My Last Innocent Year(28)
The room shifted nervously. Holly’s mouth hung open, as if she were waiting for someone to pop something into it. Kara unwrapped another cough drop and passed it to Andy. It lay on the table between them, untouched.
“What is this story about?” Connelly asked, waving Andy’s story in front of him. “I mean, what is it really about? Is it about a woman at the end of her life, or is Agnes a signifier for something else? Either way, before she can be a signifier, she has to be an actual woman.” He tossed the story down. The room was so quiet you could hear the pages land on the table. “Does she feel like a real woman to you?” His eyes rested briefly on me, and my heart seized, but then they moved onto someone else, and it became clear he wasn’t asking anyone in particular. “A woman’s voice isn’t easy to capture, and I’m not sure this writer has done it.”
Whitney whistled under her breath. Linus’s eyes grew wide. The only person who didn’t react was Ginny, who appeared to be asleep again. We’d never heard Andy’s work criticized in this way, in any way. Of all the writers who slipped their work hopefully under Joanna Maxwell’s door, Andy was the one who had been anointed. But Connelly had hit on something that felt right to me. I wondered if the rest of the class thought so, too.
Andy dabbed at his nose with a tissue. He looked so miserable and feverish, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. It was a harsh assessment, and Connelly was never harsh. But he seemed distracted today. He kept glancing at his watch and the door as if he had someplace else to be.
Andy raised a finger tentatively, and Connelly nodded for him to speak, breaking his usual rule.
“I don’t think I’m hiding from the truth,” Andy said. “I think it’s just—well, I’m not a fiction writer. I’m used to working in a more minimal form.”
“I’m a poet too, remember?” Connelly said. “But poets have to tell stories. Even the shortest poems contain multitudes.” He folded his hands. “Let me ask you something: Have you ever been present when a person died?”
“No.”
“I can tell. Listen, Andy, there’s a lot that’s strong in here. Let me show you.” Something shifted and Connelly became gentler, as though having said what he needed to say, he could relax. For the rest of class, he walked us through Andy’s story, showing him where he could expand it by exploring the emotion behind the descriptions. I tried to write down everything he said, as if he were giving directions for something I’d need to know later. I was writing so quickly, I almost didn’t notice when he said my name.
“Do you remember what you said about Isabel’s story? You said it was a fragment, unfinished. But her story was about something. It had an honesty that allowed you to enter it. The language didn’t soar, but it was real. It was true. That’s the kind of story I want to read, one I can’t stop thinking about, one that crawls inside me. Takes up residence.”
I found it hard to take a full breath, like my lungs had become too small for my body. I could feel Whitney’s eyes on me, but I wanted to stay in the moment a little longer. Because once it was over, I knew I’d start doubting what Connelly had said. Andy was the better writer—everybody knew that—and for Connelly to say different made me wonder if he could be trusted. But for the moment at least, it felt good.
“Looks like somebody’s teacher’s pet,” Whitney said as I gathered my things at the end of class. I shook my head in response and hurried out the door.
I practically bumped into Tom Fisher in the hallway.
“Professor Fisher!” I said. “Hi—I’ve been meaning to call you. Did you get the pages I left?”
Tom startled and took a step back. “Isabel. Yes. Your pages.” He had one eye fixed on the door to Room 203, the other zagged off to the side. Despite the weather, he was wearing cargo shorts and a pair of shower shoes; a cigarette dangled precipitously between his fingers. “I, I—I just picked them up from my mailbox.”
“Oh, great. Do you have time to talk this week? I reread The Custom of the Country like you suggested—”
Just then, Professor Connelly stepped out.
“Randy!” Tom cried.
“Tom.” Connelly nodded at Tom, then at me. “You know Isabel?”
“Isabel? Yes, of course.” Tom turned his face toward me, struggling to focus. “Why don’t you talk to Mary Pat about scheduling a meeting? I don’t have my schedule right now.”
Connelly placed a hand on Tom’s shoulder. “Come. Let’s talk upstairs. Isabel, I’ll see you next week?”
On my way out of the building, I passed the mail room where I saw my pages sitting in Tom’s box, exactly where I’d left them three days before.
Later that day, when we checked our mailboxes in the student center, we each found a small ecru card tucked inside a matching envelope. With apologies for the delay, the English department was happy to announce that the Senior Mingle would take place next Saturday night at the home of Joanna Maxwell and Tom Fisher. Despite the short notice, we were all able to attend.
10
THE student center, where I worked ten hours a week, was the hub of campus life. Everyone passed through the large modern building at least once a day to meet a friend or check their mailbox or grab something to eat on their way to class. They were usually moving too quickly to notice me sitting behind the information desk, where I became invisible, another part of the hidden machinery that made this place run.