A Field Guide for Heartbreakers (8 page)

her
. And maybe some fixation she has for an uncircumcised fisherman. Did you read that description of the fishermen she sees in the grocery store?” Veronica looked at me and waggled her eyebrows, then she licked her thumb and turned a page.“Oh my god,” I said. “I missed everything!”I furiously began marking up both stories. I continued to make notes even as the group straggled in. Waller sat two seats away from me. So much for Veronica’s powers of mental persuasion. But as he passed he brushed against my arm with his arm and its thick forest of hair. It was the hairiest arm that had ever grazed my skin. I loved it so much that I kept hoping he’d regraze me. But he didn’t.Annie Earl came in with Brenda, and they sat next to each other. Brenda glared over at us, and I didn’t know why.“I got your note about the goulash,” she said.“Cool,” Veronica said.I leaned over the empty chair between us and asked her, “What did you do?”Veronica smiled. “I got up in the middle of the night and ate most of it.”My eyes got big.“Calm down. We didn’t miss much. I’ve had better.”Frank ended up sitting right next to Veronica, and Roger sat beside me. A slightly chubby girl with a lot of tattoos sat by herself. Kite sat on the other side of Veronica. Except for Waller, everybody sat exactly where Veronica had planned. I was amazed.“Let’s go ahead and get started,” Mrs. Knox said. My pulse raced. I flipped back through the stories again. Everything began to blur. I wasn’t ready.“As all of you know, I’m Tabitha Knox. My specialty is the short story, and that’s what we’ll be working on in this class. One of my favorite quotes on writing is, ‘You can’t wait for inspiration. You have to go after it with a club.’ Some people think that writing is all about putting your butt in a chair. That’s a wrongheaded approach. I’ve met plenty of writers who spend too much of their lives sitting, waiting for the magic, waiting for the spark. They wait at their desks like a shipwrecked sailor waits on the shore of a deserted island, unshowered, desperate, nutritionally compromised, and fashion challenged.”Everybody laughed at this, even Veronica, who must have heard it dozens of times before.“As writers, we need to learn to rescue ourselves. We will work hard in this class, because writing is hard work. In addition to the stories that we’ll workshop, I’ll also be assigning small amounts of reading. Flannery O’Connor. Raymond Carver. Joyce Carol Oates. Stuart Dybek. Ralph Ellison. And more. Because writing isn’t just about writing. It’s also about reading.”“I agree,” Veronica said. “I hope we get to read some vintage Hemingway.”“Probably not,” Mrs. Knox said. “Hemingway isn’t my favorite.” She cleared her throat. “I’ll also be assigning small writing exercises. Sometimes I’ll collect them and sometimes I won’t.“Here’s my philosophy for workshop,” Mrs. Knox continued. “We start with what’s good. After we’ve discussed what’s working, we can move into more critical areas. You aren’t allowed to say that you don’t like something without offering a thoughtful reason. Don’t discuss typos during the workshop. If you have grammatical concerns fix them on the page. We want to get to the meat. We want to give the author nine extra sets of eyes. We want to show them where their story succeeds and where it may be falling short. And one last thing, no commenting or contributing while we’re discussing your story. It’s your job to absorb and take notes. You can make clarifying inquisitions at the end. Questions?”“Shouldn’t we introduce ourselves?” Veronica asked.Mrs. Knox nodded. “Yes. I was getting there. Who’d like to start? Say your name and where you’re from. And tell us something interesting about yourself.”It looked to me as if Mrs. Knox was trying to maintain a neutral position with Veronica in front of the class. And it also looked to me as if Veronica was trying to act very mature and collegey. “I will. I’m Veronica Knox. And I’m from Ohio. I like to run, salsa dance, and bake. And I can hold my breath for six minutes and twenty-nine seconds.”I heard somebody gasp. Veronica beamed. I’d never seen her do any of the things she listed. And as for holding her breath? I had no idea why she’d told that whopper.“Wow. That’s tough to follow. But I’ll go next. I’m Roger Kobe. I’m from Chicago. And I’m a Cubs fan.” Roger pointed to his hat. “And don’t try to talk me out of it. I’m a loyal dog. I’ll be a sophomore at Northwestern where I study English and Education.”“I’m Waller Dudek. Also from Chicago. Also attending Northwestern. And I like the Cubs, but I got tired of having my heart broken annually, so I don’t claim a team. Also, I want to add that I’m not a fan of Hemingway either.” He drummed his fingers on the table. This set off small vibrations that traveled through the wood and into my bones. I felt flushed. Then he glanced at me, and I took it as a sign to go.“I’m Dessy Gherkin. I’m from Ohio. And while I’m not a Cubs fan, I do like watching big cats at the zoo.”Roger laughed. Veronica mouthed, “What?” But I liked my answer. I thought it showed pizzazz. “I’m Frank Adler. I’m from San Diego, and I’m a student at UCSD. And this is the first summer that I haven’t spent working at SeaWorld or the San Diego Zoo since I was fifteen.” Frank looked at Veronica and me and gave us a knowing grin.Why did he grin? Did he think I was fifteen? Did Veronica and I
look
fifteen? I felt my ears grow warm. I wanted to shout, “I’m not fifteen. I’m seventeen! And a half! World of difference.” But I held myself together.“Kite Geld. I’m from Escondido. It’s near San Diego. I study at UCSD too, and when I was seven I kissed Shamu.”“And what was that like?” Roger asked. “Damp,” Kite said.People laughed. I think this meant we were beginning to bond. “I’m Brenda Temple. I’m from Bar Harbor, Maine. I love seeing new things. Traveling. I guess I’m the kind of person who, when I encounter a closed door, I like to open it. I also enjoy watching whales and independent films.”“We’ve got a lot of marine life enthusiasts,” Mrs. Knox said. “I wonder if any whales made it into the stories.” “I’m Annie Earl Wert. I’m originally from Omaha, but I currently live in Coral Gables, Florida. No real whale or baseball interests. I knit. And play the banjo. And I once had dinner with Ronald Reagan.”Nobody laughed. I think I heard a small gasp.“The dead president?” Veronica asked.“He was living at the time,” Annie Earl said.The next person jumped in before Annie Earl could elaborate.“I’m Corky. Just Corky. I don’t like using my last name because I feel it defines me in a way that is inauthentic to my ambitions. I think capturing whales and imprisoning them in fish tanks is a hostile act. But don’t worry, I’m not an ecoterrorist. Bombs aren’t the way I plan to change the world. What else? I like to hike. I’ve survived a plane crash. And I once killed a mountain lion with my shoe.”Corky looked a lot like how I pictured her after I read her sticky note. Again, nobody laughed.“With your shoe?” Veronica asked. “Were you wearing vicious high heels?”“Boots,” Corky said. “The lion attacked my sheltie. I kicked it off of my dog and then stood on its neck until it suffocated. It was a young cat. A size I could handle. I protect what’s mine.”She unscrewed the cap of her water bottle and took a sip.“Oh my god,” Veronica said. “That’s amazing.”“A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do,” Corky said.“Okay. Thanks, Corky. Moving on. Does anybody have any questions?” Mrs. Knox asked.Nobody had any questions.“Kite, why don’t you start. Please read from your story. Just a page or so.”“Anything?” he asked.“Yep,” Mrs. Knox said.“I’d like to read from the milking scene.
“The barn smelled like Indiana and it made me miss California. I’d left San Diego and her crowded sidewalks and thoroughfares two weeks ago. Everything about her felt missable, even the faint stench of piss. I approached the goat slowly and offered her my hand. I expected her to lower her moist snout and sniff it the way a golden retriever would, but she turned away from me and stamped her hind legs. Like a nervous girl on prom night, she knew what I was after.
“‘Come,’ I said. I rubbed my hands together to warm them. No, I didn’t really connect with my country cousins, but I could milk their goat. I reached down for her udder. It was warm and rubbery, and when I touched it, she released a bleating refusal. But I didn’t back down. I shoved the bucket under her with one hand, and with the other I yanked her teat. Not softly, but hard. I wanted milk.”
I felt myself stand up. My knees turned to jelly. No wonder Hamilton dumped me. Things were starting to make sense. This was all about my second flaw.
Dessy, you enjoy life’s surface pleasures so much that you resist looking for the deeper meaning. You have an analytical mind, but you don’t use it
. Kite’s metaphor was right there for me to see, and I had missed it. I hadn’t applied my analytical mind!I hurried to the door and thought about my original comments on Kite’s story. “I’d enjoy more details about what the barn looked like.” “How many cousins did the character have?” “What color was the goat?” All of them missed the obvious. Kite was writing about sex. SEX. I hadn’t gone below the surface.My head swam. I felt so stupid. And young. How could I have overlooked the sexual connotations of a young city boy milking his first country goat? Kite didn’t stop reading. I walked out into the hall and shut the door behind me. I sat down and concentrated on breathing. I pictured my lungs taking in air and pushing the oxygen through my blood. If I didn’t focus like this, I was worried I’d hyperventilate and pass out. This sort of panic had hit me once before. The wounded owl incident. I closed my eyes. I hated to think too much about the wounded owl incident. But when that particular memory surfaced, I couldn’t drive it out of my mind. I had to replay it over and over as a way to exorcise the trauma. Hamilton and I had found the bird together. It was staggering through a crosswalk. “
Bubo virginianus
!” Hamilton shouted. “A great horned owl!”Hamilton parked his Volvo on the side of the road and we both sprang out of the car.“There’s a towel in my gym bag!” he yelled.I ran back to the car for it. When I reached the owl it looked like a scientific experiment gone wrong. Its body was mangled. Burned.“It needs a vet,” he said. He wrapped the owl like a baby. Its yellow eyes studied me, and its black beak curved into its white chin feathers like a dangerous hook. I held it while Hamilton drove. The owl grew hot on my lap. I kept looking into its eyes. They were so intelligent. And so scared. I kept saying, “You’re going to be fine.”Hamilton sped into a vet’s parking lot, grabbed the owl, and left me in the car. I didn’t move. My heartbeat quickened. I thought of the bird and how it must have felt. The towel pinning its wings to its body. An unfamiliar pain pulsing through it. Would it ever be able to fly again? Would it want to? Would it develop an unbreakable fear of guns? Or the sound of guns? How would it handle thunderstorms? Would it be able to find a mate? I felt twisted. Like a rag. My emotions were being wrung out of me. I didn’t like thinking this hard.I sat and waited for Hamilton to come back. In retrospect, I realize that I could have gone into the vet’s office, but at the time this didn’t even occur to me. I’d sat and focused on the outcome that I wanted. The bird was going to survive. We’d found it. And saved it. It was going to pull through. But was this enough? I dreaded the idea that the owl would be altered. Would it still be able to hunt? Would it have to live in a caged-in area? Ugh. Probably. It was never going to be whole again. I leaned my head against the window and cried. And I didn’t try to stop crying. I fogged up every window in Hamilton’s car. When he came back, he didn’t ask me what was wrong; he assumed that he knew.“I know,” he said. “It’s terrible to see that kind of suffering. But it’s going to be okay. They’ll send it to a sanctuary. The people there know how to handle this exact sort of owl injury.”A sanctuary. Hamilton rubbed my knee and smiled. Maybe this was the best thing for the owl. Maybe it didn’t even know the difference between captivity and freedom. Maybe it would never know it was damaged.“You still look sad,” he said. “Why?”I shrugged. “Once it’s better, we’ll go and visit it,” he said. “I promise.”The owl died that night. When Hamilton called to tell me, he almost cried. After I hung up with him I called Veronica and told her about the unfortunate incident. But I didn’t go into too many details. I emphasized the incredible adventure. And the intensity of trying to save a wounded animal. And the closeness I’d felt with Hamilton during and after the whole ordeal.“Wow,” Veronica said. “What kind of coward shoots an owl?”“I don’t know,” I said.“I do. An asshole coward.”And at the time I didn’t even realize that I was trying to sanitize the sadness of the situation by leaving out certain parts. But it was a classic example of flaw number one:
I had selectively withheld important information for the sake of creating a more pleasant reality
. But was it so wrong to reshape a tragic event in order to make it less tragic? I must have sat in the hallway for a half hour. When the class broke for a ten-minute break, Veronica hurried out to check on me.“What’s wrong?” she asked.“I’m not even sure,” I said.“Is it gastrointestinal?” she asked. “I mean, we’re in an
Eastern
European country, and you’re drinking a ton of tap water.”I shook my head no. I saw somebody poke his head out of the room. It was Roger.“Are you okay?” he asked.I nodded. His head disappeared back into the classroom. Then I heard the clicking sound of heeled shoes. It was Mrs. Knox.“You look a little pale,” she said. “I feel pale,” I said.“We should probably call a taxi, and I should escort her back to the dorms,” Veronica said.I shook my head. “I want to go back to class. I don’t want to miss Brenda’s story.”“Are you sure?” Veronica asked. “I know how to hail a taxi.”“She says she wants to go back to class,” Mrs. Knox said. She held out her hand and helped me up.“Thanks,” I said.I walked back into class feeling thirsty and light-headed. Veronica intuited this, and handed me an apple and some water. She seemed angry, but I knew she’d get over it. She moved Frank’s things and made a place for me to sit. Class was important. We couldn’t blow off the first workshop. Brenda wanted to read from the middle of her story.
“Have you ever heard a lobster scream? They don’t go peacefully into the boiling pot. They want to live as much as anything. I held my lobster in a box and walked past a fisherman in the parking lot. Goshdarn these fishermen and their rubber yellow coats. Goshdarn their toggles and boots. Goshdarn their weathered faces. Goshdarn their smelly pants. Didn’t they know that lobsters mattered? Furious with the world, I drove like a maniac with my lobster to the sea.”