Compliments

by Mari K. Cicero

  “And the janitor thing?” I ask. “How did that come about?”

  He shrugs his shoulders. “Just worked out like that. Got to make ends meet somehow. Hey, that reminds me, any prospects on an advisor? Ferris got her eyes on you yet?”

  I remember the invitation I received earlier in the day, and find myself grinning like a polecat. “Have you ever heard about the dinner the chair hosts for promising new students?”

  “Heard of it? I went to it.” His jaw slows to a stop as he realizes what I’m saying. “You mean you got invited, too? Wow, Ferris really must love you. Congratulations, Robin, she’s a really tough nail to nick.”

  “Yes, I was invited, but not by Ferris. Prof. Harrison asked me.”

  It’s as though I have a remote control and have just pressed pause. Hawk’s mouth freezes before his chin slowly begins to slack. His eyes go glassy, and somehow every muscle in his face twitches in a ripple. “Did you tell him yes?”

  “Of course, I did. It’s a great honor, isn’t it? He asked me after class today, said my project was impressive.”

  “After class?” he repeats. “Where?”

  “What do you mean, where? In the classroom, of course.” I narrow my gaze. “Why would you ask something like that?”

  He hesitates, gnashing his teeth. I can see the gears of contemplation behind his expression. His whole body tenses until a moment later, he sighs and lets out the cords of his muscles together with his breath. “It’s nothing,” he says somewhat unconvincingly. “It’s only that Harrison … He has a bit of a reputation for being possessive about students. You, uh … You don’t want to limit your choices so soon if you don’t have to.”

  “I’ve only talked to him a few times,” I assure Hawk, uncertain if I should be insulted that he thinks I can’t take care of myself, or flattered that he’s concerned about me. “It’s just a dinner at the chair’s house. I have no interest in being in Harrison’s group. His area of research doesn’t overlap with mine.”

  Hawk nods as though I’ve reiterated an undeniable truth. “I guess not. I’m sorry I worried you.”

  Our conversation moves on to other subjects as I file away the odd spike in behavior. Hawk turns the topic to lighter fare, including giving me a rundown of the best coffee houses in town, which laundromat’s washers are the least likely to be broken down, and on which days of the week the campus bars have ladies’ night, in case I ever need to let off steam.

  After dinner, as promised, he guides us down toward the shore of the lake where a boardwalk is illuminated by knee-high pathway lamps. It’s just light enough that I can see his face, but dim enough that I can’t read his expression. A few minutes into a stroll set against the rhythm of chirping frogs and the lapping of the water on the shore, he puts his arms around me, first timidly, then more completely when I don’t pull away.

  “Did you like it?”

  “Not bad. A real hidden gem and a favorite with the locals, don’t you know?”

  “I’ve heard that somewhere before.”

  “So, this is the lake,” I say, motioning to the water before us. “You live near here, then?”

  “You can’t see it from here. My house isn’t right on the water, it’s on a hillside just …”

  He stops and points over my shoulder while wrapping his other arm around me and turning me. I lean in to align my eye with the trajectory of his outstretched hand, and our cheeks brush together.

  “… over there. About another mile up the highway.”

  The light from the half moon falls over us. The ends of Hawk’s long bangs flutter in the breeze. His gaze both softens and intensifies as his pointing hand lowers, but the arm around me draws me closer.

  “You’re exceptionally beautiful,” he states. “Of all the universities in all the cities in all the world, you had to come walking into mine.”

  “I wasn’t aware Manderson was your exclusive property,” I tease as he raises his hand to my face, running the heel of his palm over my cheek, and working his fingers into the hair where it meets the nape of my scalp.

  “More like a rental,” he murmurs.

  Lowering his forehead to mine, he hesitates a moment. I shift, bringing my arms around him and lacing my fingers behind his back. We stand there, existing as only temporal things among nature, with the song of frogs a trilling drone around us. Then Hawk pivots and his lips come down to meet mine. An exploratory tap is followed by a more curious visit, and finally a third long, languid kiss steals my breath and awakens my body. He’s found his mark and managed to turn on a fire within me. As he pulls me closer so that I’m almost as much under him as I am before him, I feel his tongue find mine.

  Nearby, a gaggle of geese skim over the lake’s surface before breaking waves and landing, honking and hollering. Hawk and I are finally distracted enough from our involvement to pull apart and look at the time. I still have class tomorrow, and Hawk still has to teach. As he drives me home, I snuggle against his back with even more need. When he drops me at my door, I’m tempted to ask if he wants to come up stairs, but decide against it knowing that he’ll have to be up in eight hours to get off to class.

  “I’m going to ask you out tomorrow,” he advises, gently pushing away from me at my door. “I want you to be prepared for that, so in case you don’t want to, you have time to come up with a good excuse.”

  “Just ask me now, you silly man.”

  He shakes his head. “You’d be expecting that. Good night, Robin. And thank you.”

  “Thank you?” My arms feel empty when he pulls away. “For what?”

  “For saying yes.”

  32

  A revolution is breaking out within me. On one side, my logical brain tells me it’s still a bad idea, no matter what parts of my anatomy suggest otherwise. On the other, my lips and my heart embrace the attention Hawk so luxuriously bestows upon them, and tells my brain to go take a flying leap.

  As promised, he calls me the next day and asks me out again. I answer in a speed that could only be clocked by NASA, and agree to see him on Saturday night. When I remind him that I’m busy this evening attending the chair’s dinner with Prof. Harrison, I can practically see his hackles raise over the phone.

  “Seriously, Hawk, I feel like there’s something you’re not telling me.”

  I hear him sigh. “Just be careful. Harrison has a reputation for pressuring people once he’s set sights on them. Don’t let him monopolize your time at the dinner. Make sure you get face time with the other faculty you’re interested in.”

  I churn that comment a moment. “I will. Besides, I already told you, Harrison’s research isn’t up my alley. I’m only in his class because it’s required in my concentration track.”

  “I know, I know.”

  I hear resignation in his voice, and a fluttering memory throws a pinhole light on our discussion. I wonder if that taboo topic he’s avoiding has anything to do with what Prof. Ferris almost let slip out about Hawk a few days before.

  Suddenly, I find myself blurting out, “Did I ever tell you I have a second degree black belt?”

  “Really? I take it your training didn’t involve dodging offensives by rolled up carpets, then?”

  “I only mention it because I want you to know, first, I’m not foolish. If I feel I’m in danger or uncomfortable with a situation, I remove myself from it. And second, that I can do it by physical force in most cases, if it comes down to it.”

  He exhales in satisfaction. “Damned glad to hear it.”

  The email Harrison said I’d be receiving shows up in my inbox in the mid-afternoon. I find out from asking as covertly as possible that there will be eight students in addition to myself at the dinner. Elizabeth Chen and I are the only women among them. However, that means we’re statistically more than 22% of the student
s to be present, a number on par with the general enrollment of the department, so I guess I really can’t … or perhaps, shouldn’t complain.

  Then, sometime between mid-afternoon and early evening, I manage to be cursed by gypsies.

  The first bad thing happens around five-thirty p.m., when I leave the Yang Building for home on my bike. The chair, Dr. Phillip Woo, lives in the hills that rise toward the backside of campus, in a gated condominium development in a heavily wooded section of Manderson. I’ll need some time to get ready and then drive back across town through weekend-getaway traffic. I’m about one-third of the way home and just crossing off campus when I go to peddle and my feet spin wildly. At first I think my shoes must have slipped off the pedal, but when I push again, I still get no traction. I look down and see my chain has not only come off the gears, it’s broken clear in two pieces. By the time I manage to walk home with my disabled bike, I’m sweaty, angry, and running late.

  In the shower I discover that not only is my hot water out, but I’m out of shampoo. I rub the bar of soap into my scalp, but it takes longer than usual to rinse it out, and leaves my hair feeling stiff. Some things are even beyond the abilities of the best conditioners. By the time I make myself presentable and grab my car keys, I’m rethinking going at all.

  When I arrive to Dr. Woo’s building, it’s fifteen minutes past when I was told to be there. I’m hoping that unlike most mathematicians, those inside will believe in the practice of being “fashionably late.” However, my bad luck rears its ugly head again and I find that all of the visitor parking nearby is full. I circle a few times and am about to pass by Dr. Woo’s again when I catch sight of Prof. Harrison on the sidewalk.

  He sees me through my window and waves me down. I pull over to the curb, where he leans in and sticks his head through the open window.

  “I’m know I’m really late and I’m so sorry,” I say before he has a chance to speak.

  He shakes his head dismissively. “Don’t worry. Woo’s still showing off his original Matisse, going on and on about how he bought it after scamming the tables in Vegas. I was worried you got into an accident or something came up. I’d thought I’d come down to see if you might be milling about down here and, lo and behold, there you are.”

  “I can’t find a place to park.”

  Harrison’s head swivels right. He eyeballs a place across the street and points at a very distinctive “no parking” sign. “Over there.”

  “But the sign …”

  “Don’t worry, it’s safe unless one of the neighbors calls it in. We have private security and they only react if someone complains.”

  “We?” It didn’t escape me.

  He winks. I don’t know if it’s meant to look cute, but I think it makes him look ridiculously geeky. “Woo’s not the only math faculty living in this building.”

  “Um, okay. Thanks. Just, just a second.”

  Prof. Harrison waits for me at the sidewalk, then escorts me to the door of the building. It’s only three stories high, and not nearly as intimidating as I was worried it might be. Suddenly I’m relieved that he’s down here to let me in. I’d hate to reemphasize how late I am by calling up to Prof. Woo’s flat and asking for someone to buzz the door.

  “Woo lives there,” Harrison says. He points to the left side of the building where silhouettes mingle behind the curtain of a grand window. Then he shifts his hand to indicate the other side. “And I live over there, on the second floor. Though, I have to say, Woo’s unit is quite a bit bigger than mine. I guess it’s good to be the chair.”

  There’s a keypad next to the door, and Harrison punches in a series of numbers, letting the locks disengage. He waves me in with a gesture of his arm and a tongue-in-cheek, “After you.”

  Above, the other faculty and their invited students mix near Woo’s piano. I’m amazed at how much space there still is where bodies are not. Even if Harrison’s unit is half the size of Woo’s, it must be huge. I’ve always thought industry and not academic jobs were the more lucrative career path. Perhaps Hawk has the right idea about what he wants to do with his life.

  Prof. Ferris, leaning over the baby grand, grimaces when our eyes meet. No doubt she thinks I expected her to ask me—and not Kyle Luddington, who is beaming at her from the bench—to this shindig. I smile at her and hope the gesture communicates that I’m happy to be here regardless of how it came to be. During dinner, I’m able to toss a few comments into the conversation, making sure to respond on the tail of whatever one of my targeted faculty says. By the time dinner is done, I’m positive my conversational skills have made up for my delayed arrival. I take my coffee out to the balcony and corner Prof. Lamertus there, talking for almost fifteen minutes. He seems honestly interested in my research, and ends our conversation by asking me to say my name again, repeating it back to me for verification.

  “Let me walk you downstairs,” Prof. Harrison offers when I pull on my jacket at ten-fifteen.

  Prof. Ferris, who is also trying to go, but whose invitee seems reluctant to get the hint and let her out of their conversation, looks over at me. “If you wait a few minutes, I can walk down with you, Robin.”

  Prof. Harrison’s hands file into his pockets. “It’s really no trouble, Joanna. She’s just parked out in front of the building, and I’m going to go home after I see her out.”

  Prof. Ferris eyes me from top to tip. I’m not sure what she thinks will happen. Maybe that we’ll exchange gossip about her in the elevator?

  “Okay,” she finally exhales. She comes forward and shakes my hand. She’s always been kind, but now she’s down right affable and personal beyond the norm. The wine has a pleasant effect on her. “I’ll have two more placements for you this coming week, but later. Thursday or Friday, probably. I’ll send you details on Monday?”

  “Sure.” I shake her hand before leaving.

  There’s an awkward silence that grows like bacteria as Prof. Harrison and I wait for the elevator. The bones of the building are old, and I suppose its arteries are as well. As we step in, I turn to him.

  “I’m sure I’m okay if you just want to get out on your floor. It’s a gated community and you said the private security, I think I’m safe.”

  He almost acts like he didn’t hear me or doesn’t take me seriously. “Even in safe communities, bad things can happen. Just let me make sure you get in your car okay, and I’ll go right back up. I’m pretty tired, too. Need to get to bed.”

  His eyes do look a little bloodshot, and now I feel terrible for being a burden. As soon as we’re off the elevator, my feet do double time. I don’t want to keep Harrison beholden any longer than necessary. We’re about three steps out of the building when I look across the street and see … nothing.

  As in, not my car.

  Prof. Harrison puts it into words before I’m able. “Wasn’t your car right there?”

  I look between him and the rest of the street, as though I half-expect to find that instead of missing, someone’s somehow magically moved it down the block. My fingers thread through my hair as I come close to scalping myself. “Oh my God. Someone stole my car. What am I going to do? The police. I have to call the police.”

  “Calm down, Miss Lewis.” Prof. Harrison passes me a look of disappointment before pulling his cell from his pocket. “I know the number of the tow company security uses. Let me call and see if they’ve been out here tonight. It’s likely that one of my self-righteous neighbors got a little full of themselves and their sense of civic duty.”

  I feel like I’ve been wheeled into emergency surgery and my stomach removed as I listen. Though the one-sided conversation leads me to believe that Prof. Harrison’s theory is right, my liver is yanked out the next moment when I hear him repeat back over the phone “pick it up from downtown” and “three hundred dollar fee”.

  When Prof.
Harrison ends the call, he looks one hundred times more chipper than I feel. “See, told you. Just towed, not stolen. Nothing to worry about.”

  Part of me wants to yell at him instead of thank him. His stupid suggestion to illegally park led to me being stranded and will lead to my bank account being reduced by half. I push the irrational thought aside when I remind myself that it’s not his fault this happened. It wasn’t his fault I was late, and that I couldn’t come early enough to park legally, or that I didn’t listen to my instincts, which told me not to tempt fate.

  Instead, I say in as humble and forthright a voice as possible, “Right, nothing to worry about. I hate to trouble you for anything, but could you maybe call me a cab?” There’s no reason for him to know that in the back of my mind I’m already picturing calling my dad and asking him to go through some trouble on my behalf. I can keep at least a little of my pride after all this.

  “I could, but I’d feel better if you’d let me drive you there instead.”

  “Prof. Harrison, that’s a very kind offer, but I don’t—“

  “I won’t hear otherwise,” he interrupts. “I feel partially responsible. You only parked there because I told you to. At least let me give you a lift. Besides, it’s in a part of town pretty young coeds like you should avoid this time of night.”

  The choice of words leaves me feeling slightly stupefied. Did he really just say …

  However, my confusion drifts away when he amends his statement, “Actually, the not so pretty ones aren’t really safe there, either. I wouldn’t feel right sending you in a cab alone to encounter who knows what kind of riffraff.”