by Olivia Myers
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Jane remained in her office long after she had any students to see to, or any assignments to correct. She sat with a book of poems by William Yeats, though she found it difficult to read. Johnny was on her mind: Johnny and their fleeting, beautiful summer. Too soon it was over, she thought. And too soon all the joy had disappeared, like Keats’s nightingale.
Several more nights passed like the one she remembered, and then they’d had a beautiful consummation. A month later, Johnny had gone back to Ireland. No warning. Hardly a word spoken to her about it. He’d simply been there one day and was gone the next, and even now Jane didn’t know what had prompted him; he couldn’t have known by then that she was pregnant. She’d always thought he’d been scared by the idea of parenthood, and she resented him and distanced herself as much as she could from his memory, as though he were a deadly flame. Yet two months after his departure, the checks began arriving from Ireland. No return address—only the country and the county.
Jane gasped when she opened the first envelope. It was far more money than she’d needed at the time, far more, indeed, than was necessary for the first months of caring for the child. Where had he gotten the money? she wondered. Was there some kind of money cache he’d kept and never said anything about? Did he borrow it? The more Jane gave herself away to suppositions, the more sinister they became. Had he stolen the money? Was maybe this why he needed to get away so quickly from her? Was this why he hadn’t said anything to her before he left—because he wouldn’t want to involve her any further than he already had—wouldn’t want her to be implicated?
The checks came not once, but every month afterwards, with amounts that were always staggering and whose whereabouts, for Jane, continued to remain a mystery. There as so little she knew about the man she had given herself to—so little known of his character, that she had no grounds upon which to even build a guess about what prompted his generosity. Did he hope one day to come back and take care of his daughter? But then again, he didn’t even know that he had a daughter.
Jane resented Johnny—a shadow from across the ocean, sending monthly allowances to the child he didn’t know he had—but she was enchanted with his mystery, and she treasured the summer they’d spent. Nothing had spoiled this time in Jane’s life, and she wished to preserve the memory as it was and remained for her: unimpeachable, perfect. She had never married but she took Johnny’s name, and then gave it to her daughter. It would be the one thing Christine would have from her father, her true father, not the dark figure from across the ocean.
And now, Jane thought bitterly, the one thing she’d managed to save from her daughter’s true father was going to be lost. To a stranger. Someone like herself, it sounded from Christine’s description. That meant solitary.
A knock interrupted these thoughts. Jane looked up from the page she had been reading for the past half hour and noted at once the intruder in the doorway. Marcus Hobbs, a specialist in post-modern philosophy, entered the room. He was dressed in a grey suit and his shaved head gave off a gleam like a turtle’s shell.
“I’ve interrupted you,” he stated. “But you will thank me, my dear Jane, ere the day is done.”
Jane smiled weakly at his play on her name and its origin. Jane Eyre, the first novel Jane could remember reading. It had been her mother’s favorite book and the reason that Jane now enjoyed the same name. She didn’t, however, enjoy Marcus’s intrusion. He always talked for ages, intent on flaunting his intelligence. All he really flaunted was his lack of social grace.
“Marcus,” she responded gravely, “the only thing that could make me thankful for you being here is if you were to produce a stack of cleanly labeled, hundred dollar bills from that terrible coat, and then leave my office and never return.”
“Ah,” Marcus adjusted his glasses as though he were really about to give the idea some consideration, “that would be quite inconsistent with my character—which is to say, my non-character, if we are to regard with any seriousness the work our modern intellectuals, who have effectively done away with the incredible notion of ‘character’ and ‘personality:’ of the immovable, the permanent,” he said with some disgust. “So, to return to your hypothesis, it would be quite inconsistent with my choice of arbitrary-historical decisions that have comprised the present person you see today to offer you such a boon. But choices, being arbitrary, are only falsely consistent, so we are mistaken in hypothesizing a falsity of character, and you are wrong to have posited such a hypothesis.”
“Marcus,” said Jane levelly, “no amount of hypothesizing will keep you from getting a hardbound Complete Works of Shakespeare straight in the head unless you tell me what you want. Right this minute, you arrogant turtle,” she added.
“The English staff is seeing a colleague off,” Marcus said quickly. “We are having a bit of a celebration at my humble abode. Off the plane, I should say. He’s just returned from work in Paris.”
“My daughter lives in Paris,” Jane mumbled, then louder added: “Who’s the colleague?”
Marcus, having forgotten all about Jane’s threat, wagged a finger in her direction. “Now, now,” he said, “it’s meant to be a surprise. A surprise for all. I wouldn’t want to be the one who destroyed the fun for everyone else.”
“You can at least tell me if it’s someone I know,” said Jane, annoyed but curious.
“Anyone who’s been at the school for more than a decade will know him, but that is all I will say. Us turtles, we are a quiet, respectable lot.”
And a lot of good it’s done you, Jane thought. The man was wrinkled, ugly, three times divorced and with four children who didn’t speak to him. And yet the fact that he could still be so arrogant and so blind filled her with genuine amazement. And what did he have to show for his life of arrogant self-service? A position as a tenured doctor of philosophy. A moderate-sized apartment in which he could host two-dozen teachers all of whom hated his guts as much as Jane did.
“I don’t know, Marcus,” said Jane. “William Yeats is sailing to Byzantium. If I miss him on this trip out, I don’t know when I’ll see him again.”
“You are an absolute misanthrope, dear Jane. It makes me wonder why we don’t get along.”
“Because you’re a selfish, detestable, pretentious, wrinkled shit-bag of a waste of human flesh.”
“‘Anger is the lonely soul’s last resource,’” Marcus said airily. “That’s a quote from one of the McGregor’s creative writing students, which I thought an absolutely stupid bit of drivel until now. You’re lonely, Jane.”
Jane slumped in her chair. The copy of Yeats’s poems fell from her hand. “That’s like an executioner’s axe, coming from you, Marcus.”
“Come out tonight, Jane,” Marcus said, now tenderly. “Mingle. Talk. Recite poetry. Drink. You’ll have success if you end the night drunk.”
“Well, if those are the doctor’s orders...”
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Much later, Jane found herself in a posh, harshly lit studio apartment, along with two-dozen other drunk and drunker literature professors. She was miserable, but if she had any consolation, it was that all of these people were just as miserable as she was. They shuffled around in thick, heavy coats and knitted ties despite the fact that it was a warm spring night. They bowed their heads and drank glass after glass of burgundy, and occasionally, one professor asked another about his or her recent book, or periodical, or article and then, satisfied with a single-sentence answer, returned to the sideboard to refill his or her glass. On and on it went.
Marcus’s ‘surprise guest’ still hadn’t shown up. His flight had apparently been delayed in Denver and his new time was set to be around midnight. It was nearly midnight now and there had been no new word. Jane decided to give it fifteen minutes before leaving, but then, her head dizzy from the wine and from forced conversation—and her ears ringing with the high-pitched, inane conversation that Marcus Hobbs was attempting to make with his colleagues—s
he decided fuck it, no use making a ruined night go on longer.
Jane locked herself in the bathroom and opened the window above the toilet. In an apartment filled with bored professors looking for a distraction, going out the front door was not exactly subtle. Jane, who was only 42, nimble and slim as a twig, found no problem squeezing through the window and out into the parking lot. She’d even managed to keep her wine glass from spilling as she went through. It was a fine wineglass and good burgundy, and the fact that she was stealing from Marcus Hobbs made it even better.
Walking through the parking lot, Jane regretted her choice of dress for the evening. She’d known it was a mistake trying to look cute when her audience was 80 percent male—either misogynistic or queer or both—and 20 percent old, obese women who resented Jane’s intelligence and youth and natural beauty.
She was wearing a short, pleated leather skirt and a thin, white sweater with long sleeves and a low neckline that showed a peek of her rather small but perfect breasts. She was wearing black tights and her favorite pair of high-heeled shoes: black, platform, patent-leather, with small, white bows that enclosed her feet like two perfect presents. It was so rare that Jane was able to dress up in the Literature department that she’d decided to splurge tonight.
Not that it’d gotten her anywhere.
In fact, it was decidedly getting her nowhere as she swayed across the dark parking lot, wineglass firmly in hand, her head swimming. She was much drunker than she thought, and although she lived only a short distance from Marcus—in the same neighborhood, in fact—she was becoming fast unsure whether she could make the walk back by herself.
She bumped into a car that she hadn’t seen in the darkness. The wine sloshed and splashed against her sweater. “Shit shit, shitty shit shit!” she said. Without thinking, she put the fabric in her mouth and attempted to suck the wine out.
“Well,” said a voice behind her, a voice Jane knew. “Well. It wasn’t like this I’d expected to find you again.”
Jane turned, sweater still in mouth. Stephen Thomas stood before her. Stephen Thomas—Marcus’s surprise guest. Marcus was such an arrogant prick! He’d invited her to a party to celebrate the return of Stephen Thomas—the former Mr. Darcy of the English department; a Most Influential Person in Time Magazine not once but twice; the author of one of the most important books of literary criticism to appear in the last fifty years; a tri-lingual hunk with a charming British accent and handsomely greying hair; an absolute gentleman; and, ten years ago, Jane’s lover.
“Hello, Jane.”
“Stephen,” she said, letting the sweater slip out as her mouth dropped open. The red stain appeared like a cut over Jane’s body.
“Oh, my,” said Stephen. “Have you been fighting with your pupils, Miss Jane Eyre?”
“Oh, no sir,” Jane managed, trying to ignore his incredibly handsome face, the long, impeccably managed hair, the dry, British chuckle that greeted her shy response.
Stephen’s gaze wandered over to the wineglass in her hand. “Oh yes,” he grinned, “of course. Burning the midnight oil. But I hope Marcus didn’t mind the theft?”
“He’s too busy trying to salvage his party. His guests are falling asleep on him.”
“Is it that bad?” Stephen frowned. “Well, I can’t say I was expecting the very best turnout from Marcus. But you understand, he practically forced the invitation down my throat when he heard I was returning to West Rourke.”
“And look what you found,” said Jane, swaying, drunk. More wine sloshed out of the glass. “Why are you back, anyway?”
“Too long a story for the parking lot. I’m cleaning up business,” he said vaguely. “But Jane, I must ask—will I be terribly missed if I decide not to attend this little soiree? I’m awfully tired you see and, well, having to deal with Marcus is not exactly an enticing proposition now, if you understand.”
As Stephen was speaking, Jane attempted to brush some of the wine out of her sweater, forgetting that she was wearing high heels. The action caused the heel to slide across the ground and her foot to buckle under her. Stephen caught her just in time, but not in time to keep the wine from splashing onto his patched coat.
Jane couldn’t help herself. She broke into giggles. It was too ridiculous—sneaking out through a bathroom window, stumbling across a parking lot absolutely drunk, and now meeting not just a former lover but one of the most eminent intellectuals on the planet, and what were they doing? Holding each other, drenched in fine burgundy. Jane buried her face in Stephen’s coat and laughed until Stephen was laughing along with her.
“Now, now,” Stephen said after a time had passed. “We really must do something about this situation, Miss Jane Eyre. It certainly doesn’t do to have us both in a parking lot covered in the remnants of the night.”
“‘You do not do, you do not do’,” Jane recited. Then, without thinking, without checking his ring finger, without really having talked with him, Jane pulled the lapels of Stephen’s coat closer to her breasts and kissed him hard on the lips. She kissed him as she hadn’t kissed anyone in years—hard, passionate, burying her mouth in his mouth’s returning kiss. She scrubbed a hand through his gorgeous, thick hair and cupped him by the back of the neck, securing him to her.
The kiss might have lasted ten minutes, but Jane lost track of time. When Stephen finally broke away from her she was out of breath, and she tasted blood. Hers or his, she didn’t know.
“I need to get out of here, Stephen,” Jane moaned, burying her face in his coat. A firm, warm hand ran over her long, auburn hair, comforting her. “You can’t believe how hard this day has been. For God’s sake, take me away from here.”
-- -- -- -- -- -- --
Moonlight poured in through the open window. Everything was cast in a pale glow: the bookshelves, the wicker chair in the corner of the room next to the old radio—a relic of childhood.
Jane, lit by the moon, stretched herself out on her bed. She was wearing nothing but a black lace bra and a matching pair of panties. She didn’t know why she’d put on the panties when she decided to go out that night. Until now.
Stephen stood at the foot of the bed, completely naked. The moon cast a gleam on him and Jane’s heart raced to see him gazing at her. What a man he looked, how noble, how powerful.
“Stephen,” she whispered.
“Don’t you say a word,” his sharp voice commanded. Jane’s mouth closed instantly. His voice was sinister, cruel. “Don’t look at me. Shut your eyes.”
Obediently, she obeyed.
“Touch yourself.”
Lifted by some power beyond her own will, Jane’s thin, delicate arm was raised from its side and placed on her breast. She began to rub. Her skin was cool from having been long exposed to the bare air, and she wanted to warm the area, to restore some life.
“Harder,” Stephen’s voice bit into the silence.
Jane rubbed harder. She covered the satin cup of her bra with her hand and squeezed and rubbed the breast. She felt her nipple through her bra, erect from the cold.
“Rub with both hands.”
The second hand rose from Jane’s side and fell on the other breast, where it commenced rubbing and squeezing and pinching. Her flesh was tender but it only made her rub harder, and harder yet, until the skin was scorching, hot. Yet she continued to rub. Her mouth opened to let out a cry of pain.
“None of that,” Stephen’s voice warned. Jane’s eyes were closed but she could feel his presence, closer than before.
“I am going to take off your panties,” he said steadily. “You are to continue touching yourself. If you stop, you will be punished. Do you understand?”
Jane nodded and let out a slight whimper. She felt his muscular, cold hands on her thighs, felt them as they slipped the lace panties off like a ring from a finger. She was exposed. The chill of the room on her vagina made her tremble. Instinctively her knees began to close.
A sharp, stinging slap on her cheek made Jane whimper. “None of tha
t,” Stephen commanded, level but stern. “Open your knees, or you will be punished.”
Obediently, Jane’s knees opened. She whimpered, softer than the first time, when she felt the cool air on her. Then, her right hand was lifted delicately from her breast. It went limp. “Spread your fingers.”
She moaned as Stephen placed the fingers in his mouth, forcing them down his throat until they were generously wet.
“You are to touch yourself,” he whispered. “Is that clear?”
Jane nodded silently. Her hand, moist and warm from Stephen’s mouth, crept down to her vagina and touched the delicate, wet folds. They were like a woman’s lips, soft and plush, and they parted easily as Jane inserted a finger into herself. Her whole body seemed to lighten as she pressed her finger deeper inside her vagina. A whisper of a moan escaped her lips.
“Stephen,” she said, voice trembling. “Stephen, please.”
“Do not speak,” he said. “Keep your mouth closed.”
“Please, please, Stephen.” She inserted her finger as far inside her vagina as it would go, until it was rubbing inside her, sending through her a spasm of pleasure. “I can’t go any further.”
She felt her hand lifted away from her vagina, only to be replaced by Stephen’s fully erect penis. It was a geyser inside her, a moving stream of warmth and power. She felt herself filled and lifted. She bit her tongue until there was blood, trying to keep from crying out as Stephen worked himself deeper and deeper inside her. Then he slid out, letting the tip of his penis nuzzle against the wet, hot folds of her vagina, and he buried her mouth in his kiss, working his greedy, harsh tongue down into her throat. Jane welcomed the kiss like butter melting in her mouth. She opened her mouth and cried out loud and wrapped her legs around Stephen’s thighs as he pumped himself into her, working his manhood deeper and deeper inside her, filling her with a warm, incredible lightness of being.
-- -- -- -- -- -- --
For the first time in too many years to count, Jane woke up in the morning feeling happy. Not just happy. Fresh, renewed, full of energy. It couldn’t have been later than six in the morning—the sun was nothing more than a pale, delicate gleam outside—but Jane did not want to miss a moment of its beauty.
