by Nancy Warren
And he countered with the same argument he imagined every high school English teacher had dusted off since that poor chap got picked on at Stratford-upon-Avon High. “The power struggle between the younger generation and the older is timeless and always relevant.”
Of thirty-two students in his class, about twenty pairs of eyes stared at him balefully. The other dozen sets of eyes were staring at the ground, the ceiling, the clock, at some hopeless love interest across the aisle or sneakily trying to check the forbidden cell phone.
“King Lear is as current as the Kardashians.”
That stirred a flicker of interest and got a few more pairs of eyes on him. “In fact, that will be an essay question you can choose so you can prove to yourselves that Lear is relevant. Have Act One1 read by Thursday.”
Groans met him along with the thump of books hitting bags, but then the bell rang and both he and Shakespeare were forgotten as the kids poured out into the halls like a river overflowing its banks.
He packed up and headed out. The afternoon was sunny and he needed to stretch his legs. He’d do his grading in the evening when the daylight was gone.
He drove slowly home thinking that this change wasn’t one he’d wanted or asked for but he was going to be okay.
He had a feeling he was going to settle into the school fine. He liked his colleagues, the kids were pretty much like teenagers everywhere. The country was pretty and he’d met an interesting woman.
Not bad for a guy who’d had his life turned upside down only two months ago.
Not bad at all.
Feeling better than he’d felt in weeks, he drove to his new apartment, thinking that he really needed to finish unpacking. Later. He changed into running gear. He drank water before he left and as he did so he flipped on his laptop to check his email.
Brianna, his wife of six years, soon to be ex-wife had emailed him. The header was Our Life Together. He clicked open the email wondering if she was asking him to come back. After the abrupt and brutal way she’d ended their marriage – with a text message, as though she were cancelling a date – he wondered if she were having second thoughts.
Geoff, After the way you verbally attacked me the last time we saw each other I no longer feel safe around you. If you want anything out of the house let me know so I can arrange not to be here.
Geoff didn’t think of himself as a man who got angry very often. He liked to think of himself as pretty easy going. He might be stubborn at times -- but the kind of man his own wife wouldn’t feel safe with? The unfairness of it all bubbled up in him until he felt as though his eyeballs were vibrating with bitterness.
He sat down and began hammering out a furious reply when it suddenly hit him. She was playing him. He didn’t know why or how but the stupidest thing he could do right now was to answer her in writing.
He pushed away from the desk, grabbed the keys to his apartment and ran out the door. He pounded down the apartment stairs, hit the street and started running. Instinctively, he headed away from town to the country roads. He started out going way too fast until he was wheezing air into his parched lungs. He slowed, getting off the main road and onto the small country lanes where traffic was rare.
He found a rhythm and tried to pound the anger at Brianna’s unfair accusation out into the gravel. Inside his head he ranted, he swore, he told his ex what he thought of her.
He didn’t realize how much of a pent up mad he had going on until he finally slowed his steps, his shirt drenched with sweat and his muscles aching. Time to turn around and head for home.
He had no idea how long he’d been running. Based on the ache in his calves it had been a while. As he turned, he experienced the sinking feeling that he didn’t know which way was home.
All around him were fields that he barely remembered passing, lanes and roads criss-crossed. There wasn’t so much as a road sign.
He had run himself into the middle of nowhere.
Somewhere there must be a house or a major road or something, he thought as he began to trudge, wishing he’d at least brought his cell phone so he had a GPS and could, if absolutely desperate, call for help.
Instead, he had the setting sun to guide him. Sun sets in the west. He decided to follow it knowing he’d have to start running again soon simply to stay warm.
The late March weather was spring-like. While the sun had been out there’d been some warmth but as it faded he felt the crispness in the air.
He had a momentary image of him dying out here of hypothermia. And wouldn't that be humiliating? He trudged on adding getting him lost to the list of sins for which he blamed Brianna.
Iris left her parents’ house, refusing an offer to stay for dinner. She liked to move ahead on a project once she’d decided on a course and tonight she was going to start shopping for a baby daddy.
She saw a lone jogger up ahead and as she drew near, to her astonishment, he turned around and stuck out a thumb. Her headlights told her two things. First, the guy out jogging was Geoff McLeod and second, he’d overdone the workout. She pulled to a stop and got out. “Geoff? Are you okay?”
“Iris. Good to see you.” He sounded all fake casual but she could see he was drenched in sweat and, since the sunset had brought colder air, he was shivering. He wasn’t carrying water so she flipped her trunk and grabbed one of the bottles she always carried for emergencies. “Here.”
“Water. Thanks.” He opened the top and drank deeply. Then he looked at her. “I got lost.”
“So I see. Get in. I’ll drive you home.”
He looked down at himself and pulled the shirt away from his body. She couldn’t help but notice some seriously nice pecs and abs where the shirt had shrink wrapped to his skin. “I’m soaked.”
Back to the open trunk. “My workout gear’s in the back.” She unzipped the duffel that always rode with her in case she was overcome with an urge to hit the gym. There was a towel folded neatly at the bottom. “Here you go.”
“Thanks.” He mopped his face. Then opened the passenger door and laid the towel on the seat before getting in.
She banged the trunk shut and got back behind the wheel. Only by force of will did she resist the urge to scold him for running out without his cell phone or water or the most basic survival essentials. She was not his mother and he was a grown man who could figure out for himself how foolish he’d been.
“You must think I’m a fool,” he said and she wondered if he could read minds.
“I’m glad I came along when I did.”
He turned his head and his eyes glittered in the dim light. “Me, too.”
“So, where’s home?”
He gave her the address and since she wasn’t lost, she was able to drive straight there. “You ran a long way,” she said as they drew closer to town.
“I got an email from my wife.” His tone was bitter. “Soon to be ex-wife,” he corrected himself. “I lost my mind for long enough to get totally disoriented. And I ran way farther than I intended to.” She heard clipped annoyance but she thought it was directed at himself.
When they pulled up in front of an older walk-up, he said, “Thanks. You saved my butt out there.”
“You’re welcome.”
He reached for the door handle then turned back to her. “Could I interest you in pizza and a beer?”
She’d planned to spend the evening researching sperm banks, but she also knew that Geoff did not want to be alone tonight.
She didn’t imagine they were going to run out of sperm at the sperm bank if she waited until tomorrow.
“Do you have wine?”
“I do.”
“You have a deal.” So, instead of dropping him off, she parked and followed him inside and up the stairs.
He opened the door with his key and stood back to let her go first. There were moving boxes stacked like kids’ blocks. Empty bookshelves and furniture so new the tags were hanging off them.
“It’s a mess,” he said. “Sorry. I’m still moving in
.”
He walked straight to the sink in the galley kitchen and poured himself a huge glass of water and gulped it back, one hand holding onto the edge of the counter.
He refilled the glass and turned to her. “You probably know the best pizza place. Tell me there is a place that delivers.”
“Of course there is. Alfredo’s. Okay if I use your computer to search the number?”
“Yeah. Oh, wait.” He scooted ahead of her and hit a button. The swirling blue dots of his screensaver disappeared and up came an email. He hit delete and then put the email file away. “Okay, there you go. Order whatever you want. I’ll go shower.”
He halted mid way to the door she assumed led to the bathroom. “Wine.” And headed once more to the kitchen. “Red or white?”
She wrinkled her nose. “What goes with pizza? Red?”
“Everything goes with pizza.” He opened a cupboard and she saw neatly stacked bottles in a wine rack. “I stopped at Napa on my way here. Got a case of this stuff. It’s fantastic.”
He opened a bottle, poured her a glass and then said, “Okay, shower. Make yourself at home.”
She found Alfredo’s number and ordered an extra large with everything.
That done, she settled on a couch so new that he hadn’t yet taken off the plastic on the armrests.
She did that. And then walked over to the empty bookshelves. Normally she loved to browse other people’s books but his were all boxed up. Five or six boxes hunched beside two empty bookshelves.
Each box had Books written in black felt pen. Seeing an easy way to help him get rid of a couple of boxes, she ripped packing tape off the first book box. General human psychology books with specific volumes of Freud and Jung. She placed them in the bottom shelf feeling that he could always rearrange the books later if he didn’t like her system. The next layer of books made her pause. Human sexuality seemed to be the theme. Some volumes on teenage sexuality and talking to teens about sex. Okay. Then she came across a big book on tantric sex. And another. And yet a third.
She settled on the hardwood floor, her back against the new couch, reached for her wine and opened the most interesting looking book.
Chapter Six
Geoff let the hot water pound down on him hoping he could head off the stiff muscles he suspected he’d earned. What the hell had he been thinking? Truth was he hadn’t been thinking at all. Allowing a mad on to drive him to run so far he was not only exhausted and dehydrated but lost?
That adventure was right up there with the most bone-headed moves of his life. He was grateful that Iris had been driving by but somehow that made it worse. He wished he’d been rescued by a farmer who rarely went into town and didn’t talk much when he did. Not an attractive woman whose coffee shop was the gossip hub of Hidden Falls.
He scrubbed himself clean, shampooed and rapidly shaved and brushed his teeth. He felt that if he was inviting a woman into his home, even for an impromptu pizza, the least he could do was spruce up.
He reached for his robe and discovered it wasn’t on the hook behind the door where he always kept it because this bathroom door didn’t have a hook and he hadn’t got around to putting one up. Which meant his robe was in his bedroom. Which meant he was going to have to walk past Iris in a towel.
He wrapped the largest towel he could find, a navy blue bath sheet, around his waist, tying it securely. Then he walked out into the living area wondering who the hell designed a layout where the bathroom was all the way across the living room from the bedroom.
She glanced up when he emerged and he saw her eyes widen slightly as she took in his half naked state. “I’ll just, ah, go get dressed,” he said as he started to walk toward his bedroom. A flash of – something – arced between them. Awareness? Connection? Then he realized she was starting to unpack boxes, seemed to have got caught up in reading one of the books, which was exactly the kind of thing he would do. He walked as quickly and in as dignified manner as a man, naked but for a towel, can walk. He ducked into his bedroom and quickly threw on well-worn jeans and an athletics shirt from his last school.
When he emerged she was still engrossed in the book. She sipped her wine and barely seemed to notice him as he drew closer. Curious, he leaned in to see what had caught her attention. Slow Sex. He investigated the contents of the box she’d opened and the books she’d shelved. Sex and psychology -- and half the psych books were about sex.
She must think he was a pervert.
“You know, I have boxes of books all about philosophy, most of the classics and an entire box devoted to horror novels.”
She glanced up. “This is fascinating. All I’ve ever known abut tantric sex is that Sting and his wife go at it for something like thirty-six hours at a time.” She rested the book on her knees. “I bet that’s not even true. I hope I like sex as much as the next girl, but thirty-six hours?” She sipped wine. “Did you ever—” Then she shook her head. “Sorry. Engaged mouth before brain. I do that sometimes.”
He felt the knot that had twisted his guts since he’d read that email start to ease. “Not thirty-six hours. No. But there’s something to be said for taking your time.”
She nodded. “This should be required reading for every man.” Then, “I can’t believe I did it again.” She snapped the book shut. “It’s this book getting me into trouble.”
If anyone had asked him three months ago if he’d be sitting in an apartment which he alone occupied discussing tantric sex with a pretty woman who was not his wife, he’d have said they were crazy. Now he wondered if he was the crazy one being married to someone he obviously hadn’t known at all.
He poured himself a glass of wine, brought the bottle over and topped up her glass.
“I’ve got music, somewhere.” He glanced around, knowing he had one of those apartment sized sound systems in one of the boxes. Also an iPod full of tunes. Somewhere.
“Maybe if I help you unpack a few of these boxes we’ll find it.”
“Or some other remnant of my past sex life.”
She grinned at him. “Come on. You can tell me which boxes to avoid. We could at least get the book cases filled.”
“You don’t have to help me unpack. You already saved my life tonight.”
“That might be a slight exaggeration. But I’m glad I came along when I did.”
“Me, too.”
“Okay, you heft this heavy one and you can tell me if you have a particular system for books.”
“Sounds good to me.” He did have a sort of system but he figured he could always rearrange things when she was gone.
By the time the pizza arrived, they were halfway through the second box. They’d have finished all the books except that she kept stopping to say, “Oh, I love Sherlock Holmes,” or “this book changed my life.”
She came across an Alice Munro book of short stories and held it to her breast like she was giving an old friend a hug. “Alice Munro is the most brilliant short story writer. I was so happy when she won the Nobel Prize.” She placed the book, Progress of Love, carefully on the shelf. “I had a copy of this but I lent it to someone and never got it back.”
“I hate it when that happens.” Then he glanced over at her. “Do you want to borrow this one?”
“God, no. I don’t want to forget to give it back and one day you tell the story about me forgetting to give a treasured book back to you.”
When the pizza arrived he collected it, generously tipping the kid – who he thought might be a student at Jefferson High, though not in any of his classes.
He carried the box to the kitchen and lifted the lid. “What kind of pizza is this?” It was so loaded it was hard to tell.
“I wasn’t sure what you like so I got everything.”
“Excellent choice.” He pulled his new plates from the cupboard and carried everything over to the couch and put it on the low table he’d bought.
He offered her the box and watched her take a piece of pizza, dragging it straight to her mouth and bi
ting off the end.
He grabbed his own slice and discovered that she’d told the truth. It was really good pizza. He didn’t realize how hungry he’d been. They ate the better part of a piece each, too blissed out by all the cheese and sauce and every possible topping, to talk. She was easy company, restful.
Until she glanced over at him and said, “Do you want to talk about it?”
He swallowed and suddenly the pizza was all crust.
“You mean the email?”
“I mean whatever got you racing twelve miles to the middle of nowhere.”
He did want to talk about it and he didn’t. Maybe simply talking the pain through would help him process. So, he said, “I was married for six years. I thought it was a pretty good marriage. Not maybe the greatest love story of all time, but who gets that? I don’t know. You go to work, you pay your mortgage, you live your life. Is it really supposed to be a constant never-ending honeymoon?”
“Is that what she expected?”
He tried to think about whether what he was saying was even true. “I don’t know.” He stared at the dark red liquid in the bowl of the wine glass. “We never even talked about what was wrong. I was out of town for a school trip and on my way home I got a text from her saying she’d moved out. Our marriage was over. I was on a yellow school bus with a bunch of high school kids and she ended our marriage.”
He looked over at Iris and found her quietly watching him, felt her sympathy. “She ended a six year marriage with a text message?”
“Yeah.”
“That is harsh.”
“It was like having a car accident or getting shot or something. One minute you’re going along and your life is on a path you can see ahead for miles. And in an instant the path’s not there anymore. It’s a cliff and you’re going over it and there’s nothing you can do.”
