by Marnie Vinge
The sounds of the college town coming to life on a Friday night drifted down from campus corner: laughter, shouting, music pouring out of bars. Part of me wished that we were walking into one of the restaurants we’d begun frequenting that fall instead of Dr. Wolsieffer’s house. But I walked on, Birdie falling slightly behind.
Dr. Wolsieffer’s house stood back from the road. An imposing structure, it hovered like a sentinel in the October fog. It was an unseasonably cool night. The chill didn’t usually roll into Oklahoma until after Halloween. But this year, it had come early.
The mist curled around and softened the sharp corners of the building, it was a fragile heirloom wrapped protectively in a blanket. The windows glowed a warm yet dim yellow, and the main illumination emanating from the house came from the central-most parts, like its heartbeat was glowing. I stepped up on the porch and reached to knock on the door, but noticed it stood slightly ajar. The sounds of music and laughter seeped out at the crack in the wood where the double front doors met.
I let my hand fall uselessly to the side as Birdie stepped onto the porch.
“Spooky,” she wiggled her fingers in a fan-like motion beside her face, raising her eyebrows in mock fear. She stepped past me and pushed the door open.
The noise from inside grew louder as the door yawned inward. After her, I stepped into the front hall. Painted dark, the house maintained its creepy air from the outside. I crossed my arms and hugged the sleeves of my sweater. A student emerged from a room and crossed our path, smiling as she went.
The hallway terminated at a series of steps that descended into a split-level living room where most of the commotion came from. In the corner, perched on the arm of a chair and holding the rapt attention of a group of female students was Dr. Wolsieffer.
A book, cracked open to the middle, rested on his thigh and he smiled at the girls before him. I couldn’t see their faces from behind, but I was sure that their expressions were nothing short of lusty admiration if the interactions in class were any indicator.
Birdie and I stood silently for a few moments. Here we were, at one of the most talked-about events in the writing department. The only other subject for interdepartmental gossip seemed to be the ceremony at the end of the fall semester each year when a recipient was chosen for the Headlights Award and subsequently granted the Gorman Fellowship, an opportunity to write a novel in a gap year between the baccalaureate and master’s programs. And all of that would be guided closely by Dr. Wolsieffer. The position was coveted, and most students viewed an invitation to one of his parties as a primer for becoming his chosen golden child.
“Shit,” Birdie said.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
She dug through her bag. “Left my cigarettes at the apartment, apparently.” She sighed and looked expectantly around the room. “There’s that Noah guy. I think I’ve seen him smoking outside the union. I shall return,” she added the last dramatically with a flip of her hair. She left me to watch the spectacle of the party alone.
I left the living room for the kitchen, intent on getting some alcohol running through my veins. Enough liquor to stock a bar sat in one corner beneath ornate ash-colored cabinets and I made a beeline for it. The kitchen was empty except for me, and the party raged on in the rooms surrounding it. I poured a whiskey and took several gulps rather than sips. I refreshed it after a few minutes and as I placed the screw cap back on the bottle, I sensed someone behind me.
I turned and came face to face with Dr. Wolsieffer. I sloshed whiskey onto my sweater.
“Shit,” I said under my breath.
I looked up at him. He rushed to help me, grabbing a rag from the counter.
“I never know what the magic remedy is for these things,” he said with a laugh as he handed me a washcloth soaked in club soda.
“I think that’s for wine, but it can’t hurt,” I gave my best attempt at friendly banter back to him.
I took the cloth gratefully and dabbed at the stain on my gray sweater. When I had thoroughly soaked the entirety of the right side of my chest, I decided to call it good.
“Have you had an opportunity to read any of Anna Karenina?” he asked, hands resting on the island behind him, creating minimal space between us. I found myself aware of the heat that radiated from his body. Too close for comfort.
“I have,” I said. “’All happy families are alike,’” I echoed the first line of the novel.
“’Each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way,’” he finished the thought before I could, and I looked directly at him, into his eyes. I wondered what Dr. Wolsieffer knew about unhappy families. I glanced at his left hand, and for the first time, noticed a wedding band. It hadn’t been there in class; I was almost positive of that.
“What do you think about Levin?” he asked.
A third of the way through the novel, Levin had emerged as the better of the two protagonists. Anna was deeply embroiled in her affair with Vronsky by that time.
“I like him,” I said.
“And Anna?” he asked.
“It’s hard to feel too sorry for her, I’m afraid,” I said.
“It was a different time. Divorce wasn’t such a readily available option,” he countered. “And the love she found with Vronsky, do you think it was anything more than infatuation and unbridled lust?” he asked, still leaning on the island behind him.
“I have my doubts about it,” I offered.
“Why’s that?” he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
“Passion like that fades,” I said. “I don’t think it would be enough to sustain an entire relationship.”
“You speak from experience?” his tone indicated a question and a smile played at the corners of his mouth.
“Not necessarily,” I blushed at his directness. He leaned away from the island and a silence descended between us. He looked down at me, a solid foot taller.
He reached up and took the half-drunk glass of whiskey from my hand, and his fingertips brushed mine. I looked away as he placed the glass on the counter behind me, and then felt his hand beneath my chin, gently turning me back to face him.
“Dr. Wol—” I began, but he cut me off.
“Tom,” he whispered.
“Ione?” Birdie’s voice pierced the bubble of energy that had engulfed us. I felt simultaneously like cold water had been thrown on me and that my face couldn’t have blushed any hotter. I reached for my lips as if to wipe away a phantom kiss. Dr. Wolsieffer—Tom—opened his mouth to speak.
“Not necessary,” Birdie held up a hand to stop him. “I don’t care what you do in your spare time,” she said, then looked pointedly at me. “Or who you do it with. I’ll walk home.”
“Birdie!” I called out after her as she disappeared around the corner and down the hallway to the front door. She held up a hand without turning to face me. She didn’t want to talk. I flinched when she slammed the door on the way out.
When I returned to the kitchen, Tom was gone, and the moment had passed. Left there alone, I wondered what sort of pandora’s box I had just opened.
VANESSA
People file into the sweat lodge like a group of lemmings headed for a cliff. Vanessa watches from the shadows, cloaked in darkness penetrated only by shards of daylight that cut through at the bottom of each exterior panel of the lodge like flame-hot knives. Circular and makeshift, it does for now. Tom’s intention had been to build something grander. But then the money ran out.
Vanessa has been there since the beginning. She saw something in Tom when they first met—a hunger for more—that made her heartbeat quicken. She knew that Tom would be a man who would try to help her build the kind of life that she wanted. Or so she’d thought then.
Tom didn’t include Vanessa on many of the most important decisions, shutting her out when she thought it made more sense for him to gather her input. But now, out here in the desert, with the FBI closing in on Tom’s pipe dream, he is weakening. In the past, she would be eager to
offer her advice, ready for the validation that would come with such an experience. Now, as it is, she feels more like a dispassionate outside observer.
She senses the fragility in him. She senses something else, too. Something that she can’t quite put her finger on. She sits down in the darkness as others begin to fill the spaces around her. In the dimly illuminated structure, she sees the candles at the center reflected in the eyes of the people around her. Little flames flicker and dance in each set of sockets and Vanessa closes her own. She centers herself.
The hubbub of people entering the lodge quiets and she hears the familiar shuffle and clop of Tom’s boots. She bought them for him when times were good. Now, they’re scuffed and worn, seemingly the only pair of shoes he owns that are suitable for life out here. She looks up and opens her eyes.
Tom stands, his silhouette glowing from its edges as it’s illuminated by the grouping of flames behind him. He walks around the burning pillar candles, shedding the shadow and allowing his sweat-covered back beneath his denim shirt to be seen when he turns away from the light.
“Alright, everyone,” he says, his voice calm, low. The room quiets. “I thought we could all use some meditation today,” he chuckles. The crowd around him makes noises of agreement. Vanessa is silent.
“We’ve got a little misunderstanding on our hands right now,” Tom says. That doesn’t seem to cover the half of it, Vanessa thinks. Her mind drifts to Birdie’s wound, infection snaking across her collar bone like a group of writhing serpents at the bottom of a pit.
“What happened to the power?” someone calls out in the darkness.
Tom raises a hand, asking for quiet once more.
“What I need from all of you is to stay away from the property lines of the ranch for now. I’m handling the situation, and this should be resolved soon. As of this morning, though, our power was cut off.”
A groan ripples throughout the crowd. Tom raises a hand again.
“It won’t be any different than when we did without power when we first came here,” he tells them. Except Vanessa thinks this might be very different than that was. “They’re just trying to put pressure on us,” Tom goes on. “But I need you all to stay strong! Remember why you came here to begin with. Remember what we’re trying to build.” People cheer and raise their hands. “I need you to help me manifest the most peaceful outcome for this as possible. I can’t do this alone. I need all of you,” he says. “Let’s visualize that together.”
Tom closes his eyes, inviting everyone else to do the same. Vanessa lets her eyelids fall shut and imagines things as they could be for a moment. She tries to imagine a peaceful resolution as Tom goes on, instructing his followers on their visualization. Vanessa’s eyes snap open. Her focus broken by an image of fire so potent that the smell of smoke invades her sinuses. When she breaks from her reverie, her eyes land immediately on Tom. And when they do, she finds that he is looking directly at her.
In the midst of these people praying—visualizing—Tom stares at his wife, and she stares back. She looks into his eyes across the darkened room and sees something she hasn’t ever seen there before. She sees fear. Absolute terror.
And she smiles.
IONE
Tired of reading one analysis after another of Tom’s masterwork, I turn on the television for company. Instead of light morning show banter, I’m greeted with images of Revelation Ranch. It seems that overnight, the place has become a national headline, and in most cases, a punchline.
The morning anchors show clips of last night’s Daily Show, which featured a monologue from Trevor Noah about Revelation Ranch that dipped into serious territory for a moment but wasn’t free of a few barbs for Tom. Other nightly talk show hosts treaded the waters, trawling for humor in the situation. But all I can think about was the image of Birdie, smiling beside Tom at one of his stupid events. And all I can hear was Wes in my ear, telling me that I was never here—his voice accusing me without words of only thinking of myself.
I change the channel, flipping between local and national news, and catch the end of a broadcast from Kenton—from the ranch—made by one of the morning news anchors that I’m primarily accustomed to getting my daily traffic report from. A sick part of my brain acknowledges that this must be a big career moment for her. The story is huge. It’s got the markings of a national tragedy all over it. It’s a bomb waiting for someone to light the fuse, and all of the reporters seem more than eager to offer a match.
“…and as you can see, Molly, we’re here at Revelation Ranch and the authorities—the FBI and local law enforcement—are closing in. It’s anticipated that Dr. Wolsieffer will be in contact with a negotiator this afternoon. The pregnant woman, Birdie Hauer, is still inside the compound awaiting medical treatment. There has been no word as to her condition. Back to you, Molly.”
The feed cuts back to the news station and a blonde anchor takes over for her colleague in the field. She adds little to the narrative surrounding Revelation Ranch—little that I haven’t already heard—and I find myself retreating inward. Ghosts from the past and a ghoulish image of Birdie conjured by my imagination play in harmony on multiple screens behind my eyelids. I open them, trying to shake away the vision and ground myself in the present.
I look around the room and name objects: lighter, candle, television, sofa…and so on, until I feel my heartbeat return to normal. There is a part of me that feels this was all eventual. That from the moment I met Tom, he was planted firmly on this course. I never would have imagined it in this particular way, and I can’t pinpoint the moment when I knew or say for certain how, but somehow, none of this is shocking for me when it comes to his involvement in it.
Birdie is another matter.
I cannot reconcile in my mind the thought of her, wounded in a bed somewhere, with the images of her that I hold so close from our time together at the university. They don’t mesh. Their edges catch on one another, impossible to gather.
I hear Wes again. I hear him tell me that I’m not here. That I’m never here. That she is. And I wonder if I was ever there for Birdie completely. I remember my promise to her. That I’d always come back for her, no matter what. Even if that meant hurting someone. Even if that someone was me.
With this in mind, I get up from the couch.
I go to the bedroom to pack a bag.
IONE
7 YEARS AGO
Not long after the incident at the party, I found myself finished with Anna Karenina.
I’d spent nights, curled in bed with only the novel and a booklight, letting the words—and the memory of Tom’s voice—surround me. I laid awake at night, imagining what I might say to him when I returned it, wondering if I should say anything at all. I settled on the idea that it was best to do all that I could to keep a low profile.
When I finished, I needed to return his copy and thought I’d slip it under the door of his office at a time I thought it would be vacant. I’d avoided class for two weeks, knowing that in a course that met only once weekly, attendance mattered.
So, there I stood, in the writing department offices, as I plucked up the courage needed to walk past the receptionist’s desk to the doorway of his office. Finally, I made it. But much to my shock, the door stood open just a crack and through it, I could see him.
He sat at his desk, classically styled glasses that any professor would have approved of perched on the bridge of his nose. He combed through paper after paper as though he was looking for something. My heart raced, and I wondered for a moment if I could slip the book in between the gap left by the open door without him noticing. But before I could act on this thought, he stood from the desk.
I was paralyzed. Like an animal engaging in fight, flight, or freeze, I waited to be discovered and I was.
He swung open the door.
“Ione,” he said, his composure still solidly intact. “I thought I heard someone out here.”
“Just me,” I said as he looked around. His eyes found mine.
>
Something passed between us then. An understanding. It was one of those moments in time where you know the course laid out before you, and you’re called to make a decision as to whether you’ll travel it.
“Come in,” he stepped aside and made way for me to pass within inches of his chest. I wormed my way through the opening without touching him and slipped into one of the chairs that sat opposite his desk.
He closed the door behind him. I swallowed, painfully aware of the fact that we were alone now. And even more painfully aware of the fact that I was glad of it. I watched as he moved back to the desk, the muscles of his arms beneath his sweater distracted me from my carefully rehearsed speech in which I’d planned to firmly reestablish the professor-student relationship in the unfortunate event that he was in his office tonight. Instead, I stared as he moved a stack of books off of the desk.
“Is there anything I can help you with?” he asked. His tone was innocent. Probably too innocent if I’d known what a predator he was then.
“I just wanted to return this,” I placed the worn copy of Anna Karenina on the desk between us. He picked it up.
“And?” he asked.
“Nothing else,” I said.
“I mean, and what did you think?” he smiled down at his lap for a moment and laughed, caught up in the tension between us. He seemed at ease in the situation. He knew how to navigate it. I was a fish on dry land, gasping for water.
“Oh,” I said, relieved. “I really liked it. I can see why it’s a favorite of yours.”
We went back and forth discussing characters and theme until I felt myself relax, back in familiar territory. The conversation pulsed with the energy of two people fully immersed in a book, longing to discuss it with someone who shared their mind. It was the kind of comfort that can only be found in holiday food and sex. That’s how intimate it felt. I should have known.
