Love in the Time of Serial Killers(13)

How much did I have ready? None of it. I had a Russian nesting doll of folders on my computer for classes I’d taught, and could dig through those for my best syllabi and assignments, hopefully the ones that were the least plagiarized from other people who’d taught the course before me. I had a CV that I used when submitting to conferences, but it needed some work to get it ready for the job market. I didn’t even want to think about writing a teaching philosophy. Those scared the hell out of me.

Outside, I heard the rumble of Sam’s truck. I’d only been here a few days, but already the sound of his comings and goings felt familiar, if unpredictable. I looked through the blinds to see him hauling a truly unnecessary amount of bagged ice into his house. Interesting.

I must’ve been silent for too long, because Dr. Nilsson cut in impatiently. “You are planning to go on the market for next year?”

“Yeah,” I said, letting the blinds drop. “I mean, yes. I hope to. A job’s always good, right?”

I’d forgotten for a moment that of all Dr. Nilsson’s truly brilliant qualities, a sense of humor wasn’t one of them. “Do you have geographic limitations?”

These were all the questions I knew were coming at the end of my six-year time in the academic cocoon. I’d had that entire time to think about them, I supposed. But now my mind went blank—my only brother was in Florida, my mother and her new husband had moved to Georgia, I’d been living in North Carolina for the last five years to go to grad school. Did I feel an attachment to any of those places?

“Not really,” I said. “No.”

Something about Dr. Nilsson’s questioning made me feel restless, and I went to check the mail just for something to do while we talked. The oppressive humidity assaulted me the minute I stepped outside. Sam was already back in his house, presumably dumping all that ice into coolers. I tried not to think of Jeffrey Dahmer, but at this point it was a reflex.

My other neighbor’s cat—or what I assumed was her cat, since it had been in her driveway the night I’d arrived—was now lying across the Spanish tile of my front step, as if trying to keep cool. I almost stopped to say hello before remembering I was still on the phone, and would probably sound insane. Still, I tried to give her a little nod of acknowledgment, stepping over the cat and shutting the door behind me so it didn’t go inside.

“Remind me,” Dr. Nilsson continued, “whether you have anyone in your life?”

Considering that a cat was the first strange creature who’d inspired true friendliness since I got here, I was inclined to say no. And then I realized Dr. Nilsson meant whether I had anyone romantically in my life, which was more a hell no.

“Not right now.”

“Good.” It was the first time I heard her sound truly pleased the entire call. “Keep your options open. It’s the best way to ensure you have a high chance of landing somewhere.”

“Definitely,” I said absently. Everything in my dad’s mailbox was junk. Coupons, an urgent notice about his car insurance that I could tell was just an ad, and a local circular that featured a front-page story about a kid who’d won a statewide songwriting contest.

“So you’re moving on to the next section?” Dr. Nilsson prompted. “This is where you’ll discuss Capote more, if I remember your proposal.”

The cat was still stretched across the front step. She tilted her head back and squinted up at me as I approached the door, almost as if she wanted some attention.

“That’s right,” I said, kneeling down to give her a tentative scratch under her chin. I had no way of knowing how feral this cat was—whether she was a stray or a domesticated outside cat or a neighborhood mascot. She was small, not quite a kitten but maybe an adolescent cat, and black with white paws and a white underside, like a little tuxedo. “There will be a whole chapter focusing more on In Cold Blood and how close Capote got to Perry and Dick, how that relationship influenced his narrative and the true crime genre as a whole. Then I’m going to have a chapter about Ann Rule’s book about Ted Bundy, The Stranger Beside Me, where she describes the time she worked with Bundy at a Seattle crisis clinic. It’s interesting actually, because—”

“I’m glad to hear you have a plan,” Dr. Nilsson said. “I received your latest chapter in my inbox, and you can expect my notes in the next week. And if you wanted to send me your draft application materials, I’d be happy to take a look.”

“Oh,” I said. “Okay.”

It was a generous offer. I had several friends whose advisors were looking over their job stuff for them, but in most cases it was because they’d worked together for years. In many cases, it was because their research was tied together—they’d coauthored a paper, or presented at a conference, or the professor had introduced them to some professional contact or another.

In my case, despite working with Dr. Nilsson on what was arguably the biggest project of my life to date, we didn’t really know each other that well. I didn’t think Dr. Nilsson considered me a protégé or anything.

“Talk later,” she said, and then she hung up.

The cat was still letting me pet her, purring slightly. She didn’t have a collar, but she definitely wasn’t wild. “You were interested in hearing more about Ted Bundy,” I murmured to the cat. “After Ann visited him in prison for the first time, she had this dream where she had to save a baby, only the baby turned out to be a demon that bit her hand. Very Rosemary’s Baby, if you ask me. Which connects back to Roman Polanski, then to Sharon Tate, and back to Manson . . .”