“Oh, this is good.”
Dr. Vashal didn’t reply, but stabbed a piece of beef with his fork and ran his free hand through his hair. Tension rippled off him. Maren froze with a bite of pad thai in her mouth. She studied him again. He looked miserable.
At once, she felt miserable and wondered what she had done. She forced herself to chew and swallow and set her fork down. He looked at her, finally.
“What’s wrong, Dr. Vashal?”
He winced and frowned.
“Nothing,” he said, shaking his head and eyeing his plate, falling back into his own thoughts.
“Did I do something? Because if I di—”
“You?!?” His eyes locked onto hers, incredulous. “Of course not!…I was just thinking…”
“About what?” she pressed.
He paused for a moment and looked at her carefully. The frown he wore clouded his sage green eyes, darkening them.
“You do know…that you don’t have to accept…my invitations,…right?” Doubt and regret narrowed his eyes and pierced her. “You are free to decline. You do know that.”
“Of course I know that,” she answered, bewildered. “Why?”
He sighed but kept searching her face.
“I don’t want you to feel obligated to accept anything from me.”
Maren felt her eyebrows leap.
“Do you feel obligated to offer?”
It was his turn to look bewildered.
“God, no! I offer because I want to. I just don’t want you to feel…harassed.”
Maren picked up her fork and loaded it with glass noodles.
“Well, I’ve accepted because I want to. And I don’t feel harassed.”
I feel special. She took a bite before she could add the last thought.
The tightening around his eyes relaxed a little, but he continued.
“I meant what I said the other night…about wanting to be your friend. I just don’t want to cause you harm by doing that.”
“Meaning what?” Maren was keenly aware of the hope inside her that he would not rescind the offer.
“Well, for one thing, I wouldn’t want others to think that we were more than just friends and subject you to their gossip.”
Maren took another bite and considered his words. She eyed his full plate.
“Please eat. You’re making me feel like a pig.”
He laughed and took a generous bite.
Maren tested out her next sentence in her head a few times before voicing it, and she met his gaze, even though it humbled her.
“I hope you won’t take back the offer of your friendship.”
She watched his eyes soften completely.
“No.” He shook his head and a smile lifted the corners of his mouth.
“And I don’t want to expose you to gossip, either,” she continued. “So I won’t.”
“And how will you do that?” he asked around a mouthful.
“I will keep a low profile.”
And keep you to myself.
He smiled a conspirator’s smile.
“Fair enough. As will I.”
Finally, he looked relaxed and pleased. He served himself a second helping of the pad poi zean.
“Is that your favorite?” she asked.
“Today, it is,” he said. “I love the way the mushrooms give the glass noodles a smoky flavor. It’s subtle, and I keep chasing it.”
“That’s a very good description.” She tried a bite with his words in mind. “Mmm…I see what you mean.”
“Which one is your favorite?”
Maren surveyed the delicacies on her plate.
“Hmm…I don’t know. This is quite a feast. It’s the best lunch I’ve had in awhile—short of leftover chicken and sausage gumbo, of course.”
Dr. Vashal chuckled, and Maren congratulated herself silently.
“What do you normally do for lunch?” he asked before swallowing another bite and licking his lips. Maren got caught up in the flash of his pink tongue over his gorgeous lips and stifled a sigh.
“Sometimes, Helene and I go to the student union or to Zeus for hummus and pita. Sometimes I pack a sandwich,” she shrugged and set down her fork, completely sated.
Dr. Vashal made a face.
“Zeus is alright, but there’s not much in the student union that’s very appetizing,” he said.
“You are right about that, but I’m pretty limited to what I can reach on foot or with my bike.”
He narrowed his eyes at her, but he didn’t respond to this.
“How is your family?…Your father?”
Maren sucked in her breath.
He remembered.
She knew she could take her time in answering him.
“He’s….Really, there aren’t the right words. The words and phrases that come to mind are either too clinical or too metaphorical to really capture it….Whatever the words, it’s not good.”
He watched her for a moment.
“Would it be easier if people didn’t ask about it? If I didn’t ask?”
Maren thought about the question. Would it be easier? Yes. Was it nice that people cared enough to ask? Yes.
“I don’t know. Maybe.” Her eyes drifted to her lap while she considered. “It’s always there, the knowledge that he is dying, but when I am busy, I can focus on something easier, and it’s a relief.”
He leaned back in his chair and crossed his long legs.
“Knowing that, I won’t ask,” he offered, frowning. His voice went soft. “But I’m not squeamish, and I know what it’s like to think about what you’d rather not think about. To do nothing but. Anytime you want to give any of that a voice, I’ll listen.”
Maren was speechless, but she managed to nod. His words touched her with his acceptance of her pain. And they intrigued her with their admission of his own suffering. Maren realized that she felt quite safe with him.
“Thank you, Dr. Vashal.”
He wrinkled his nose with displeasure.
“What?” She sat up straight, alert.
“You have to stop calling me that.” He closed his eyes and shook his head.
Her alarm gave way to amusement.
“What? ‘Dr. Vashal’?”
His eyes shot open again, and he glared at her, but with an edge of humor.
“Yes. That.”
“Why?” she teased.
“It’s hardly friendly.” He shook his head again and raked his hands through his hair. “It makes me feel….”
“Old?” she offered, smiling.
“No!” He glared at her again with his fingers still in his hair. She couldn’t help but laugh at him.
“Opportunistic? Scandalous?”
“Please, stop.”
She stopped.
“I’m just teasing,…Malcolm.”
Her heart tripped into a rapid beat. It felt so good to say it. Better than she would have thought. But what really gratified her was the look that transformed his face when she said his name.
He blinked in surprise before his eyes lit up, and as she watched him struggle to contain his smile, his cheeks colored. It was one of the sweetest things she’d ever seen.
“Well,…that sounded much better,” he said, finally.
“It did.”
One word had leveled them, delivered them. They were equals. Not a professor and a student. They could be easy with each other.
“Would you like to go for a run with me later this week?” she asked.
He eyed her cautiously.
“Should you be running so soon?”
She raised an eyebrow at him.
“Malcolm, I’m going to run tomorrow night alone or with a friend? Are you in?”
This time, he didn’t try to contain his smile.
“I’m in.”
Chapter 16
Malcolm
“We’ve hit a snag,” Madeleine Percy began.
Malcolm returned the call Thursday afternoon as soon as he’d gotten out of h
is 2 p.m. class. Madeleine’s voicemail message had been ambiguous, but the her tone set his pulse racing.
“What do you mean?” He raked his fingers through his hair and pushed back the chair from his desk.
“Let’s try to stay calm, Malcolm. It may be nothing.” But the hesitation in her voice told him that she didn’t think it was nothing.
“Go on.”
He heard her sigh over the phone.
“Sister Alejandro’s bishop wants to know his options,” she said, finally.
“Options?”
“Yes…He wants to see if there may be someone…better suited for the job.”
Malcolm shot out of his chair.
“Better suited?!? What the hell does that mean?”
“Malcolm, please. He just wants to see if there is someone from the church or even someone native to Guatemala who could do the translation.”
“What?!?” Malcolm shrieked. “A translator? In the church? Or from Guatemala? Who is more than fluent in two languages? Does he realize what that means?”
“Malcolm, I—”
“Does he know that he’s looking for a poet? That he’s looking for a poet above everything else? My God, why not just use Google Translate?”
“Malcolm, I’m in contact with the diocesan attorney. I’ve tried to explain to him the nuances behind literary translations. I think the attorney understands what I mean, and he will communicate that to the bishop, but in the meantime…”
“What? What, Madeleine?”
“I’m sending them copies of Stray Dogs. The original Spanish and your translation. The bishop’s English is basic, but perhaps someone close to him will have better fluency and can shed more light.”
Malcolm slumped back down in his chair again. If the man didn’t understand the subtleties, the complexities of what a literary translator did, would a sample of his work even matter? The demon, his panic, stirred.
“I suppose it can’t hurt.” His stomach felt like he’d eaten marble.
“Malcolm, it’s just a snag. You know this can be a long process with lots of ups and downs,” she said, speaking as though she were soothing a small child.
“Please, Madeleine, don’t patronize,” he snapped. “Just fight for me. Fight hard.”
Malcolm’s lungs seemed to close in on him.
“I will. I am, Malcolm, but I want you to think about a Plan B,” she said, calmly. “In fact, I—”
“Call me when you have news.” He slammed the phone down before he lost his voice to a sickening constriction in his throat. Malcolm began to gulp like a catfish.
He yanked open his tie and wheezed through an inhalation. The tightness in his throat bloomed up from his chest, squeezing him.
My God, I’m having a heart attack!
Malcolm’s heart raced as he tried to breathe in again, but his lungs wouldn’t fill, wouldn’t pull the air in. He panted, struggling to get any breath. It wasn’t enough.
Holy fuck! I’m going to die in this office.
The thought filled him with dread, and he stood with the intention of seeking help, but his vision darkened, the room tunneling into blackness. Still gasping, he reached blindly for his desk and sent the phone clattering to the floor.
I’m going to faint and hit my head, and no one will find me for hours.
An image of himself, lifeless, gashed, and urine-soaked on his office floor illuminated in his mind, and he railed against it.
Get a grip, you asshole. Put your head between your knees.
Mercifully, he collapsed back into his chair and buried his head between his legs. His vision cleared almost at once. After a few more gasping breaths, he felt his chest relax fractionally, and he hazarded a deeper breath. Then another. And another.
His heartbeat slowed, and his pores opened. Sweat misted his face, his back, his armpits. He could smell his own terror.
“Jesus Fucking Christ,” he moaned. He began to shake, his muscles yielding to tremors as the adrenaline rinsed out of him.
Malcolm righted himself in his chair and sagged against the headrest, completely drained.
It was 3:35. Too early to be seen leaving his office for the day, though he desperately wanted to be anywhere but there. Still, the thought of encountering colleagues and holding a conversation seemed impossible. He sat completely still, lest he wake the demon again, and he watched the second hand on his desk clock cycle around and around 14 times. It was easier to focus on the clock than to consider how far gone he must be if Madeleine’s news could unhinge him so.
As the second hand came around to the twelve at 3:49, Malcolm’s cell phone chimed in his pocket. He didn’t take his eyes off the clock. When the second hand registered 3:51, he reached into his pocket and retrieved his phone. At 3:53, he woke the screen and read his message:
Thursday, Oct. 26 3:49 p.m.
Are we still on for a run? How’s 5:30?
“Oh, shit.”
Before Madeleine’s call, Malcolm had been looking forward to their prospective jog. He would have even been the first to make contact, firming up plans. But that was impossible now. If he could not even contemplate a conversation in the stairwell with a fellow professor, how could he manage a 30-minute outing? And running? His muscles felt like they were the consistency of soup.
He did not relish the thought of turning Maren down; there were moments in her presence when he was suffused with peace. Sometimes in her company, he would simply stop thinking, and for a while he could just witness, just be. More often, though, when actual thoughts occurred to him, they centered on her—her comfort, her needs, her satisfaction. She was an emergency exit in a burning theater. She took him away from himself and into a brighter, clearer place, one full of sunlight and fresh air.
At 4:00, a leaden sadness settled over him. He could not do it. He could not muster the composure to see her—or, more importantly, let her see him. The call and the attack had left him too fractured. He could not let her be around him if he was like this.
Thursday, Oct. 26 4:01 p.m.
Not feeling up for it today. Rain check?
She responded almost at once.
Thursday, Oct. 26 4:02 p.m.
Not getting sick are you???
Malcolm smiled at her apparent concern.
Thursday, Oct. 26 4:02 p.m.
No, not sick. Just worn out.
Thursday, Oct. 26 4:03 p.m.
Tough day?
There it was. The slackening in his shoulders. The deepening in his breath that she allowed. It had been years, years, since anyone had asked him if he’d had a bad day. It gave him a strange—but not unpleasant—sensation in his chest.
Thursday, Oct. 26 4:04 p.m.
You could say that.
Thursday, Oct. 26 4:05 p.m.
A run would make you feel better…
but I get it.
Thursday, Oct. 26 4:05 p.m.
Another time, I hope.
Thursday, Oct. 26 4:06 p.m.
Count on it.
Malcolm stood up from his desk, drained but steady. He began to pack up his briefcase for the day as he pictured Maren heading out for her jog. A cold thought struck him, and he reached for his phone again.
Thursday, Oct. 26 4:07 p.m.
Be careful on your run.
Thursday, Oct. 26 4:07 p.m.
J Always am.
Malcolm finished gathering his things and locked up his office. He had no idea what he would do with himself once he got home, and that was never a good prospect. He had been spending his evenings with Sr. Alejandro, immersing himself in her poems, editing work he’d already drafted, or setting out on a new translation, but he couldn’t think about that tonight. It was far too depressing.
As he pulled out of the parking lot, Malcolm decided that he needed to divert himself by preparing a meal. Something artful and complex. Something that would take the better part of the evening and pair well with a bottle of wine. Pontevedra Chicken with Rice. Spanish Flan for dessert. That would be
both absorbing and satisfying. He turned left onto Johnston Street and headed for Albertson’s.
At 4:30, the grocery store was a flurry of soccer moms and kids in school uniforms. Malcolm grabbed a cart and maneuvered through what appeared to be half of a t-ball team in order to get to the liquor section. He took his time choosing a Mazuelo blend from the La Rioja region, just south of Basque country. It wasn’t a label he knew, but the location was a favorite, and he planned to drink more than a few glasses tonight.
At the meat counter, he had the butcher wrap up half a dozen chicken thighs. Malcolm enjoyed cooking, especially Spanish and Italian cuisine, and his opinion on poultry was that the best cut of meat for roasting was the thigh. Tender and plentiful, the pieces would coat well in the marinade of Pimenton de la Vera, Spanish smoked paprika, and hold the flavor to the bone.
Malcolm loaded garlic, green onion, tomatoes, and jasmine rice into his cart before gathering what he needed for the flan—eggs, sweetened condensed milk, and evaporated milk. He could already taste the heat of the spices and the richness of the custard.
At home, he fed Ricardo, opened the wine to let it breathe, and washed the chicken. He filled a shallow dish with oil, minced garlic, a splash of the wine, and a quarter cup of Pimenton de la Vera. He placed the chicken there, skin side down, washed his hands, and headed to the back of his house to take a shower and scrub the day from himself.
It was 5:30 when he stepped under the scalding stream, and he tried, futilely, not to picture Maren out on her jog. He shampooed his hair with extra vigor, sanded his skin with soap and washcloth, and rinsed himself roughly, but he could not wash her from his mind. He stopped trying, turned the cold water down to almost nothing, and let the hot water land on his chest and shoulders. He pressed his hands against the shower wall and leaned into the stream until it ran down his face.
“Maren,” he spoke into the torrent. “Maren.”
The thought of her running had aroused him, but he refused to corrupt his vision of her—and the friendship he had pledged her—by touching himself. But speaking her name into the rush of water was almost enough to undo him.
After several minutes of wishing for what he could not have, Malcolm turned off the taps and dried himself. He threw a pair of jeans on over his boxer briefs and pulled on a white undershirt. Barefoot, he padded back to the kitchen, turned over the chicken in the marinade, and poured himself a glass of wine.
Fall Semester Page 15
