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Authors: Peter Cameron

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Lucy saw Omar looking around at the changes and said, “Since I'll have to spend so much time in here, I decided to fix it up a bit, make it more like home. My home away from home! I don't know how Garfield could stand it, although all I think he did in here was sexually harass women and smoke that awful pipe. I had the windows wide open for days getting the stink out.” Lucy shuddered. “I nearly froze myself to death, but at least I can breathe now. Let's sit over there.” She indicated the alcove. “It's cozier, I think. I feel too much like Garfield behind this desk. He wanted to take the desk with him, which was fine with me, but we couldn't get it out of the door. And there was no way it could go down the stairs. Apparently it was hoisted through the window centuries ago, so I'm stuck with it.
C'est
hideous,
non
?”

“Oui,”
said Omar. It was a huge desk, intricately carved, with an abundance of claw feet.

Lucy assumed a rocking chair and nodded at the couch. Omar sat down. Lucy took a shawl off the back of the chair and wrapped it around her shoulders. “It's chilly over here by the windows. I'm having maintenance come look at the fireplace. Garfield had it
filled with junk. No one seems to know if it works. Wouldn't it be lovely if it does? I was thinking I could host fireside teas in here, a few members of the faculty each week, and select a topic to discuss. You might speak one week about your work with Gunk. I really think the intellectual life and the social life of the university should be more entwined.” She laced her fingers together by way of illustration. “Or perhaps not just the English faculty, perhaps inviting people from other departments, bring them together, a chemist, a historian, someone from gender studies: bringing a group like that together for fireside teas, I think it could make a world of difference.”

Omar allowed as how it would.

“Speaking of tea, would you like some? I can ask Kathy to brew us a pot, if you'd like. I've got some lovely loose Darjeeling.”

“No, thank you,” said Omar.

“Well,” said Lucy, leaning back in her chair and rocking a little. “I'm so glad to hear that despite your trouble your trip was a success. I think it's wonderful you got the Siebert Petrie Award, Omar. Really, I do. Have I ever told you? You know I was on the committee, don't you? Some peopleâGarfield for oneâwere a little skeptical about your project; they didn't think Gunk was a known-enough commodity.”

“It's Gund,” said Omar.

“What?”

“It's Gund, who I'm working on: Jules Gund. Not Gunk.”

“Gund, of course, Gund. I thought I said Gund. Whatever. My point is, I went to bat for you. Garfield was all excited by Teresha Lake's work on Hawthorne. Personally, I think we know all we need to know about Hawthorne, but someone like Gund, well, we're breaking ground here. We're on the cutting edge, and that's where I want this department to be.”

Omar stood up. He looked past Lucy, out the bay windows. It had gotten dark while they sat there and the lamps along the pathways were lit. It was snowing, the flakes falling quickly and thickly,
with a depressing insistency, as if they were in a hurry to bury the earth.

“I've decided not to write the biography,” he said. “I've decided to return the award.”

“Omar! What are you talking about? I thought you said you had done some research down thereâ”

“No,” said Omar. “I'm sorry. I was lying. I've decided not to write a biography of Jules Gund.”

“Why?” asked Lucy. “Why not?”

Omar shook his head. “And I won't be coming back next semester. I've decided to leave academia.”

“Why? Is this something to do with Garfield? I'm committed to change, Omar, really I am. I want things to be different in the department.”

“It's nothing to do with the department,” said Omar.

“Then I don't understand. Do you have a better offer someplace?”

“No,” said Omar.

“Then what?” asked Lucy.

“It's just not what I want,” said Omar.

“Oh,” said Lucy. “What do you mean: writing the biography or teaching?”

“Both,” said Omar.

“Oh,” Lucy said again. “Well, I'm sure you know what's best for you. At least I assume you do. And perhaps you're right. I mean, I was looking over all the student evaluationsâone thing I mean to do is to improve the level of teaching throughout the departmentâand I did notice some comments about you that frankly gave me pause. Perhaps you aren't meant to be a teacher, Omar.”

“Yes,” said Omar. “Perhaps not.”

“Well, it can be a curse, you know,” said Lucy, with a faux-bright laugh. “I wouldn't wish it on anyone. Best to cast the mantle off now, before it weighs too heavily upon you, and all is lost.”

“That's exactly what I think,” said Omar.

“But it's such a shame: your work with Gund, and the fellowship. But perhaps he is too negligible.”

“I think he is,” said Omar. “I found there really isn't much there.”

“Yes,” said Lucy. “That's often the case with writers: the dreariness of their lives! And we critics vainly rooting through things, trying to find somethingâanythingâin the prosaic murk. That's why it's so wonderful working on Woolfâthere's so much there. Simply no end to it. But with someone like Gund, you're well out of it, I suppose. But I'll miss you. It was nice having someone from your cultural background in the program. We will all miss that.”

“Well,” said Omar, “I just wanted to let you know as soon as possible, so you could plan accordingly for next year.”

“Thanks,” said Lucy. “You will finish out the semester, won't you?”

“Of course,” said Omar.

“Good,” said Lucy. She shook his hand. “Well,” she said, “it's back to work for me. I'm learning a department chair's work is never done. I don't know how Garfield did it. I suppose he simply didn't do it.”

“Yes,” said Omar. “I suppose that was his trick.”

Deirdre was on her way to Tai Chi when she saw the LOST DOG poster taped to the streetlight. She recognized Omar's writing:

LOST DOG

small hairy white dog named Mitzie lost near Hiawatha Woods on Wednesday, Jan. 16 please call 448-2123 with information

Oh God, she thought: Omar's lost Mitzie. That stupid dog!

As she passed Kiplings, she glanced in the window and was surprised to see Omar sitting alone at the bar, drinking a beer. She
turned around and entered the restaurant. She sat on the stool beside him.

He was preoccupied and did not look up from his beer until she touched him. “Deirdre!” he said. “What are you doing here?”

“I saw you. I was on my way to Tai Chi.” She looked at her watch. She would be late now. “I saw you sitting here. What are you doing?” She helped herself to some of his beer.

“Do you want a beer?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “I have Tai Chi. But what are you doing here? I saw the Mitzie poster. How long has she been gone?”

“Since yesterday. Gwendolyn Pierce left her outside. And she never came back. I don't know what to do. I called the police. They haven't found any dogs, dead or alive. So I put up the signs.”

“You should have put a picture on the sign. So people would know her if they see her.”

“I couldn't find a picture. Yvonne hid all her personal stuff. Or maybe she doesn't have any personal stuff. That's why I described her.”

“Yes, but small, hairy, white: that could describe a lot of dogs.”

“Well, it was the best I could do.”

“Well, don't worry about it,” said Deirdre. “It isn't your fault.”

“Of course it's my fault!” said Omar. “I'm responsible for Mitzie.”

“Yes, and when you went away Gwen Pierce was responsible for Mitzie. If she hadn't left her outside this wouldn't have happened. It was stupid of her. Irresponsible.”

Omar said nothing. He rested his face in his hands. “You should go to Tai Chi,” he said. “Or you'll be late.”

Deirdre put her hand on his back. She had the feeling that he was crying but his face was covered by his hands. “What's wrong, Omar?” she asked.

“Everything,” said Omar. And then he made a noise that was like crying.

“Oh, Omar,” Deirdre said. She patted his back. “Tell me. What's wrong? Mitzie is just a dog. She'll come back. And if she
doesn't, wellâit's not the end of the world. You mustn't be so upset about it. Yvonne will understand. It wasn't your fault. If Mitzie ran away, it's about Mitzie, it's not about you.”

“It isn't Mitzie,” said Omar. “I could care less about Mitzie. I mean, I couldn't care less.”

“Then what is it?” asked Deirdre. “What's wrong?”

Omar gulped. Her hand bounced on his back, but she kept it there, pressed lightly against him. She could feel the warmth of his skin through his shirt. He was wearing a shirt she had given him for his birthday two years ago: a pale green shirt made of chamois. It looked very nice with his dark hair.

After a moment she said, “What's wrong?” again.

He lifted his face away from his hands and looked at her. “I just met with Lucy Greene-Kessler,” he said. “I told her I was returning the grant. Or returning what's left of it. I'm not writing a biography of Gund.”

For a moment Deirdre said nothing. She drank again from Omar's beer. Then she asked the bartender for a beer of her own. When the frosty pint was placed in front of her she said, carefully, quietly, “Omar, what happened to you in Uruguay? I mean, I know about the bee, but what happened to you that made you not want to write the biography? Tell me, please.”

“I just realized that I don't want to write a biography of Jules Gund. I don't want to write a biography of anyone.”

“But why? Why not? Did something happen? Did you find something out?”

“No,” said Omar. “I can't say. I can't explain it.”

“Omar, you can't let your sympathies get in your way.”

“Why not?”

“Because you got authorization to write the book. That is what matters. Whatever squabbles there were between them, or whatever hesitations they may have expressedâwell, you can't let that bother you. You can't let it affect you. You've got to be a bit ruthless,
I think, to write a biography.”

“I don't want to be ruthless. I'm giving the fellowship money back. I won't get my degree.”

“How can you give the money back? You've already spent some of it.”

“I'll find a way. I'll borrow it from someone. Or maybe they won't make me pay it all back. I don't know. That's not what matters. What matters is that I stop this.”

“Stop what?”

Omar sat up straight and looked around the bar for a moment. They were the only ones there. He made a vague gesture around him. He said, “I've got to stop this,” he said. “I've got to stop this life I am leading that is wrong for me. That is not mine.”

“What do you mean, not yours? Of course it is yours. What are you talking about? Did you call the doctor? Did you make an appointment?”

Omar looked at her. “It isn't mine,” he said. “I don't know what I've been doing. I'm sorry, Deirdre.”

“What about us?” said Deirdre. “Do you feel that way about us? What about me?”

“I think there is something wrong there too. I'm sorry. I think I am not myself with you.”

“Of course you're yourself! Omar! I love you!”

“I don't think you can love me,” said Omar. “I don't think you know me very well.”

Deirdre regarded her beer. It had a very thick head of foam. She watched it settle, the tiny bubbles collapsing with faint, bursting cries. Then she turned back to Omar. “It hurts me so much that you would say that, Omar. I do love you! And of course I know you. After all we've been through. I mean of course I don't know everything about you, I don't know you entirely, but no one knows anyone like that. I know you better than anyone else, I think.”

Omar thought of Arden, who had kissed him. Who he had
kissed. Did she know him? It had seemed, in some weird way, that she had. From the first moment he had met her he had felt relaxed in some fundamental way: it was not knowing, of course, for Arden did not know him. But what was it? If not knowing, what?

“Perhaps you do know me,” said Omar. “But maybe it isn't that. I don't think you get me.”

“Get you? What do you mean? Get you?”

BOOK: The City of Your Final Destination

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