by Mary Pagones
“I admit I’m always impressed by your clapback, Mr. Clarke,” I sigh.
“Clapback?”
“Wit.”
“My wife always said wittiness was my most and least attractive quality.” His voice softens when he says the word “wife.” “Remember Jane Austen didn’t have all the trappings of an impressive life. She was a clergyman’s daughter. She didn’t travel much, or know many noble people. She read widely, which is the most important education for a writer. Even her Mr. Darcy wasn’t a lord, though he was as rich as one.”
I think about Charlotte Holland. She’s in London, physically nearer Jane’s birthplace and grave than I am. She’s been to India. Will she write a novel after she goes to Princeton? Probably not. She certainly has been in the presence of what I would call culture and had extraordinary experiences, but none of it has seemed to alter her character.
“Yes, Jane just wrote about stupid love,” I say.
“Isn’t that what most people care about in the end?” asks Mr. Clarke.
“I’m swearing off human love off at this point,” I say. “I’m sticking with dogs.” I take out my phone and show Clarke the photo on my lock screen. “Wentworth the dachshund never lets me down. Unfortunately, my sister Livy doesn’t like dogs. She always screws everything up.”
Mr. Clarke laughs at Wentworth’s image. “Austen’s finest novel, Persuasion, that’s quite a bit to live up to on his short little legs. Captain Wentworth seems like a nice little chap, though. I’m sure he’ll find a home, regardless.”
“I doubt it. People are awful. He’s more than ten years old. The doggie dentist had to take out half of his teeth. He’d been neglected, then abandoned.”
Mr. Clarke sobers.
I try to keep the mood light. “But I still say, Pride and Prejudice all the way, even over Persuasion. I want a book that makes me laugh—life is horrible enough. I guess that’s why people say my writing is stupid.”
I was thinking of how Hugh and his family reacted to the description of my novel last night. Mr. Clarke doesn’t realize that and says, “Liss, I’ve never said your writing is stupid. In fact, I’ve given you the highest grades in my class this year, although I probably shouldn’t tell you. How are you going to improve your writing if you can’t tolerate criticism? I’d like to think I’ve learned a little bit about good writing, teaching English for so many years.”
“Writing is all I want to do with my life, and I’m not even adequate at it,” I say. “Not that anyone else cares—it’s not like being a doctor or a scientist or something. Novel-writing and analyzing Jane Austen is not going to get me into or help pay for college.”
“Even in Austen’s day, people didn’t respect novels,” says Clarke. “That’s how women were able to participate in the literary conversation of the age, through novel-writing. Writing novels has always been demeaned as women’s work.” He touches his hand to the cigarette pack in his pocket. “Like most work that matters. Nursing. Teaching.”
“My friend smokes,” I say. “I don’t like it, but if you want to, you can.”
“No, no, I would never smoke in front of a student,” he says. “Besides, I’m trying to stop. I had quit for many years, until recently. If you want to write novels, Liss, you need to read well-written books and be disciplined about revising. Jane Austen never went to Oxford or Cambridge. Nor did I, for that matter.”
“I need to live off of something while I write,” I say. “A Mr. Darcy would come in handy. Honestly, at this point, I’d take sucking up to Darcy’s aunt, Lady Catherine, to get her to be my patron. I’m so stressed about what’s going to happen to me next year.”
Mr. Clarke smiles. “I don’t think such a situation would be very pleasant for either of you.”
“What? Marrying a Mr. Darcy or toadying to a Lady Catherine?”
“Neither option sounds very feasible for someone with your personality, Liss.”
“Okay, I agree with you about the groveling part,” I say, “And men are complete trash.” I suddenly remember that Mr. Clarke is technically male. “Guys my age, I mean.”
“Quite alright, Liss, I wasn’t offended.”
“But I maintain that money does matter. More than anything.” I suddenly remember Charlotte Holland on the subject of Clarke. The 2005 Honda is where he ended up in life.
“Liss, I’m not saying money doesn’t matter. I’m just saying that after a certain point, there are limits to what it can buy.”
“I apologize for being whiny.”
“I’m not explaining myself very well. When my wife was very sick, we…I…tried everything. All sorts of different treatments, so she would have a bit more time. If we hadn’t, I’d be haunted by the idea something might have worked. If I hadn’t pressured her, I doubt she would have gone through most of it. It was ghastly.”
There’s a long silence. I’m uncomfortable. There’s a dangerous crack in the Clarke persona, one that isn’t intentional.
“My wife admitted she was worried about me being alone. She was afraid without her I’d probably spend most evenings eating food from a tin, grading papers next to a bottle of wine, and she was right. She was always right about everything. Including the fact she was going to die.”
“My God, I’m so sorry,” I say. “I feel awful going on about my silly boyfriend problem. I’m so sorry.” I daub my eyes dry, because I feel I don’t have a right to cry about myself, suddenly.
“Liss, it’s not silly, I’m just not in the best of moods right now. I’m supposed to go to brunch with a couple Elaine—my wife—and I always visited after Christmas. They asked me to come, this year. Alone. I’ve been sitting here. I can’t walk into the restaurant because…” He doesn’t finish the sentence. But I know what he’s saying. A chapter in his life will be officially closed. “My wife always managed our social life. I was always complete rubbish…at all that. This will be the first function I’ve gone to without her.”
“Amy Lesser—the admissions person from Pennington, your former student—said that your wife was a wonderful woman. She helped Amy with some research.”
“Elaine was a brilliant scholar, much cleverer than I. She taught at Rutgers, incidentally. But you already knew. I still need to have lunch with Amy. She emailed me her condolences. I suppose that’s the etiquette nowadays? I owe quite a few people a response, even though it’s been months. Some people even sent cards rather than texted.”
“I’m sure your wife would have wanted you to be happy and go to brunch,” I say.
“Of course, she would want me to be happy,” he snaps. “But I’m not sure that I do. Want to be happy without her.”
Silence.
Mr. Clarke goes on, filling the long pause, “In a way, it was better after we had no hope, having her at home.”
“She loved Jane Austen?” I ask, as if to remind him that it’s me he’s talking with.
“Yes, Pride and Prejudice was her favorite book. It offered her a great deal of comfort. More than anything the doctors were able to do. At the very end, I’d just read that book to her. Over and over again. Because my reading it comforted her, it comforted me. Though, God knows, no one would ever mistake me for Mr. Darcy. Sometimes the fact that book can still exist in this world—and she does not—seems absurd to me.”
Mr. Clarke looks surprised by his own words. He looks away from me, then recovers.
“I’d best go, Liss. Coming to the city just wasn’t the best idea. Cheer up. I’m sure the boyfriend problem won’t seem so awful in the morning.”
“Oh, it will. Because it involves other people besides the two of us,” I say. But already, after talking to Mr. Clarke, not only do Hugh and his family feel very far away; so do my feelings for Hugh. I’m observing them, like I would characters in a film I don’t particularly care about.
“I see. That is difficult.”
“Mr. Clarke…Would you like to come to the Austen conference?”
My teacher is hesitating. “I assume there
will be dancing, and I try to avoid that at all costs.” He’s trying to keep the mood light. He’s slipped back into his persona.
“But Christmas punch? Regency sweets?”
“You know, Liss, I think I’m just going to text my regrets to my friends and go home.”
“You’re not even going to brunch?”
“It’s just too soon, Liss,” he says. “I realize that’s not a very fashionable idea, nowadays, but I need more time.”
“Are you sure you should be by yourself, Mr. Clarke?” I don’t feel like being by myself either. But there’s an invisible and unspoken barrier that can’t be crossed. We’re still teacher and student. So I can’t say how much I’m worried about him. I won’t see him in school until after New Year’s Day.
“Until we meet again, Ms. Tennant.” He gives a little bow in mock reverence, much as you might see a gentleman do to a lady in a period film. He walks away from me and, at what he considers an acceptable distance, lights his cigarette and inhales with relief.
Part II: Pride
“I have often observed how little young ladies are interested by books of a serious stamp, though written solely for their benefit.”
—Mr. Collins, Pride and Prejudice, Chapter 14
“I am no longer surprised at your knowing only six accomplished women. I rather wonder now at your knowing any.”
—Elizabeth Bennet, Pride and Prejudice, Chapter 8
Chapter 21
Yet He Is Such A Man
I make it downtown to dance among my fellow Janeites. The events are a blur. I dance but hardly feel my body. I can barely sip the special Regency white soup made for the occasion. My conversation with Mr. Clarke depressed me. I’m angry at Hugh, angry at my sister, angry at Jane Austen for not warning me how horrible this would be. At my very darkest moments, I even wonder if Jane Austen might be excessively diverted by an American girl obsessed by her words. The only thing I can think of to comfort myself is hiding under the covers with Pride and Prejudice when I get home. What else do I have left but the book?
I don’t return to New Jersey until well after nightfall. My father and sister are asleep. I’m so exhausted, I just take off my Docs, pull my covers over my head, and shut out the world. I’m too overwhelmed to undress. My poor nerves.
I wake to the soft sound of thumping. I look outside to see Livy with her catapult, shooting apples and oranges across the yard. She’s measuring the distance of how far they go.
I get ready to leave silently, trying not to rouse my father. I walk by Livy without saying anything. I’m going to animal shelter to exercise the dogs. Then I’ll go home and read Austen. I will keep busy. Busy, busy, busy.
Calvin’s been at the shelter since it’s opened for staff, probably around six in the morning. He’s wearing a purple t-shirt that reads JESUS CHRIST SUPERSTAR. It’s been washed so many times the brown printed words have started to flake off, so it does look a bit like Jesus H. Superstar. His greasy, silky blond hair indicates he just rolled out of bed and drove over. He has to wash his hair every single day or it looks oily. This indicates Franklin’s not going to come today. Otherwise, Calvin would have put in a bit more effort into his appearance. Like using shampoo.
Still, he’s not so tired he doesn’t notice something’s up. “Who died?” he asks.
“More like what died. My faith in humanity, that’s what,” I say.
“I’ve never had any, but I don’t look as awful as you. No offense, Liss.”
“Your sister never hooked up with your boyfriend.”
“My oldest sister, Rachel, is twelve. Wait. Did I miss something?”
I tell him the story of what happened at Hugh’s right up to and including the threatening Hugh with the prop sword. I leave out the part about encountering Mr. Clarke because I feel that what my teacher told me about his wife was private. I do repeat my belief that men are trash.
I expect Calvin to make some caustic comment. I underestimated him. “Wow, Liss. I don’t have anything to say. Other than that’s shitty. In a way, I blame your sister more. Not because she’s a girl but, I mean, you don’t cross family.”
I pick Wentworth up and kiss his head. “You’re right. Both guys and girls our age are trash.”
“Nah, sex just makes people stupid,” says Calvin.
“That’s why it’s important to spay and neuter,” I say. I can feel Wentworth’s ribs. He hasn’t been eating. I feel guilty for leaving him, even for a few days. They did have a kennel attendant come in for Christmas to feed the dogs, but Wentworth gets stressed out when he’s left in his cage and hears barking all day, without any relief. He prefers to be around people. I wish he could understand how awful human beings are; it’s better to be alone than to be with someone who doesn’t care about you.
“I’m more mad at Livy because I knew Hugh was a dick,” says Calvin. “I did like your sister.”
“You were in his film!” I say.
“Because you wrote it,” says Calvin. “Do you think I’d help out that douche otherwise? Or even have come out to him, if he wasn’t your boyfriend?”
“Was he a douche?” I ask.
“Liss, the guy hated dogs and took himself way too fucking seriously. He was weird and uncomfortable about making a film about being gay, and was obviously only doing it because you wrote an awesome script and he couldn’t think of anything better. I warned you with the voice of experience: when someone tells you who he is, believe him.”
“Hugh also submitted that film as part of his Early Decision application to Pennington College and gave himself credit for writing the screenplay. With my permission. But still.”
“Shit, Liss. I didn’t know that. Now I hate his doucheyness more. Even Mark didn’t treat me like that.”
“I’m trying to be the Elizabeth Bennet in this situation, but it’s hard.”
“You mean being okay with the fact that your sister’s into a worthless asshole you used to date?”
“It sounds almost like you’ve finally read the book. But surely that cannot be!”
“Hey, it was required. I told you I’d read it then.”
Pause.
“Okay, I saw the television version of Pride and Prejudice, the long one. Clarke made the story sound entertaining enough, and I felt I had to put in some effort to maintain my B-, since I didn’t expect to get that in an AP. Then I read some of the parts I liked best in the actual, you know, book.”
“I told you you’d like Austen. What you did almost sounds like voluntary intellectual labor.”
“I only read parts of the book because I wanted to see if it was the same as the TV show. The ending is just messed up. Nothing happens to the fuckboy and he ends up being Elizabeth’s and Darcy’s brother-in-law. He gets a shitload of money and marries Elizabeth’s sister. Plus, everyone’s totally fine with that.”
“I know! But that’s just real life, Calvin! Every sensible person says that Mr. Darcy doesn’t exist. I guess they’re right. But the part about people carelessly doing selfish things to hurt the people who love them and not paying for it? That’s all too real. Someone dumped this elderly dog in a box and never paid for that crime, either.”
With that cheery thought, I take Wentworth for a walk. He eats at the end of it, though, fortunately. I give him some extra treats.
Livy and I manage dinner together. We’re very quiet, quiet enough for my father to remark upon it. “Did Livy insult Mr. Darcy?” he asks, cheerfully. He’s teaching a few winter classes during the January vacation, but has slightly more free time. He’s getting more sleep and doing things around the house that never get taken care of when he’s working nonstop. If it’s a nice day, I have a feeling I’m going to be helping him clean the gutters tomorrow.
Although Livy and I may be sworn enemies right now, neither of us is going to let him in on our little secret.
Telling Jacqui is the worst. She just keeps saying, “I can’t believe Livy, I can’t believe Hugh,” through the entire narrative.
It’s like I have to be especially “Keep Calm and Carry On,” so I don’t completely blow her mind. Then she says at the very end, “I wish I could give some of the happiness I feel with Martin to you.”
Of course, I start bawling. Which I hate. My nose gets so snotty even my nose ring stud feels weird. I finally decide to take it out. I’ve been crying so much late at night, when I’m sure no one in the house can hear me, I just can’t cope with it. I might as well let the hole close up. What does it matter, anyway? What makes me so special and different and not like other girls?
I don’t know how I’m going to socially navigate dance after this, yet I’m supposed to pick Jacqui up and take her to a Saturday jazz class. I’m not sure if I even have the strength to walk in the door, much less dance in front of Catherine. Still, Jacqui needs a ride, and I can’t let her down. Fortunately, there’s a notice on the door saying the studio is permanently closed. It’s an official-looking sign, not in Catherine’s handwriting.
A bunch of the boniest bunheads are already there, moaning.
It’s late enough for the frozen yogurt place to be open, so Jacqui and I decide to console ourselves with soft serve. Also, we want to get away from the other dancers, most of whom are the die-hard kinds who were friends with Catherine and are totally devastated she didn’t tell them beforehand.
“I guess you dancers read the notice about The Academy of Movement,” says the guy serving Jacqui’s selection of chocolate and my blood orange-flavored fro-yo. “Shame, that studio’s been here as long as my business. Apparently, she hadn’t been paying her rent for quite some time—that’s what I heard from the guy who owns this building. My daughter took classes with her many years ago. Catherine wasn’t the warmest woman, but she could teach.”
“Not warm. And that’s coming from a man who sells frozen food,” I say.
