“Fine….I’m fine, I—”
“And how is J.J.? What has it been? Three years since I last saw the both of you?”
Oh, no.
He had never grown used to it, the ritual of announcing their end to others. And it had been so long since he had last had to do it, that Malcolm was taken aback. The fact that Madeleine Percy—that anyone—
still believed that they were together pierced him anew. Disabusing her of the notion would be akin to killing an endangered bird.
He felt suddenly hollow and as though he would cave in on himself.
He couldn’t speak.
Seconds passed.
Malcolm’s heart began to race.
“Malcolm….?”
Panic threatened to close his throat. It was clotted and cold, swallowing him into itself. Malcolm shut his eyes and ransacked his mind for any thought that would save him. There was nothing. Only failure.
“Malcolm?….Are you still there?”
He had failed in every way that mattered. Sweat broke out on his forehead. He should just hang up, hang up now. Why? Why had he even called her?
Why?
And despite the icy darkness, the answer floated to the surface of his mind.
Beauty.
There was something beautiful mixed in with all that addled him. He clung to the thought and managed to drag breath into his lungs.
What was it? What was the beautiful thing?
Ah, yes, the poems…and…
“I’m…here,” he exhaled and breathed again. “I’m sorry Madeleine. J.J. and I…are no longer together.”
Malcolm heard Madeleine’s faint gasp, her stammered condolences, but he barely processed them, intent only on filling his lungs and slowing the scamper of his heart.
“Yes, I….It’s all right. It’s been a long time now…almost three years….Madeleine, there is a book of poems,” he began and did not let her speak until he had told her everything about La Fuente de Piedra and Sister Alejandro. While they spoke, Malcolm emailed her a PDF of the three poems he had translated along with copies of the originals.
Madeleine told him that she would contact Sister Alejandro’s publisher as soon as she could.
“You have two potential roadblocks, Malcolm. The first would be, of course, if someone else has already secured the rights. We’ll know that soon enough,” Madeleine explained. “But the second could be trickier.”
“What’s that?” Malcolm asked, feeling his stomach knot.
“Sister Alejandro may need to seek permission from her bishop or even an archbishop before making any deal with us. It’s a big unknown. How patient can you be? Is there something else you might like to pursue?”
“No!” Malcolm blurted before recovering himself. “No, Madeleine, I can be patient if that’s what it takes. This is the project I want to do.”
Madeleine was all business.
“Okay, then. I think we have reason to be cautiously optimistic,” she resolved. “If the muse is upon you, keep at it.”
As if my life depended on it, Malcolm thought.
He hung up and sat back in his desk chair. The door to his office was closed, and he loosened his tie and used the cuff of his sleeve to dab the sweat off his face. Now that the panic was gone, he felt utterly ridiculous, but wary, too, should it return.
“Get a grip on yourself,” he growled under his breath.
It unnerved him that this descent into panic was becoming so familiar. And it wasn’t like a descent; it was an onslaught, an assault that sprung on him without warning.
You have a panic disorder, you fuck-up.
Malcolm shook his head, denouncing the ugly thought. Panic disorders happened to people who were mentally feeble.
Just one step away from bat-shit.
No. Not that. This was nothing. It had passed quickly, and he’d be damned if he’d let it happen again—especially in front of anyone else.
Malcolm could hear the rise of chatter and foot-traffic outside his door. He checked the clock: 4:15. The last of the afternoon classes in Griffin were being dismissed. He noted with some relief that it was time to go home. Maybe even have a little Crown. He could relax a bit now, he told himself. He had taken the first steps, and now Madeleine would do her part. If he wanted to, he could choose another poem to work on.
If you can do it.
He remembered the 6mm still in his file drawer. Malcolm shot up from his desk and busied himself with his briefcase. He had a stack of essays he’d just collected from his special topics class, and those would both occupy and satisfy him this evening.
As he locked his office door behind him, Malcolm heard Helene Coulter at the bullpen.
“You are crazy, girl! It’s so frickin’ hot. How can you run home?!?”
“The sweat will do me good.”
Malcolm turned to see Helene and Maren step out of the bullpen, the latter wearing sneakers, decidedly short, gray running shorts, and a turquoise sports tank. Malcolm stared as she held a hair tie in her mouth and re-braided the ends of her hair, pulling the weave tightly before plucking the tie from her lips and re-securing it.
Malcolm veered left and headed for the stairs at the center of the building rather than approach them and take the south stairs nearest his office. He pulled his already loosened tie off his neck as he headed out to the parking lot. Helene had been right. It was at least 90 degrees and insufferably humid.
The low-fuel alert pinged at him as soon as he started the Accord, so Malcolm headed away from the Saint Streets, making a left on Lewis and another left at Girard Park. Despite the heat, joggers, dog-walkers, and mothers with young children crowded the park, which offered an abundance of shade under the many moss-covered live oaks. Malcolm turned onto St. Mary and stopped at the Mobile station to fuel the car.
As the tank slowly filled, he eyed, with his usual disgust, the red-clad, bluish polar bear sign that offered him an icee and the obnoxious red barn cartoon that advertised Krispy Krunchy Chicken Served Here.
What kind of person would buy fried chicken from a gas station? Malcolm always wondered.
Near the entrance to the convenience store, a young, wiry stray cat, all black, sniffed the garbage can. Malcolm paused, remembering that Ricardo was almost out of food. His hesitation to break his writing streak this weekend had kept him from his usual grocery errand.
When the tank was full, Malcolm headed for the convenience store, hoping that they carried Fancy Feast. The stray mewled pitifully at him as he opened the door. The squat clerk at the register did not look up from her cell phone as he entered, and he passed the displays of Hot Fries and salted peanuts, scanning the shelves.
Malcolm grabbed a couple of cans of 9Lives, imagining Ricardo’s disdain. The register was strategically placed by the case of promised Krispy Krunchy chicken, and he could not help but smile.
“Is that all?” the listless clerk mumbled.
“No. I’d like one chicken strip, please.”
“You want one chicken strip? Not a whole order?” she asked, frowning at him.
“Just one.”
The clerked opened the case, mumbling to herself, grabbed a pair of tongs, drew out a chicken strip that appeared to be simultaneously grease-soaked and dehydrated, and dropped it on a paper tray. Malcolm paid for his purchase and walked out.
The stray beseeched him again as he stepped outside.
“Yes, yes, but over here,” Malcolm reassured the cat, leading him around the corner of the store where he squatted down and slid the chicken strip onto the pavement before the young tom. The stray pounced on it eagerly.
“You’re welcome. Ricardo would insist.”
Malcolm tossed the paper tray into the garbage and went back to his car, smiling at himself.
Amused and relaxed, Malcolm pulled onto St. Mary, heading toward the Saint Streets and turned on the radio. The twiney, British strains of Al Stewart’s “Year of the Cat” met his ears, and he threw his head back in laughter.
&
nbsp; He kept laughing as he thought of the confused clerk, the lonely chicken strip, and the image of how he must have looked, talking to and feeding a stray cat. He laughed at himself laughing as he drove through campus and crossed Johnston Street, feeling slightly hysterical.
He finally caught his breath and wiped tears from his eyes as he passed Olde Tyme Grocery with its never-ending line at the snow cone window. He was approaching the intersection of St. Mary and St. Landry, slowing with the traffic, when a figure on the sidewalk caught his eye. A jogger. With a French braid that swung like a pendulum as she ran. Malcolm’s breath hitched when he recognized Maren Gardner. Toned runner’s calves pumped her lean legs. The braid swayed above compact hips and a narrow waist. Sweat had soaked through her sports tank and glistened on her tan shoulders.
Malcolm wrenched his eyes from her just as he passed her, but they found her again in the rearview mirror as he crossed St. Landry. He caught her as she dragged a wristband across her forehead, a look of transcendence on her face. Cheeks flushed. Mouth open. Malcolm sped away, perturbed to find that he was rock hard.
Holy shit.
He switched the radio to NPR and listened to Robert Siegel introduce a story about Pakistani slums. He concentrated on the story and its central figure, a questionable politician who was being compared to Tony Soprano. When he reached St. Patrick Street and pulled into his driveway, Malcolm stepped out of the car and felt the heat of the afternoon.
Sweat. Flushed cheeks.
He hastily unlocked the door of the house, set his briefcase and the cans of cat food on the kitchen table, and gave Ricardo a passing scrub as the Siamese wound himself out from under the chair legs.
Malcolm aimed for the back of this house, to his bedroom closet where he switched on the light and rifled through his small stack of shoes, finding a rather worn and dusty pair of Brooks. He stripped off his shirt and found a t-shirt in his dresser. He pulled it over his head as he dug further for a pair of neglected running shorts and socks.
As he dressed, Malcolm tried to count back the months it had been since he had last gone for a run. Was it a year? More? He used to have a routine of running in the evenings during the spring and fall and swimming at the indoor pool at the university rec center during the winter and summer. When had he stopped? The spring before last?
Malcolm strode back to the kitchen and filled a glass with ice and water, which he quickly drained. He would need the hydration in this heat. He set the glass on the counter and walked out the door, not bothering to lock it.
Conscious of not wanting to head towards St. Mary, Malcolm took a right at the end of his driveway and started a tentative pace towards Souvenir Gate. His body protested almost immediately. The sweat started as he took a left onto Souvenir, and his quads felt like poured cement. He kept his stride until his lungs began searing when he reached St. Francis and hooked another left. He slowed his pace a little and finally felt his body slacken. His legs were more fluid, and although he still puffed for air, he wasn’t dying.
The sun was still high enough in the west to keep the shade of trees quite narrow, but he skirted into the shadows whenever he could. Sweat began to trickle then stream from him. He turned up Azalea Street, wishing that he had thought to wear a cap to shade his eyes and catch the rivulets of perspiration. He brushed his arm across his forehead, flinging sweat from his face, and he remembered that Maren had worn a wristband for this purpose.
Endorphins swelled in his bloodstream as he took St. Thomas, heading southeast and crossing Louisa. He opened up his stride a little more and felt his lungs loosen, drawing in deep breaths. He estimated that he had gone just over a mile when he reached the end of St. Thomas and took another left on Curtis, now aiming back for St. Patrick Street. It used to be that he could easily go five miles at a 9-minute pace, a good 45-minute workout. Malcolm glanced at his watch and figured that he was probably not even breaking an 11-minute mile, but even after all the time, he felt like his muscles remembered the rhythm and, given time, could reclaim that pace again.
Malcolm took a right on Ray Street and a quick left on St. Patrick. He slowed to a walk in front of his house, completely drenched. He had run about two miles. He stopped and stretched his quads and his calves, feeling the neglected muscles twitch and dance beneath his skin. He felt his heartbeat in his chest as it began to recover and noted how much better its racing felt now than it had on the phone with Madeleine earlier.
He peeled off his soaking shirt as he walked inside his air conditioned house, heading for the shower, and wondered if he could go three miles tomorrow.
Chapter 7
Maren
“Someone really hates you.”
Maren turned from the department bulletin board and found Helene standing behind her, reading the duty assignment posting for the Deep South Writers Conference over her shoulder.
“What makes you say that?”
“Because you are scheduled for Friday evening and Saturday morning at the registration table,” Helene pointed to Maren’s name and wrinkled her nose. “With Jess and Dr. Vashal.”
Maren eyed her friend and dropped her voice.
“Wanna trade?”
“Hell, no, sister, you are stuck with that party.”
Maren raised a brow. The two walked out of the department office, away from any eavesdroppers.
“Really? I sorta thought you had a thing for him,” she fished.
“Vashal?!? Don’t make me sick!” Helene evaded. Maren rolled her eyes.
“You know I meant Jess.”
“Yeah,” she admitted, sadly. “I do sort of have a thing for him. But, let’s be honest, Mare, could you really see me with Jess Dalton?”
To Maren’s horror, she saw Jess round the corner the instant before Helene did and grabbed her friend’s arm.
“I’d rock your world, Coulter,” Jess said as he breezed past them, beaming like a fool. A pretty fool.
Maren cringed.
“Oh. My. Fucking. God.” Helene wilted in front of her, turning scarlet. “Please tell me that didn’t just happen.”
Maren wrapped her arm around Helene’s shoulders.
“Come on. Let’s go get an iced latte.”
As they descended the stairs, Maren still squeezing a mortified Helene, they passed Dr. Vashal, who gave Helene a puzzled frown before locking eyes with Maren. She read a question in his slate-green eyes. A question about her? She held his stare, searching with her own eyes before he looked away, long lashes blinking rapidly. Maren felt her gaze following him for an instant before coming back to herself.
Iced latte.
Ten minutes later, Maren carried two grandé, caramel iced lattes to one of the picnic tables next to the Snack Hut where Helene hung her head in the shadow of its umbrella.
“I’ll have to drop out. There’s no other option,” Helene declared, staring at the table.
“Oh, come on,” Maren laughed. “It’s not that bad.”
“But it is,” Helene said, looking at Maren, who stopped laughing at once. Helene’s eyes filled. “I really like him. And I know I shouldn’t.”
Helene dabbed the corners of her eyes before rolling them.
“I really know I shouldn’t. But I do. And now he knows—if he didn’t know before—which he probably did because I’m totally transparent, and I’m such a fool. And, oh my God?!? Jess Dalton?!? He’s so full of himself. Why does it have to be—”
“Stop,” Maren ordered. “Breathe. Sip.” She mimed these commands, and Helene nodded, following her lead. Helene closed her eyes and let out a long sigh.
“So he knows,” Maren started. “What’s wrong with that? Knowing that Helene Coulter likes you isn’t really such a curse, is it?”
“But now it’ll be so weird,” Helene whined.
“Did you see the look on his face?” Maren pointed up to Griffin Hall. “He was elated. You made his day.”
Helene shook her head, blushing again.
“That’s even worse. He’
ll never let up about it now, and now I’m all vulnerable and exposed, and he’ll never…protect that.” Her voice broke, and she covered her face.
Maren said nothing, but she laid her hand on Helene’s shoulder. She knew exactly what her friend meant. Letting someone know how you felt meant handing him something so precious and fragile and hoping he would safeguard it, hoping he wanted to safeguard it. Helene wanted Jess to want to hold her feelings sacred, to cherish them. Who wouldn’t crave the same?
“I’ll just have to be a total bitch now,” Helene resolved, sniffing and dropping her hands. Tears done. “I’ll just have to hate him.”
“You don’t know what he’ll–” Maren started.
“No, and I’m not going to let him humiliate me,” Helene said, fiercely.
“Okay. Hate him,” Maren conceded. “It’ll probably do him good.”
At last, Helene smiled and even laughed at Maren.
“Thank you. And I’m sorry for freaking out on you.”
“Anytime.”
“And you’re right,” Helene frowned. “It’s not a curse. There are far worse things….How’s your dad?”
Maren shrugged.
“They’ve stopped the chemotherapy. It doesn’t help for very long.” Maren took a deep breath. It was her turn to fight tears. “He and my mom are at my aunt’s lake house for a few days. Dad said he wanted some time alone with her…before….”
Helene’s face mirrored the pain that must have been on her own.
“That’s very sweet,” Helene said, quietly.
“Yeah,” Maren nodded. “They’ve always been like that. All in love….It’s going to kill my mom.” Maren’s throat closed, and she picked up her latte, sucking on the straw and forcing the cold coffee down.
“Ok. Enough tears,” Helene said, bucking up. “You’ll be my rock, and I’ll be yours. Let’s get back up there.”
Maren nodded, again, feeling more composed. It always helped to focus on school. Back to work. It was Tuesday, and the Deep South Writers Conference would consume the entire weekend, starting Thursday evening with a reading at Barnes & Noble. One of the guest writers, David Solomon, a novelist, was the featured reader for the evening, and there was a lot of buzz about him reading an excerpt from his next book which wouldn’t come out until October. But following his reading would be an Open Mike session, and Maren had planned to read two of her poems.
Fall Semester Page 6
