by Mary Angela
His wife smiled patiently.
“Well, I guess you could say that.” Now he smiled back at his wife.
“What would you say? I mean, what would be an accurate representation of your thesis?” I asked.
He handed his wife his plate as if he were about to stand and give a soliloquy. “In short, it examines the consequences of health rhetoric, more specifically organic rhetoric, on health-conscious consumers.”
I slowly chewed and swallowed my meatball as I thought of how to respond. “You must have eaten quite a few boxes of cereal.”
“It was seven hundred and fifty pages by the time it was finished, and I had barely unearthed the deep tomb of a very new field of study,” he said.
“He was accepted by seven different PhD schools,” his wife added.
I said nothing. I was still evaluating his metaphor.
“But that was just luck,” he said. “Organic was novel at the time.”
I nodded. “I’d never get by with writing a dissertation on the French Romantics today.”
“Yes, well, death of the author and all that,” he laughed.
“No one will talk me into killing off my authors. French or not, Foucault—”
“Please tell me I did not just hear Em use the ‘F’ word,” said Judd Turner, who taught literary criticism. “I’m going to save you right now, Thomas, and tell Em that Kate is serving red velvet cake in the dining room.”
“I was just … red velvet? I thought she saved that for Christmas,” I said.
“She told me to tell you especially,” Judd said.
“It is my favorite,” I said to Thomas and Lydia. “You must try it. It simply melts in your mouth.”
“Lydia cannot digest gluten,” said Thomas.
“Well, it was good to meet you anyway. I mean, it was good to meet you. Not despite the gluten.” I stuck out my hand, and Thomas shook it briskly. “I’m sure I’ll see you on campus.”
“Yes, of course,” he said. “I look forward to it.” Lydia simply leaned into him.
Kate served me an especially large helping of cake, and I balanced it carefully as I went in search of Lenny. He had somehow found his corner armchair and was in the middle of a heated exchange with Jane Lemort, our medievalist. The only clue that gave away his irritation was his bright red ear tips, which he probably could have blamed on the drink. Despite the fact that I wanted to tell him about Thomas Cook, I was about to walk away when he caught my eye and silently pleaded with me to join their conversation.
“Em! How’s the cake?”
I rested my hands on the back of a nearby folding chair. I did not want to commit to sitting down. “Excellent, as always. Hi, Jane. Lenny, Thomas Cook is here and he did write his dissertation on cereal boxes.”
“No shit,” said Lenny.
I smiled widely. “He’s right back there if you want to visit with him.”
“What did you say?” asked Lenny.
“I just asked him about his dissertation, and he told me. It’s seven hundred and fifty pages.”
Lenny whistled.
“Does that surprise you, Lenny? I would think quite a few dissertations reach that length,” said Jane, sounding very much like a psychologist.
“Yeah, the ones on War and Peace,” said Lenny, laughing.
“Popular culture may be the War and Peace of our time,” said Jane.
“Are cereal boxes considered pop culture now? Christ,” said Lenny.
“I’ll tell you what pop culture is. Pop culture is a poor excuse to write about a bunch of bird brains running around a desolate island planning each other’s demises, all for a chance at fifteen minutes on Good Morning America,” I said. This addition to the conversation came out just as silence fell over the room, making it seem louder and more brazen than intended. Equally unnerving was the fact that Thomas Cook stood in the doorway of the dining room, freezing momentarily before pouring his coffee, which sat next to the cake.
Jane stood and left, making her excuses first, and people began to converse in normal tones again.
Lenny finished his glass of bourbon in one gulp. Now he was the one smiling. “I assume, by the look on your face, that that man over there grinding his teeth is our Thomas Cook?”
After the potluck, I retreated to my small office on campus in Harriman Hall. It was connected to a larger office belonging to Jim Giles, and I often wondered if the space was truly his storage closet. But this was of little consequence to me. The location provided me with ample opportunity to overhear situations much graver than mine—Ed Ludvar’s evaluations, Jen Hoyka’s third mental breakdown, Judd Turner’s affairs with his freshmen. And although the room always smelled of pine cleaner and textbooks, in the late-day haze hung the very essence of a September evening. A small, battered desk and two side-by-side bookshelves occupied the longest wall in the room, while the corner alcove boasted a long, rectangular window with a mismatched chair and ottoman.
Because I had trouble sleeping, I often took late-night walks around the campus, enamored by its thoughtful stillness. I would also come to sit and watch out this window. Tonight, the fireflies danced near the water fountain in the courtyard. As fall progressed, the leaves would form makeshift ground blizzards. In the winter, nothing would happen at all, save the snowflakes piling atop the garden wall like tiny building blocks. Then spring would arrive like a benediction, falling from the blithe note of a robin, and the school year would end as pleasantly as it had started.
Of course there would be the in-between, but that was rather interesting, too. The straight-A student, the apathetic football player, the quiet genius … I looked forward to meeting them all again. They had their own stories to tell in their required semester of composition. Although my PhD was in French literature, I taught English because the campus had no genuine French Department. It was a compromise, and one that wasn’t entirely unexpected. More diverse campuses could be found in larger cities, but growing up in Detroit, I longed for a different lifestyle. My dad blamed it on my name, which belonged to my great-great grandmother; he said it put romantic ideas in my head.
Yet there was something romantic—nostalgic, even—about Copper Bluff’s unending flatness, its immutability. There were no abandoned factories, no slum neighborhoods. Only the wind ravaged the buildings; only the snow felt cold. I fell in love with it when I did my graduate work at the University of Chicago and submitted a paper on redefining women’s work in the pioneer novel for a conference at Copper Bluff. My parents, shocked at the idea of my remaining in the Midwest, promised to make me repay my tuition if I didn’t take my expensive education East, and I didn’t blame them. They had saved every penny they ever made so that I could go to my dream universities and better my future. The problem was I had been raised with a sensibility I could not reconcile with the Ivy League schools. I too often found myself on the side of the have-nots to throw my lot in with the haves. I took the open assistant professor position in Copper Bluff the day after I took my oral exams and had been repaying my parents ever since.
I stood and peered out my office window, across the courtyard. Even now, a year later, I wouldn’t alter my decision if I could. Besides the picturesque town and the tranquil campus, there was André Duman and the prospect of a French Department.
André Duman had been hired several years ago when the Spanish teacher went on sabbatical, and there was a need for a part-time Romance language instructor. Although his original assignment had been temporary, the university kept him on as an adjunct. Soon he became determined to begin a French Department and set up a resource room for French language students and a movie night that was always well attended by females of various pursuits. When his department got going, he promised, there would be a need for a French literature teacher—which was my specialty—and I hung on to his promise as if it were a grape at the end of the harvest, the sweetness of it growing with each day.
I sat down, hoping to finish my novel, a gothic romance, before the semester
officially began tomorrow. I just couldn’t. My mind wandered from the novel to André to the potluck, and I read several more pages before realizing I could remember nothing. I shut the book for good. Instead, I turned on my computer and logged on to my campus account. I printed all three of my class rosters, scanning the lists for students I knew or names I recognized. In all, there were sixty-one students, sixty-one people I would come to know quite well over the course of the next sixteen weeks. After years as a teaching assistant and professor, the idea was still thrilling.
I tucked the rosters safely away in their respective folders and the folders into my worn leather satchel. Then I turned off the light and locked the door behind me.
The English Department was on the second floor of Harriman Hall, and the narrow stairwell always smelled of paint. This I attributed to the constant detection of asbestos and the maintenance crew’s commitment to covering it up. Thus, the blast of air I received when I opened the back door was welcoming. On most occasions, I used the front entrance, which connected Harriman Hall to the rest of the campus. But because I had driven straight from the potluck, I’d used the rear entrance adjacent to the parking lot.
The campus was relatively quiet except for an occasional holler from one of the nearby frat houses and a steady bass beat coming from a parked car somewhere in the vicinity. Very few vehicles occupied the parking lot now, and the click-click-click of my heels reverberated among the surrounding buildings as I walked toward my car.
I tugged on the door, only to discover that it was locked, a rarity, and rummaged through my jacket pockets for the keys. My satchel came off my shoulder and the keys fell to the ground with a clang. I knelt down and was fumbling for them in the dark when I overheard voices. Abruptly, I froze. I was in an awkward position; it appeared that I had knelt down beside the car to eavesdrop. I couldn’t stand up now. Instead, I studied my shoe and pretended to tie it, despite the fact that it was a high heel with no laces.
I could not see the individuals—they were on the other side of the car—but the voices were male and female, and the two seemed to be quarrelling. Her voice was quiet but insistent. His was easier to hear only because it was deeper.
“I don’t want to wait. Why can’t you tell him now?” he asked.
They had to be students—impetuous souls. I felt somewhat relieved knowing that if I were detected, it would not be by seasoned faculty members. I had done enough tonight to create a burgeoning divide between my new colleague and me.
“I said I can’t,” she insisted. “He’s not ready.”
He was agitated; I could tell by the pacing of his footsteps. “You promised you’d tell him before classes start.”
Was I overhearing a lover’s spat? If so, it was a bit scant on the love. I detected nothing but bitterness between these two individuals.
“Look,” he said, “if you’re not going to tell him, I will.”
This declaration was met with absolute silence, and I didn’t dare take a breath.
“No, you won’t,” she finally said, growling out each word.
“Oh yeah? And who’s going to stop me? You?” He laughed, but I could tell he was nervous.
“Yeah, me. I could make your life a living hell, and you know it.”
I was so shaken by the turn of the conversation, I fumbled my keys, and the pair became quiet. I debated whether or not to stand up and confront them. My teacherly instinct said something was amiss, but I worried my actions would be unwelcome—especially for the boy. I knew how sensitive male students at this age could be about their egos.
“Come on,” she said, her voice turning softer, “let’s go.”
“No,” he said. “Forget it.”
First I heard heavy footsteps leave the parking lot, growing softer, then silent as they reached the grass. Moments later, lighter footsteps started off in another direction.
A sick feeling settled in the bottom of my stomach as I quietly unlocked my car. I slid into the seat and shut the door. What had just happened? I replayed the brief conversation in my head several times, each version growing more sinister. I surveyed the parking lot, but there was no one in sight. I turned the key, and the engine rumbled to a start. I quickly drove the one block to my house, the sick feeling never leaving my stomach.
Chapter Two
The next morning was sunny and hot, a reminder that the mild weather of the past few days was not to be expected. The Great Plains was a land of extremes and scorned anything remotely seasonal.
A warm west wind filled my ears as I bicycled across campus, avoiding clumps of students standing and talking and laughing. Some students were moving hesitantly, heads down, studying their first-day schedules printed off on flimsy copy paper. One student, a blonde girl, accidentally let hers loose into the wind, and it skipped wildly in my direction. I sped up and swerved off the walkway and onto the grass, nearly trapping it with my tire. Instead the paper flipped up directly in front of my face, and I stupidly let go of the handlebars to catch it. Catch it I did, but not before I lost control of my bike, nearly missing a tree before falling to the ground.
A nearby group of students clapped, and I brushed myself off, readjusted my backpack, and bowed. The pale blonde shuffled up to me, clearly embarrassed, despite the fact that I was the one who had fallen.
I thrust the schedule into her hand and tugged at my sticky shirt. “Here you go. Keep a hold of it.”
“Thanks,” she mumbled, her eyes never leaving the piece of paper.
I picked up my bike, happy to see there was no damage, and continued toward Harriman Hall.
The smell of coffee filled the air, and I walked down to the faculty lounge to pour myself a cup before heading to my office. The lounge was empty, and the coffee pot nearly was, too, so I could fill up my Gone with the Wind movie mug only to the words “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.” Then I shut off the pot.
“A quarter a cup, Emmeline,” scolded Barb, the department secretary. “I didn’t see you put in your quarter.”
She had her hands on her large hips, as if making a joke, but I knew how seriously she took the coffee fund.
“I hardly have a quarter’s worth here,” I said, showing her my half-empty cup.
“I suppose I’ll let you go this time,” she said. “Just remember to put in two quarters next time.”
I scooted past her, attempting a weak smile. “Of course.”
“And whoever takes the last cup has to make a fresh pot. Tsk tsk. Have you forgotten everything over the summer?” she added before I was completely out of earshot. I doubled my pace. I felt like a criminal every time I went for the pot. Everybody did. And everybody had talked to Giles about it. His only reply was, “She’s just doing her job. Can’t blame her for that.” It was easy for him to say; Barb had a terrible crush on him and made him coffee, tea, photocopies—favors the rest of us did without. And now she was talking about buying a water cooler, a purchase Giles wholeheartedly agreed would save on plastic bottles. The thought of her rationing Dixie cups was just too much.
In my office, I scanned the bookshelves for my textbooks, small necessities I had forgotten last night. Over the summer, I had come in to organize my books, tired of seeing them lying about on the table. Of course, I had more books than bookshelves, and several had to be double-stacked. As the minutes until class grew shorter, so did my patience, and soon my thoughtful scanning turned to panicked pillaging.
“Emmeline, what are you looking for over there?”
It was Jim Giles, the chair of our department. The close proximity of our offices had made us good friends despite our age difference.
“My textbooks,” I hollered back. I remembered that I had stacked them in my desk hutch so as to keep them close at hand for the upcoming semester. I opened the glass door, which didn’t need much encouragement, and out poured writing paper, stamps, and chewing gum. Left in the hutch, however, were three badly worn texts. “Ha!” I said.
Giles chuckled from the
doorway. “I take it you found what you were looking for.”
Nonchalantly, I scooted the gum under the desk with my shoe as I pulled out the books. “Yes. Here they are.”
He viewed me quizzically. “Did you have a … scuffle already this morning?”
Instinctively, I smoothed my hair. It was prone to theatrics the moment I left the house. “No. Why do you say that?”
He pointed to my pants.
“Good god!” I exclaimed, wiping at the grass stain on my tan trousers. It was hard enough to find pants that fit my petite frame, and these were new. I took off my backpack and began searching for the stain remover in the front pocket. “I was riding my bike on campus this morning, and I don’t have to tell you what the wind is like today. Anyway, a girl—probably a freshman by the looks of her, pale and ready to cry, you know the type—lost her schedule.” I began rubbing the stain remover vigorously across the stain. “There it was, flying across the campus, and she frozen in her tracks. Well, I knew she would rather die than tear after it herself, so what could I do? I chased it down with my bike and returned it to the poor girl.”
“And your pants?” he asked.
“Oh right,” I said. “I took a small tumble in the process.”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “No one will ever guess.”
I looked down to see that the stain remover had soaked a third of my pant leg.
“The wind might not be such a bad thing today after all. It might dry that spot just in time,” he said, smiling, as he returned to his office.
I shoved the books in my bag and hurriedly locked up.
The campus courtyard was the one open square not overpopulated with trees, clearing a path for the most beloved building on the grounds: Stanton Hall. Its beautiful Sioux Quartzite looked almost pink against the brilliant blue sky, the white peaks piercing the cloudless air. The building, three stories tall and over a hundred years old, once housed all the classrooms and offices on campus. Today, it still contained several classrooms, a lovely lecture hall, and the Foreign Languages Department.
