by Ann McMan
“What the hell is that?”
CK dug a couple of dog-eared white cards out of a side pocket in her wallet and showed the top one to Grace. “See? Buy four orders of pancakes, and get a fifth order free. It’s a marvel of free enterprise.”
“And I can see that this card occupies a sacred place, stashed covertly in a secret compartment with your ACLU membership card.” Grace picked up her fork. “Apropos of your snide comment about commitment, I think I may have reformed.”
“Oh, yeah? You finally thinking about putting a ring on that hot piece of presidential boo-tay?”
“No. I think she does a fine job picking out her own jewelry.”
“Well, what is it, then?” CK asked. “Don’t keep a girl in suspense.”
“I’m quitting.”
“Quitting? Quitting what?”
“St. Allie’s,” Grace said. “Thursday, when I meet with Sharon and the dean.”
CK put her fork down. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
Grace shook her head. “I’m not joking.”
“Grace.” CK leaned forward. “You cannot quit. That’s an absurd idea. It helps nothing. It solves even less.”
“I disagree. Under the circumstances, I think it’s the wisest course of action.”
“For whom?”
“For everyone.”
“That’s a ridiculous hypothesis,” CK scoffed.
“It’s not ridiculous. It’s the best thing I can do to ensure a just outcome.”
“Just for whom? Blowjob?”
“Of course not,” Grace insisted. “For Abbie.”
“So, now it’s your responsibility to manage outcomes for Abbie?”
Grace shrugged.
“Listen, Grace. There are no right or just outcomes. There are only outcomes—and they occur as they occur—with or without any interference or attempts at direction by us. To believe otherwise is to indulge in a dangerous and delusional exercise in grandiosity.”
“So, you’re saying there are no moral imperatives?”
“Of course not,” CK replied. “And as much as those implied imperatives may direct our actions, they do not engineer prescribed results.”
“I don’t believe that for a second—and I’m pretty confident that you don’t either.”
“You’re mistaken.” CK held up an index finger. “I absolutely believe it.”
Grace was unconvinced, and she allowed her expression to show it.
“Okay.” CK tried another approach. “Let’s consider Ochre. She could just as easily have been a paint-by-number creation—although, I’ll grant you that her boobs would likely have been more symmetrical.”
Grace rolled her eyes. “What’s your point?”
“Well—if everything about Ochre remained the same, except for her humble origin, would anything about her subsequent history have greater or lesser value?”
“Probably everything,” Grace replied. “For starters, she wouldn’t have been stolen—or even sitting in an art museum to become a candidate for theft.”
“True,” CK agreed. “But that wouldn’t make any aspects of the journeys she did have be of greater or lesser importance—they’d just be different.”
“What’s your point?”
CK sighed. “Let’s say you approach an intersection and at the last second, you turn right instead of left. That one spontaneous action could change the entire course of your life.”
“Ah,” Grace countered. “But was the action truly spontaneous? Was it not influenced and informed by a hundred things that factored into the choice? A traffic backup on the other side of the street? You were in the wrong lane to make a left turn? Or maybe you were paying attention to the car ahead of you, and you inadvertently followed it? Wouldn’t those catalysts seem to argue that there are no accidents? That everything happens for a reason, or because of a sequence of events?”
“Of course it does.”
“Then what are we arguing about?” Grace asked. “This is like an exercise in navel gazing.”
CK smiled. “Welcome to my world.”
“I don’t know that I want to be in a world where life is nothing more than a cosmic game of Mousetrap—and once the ball is set in motion, there is no stopping it or changing its path.”
“But that’s not the case, because any slight or subtle deviation will change its path and lead to a different result.”
Grace squinted at her. “Because we create our own deviations?”
“No, Grace. Because we are our own deviations. The universe is the mousetrap—we are the marbles.”
Grace flopped back against the booth. “I have even less clarity now than I did before.”
“Welcome to enlightenment.” CK speared a big forkful of pancake. “Please drive carefully, and obey the speed limits.”
Chapter Ten
The rest of the workweek was a blur for Grace. She kept her nose to the grindstone, taught her classes, held her office hours, edited Borealis submissions, and spent her evenings at home with Grendel—fighting her way through the tower of theme papers that rose like stalagmites from the floor beside her favorite chair.
Why didn’t I make it easier on myself and just let them watch the damn movie?
The idea had some merit. Although Beowulf, the movie, left much to be desired with its dramatized depiction of the Anglo-Saxon epic. Angelina Jolie’s steamy and seductive portrayal of Grendel’s mother did manage to liven up an otherwise benign and gratuitously violent film.
Angelina Jolie. As if . . .
Joile’s interpretation of the legendary hag was a ridiculous departure from the original text, in which the slimy, swamp-like creature reeked of salt water and burning coal—and presented a horrifying visage replete with horns, fangs and the bilious scales of an amphibian.
Too bad Guillermo del Toro hadn’t gotten the option on this one . . . he’d probably have nailed it.
But as it was, Grace’s newfound ambition to press on and finish grading the accumulated papers from all four sections of her survey classes was long overdue. A day late, and a dollar short, as Sister Merry Larry said. Would have said, Grace reminded herself. Grace was determined to complete her grading marathon before she left on Friday for her last weekend at the cabin.
When she finally tossed the last paper onto the completed pile late Wednesday evening, it was nearly nine o’clock—time for Grendel to head outside and sound her warning.
Grace decided to accompany her on the commission of her sacred duty. Why not? It wasn’t like she didn’t have her own cascade of impending disasters to bemoan.
She made herself a steaming cup of Lemon Zinger and walked out back to join Grendel on the steps. Against her better judgment, she took her cell phone along, hoping against hope that maybe Abbie would get a few minutes to break free and give her a call.
Not very likely.
They’d been missing each other with maddening consistency the past two days. Grace would call and leave a message. Abbie would return her call while Grace was teaching or being held hostage by a student after class. It never failed. The most contact they’d had since that memorable Monday night was a protracted text exchange that took place while Abbie was between meetings, and had a few minutes to retreat to the back of the room to pretend she was responding to email messages on her phone. Grace lucked out and managed to see the first text because she’d dashed home between classes to grab some lunch. She was just getting the jar of extra-crunchy peanut butter out of the cabinet when her phone nearly vibrated itself off the counter. She snapped it up and smiled when she saw the message was from Abbie.
Abbie: Hello! Are you there, by chance?
Grace: Bless Babel, I am!
Abbie: How’d I get so lucky?
Grace: I’m not sure—but I think we can rule out clean living.
Abbie: Hey!
Grace: Am I wrong?
Abbie: I hope so.
Grace: Why waste any more of this precious time on an exercise in rhetoric
? How are you?
Abbie: Tired, and ready for these infernal meetings to be over.
Grace: How much longer?
Abbie: The rest of today, and then a dinner tonight.
Grace: Your place?
Abbie: Unfortunately, yes.
Grace: Please tell them all to avoid that downstairs powder room.
Abbie: Oh? Because?
Grace: It’s quasi-sacred ground.
Abbie: I suppose I could insist they remove their shoes first?
Grace: Hey. That reminds me . . .
Abbie: Of?
Grace: Whatever happened to my shirt?
Abbie: What shirt?
Grace: Cut me to the quick! You don’t remember?
Abbie: Do you mean the wine-soaked garment you employed (unsuccessfully) to conceal the fact that you were partly undressed when I burst in upon you in the aforementioned powder room—during my pre-inaugural meltdown?
Grace: Yes. That would be the one.
Abbie: Sorry. I don’t remember it at all.
Grace: Oh, nice one, Rita Rudner! You should do stand-up.
Abbie: I’ve been told I perform better lying down.
Grace: This IS your personal phone, right??? The one with the cute little Beverly Hills, 90210 cover?
Abbie: Of course, it is. This isn’t my first roundup.
Grace: You mean rodeo?
Abbie: Excuse me?
Grace: The phrase. It’s, “This ain’t my first rodeo”—not “roundup.”
Abbie: You are such a stickler when it comes to these idioms.
Grace: Somebody’s gotta keep you straight.
Abbie: Really? If that’s the case, it appears you’re failing miserably.
Grace: Again, with the jokes! Do I know you?
Abbie: Not as well as you’re going to.
Grace: Aren’t we optimistic?
Abbie: It seems one of us needs to be.
Grace: I know. I pretty much suck at that. I blame the Church.
Abbie: And how is that working out for you?
Grace: Well, since the person who’s served as my moral compass for the lion’s share of my life decided to do a 180, cash in her vows, and flip the Church the bird—I’d say not so great.
Abbie: Should I know what you’re talking about?
Grace: Not really. I haven’t had the chance to fill you in on any of this yet.
Abbie: That sounds ominous. Is there anything else you’re not telling me about?
Grace: Of course.
Abbie: Grace . . .
Grace: It can all wait until we see each other again.
Abbie: Now I’m worried.
Grace: Don’t be. It’s good news. I promise. Mostly. At least, I think it’s good news.
Abbie: Grace? This isn’t helping to allay my concerns.
Grace: Trust me. It will all keep until we’re together.
Abbie: I hate this, Grace. I won’t have two seconds of free time until Sunday, when all this meeting madness is concluded.
Grace: It’s okay. I’m heading out to Butler Island on Friday morning. Grady and Karen are selling it, since they’re leaving the area. I need to get my personal stuff boxed up and out of there.
Abbie: That breaks my heart. I know how much you love it out there.
Grace: True. But all good things must end, right?
Abbie: I’m going to have to trust you on that one.
Grace: I’d say turnabout is fair play on that one, sister.
Abbie: Okay. Then we’ll have to trust each other. At least until Sunday, when we can be together.
Grace: You know, I’d have an easier time at that if you’d clear up one pesky thing . . .
Abbie: What’s that?
Grace: What’d you do with my shirt???
Abbie: That’s easy. It’s in my closet.
Grace: YOUR closet? Why???
Abbie: If you have to ask me that, I clearly need to do a better job telegraphing my intentions.
Grace: I do tend to miss a lot.
Abbie: So, I’ve noticed. Oh, damn!
Grace: What is it?
Abbie: They’re all coming back into the room—I’ve got to go be presidential.
Grace: Okay. Do your best to keep your pantyhose on. I’m told it helps.
Abbie: I don’t wear pantyhose.
Grace: I know. Lucky me.
Abbie: Nutjob. I’ll try to call you later if it isn’t too late.
Grace: I’ll be right here, howling at the moon with your dog.
Abbie: <3
And that had been that. Smart. Sweet. Clever. Provocative as hell. And never lasting long enough.
All the things Abbie was.
Grace checked her phone. Tabula rasa.
Wishful thinking. Abbie said she’d be tied up most of the evening.
She looked down at Grendel. “What do you think, girl?”
Grendel looked up at her with an implied question.
“I was just wondering if we should put on our night vision goggles and go engage in some second-story work?”
Grendel stared at her a moment like she was considering it, before shifting her gaze back to continue scanning the perimeter of the yard.
Okay, I’ll take that as a ‘no.’
Grace glanced at her phone again.
This is ridiculous. I’ve gotta get a grip.
On the stair beside her, Grendel stiffened before getting to her feet and assuming what Grace now called “The Position.”
It was the crack of nine. Time to boogie . . .
# # #
Grace had back-to-back classes on Thursday morning. She was consistently faced with waves of grim and unhappy faces when she handed back the theme papers.
“Okay, okay,” she said to her eleven o’clock Lit Survey class. “Calm down. It’s not as bad as you think.” She paused. “Well, for some of you it probably is as bad as you think—but none of these grades are mortal wounds.”
“Dr. Warner?” Carrie Forbush was wildly waving her arm from her seat near the back of the classroom. Carrie’s treatise, “How Themes in Beowulf Foreshadow The Lord of the Rings,” was actually one of the more thoughtful attempts at exposition Grace had suffered through. It was unclear to her whether Carrie had ploughed through Tolkien’s iconic trilogy—or just opted to see the movies. Either way, her thesis was at least an interesting one with some merit.
Grace gave her effort a B+.
Apparently, that assessment didn’t sit well with Carrie.
“Yes, Carrie?” Grace recognized her.
“Dr. Warner,” she began. “I worked really hard on this paper and I think it was a good concept about a comparison not many others have made. I checked that part out when I was doing my research. I don’t understand why you didn’t like it.”
Grace perched on the edge of her desk. “I did like your idea, Carrie. Quite a bit, in fact. It was insightful and unique—and it highlighted universal themes that have contemporary parallels in many great works of literature. And I gave you a grade reflecting that.”
Carrie looked down at her paper. “You gave me a B,” she said.
“B+,” Grace corrected. “That’s a very good grade, Carrie.”
“An A- is better,” another voice quipped. The rest of the class laughed.
“Okay, okay. Stow the commentary.” Grace waved a hand to settle them down. “You all understand that your grades are not solely based on how creative or innovative your arguments are. They’re also based on how well you present them—including accurate bibliographic citation, correct spelling, appropriate use of grammar and proper format.” There was a chorus of moans. “Hey? Them’s the breaks. None of this is a surprise to you, guys. There’s a reason this class is referred to as ‘Freshman English.’ Part of its purpose is to prepare you not only to think critically—but to learn to express your ideas with proficiency and clarity, preferably in a mode that is at least vaguely reminiscent of proper written English.” She pulled a red pen from her jacket pocket and
held it aloft. “That part be where my little best friend, here, comes in. Get it? So, if any of you would like to join me for a delightful and searing exposition of what factors contributed to the grades you received on your papers, I’d welcome your company during any of my regularly scheduled, but woefully ill-attended, office hours.” She scanned the room. “Thoughts?”
“I still think I deserved a better grade,” Carrie muttered.
Grace tapped her red pen on her thigh in agitation. An idea occurred to her.
“How many of you would like the chance to raise the grades on your theme papers by an entire letter—meaning D to C, C to B, or B to A?”
Hands shot up all over the room—belatedly at first, but then with more energy.
“Okay,” Grace continued. “Here’s what I have in mind.” She crossed her arms. “There is a literary convention coined by Lord of the Rings author, J.R.R. Tolkien. It’s called eucatastrophe. Eu from the Greek for good or well, and catastrophe, also from the Greek, meaning ruin or misfortune. Okay. Write this down.” Grace waited for her students to open their notebooks. “Eucatastrophe is a term akin to its literary precursor, deus ex machina—a Latin translation of the Greek phrase. Anyone care to explain what deus ex machina means?”
