by Nina Laurin
I’d researched Mansfield, and it seemed like the small, intimate place where I might find myself, finally. Have that famed, mythical “college experience” everyone always talks about with such fondness. The brochure had program descriptions that piqued my interest. Either way, I felt like I had nothing to lose by going to the open house.
I knew I was in the wrong place pretty much the moment I set foot on that campus, the forbiddingly angular postmodern buildings looming over me, spelling my doom. On the website, the pictures made the place look sleek and edgy, but in person, it was hulking and hideous, an assemblage of abominations. But I was already there, and I don’t know why but I decided to give it a chance, at least until the end of the tour.
I remember the feeling that overcame me when I stepped into the English Department for the first time. It was, as odd as it sounds, a feeling of hope. Maybe this wasn’t such a disaster after all. The building, cool and kind of dark even in the middle of a blazing-hot afternoon, embraced me like an old friend. Sweat that had broken out along my hairline and on my upper lip began to cool, and I felt like myself again.
It was just me—all the other potential applicants had dispersed amid the flashier, artier departments, and my steps echoed in the emptiness. I examined the artwork on the walls, the printouts of articles and the award certificates, and let myself wonder if perhaps I should apply for my master’s degree here after all. Then I turned down a hallway lined with doors, and I could see through the glass inserts into one of the offices behind them—exactly the way I imagined an English professor’s office should look, bookshelves lining the walls, a mix of well-loved paperback and hardcover editions and fancy gilded spines. A desk with one of those old-fashioned lamps, stacks of books, a slightly outdated desktop computer, and a leather chair that looked so comfortably worn that I wanted to plunk down in it and spin like a small child.
“Can I help you?”
The voice made me turn around, feeling like I had been caught snooping. A man was standing at the entrance of the hall, where I had just come from. The big window was right behind him, and I couldn’t see his face right away, but his voice—I loved his voice. Deep and pleasant. “You’re not in any of my classes, are you?”
“No,” was all I managed to stammer. He came closer, and I could see him. It was hard to pinpoint his age; anywhere between thirty and forty-five—that was my first guess. I just knew that I liked his face, his eyes, his dark-blond eyebrows—everything about him. And as silly as it sounds, it was as if a little bell went off in the back of my mind: This is fate.
“Didn’t think so. I remember all my students by name. Pride myself on it.”
“I’m here for the open house,” I said, mentally checking all the things that were wrong about me: my body language (awkward), my appearance (sweaty), my clothes (shouldn’t have worn this dress two days in a row—oh God, do I have sweat stains in my armpits?). But I bravely pinned my arms to my sides, glued a smile on my face, and persevered. Because I couldn’t not.
He gave a chuckle. “Wow. Is it bad to tell you you’re the first one?”
“Can’t be,” I said, and I think I was genuinely surprised.
“Yeah. English is sadly overlooked at this school. Sorry, shouldn’t have said that. Now you won’t apply for your BA.”
“I hate to disappoint you but I already have my BA.”
“Oh darn,” he said, and snapped his fingers. “Woe is me. Soon no one will enroll in my classes anymore, and they’ll throw me out.”
“I have a hard time believing that.” Now my grin was as real as it gets—something about an utterly charming and handsome man being self-deprecating made it impossible not to smile.
“Well, if you’re going to apply for the MFA, you might end up working as one of my assistants. And I can see few downsides to that.”
I realized I was standing there grinning like an idiot, all hardships of this day forgotten. I had to say something before he thought I was some dumb, mute sheep. So what I said was, “My name is Claire.”
“Prof. Westcott. Or for those who aren’t my students, Byron.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said. I think I laughed and barely managed not to snort.
He gave a theatrical sigh. “Unfortunately, it’s true. Feel free to laugh; I know my students do.”
“Good thing I’m not one of your students.”
He gave me a private tour of the campus that day, leading me past one hideous building after another, telling me anecdotes about each one. “And this one has been featured in Architecture Today, considered a wonder of modern design—world famous, no less. Too bad that not a day goes by without at least one elevator breaking down, and the world-famous design did not foresee stairs except for the fire exit.” And on and on. So I laughed.
By the time we were done, the sun was setting. I was shocked when I saw the orange sky—where did the day go? How did five hours get away from me? Byron invited me for a bite to eat. “And a glass of wine, if I’m so lucky. I managed not to scare you away yet. Didn’t I?”
I told him no, he didn’t scare me away, and I was down for a bite to eat and the wine too.
After, he asked for my number, and I gave it to him. It would be a week before he called. But he did call.
Six months later, my ideas of an MFA were forgotten, and I had an emerald ring on my finger and my future finally rolled out in front of me, looking as cloudless as ever.
Never once did he mention the wife who killed herself.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I still wonder what he saw in me that day. On the other hand, what wouldn’t a man in his forties see in a conventionally pretty, blond twentysomething who was clearly too awestruck by him to speak coherently? But I never wanted to think of him like that, and I still don’t. It dirties a thing that was pure from beginning to end.
This much I know: It wasn’t delusion or wishful thinking. It makes him sound like a lecherous old man that he certainly wasn’t then and isn’t now. He was a gentleman. Not only that, he was cautious at first, distant for a reason I could never pinpoint. It was a riddle. He was clearly attracted to me—physically and on every other level. Our conversation sparkled; for the first time I felt that my creative writing degree was useful for something. I wondered whether everything I’d ever done had been leading me here, toward him, like the proverbial red string of fate. I wasn’t just another blond in a slightly rumpled sundress wandering around campus. I’d read fifties existentialist literature. I could maintain a conversation about late Victorian poetry or early twentieth-century Gothic novels as the foundation of the suspense genre as we know it today and not be bored.
Even though I was self-conscious, worried that someone so much more experienced might find my little opinions trite, Byron actually listened to what I had to say and looked interested. He watched me with the kind of fascination every girl wants to see in the eyes of the man she really, really likes.
And yet somehow, even after all that, he took a whole week to call me. I had exhausted myself with regret, overanalyzing every word and gesture, trying to figure out where I had disappointed. Up until the phone rang.
“I put that shirt in the washing machine,” he had said, his hot chocolate–and-brandy voice in my phone, not in the slightest distorted by the crackling connection. “The card you wrote your number on was in it. Only about a third of the ink survived, and feel free not to believe me, but I spent the week trying all the possible numbers I could discern in that mess. I lost count of the times I made an utter fool of myself. Looks like I finally hit gold. Will you forgive me?”
I forgave him. Even though it was a lie, it was a cute lie. But then he was just as reluctant to sleep with me for the first time. All my signals seemed to fall on deaf ears so I figured he was just being chivalrous. It was another six weeks of dating before he invited me over.
He was everything you’d want in a lover. He knew what he was doing and never let it end without an orgasm for me. Looking bac
k, there was almost something textbook about that first time: He went down on me beforehand, he had a condom at the ready and never made things awkward about putting it on, and it went on for a respectable twenty minutes—no weird requests or strange positions. After, he got up and got us glasses of sweet wine.
“You know,” he said, pulling me close to him, “I was worried. I wanted you the moment we met. But…” He sighed and took a sip. “Well, first, I didn’t want to be presumptuous or have you think I’m some pervert who’s only after one thing.”
“Are you?” I asked, to be playful.
“Oh, no. I’m after all the things.” He kissed my neck, and I spilled my wine, three or four sweet, sticky drops on his pillowcase. “Also, I have terrible luck with women. Just as things start to get interesting, they either disappear on me or start acting strange.”
“I can’t imagine why.” I was still being coy but he got that faraway, sad look in his eyes. I waited for him to continue, to elaborate, but he never did, and in the end, I decided to take his words at face value. “Well, you don’t have to worry about me disappearing.”
“I sure hope not. It’s the long weekend next week, and I was thinking of a getaway. A little chalet somewhere. What do you think?”
I agreed, happy enough to change the subject. He never brought up any of his former flings again, which was just as well, as far as I was concerned.
Now, as I send my email to Sarah Sterns after nearly an hour of hesitation, I hope in the back of my mind that she never answers. Then, despite my growing consternation, I open Facebook in a new tab.
My little message window has had time to turn into a veritable arena of hatred. My breath catches when I see the number of new messages from the other girls in the conversation.
Hey Claudia, one writes. I’m so so so sorry you had to go through that. Have you considered filing a formal complaint?
Another one chastises her below: Don’t victim-blame Claudia. You know what happens to victims who report.
Another: I know someone who takes one of his classes. Victorian Literature. She says he never harassed her personally but he’s always acting suggestive to girls he thinks are pretty or whatever.
The ringleader intervenes. She even types her messages in a deep-bloodred font. We need proof. We need material if we’re going to file a complaint and get this asshole fired.
The Victorian Literature girl: I know someone who had a whole email exchange with him, over some essay. Apparently it got pretty heavy, pretty much outright harassment. He suggested stuff like she should come by his office after hours to “talk about it.” Can you believe him?
I can barely keep myself from rolling my eyes. For the first time in days, I’m reassured. Colleen might be one thing, whatever Isabelle Herrera thinks is another, but so far, I see no indication that anything untoward is happening with Byron and his students.
How is he still allowed to teach???
Claudia, do you have anything?
The bloodred font glares at me demandingly. My fingers hover over the keyboard. I’m this close to changing my mind, just closing the laptop and forgetting about the whole thing.
I was in one of his classes, like I said, I type. He would flirt with me nonstop. At first it was kind of flattering but then it got to be too much. I was dreading going to class by the end.
I hit Send and groan. That’s all my writerly imagination could scare up? But it turns out this is all they need.
Ugh. That’s unacceptable. No one should have to deal with that in a place that’s supposed to be for learning.
What a pig.
I know, I type. And I mean, it wouldn’t be so bad but he’s married, right?
Answers pour in, in real time.
Oh so it’s not so bad because he’s not fat or bald? If, say, Prof. Whitmer did that, it would be worse?
Don’t try to excuse his behavior Claudia.
How do you know he’s married?
I blink and lean back from the screen. My face flushes. Suddenly this whole situation is flipped on its head, not so innocent now.
I think I heard that he is, I type, but don’t dare to send.
The ringleader beats me to it: It doesn’t matter whether he’s married or not. It’s not the point. The behavior is inexcusable.
I heard there was something going on with him and a grad student, types one of the other girls. Her profile picture shows neon-pink hair and cat-eye glasses.
I heard something like that too, types another.
Yeah, I know which one, a girl chimes in, the same one who asked me whether I’d considered filing a report. Mia, she works at the desk in the English department.
I have a brief flashback to the girl behind glass, watching me attentively over the cover of her heavy tome.
Ugh, women who betray other women are the absolute worst.
I realize I’m not needed in this discussion. What really interests them is not firing Byron or even his supposedly inappropriate behavior; it’s gossiping about other girls and who they’re sleeping with. Same old routine under a new banner.
But I got something out of it, even though it’s not much: Mia. A grad student. Jealousy, stifling and ugly, grips my insides. I mustn’t do anything crazy, not until I find more. I clench and unclench my sweaty hands, struggling to calm myself. I’ve never let myself be rash, be stupid, act on my baser impulses, and I’m not going to start now. It gets you nowhere. Especially with men. Girls my age—hell, even women twice my age—don’t understand this but a man must never wonder what to do about the crazy woman. Men never stay with the crazy woman. They stay with the woman who makes things simple. Byron may have thought he was different—exempt from this rule—but look at him and Colleen.
Then again, I never made things anything but simple, and it didn’t stop him growing cold. And the worst part is I don’t even know why. I can practically hear my sister in my head, laughing at me. Chrissy always thought I was a freak of nature, a throwback, pathetic. I wasn’t sad to cut her out of my life when I got married. Look who’s pathetic now, I thought, as I stood in front of the mirror in my beautiful, tasteful off-white silk dress, my emerald ring matching my eyes, about to marry the man of my dreams. And now everything is crumbling, just like she predicted—and I’d dismissed her as bitter and jealous. What would she think if she saw me now?
The thought alone is enough to give me a physical pang. I don’t even know where she lives now, what she’s doing. For all I know, she could be married too; she could be a single mom; she could be dying of cancer. I haven’t spoken to her in more than two years and haven’t seen her in person since not long after Mom died. Mom wouldn’t have liked it. She would have wanted us to stick together, help each other like sisters are supposed to.
But it wasn’t me who started it. Chrissy turned her back on me first, long before I cut her out of my life. The moment she turned eighteen, a year before me, she took off, packed only the necessities into a duffel and was gone. She said she couldn’t stand to be in that house anymore. She’s the traitor, not me.
And now all I have is the voicemail she left while I was at the doctor’s. I’m in town. Call me. I know what you’re doing, and you need to stop before it’s too late.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The next morning, I wake up alone and don’t realize until I’m standing in the shower that I barely even made a mental note of that fact. Maybe it’s the nausea that grips and twirls me before my feet hit the floor—oh yes, those side effects on that printout the pharmacist insistently pressed into my hand. I really should have read it. Not that it would have made a difference. I’ve decided I’m doing this so I am.
In the mirror, my face is puffy, my eyes dull green marbles pressed into a mass of bread dough. I splash massive amounts of toner onto a cotton pad and wipe my face but it doesn’t help. The sting and smell of alcohol wakes me up a little though. And already it’s time for another shot, I think, cringing.
I hid the syringes and the vials of
hormones in the safest place in the house, where no sane man would ever venture: inside a tampon box. I covered them with the paper insert that comes with the box—the TSS info sheet—and closed the flaps. Still, I inspect the box up close to make sure nothing has been tampered with. I inject into a discreet spot on my thigh, wincing when the needle digs into my skin. And done.
For a short while, I manage to convince myself that things are improving. The day is sunny and warm, and light pours into the living room through the bay window, livening up the cold lilac walls. I avoid the disaster area in the kitchen, where dark rings on the counter still remind me of the burned, ruined pots and pans. I start the coffee machine and pop two pieces of bread into the toaster. I might be nauseous but I have to keep up my calorie intake. I will need the extra energy soon. I focus on that thought and catch myself smiling, my first genuine smile in a long time.
I stack the burned pots in the corner. I’ll be more careful in the future—I’ll know better. I’ll stop drinking altogether, not even a sip of wine while cooking. After all, I’ll have to stop for at least nine months and then however long it takes to breastfeed. Buoyed by the idea, I scoop the two open wine bottles out of the fridge and, while the coffee is brewing, pour the first one down the sink. The sour smell wafts up, making me cringe. Alcohol is gross anyway, when you think about it. We don’t drink it because it tastes good, do we? I don’t need any of that toxic stuff in my bloodstream.
The contents of the second bottle finally spiral into the drain with a hollow glugging noise, and I wait as the last drops trickle out. They’re lush and purple—the grenache that Byron likes. It occurs to me he might be mad that I poured out his favorite wine that he likes to sip after work.
Whatever. He’ll get over it when I break the good news to him, I think with glee, shrugging as I twirl around and slam-dunk the empty bottle into the recycling bin.
