by Laura Sims
*
In the morning I wear my black silk blouse with the silver buttons and the deep V-neck. I tuck the shirt into my slim black knee-length skirt with the slight flounce at the bottom. I’ve put on pantyhose and heels. Silver button earrings and a pendant necklace that hangs like a subtle arrow pointing to the lush cleavage below it. I carry my best briefcaselike black leather bag, and iron my hair to a bright, smooth sheen. I’ve carefully applied concealer, powder, blush, mascara, and my signature lipstick. I could be stepping out of the door onto a set. I could be stepping beyond that, directly onto a screen. I feel that sense of bright, unassailable performance on the way to the train, while riding the train, and all the way to my chair’s office door. I knock briskly. “Come in,” he says, clearing his throat. For a moment, my heart flutters like a nervous undergrad’s. Then the mask slides into place and I breeze through the door.
“So nice to see you, Drew,” I begin, smiling as we grip hands. He’s smiling, too, and gesturing me to the seat across the desk from him, but I see the quizzical look in his eye. He seems a bit flustered, even. I sit comfortably in the chair and wait, self-assured and still. We chat for a while—lovely weather we’re having! Enrollment is down. Computer Science is draining funds from all the humanities departments, it’s a damn shame. And so on. Then Drew leans forward, steepling his fingers together like the movie version of a department chair would, and says, “Look, I think you know why I’ve called you in here.” I tilt my head and squint my eyes a bit. I refuse to make this easy for him. He colors and clears his throat. Again. “There’s been a complaint against you—from a student in your class. He suggests—no, he claims—that there’s been a—an inappropriate relationship between the two of you.” He sits there, watching me, waiting for a response of some kind. “Oh!” I say, feigning surprise, even touching my hand to the pendant, as if in need of security after such a shock. I watch Drew’s eyes flit uncontrollably to my breasts. “But that’s ludicrous. I know you can’t tell me his name, but I assume it’s a student named Bernardo?” I catch his eye and read the silent affirmation there. “I’m not totally surprised, then. He has seemed a bit off since the first week of class, to be honest. I’d almost mentioned it to you, even. Now I wish I had.” I am calm at the core of my being. Calm spreads through me from my core to the tips of my fingers and toes. “All the same—” Drew begins, but I hold up a staying hand. “Also, Bernardo’s performance in the class has been disappointing—to both of us—so he’s clearly cooked this up to try to get an A.” I say it coldly, sharply. Drew is staring at me, seemingly at a loss for words. His face is entirely red. It looks like it may stay that way permanently. I hold in the triumphant laugh. Drew seems to be choking or stuttering, trying to get words out. I lean in, like a gentle professional, ready to help soothe him to speak. “He says he has a pair of your panties,” he blurts out, at last, and I know instantly that it’s true. I remember hastily gathering my clothes while he slept and not finding them. I didn’t care at the time—I just wanted to escape. Somehow I manage to roll my eyes. “Really, Drew? I can’t believe you’d even dignify that kind of accusation by repeating it.” He spreads his hands wide, as if he’s innocent, as if he isn’t the renowned lecher of the department we all know him to be. As if he hasn’t snatched (ha!) his young conquests’ panties himself, stuffed them into his coat pocket to sniff and discard before he walks through his own front door, to embrace his wife and pat his children’s heads with the very same hand that fingered the panties and what was in them. “Look, I’m obligated to call you in and explain the complaint in detail. It sounds like this is bogus, but if the student presses his case, you’ll have to sit in mediation with the dean and work it out. Are you prepared to do that?” He says this all in a rush. I cast my mind back to the underwear I wore to Bernardo’s apartment, wondering if it was the distinctive black lacy pair or just one of my regular black cotton ones. It doesn’t matter—they won’t try to identify me by my underwear, for Christ’s sake! And in general it’s my word against his, and my word will prevail. I’m a highly regarded female professor, and this student is harassing me! I nod firmly at Drew. “Yes, I’m prepared, though this is a great inconvenience at this busy time of the semester. It seems unfair that I would be put through the ringer for this by some . . . unstable student.” Drew nods, seeming to commiserate. He’s been there—we all know he’s been there. Though his “unstable students” are telling the truth. And so is mine, of course. Drew seems more relaxed, now that all of this is out in the open and I’ve taken it so well. Remarkably well. I’m one of his best teachers, after all, and a favorite of the students. I would never do something like this—look at me! I’m practically the poster girl for the healthful academic life. Slender, strikingly attractive, fashionably dressed . . . a youthful middle-aged woman who has managed to balance career with home life. He doesn’t know about Nathan, of course. No one here does. “How’s Nathan?” he asks then, as if reading my mind. It’s the first time since the interview began that I lose my cool. My eyes dart to the window behind him, to the view of skyscrapers crowding the horizon and eternal gray sky beyond that. “He’s fine,” I say absently. I start to gather my things. “Well, I’d like to say I’m happy to have gotten the chance to chat with you, but . . .” I smile, confident again. He matches my smile with his own relieved grin. “Thanks for coming in. I’ll keep you updated on any new developments, but I think we’ve got this one covered.” Then he winks at me, he winks. I pick up my bag, give him a cheery little wave, and turn to go. “Take care, Drew,” I say over my shoulder, and for once I mean it.
I’m practically strutting down the street as I leave the building. Nothing can touch me, not the loud noise of traffic, not the crowds, not even the foul air. I’m as sheltered from it all as the actress would be—or more than she would be, because I don’t have the prying pairs of eyes, the dropped jaws, the pointing fingers, the tourists sneaking smartphone pics. I’m invisible—except for a few men who, predictably, do double takes as I pass. I ignore them. I feel so light and free I could lift up off the sidewalk and fly all the way home.
I’m just climbing the steps of my stoop when the guy who’d been walking nonchalantly toward me says my full name and I turn. He shoves a manila envelope into my hands (another goddamn manila envelope—a chill rides my spine at the sight—as if the first one has been resurrected from the ashes) and says, “Cheers. You’ve been served.” Then he spins away from me, down the street.
It’s a subpoena. To appear for a mediation with Nathan on December 3. Fucking Nathan. Topics to be covered: Custody of Cat appears first and foremost on the page, amid a garble of legal language I can barely focus on through the shaking veil of my rage. Custody of Cat. Custody of Cat. I close my eyes, standing there on the stoop, and imagine ripping Nathan’s head off, literally ripping it off, and tossing it here in the corner of our little front garden. I’d leave it there for the rats to eat. They’d eat his eyes first, I suppose, and then the soft curve of his nostrils. Or maybe they would start with his plush lips. I think I could even stand to watch them do it. I think I would even applaud as they did it, until they’d stripped off all the flesh and hair and loveliness of his face and left nothing but bone. The motherfucking bone of Nathan.
I run up the stairs, two at a time, and when I get into the apartment I throw the envelope on the floor and scream, “Cat!” over and over again. She doesn’t appear. I remember myself, lower my voice, call to her in a gentle tone, cluck my tongue the way I do when her food is ready and waiting for her in the kitchen. At once she comes padding toward me, mewing. I scoop her up and press my face into her soft fur. I start to grip her too tightly, perhaps, because she struggles in my arms. When I finally release her, she lands on all four paws (of course! perfect creature!), and pads into the kitchen to check her bowl. My cat. Mine.
*
A deep stillness comes to my life then, as if everything were buried under snow, and I the lone figure moving through the hushed
landscape. I imagine the actress in a movie like this, maybe one about survival in the wilderness, or after an apocalypse. How brave and ruggedly beautiful she would be, stripped of all excess—no makeup, jewelry, or fancy clothes—becoming one with nature, killing squirrels or fish and biting into them raw, leaving the blood smeared on her face as the camera zoomed in to show us her bright eyes and stoic chewing. How magnificent she would be!
Meanwhile I keep moving along my well-worn track, unmagnificent and mostly invisible—except when I’m teaching. I go to class and back home, to the store and back home, for a walk and back home, and every time I stop in front of the actress’s house; I see signs of life through the kitchen window—various combinations of the husband, the children, and the staff—but never her. I eat. Drink. Sleep. Repeat. There has been no word from Drew about Bernardo, no word from Bernardo, no word from Nathan about the pending mediation. I never wrote it down in my calendar, but I can’t seem to forget the date, no matter how hard I try: December 3. If only the actress could take my place on that day. She would dress in a smartly fitted black suit, augmented with tasteful jewelry and low black heels. Everything about her would be calm and grave and graceful. Nathan’s lawyer would look at him in disbelief, as if to say, You want to take something from her ? The whole thing would turn quickly in her favor. She would leave with the rights to Cat’s ownership tucked firmly beneath her slender, suited arm. A slight smile on her face—part victory, part grief-shadow—having won but having put to rest, forever, her relationship with Nathan. My relationship with Nathan. How much tidier it would be if she could do that for me.
*
This morning I wake to a crisp chill in the air, the start of weather that used to bring me such joy. I always looked forward to making soups and stews, and to cuddling with Nathan on the couch and watching one of our Netflix shows. No more! I have only Cat to cuddle with now—I try to satisfy myself with that, with her solid warmth and purring softness, but December 3 looms too large in my mind. Though it’s still weeks away, the day hangs over me like a swinging ax. One wrong move and pfft—it’s my head, not Nathan’s. The sound of it swinging above me makes it impossible to relax into my cozy autumn togetherness with Cat. I go through the motions—curling up, eating soup, watching TV—but there is always that infernal sound.
*
I come home one night after class, having squelched Joanne’s annoying concern over Bernardo’s disappearance with a vague statement about “personal issues,” and collect the mail from the front hall. I see a formal-looking letter from the university and feel the first flutter of panic. Will I have to sit in mediation with Bernardo after all? Or is it just my spring teaching schedule? I tear open the envelope. Inside is a letter from Dean Polaski, a woman I’ve met only a handful of times over sushi rolls and wine at official department functions. After a suspiciously warm opening, she writes:
As you know, enrollment in our humanities departments has been steadily shrinking since the fall of 2014. The causes are many and varied, and I am certain you’ve noticed the decreasing number of students in literature classes in particular. Unfortunately, due to this and other factors, we cannot renew your contract as Lecturer after this coming May. You will complete this academic year’s courses as planned, but unfortunately we will not be able to welcome you back in the fall.
Please direct any questions you may have about this matter to my office or directly to your chair. We thank you for your excellent service in the past and wish you the very best in your future endeavors.
Sincerely,
Linda Polaski
Dean, Humanities Division
The first thing I do is dial the chair’s number. It rings and rings. I’m certain he sees my name and doesn’t pick up. When I hear his happy, boozy, bastardly voice on the message, I wait for the beep and scream, “You goddamn hypocritical son of a bitch!” Then I sit there, letting the silence drag and bloom until the system shuts me off.
Next I sit calmly down at my computer and send a message to my class—deleting Bernardo’s e-mail address first—with the subject heading: NEXT CLASS: CANCELLED. In the body, I write:
Dear class, due to circumstances beyond my control, I must cancel our next class. Please keep up with the assigned readings (check the syllabus), and begin work on your final paper. I hope to see you next week.
“Hope” leaves it open, of course, for a further cancellation, which may follow this one. The dean and my chair would be appalled if they knew I had cancelled two classes already, but: screw them. They’ve already so viciously screwed me.
I lean back against my desk chair and let the panic swell. It pulses at my temples. It brings my recently eaten lunch to the back of my throat. What in god’s name will I do, in this insanely expensive city, without a job, without a partner to pick up the slack? How will I live? I force myself up out of the chair and put on my tennis shoes.
At some point I notice that night has fallen. I have no idea what time it is, though—I’ve left my phone at home. I think I’ve remembered to bring my keys, but I can’t be sure. I can’t feel them on my body anywhere, and I have no strength to check—all I can do is walk, arms hanging listlessly at my sides, and look. Parents shepherd backpacked children home from school. Dog shit sits piled in a tidy pyramid by a fire hydrant. Red lights turn green and then yellow. Cars move through the streets, drivers forever honking. At the least provocation, they honk. The noise comes to me muffled, as if it were underwater—or as if I were. My feet ache. I need water. I don’t care. Eventually I turn, though, and head back toward my own corner of the neighborhood. It takes a long, long time, but at last my feet carry me exactly where I expect them to go: not home, no, but to the front gate of the actress’s house. Where they stop. I lift my eyes.
Finally, our schedules have aligned. The actress is at home, and plainly visible. It’s a gift, and one I sorely needed after today’s hellish surprise. I see her standing by the back table, bending over her seated eldest girl, who must be doing homework. The actress is giving her advice, or encouraging her, or chastising her gently. Meanwhile the cook is busily preparing dinner at the stove, managing two steaming pots and a sizzling pan at once. When the husband enters the room, possibly after a long day, he greets his wife with a kiss on the lips, and his daughter with a kiss on her duly bent head. He stands with the two of them, chatting. Telling the actress about his day. Asking about hers. Connecting. Listening. For a moment I feel like I belong in this familial triangle, like I’m part of the shape that makes them whole and wholly beautiful. I feel reverent and warm. No longer cast out, no longer dejected or forsaken. No longer the stranger banging on their basement door: Let me in. I, too, am cherished and kept. Free from the struggle of daily living. Held gently in my stately home by the gleaming wood floors and the tastefully painted walls and the husband and the children and all of the stainless steel appliances and the delicious meals made by the cook.
I come back to my body with a jolt. I stumble away from the cozy domestic scene and make it back, somehow, to my building’s entry hall before I start to wail. Sobs break out of me, knocking the breath from my chest. I grab the banister and drag my feet up the stairs, though it wouldn’t matter if I stayed in the downstairs hall wailing because no one is there to hear me, in the empty rooms. Emptiness inside, emptiness outside: this is what’s mine. I hold on to the railing outside my apartment door and just let the sobs come buckling out, let them usher the fear and despair out of my body. This is not my life! This cannot be my life! I never thought it would be. I envisioned a sunlit, stylishly decorated place, with books lining the shelves and a beloved’s arm holding me. I envisioned children playing in the backyard as I smilingly went about menial household tasks. I envisioned myself as a tenured academic, wrapped safe in the belly of an institution for all time. I envisioned myself as a good woman, a great woman—the best! Better than the actress, happier than the actress, more alive and connected to life than the actress could ever hope to be, trapped as she i
s in the velvet prison of fame. I would have been free, held only within the soothing bonds of family and home.
But here I am, back in my lonesome, loathsome reality. I finally open my apartment door and step into the small, dark place I call home. All I can hear is the grating sound of Cat’s desperate meow, saying, Too late, too late. Everything you’ve wanted has slipped away. Cat curls herself around my legs, mewing and mewing, and all I can think is shut up. I scoop her up in one hand and cover her mouth and nose with the other but she squirms and bites my middle finger, so I drop her. She skitters away. After a moment’s pause, I go after her, find her crouched beneath the kitchen table. I grab her up, take her to the bedroom, and stuff her under what was Nathan’s pillow. Her back legs thump and scratch against my arms, drawing blood, as I press down. “No!” I cry out. But there is no one to hear me.
Finally there is silence and stillness in the dark bedroom. I, too, am still. Tears track steadily down my cheeks, but inside is only a heavy, dead calm.
It was an accident, I plan to tell Nathan. She fell from one of our windows left open by the super after he fixed something or she gobbled up a string that twisted around her insides—I don’t know. She died. She simply died. They sometimes do, cats. It’s not like there would be an autopsy, or a trial, for the death of a cat. I bathe the scratches all along my wrists—savoring the sting of the soapy water—and bandage them up as best I can.
Oh, Cat! For the second time today I’m on my knees, letting the sobs rack and ravage me. How could I do what I have just done? And why? What good has it done me? I kneel on the carpet, staring at my hands through the blur of tears. My empty hands! I have emptied them myself! I clench my hands into fists and pound them into my stomach. Again. Again.
