Just back from talking with the Professor about Lolita for a half hour. He told me his favorite line (“Most of the dandelions had changed from suns to moons,” pg. 73). At one point, he said “nymphet,” and hearing that word made me want to tear him open and eat him.
He picked up on something strange about me, how deeply I know the novel. When I referenced some little detail—Humbert’s attraction to his first wife because of how her foot looked in a black velvet slipper—the Professor asked, “Are you reading this for another class, or . . . ?” Meaning, how do I know the book so well? I told him it’s mine. That it belongs to me.
I said, “You know how sometimes there’s a book that’s yours?” And he nodded, like he understood exactly.
I’m sure his intentions are pure, that he thinks I’m a bright girl with good insights, but then there are moments like this: before I left his office he watched me pull on my coat. I couldn’t find my sleeve, stumbled a little as I groped around for it. He made a small movement then, like he was about to help me, but stopped himself, controlled himself. His eyes, though, were soft, so soft. S. is the only other person who’s ever looked at me that way.
Am I being greedy or delusional? Another affair with a teacher, give me a break. Lightning doesn’t strike twice, etc. But if it did happen, would it even be considered the same sort of thing? The basic facts are much more palatable: twenty-one instead of fifteen, thirty-four instead of forty-two. Two consenting adults. Scandal or relationship, who’s to say?
Obviously I’m getting ahead of myself, but I also know what I am, what I could become.
At my poetry press internship, we prepare for the arrival of a prominent poet who is coming to town for his book release. Jim, the other intern, and I spend two weeks designing press materials, showing the press materials to our boss and the assistant director of the press, then redesigning, and redesigning again. When asked if I want to drive to Portland to pick up the poet from the airport, I grab the chance. I plan out what I’ll wear, make a list of conversation topics for the hour drive back to campus. I even print off copies of my best poems in the dream case scenario that he takes an interest in me, though it feels embarrassingly presumptuous.
On the day before the poet arrives, Eileen, the director of the press, finds me in the kitchen, filling the electric kettle with water.
“Vanessa, hi,” she says, stretching out her vowels so long it sounds as though she’s offering consolation for some tragedy. I didn’t even realize she remembered my name. She hasn’t spoken to me since my interview last spring.
“So Robert will be here tomorrow,” she says, “and I know you said you’d pick him up from the airport, but Robert can be a bit, you know . . .” She looks at me expectantly. When I only stare back at her, she continues in a whisper. “He can be kind of forward. You know—handsy.”
I blink in surprise, still holding the electric kettle. “Oh, ok.”
“There was an incident at the last event we held for him, though ‘incident’ is too strong a word. It was nothing, really. But it might be best for you to steer clear. Just to be safe. Do you understand what I’m getting at?”
My face burning, I nod so hard the water sloshes around inside the kettle. Eileen blushes, too. She seems mortified to be telling me this.
“So should I not pick him up from the airport?” I ask, assuming she’ll say no, don’t be silly, of course I should, but instead Eileen grimaces, like she doesn’t want to say yes but has to anyway.
“I think that’s for the best. I thought I’d ask James if he’d be willing.”
I almost ask, James? but realize she means Jim.
“Thank you for being so understanding, Vanessa,” Eileen says. “It really means a lot.”
For the rest of the afternoon, I sort through submissions, reading but retaining nothing, my heart racing and teeth chattering. The way Eileen said “it might be best for you to steer clear” makes my skin crawl. I can’t stop hearing it. The way she said “you,” like I’m a liability.
For the rest of the semester, I let my pot run out, stop drinking so much. It happens by accident, a realization that I’ve been sober for a week and a half without even trying. I do the dishes, clean the bathroom. I even do laundry on a regular basis and don’t let it get to the point where I have to wear bikini bottoms as underwear.
I see Henry Plough on campus all the time. Three times a week, we pass each other in the student center. While I’m reshelving books at my library job, he appears around a corner and nearly collides with the cart. He’s three people ahead of me in line at the coffee shop beneath my apartment, and my stomach flips at him being so close to where I sleep. Sometimes, when we pass each other, I pounce on him, ask stupid questions I already know the answers to about the seminar. One day as I walk by him, I reach over and playfully punch his arm, and he grins in surprise. Other days, when it feels like I’ve been acting too desperate, I ignore him, pretend I don’t know him. If he says hi, I narrow my eyes.
His term paper is my last one, finished Friday afternoon of finals week. With the paper still warm from the printer, I hurry across campus, past the empty parking lots and darkened buildings, to catch him in his office. Inside, the English department hallway is a line of closed doors—including Henry’s, but I know he’s in there. I checked before I came in and saw his lit-up window.
Rather than knock, I slip my essay under the door, hoping he’ll see it, notice my name on the first page, and lunge for the door. I hold my breath and the knob turns, then opens.
“Vanessa.” He says my name in that awestruck way. Plucking my essay off the floor, he asks, “How did this turn out? I’ve been looking forward to reading it.”
I lift my shoulders. “Your expectations shouldn’t be too high.”
He flips through the first couple of pages. “Of course my expectations are high. Everything you turn in is wonderful.”
I linger in the doorway, unsure what to do. Now that my paper is done and the semester finished, I don’t have any excuses to talk to him. He sits turned toward me, leaning slightly forward, the body language of someone who wants you to stay. I need to hear him say it. Our eyes lock.
“You can sit,” he says. It’s an invitation, but still leaves it up to me.
I choose to sit, to stay, and we’re silent for a moment, until I smile and gesture—generously, I think—to the now-overloaded bookshelves above his desk. “Your office is such a mess.”
He relaxes. “It is a mess.”
“I shouldn’t criticize,” I say. “I’m messy, too.”
He looks around at the stack of manila folders that threatens to spill over, the uninstalled printer on the edge of his desk and its mess of cords. “I tell myself I prefer it this way, but that’s probably just self-delusion.”
I bite my bottom lip, remembering all the times I’ve said the same thing to Strane. My eyes dart around the office, fall on the tallest bookshelf where two unopened beers sit among the books. “You’re hiding booze in here.”
He looks to where I’m pointing. “If I’m trying to hide it, I’m doing a pretty bad job.” He stands, turns the bottles so I can see their labels: shakespeare stout.
“Ah,” I say. “Nerd beer.”
He grins. “In my defense, they were a gift.”
“What are you saving them for?”
“I’m not sure I’m saving them for anything.”
It’s obvious what the next thing out of my mouth will be. He seems to hold his breath waiting for me to say the words:
“What about right now?”
I say it so jokingly, it should be easy for him to respond, Vanessa, I don’t think that’s a good idea. Maybe if another student asked him, it would be. But he doesn’t even pretend to deliberate. He just holds up his hands, as though I’ve twisted his arm and he can’t fight anymore.
“Why not?” he says.
Then I’m taking out my keys because I have a bottle opener key chain, and we’re clinking bottles, the fizz fr
om the warm beer going all the way up my nose. Watching him drink is like peering behind a curtain. I see him at a bar, at home, sitting on the couch, lying in bed. I wonder if he grades papers late at night, if he keeps mine at the bottom of the pile, purposely saved for last.
No—he isn’t like that. He’s good, outright boyish, flashing me a sheepish grin before tipping back the bottle. I’m the one with ulterior motives. I’m the corruptor, luring him into a trap. I almost tell him to smarten up, stop being so trusting. Henry, you can’t drink beers in your office with a student. Do you understand how stupid this is, how easily it could get you into trouble?
He asks if I’m taking his gothic seminar next semester and I say I’m not sure, that I haven’t signed up for anything yet.
“You should get on that,” he says. “You’re running out of time.”
“I always leave it until the last minute. I’m a fuckup.” I throw back the bottle and take a long swallow. Fuckup. I like how it feels to describe myself as that to Henry, who has spent so much time praising my brain.
“Sorry for being crass,” I add.
“It’s fine,” he says, and I see a slight change in his expression, a shade of concern.
He asks questions about my other classes, my future plans. Have I thought any more about graduate school? It’s too late to apply for the fall, but I can get a head start on applications for next year.
“I don’t know,” I say. “My parents didn’t even go to college.” I’m not sure what that has to do with anything, but Henry nods like he understands.
“Neither did mine,” he says.
If I decide to apply, he says, he’ll help me navigate the process, and my brain catches on his choice of verb—navigate. I see a map spread out across a desk, our heads huddled together. We’ll figure this out, Vanessa. You and me.
“I remember how daunting it was when I first thought about applying,” Henry says. “It felt like embarking on totally unfamiliar territory. You know, before coming here I was at a prep school for a year, and it was strange, teaching those kids. Sometimes it seemed as though entitlement was instilled in them at birth.”
“I went to a school like that,” I say. “For a couple years, anyway.”
He asks which school, and when I say Browick, he seems rattled. He sets his beer bottle on the desk, clasps his hands together. “The Browick School?” he asks. “In Norumbega?”
“You’ve heard of it?”
He nods. “Strange coincidence. I, uh . . .”
I wait for him and beer settles in my mouth, for a moment my throat too tight to swallow. “I have a friend who works there,” he says.
Nausea surges up my throat, and my hands tremble so badly, I knock over my bottle as I try to set it down. It’s nearly empty, but a little spills onto the floor.
“Oh god, I’m sorry,” I say, righting the bottle, knocking it over again, then giving up and tossing it into the garbage can.
“Hey, it’s fine.”
“It spilled.”
“It’s fine.” He laughs like I’m being silly, but when I push my hair back from my face, he sees I’m crying, but it’s not normal crying. This is just tears showing up on my cheeks. I’m not even sure they’re coming from my eyes when I cry like this. It feels more like being wrung out, like a sponge.
“This is so embarrassing,” I say, wiping my nose with the back of my hand. “I’m an idiot.”
“Don’t.” He shakes his head, baffled. “Don’t say that. You’re fine.”
“What does your friend do? Is he a teacher?”
“No,” he says. “She’s a—”
“‘She’? It’s a she?”
He nods, looking so concerned, I imagine I could confess anything and he would hear it. I can feel his kindness already, before I say a word.
“Do you know anyone else who works there?” I ask.
“No one,” he says. “Vanessa, what’s wrong?”
“I was raped by a teacher there,” I say. “I was fifteen.” I’m shocked at how smoothly the lie comes out of me, though I don’t know if I’m lying or just not telling the truth. “He’s still there,” I add. “So when you said that you knew someone, it just . . . I panicked.”
Henry brings his hands to his face, to his mouth. He picks his beer back up, sets it down again. Finally, he says, “I’m stunned.”
I open my mouth to clarify, to explain that I’m exaggerating, I shouldn’t use that word, but he speaks first.
“I have a sister,” he says. “Something similar happened to her.”
He looks to me, big sorrowful eyes, each of his features a gentler version of Strane’s. It’s easy to imagine him sinking to his knees, lowering his head into my lap, not to lament how he will inevitably ruin me but instead to mourn that another man already has.
“I’m sorry, Vanessa,” he says. “Though I know that might be a useless thing to hear. I’m just so sorry.”
We’re quiet for a moment, him leaning forward as if he wants to comfort me—his kindness like bathwater, lapping my shoulders, milky and warm. This is more than I deserve.
My eyes fixed on the floor, I say, “Please don’t tell your friend about this.”
Henry shakes his head. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
* * *
On the day after Christmas, I drive to Strane’s house, blasting Fiona Apple and singing my throat on fire. I slouch in my seat as I pass through the downtown streets of Norumbega, leave the car in the library parking lot across from his house, and run to his front door with my hood covering my recognizable hair—precautions dictated by Strane that I’ve followed for so long, I do them without thinking.
Once inside, I’m shifty, darting away from his hands and not looking him in the eye. I worry he knows what I said to Henry. There’s the possibility Henry told his friend and his friend told someone else at Browick; it wouldn’t take much for the gossip to loop back around to Strane. There’s also what I know is impossible but nevertheless half believe: that he knows everything I say and do, that he has the ability to peer inside my mind.
When he surprises me with a wrapped present, I don’t take it at first, worried it’s a trap, that I’ll open the box to find a note saying, I know what you did. He’s never given me a Christmas present before.
“Go on,” he says with a laugh, nudging the gift against my chest.
I stare down at it, a clothing-sized box wrapped in thick gold paper and red ribbon, the work of a retail employee. “But I didn’t get you anything,”
“I wouldn’t expect you to.”
I peel off the paper. Inside is a thick sweater, dark blue with a cream Fair Isle design around the neck. “Wow.” I lift it from the box. “I love it.”
“You sound surprised.”
I slip the sweater over my head. “I didn’t realize you paid attention to what kinds of clothes I wear.” A stupid thing to say. Of course he pays attention. He knows everything about me, everything I’ve ever been and will be.
He makes us pasta and red sauce—no eggs and toast for once—and sets our plates on the bar, arranges the silverware and folded napkins like it’s a date. He asks what I’m taking next semester, withholding his usual criticism about the course descriptions and reading lists. When I tell him about my finals and the paper I wrote for Henry’s class, he interrupts me.
“That’s the professor,” he says. “Specializes in British lit, came from Texas? That’s him. His wife is that new counselor they brought in for the students.”
I bite down, hard, on my tongue. “Wife?”
“Penelope. Fresh out of grad school, got an LCS—whatever that social work degree is.”
My breathing stops, caught between inhale and exhale.
Strane taps his fork against the rim of my plate. “You all right?”
I nod, force myself to swallow. I have a friend who works there. Friend. He said that. Or am I remembering it wrong? But why would he lie? Maybe he felt so sorry for me that he didn’t want to bring even the i
dea of another woman into the room. But he mentioned his sister—and besides, the lie would have happened before I said anything about being raped. So why would he lie?
I ask what she’s like, the most banal question I can think of, because I don’t dare ask the ones I really want answers to—what does she look like, is she smart, what kind of clothes does she wear, does she talk about him?—but even though I hold back, Strane still knows. He sees it in me, my ears pricked and hackles raised.
“Vanessa, stay away from him,” he says.
I screw up my face, fake indignation. “What are you talking about?”
“Be a good girl,” he says. “You know what you’re capable of.”
After we eat and the dishes are in the sink, he stops me when I move toward the stairs, up to his bedroom.
“I have to tell you something,” he says. “Come in here.”
As he guides me into the living room, I think again that this is it, the confrontation about what I said. That’s why Strane mentioned Henry—he’s taking it slow, luring me into it. But as he sits me down on the couch, he warns that what he’s about to tell me will sound worse than it actually is, that it’s a misunderstanding, an unfortunate circumstance.
What he says is so at odds with what I’m expecting, I interrupt, “Wait, so this isn’t about anything I did?”
“No, Vanessa,” he says. “Not everything is about you.” He sighs, rakes his hand through his hair. “I’m sorry,” he adds. “I’m nervous, though I don’t know why. If anyone’s going to be understanding, it’s you.”
He says there’s been an incident at Browick. It happened back in October, in his classroom during faculty service hour. He was meeting one-on-one with a student who had questions about an essay. She always had questions about everything, this girl. At first he thought she was merely anxious, a grade worrier, but as she started hanging around the classroom more, he realized she had a crush on him. Truthfully, it reminded him of me—her giddy demeanor, her unguarded adoration.
On this October afternoon, they were sitting at the seminar table, side by side, while he went over her essay draft. She was flustered, practically trembling from anxiety—about the grade, about being so close to him—and at some point during the conference he reached down and patted her knee. He meant it to be reassuring. He was trying to be kind. But the girl took that touch and twisted it into something ugly. She started telling her friends that he’d made a pass at her and that he wanted to have sex with her, that he was sexually harassing her.
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