Jane Air

by Anna Wellschlager

  “What?” She looks up, hands on her hair, attempting to smooth the strands into submission.

  “You’re running away.” I smile, the pillow pressed against me, and enjoy the feel of her gaze on my body, the way her eyes linger on my ass.

  “I’m not running away.” She puts her hands on her hips, face stern. I make a mental note to suggest we play naughty librarian at a later date. “I am keeping an appointment.”

  “You could keep this appointment.” I wiggle my eyebrows at her.

  “We didn’t have an appointment.”

  “Please,” I roll over, watching her eyes drop, briefly, to my cock. “You drove to my house, barged in. Practically threw yourself at me.”

  “Is that how you remember it?” She asks, a smile playing on her lips. Hands still on hips.

  Definitely going to have to play naughty librarian.

  “Absolutely. I hardly stood a chance.”

  She walks forward, kneeling beside the mattress and places a hand on either side of my face. “I had a wonderful time, David. But I have to go.”

  That look again. Something dark and shy and sad, but too quick to catch, darts across her eyes. I want to reach for her, to hold her to me until it comes to the surface and I can understand what it is she’s keeping in there.

  “You don’t, you know.” I place a hand over hers, pressing her palm against my cheek. “I’d be happy if you stayed.”

  She kisses me lightly, a soft brush of her lips over mine. “But I have five hungry women coming to my house in twenty-four hours. They’re very demanding. So I can’t.”

  I sit up, reaching for my jeans. “I’ll walk you out.”

  “No, stay naked.” She stands up and heads for the door, turning to smile at me before she leaves. “It’s your best look.”

  22

  Jane

  I drive home in a daze. Fumbling with my keys in his driveway, tripping over gravel at the base of his deck. I almost run over one of his magnolia bushes as I head down his long, winding driveway.

  It’s like being drunk, this post-coital haze. Sex should come with a warning label.

  At least sex with him.

  My god.

  My mouth is dry as I turn onto the main road leading back to my house. I glance at the clock and see that’s it’s after four. Penelope and I went to his house at 9:30.

  That’s a lot of sex.

  Sure, there was some talking in-between.

  But mostly sex.

  I tilt my head to one side, noticing a stiffness in my neck and spy a small, purple mark appearing on my skin.

  A hickey.

  Like I’m sixteen.

  I roll my shoulders as I turn onto my street and stretch my legs as I bring my car to park in my driveway. Tiny soreness spots crop up across my body. My inner thighs, stressed from their lack of exercise, make me wince slightly as I climb the stairs to my front door. My nipples are so sensitive they almost chafe against the soft lining of my bra. I close the door behind me and glance at my reflection in the glass. My lips are red and swollen, and my chin has the unmistakable hue of beard burn.

  They’re going to know.

  I drop my bag on the table and head for the shower.

  It wouldn’t be the worst thing, I suppose, if they knew. It won’t take them long to figure it out, but I would like a bit of time to figure it out for myself before I have to answer questions.

  Assuming I get the chance.

  My friends are like bloodhounds, but I’ve got 24 hours to throw them off the scent.

  The next evening, Christine and Jessica arrive first, arms weighed down with Caesar salad and feminist manifestos respectively.

  “You finish the book I gave you?” Jessica asks as she enters, sliding a volume of Sylvia Plath towards me.

  “The one you dropped off on Friday?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No. No, I haven’t finished the 400-page academic analysis of intersectional feminism in the last 48 hours. Sorry”

  “Well,” she shrugs. “Here’s a classic, everyone loves The Bell Jar, and when you’re done with that, I’ve got bell hooks lined up.”

  “You know,” I turn from the fridge, careful to keep my silk shawl casually draped across my neck, and double-checking my foundation in the reflection off the microwave, “I’m the professor, not you.”

  Christine winks and unwraps the foil from her salad bowl.

  “I know,” Jessica shrugs, accepting the beer I hand her. “But the ivory tower is isolating. You need to get out there,” she gestures with her bottle, “and join the resistance.”

  “I educate,” I take a swig from my iced tea. “That’s my part.”

  Jessica rolls her eyes and drinks her beer. “What about you, Christine? What is your part in the resistance?”

  “Which resistance?” She smiles, gently fluffing the salad with two hand-carved wooden spoons. The handles look like turquoise inlay and, once again, I can’t help but wonder where she gets her money.

  I glance at my friend, all curly hair and friendly eyes. Quiet and unassuming. Christine is the person who always lets others go in front of her in the grocery store, even if she only has two items and they have two carts. Christine pays for the car behind her when she goes through the tolls. Christine spends her days at the women’s shelter and her nights in the food pantry.

  Christine would make an excellent drug mule. No one would suspect a thing.

  I glance at her right hand. Another shiny bobble balancing on one finger. I stopped keeping track of her rotation of gems last year, when I began to feel self-conscious about my limited sterling silver collection.

  I take a sip of iced tea.

  Definite drug mule.

  “All of them,” Jessica nods vigorously.

  “Well,” Christine shakes a separate container of home-made dressing and pours it lightly over the greens. “I do my best.”

  “Lest you forget, my little anarchist buddy,” I fix Jessica with a knowing glance, “Christine spends most of her time at the food pantry and the women’s shelter. She’s doing more than the rest of us.”

  “Obviously. I work at the shelter, I see her all the time there,” Jessica huffs. “There’s no need to be defensive.”

  “I’m not defensive,” Christine smiles and accepts the iced tea I offer her.

  The door opens behind us and Penelope walks in, swinging a crocheted bag in one hand and balancing two stacked pies in another.

  “Hey guys,” she grins at us, sliding the pies carefully onto the kitchen table. “I picked some blueberries yesterday afternoon and turned them into these. I hope they’re good.”

  “I thought you always said berry picking is best in the early morning?” Christine asks.

  “Oh, it is, but yesterday morning I was-” she pauses, briefly glances at me, then quickly back at Christine. “I was busy, so it had to wait until the afternoon. But they’re good.”

  “Dory’s gonna kill you, stepping on her turf, bringing pie.” Jessica laughs. “You’re going to start a pie war.”

  Penelope smiles over my shoulder at Kate, who’s just walking in. “Well, considering blueberry pie is, like, the official mascot of this state, no one gets to claim ownership. And Dory doesn’t make her pies. Philippe does.”

  “It’s true,” we all turn as Dory’s voice reaches us from the door. “I am hopeless in the bakery. But,” she grins and lifts her hands, holding a large, cooler between them, “I have excellent relationships with our local businesses and suppliers.”

  “Which suppliers?” I ask.

  “The fisherman co-op.”

  “Oh my god,” Kate turns to her, eyes fixed on the white, styrofoam box, “what did you bring us?”

  “Lobsters, oysters, clams, and scallops.” She grins as our collective jaws drop.

  “Um,” I turn inside my tiny kitchen, glancing in panic at the limited space, “what do you need to cook all that?”

  “Oh, no, they’re all ready. Even shucked the oy
sters. I just need some plates and fresh lemon, if you have it.”

  “Wow,” Christine takes a step back, allowing Dory and her bounty to pass. “What’s the occasion?”

  “No occasion,” Dory briefly meets my eyes, “but if there were something to celebrate, we could.”

  “Anybody have anything to celebrate?” I ask, carrying plates and silverware to the table with a practiced casualness, my tone deliberately steady.

  “One of our big grants came through at the shelter,” Jessica smiles.

  “That’s great!” Christine pats her arm. “We got a new grant for the food bank too.”

  “Ok,” Dory calmly begins unpacking her box, laying oysters, scallops and clams on my only platter, usually saved for Thanksgiving, and filling my only salad bowl with the cold, cooked lobsters. “So, we’re celebrating grants?”

  I feel her eyes on my back and when I look up, Penelope is squinting at me, eyes bearing into mine as she carries the seafood platter to the table.

  “The merger in Boston is officially going through,” Kate adds. “That’s cool.”

  “What about you?” Penelope is staring at me as everyone comes to the table, glasses in hand, and takes a seat. “What do you have to celebrate?”

  “I-” and before I can come up with a reasonable lie, Dory has bumped into me with her lobster bowl. When I turn to steady her, my neck twists and the silk scarf slides to the floor.

  “Is that-”

  “Do you have a-”

  “Who gave you-“

  They all speak at once.

  Well, so much for that secret.

  I glance at Dory. She looks at me with pure innocence. I could throttle her.

  I pull out my chair, reach down for the scarf and fold it calmly in my lap as I sit. Dory smiles at me across the table. Penelope grins. Kate, Jessica, and Christine continue to stare.

  “It’s a hickey, yes.” I reach for a napkin and pass the bread I sliced to Kate.

  “Who’s giving you hickeys?” Jessica asks, accepting the bread without breaking eye contact.

  “Oh, that reminds me,” Kate swigs her beer and points at me, “my friend Dawn is stopping by tonight.”

  “My hickey reminds you of your friend, Dawn?”

  “My goodness,” Christine looks between the two of us. “All the secrets are coming out tonight.”

  “Dawn taught me how to apply foundation to cover up hickeys when we were in college. She’s visiting, but didn’t know when she’d arrive, so I told her to just come by. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all,” I shake my head. “Door’s unlocked.”

  “Wait, sorry,” Jessica shakes her head. “Forget Dawn. Hickey.” She points to me. “Let’s get back to this. Who’s giving you hickeys?”

  Penelope and Dory exchange knowing glances before loudly exclaiming enthusiasm over the scallops.

  “Is it a secret?” Christine asks.

  “Is it a woman?” Jessica asks and I roll my eyes. Jessica has been desperate to find a lesbian friend for as long as I’ve known her.

  “It is not a woman and it is not a secret.” I squeeze a lemon wedge over my oysters. “But it’s…I don’t know what it is.”

  “Do you know his name?” Kate asks around a mouth full of Caesar salad.

  “Of course.”

  “Is it a secret name?” Christine asks, befuddled at my hesitancy.

  “No,” I smile and pop an oyster in my mouth, loving the briny citrus flavor as I chew. “It is definitely not a private name.”

  “Was it a one-night stand? No shame in those. You need to learn to embrace your erotic nature,” Kate looks at me, and for a fleeting moment I am worried I am going to begin receiving a very different collection of books from her.

  Dory and Penelope pass another brief glance towards each other.

  “Guys, let’s move on.” Penelope practically shoves the salad bowl into Kate’s face.

  “If she doesn’t want to tell us, that’s her business,” Dory says, her voice quiet and steely as always.

  “I bet it’s a colleague,” Kate states. Jessica nods.

  “Ooh,” Christine turns to me. “That historian? Michael something?”

  “Professor Michael Fredrickson?” I shake my head. “No. No hickeys from the History department. Plus, I think he’s in Athens this summer.”

  “He’s very good-looking.”

  “When did you ever see him?” I ask.

  “Your book reading last year,” Dory interjects. “We were all there. He is cute.”

  Christine nods vigorously.

  “What about the…the…” Jessica snaps her fingers and looks at me, willing me to understand who she means, “the guy in charge? Was it him?”

  “The guy in charge? In charge of what?”

  “Oh, yeah!” Kate leans forward. “The dean! I remember him!”

  “How do you remember my dean?” I ask, genuinely curious at the number of passive, male acquaintances my friends have memorized from my life.

  “He was at the book reading too,” Penelope adds, before popping a fork full of salad into her mouth.

  “I liked him,” Christine nods.

  Kate smiles at her and nods as well, “We all liked him.”

  “Oh, maybe it’s-”

  The doorbell rings, followed by a knock. Kate leans back in her chair and shouts over my head, “Come on in, Dawn! We’re all in here!”

  Another knock.

  “I’ll get her,” she stands and tosses her napkin on the side of her plate. She turns before heading to the door and puts her hand on my shoulder, “It’s not your dentist, is it?”

  I cannot prevent the lift of my eyebrows. “My married, female dentist?”

  Kate shrugs. “Whatever. Just a thought.” She heads to the door.

  “I think you should give that Michael guy a second chance,” Dory winks at me, a knowing look and I remember, drunk though I was, her soft and consistent presence during my dinner with David. Whatever flirtation we engaged in at the table, she, I’m sure, saw all of it.

  “What about that bird guy? At the Audubon Center?” Penelope grins at me.

  “Barry the Bird Man?” Jessica turns to me with excitement. “I love Barry. He comes to all our fundraisers.”

  “That man really knows his warblers,” Dory says behind a mouth full of clams, and I can tell she is doing her best not to laugh.

  “So…it’s not Dawn,” Kate says, as she walk back into the dining area.

  “Oh, who is it?” I ask, my back towards her as I reach for the bowl of seafood next to me. “Did they drop something off?”

  “Hello, Jane,” David’s voice, deep, male, and full of sex.

  I freeze. Everyone at the table freezes. Only Dory and Penelope seem slightly less than shocked. Penelope slides her eyes to mine and I see a grin threatening to split her face.

  “Well, hello again, David,” Penelope stands and walks towards him, wrapping her arms around him in an embrace that lasts a few seconds longer than polite society dictates. “It is so nice to see you!”

  “Again?” Kate asks, her mouth tight.

  “We stopped by his house yesterday morning,” Penelope smiles, pulling him by the arm towards the table, where he sits in the one empty chair. Directly across from me. “We?” Jessica asks.

  “Jane and I,” Penelope winks in my direction.

  “Oh,” Christine smiles. “Are you two…seeing each other?”

  “No,” Penelope shakes her head and pats him on the arm with the affection of an older sister, “tragically not.”

  “Hello again, Dory,” David smiles at her.

  “Hello, David,” she says, all politeness and warmth.

  “Excuse me,” Jessica leans forward, “you’re the actor, right?”

  He nods, “I am an actor, yes.”

  “In those films with the superheroes?”

  He nods.

  “Where only one was a woman, right? And the rest were dudes in spandex.”
<
br />   He smiles towards her, “You must be Jessica.”

  She leans back quickly, a brief glance in my direction, “How did you know that?”

  “I was intrigued by your suggested reading material.”

  “What-”

  “On Jane’s porch,” he nods at me as all eyes swing in my direction. Kate’s left eyebrow lifts so high I’m surprised it doesn’t touch her hairline. “In fact,” he reaches into the small, paper bag he brought with him, “I was wondering if you would be willing to look over this book? There’s talk of turning it into a film, but I’d like a feminist perspective on it.”

  Jessica reaches cautiously across the table for the book, “Why do you want a feminist perspective?”

  “To see if it’s worth making into a film.”

  She glances at the title. “Why would a feminist perspective affect your film-making decisions?”

  David shrugged. “I would like to make better use of my platform, and I know the mainstream film industry has a long way to go in terms of addressing gender and racial equality.”

  Jessica smiles, another glance towards me. Approval is written all over her face.

  “You hang out on Jane’s porch?” Kate asks, back straighter than an outraged belle in a Southern drama.

  “Sure. She is my teacher after all.”

  “What does she teach you?” She asks, words dripping with suspicion.

  “Literary theory, mostly, and a deeper understanding of gender conventions across different narrative structures.”

  Kate raises her eyebrows.

  “It’s really great to study with her,” he continues, friendly and unassuming, without a hint of the ego I suspect everyone expects him to have. “I didn’t spend much time in college, so I’ve missed out on a lot of traditional education. And having access to a brain like Jane’s is such a privilege.”

  Kate nods slowly, her head tilted slightly to one side, then turns to me and smiles.

  And just like that, they all love him.

  I realize I have no allies here.

  Christine, who had stood, fetched a plate and silverware from the kitchen, and returned without any of us noticing, places them before him. “What can I get you to eat David?”