The Madwoman Upstairs (28 page)

I nodded and glanced at the wolf on his torso. “Self-portrait?”

He shrugged. “You’ll find out at the full moon.”

I let out a laugh in spite of myself. That seemed to please him and he rested his heels on the table in front of us. In a moment, he had pressed play and the screen jumped back to life. I was right—Jane Eyre was wandering through an Edenic garden, looking innocent. It had always seemed ridiculous to me that she couldn’t guess what was coming. Only an idiot could have missed the mood lighting, the eerie calm, the promise of torrential rain. Sure enough, the next image was of Mr. Rochester, who was not-so-subtly crouching in the bushes, waiting to strike. He was another overly tanned actor, with a strangely orange face and a strong, gladiator chin. I recognized him from the movie
Beast
. He was far too attractive to play Mr. Rochester. The man Jane Eyre loved was supposed to be older, gnarled, and knotted, with a face that made you believe in inner beauty. This Rochester—Beast—popped out from behind a gardenia and paused in front of the camera, mid-swagger, like he was waiting for the applause in his mind to die down. Jane didn’t seem startled at all. She and Rochester faced off: employer and governess, in their perpetual dance.

I cleared my throat and asked Orville, “Any reason you picked this movie?”

“Do you always talk during films?”

I shut up. My posture was unnaturally erect, my arm hair static. Thinking about Orville sitting alone watching this movie was like imagining him arranging daisies in front of
You’ve Got Mail
. Had he been expecting me?

I waited patiently as Jane cried out the dialogue that I had committed to memory so long ago:
Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain, and little, I am soulless and heartless? You think wrong! I have as much soul as you, and full as much heart!
After which Rochester wrapped his arms around her nonexistent waist, yanked her toward him, and buried his face in hers. It was a cue for the rain, which fell thick around them. I expected the scene to end—this was where the scene always ended, right?—but this one kept going. The director must have forgotten to call “Cut!” Jane and Rochester kissed fervently, with disorganized passion. He began ripping off her coat—no, was this happening?—and she followed suit. No, no, no, this was not in the book. They were dropping to the dirt, they were covered in mud, and oh no, his shirt, there it went. My cheeks burned. I looked away from the screen, embarrassed not only for myself but for poor Charlotte Brontë, too, who had never written anything like this in her entire life, but probably wished she could have.

The scene ended.

“A wonderfully subtle moment,” said Orville.

I said, “I’d like to see your idea of overt.”

No response.

In the dark, I learned, silence has a way of killing you.

The movie kept going. I knew that it was nowhere near over, and that I would have to sit here the whole time, pretending to be comfortable. Whose stupid idea had this been, anyway? Jane still had to go through her internal battle, her external battle, her escape, her redemption, her resolution. Another one hundred and fifty pages at least.

Hours passed. Days passed. One thousand years passed. By the time the movie ended, I hadn’t paid attention to the dialogue or the acting or the scenery. For all I knew,
Jane Eyre
had turned into a searing portrait of communist revolutionaries in Cuba. I had missed the madwoman altogether—had they even thought to include her, or was this just a sex movie? At last, the credits rolled. I didn’t move. I was all too aware of Orville’s body. It seemed to shift toward and away from mine as if we were two magnets. I stared at the screen with religious focus. The production designer was a man named Alpheus Thomas. How interesting it suddenly seemed. Orville and I waited throughout the entire sequence, until the production logo appeared. It lingered only briefly, then deserted us. At last, the screen went black.

“Well,” Orville said, “what did you think?”

I glanced at the table in front of us with newfound determination and said, “Meh.”

“What does that word mean?”

“I think Rochester is an ass.”

He let out a half laugh, half grunt. “You dislike everything that threatens you.”

“He’s a forty-year-old married man who preys on a governess of eighteen.”

“And?”

“We have a word for that in America.”

“Which is?”

“Sketchy.”

With the light from the television gone, Orville’s features had decomposed into shadows. He was perfectly calm when he said, “Rochester is merely testing Jane, rousing passions that she would have otherwise never acknowledged.”

I paused. “Jane could have come to know her passions independently.”

“Not when she was raised to be sexually repressed.”

“Maybe she was better off being sexually repressed.”

“Pardon?”

“I should go.”

I stood up so suddenly that the couch—and Orville—tipped slightly. I was very confused. For the first time, I had the inkling that my unrequited and entirely inappropriate infatuation with Orville was not entirely one-sided after all. The thought was so alarming that I wished I could jump behind the couch. I was comfortable being obsessed with James Orville III from a distance. I was quite good at that. But I didn’t know what would happen if the two of us became any sort of reality, even in our own minds. Orville had it right the first time: I was scared shitless of him.

I searched for my coat. Orville walked with me to the door. I couldn’t breathe. With one flick, he turned on the lights. The lights, by the way, should never go on. They were bright and hard, and I was painfully aware of the acne that I hadn’t bothered to cover up. Orville and I were looking at each other as we actually were.

“How do we say goodbye?” he asked. “Shake hands?”

I said, “In America, we wave.”

But we did neither. Instead, I nodded and almost wished him a merry Christmas. Before he could say another word, I opened the door and fled. Well—I didn’t flee. After the door slammed, I stood on the other side of it for a long time, letting my back lean against the cool wood. I let out a long, slow breath. This was how it should always be. I would remain as close to him as I possibly could, as long as there was a solid barrier between us.

To: “Samantha J. Whipple” [email protected]

From: “Ellery Flannery” [email protected]

Subject: Inquiry

Dear Samantha,

It has come to our attention you entered the Faculty Wing at 23:50 two nights ago, to drop off an essay for Dr. Orville. It was noted by the porter on duty that you did not leave until 3:15. I would appreciate it if you would please send me an e-mail explaining the reason for the delay at your earliest convenience.

Best,

E. Flannery

To: “Ellery Flannery” [email protected]

From: “Samantha J. Whipple” [email protected]

Subject: RE: Inquiry

Dear Dr. Flannery,

I am having an affair with your colleague. Hope that clears things up.

Thanks,

Samantha

Delete, delete.

It was eight in the evening and I was sitting at my desk, hair unkempt, à la Beethoven. There was a half-empty bottle of wine next to me. I was tipsy. It was alternately pleasant and vile, depending on the way I thought about it. Drinking alone had a distinctly pathetic quality to it, but the idea that this was some poetic rite of passage made it wildly tolerable. For better or worse, I was becoming my father’s daughter.

My phone rang. Orville? Orville? I snatched it from my desk. Open books and wilted papers were in disarray around me.

“Samantha,” said the voice on the other line.

I squinted. “Professor?”

“John. Sir John.”

“Booker?”

“Precisely.”

I gave an audible groan. “I don’t take calls over the telephone.”

“I see,” he said. “Can you make an exception?”

I thought about it. He misinterpreted my silence as a yes, and said, “Excellent. I was—”

“You know, I heard something about you the other day,” I interrupted. “I heard that you were once found wading through the mud.”

A pause.

“Are you crazy too?” I asked.

“Pardon?”

“I’m also wallowing.”

He paused. “In the mud?”

I gave a small, soundless burp and sat upright. I said, “The proverbial mud.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“It’s a metaphor, sir.”

It wasn’t a metaphor.

Sir John said, “I called to inquire after the state of your father’s books. Have you received another?”

“You,” I slurred, “are a sniveling worm by the name of Wackford Squeers.”

“Are you throwing Dickens at me?”

“It was the only thing I had lying around.”

He cleared his throat. “The books, Miss Whipple?”

“You have a one-track mind.”

“You sound vague and unhappy, which I will interpret to mean that you need my help.”

He was correct. “All right,” I said. “Fine.
The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
arrived. A little gem. Eight pounds, three ounces. She’s everything I thought she would be.”

He ignored me. “Let us set up a time to discuss it, shall we?”

His voice was aggressive and unattractive. I imagined having a tutorial with him. I did not like the idea. Oxford had taught me that
intelligence came with different personalities. Some were happy, some were pleasant, some were arrogant, some were hostile. Sir John’s, I imagined, was the kind of intelligence that would sleep with you and never call you back.

“Fine,” I said. “But only if we do this on my terms.”

“Which are?”

“I’d like to see the parsonage.”

A pause. “No, I’ll come to you.”

“Do you want to see the book or not?” I said. “You only see it if I can also get a personal tour.”

“It is a long trip to the parsonage.”

“I can handle it.”

After another thoughtful pause, he said: “I will arrange a time.”

“Groovy.”

I had never used that word before, and I took a moment to recover from its unfortunate appearance in my vocabulary.

“Do not forget to bring the books if you come,” he said.

“I’ll have to ask first, but I think they will be up for the trip.”

Another pause. I let out a slow peal of laughter, for no particular reason. We hung up. I let out a yawn. I could see my entourage of books—
Wuthering Heights
,
Jane Eyre
,
Agnes Grey
, and
Tenant—
stacked neatly in the corner to my left. They had won, it seemed. I had let go of myself and become one of them: strange, antisocial, obsessed, uncontrollable, artistic. I was not anticipating the inexplicable fondness that washed over me.
I looked at those books and finally understood what it must feel like to be part of a loving, dysfunctional family, the kind everyone else seemed to have. Here was a group of people that I was beginning to love, if only because they were crazy, and mine.

To: “Ellery Flannery” [email protected]

From: “Samantha J. Whipple” [email protected]

Subject: RE: Inquiry

Dear Dr. Flannery,

Thank you for your e-mail. My essay was due at midnight. Afterward, Dr. Orville and I spent some time analyzing allegory and sexual ethics. I’m sure he can explain it to you better than I can.

Best,

Samantha

CHAPTER 13

I
didn’t see Orville again until the following Thursday. When I arrived at his office, he was standing on a stool, back toward me, pulling books out of the top shelf. He had tossed his tie over his left shoulder. I tried, and failed, to think of something charming to say.

“You’re late,” he said to the shelves, then stepped down from the stool. He dropped a stack of books on the table. With his glasses pushed to the tip of his nose, he looked like he had just spent the morning contemplating the decline of capitalism. He stooped to pour two cups of tea. He didn’t need to ask me which kind anymore. I glanced at my watch. I was forty-four seconds late.

Once I had my tea, he sat on the same couch where we had both been only a week before. His eyes were blacker than usual. I sat down across from him, tense. It seemed unnatural that we should go on naturally. I wanted to explain to him that things were uncomfortable and strained between us, in case he hadn’t noticed.

I asked: “Did you like my story?”

His voice was flat. “Was it supposed to be a children’s book?”