you’re going down this whole magic realism road, why not extend the metaphor and let Ochre get horizontal with a few of her captors? I’m telling you—it would sell, like, a zillion more copies.”

  “At this rate, it’s not going to sell any copies.”

  “What are you talking about? The book is fabulous.”

  “I appreciate the vote of confidence, but I called to tell you that about seventy-five pages of the printout are missing.”

  “So?” CK was unfazed. “Just open the Word file and reprint them. You do save backups, right?”

  “Of course. But this is unsettling to me. I’ve only allowed two people to read the hardcopy—and you’re one of them.”

  “Who’s the other?”

  It was clear to Grace that CK was dodging her implied question. “That’s immaterial.”

  “No, it isn’t—not if you’re suggesting that I stole the pages.”

  Grace considered belaboring the point, but knew it would be a meaningless exercise. “It was Abbie.”

  “Of course it was. And have you asked her about the missing content?”

  “No. I thought I’d start with the usual suspect.”

  CK sighed. “I appreciate the vote of confidence, Grace. But what the fuck would I do with seventy-five pages from your lugubrious work in progress? Send them off to a literary agent who represents other wanna-be authors like Julia Alvarez and Lorrie Moore?”

  Grace closed her eyes. This was not happening.

  “Please tell me you’re being anecdotal.”

  “Hmmmm. Not so much.”

  “CK . . .”

  “Don’t get your knickers in a knot.” Grace could hear CK typing something into her computer. “Here it is. I was gonna wait and regale you with this later on, after the canonization But, hey. No time like the present. Let’s see here . . . email received on Thursday at 10:24 a.m. Lemme read it to you:

  Dear CK,

  Thanks so much for putting Grace Warner’s manuscript in front of me. Very captivating and innovative story. I agree that she has an engaging style and should get a welcome reception at the right press. I passed it on the same day to Kathy over at Algonquin Books, thinking they’d be the best fit for a first-time author. Their submissions editor is generally quick at saying yay or nay, so I’ll let you know what I hear back. If they take a pass on it, I have a few other places in mind. U. of Wisconsin is making a name for itself in the literary fiction market, so we could give them a go. I’ll be in touch soon.

  And are you ever going to let me shop that monograph of yours around? Ira at Simon & Schuster keeps asking me about it. Heard you�
��re presenting at the NY Innovators in Science Awards in October. Maybe we can connect while you’re in town?

  Best,

  Stuart

  CK paused before continuing. “Oh, he also added a postscript related to the small matter of actually getting you to sign with him, since he got you a gig. No escaping that part, I suppose.”

  Grace was speechless. “CK, I don’t need a literary agent. I don’t have anything worth shopping around.”

  “Yeah? Well you might need to reconsider that because I heard back from him this afternoon, while you were off doing your whole dark-night-of-the-soul thing at that pussy hat shindig. To put it bluntly, it looks like Algonquin wants the book.”

  “What?” Grace didn’t think she’d heard CK correctly.

  “Yeah. Some dude named Brunson is going to be calling you within the next couple of days, so I suggest you pick up the phone. I gather he’s going to offer you a decent-sized advance and an option on your next book.”

  Grace’s head was spinning. “What next book?”

  CK chuckled. “The one I told him you were writing.”

  “CK—the first one isn’t even finished yet.”

  “Yes it is. You’ve written about fourteen endings—just pick one and be done with it.”

  “I’m going to fucking kill you . . .”

  “I doubt it. Why are you so bent out of shape about this? It’s what you wanted, right?”

  “No. It’s what you wanted.”

  “You say potato . . .”

  “I don’t fucking believe this.”

  “Well,” CK exhaled dramatically into the phone. “You’d better start wrapping your head around it—which means you first have to pull it outta your ass. Opportunities like this don’t come along all that often—so don’t fuck it up.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Lemme give you an idea. How about, ‘Hello, Abbie? You won’t believe what just happened.’”

  “Go to hell, CK.”

  “Way ahead of you,” she cackled. “You can thank me later, home girl.” She disconnected.

  Grace sat holding the phone against her ear for so long her hand grew numb.

  Ochre was going to be published? By a real press? And they were going to pay her for it? In advance?

  Shit like this didn’t happen to her. Now . . . falling off a damn garden trellis? Or falling in love with her boss? That was the kind of shit that happened to her.

  But CK said it was for real.

  She really was going to kill CK for doing this. How dare she make such a brazen assumption?

  Who was she kidding? It was CK. She probably did shit like this a dozen times a day.

  God, I need a drink. She got up and headed for her kitchen.

  And I guess I’d better tell Eddie that I was just blowing smoke about Ann Patchett ghostwriting my novel . . .

  Chapter Nine

  In the morning, Grace needed to make a quick stop at her office on her way to the St. Allie’s convocation center. Bryce had called her at 7:30 and said he had something urgent to share with her and asked if he could meet her at her office at nine, before the inauguration. She felt like an idiot dragging her academic regalia with her, but she knew she wouldn’t have time to run back home to fetch it. All faculty members were expected to be garbed-up and in line by half past nine. She was going to be marching in beside Bryce, so she wondered why he couldn’t just talk with her then, while they waited to enter the great hall after the board of trustees, and ahead of Abbie—who would enter the hall last. He told her he would only need a few minutes of her time, and that he preferred to speak to her in private.

  Grace was smart enough to see through his subterfuge. Besides, Bryce had a tell: his grammar became even more imperiously precise when he was nervous—or excited. She wasn’t positive about what drove him to ask for a private audience, but she suspected it probably had something to do with Abbie. At this point, she felt things were coming down so fast and furious she didn’t have the stamina to waste time worrying about whatever he was going to hit her with. Besides, she had more than a slight hangover skirting around her frayed edges after last night’s dalliance with a new bottle of Rémy.

  So, Blowjob could blow her . . .

  She smiled at her own wit. Pretty amazing, considering the world, as she knew it, was turning upside down or inside out or in any direction that was exactly opposite to how she normally experienced it.

  And she was still pissed at CK . . .

  She’d barely finished her first cup of coffee when her phone rang. The caller ID read Chapel Hill, North Carolina.

  She stared at the phone as it continued to ring.

  One guess who this is . . .

  In fact, the editor in chief at Algonquin Books was . . . wonderful. She seemed unfazed by Grace’s customary self-deprecation, and spoke in glowing terms about the book, its quirky subject matter and innovative narrative structure. And she was a good friend of Ann Patchett’s who, she said, spoke very highly of Grace’s work at Vanderbilt.

  That led Grace to an entirely new level of panic. This shit was getting real.

  By the end of the call, they had a virtual handshake agreement, and Grace had an assurance that the relevant paperwork would be transmitted later that day via a secure e-sign document service. The editor told Grace to take as much time as she needed, and to feel free to have the terms of the contract reviewed by her personal legal counsel—assuring her that they were offering her an industry standard contract with a rider that gave them an option on Grace’s next book, if she chose to stay on with them.

  And they were paying her a very handsome signing advance.

  Grace said she’d like until the end of the week to think it over, and the editor said that was just fine.

  But Grace knew she was taking the offer. She had to. And given whatever Bryce was about to hit her with, she’d likely need this contract—and its handsome advance—to make ends meet until she could cobble together another teaching arrangement someplace else. That part wouldn’t be too hard if she were willing to swallow her pride and pick up adjunct courses at Champlain College or UVM. Losing her health insurance would be the worst part—along with having to start over, teaching multiple sections of ‘Intro to Anything.’

  But she checked the employee manual, and she could stay covered under COBRA until she found a way to get coverage that was more affordable. And she’d just have to work something out with Dean to slow down the renovation work on her house. She loved her house, and she had too much invested in it to give it up. And, frankly, she didn’t want to be too far away from Abbie.

  Assuming, of course, that Abbie would even want her to remain nearby.

  She passed several other faculty members headed across the quad with their gowns slung over their shoulders. Inaugurating a new president was a big event in the life of a college and today, Abbie was pulling off a whole slew of firsts. First president under age fifty to take the oath of office. First president to hold dual citizenship in the US and Canada. First president to have a PhD in classics—not religion. First president to be a woman.

  And first president to be gay . . .

  That last one was perhaps the most remarkable. And it was the one milestone not generally known by the community.

  At least, not yet.

  It was her hope that if push came to shove, she could make a graceful exit before it did become public knowledge. That way, Abbie could roll the news out in any way that suited her—if ever she chose to roll it out at all.

  Bryce was waiting for her when she reached her third-floor office in Ames Hall. He was striding up and down the hallway, taking anxious looks at his watch about every five seconds. The monogrammed garment bag containing his regalia was neatly draped over a chair outside her door. His blue cap sat atop the bag. Bryce always wore an eight-cornered velvet tam, and that fact always amused Grace because she found it to be fussy and ostentatious. Her own tam was a circa 1932 castoff she’d found more than a d
ecade ago at a thrift store in Nashville. It had the initials C.C.V. embroidered inside its headband. She loved to manufacture stories about how it had originally belonged to either Commodore Cornelius Vanderbilt—or to the person who invented the three-digit code on the backs of most major credit cards.

  “Hi, Bryce. I hope I haven’t kept you waiting?”

  “Grace.” He turned to face her. “No. You’re actually right on time.”

  Grace unlocked her door. “C’mon inside.”

  Bryce followed her into the office and carefully closed the door once they both had entered. He sat down without waiting for Grace to invite him to do so.

  “So.” Grace took a seat behind her desk because her office only had two chairs. “Your request was awfully mysterious, Bryce. Don’t keep me in suspense any longer. What’s up?”

  “Since you seem to be so eager, I’ll get right to the point.” He leaned forward on his chair. “Brittney McDaniel came to see me last week—and she was very upset.”

  Here it comes . . .

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Bryce. Why was she upset?”

  “It seems she had the misfortune to see you last weekend at Burton Island, gallivanting on a boat with our next president.”

  “Gallivanting?” Grace saw no reason to deny it. She was certain it would be in the public domain soon enough. “That doesn’t sound like a word Brittney would use, Bryce. And, believe me, I’ve read enough of her tortured prose to be certain.”

  “I’m glad you think you can make light of something so serious, Grace. I daresay the dean won’t share your casual approach to considerations of what constitutes professional conduct when I meet with him tomorrow morning.”

  “I’m intrigued, Bryce. Why would Dr. Meeker care if I offered a boat ride to Dr. Williams—in public—ten days before she became our new president?”

  Bryce smiled at her. It gave her the creeps.

  “I think when he evaluates that event in concert with the revelation that the president-elect made a late-night visit to your home—followed shortly after by a sighting of you, sneaking out of her residence at dawn—he’ll be inclined to view the matter more seriously.”