by Rue Allyn
He raised an eyebrow. Then he smiled with good grace. His ego had been salved, too. “As long as you mean the ‘handsome fox’ part, baby, I’m yours.”
“And I mean it. Come on. To the bar, that is.”
• • •
Bishou had let her dissertation slide while the World Tobacco Conference monopolized her life. Now she buckled down to it. She spent early mornings and late nights gathering the materials she needed and compiling her work. Dr. Roth spoke hopefully of a June panel date.
“Do it,” she said. “Let’s finish this up.”
“All right.” Sitting once again in Bishou’s comfortable easy chair, Roth made a few notes. “What are you going to do after this?”
“For the fall semester? Probably go back to New England, take care of the family, and wait for the word from you. If I have to respond or resubmit, I want to be immediately available.”
“Mmm.” He nodded. “Going to look for work?”
“Can’t, ’til I’ve got that PhD in hand,” Bishou replied reasonably, “unless I want to deal them off the arm in the Exeter Diner.”
Roth chuckled. “You can always go into fundraising, according to President Lanthier.”
Bishou smiled to herself. “That was a fluke, but yes, I suppose I could do it if I had to.”
“Brr. Fundraising gives me shivers, just thinking about it. Okay. I’ll get moving on the final rush here, and see what I can dig up for a panel.” He rose. “I admit I was a little scared about Louis Dessant. I thought he might drag you from the straight and narrow.”
“Not realizing that the event organizer, Gray Jackson, was trying to drag me from the straight and narrow because he was so jealous of Louis Dessant. Thanks, Dr. Roth.”
Roth reddened, but he also grinned. “I never spotted that, but it made sense when you told me. Would’ve been more interesting if he had wanted more than just a drink. I suspect Security would be picking up the pieces and wondering how a man got attacked by a Marine in the middle of campus.”
“Gray told me to keep his number in my little black book so I could come cry on his shoulder when Louis Dessant turned me down,” Bishou grinned. “I heard Sukey say one day that he’s got a woman in every port, and two in some of them. I don’t think Gray Jackson is going to suffer long.”
Roth eyed her. “I’ll bet your number is going to stay in his little black book for a long time, Bishou. You’re a bit of a prize, you know. Enough that he didn’t want the other guy to get you.”
Bishou felt her cheeks burn. “Don’t you start, too.”
“No more than anyone else,” Dr. Roth replied. “I know it’s not proper these days to say that a woman thinks like a man, but you do, and maybe that’s what saves you. You can’t believe they’re serious about you.” He shook his head. “And yet you dive into all these French works and write commentaries on passion.”
“As I said before — writing it, not living it.”
“You’ll live it, too. You’re in the world, Bishou, sometimes too much in it, but in it nonetheless. Yes, you’re an academic. And a good one, thank God. But you also see a side of human nature most academics don’t experience. You’ll be dealing with that dichotomy all your life, I suspect.”
“I suspect you’re right,” Bishou agreed.
Chapter 11
She smiled at the letter with the French stamp, marked ILE DE LA RÉUNION.
Ma chère Mlle. Howard,
Louis has had a good laugh at me, for not realizing you were a woman when I wrote you. My deepest apologies for referring to you as Monsieur Howard. Neither the tone of your letter nor your handwriting gave you away when you contacted me.
Louis speaks well of you. He says that the assistance of someone who was equally comfortable speaking English or French was invaluable to him. He told me the story of the bet, where you explained scientific concepts to a room full of disinterested tobacco growers. It is one of the few times in years that I truly have seen him laugh. You must have amused him greatly!
He also came back with new ideas. Of course, as I told you, I am a cowardly conservative. But he wants to plant some cotton, and experiment with filtered cigarettes, so why not try it? We will see.
Louis is rested and relaxed, more than I hoped for. This American visit did him great good, even if he did have a small nerve-storm in the middle of it. He seems to have recovered from it quite well. I suspect we have you to thank for this.
I know that you are halfway around the world, but it would be a pleasure to meet you someday, and you are always welcome in our home. La Réunion is a beautiful island, you know — a nice place for a vacation.
Regards from both myself and Denise,
Etien Campard
• • •
Bishou regarded herself in the mirror. White blouse, dark skirt, sensible high heels, and stockings — the female academic outfit the world over. She locked her door as she left, and went downstairs.
“Luck,” said Marie Norton, who stood at the door of her apartment as if she had been waiting for her.
“Thanks,” Bishou replied.
Bishou walked across campus to a classroom building. Dr. Roth waited outside.
“Are you nervous?” they asked each other at the same moment.
“Jerry Paisley’s was yesterday, and Damon King’s tomorrow,” Roth said, not for the first time, “and there are also sciences panels occurring right now. So we are not alone in our discomfort.”
They stood in a corridor until the clock registered 9:00 A.M. exactly. Then, Dr. Roth went inside. A few moments later, he reappeared and motioned Bishou in.
Six men sat at a conference table. Roth took his seat to make it seven. Then the grilling began.
Bishou had already decided not to be upset about obscure questions or star attitudes, both known problems with such panels. She answered questions about her work with a thorough knowledge of it. When a panelist went off on a tangent, she asked for a further explanation, often disclosing a pet peeve that had nothing to do with her dissertation. She never pointed these out; other panelists caught it and moved on. After all, they were busy; there were two of these inquisitions per day, if they were examining literature degree candidates, the most plentiful field.
“God Almighty!” Bishou exclaimed, as she exited with Roth. “We were in there three hours!” Her clothes were soaked with sweat and she felt as if she had spent time playing basketball with her brothers.
“Off you go.” Roth patted her shoulder. “I’m taking them to lunch. We’ll do a post-mortem some other day. Go home and eat and drink again.”
“Right,” Bishou said. “See you later.”
Back at her rooms, she left the door open and stretched out on the couch. The last summer session had ended; the campus was dead. No one was going to be in this building but her, Marie, and the graduate survivors.
Marie appeared at the door. “Are you still alive?”
“Can’t tell yet. I’ll let you know after another drink.”
Marie sat in Dr. Roth’s favorite easy chair. “You won’t know the results for another month, will you?”
“No, I won’t. Marie, I’ve been thinking. I’m going to pack up as much of my stuff as I can, sell the crap, buy a used car, and head for home. If I need to come back for responsion, I’ll beg a room off you or stay at a hotel. But I can’t sit around here for another month during the dead semester, waiting for maybe.”
“Sure, makes sense to me. I’ll put you up if you have to sleep on the rug — but you won’t. I’ll bet you don’t have a responsion, either, if President Lanthier has anything to say about it. The tobacco people are still sending him donations.”
Bishou chuckled. “A good night’s sleep. Then I’ll deal with this in the morning.”
“Goodnight.” Marie pulled the door shut.
Bishou closed her eyes and thought of Louis Dessant lying on this couch. That was her only association with this tired piece of furniture. The next grad student could have it, and
gladly. The papers, the books — those could go in storage somewhere in New England. Not all the books, even; just the good ones. And her clippings, including the Gazette article that had caused so much trouble. Those were keepers.
Bishou closed her eyes, and drifted off to a peaceful sleep — still dressed in her school clothes.
Chapter 12
Bishou knelt on the garden soil and carefully troweled a trench, pulling out some tiny weeds along the way. The day was sunny and bright. She could feel the heat on her bare shoulders. Firmly she planted a tiny onion every three or four inches, and covered it again. There had been a frost in May this year, late even for New England. But now, in June, it was finally safe enough to set out the flats of onions.
Hands rested on her shoulders — oily hands, above the line of the tube top she wore.
“You’ll burn if I don’t rub this in,” said her brother, suiting action to words.
Bat looked like Bishou in the face, enough for them to be dubbed “the twins,” and they had the same general body type. But his arms, bare below the T-shirt sleeves, displayed bulging muscles. His dark hair, now grown out, was a scissors cut.
“Thanks. Just because I’ve been in Virginia doesn’t mean I’m used to the sun.”
Bat nodded. “Just the heat.” He recapped his bottle of suntan lotion. “Feels like you’ve lost some muscle tone.”
“I did. I’ve been a desk jockey for over a year.”
“Put on a little weight, too? Your chest looks bigger.”
“If it is, you shouldn’t be looking anyway.”
He nodded again, unperturbed. “C’mon, I’ve got beer.”
She rose and dusted off the knees of her pants. “Best words I’ve heard all day.”
Bat and Bishou went back into the little house, into the kitchen. He took two bottles of beer from the fridge, opened them, and motioned toward the screened-in porch. Maman sat out there, in her wheelchair, staring out through the screen. Brother and sister kissed her and took seats at the other end of the porch.
Bat propped his legs up on another chair and observed, “Still waiting.”
“Not worried.” Bishou sipped the good, cold beer. “I did a good presentation. If they didn’t like it, that’s their pigeon. I can do it again, if I have to.”
Bat, still unperturbed, nodded and took a drink from his bottle. Maman, however, wheeled over to scold her daughter.
“You speak as though this weren’t the most critical period of your life, Bishou!”
“It isn’t, Maman.” She smiled into her mother’s eyes. “At least, that is what I am telling myself, until the letter comes in the mail. Then, we’ll see.”
Maman leaned forward, placed her hands on either side of her daughter’s head, and kissed her forehead. Then she wheeled back to her previous place at the other end of the porch to stare out at the woods and grasses.
Bat shook his head, ever so slightly. The way the children had discussed everything for years. Wasn’t critical. Didn’t matter. Not the end of the world, no matter what the parents thought. She nodded, just as slightly.
Bat murmured, “What about Louis?”
She murmured back, “Well, what about him?”
“What you said in your letter.”
“One hurdle at a time.” She took a sip of the ice-cold beer.
“Gonna look him up?” Bat cocked his head at her.
She frowned, exhaled, did not reply.
“Yeah,” said Bat. “You’re gone on him.”
“Labor intensive.”
“And this isn’t?”
“And unfair to you. You matter, Brother.”
They leaned forward, slapped palms, sat back.
“Don’t blow it for my sake,” said Bat.
She shook her head. “We had a deal.”
“I know. Deals can change.” Bat shook a cigarette out of a pack and lit it.
Bishou watched him carefully. “You have a setback?” She watched his eyes as he looked up from his cigarette, and realized for the first time that something was wrong.
“Yes.”
“Wanna go for a walk?”
“Can’t talk about it yet,” he said.
“Good God, Bat.” Bishou stared at her brother — the big, muscled, hard-headed Sergeant Major — as if she were seeing him for the first time. He was hurting inside. She stood. “We’ll go for a walk anyway.”
“I’m not talking.”
“Then we’ll walk along and say nothing,” Bishou said firmly.
Slowly, he stood. His expression never changed, but his body language said he didn’t want to do this. They carried their beers with them, told Maman they were going for a walk, and opened the screen door.
They walked along the edge of the backyard, then out of sight through the trees beyond. They headed toward the road, which was quiet on a weekday. They crossed the road, climbed over some guardrails, and went down to a creek bed. The creek was nearly dried up this time of year; there was plenty of space to walk along beside it. They walked upstream for a while, still without speaking.
A bird burst suddenly from a bush, chirping madly. Bat jumped, alert, and watched it flee. His old reflexes are still there, she thought. It could have been a sniper.
“I think that’s a friendly bird,” Bishou said, and Bat grinned.
“Depends on what it drops on us.”
She grinned back. “I suppose so.”
Bishou did not press him to talk. He would, with time. They moved on.
Much farther upstream he finally sat on a boulder to finish his beer. She sat nearby and did the same.
“So what about this Louis?” Bat asked. “Was he hot?”
She would have told anyone else to mind his own business. “Yeah. Sex in a white package, they called him. The only one who wasn’t aware of it was him.”
“How come white?”
“Tropical business suit.”
“Oh, yeah.” Bat tipped up his beer to finish it. “Nice boy?”
“Absolutely.”
“Hot for you?”
“No. But some of the other guys were jealous as hell of him anyway, and tried to cut in.”
Bat grinned. “Any trouble?”
“Nothing I couldn’t handle, thank God.” This time, Bat laughed. It occurred to her that she hadn’t seen him really laugh lately, and thought: Neither did Louis. “Bat, who died?”
The laugh vanished. “Oh, goddamn it.”
“No, you didn’t give it away. I made an educated guess.”
“A chopper pilot.”
“Friend?”
He nodded. “Amy MacStay.”
“AMY MacStay?”
Bat brought his knee up, bunched his fist hard, and placed his mouth against it. He’s trying not to cry, she realized.
“Oh, goddamn it.” Bishou hitched herself up off her rock and put her arms around her brother. She felt him shake, trying to hold in the pain. “No, that’s what sisters are for. Let it out.”
Bat started to sob, small sobs, still under control. But his face showed agony; eyes clenched tight shut, tears nonetheless. She held him and stroked him.
“That’s the problem with you macho men. You don’t have practice dealing with meltdowns, especially your own,” Bishou murmured.
He sobbed, “Her hitch was almost over.”
She understood. They’d been talking marriage. “You always said it’s the last three months that get you.”
“Yeah. Yeah. And I’ve held my breath every goddamned mail delivery, worse than you with EVU. Fear that the letter would be there — from her sister, somebody. And it came.”
“Any chance she’s a POW or something?”
He shook his head. “They got the body. I went to the funeral. Maine.” He pulled a filthy handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his eyes, blew his nose, and recovered himself. “Maybe that’s why I don’t like to see you waiting and waiting, Bishou. Finding excuses for not taking the leap. Saying, just a little longer. It might not be the
re.”
“Louis Dessant jumped in, and look where it got him.”
“There’s a middle road. You know it. But what I meant …” Bat stopped, wiped his eyes, blew his nose again, and began to sound more like himself. “What I meant was, that was my plan, Bishou, marry Amy, move back here near the family, maybe even start a family of my own. And that plan’s gone.” He snapped his fingers. “You want to run away for a while, you want to travel, I’ll cover you. Because I’m sure as hell not going to be doing anything else.”
She hugged him closer. “You sound so bitter.”
“Why the fuck shouldn’t I be? You know and I know it’ll change with time. We’ve both been through this crap before.” Bat put his arms around her. “You’re a woman, and, Little Sister, you are hot. I may be your brother, but that doesn’t mean I have to be stupid about things like that. You want that man, get him. You want that job, get it. Do it.”
She pressed his head against her chest. “I want that sheepskin first. Then we’ll see what happens. We’re just going to mark time for a little while, okay, Brother?”
She felt him nod. “Sounds fair. Family time, what we can get.”
“Absolutely. Then I’ve got to check my finances, too.”
“Sell the car.”
“I will. But I only have a little cash reserved. I’ve got to check my assets.”
“Got a job as a manager for New England Transit. I’m fixed. I can lend you some.”
“Good. I might need it. Don’t know what I’m going to do yet, but I’ll do something, I promise.”
• • •
A few days later the telephone rang. Bat answered it. “Howard residence.” He listened, and then said, “Yeah, Bat, Jean-Baptiste, that’s me.” A smile started to appear on his lips. Then he said, “Yes, sir,” and pressed the phone receiver against his shoulder. In his best Sergeant Major’s voice, he boomed, “Dr. Roth on the phone wants to speak to Dr. Howard! Front and center, Doctor!”
