Fall Semester (7 page)

He talked about the successful young writer whose first novel,
Deadlines,
a scathing but hilarious satire of the White House press corp and contemporary American journalism in general, had garnered tremendous critical acclaim and popular appeal. (Maren had a copy of the novel in her bag, but she didn’t know if she could be so pedestrian as to ask Solomon to sign it for her.)

“It is my great pleasure to welcome David Solomon,” Dr. Wilson concluded to a rousing round of applause.

Solomon, a slight man in his 30s with a receding hairline and a gentle smile, approached the mike.

“Good evening, and thank you for having me. The further I get from D.C., the warmer the welcomes seem to be,” he began. “Tonight, I’d like to read an excerpt from the first chapter of my upcoming novel,
Hill of Beans
.”

For the next 20 minutes, Maren laughed. She forgot her humiliation at the hands of Jess Dalton. She forgot her nerves at the impending reading. She even forgot that her parents were on their very last romantic getaway. But she did not forget that the person standing next to her was Malcolm Vashal.

He had a great laugh. At first she had not noticed it as a sound separate from the general response of the audience. But once she did, she waited for it, leaned into, and rode it with her own. It was deep, not loud. Economical, but genuine. Breathy. Sexy.

She wrapped her arms around herself and tried to keep her eyes on the novelist.

Her nerves did not return until David Solomon stepped away from the mike to exuberant applause and a few cheers and whistles. As the applause died down, Avery Cohen approached the podium and announced a five-minute break before Open Mike would begin. Maren forced herself to breathe slowly and dug into her bag for her sheets. She had brought both her iPad and hard copies just in case, but she decided to read from the pages rather than risk dropping the device in her shaky state.

And, indeed, her hands were shaking as she unfolded the pages and silently read through them, practicing, again, her timing and breath.

“Are you reading tonight?” Dr. Vashal asked, breaking through her absorption and surprising her that he was still there.

“Yes, I am,” Maren replied, trying to sound confident, but hearing the waiver in her own voice.

“Pretend they’re all here for you,” he said quietly.

She sighed. Clearly, she looked as nervous as she felt.

“Thanks,” she managed.

Maren glanced at the mike to see Dennis Guidry and Avery waving her over. She made her way to them.

“Who’s up?” Avery asked.

Dennis eyed her.

“Ladies first?” he ventured.

Shit.

“Fine,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I might as well get it over with.”

“Yes!” Dennis pumped his fist and took a seat in the front row.

Avery switched on the mike and cleared her throat.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, Welcome to a special Open Mike session of the UL English Department Creative Writing Program. Please take a moment to find a seat before we get started.”

Maren inhaled as slowly and deeply as she could, straightening up and trying to arrange a calm smile on her face. Helene darted in front of her and took a seat next to Dennis, giving Maren a big smile and a thumbs-up. Maren smiled genuinely in return.

Jess came around from the opposite side and took the chair on the other side of Dennis, making sure that Helene saw him, even though she pretended not to. Watching the two of them calmed Maren considerably.

I got this.

“Tonight we’d like to begin with a few poems by Maren Gardner, a second year graduate student who is specializing in creative writing. Let’s give Maren a warm Open Mike welcome,” Avery prompted.

Dennis Guidry, probably out of gratitude, clapped ecstatically, but Helene refused to be outdone, so she clapped harder—almost as hard as Jess who carried on until Maren glared at him as she stepped up to the mike and placed her poems on the podium.

“Good evening,” she opened and gave herself a moment to focus. The audience grew silent as Maren slowly breathed in again and began.

A Song of Hands

They say eyes are the windows

to the soul.

But hands hold more

of holy proof.

Not the lifelines, love lines

But the life and the love.

The gain, the loss, the richer stuff.

Take mine.

Knuckled into themselves,

They guard against every broken nail,

every paper cut.

Take yours.

Calloused with what rubbed you

then robbed you.

Take mine in yours

and you’ll find

they hold no weight,

afraid to grasp and come back empty.

Take yours in mine

and I can feel

what you still carry,

afraid to let go.

Take yours.

Take mine.

Maren had looked into Helene’s safe smile as she read, but when she finished, she ventured a glance at Dr. Vashal who watched her, unblinking. She began the next, feeling more confident, more at ease.

In Estes

Once winter warmed

Once April stormed

Once WE had formed

I forgot the cold.

Before the waterfalls froze

Before the roads closed

Before you chose what you chose

There was a fall.

When orange painted tree

When sky carried geese

When all you saw was me

Like I had come home.

Now drought creeps in

Now summer’s worn thin

Now we’re “just friends”

And winter’s not far.

Maren finished to the sound of applause, generous applause, she thought, but she had done well enough. Her voice had never failed her, and her pacing had been good. She stepped away from the podium to take the remaining seat on Helene’s left, but not before her eyes found Dr. Vashal again. He was clapping, too, and he gave a her the slightest nod. She sat down to listen to Dennis Guidry, but she didn’t hear a word.

Chapter 8

Malcolm

M
alcolm lay in bed, too warm to actually sleep, and counted over the events of his day. After nearly three weeks, Madeleine had called back. She had emailed him earlier to say that Sister Alejandro could not be reached at present, as she and some of her order had gone on a mission trip in the more remote villages of Guatemala and wouldn’t be back until later in the month. Malcolm did not exactly resent the limbo where this left him. It was a temporary reprieve where he could work casually on the translations without weighing how much they might matter.

With today’s call, Madeleine reported that the initial news was promising. Sister Alejandro had been flattered that Malcolm wanted to translate her book, and no one else had sought to do so. She would, however, have to put Madeleine in touch with her Monseigneur, who may or may not have to consult his bishop, but Sister Alejandro did not anticipate any obstacles, as both had been in favor of her publishing
La Fuente de Piedra
in the first place.

“Time seems to be the only matter,” Madeleine had reassured.

“Time is no great problem,” Malcolm had replied.

He had felt encouraged, so much so that he thought it safe to mention his progress to Dorothy earlier that evening before the Solomon reading.

“That is very good news, Dr. Vashal,” Dorothy had said, meaningfully.

Her tone had unnerved him, with its suggestion of his desperation, and his own shaken response had angered him. He might have retreated from her then in case a wave of panic should rise, but this whole chain reaction was broken when they encountered Maren Gardner and her verbal assault on Jess Dalton.

Self-loving cockhead.

Malcolm smiled in the darkness as he recalled it. It was perfect. Malcolm had struggled to contain his amusement at the bookstore, and Dorothy’s dig was forgotten. What he now evoked to examine in his mind’s eye was the look that Maren had worn as she faced-off with Dalton. It was a blazing look, ferocious even, and it was as beautiful as it was menacing. Why had she been so angry? What had Dalton done? What was it she had said just before?

Leave her alone.

Leave her alone, you self-loving cockhead!

Who was “her”? Coulter, more than likely, Malcolm reasoned. But why? He remembered an encounter earlier in the week when he had seen the two girls on the stairs. Maren had been embracing Helene. He had watched them without meaning to, but the sight had absorbed him. Were they
together
?

The notion rattled him, although he knew it should not. Despite himself, Malcolm discovered that he could picture them touching, lovingly, on several occasions. A hand on an elbow. Laughing arm in arm. A tugging of a pony tail. Or braid. He sat up in bed and flipped his pillow over so that he could lay back on the cool underside.

But where did Dalton fit in? Clearly, Maren was not one of his devotees. Was Helene Coulter the hinge in some fiery love triangle?

Bah!
The thought was laughable.

He relaxed, finally beginning to feel drowsy, and his mind drifted to Maren’s poems. They were confessional and green, yes; she was a beginner, after all, but they had a certain music and balance, and Malcolm was grateful that he had not felt embarrassment on her behalf. She had read quite well. Her voice was sonorous and strong, and the feelings the words meant to evoke came through it.

And her face. When she had read the poem about the seasons, her eyes had danced, her face transfigured with joy at the line,
when all you saw was me
. Somehow, she had slowed time with that look, those words, and held the audience’s rapt attention. Her countenance had collapsed with the next stanza, and it was evident that someone had hurt her.

Bastard.

The invective was the last lucid thought Malcolm had before sleep claimed him for dreams of coffee, white mountains, watchful eyes, and empty hands.

As much as Malcolm enjoyed his private game of poking fun at his university, The Deep South Writer’s Conference was something any school would be proud to call its own. Each year, it welcomed notable writers, not just from the South, but from all over the world. The Friday and Saturday of the conference boasted a number of readings, workshops, and seminars, and Malcolm attended as many as he could.

By Friday afternoon, he had taken one of his American Lit sections to hear Antoine Raez, a Haitian-American short story writer, read one of his pieces. It was a story of how to lie to one’s mother to be able to mix in with a street gang, but the story was written entirely in second person. Malcolm could not wait to read the response essays that would come from the experience.

Although he regretted that he would not be able to sit in the assembly room to hear the winners announced for the DSWC competition, Malcolm did not mind that he would miss most of the conference social to work the registration table in the main lobby of Griffin Hall. His shift was from 4 to 7 p.m., and he arrived a few minutes early to find—much to his surprise—Maren Gardner
and
Jess Dalton as his assigned student aids.

It appeared that Maren refused to acknowledge Jess’s presence, and Jess, for once, seemed to have the good sense to look contrite and—if it was possible for someone over six feet—diminutive in her presence.

Malcolm fought back a smile.

“Good evening,” he said, nodding to them both, and he was greeted with a shy smile from Maren.

“Hello, Dr. Vashal,” she replied, softly.

“Dr. Vashal,” Jess nodded, seeming to recover his posture and regain his confidence, simpering. Malcolm could not help but wonder if this lording stemmed from the fact that Malcolm had been witness to the altercation between them and, thus, Maren’s lapse.

For the second time in under a month, Malcolm desired to punish him. But he held himself back.

“Do we have enough registration packets to last the night,” he asked, eyeing the boxes behind them.

“We have a box and a half, so about 18,” Maren answered. “Dr. Wilson was finishing his shift when I arrived, and he said that they’d only gone through one box since lunch.”

“Hmm...We’ll probably get a few more than that during the evening,” he observed. Area teachers often came to the Friday sessions and social, earning CLUs and enjoying the chance to mingle as well.

Malcolm seated himself in between the two grad students who sat on opposite ends of the registration table and set about double-checking the number of registered participants, the number of invoices from the day, and the number of names on the pre-registered list. As he worked, he was aware of Jess stealing glances at Maren by leaning back in his seat. Maren ignored him with her nose in
English Romantic Writers, 12
th
Ed.
Malcolm quietly applauded her resolve.

The clock edged past 5 p.m., and as he had anticipated, more people arrived in search of the registration table. Malcolm went up to the departmental office for another box of packets, and before he reached the table upon his return, he could hear the two of them arguing in hushed tones.

“I was just teasing. What’s the big deal?” Dalton whined in exasperation.

“You mocked her, Jess. It’s just mean,” Maren rasped.

“It was nothing.”

“You shouted a marriage proposal across the parking lot at Barnes & Noble. It’s hardly noth—”

Malcolm’s arrival stilled Maren’s tongue, and he set the box down on the table and opened it, pretending not to hear or care about their conversation. Dalton had moved from the far right of the table closer to Maren, so Malcolm took his abandoned chair.

Two women came up to register for the conference, one approaching Malcolm, and the other Maren. Dalton seized his opportunity to whisper his retort, and Malcolm found his attention stretching across the table in an attempt to listen.

“It was a joke. What does she care?”

Malcolm heard Maren’s sigh without having to look at her. Maren reached back to grab one of the packets.

“You’re such an
idiot,”
she hissed.

Malcolm eyed the woman Maren was helping. If she’d heard the exchange, she gave no sign of it.

“Okay, you’re all set,” Maren said, handing her a packet. “Enjoy the conference.”

Malcolm had almost forgotten about the woman in front of him, but hastily handed her a packet as well and sent her on her way.

“What? Why did you say that?” Jess asked, genuinely perplexed.

“Never mind” Maren sat down again and picked up her book, refusing to look at him. Both seemed to have forgotten that he was there, listening, so he kept his eyes from them, pretending to study the registration ledger.

“No, Maren, really. What do you mean?” Jess’s voice betrayed a hint of dawning realization and, if Malcolm wasn’t mistaken, a little fear.

“Forget I said anything,” she replied, still not meeting his eyes

Jess grabbed her by the arm and jerked her back to look at him.

“Tell me!”

Malcolm was out of his chair in an instant.

“Dalton!” he barked, startling all three of them. Jess and Maren’s eyes were wide as Jess released her arm.

Don’t touch her.

He wanted to shove him, chase him away, banish him. He knew that he could not conceivably do any of these things, so he drew in a long breath through flared nostrils and gave himself two seconds to think.

He dug his keys out of his pocket and singled out one of them.

“Go to the office and get us another box of packets.”

“But you just—”

“Go,” he said, coldly.

Defeated, the boy took the proffered keys and headed toward the stairs.

“Freak out much?” He heard Jess mutter, but he chose to ignore it.

Maren stared at him with an unreadable expression before dropping her gaze to her lap. A heavy awkwardness settled over them. Malcolm slowly sat back down.

“Are you alright?” he asked, nearly whispering.

Her dark eyes met his again, and she brushed her bangs away from her face. Malcolm had noticed that she had forgone her usual French braid and that her hair fell in gentle ribbons down her back. It looked as soft as water.

“Yes,....just...”

“Just what?”

“Just embarrassed,” she admitted, a weak smile claiming her mouth. “Again.”

“Why on Earth are
you
embarrassed?” Malcolm asked, incredulous, but absorbed as he watched color come to her cheeks. Her blush seemed to scorch him.

“I think I allow Jess to bring out the worst in me.”

Malcolm considered what he’d witnessed in the last 24 hours.

“If a little name calling is your worst, then your villainy leaves much to be desired,” he said, wryly.

She rewarded him with a musical laugh, and Malcolm realized that he had been leaning in to talk to her. He pulled back abruptly and got to his feet.

“I’m...I’m going to go get coffee....Would you like some?”

She declined, politely, and seemed to drag her eyes back to her poetry book. Malcolm headed to the conference hall where tables and refreshments for the social had been prepared. He didn’t really want coffee. In fact, the back of his neck was damp with sweat. Agitation needled him, and he checked his breathing, wary that the panic would show itself. But he didn’t feel panicked, exactly.

The conference hall was nearly empty, just a few uniform-dressed dining hall staffers finishing their preparations. He plucked a chilled bottle of water from its icy tub, cracked the seal, and drained half its contents.

The urge to body-check Jess Dalton had surprised him. It had been as immediate as it was primal. Malcolm could imagine the satisfaction of sending him flying with a shoulder to his sternum, the look of shock that would have rounded his eyes.

Malcolm shook his head. To indulge in such fantasies was dangerous. As it was, he celebrated the power he held to send Jess away, even for only a few minutes. But Malcolm realized that he was probably already back with the unneeded box of packets, possibly harassing Maren again, so he hastily headed back to the registration table.