Mrs. Fletcher(46)

The Human Condition


At the end of the Tuesday night seminar, white-bearded Barry raised his hand and invited the whole class to reconvene for a nightcap at his sports bar.

“I don’t know about you guys,” he said, “but all this talk about gender makes me thirsty!”

The initial response to Barry’s overture was lukewarm—it was late, people had work in the morning—but public opinion shifted when he added that drinks would be on the house.

“Now that you mention it,” said Russ, the fanatical hockey fan, “I could definitely go for a free beer.”

“That’s the spirit,” said Barry. “What’s the point of being in college if we don’t socialize outside the classroom? That’s like half your education right there.”

“Does that include hard liquor?” Dumell ruefully patted his midsection. “I’m watching my carbs.”

“Within reason,” Barry told him. “I’m not breaking out the Pappy Van Winkle.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Dumell assured him. “I’m a cheap date. Just ask my ex-wife.”

Eve had no intention of joining the party. She’d been dodging Barry’s invitations to get a drink after class for the past two months and didn’t want to offer him the slightest encouragement, not that he needed any. Barry was one of those guys who didn’t know the meaning of rejection; he just kept trying and trying and trying. His persistence might have been flattering if it hadn’t felt so smug and entitled—so steeped in male privilege—as if there was no possible way she could outlast him in a battle of romantic wills.

Hoping to avoid any unpleasantness in the parking lot—Barry sometimes lurked outside the exit and then attached himself to Eve as she walked to her car—she ducked into the ladies’ room and killed a few minutes in the stall, playing several turns on Words with Friends (random opponent, not very good) and then peeing, not because she needed to, but because she was already sitting on a toilet and it seemed foolish not to. She washed her hands with excessive diligence and checked her face in the mirror—an unbreakable, though less and less rewarding, habit—before leaving the rest room and almost colliding with Dr. Fairchild, who was standing outside the door, her lanky basketball player’s frame augmented by businesslike heels.

“Eve.” She sounded concerned but vaguely reproachful. “Are you okay?”

“Fine. Why?”

“You were in there for quite a while.” The professor heard herself and grimaced, mortified by her own rudeness. “Not that it’s any of my business.”

“Great class tonight,” Eve said, trying to cut through the awkwardness.

Dr. Fairchild gave a distracted nod and then asked, with some urgency, “Are you going? To the bar?”

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

“Oh.” Dr. Fairchild couldn’t hide her disappointment. “I was hoping you were.”

“Are you?”

“I was thinking about it. Might be fun, right?”

Huh. Eve hadn’t given a lot of thought to the professor’s idea of fun, but it hardly seemed like drinking at a sports bar with guys like Barry and Russ would be high on her list.

“It’s been a long day,” Eve explained. “I’m kinda wiped out.”

“I just—” Dr. Fairchild flipped her hair over her shoulder, first one side, then the other, her favorite nervous gesture. “I really don’t want to go there by myself.”

“You won’t be by yourself. Sounds like a bunch of them are going.”

“I know.” A pleading note had entered the professor’s voice. “It’s just a lot easier to walk in with a girlfriend. Especially at a place like that.”

Eve was puzzled, but also touched, by the professor’s use of the word girlfriend. Until this moment, they’d never even had a conversation outside of class.

“I guess I could get a drink,” she said. “Just one, though. Tomorrow’s a workday.”

“Thank you.” Dr. Fairchild leaned down and gave Eve a hug. “I really appreciate this.”

“No problem. So I guess I’ll see you over there?”

Dr. Fairchild’s smile was also an apology. She knew she was pushing her luck.

“Could you maybe give me a ride?” she asked. “That way I can’t chicken out.”

*

Ten minutes later, they were parked outside of Barry’s bar, a squat brick building that had the unappealing name of PLAY BALL! emblazoned on the front awning, with a baseball bat standing in for the exclamation point. Dr. Fairchild didn’t seem in any hurry to leave the car.

“I have very big feet,” she said. “It’s not easy to find cute shoes in my size.”

“Those are nice,” Eve observed. “You can’t go wrong with black pumps.”

“You should see my red stilettos. I can barely walk in them, but they look really hot. I just don’t have many opportunities to wear them at the moment.”

“I’ve pretty much given up on heels,” Eve told her. “At my age, I’d rather be comfortable.”

“You’re not that old.”

“Forty-six. Not young, that’s for sure.”