Beowulf for Cretins

by Ann McMan

  Grace was finding it hard to breathe.

  “You knew about this?” She looked from Eddie to Sharon. “You both knew about this?”

  Sharon nodded.

  “I have to say,” Eddie chuckled, “it would’ve been kind of hard not to know about it—after that whole dinner party fiasco. Abbie’s mother was rather—loquacious with her indiscretion when she returned to the table after her daughter disappeared.”

  Grace ran a hand over her face. “Do I want to know what she had to say?”

  “Probably not,” Eddie replied. “Just be glad that most of the other diners had already finished their meals and ventured outside.”

  “Of all nights for me to take one for the team and volunteer to sit with the alumni association officers,” Sharon added. “I missed all the good stuff.”

  Good stuff? Dear god. Sharon knew? Eddie knew? Mitchell Ware knew?

  And Abbie knew that they knew . . . the entire time. Because she had told them. Well in advance of her trip to Butler Island—and well in advance of Bryce coming here, to try and submarine her career by ratting them out to the dean and her department chair.

  And now she had tenure and Bryce had . . . what? A pink slip?

  It was incredible.

  This was one paradigm shift she never saw coming. All along, she had been convinced that her tenure at St. Allie’s would end in a way that was consistent with how most tragedies ended—she’d make a grand sacrifice to the greater good, sustain a mortal wound, and then limp away to die alone on some remote fjord.

  After all, the real test of a hero wasn’t whether she could prevail in a fight; it was how she’d behave on the day she lost—and what account she would give of herself when she finally understood the certainty that she was destined to die.

  That was the head space Grace had been living in ever since she saw Abbie that day on the stage. And it made sense for her to retreat to that bleak vision of her prospects. Why wouldn’t she? It was how she’d spent the better part of her last seven years at St. Allie’s—drilling those ancient precepts into the minds of her students.

  Now this?

  It was surreal. Unlikely. Unpredictable. A completely unforeseen end to what had been shaping up to be a Grade A textbook tragedy.

  Grace felt a tingling sensation. It started at the top of her head, spread out behind her eyes, ran down her spine, and fired across every synapse to travel along every nerve ending in her body.

  Nothing about it made any sense, but she understood without a doubt what was happening.

  And there was even a word for it . . .

  Eucatastrophe.

  # # #

  Grace was at home, packing her things for the trip to the island so she could get an early start, when her cell phone rang. She grabbed for it anxiously, hoping it might be Abbie, but it wasn’t. It was Lorrie.

  “I heard the good news,” she gushed. “Oh, Grace, I’m just so happy for you.”

  Grace had to take a second to figure out which good news Lorrie was referencing. Was it her book getting picked up by Algonquin? Or was it the tenure decision?

  She decided to make it easy.

  “What good news?” she asked.

  “The tenure, silly. It’s so wonderful when a place gets it right.”

  “Thanks for that, Lorrie. How did you hear about it? I only just left the dean’s office an hour ago.”

  “Oh, that’s easy,” Lorrie explained. “Bryce called me.”

  “He did?” Grace was shocked. “What did he say?”

  “I don’t really wish to repeat all those expletives. I am sure you can imagine.”

  “Yes,” Grace agreed. “I probably can.”

  “He did hint at something intriguing, however.”

  Grace could sense she wasn’t going to like what was coming. “What was that?”

  She giggled. “He said St. Albans might be getting a new first lady. Know anything about that possibility, Grace?”

  Grace closed her eyes. “No comment,” she said.

  “I have to tell you that as soon as Bryce made his absurd suggestion, I realized what a fool I’d been. Of course, I noticed the obvious charged atmosphere between you and Abbie whenever you were together, it just never occurred to me that there would ever be any kind of there, there—if you know what I mean.”

  Grace sighed. “I’m not sure I’d say there is any there, there, Lorrie.”

  “Oh, honey—don’t kid a kidder. I’m just sorry I made things . . . uncomfortable for you. Had I known you were already committed, I wouldn’t have behaved like such a bitch in heat.”

  Grace’s eyes widened. “I wouldn’t go quite that far, Lorrie . . .”

  “Oh, don’t worry about it, Grace. All’s well that ends well, right? The two of you make such an adorable couple.”

  “Lorrie? I appreciate that you’re being so kind and supportive—but it would mean the world to me if you would keep all of this under your hat for now. Nothing is fixed or certain between Abbie and me . . . nothing. And if and until there is anything to discuss, I’d like to nip any conversation about this in the bud.” She chose her next words carefully. “Being the accomplished and insightful woman you are, I know you will appreciate that.”

  “My lips are sealed, Grace.”

  Just like Mata Hari’s . . .

  “Thanks, Lorrie. I knew I could count on you.”

  “Did you hear the other good news from the board meeting?” Lorrie asked.

  Grace was afraid to ask. “No.”

  “It looks like CK got offered an endowed chair in physics.”

  “What?” Grace was incredulous. “Really?”

  “According to Lucretia. And she should know—she sits in on all those meetings.”

  “Did she take it?”

  “CK, you mean?” Lorrie asked. “I don’t know. Lucretia said they just offered it to her today.”

  Holy shit. This was huge news. CK could have her pick of positions at any top-tier college or research university. Grace had no idea how she’d respond to an opportunity like this. One thing was for sure: St. Allie’s was playing hardball to try and keep her.

  “Lorrie, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your call. But right now, I’m on the hook to make about a hundred phone calls to family members who will disown me if I don’t tell them the news. Will you forgive me if I cut our conversation short?”

  “Of course,” Lorrie said. “I just wanted to be among the first to offer congratulations.”

  “You certainly were,” Grace said. “Let’s meet for coffee soon?”

  “Count on it,” Lorrie said in her most upbeat voice. “Talk with you later, Grace.”

  “Bye, Lorrie.”

  Grace disconnected and stood staring at her phone. She was trying to decide whether she wanted to call CK or simply head straight over to her house when Grendel started barking—followed immediately by the sound of someone knocking loudly on her back door.

  She wasn’t at all surprised when she saw CK standing outside the door to her porch.

  “The woman of the hour,” Grace said, holding the door open. “I was just gonna call you.”

  “Oh, yeah?” CK entered the house and patted a dancing Grendel on the head. “I could say the same. But then I thought, what the fuck? Just go over.” She shrugged. “So, here I am. Frankly, I wasn’t sure if you’d be here or off celebrating with your inamorata.”

  Grace rolled her eyes. “I see you heard the news?”

  “Yeah. How about it? I guess one of those little marbles hit a deviation along its path toward destiny. Go figure.”

  “Fuck you. Why do you always have to be right?”

  “Probably because I generally am, so it’s counterintuitive to argue with me.”

  “Do you want a drink?” Grace led the way to her kitchen.

  “It’s four o’clock in the afternoon.”

  “What’s your point?”

  CK thought about it. “Got any Smuggler’s Notch?”

&
nbsp; “Just got a new bottle. Want any ice? Lime?”

  “Both, if you have ’em. Otherwise, just give me the bottle.”

  Grace laughed. “Sounds like you had a day like mine.”

  “Yeah.” CK pulled out a chair and sat down. “Do tell? I understand you have news?”

  “God, what is it with this place? Why don’t they just project a news crawl across the pediment of Franklin Hall?”

  “Beats me. I’d imagine gossip took longer to travel in the old days, when all the little monks had to illuminate the reams of handwritten rumors before dissemination. Now they just rely on text messaging.”

  “Or Laurel Weisz,” Grace added.

  “Oh? You heard from her?”

  Grace handed CK a tumbler full of ice and the bottle of vodka. “You might say that. She called me with congratulations about twenty-five seconds after I walked in the door after my meeting with Eddie and Sharon.”

  “So, I take it, you didn’t resign?”

  “I tried.” Grace grabbed a lime from her fridge. “But they wouldn’t let me. Some weirdness about getting tenure? It was all kind of a blur after that.”

  CK smiled. It was a big, wide, happy smile that lit up her entire face. Grace had never seen her look quite that—unencumbered. It was nice.

  “And I understand that you have some news to share, too?” Grace asked her. She took a couple of thick slices of lime to the table and dropped them into CK’s glass.

  “Yeah.” CK sighed and sipped her drink. “It appears the powers that be at this joint just decided to sweeten the pot for me.”

  “So I heard. An endowed chair? At your age?” Grace shook her head and poured herself a glass of wine from an open bottle she had saved from the other night. “That’s a pretty damn big carrot.”

  CK nodded. “It is. And they added summer research stipends and a generous travel allowance to facilitate continued access to professional development conferences and speaking engagements.”

  “Well, shit, girlfriend. What’d you say?”

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “CK?” Grace looked at her with disbelief. “Don’t tell me you aren’t going to accept it? That’d be crazy.”

  “I didn’t say I wasn’t accepting it—I just said I didn’t say anything when they offered it. I needed to gather some other information that was germane to my decision making.”

  “Well, did you get it?”

  “Not yet.” CK took another sip from her drink. “That’s why I came over here.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “I wanted to find out what you were going to do first, idiot. Whether you were going to stay or leave.”

  “Me? What difference would my decision make?”

  “Seriously, Grace? Have you never played connect the dots? Grady’s already bailed. If you left, it would only be a matter of time before a broken and heartsick Williams left, too. And if Williams leaves? There goes my best shot at direct connection to a wealth of seriously deep foundation pockets.” She shook her cropped head. “Do you think I wanna be stuck here alone, pushing Lucretia Fletcher and the fucking Sister Adorers of the Divine Wrath around in their wheelchairs?”

  Grace smiled. “I see your point.”

  “A breakthrough.”

  “Hey. Give me a break. I haven’t exactly been firing on all cylinders recently.”

  “You think I don’t know that?” CK asked. “I’ve kind of been your wingman lately, you know? Fending off enemy aircraft?”

  “I do know it. The truth is, I don’t want to do this job without you, either. So, your decision about going or staying matters just as much to me as mine does to you.” Grace smiled. “Foundation dollars, notwithstanding.”

  “Hey. I never said I wasn’t equally motivated by pernicious self-interest.”

  “It is one of your more endearing qualities,” Grace agreed.

  “So. Whattaya say? Should we stay or should we go, now?” CK chanted the last question in a perfectly wretched, atonal rip-off of The Clash.

  Grace lifted her glass of day-old Barolo. “Stay. For realsies.”

  “Done.” CK clinked rims with her. “Now that we settled that, we need to mature our plans for how you get to plant your flag on the summit of Mount Abbie . . .”

  # # #

  Grace was beyond disappointed that she never managed to connect with Abbie before heading out to the island on Friday morning. She knew that getting through to her had been a long shot at best—Abbie had been sincerely apologetic, but clear about how impossible her schedule would be until the trustees decamped. Grace tried calling her several times Thursday night, but to no avail. The phone rolled immediately to voice mail. Finally, Grace sent her a text message, saying how sorry she was they hadn’t been able to connect before she made her final trek out to Butler Island to clear out her things. She promised to get back to St. Albans early on Sunday—the day Abbie said she’d have more freedom and greater latitude over her schedule. Grace resigned herself to having to wait until then to talk with Abbie about all that had transpired—and to hear her much-anticipated explanation for why she’d kept her recusal from Grace’s tenure decision—and her revelations about their relationship—a secret all this time.

  That part remained a conundrum for her. Abbie had to know how much Grace had been torturing herself with her catalog of dire prognostications about all the calamitous ways their story would be certain to end. From the outset, Grace had been persuaded that her banishment from St. Allie’s would make Napoleon’s retreat from Moscow look like a weekend junket to the Mall of America.

  Not that winter weekends in Minneapolis were any picnic . . .

  Still, it was no secret that Grace had been living with a toxic flood of angst that threatened to overrun its banks faster than the Susquehanna in April.

  She didn’t understand Abbie’s silence.

  But neither did she doubt Abbie’s intent. She was sure there was a good reason for her lack of disclosure on the matter—it was just that, right now, she couldn’t imagine what it was.

  There was the other issue, too—her contract offer on Ochre. Grace had determined not to tell Abbie the news about the publication deal until after the tenure debacle had been resolved. Now, it had been—and more happily than she’d ever had reason to hope.

  Yes. They would have a lot to discuss.

  Maybe it was good she had the Butler Island trip to keep her mind off it all.

  As she slowed the pontoon to approach the dock Grady shared with Roscoe, she knew it would take her a while to come to terms with how much the loss of this place would mean for her.

  Probably forever. Grace couldn’t remember ever feeling at home in a place the way she felt at home here. It was uncanny. If she’d finally managed to find her soul in Vermont, her heart resided on Butler Island.

  Grendel stood proudly on the bow of the pontoon, like she was an experienced deckhand. She was wearing a blaze orange life vest that made her look chunky and comical—like an animated fire plug. Grace regretted that the thing had not been available in a spring tone that better matched the dog’s natural palette.

  Agnes would be so proud of me for even knowing that . . .

  Grendel was watching their halting approach toward the dock with so much intent, Grace was half tempted to shout for her to toss the bumpers over and hop off to tug the boat in closer, so mooring it without crashing into something would be easier.

  There was no sign of Roscoe’s boat today. That meant he must be off on one of his scavenger junkets. She regretted that they’d never get the chance to make use of that stash of shiplap Dean had delivered. She had plans to build a screen to conceal the battery bank—something on a track that could roll aside like a cargo door when they needed access to the equipment.

  Oh, well. Maybe the next owners would finish the place?

  It didn’t surprise her that there was no “for sale” sign near the water’s edge. Most of the properties out here moved very fast, and almost always
through word of mouth. Somebody would know somebody who had a neighbor or cousin who always kept an eye out for good deals on lucrative seasonal rentals.

  She could see glimmers of the cabin’s bright mustard exterior through the shifting leaves on the cottonwood trees. She loved how it shimmered in the sun and hugged that rise like it had staked a claim, and was stubbornly determined to stand there and bear witness to life on this lake forever. It reminded Grace of Ochre. Its history was etched in fits and starts, defined by periods of alternating care and neglect at the hands of a hundred accidental proprietors.

  Grendel leapt to the dock as soon as Grace drifted in close enough to tie off, and roared ahead up the path toward the cabin with her tail whipping around in circles. Grace didn’t worry about her veering off and getting into mischief. She knew the little dog well enough now to understand that Grendel was motivated too much by caution to engage in reckless behavior.

  Grace unpacked her gear and the small stack of flattened boxes she’d picked up behind Price Chopper on Thursday. She hadn’t bothered bringing anything aspirational or even especially interesting to cook. She decided it made more sense to concentrate on using up what stores of food they had in their small pantry. She made her way up the path a bit more slowly than Grendel. As much as she tried to suppress it, she couldn’t shake an escalating sadness. It surged up from her feet like hammer blows and grew more pronounced with every step she took along the inevitability of her final stay at the one place where she truly felt at peace.