Still in Love

by Michael Downing

  “Bring your checklist.”

  “And my grade?”

  Mark nodded. “In the ascendancy.”

  Julio didn’t say anything.

  Mark said, “As in ascending, going up.”

  “No, no, I get it,” Julio said. “Like in my horoscope.”

  Which, if Mark were being honest, was about as scientific as his grading system.

  7.

  Mark and the Professor arrived at the classroom at the same moment, and the surprise of seeing all twelve of the chairs at either side of the table occupied, and Max leaning over to point out something on a map to Anton, was displaced by Jane, who announced that the drafts of the stories for the Monday after break had already been distributed.

  “I switched with Julio,” she explained, “which means that his copies aren’t due until the day we get back, and just so you remember, I was already finished writing my story before you told us about endings, and so I’d rather not get a lot of criticism about anything that’s not really my fault.”

  “I’ll give you an ending,” Max said. “I wrote a long one I won’t be using.” He had swapped his trademark silky white shirt for an unlikely red-plaid flannel.

  Mark said, “Any new revisions?”

  Several hands shot up.

  “To the right,” Mark said. “Please, pass to the right so there’s some chance we’ll all get one of each.”

  “My father sent me your article from the New York Times.” This was Dorothy. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

  Mark froze up. He did everything he could to keep his own work out of the way in the classroom, but he didn’t have a contingency plan today.

  Max said, “No series commas, I noticed. What’s the world coming to?”

  Mark was basically comatose.

  The Professor said, “We have first-person stories today from Leo—comma—Penelope—comma—and Virginia—period.”

  Mark said, “And to make sure we give all three their due, I want to take five minutes now to give you the final Technical Exercise for the semester.”

  Someone said, “Right back to the beginning.”

  Jane said, “This is the one you refuse to read until it’s too late?”

  Willa said, “This is entirely separate from our second short stories, right?”

  Mark said, “Yes, and yes.”

  Charles said, “Is this Technical Exercise Number Four or Five?”

  Anton said, “Five.”

  Isaac said, “Four.”

  Virginia said, “What if we’re only revising one of the first three for our portfolio? Wouldn’t this be Number Two?”

  The Professor said, “We’ll sort out the math after spring break.”

  Isaac said, “Why do we have to read it out loud at the last class?”

  Mark said, “To hear what your readers think about what you’ve done.”

  Jane was nodding like mad. “When it’s too late to revise.”

  Rashid said, “Criticism is the highest praise.”

  Max said, “You live by the word, you die by the word.”

  The Professor said, “The challenge is to write a satisfying story about a simple situation that lasts for just a few minutes.” He paused to give everyone time to find a pen and a blank page.

  Dorothy said, “Scenario?”

  The Professor said, “The setting is an indoor space outfitted with seating where some event is about to take place—a theater, a chapel, a gymnasium. Before the event begins, all of the seats are occupied but one. Your story opens a few minutes before whatever is about to happen in your imagined space. The central character is a person I will here refer to as X. Next to X is the only empty seat. The story ends just before the event begins—maybe the house lights go down, the first note is sounded on an organ, the stage curtain is raised or parted, or perhaps the narration simply makes it clear that the moment is at hand.” He paused until most pens had stopped moving. “Your job is to write the story. Assume your readers know nothing when you begin. Identify as many characters as the story needs, but make X the central character.”

  Rashid said, “Technical Limits?”

  Mark said, “No more than five hundred words.” This occasioned a lot of groaning.

  Mark said, “Your narrator can use past-or present-tense verbs to tell the story. You must use third-person narration.”

  Leo said, “Limited or omniscient?”

  “Your choice,” Mark said. “But I want to urge you to infuse the narration with authority about the setting, the situation, and the emotional or psychological stakes. Look for opportunities to let your narrator make a few big, bold statements. Take some risks with your authorial power.”

  Leo said, “And every other word must begin with the letter X.”

  Isaac said, “Do we have to name her X?”

  “Wild guess.” This was Anton. “We give her a normal name.”

  Charles said, “How do you know it’s a she and not a he or a they?”

  Mark said, “We won’t know until the stories are written.”

  Penelope asked if the seat next to X had to remain empty.

  “No,” Mark said, “and you assign gender as you see fit. But the lived time of the story is no more than five minutes.” He let that sink in.

  Julio asked how many people were in the audience.

  “That’s up to you. But it will help to let readers know how many people are in attendance,” Mark said. “There really are no other limits, but there is one reminder: The principal arena for the action is the space you invent, and that empty chair will be significant to readers as soon as you alert them to its existence. Something ought to happen there.”

  Max said, “Action.”

  Rashid said, “Is.”

  Dorothy said, “Not going to be easy if almost all of our characters are in their seats from the start.”

  Mark sat and let the workshops begin. All twelve windowsills were occupied. He opened his notebook and didn’t close it until Virginia had collected the last of her comments from the other writers, and Isaac had yelled, “Spring is here, baby,” and everything he had piled up for return had been taken, and only Anton remained, standing beside him.

  “Did you by any chance get my email?”

  Mark said, “I haven’t looked at my phone for a while.”

  Anton said, “I should’ve come by before class to warn you I want to talk to you.” He walked to the door and turned from the threshold. “I have to drop off a form in College Hall before they close. Will you be in your office in, say, fifteen minutes?”

  “I will,” Mark said.

  Mark found his phone and waited in the classroom for it to come to life. He had twenty-one new emails, including three from the dean of students. The first was a request for Mark to call him before noon. The second was a request for Mark to call him before his class met. The third began with a request for Mark to let him know he had received what followed, which was followed by an apology—“I am sorry not to do this in person, which was my intention”—which turned out to be the preface to a longer apology.

  Braxton was sorry for having involved Mark in the confusion. He had spoken again to Anton’s mother. She didn’t know if Anton would or would not be in class today. She had shown all of the paperwork to Anton’s stepfather, and he (“correctly,” Braxton inserted) understood for the first time that if Anton received a final grade and a degree, the college would not (“COULD NOT” Braxton inserted) allow him to withdraw officially and refund the 50 percent of tuition, room and board, and fees for the semester. Braxton had written to Anton to determine whether he intended to withdraw or not, but he had not yet had a response. He did not mention how this might affect the fate of Norman Chester’s Morris chair, but he did paste in an email exchange with the stepfather from February, in which the dean had confirmed that the nongovernmental loan program the family had used to finance Anton’s fifth year did not carry a death rider and that the only relief the college could offer would require Anton t
o withdraw, in which case the debt would be prorated and decreased considerably.

  The exchange ended with a note Braxton had written when he’d forwarded all of this to the vice president for Academic Affairs: “The parents seemed to think the student could withdraw from the college and still graduate!”

  Of course, this was effectively the scheme Braxton had proposed to Mark—minus the official withdrawal, plus $15,000 or $20,000 for the second half of the semester. Mark wrote an email highlighting this hypocrisy, reread it, and then revised it, and then revised it once again so it finally read: Got it. He packed up and headed to Hum Hall.

  Anton was seated on an overstuffed knapsack topped off with a sleeping bag when Mark unlocked his office. He left his bag in the hall and slipped into the alumni chair. As Mark sat at his desk, the door swung shut.

  Anton turned briefly and said, “Thanks for hanging that up.”

  Mark said, “You do know you are not leaving this building without it, right?”

  Anton nodded. “If you know anyone who wants a shiny red car coat, tell them to check out eBay this weekend. I really revised the tag sale story—it’s in your pile—but right now I need to talk to you about something else.” He unwound the scarf from his neck. “I wore it every day,” he said, holding it aloft for a moment before letting it droop over the arm of the chair. Apparently, he’d also worn the same black turtleneck sweater and lined jeans for the last week, and not eaten enough. He looked frail, though his skin was a normal color again. “It’s supposed to be pretty warm for the next couple of days,” he said, “even at night, I heard.” He tugged at the neck of his sweater. “Did you hear that?”

  Mark nodded.

  Anton said, “That’s what I heard, too. How warm is it supposed to be? At night, I mean.”

  “I doubt it will be tropical,” Mark said.

  Anton said, “But warm enough.”

  “I honestly haven’t been paying close attention,” Mark said, hoping the weather discussion would soon give way to whatever they weren’t talking about yet.

  Anton didn’t say anything for a while.

  Mark said, “And?”

  Anton said, “Well, my first full-length story—the one due after spring break about the sick kid in the cross-country race? I scrapped it.”

  Mark said, “For good?”

  “Last weekend, I was reading the stories Max and Rashid and Dorothy wrote—I know you thought they had problems, but they’re all way better than what I’d written so far. I mean, really in another league, so I got thinking about that optional Technical Exercise you gave us with the mother who’s a waitress with the little kid who might or might not be dead when she gets home from work after leaving him home alone all day.”

  So, Anton was back. This story had another chapter.

  Anton said, “You know, the one with the dog nobody wants outside the diner?”

  Mark nodded. “You could decide to make the other story—the one about the two runners—your second story.”

  “The one with the sick guy, you mean?”

  Mark nodded.

  Anton nodded, but he said, “I doubt it. Max has more ideas about how to write it than I do.”

  Anton had seen his limits. If he didn’t yet sound as if he loved them, he was regarding them, responding to them. Mark said, “And you have time to get a full draft done of the long Technical Exercise?”

  “The thing is, I can’t get that kid out of my mind for some reason, and he doesn’t have to be dead or kidnapped or anything at the end, right? I mean, that waitress might not even be a bad mother if you can make people see why she left that kid alone, right?”

  “Right and right,” Mark said. “It’s your story,” and maybe it had been Anton’s story before the stepfather turned up.

  “I have all next week to work on it,” Anton said. “I’m staying on campus—that’s the form I had to drop off at College Hall. They don’t charge you extra, but you have to let them know if you’re planning to be here so there’s enough food and dining-hall workers. Max is staying, too. He’s directing some choir or opera chorus, and rehearsals start next week. I’m supposed to meet him soon—like ten minutes ago, I think.”

  Mark nodded.

  Anton didn’t say anything.

  Mark said, “And?”

  Anton said, “Oh, you know me, Mark—and, and, and.” He stood up, but instead of turning to the door, he walked past Mark and leaned into the windowsill, his shoulders heaving. He turned halfway toward Mark and said, “I’m not crying again. I’m just thinking.”

  Mark said, “Okay,” though he really didn’t understand how Anton ever managed to think without crying.

  After a long while, the heavy breathing subsided, and Anton straightened up and sat on the little white desk.

  Mark said, “We’re going to have to use words.”

  Anton smiled. “You and your words.” He looked down accusingly at the desk. It wasn’t as comfortable a landing pad as he’d expected. He hopped down and returned to the alumni chair. “Let’s face it, you’d have to be an idiot to believe what they say, right?”

  “Try me,” Mark said.

  “I knew you’d want to know, so I’ve been trying to think about how to say it so you wouldn’t think—well, so you could see how I’m trying to look at it.”

  Mark said, “And, and, and.”

  “I know, I know,” Anton said, smiling. “So on Monday, it ended up being not so bad. I’m not switching drugs after all, so that’s better than we thought last time, right?”

  Mark nodded.

  “All the memory stuff we were worried about when I talked to you a few weeks ago? That’s mostly not happening, some days not at all. My numbers—you know how they can measure your blood cells and everything? The numbers were flying all over the place last week, but the scans were not bad.” He glanced back at his coat and said, “I mean, they were sort of clear for some reason. Not clean, but pretty clear, if you know what I mean.”

  Mark said, “Much less bad stuff, much more good stuff.”

  “Exactly,” Anton said.

  “Got it, “Mark said.

  “So, now I guess we’ll see,” Anton said.

  Mark said, “Exactly.”

  Anton wound the scarf around his neck. “Do you remember that tepee? The one in that other Forbes room where you came and found me on the first day of class?”

  Mark nodded. “I was lost, too,” he said.

  Anton evidently doubted that, but he didn’t argue the point. He said, “Was it real?”

  “I don’t know if it was made out of buffalo hide, or maybe canvas, but I remember being told it was real—a ceremonial item, maybe a gift to the college?” Mark had no idea where this was going.

  “But you do think it’s real, and weatherproof, probably,” Anton said.

  Mark didn’t say anything.

  A knock at the door startled them both, and they stood up in unison.

  Someone sang out, “Oh, Professor?” Soon, in a deeper voice, he sang, “Oh, oh, oh, dear Professor!”

  Anton opened the door.

  Max was bent forward a bit under the weight of a knapsack and sleeping bag strapped over his red-plaid flannel shirt, the pocket of which was now festooned with a corncob pipe. “It’s almost six o’clock, Anton. I’m sorry to intrude, Mark, but in case you haven’t heard, they dropped the bomb, the mushroom cloud is expanding, and the campus has been evacuated.”

  Anton stepped around the open door and snagged his coat. “I’m ready. We’re done.” He turned to Mark. “We are done, right?”

  “So done,” Mark said. Max hadn’t been there long, but it was just long enough for Mark to assemble all of the suggestive material that had been accumulating since he noticed them poring over that map in the classroom. He could now see where this story was going to end.

  Max said, “What are you doing over the break, Mark?”

  “Let me tell you what I am not doing,” Mark said, tipping back in his chair. “I
am not fielding a phone call from the campus police about two idiots sleeping in a stolen tepee in Breakheart Reservation with a case of beer or a pipe full of something and a campfire that has spread to campus and burned down our classroom.”

  Anton twisted his face up into a confused expression, and when even he could tell that wasn’t working, he tried again with a conspiratorial shrug.

  Mark shook his head.

  Max said, “Anton was a Boy Scout.”

  As if to prove the point, Anton hoisted his knapsack onto his back and stood at attention beside Max.

  Mark pulled his phone out of his bag.

  Anton said, “What are you doing?”

  Mark said, “Putting the dean of students and the vice president for Academic Affairs on speed dial.”

  “You can trust us,” Anton said.

  “It’s an artifact, not a pup tent,” Mark said.

  “We’re all packed,” Max said, and then he tilted sideways against the threshold, as if he might be about to faint under the weight of his gear.

  Mark slammed his phone on the desk. “Don’t your rooms have balconies? Sleep out there.” He didn’t itemize exactly what was at stake for second-semester seniors—one of them still enrolled by the skin of his teeth. “Rent an RV and find a campground that actually allows overnight camping.” He didn’t remind Max that his parents would end up footing the bill for the full semester if he was tossed out of the college without a degree. He didn’t regale Anton with the practical limits of his severely compromised immune system. He did think about hoisting Max up by his man bun so he could bang their heads together.

  Anton said, “Everyone else is going to Tahiti.”

  Max said, “That RV is not a half-bad idea.”

  Anton said, “Can we afford that?”

  Max nodded. “Probably cheaper than bail.”

  “Go away,” Mark said. “Please, go away.”

  “Okay, okay,” Anton said.

  “We will be back,” Max said.

  “I know, I know,” Mark said wearily. He didn’t say so—at that moment, he didn’t know it—but when they turned up again, he would be happy to see them. He watched the office door swing shut, and then he extracted his laptop from his bag. While he waited for it to light up, he felt the weight of having invented a new story to fulfill the limits of this final Technical Exercise every semester for ten years as if it were a knapsack on his back.