Fall Semester (10 page)

After dinner, Maren’s father wanted to rest in his recliner, and Laurel begged off to get some studying done, so she and Lane helped her mother clean up. Lane was all talk about a pharmaceutical rep he’d met at the gym and gone out with the night before.

“Robin is like...” He searched the ceiling for a metaphor while he scrubbed a cast-iron skillet. “Like the love-child of Mila Kunis and Jessica Biel.”

Maren burst out laughing, stacking the containers of leftovers in the fridge.

“Well, I don’t know who either of those people are,” Erin said, shaking her head. “But I’m sure she’s lovely.”

“She’s
hot
. And she can dance.” Lane dropped the skillet into the sink and grabbed Maren with wet hands. She screamed. “And we danced the night away.”

Lane pulled Maren to him, soaking her shirt, and then twirled her until her back was against his chest before whipping her into a spin.

“Stop! Stop! Stop!” Maren shouted.

“Come on, Maren, let’s two-step.” When Maren spotted the laughter in her mother’s eyes, she two-stepped to the Cajun rhythm her brother hummed for about 10 seconds.

“Okay, enough!” Without missing a beat, Lane dropped his sister’s hands and caught their mother in a sashay and danced her around the island, singing Warren Storm’s “If You Don’t Want Me”. By the time he got to “Try to please me,” both women were in hysterics, wiping tears from their eyes.

Their laughter had drawn Maren’s dad in from the living room, and he watched, beaming from the doorway. When Lane paused to catch his breath, Maren’s father cut in, and Lane quickly switched to Elvis.

“
Wise men say...only fools rush in...but I can’t help...falling in love with you,”
he crooned and just kept going. Maren was half-amazed that he knew all the words, but she was mostly mesmerized by her parents, locked together, eyes looking into each other. Laurel had snuck downstairs, curious about the commotion, and stood in the hall, watching.

“
Like a river flows...surely to the sea...Darling, so it goes...some things were meant to be.”
Lane sang beautifully, but he was watching his parents, too, and his voice caught on the next line.

“
T-ake....”
Lane paused to swallow the lump in his throat with panic in his eyes, and Maren and Laurel jumped in.

“Take my hand....take my whole life, too...For I can’t help...falling in love with you...”

As three grown children serenaded their parents, five pairs of eyes spilled over with tears.

Chapter 10

Malcolm

S
unday afternoon found Malcolm at the desk in his study, surrounded by crumpled wads of paper. He was in the habit of drafting by hand before giving a translation electronic life. He wanted evidence of the thing’s conception and gestation before it underwent dozens of invisible edits online.

But the poem he grappled with now would not yield itself to him. Sister Alejandro wrote about lice. It was a brilliant poem about how the older orphans were received—initiated, really, by the rest of the children.
“P
iojosos
,
”
or “Lice Heads,”
was its title. This is what the existing children at the orphanage dubbed any new child out of infancy. The reason was obvious. Often such children did bring lice with them, so they were quarantined for a couple of days until their hygiene could be assured or their lice eradicated. But, as Sister Alejandro revealed in her triumph of a poem, one was a lice head until the other children collectively accepted him. And, for some unfortunates, the slur stuck for years.

Malcolm loved the poem. It hurt and angered him to read it, so he worshipped Sister Alejandro in her mastery. She had crafted it with a sing-song rhythm, like a nursery rhyme, and one could almost hear the taunting voices of children singing it on a playground as they chased a doomed outcast.

It was the rhythm that Malcolm couldn’t capture in English. He surveyed the expanding flotsam of crumpled papers and cursed. Under no circumstances could his translation be the lesser thing. His version in English had to be at least as brilliant as Sister Alejandro’s was in Spanish. Anything less was failure.

“Fuck.” He scrubbed his fingers violently through his hair and stood up from the desk. Malcolm checked his watch and found that it was 2:00. He had been struggling with the poem for two hours. He needed a break before he lost his mind.

Malcolm peeked out of his favorite tri-panel of windows to find that the day was overcast. The calendar declared that summer had ended, and the slant of light in the sky graciously seemed to agree. Malcolm checked his phone to see that the afternoon temperatures were in the upper 70s. A run was in order.

In the few weeks since he had resurrected his running practice, Malcolm had made the affirming decision to outfit himself in new running shoes, shorts, and visors, and he pushed “Lice Heads” to the back of his mind as he changed clothes, strapped on his iPhone armband and his Garmin 220, and jammed in his ear buds.

He hit St. Patrick Street at a warm-up pace to the sound of STP’s “Interstate Love Song.” A mild breeze held the promise that October was just a few days away, and the evenings and mornings would begin to cool, making it perfect weather for a longer run. So far, Malcolm was up to four miles, and it felt easier and more familiar. By the time Kings of Leon’s “Radioactive” started, he was at a 10:10 pace.

He stretched out his stride on Souvenir Gate and aimed for Bourgeois Park, letting rhythms and words take on an abstract haziness in his head. The weekend had drained him with the pace and the fervor of the conference, and he had not run since Wednesday. Perhaps he should not have attempted to write anything at all this weekend.

Thoughts like those tended to scare him because he had been on a roll, and he was leery of breaking it or easing up, lest he never be able to come back to it again. In Bourgeois Park, intramural soccer teams, largely populated with international students, played on the green as a bevy of girlfriends or dating hopefuls cheered from the sidelines. Soccer was Malcolm’s armchair sport, and during the World Cup, Malcolm could usually be found at the bar at Café Habana City on Bertrand Drive, trading comments about players and strategies with one of the bartenders or Javier, the owner.

As he ended his loop in the park and headed back to Souvenir Gate, he considered taking some of his time off in June to vacation in Brazil and see some of the games live. His Portuguese was passable, and, armed with that, he could live cheaply but comfortably while there.

The opening guitar strains of “Have Love Will Travel” gave him a charge, and he dropped his pace to a sub 10 as he ran up St. Thomas Street. Unbidden, the image of Maren Gardner jogging down St. Mary filled his mind. He thanked God that she’d had the sense not to work the registration desk in her Nike Fit shorts. As it was, Malcolm had needed to keep checking himself yesterday as his eyes would travel from the tops of her amaretto shoulders in her sleeveless blouse to the slope of her breasts under the coral cotton fabric.

He was swallowing against this image when the Jeep approaching him slowed to make a left on Louisa Street. The passenger in that Jeep was Maren Gardner.

Their eyes met, and the look of eerie surprise that he saw in her face must have been the same on his. The top of the Jeep was off, and as it turned, Maren stuck a hand out to wave, calling over her shoulder.

“Hey, Dr. Vashal!”

His face broke into a smile, and he managed a wave as he watched the Jeep retreat. Crossing Louisa, he caught a glimpse of her braid before he registered the head of the driver. Taller. Dark, curly hair. Definitely male.

Maren Gardner had a boyfriend.

Of course, she has a boyfriend,
Malcolm scolded himself as he banked left onto Curtis Street. But who the hell was he?

Despite his better judgment, Malcolm turned around at the intersection of Curtis and St. Patrick Street and doubled back to St. Thomas. As he drew up to Louisa, he could see the Jeep reversing back onto the road from the fourth or fifth house on the left. The driver was alone, confirming that Maren really only lived a few blocks away, something he had suspected when he’d seen her dressed for her run. Malcolm could not recognize the boy behind the wheel, and although he desperately wanted to, he refused to jog down Louisa, a dead end, to satisfy his curiosity.

What the hell does it matter who he is? She’s a student. Put it out of your mind.

Obviously, his inner voice was right. Dead on. No good could come from those kinds of thoughts. The song changed to “Rope” by the Foo Fighters, and Malcolm cranked the volume, kicked up his speed for the last leg of his jog, and ignored the ache that pressed against his sternum and had nothing to do with running.

Chapter 11

Maren

I
n UL’s English Department, all teaching assistants in the master’s program were assigned one section of 100-level English and one hour per week of tutoring in the University Writing Lab. As a TA, Maren taught a section of English 102, Rhetoric and Composition, and her assigned duty time in the lab was between 3 and 4 p.m. on Wednesdays.

Maren Gardner prided herself on her organizational skills. She was a planner. She worked on assignments well ahead of their due dates. She planned lessons for her English 102 section two weeks in advance. She hung clothes up in her closet on Sunday evenings in anticipation of her week ahead so that she never had to think about what she would wear the following mornings. She wasn’t anal; she just liked to be prepared. Which was why working in the writing lab was her least favorite part of the school week. She never knew what she would face when she entered the small space on the first floor of Griffin Hall. Moreover, Maren was sure that with just a little foreknowledge of what awaited her, she would have been able to be much more helpful to the needy undergrads.

On some days, she helped students proofread papers for biology and math classes. On others, she might assist someone with an outline for a history term paper. But she felt most competent when a student came in with an assignment for an English class, so Maren breathed a small sigh of relief when a rail-thin skater boy entered the lab at 3:05 on a Wednesday afternoon in October with a somber countenance, a slight cold, and much used copy of
Norton’s Anthology of British Literature, Vol. II
.

“I just can’t get this Dunny guy,” he rasped, one eye hidden behind a long shaft of bangs. He sniffled a little and cleared his throat.

“Dunny...?” Maren asked before eyeing the pages he proffered. “Oh, I think you mean Donne. As in ‘over and done’.”

“I wish this were over and done,” Skater-Boy mumbled before coughing into his sleeve. “Why is the guy writing poetry about a flea?”

Maren clamped down on her smile, lest the freshman think she was laughing at him. “The Flea” had always been her favorite of John Donne’s poems, even though she could count many others that she knew by heart. She loved the humor and the intimacy of the poem. For her, it captured a point of perfect tension between would-be lovers who were at ease and playful with each other. Adoration and desire of the beloved. A tender and tempting proximity of two bodies and souls. These luxuries were balanced against the fear and jeopardy that came with giving in.

She
would have given in. Fear and jeopardy be damned. She imagined a John Donne who bore a striking resemblance to a certain green-eyed literature professor before coming back to herself.

“Well, it’s about a flea, but it’s also
not
about a flea,” she started. “Donne seems to be talking to his girlfriend. A flea has bitten both of them—”

“That’s gross, man,” Skater Boy interjected.

“Yeah,...I guess it is, but he tries to use it to his advantage,” Maren continued. “The speaker is trying to convince his girlfriend to sleep with him, and his argument is that since a little bit of themselves has already been united inside the flea—and that was no big deal—it’s okay for her to go all the way with him.”

“Huh.” He gave a short laugh which morphed into a cough. “Does she do it?” Maren edged back in her seat, angling away from him slightly as she tried not to picture an invisible cloud of cold germs fogging the air, but she gave him a smile.

“No, she squashes the flea instead, but Donne still tries to get the last word.”

“That’s kind of funny,” he acknowledged.

“Yeah, definitely.”

“I wouldn’t have thought that they were writing poetry about stuff like that back then,” he ventured.

This time, Maren did laugh.

“Actually, a lot of poetry is about stuff like that. I guess that’s just human nature.”

He read the poem through again after hearing her explication.

“Okay, I understand it now, but I still don’t feel like writing a response paper about it.” Skater Boy rested his elbows on the table and leaned his forehead into his palms. Maren frowned.

“You don’t look like you feel up to doing much at all,” she gently noted.

“No, I don’t,” he sniffed loudly. “But this is due tomorrow, so I got no choice.”

“Then let’s get to work.”

Maren questioned him about his take on Donne’s side of the argument, whether it was valid or merely clever. She had him examine Donne’s use of literary elements like repetition, conceit, and rhyme scheme, inquiring about how these worked in Donne’s favor. He wrote down his responses to her questions and began to form a thesis. Skater Boy was capable enough to cluster his points and use textual evidence to support them. He drafted quietly and occasionally ran a sentence by Maren before moving on. She allowed her mind to wander in between his inquiries.

Although it was only Wednesday, the week had seemed long. She had collected a set of essays from her English 102 class on Monday, and she had stayed up late Monday and Tuesday night in order to finish marking them and return them to her students that day. She’d also had a mid-semester test the day before in her transcendentalists class, and preparing for that had consumed her of late. Finally, she wasn’t quite satisfied with a poem that was due in her workshop on Friday. Hopefully, the muse would be upon her later tonight; it would stress her out to go to bed without feeling as though the thing was done.

Maren knew that it was typical to feel stretched thin in the middle of the semester, but this stressful stint would have been more manageable if the little bubble of time and hope had held together for her father a bit longer. He had felt relatively good and strong for about three weeks after the trip to the lake, but it had been clear on Sunday that he was having more pain and that his appetite had weakened. No one meant to show it at dinner, but the pall had been cast over all of them.

On top of everything else—she hated to admit it because it was so selfish and petty a concern—her delight in her secret crush did not buoy her as much as it had just after the conference. This was not because she found Dr. Vashal any less intriguing or beautiful than she did three weeks ago. On the contrary, she may have even grown more enchanted. It was because he had all but disappeared. She was used to seeing him in the halls three or four times a day, and, suddenly, she would only catch sight of him two or three times a week.

Even more disconcerting was his manner when she did cross his path. On the Monday after the conference—the day after she’d spotted him jogging through her neighborhood—she ran into him at the department copy machine and tried to strike up a conversation. The encounter had jarred her, leaving her feeling a little bruised.

She had approached him, using the jog-sighting to ask if he lived in the Saint Streets. Maren should have picked up on the lukewarm affirmation before plunging ahead and asking how far he’d run—what any fellow runner would inquire, but Dr. Vashal’s spine had straightened, and he’d excused himself, mumbling about having a class to teach. And he was gone.

Even though Maren told herself not to take it personally—since she knew that he had a reputation for lacking social finesse—she couldn’t help but feel a sting. Where was the boyish doughnut lover who’d made her laugh two days before? She knew his secret. She’d glimpsed behind the curtain of his bluster and scorn. His ogre act was a feint, a front. She remembered the look in his eyes the day before—right when he recognized her in Lane’s Jeep. Maren had read his surprise, but as the Jeep turned—it had been so fast—she was certain she had seen something beyond surprise. He’d looked glad to see her. As though the surprise he felt was one that accompanied a happy coincidence. She would not have been able to explain it to anyone, but the look had touched her.

Now she put a hand over her chest where the memory made itself known—as though to cover and protect it from how foolish she now felt. Maren had to admit that when she walked the halls of Griffin, she sought him too eagerly. She smiled too readily. If he acknowledged her at all lately, it was with a tight nod, his eyes guarded. He did not want her conversation. He did not want her friendship. And he certainly did not want her crush.

Of course, he doesn’t.

Still, she didn’t want to put it away. Not yet. The thought of doing so just depressed her. She had put away so many other things recently, shelved so much of hope and dreams and desires. Her crush—what she felt—belonged to her, no one else, after all. Not even Malcolm Vashal. She just wouldn’t open herself to the shame of letting anyone else see it.

Maren’s mind came back to the present, and a weariness settled over her. She glanced over at Skater Boy’s draft, now onto the third page. The clock in the writing lab read 3:55.

Thank goodness.

“I think I’m just about done,” Skater Boy said, still clutching his pencil. He pushed his draft to her, and Maren took it up.

She muttered a few words of praise in appropriate places, laughing gently at his humorous summary of the poem. Maren corrected a few of his mechanical errors and gave him a suggestion for an opening sentence for his conclusion paragraph.

“Thanks a lot,” he said, gathering up his things. “You really helped me.”

“My pleasure,” she smiled, genuinely. She was glad that her help had meant something, but she also felt relieved that her shift was finished. She hoped that her bike ride home would wash out the fatigue and gloominess that had seeped into her.

Outside on Rex Street, Maren unlocked her light blue Schwinn beach cruiser and set off towards home. The wind had picked up since the morning, and Maren remembered hearing some of her 102 students talking about an early cold front on its way. She breathed deeply and tried just to focus on the pleasure of riding her bike.

Maren knew that she should probably call Helene and request a girls night to cheer her up, but she simply felt too fragile and low. If she could have asked for anything, she would have taken a warm hug and a good cry. Without too much risk to life and limb, she knew she could just ride to her parents’ house and find comfort, but that would claim the entire evening, and she did not have that kind of time. The poem for her workshop still demanded attention. She decided, upon arriving home, that she would simply call the house and see if her father was awake. For now, he was still here. She could still turn to him.

Perry greeted her at the kitchen door, as usual, and she let him into the back before walking out herself and taking one of the two second-hand wrought iron chairs that made up the outdoor seating on their tiny flat stone patio.

Her mother answered on the second ring.

“Hello, Maren, darling,” Erin cooed, sounding a little tired herself.

“Hey, Mom. Back from work?” Erin Gardner worked as the office manager at a dentist’s office. Before her father had been diagnosed, Maren’s mother would usually work until 6:00 each night. When she’d asked for more flexible hours, Dr. Jolette had been more than willing to accommodate her. Now, she went in at 9:00 a.m., came home for lunch, and usually got home between 3:00 and 4:00 p.m., working from home as much as she could.

“Yes,...still, a long day,” she said, but Maren could hear a gentle smile in her voice.

“Is Dad awake?” she asked, meekly. She wouldn’t want to wake him, but he was the one she wanted to talk to.

“Yes, he just had his medicine. He may be a bit groggy.” Maren could hear her mother walking through the house, envisioning her moving from the kitchen to the living room. She heard her mother half-muffle the phone, but she still caught the exchange. “Honey,...it’s Maren. Do you feel up to talking?”

Her father’s response was more muffled, but Maren smiled at its clear affirmative tone.

“Hey, Merry,” he croaked, sounding like his voice had gone unused throughout the day. “How’s my girl?”

“Hey Dad...How are you?” She dodged his question at first, feeling the weight of her mood demand its due, and she knew she was going to cry. There was no point in fighting it.

“Oh, I’m alright today. What about you?” he asked again, sounding more alert.

“Just...” She tried to swallow the lump that constricted her throat as the first of the tears fell. “Just a hard day, I guess.” Her tearful state was evident in the pinched timbre of her voice.

“Tell me.”

When she was upset, Maren loved talking to her dad. He was always so calm and even-keeled. Where her mother might mirror her distress and end up making Maren feel more out of control or worried, her father made her feel that whatever burden she laid down before him would be lighter and easier to bear once they finished talking.

God, I’m going to miss him.

And the sobs started in earnest.

“Maren...” Her father whispered. “It’s going to be alright. I promise.”

“Dad, you don’t even know what’s wrong,” she countered. “I don’t even know what’s wrong, really.”

“Whatever it is, my answer is the same,” he said, softly.

“It’s not going to be alright because I’m going to lose you.” Her voice broke into something that sounded too close to a wail, and sobs shook her shoulders. Perry trotted back from the edge of the yard to see what was wrong, sniffing her ankle before popping up on his hind legs and perching his tiny claws on her knees. Maren petted him in gratitude as her nose ran.

“Is that what’s bothering you today, my love?” Maren was relieved that her suffering didn’t seem to hurt him. He was still calm and soothing.

“That’s part of it,” she sighed, wiping her nose on the back of her hand and wishing she’d brought a box of tissues outside.

“We’ll talk about that, but first, what’s the other part—if that’s only part of it?”

“Well, school...and stuff,” she hedged.

Maren heard her father chuckle softly.

“I think I’d like to hear about the stuff,” he asked, meaningfully. “Does he have a name?”

“Dad!” Maren scolded, her tears stopping at once. “Why do you automatically assume it’s a guy?”

“Well, is it?”