by Jody Gehrman
Actually, they’re not looking me in the eye. Finn stares fixedly at his hands. Eileen’s staring past me as if reading a dire message on the far wall. Lilly watches Frances with the nervous attention of a lapdog waiting for a walk. Only Frances seems capable of meeting my gaze. The expression on her face is one of glacial disdain.
I swallow hard and force myself to speak. “Perhaps you’d be so kind as to summarize the key points from your report.” My voice doesn’t sound like mine.
“Certainly.” Frances glances at the papers again, flipping through them at random. “The committee took issue with some of your student evaluations.”
“A few negative comments from students with low grades, but—”
“Some of your work on the Student Success Committee was late,” she continues doggedly.
“I missed one deadline.” I can barely breathe. The pressure in my bladder is more acute than ever.
“Inappropriate student contact was another factor.” Frances’s tone implies she didn’t want to bring this up, but my unreasonable questions have forced her hand.
“A major factor.” Eileen finally lowers her gaze so it’s level with mine. Her Judi Dench nostrils flare in distaste.
I gape at her. “Inappropriate student contact?”
Frances shoots Eileen a sharp, censorious glare. “That was one factor among many.”
“What does that mean?” I enunciate each word carefully. My mouth is numb. The top of my head feels like it’s disintegrating.
“It means you crossed a line,” Finn says primly. Finn Hobbs! The man who’s slept with so many male dancers on campus they could form a chorus line! Is he seriously slapping me with accusations of misconduct?
“I’m sorry.” I struggle to remain calm, but my heart flutters like a trapped hummingbird in my chest. “I’m still not sure I understand. What specifically are you referring to?”
Frances sighs, clearly disappointed the conversation’s taken this turn. “There were allegations of sexual harassment. I’m afraid they were quite serious claims. The committee felt, in light of such—”
“Allegations?” It comes out too loud, my voice booming around the small, airless room. I force myself to speak more softly. “Who accused me of what, exactly?”
“We’re not at liberty to disclose that.” Frances puts her glasses back on, a note of finality in her voice. She’s obviously eager to wrap this up. She pushes a single sheet of paper at me, brandishing an expensive-looking silver pen. “Of course, you can refuse to sign our recommendation, but I wouldn’t advise that.”
“Why not?” I force through clenched teeth.
Her condescending pity makes me wince. “If you intend to find another job in academia, going quietly is the only course of action open to you.”
“Going quietly?” Finally, the full weight starts sinking in. I see the boulder rolling downhill just before it flattens me. “Let me get this straight. Not only are you denying me tenure, you’re firing me?”
“You can finish out the semester,” Frances says. “After that, your contract is unlikely to be renewed.”
“Unlikely?”
“I recommend you start searching for a new position immediately,” she clarifies.
My stomach drops like an elevator with its cables severed. “I don’t understand.”
“Sign here, and you may have a shot at another job.” She speaks slowly and carefully, a patient adult explaining something to a dim-witted child. Again, she offers me the pen. “Refuse to sign, and you’ll never work in academia again.”
With numb, clumsy fingers, I take the pen from her. I stare at the paper before me, but the words swerve and dance like they’re drunk. Some distant voice in my head urges me to consult a lawyer, but I’m too far gone for such responsible behavior. I glance again at the circle of faces around me. They’re all staring at me now, watching the pen in my hand, waiting to see what I’ll do. It’s like I’m seeing them through the wrong end of a telescope; they’re tiny and distant, miniature. They all wear matching expressions of embarrassed fascination.
I sign my name. Anything to get out of this room.
SAM
I march through the frigid twilight to your house. It’s fucking arctic. I tuck my chin and huddle deeper into my pea coat. I’m Odysseus closing in on Penelope. My feet keep slipping on the frozen sidewalks, but I plow forward. It’s ten degrees out. Black ice keeps sending careless drivers fishtailing into the gutters. Wreaths adorn every other door in your neighborhood. Though it’s not even December, white lights line the peaked rooftops and twinkle beneath the glowering sky. Even a few smug Christmas trees glisten from behind picture windows. Our pathetic human attempt to stave off winter with tiny lights and pagan symbols.
When I get to your place, every window is aglow. I stand on the sidewalk in the deepening shadows, taking in your two-story bungalow.
Will you miss this life when we move on? I doubt it. The urban pulse of New York will get into your blood, its staccato rhythms invading your psyche. We’ll order takeout dishes from every exotic outpost in the city—fig-and-olive tapenade from Iberia, grilled octopus from Hokkaido, fried tarantula from Skuon. We’ll spend days on end writing, seeing no one but each other, living on leftovers and martinis and the fumes of our imaginations.
What aspects of this sad, solitary life in Ohio will call to you then? Nothing and no one. You’ll dive into our new existence headfirst and never look back.
The tricky part is getting you there.
I try to detect your mood from out here on the sidewalk. Are you angry? Defeated? Relieved? My senses spread out like tentacles, probing your windows, trying to get a read on your state of mind.
Then I see you. You’re wearing an oversized sweatshirt and pajama bottoms. The light catches in your hair as you stand in your picture window, framed by the half-open curtains. The look on your face is hard to identify. You’re backlit, a silhouette.
It takes me a moment to realize you’re looking right at me.
There’s no point in trying to hide. The need for secrets is over. It’s time to act.
I march up to your front door. Adrenaline spikes through my body. Every single minute of my life has led to this one. Every breath, every thought, every word was a prologue to this.
You open the door just as I reach the top of your porch steps. I see now the sweatshirt you’re wearing is loose and slouchy. Your collarbones are exposed. The strong, slicing lines poke out from beneath your neckline. Your feet are bare. I stare at them. They’re lily white, with pink, unpainted nails. One foot rubs against your ankle. The gesture stirs such tenderness in me. Your body is an offering, a chalice. You knew I would come to you—there’s not even the slightest hint of surprise in your face as I move toward you.
I picture you trying on different outfits and settling on this one, because it’s casual and rumpled without screaming fuck me. You’re not a negligée woman, and I love that about you. When we live together in New York, you’ll wear clothes just like this all the time as we lounge around our apartment, fucking and writing and fucking some more. When we go out, you’ll put on offbeat, quirky combinations that somehow work—sequins with leather, fur with army fatigues. Tonight you’re not wearing a bra, and I can see your nipples hard and tight against the cotton; I want to tear that sweatshirt off you, rip your white pajama pants to shreds. Are you even wearing panties? The pale cotton is whisper-thin; the drawstring waistband hangs on your hipbones, half an inch of flesh just visible.
Our breath forms little clouds in the air. I keep walking until I’m a foot away from you. We stare into each other’s eyes; emotions cross your face like storm clouds chasing each other across the sky.
“You sent Maxine that email,” you say without preamble. It’s not a question.
It’s not what I expected. I take a moment to consider, decide refuting the accusation is futile. I nod. “Yes.”
Your knuckles turn white as you grip the doorframe, like you’re holding you
rself in place. The air grows thick around us. Your glare is a knife at my throat. You are seconds away from slamming that door in my face. If you do, I know I won’t get another chance.
“Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like the enemy?” You throw my words back at me. “You are the enemy.”
I smell gin on your breath. Your neck goes red and splotchy. The crest of your sculpted cheekbones are pink. I’ve never seen you furious. You’re magnificent, a Viking goddess preparing to launch yourself into battle.
“Do you have any idea how invasive that is? The damage you’ve done?”
“Let me in,” I say.
“Why would you do such a thing?” you demand, your voice rising, ignoring my request. “Why? What could it possibly do for—?”
“Please, don’t be angry.” I reach a hand out to touch your shoulder, but you shake me off.
“Don’t be angry?” You’re incredulous. “This is my fucking life, Sam.”
“Just let me in,” I repeat. “Give me a chance to explain.”
“Are you crazy? Tell me why you did it.”
“I wanted to help.”
Your eyes widen but not in surprise. You’ve just had your worst fears confirmed. You’re a child checking the closet for monsters, and now you’ve found one. “Jesus. I thought you understood me, but you’re out to destroy me.”
“I do understand you. I’m looking at the big picture here.”
You make a sound somewhere between a laugh and a shout. “You see my ‘big picture’? That is so arrogant!”
You’re in pain. I see that. A tiny whorl of anger twists inside my chest; I take a deep breath, searching for patience. I saw your tenure team gathered in the humanities building, heard them talking in low, scandalized murmurs. I watched you fleeing the building like it was on fire. My huge, crushing love is bigger than your abuse. I can endure anything.
“Can we talk inside?” I ask.
You launch yourself from the doorway and get in my face. “Did you tell them I sexually harassed you? Is that what happened? You’re systematically tearing down my life, brick by brick. Why, Sam? What did I ever do to you?”
“I can explain.”
“What kind of psycho pulls this shit?”
You’re in so much pain. Tears glisten on your cheeks. Were they there when I arrived, or did you shed them without me noticing? My heart is swollen and sodden inside me, heavy as a waterlogged corpse. “Come on. Let’s go inside and talk.”
“What can you say? What can you possibly say to make me forgive you?” You whirl around and stomp back into the house. The door starts to close. It’s swinging shut with the finality of a guillotine.
I shove my foot inside. I should feel pain as you try to slam the door shut, but it doesn’t register. “Please don’t do this.”
“Why would I let you in?”
“If you send me away, I’ll kill myself.” I say it simply, without emotion. I’m not threatening, just stating a fact.
In the shadows of your foyer, I see your face crease in bewilderment. “What are you—?”
“And then you’ll never know what happened or why.”
Right away, I know I’ve hit my mark. You’re such a writer, Kate. You need to know. Character motivation is everything in your world.
For a moment, you look like you might still refuse, just to be cruel. Your face is livid, your entire body animated by rage. I can almost hear the sparks hissing and crackling off your skin.
Then something shifts. A look of resigned recklessness comes over you. “Fuck it.” You walk away from me, into the house, leaving the door hanging open. “I’ve already lost my agent and my job. What more can you take from me?”
I follow you inside, close the door behind me. The shape of your ass in those sheer, white pajama bottoms is mesmerizing. In the light of the hallway, I can almost make out the crack, can see the roundness, the curves. You stride toward the kitchen, anger putting a jaunty spring in your step. You’re exquisite like this. Pure, radiant, electric.
I can’t help noticing my plan is already working. Yesterday I watched you cross campus, docile and sluggish. You were like the straggler gazelle, the one who falls prey to the lion. When you talked to that hideous leprechaun Larkin, your body language screamed victim. Now you swagger.
The added bravado makes me love you so much I fear my heart might explode.
It’s working, Kate. I’ve cut you free from your bonds, and you’re thriving. Yesterday, you were frightened and meek. Today, you’re scrappy, ready to kick ass. This is what we’ll need to forge our life in New York. We can’t go there seeking approval. We have to go ready to conquer, stripped of pretense. We have to be wild animals unleashed from captivity.
When you reach the kitchen, you snatch the bottle of Bombay Sapphire off the counter and pour a double shot into a highball already half full of ice. Then you splash some tonic on top of that and swig.
“You going to offer me a drink?” It’s cheeky, but I suspect you like it.
You glare at me. “This is not a joke, okay? I’m watching my entire life unravel, and you seem to think it’s amusing.”
I raise my hands, palms out. “Fair enough. You’re mad. I get that.”
“I’m so far beyond mad.” The gin seems to make your diction more precise. “Mad was a truck stop I passed a hundred miles back.”
“I’d never do anything to hurt you.”
This elicits a harsh bark of laughter.
I go on, my voice even. “I saw the email from Maxine, and I wanted to protect you.”
“Protect me?” You stare at me, wide-eyed with disbelief. “By firing the best agent I’m ever going to land? You arrogant little—”
“She wasn’t supporting you the way a good agent should.” I refuse to let your scorn derail me. “I want more for you. We have to surround ourselves with people who take us seriously.”
“What the fuck do you know about it?” you yell. “You had no right!”
I go to the cupboard and take a glass out, pour myself some gin, and drink it straight. Just one shot to calm my nerves. Your rage is thrilling, but I need to stay rational. Only I can talk you down from this precarious ledge. I need to make you understand the enormity of my love for you. If you can see that, everything else will fall into place.
“I know this might sound strange, but every single thing I do is motivated by my deep respect for you.” I want to say love, but it’s too much too soon. You might laugh at me.
You stare at me like I’m a stranger. Your eyes fill with some new emotion. It’s not anger anymore. It’s something else. Fear.
“How do you know where I keep my glasses?” Your voice is so quiet I almost can’t hear you.
I force my expression to stay neutral. “Just a lucky guess.”
“You’ve been here before,” you whisper.
“What? Of course not.” I look at you like the very idea’s insane. “I mean yes, I walked you home the other night, so I knew where you lived, but—”
“You fed my cats.” You’re white-lipped now, gripping the counter as if it’s the only thing keeping you upright.
The air around us thickens, the tension so palpable I can taste it.
“Your cats?” I give you my best bemused look.
There’s a slow light coming on behind your eyes, a dawning clarity. You blink a few times, like someone waking from a dream.
“You’ve had too much to drink.” I put a hand on your shoulder. “Rough day. A lot to take in.”
The bottle of Bombay Sapphire sits on the kitchen island between us. You stare at it, your eyes wild. It’s almost empty. For a second I wonder if you’re thinking of doing something stupid—smashing it against the counter like a sassy barmaid in a western. Brandishing the jagged remains, jabbing them at me. As if I pose a threat. As if there is anyone on this planet who cares more about making you happy or keeping you safe.
You look so pale I think you might pass out.
�
�You need to sit down.” I steer you toward the couch in the living room. I take a seat beside you. I want nothing more than to hold you in my arms, but I keep a careful distance, not wanting to spook you. In the last five minutes you’ve gone from livid to terrified. Now I sense you’re rounding the bend to something else.
“There,” I say. “That’s better, right?”
“What did you mean, about killing yourself?” You’re quiet now, watchful, trying to understand. Your rage and fear are still there, rippling like fish skimming the surface of a lake. You’re trying to calm down, though. You’re searching for answers. “Why would you say that?”
“Because it’s true.” Everything in me begs you to understand. I ache for you to know how empty my life is without you. Love, Kate. This is love. Not the paltry, shriveled bouquet Raul offered, or the pathetic heat you got from Pablo. My love is fierce and complete; it’s driven everything I’ve done and thought and wanted for the last five years.
“I don’t understand.”
I take a deep breath and try to explain.
“I read Pay Dirt when I was seventeen. That was the book for me, you know? The one that made me fall in love with words. I knew right then: if I couldn’t be a writer, I might as well die.”
You’re very still, watching me. Your hands grip your knees, like you’re prepared to flee at any second.
I don’t touch you, though I want to with such excruciating intensity my skin throbs. “I really did come to Blackwood so I could work with you. Without you, I’d have nothing to strive for, nothing to work for. You’re perfect in every way.”
I see you swallow. You’re still tense, rigid, but I think I see the slightest softening in your shoulders, a loosening in the set of your jaw.
“I hacked your account because I wanted to know everything about you.” I look down, then back up again. “It was wrong. And the thing with Maxine—that was out of line. It was a crazy impulse. I wanted to protect you. I lashed out in your defense. But you’re right. It was arrogant to seize control like that.”
