Losing It (30 page)

S
tudents entered the lecture hall talking, laughing, some of them yawning, as if 1:30 in the afternoon were still too early for any sort of intellectual challenge. Bob watched them and tried to stay calm. One boy sheepishly handed in a paper that was two weeks overdue, mumbled something that Bob missed completely.

“I beg your pardon?” Bob said, looking down at the paper where it lay on the front desk.

“Um, sorry it’s late, Professor Sterling,” the boy muttered.

Bob adjusted his glasses and read the name on the title page, “Clarence Boyd,” then noticed that his own last name was spelled incorrectly.

“I’m not sure I can accept this,” Bob said. He meant to say,
“I can’t accept it,”
but his voice disobeyed him. Rachel Billswell – reedy, pale as a root, looking like she lived on coffee and cigarettes – was watching from the front row. He had the absurd thought that she would know exactly what was going on – that he was tense and nervous in anticipation of seeing Sienna and of what they were going to do after class, and that’s why he was being so hard on this boy with the late paper.

The boy looked unconcerned, disconnected from the moment.

“Well?” Bob barked. He was normally easygoing, but two weeks late was unconscionable.

“I’m sorry, sir. My father died. In an accident,” the boy mumbled.

“Oh, for
–” Bob began, and he really did mean to lash into him. If he only knew how many times over the years Bob had heard that sort of outright lie … but then Bob gazed at the name on the paper again and something clicked. He
had
received a memo about this from the dean. Clarence Boyd. His father had been killed recently on the 416 by a drunk driver in a panel van.

“I’m sorry … Clarence,” Bob said awkwardly, and the boy dipped his head, turned back to sit down.

Calm down, calm down, he thought. He longed for a drink. His shaved skin itched beneath his suit. He had a bottle back in his office for emergencies, had already taken a few sips in the morning just to get his body running normally. He paced impatiently on the raised lecturer’s platform in front of the large green chalkboard. Where was she?

Nearly everyone was in now and the clock showed several minutes past 1:30. Students were often late after lunch, and he usually tried not to start on time, and then to finish early, so that they could get to their next class comfortably. He was expecting Sienna, though, anticipating her arrival, could barely breathe for thinking about it. His plan was to retrace Poe’s final, tragic, chaotic days – what was known for fact, what remains of the historical record, what sorts of conjectures and re-creations scholars had come up with. It didn’t really fit now since he hadn’t finished with Poe’s work yet. But it was usually one of his finer lectures and he wanted to impress Sienna, today most of all. He
wanted her to sit in the very front and hang on his words, to be entranced, to smile at him secretly now and again but be caught up in the story, admiring him for his grasp and his scholarship and delivery. He wanted her to be there so badly that he wouldn’t start without her. But the minutes passed and there was no sign of her. He stood behind the lectern and silently reviewed his notes. He picked up Clarence Boyd’s essay and read with dismay: “The ninteenth century had alot of writers, but the scariest of them all was none other than Edgar Ellen Poe.”

After fifteen minutes the natural roar of conversation among the students had died down to a respectful, anticipatory lull, and it really was time to begin. But there was no Sienna. What could that mean? He could hardly think about it – it didn’t seem possible that she would miss this particular class. Bob looked at the wall clock, glanced at the door, felt filled with sudden, bitter disappointment. He slapped his notes onto the table and on the spur of the moment announced an immediate assignment: to write the first three paragraphs of an Edgar Allan Poe story in a contemporary setting. Groans were soon replaced with looks of disbelief, even horror, at having to produce something creative and thoughtful right now, on the spot, without a computer or a guide to follow. There were the usual protestations and questions, and Bob raged at them. “Pretend it’s cold and you’re starving and a story you’ve already been paid for is due in an hour, and you’ve spent the money anyway and owe a lot more besides. Use your imagination. Pretend you have one!”

Reluctantly, students began opening notebooks, some sharing paper, others begging, receiving, thanking. One young woman didn’t even have a pen, but three spare ones were thrust at her. Soon most bodies were bent to the task, words began to flow onto paper. Bob tried to look calm and professorial, as if
he’d planned this exercise and knew it to be beneficial to their long-term development. But his heart suddenly was leaden. She’d stood him up. Why? Obviously, she’d changed her mind. Of course she had. That was part of being young and brilliant and beautiful, the ability to eventually dissect situations and realize when a man is a middle-aged, burnt-out slump with a ridiculous fetish, and a wife and child to boot. Of course she’d decided to back out. What could he expect?

Unless she’d been in an accident, he thought. That could happen any time. It happened to Clarence Boyd’s father. She might be lying on the cold road right now somewhere. Bob caught himself looking out the window at the street, as if she might be there.

His itchiness flared up. He scratched his chest and arms through his suit jacket, then saw Rachel Billswell looking at him so he stopped. She smiled – my God, as if she knew every detail of his thoughts – then she became absorbed in the assignment again. Some people were racing along, filling up page after page. And now Bob was going to have to mark all these assignments. Rina Stendardo asked how long the three paragraphs were supposed to be, and Susan someone asked if it could be longer than three paragraphs, and a weasel-faced boy who’d never said anything in class before asked if the buried-alive theme was required, or could he concentrate on simple madness or murder?

He gazed again at Clarence Boyd’s late paper, but couldn’t concentrate, decided he would give it to his grad student, Rosalie … who could mark
this
assignment, too, he suddenly realized. If her hours were up already then perhaps he could dip into next term’s. She could certainly use the experience.

Bob left the classroom, trudged down the hall, let himself into his office, closed the door. He took his bottle out of his filing
cabinet and poured a taste, just half a glass, and drank it down. He had a view of parkland and water from his window, but the sky was unbearably sad, and he felt the weight of every book on every shelf in his little space. They were stacked to the ceiling, here, with the remnants of old projects poking out of file folders, dog-eared, computer-spewed bits of paper with polite, polished, lined-up, constipated words, signifying nothing.

He drank another half-glass, checked his watch. The class didn’t finish until 3:00. He should head back now, though, he thought, shouldn’t leave them all alone with their assignment, but he couldn’t face them somehow, felt as if his body had turned transparent, that they could all see into him. He refilled his glass, just to have the confident feeling of knowing there was more, but then he carefully poured the Scotch back in the bottle, wiped the glass out with a tissue, screwed the cap back on. His hands were much steadier … but shaved, clearly; anyone could see if they looked closely. How long would it take for the hair to grow back? Weeks, maybe months. It was a miracle Julia hadn’t noticed it this morning. If she’d been any less angry …

Everyone was still writing when he got back to the classroom. What have I unleashed? he wondered. He paced up and down on the speaker’s platform, looked out at the grey street. Sienna hadn’t been hit by a panel van. She’d come to her senses.

When the period ended, half the class was still writing and they gave up their papers unwillingly. Someone asked if he could take his story home and work on it overnight. “I’ll have it completed by morning!” he begged, but Bob said no. He felt inflexible, brittle, didn’t want to have to deal with students handing things in at different times.

The papers bulging and ungainly under his left arm, Bob walked out in near-misery. Three students were waiting for him
with questions; he couldn’t even muster the energy to listen to them. “I’m sorry, I’m very late!” he said, waving his hand, walking past. The corridor was jammed with people. They were going to overwhelm him any minute, he felt it suddenly.

And then there she was, standing demurely by his office door, with her long hair tied back sweetly, and wearing a pair of sensible, warm pants, a long dark woollen coat, a knapsack over her shoulder … a bulging knapsack. She stood so quietly, watching him, with such a secret smile on her face that the black clouds of the hour were dispelled with one blast of radiant sunshine and Bob had to fight to keep himself from flinging the horrid papers to the academic winds and running to her wildly. My God, she was beautiful, and his heart soared, and he actually slowed his walk because the moment was too pure for hurrying.

26

“D
onny, look, thanks so much for fixing the drains,” Julia said. She tried to perk up, but felt like she was pushing her voice through fog. The fatigue hit her suddenly. They were standing in the hallway by the door. Donny had his tool chest in his right hand, was sweaty and had a black smudge on his right cheek. His hair was plastered down on the left side of his head and bumping up on the right. He looked endearing, in a way.

They stood in the doorway talking about the drain and the kitchen and how it didn’t make sense to have Donny start ripping up the floor while her mother was still staying there. Donny said that he wouldn’t mind at all coming by and staying with her or with Matthew sometime, just to give Julia a break. Whenever she wanted, in fact, all she had to do was call him on his cellphone. He wasn’t very busy that week, except until Thursday when he was starting a basement renovation.

“My own mother is ill,” he said.

Julia leaned against the wall. Matthew was playing in the boots and shoes in the front vestibule, and her mother was opening and shutting every drawer in the kitchen for the
hundred thousandth time while rubbing her hands and muttering to herself. Julia said, “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that” – about Donny’s mother – but she had difficulty concentrating on his words. He couldn’t seem to tell a story straight without continually veering off into accounts of several friends and relations, only the first few of whom had anything to do with the original story or thought. He’d obviously been living alone too long, was starved for conversation. But Julia nodded her head, made affirmative noises as if she had been following. She just wanted to lie down for a few moments, clear her head.

“Anyway -” he said, stopping suddenly, as if he realized she wasn’t with him at all. “My mom’s in bed, but she’s together mentally. I don’t have to keep an eye out all the time the way you do. Do you want some help bringing her back to Fallowfields tomorrow?”

“No. No, thank you. I should be all right,” Julia said. Just a quick nap. She’d curl up with Matthew in bed with the big red comforter. He could have some nubbies and they both could drift off. She’d lock the doors and make sure the knives were put away so her mother wouldn’t hurt herself. Just for ten minutes or so.

“She sure is hunting for something,” Donny said. Her mother was approaching a fever pitch of panic, slamming the kitchen drawers, not even bothering to stop and look for whatever it was she wanted.

“Mom. Mom!” Julia said, and ran her hand through her hair, stopped to pull it for a second, just to wake herself up. “Mom, please. Just calm down!”

She turned to Donny and thanked him again, told him she would be fine, saw him out and then shut and locked the door. Then she went to her mother and embraced her from behind,
around the waist and under the arms. “Please,” she said softly, hugging her, trying to sound loving and reassuring. “How about some cake?”

“Well, I hardly ever am allowed!” her mother said.

“You’re allowed cake,” Julia said tearfully. The hands wouldn’t stop, they were either pulling at drawers or else wiping themselves off. This is my
mother
, Julia thought. This woman so wretched, delusional, broken. Every so often it hit home with unbearable weight. This woman who stood so tall when they buried her husband, who planned the funeral, managed the estate, composed personal cards to everyone who called or wrote or sent flowers or even mentioned in passing how sorry they were. This woman was now reduced to pawing invisible things off the backs of her hands.

“I have some cake in the freezer,” Julia breathed. “I’ll have to go down for a minute and get it. And then I’ll be up, all right? Do you want maple syrup on it?”

“We were all turnips,” her mother said.

“You
love
maple syrup. You used to drink it from the bottle when you thought we weren’t looking. Daddy would say, ‘Lenore, for God’s sake!’ Do you remember that?”

Her mother looked quite nostalgic for a time, then suddenly seemed to be reminded of something far more important, and began again to open drawers and shut them. Julia raced down the basement stairs, got halfway to the freezer then remembered that she’d left Matthew playing in the front hall closet. She didn’t want him alone with his grandmother, so she raced up again, got him, carried him down to the basement, and retrieved the large wedge of chocolate cake she’d frozen some months ago after Bob’s birthday. Then she carried the boy and the cake back up to the kitchen, defrosted the cake in the microwave, and poured maple syrup on it.