by Ann McMan
Fortunately for her, Brittney hadn’t bothered to show up for her nine-thirty appointment. Grace wasn’t sure what to make of that, but she was confident it meant something. She knew Brittney had recognized her on Burton Island—it was unclear if she knew who Abbie was. That part was a crapshoot.
She wondered for the millionth time if Abbie had made it back to North Carolina safely. She had halfway thought Abbie might try to call her on Saturday night—she even stayed up late under the guise of watching a meteor shower, just so she’d be outside, camped out at one of the island’s best locations to catch a random cell signal. She ended up seeing a lot of meteors, but got no calls. She’d actually fallen asleep on her blanket and probably would’ve stayed there all night if Grendel hadn’t started barking her head off at the crack of nine. Grace bolted up like someone had fired a gun next to her head. She did her best to try and shush Grendel—she certainly didn’t want Bud Wyatt filling either of their derrieres with lead. But it was useless. Grendel was going to bark until she was finished—which Grace supposed would only happen once the moment of unseen threat had subsided.
So she sat quietly next to the dog and stroked her back while she howled. Once Grendel finished her sacred ritual, she simply rotated in place three quick times and collapsed into a happy heap, resting her head on Grace’s thigh.
“What a pair we are, Grendel girl. We both fear things we cannot see, and rail at imaginary foes.”
Grace felt like a fool for spending the better part of three hours staring up at a blazing night sky, hoping that each flash of a meteor racing across the horizon might be carrying a message from Abbie. She was sore from lying on the ground and entirely dejected when she finally gave up and went back to the cabin to cash it in for the night. It was only when she got back to St. Albans on Monday morning that her cell phone roared to life and her message alerts went off in a frenzy of minuets.
Abbie had called her. Four times.
Bless Babel. Maybe she wasn’t such a loser after all.
“So, I still think that contrasting Hrothulf’s evil tendencies and blatant treachery with Queen Modthryth’s scheming dishonesty makes a good parallel for our last presidential election. Don’t you, Dr. Warner?”
Grace looked across the desk at Hannah Sweeney, a very determined honors student from New Hampshire. Hannah had desperately wanted to enter the journalism program at Emerson, but got wait-listed and ended up settling for St. Allie’s on the rebound. She still had hopes to transfer out after her freshman year. Grace had the sense that every text the aspiring investigative reporter studied presented a new opportunity for a show-stopping admission essay.
“I dunno, Hannah. That seems like a bit of a stretch to me. I find it’s better initially to focus on what’s unique in the construction of the text, before we strain to cobble together narrative fragments that lie buried in subtext.”
Hannah looked crestfallen. “But isn’t searching for contemporary cultural relevance in these iconic works of literature something we should do?”
“It’s absolutely something we should do, Hannah. But before you go too far down the rabbit hole of past is prologue, it’s my job to help you appreciate how important it is to understand the ways this epic poem functions as a poem—and teach you to explore its skillful introduction of literary methods and conventions that have made it survive as high art. That’s the primary focus of these introductory survey classes—and it’s why they’re a part of a liberal arts curriculum. You are right that part of why Beowulf endures is precisely because it grapples with so many epic themes. But I’d be failing as your guide if I didn’t encourage you first to read and appreciate the text before you seek to reframe it with present-day modifiers. Does that make sense?”
Hannah sighed and stared down at the draft of her theme paper. The subtle droop to her shoulders made Grace feel like she’d just lopped off the girl’s arm with Unferth’s rusty sword.
What possible good came from pushing this kid to suspend her enthusiasm for viewing this damn text with anything besides boredom and disdain? Most of her students thought Beowulf’s only possible relevance was providing inspiration for a slash-and-burn video game.
Grace relented.
I’m such a damn weenie . . .
“Tell you what, Hannah. Why don’t we find a path that allows you to do both things?”
“Can we do that?” Hannah practically chirped out the words.
“I don’t see why not. How about you divide your exposition into two distinct parts: first discuss your thesis; then describe how the poem’s literary conventions—alliterative verse variations, dramatic reversals, litotes—all serve to advance the themes you describe. What do you think about that?”
Hannah was already collecting her papers and stuffing them into her backpack.
Grace smiled. “I take it we have an agreement?”
“Do we ever.” Hannah got up from her chair. “Thanks, Dr. Warner. I really appreciate this—and I won’t let you down.”
Grace stood up, too. She held out a hand to Hannah, who shook it with great enthusiasm.
Dear god . . . why are they all so waifish? Her little bones are like papier-mâché.
“See you in class.” Hannah waved and hurried from the office.
Grace suspected she was headed straight for her study carrel in the library. She could hear the staccato tapping of Hannah’s shoes as she descended the old wooden steps that led to the first floor lobby of Ames Hall.
Another day. Another dollar.
# # #
CK was already seated when Grace arrived at Twiggs to meet her for lunch. Grace noticed two things right away—CK was already halfway through her glass of iced tea, and she wasn’t alone.
Oh, great. Please don’t tell me that’s her . . . again.
It was.
Grace fought an impulse to turn around and flee, but instead, she approached their table and dropped her messenger bag onto a chair that already contained two others.
“Sorry I’m late,” she explained. “It’s nice to see you again, Lorrie.”
Laurel “Lorrie” Weisz was this semester’s Fournier Artist in Residence. She’d won the PEN/Voelcker prize back in 2011 for Listing to Port: At Sea with Madness. Grace admired a few of the darkly sinister poems in the collection, but thought that most of them, regrettably, paid full obeisance to the critically lauded subgenre of navel-gazing favored by wealthy white alumnae of the Sister Colleges.
Weisz hadn’t published much since winning the PEN prize, but who could blame her? If Grace had laurels equal to Lorrie’s, she’d certainly be resting on them, too.
Lorrie was teaching two sections of creative writing, and another part of her tenure at St. Allie’s involved “helping” Grace and Bryce Oliver-James with the fall issue of Borealis. They were having their first editorial meeting later today, so Grace was surprised to see Lorrie at lunch.
But then, CK had a knack for attracting the best and brightest—her friendship with Grace notwithstanding. So it probably was no surprise that Lorrie would latch on to the winner of a MacArthur genius grant. She figured that Lorrie’s ambition probably roared to life within her when she first met CK—just like the unborn prophet, John the Baptist, leapt inside his mother’s womb when she first drew near to the Holy Mother of Jesus.
Why not? Shit like that happened every day at St. Allie’s . . . it was a Catholic thing.
“I know we’re getting together later today, but when CK mentioned you were meeting for lunch, I leapt at the chance to see you again.”
Leapt?
Grace blushed. Had she spoken her words aloud?
“Yeah. Well. It’s nice to see you, too. As always,” she added, belatedly.
Grace forced herself not to look at CK, who she knew was trying hard not to laugh.
Lorrie pushed out a chair. “Sit down, Grace. What would you like to drink?”
Strychnine?
“Um, maybe just some water. I’m already jittery from eight cups
of coffee.”
“A woman of excess—just like me.” Lorrie delivered a perfect stage laugh.
Grace had an impulse to kick CK beneath the table, but her legs were too jammed up against Lorrie’s to pull it off.
What the fuck is with this woman? She’s not even gay . . .
But then, meaningless lesbian dalliances were indexed in the Sister College canon, too.
Grace glowered at CK while Lorrie tried to flag a server. “I’m going to fucking kill you for this,” her gaze said.
CK did laugh then. It was lusty and hearty, like she was the damn Franklin from The Canterbury Tales, presiding over the prelude to a full-fledged debauch.
“Lorrie, why don’t you fill Grace in on your ideas about livening up the social scene at St. Allie’s?” CK looked at Grace. “I think you, in particular, will find her proposals . . . stimulating.”
Lorrie flipped her mane of perfect blond hair so it would resettle behind a bony shoulder. It must’ve been a maneuver she practiced a lot. It was like watching a discus thrower move through his windup. Her watery blue eyes locked on Grace. She resembled a younger, wispier version of Laura Dern.
“We should discuss it—but privately. I think some of my thoughts might be too . . . mature for a general audience.”
“What are we talking about, exactly?” Grace asked. “Nameless Tupperware orgies?”
“I’d pay good money to see your scantily clad ass in a lettuce spinner,” CK snorted with mirth.
“So would I.” Lorrie laid a hand on top of Grace’s arm.
Grace resisted the impulse to yank her arm away. Lorrie’s hand felt hot and clammy at the same time.
CK cleared her throat. “So, Lorrie . . . who all should we invite to this eclectic group exercise?”
“I’ve been giving that some thought.” Lorrie removed her hand and picked up her frosty glass of . . . something thick and green. Grace was certain that whatever it was, it clearly contained micro greens and kale as primary ingredients. “No men, of course—unless they’re special.”
CK leaned forward. “Define ‘special.’”
“You know . . . special.”
CK squinted her eyes. “If you mean men who like boys, we’re talking half the population of the diocese.”
“Not that kind of special,” Lorrie clarified. “I mean men who aren’t cretinous louts.”
“Oh,” CK sat back against her chair. “I think the last few we had just died out. It was a hard winter.”
Grace tried to change the subject. “So, Lorrie—do you know yet what piece you’re contributing to Borealis?”
“I have some thoughts. I want to wait to get a sense of the overall theme of the issue before I commit.”
Of course you do, love chunks . . .
“I can see that.” Grace nodded. “We should have a pretty good sense by October first—that’s when all the submissions are due.”
“October first?” Lorrie asked. Grace thought she saw a glimmer of panic blaze in her pale eyes. “That’s awfully early, isn’t it? I mean . . . most journals don’t go to bed until late December.”
CK chuckled—probably at Lorrie’s use of “go to bed.”
“Well, you’re right,” Grace clarified. “We do go to . . . press . . . at the end of the term. But it takes a full three months in advance of that to edit, proof, and typeset the book. So even an early October deadline for final copy is pushing it by most standards.”
Lorrie’s already ghostly pallor seemed to grow even paler.
“Excuse me.” She pushed her chair back and got to her feet. “I need to use the restroom. Back in a flash.”
Grace and CK watched her make her way through the crowd of students choking the bar area of the restaurant.
“And she’s off.” CK finished off her remaining iced tea. “Wanna bet she’s back there yacking up her frosty colon-blow?”
“What the hell is the matter with you?” Grace hissed. “You know I have not the slightest desire to . . . socialize . . . with that woman.”
“Oh, get your head outta your vise-like ass. It wouldn’t hurt you to play the field a little bit.”
“With St. Allie’s resident Anaïs Nin?” Grace jerked a thumb toward the restrooms. “I don’t think so.”
CK chuckled. “Before she gets back, fill me in on how your weekend assignation went.”
“What assignation?”
“Nice try, Laura Ingalls. I happen to know Her Eminence joined you out there for a little tête-à-tête.”
“What could possibly make you think that happened?”
CK leaned toward her. “Because I ran into Captain Polly in what passes for the wine aisle at Price Chopper. It was horrifying.”
Grace was surprised at CK’s reaction to Abbie’s visit to the island. “I’ll grant you it was a surprise—but I wouldn’t exactly call it horrifying.”
“Not you and the Prez,” CK clarified. “The wine Polly was buying. It was in a big fucking box with shiny silver diamonds all over it.” CK shivered. “It gave me the willies.”
“CK? Please tell me you didn’t mention anything about this to Dean.”
“Dean? Why the fuck would I tell Dean?”
“He came out there on Sunday.” Grace shrugged. “It was such a random visit . . . I just wondered. That’s all.”
“No. Stuff all your little paranoid delusions back into their holding cells. I didn’t say anything to Dean.” CK twisted her head to look past Grace. “Fuck. Here she comes. You’ll have to fill me in later.”
“I’m still going to kill you for this.”
“Relax. You could never have sex with Lorrie. If you accidentally rolled over on her, she’d snap like a twig.”
“Thanks a lot.”
CK gave her a withering look. “You know what I meant.” She held up a menu. “Hey, Lorrie? Grace here was just saying we should share a double order of the junkyard nachos. You in?”
Grace understood with sick certainty that she had just been cast as the lead in a macabre reprise of The Ploughman’s Lunch.
# # #
Bryce Oliver-James was dressed to the nines for their editorial board meeting—just as he always was. Normally, Grace would feel a bit sheepish about her own casual attire—which she was certain he intended—but today, she didn’t really give a shit.
“Hey, Bryce,” she said after claiming a seat across from him at the small round table in the office Borealis shared with the campus newspaper, The Ledger. “Nice tie. Going to a funeral later—or do you have a job interview?”
Bryce blinked at her, but didn’t reply. Grace knew he hated her guts. They both were vying for the same, single tenure position in the English department, and Bryce was determined to out-maneuver, outsmart and outclass Grace at every interval. Most days, she didn’t worry too much about it. Bryce was an officious blowhard with an indifferent resume and a shitty reputation among students. His only claim to fame was his legacy connection to the college’s former board chair, Holman James. Grace figured the tenure decision was binary: either she’d get it, or Bryce would—and that would be that. Until Abbie had appeared on the scene, Grace was actually growing pretty confident that she’d persevere in her seven-year audition to join the musty ranks of the aging St. Allie’s faculty.
Today? Today she was anything but sure. And, frankly—she no longer knew if she even wanted to fight to hang on. Not if succeeding meant seeing Abbie day after grueling day, and knowing they could never even have a shot at finding out if they could make it as a couple.
A couple. Hell. She sounded like one of her lovesick freshmen.
“I took the liberty of typing up an itinerary for our meeting.” Bryce handed Grace several sheets of crème-colored St. Allie’s stationery, presenting a somewhat lengthy but perfectly formatted roster of discussion topics.
“Thanks, Bryce. You’re a regular Della Street.”
Bryce looked confused, which was not an uncommon reaction for him—especially around Grace.
&n
bsp; “Della Street?” Grace explained. “Perry Mason’s gal Friday?”
“I don’t watch television,” he replied drily.
“Nor do I,” Grace responded. “I was referring to the novels by Erle Stanley Gardner. If you haven’t read them, you’re missing out on eighty of the greatest hallmarks of Western literature.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“To each his own,” Grace quipped. “I’m thinking about adding The Case of the Velvet Claws to my syllabus for next semester’s ‘Intro to the American Novel’ seminar.”
“Are you serious?”
Grace thought she detected a hint of giddy optimism in Bryce’s question.
“Why not?” She co-opted a handy rationale from Hannah Sweeney. “As faculty, we have a responsibility to encourage our students to find contemporary cultural relevance in iconic works of literature.”
“That’s certainly a departure from established curricula.”
“Isn’t it?” Grace agreed. “I often lie awake at night, exploring avenues to shake up the status quo. Don’t you?”
Bryce cleared his scrawny throat. “I rarely lie awake at night.”
I just bet you don’t, you limp-dick fainting goat . . .
“I know I do,” a singsong voice from behind them chimed in.
Grace swiveled around on her chair. It was Lorrie . . . of course.
Lorrie winked at Grace. “I sometimes have the sweetest fantasies in the wee hours before dawn.”
Just like I have night terrors in the gloaming . . .
Bryce bolted to his feet and pulled out a chair. “Miss Weisz, do, please, sit down and join us.”
“Why thank you, Dr. Oliver.”
“Oliver-James,” he corrected.
“Pardon me?” Lorrie asked.
“My name,” he explained. “It’s Oliver-James.”
“Oh,” Lorrie gushed. “I thought your first name was Blake.”
“Bryce.”
“Bryce James?” Lorrie tittered. “Bryce like Rice—as in a James Rice cooker? How very Iron Chef! Were your parents cooking aficionados?”
