My Last Innocent Year(36)
Had he really meant to kill himself, we wondered, or was it a cry for help? There were certainly more efficient ways to kill oneself, we agreed, less wet, less public. “The guy wanted an audience,” said Holly, popping a cherry tomato in her mouth. “Like the kids who slit their wrists to get attention. Horizontal’s always the giveaway. Everyone knows straight down means business.” According to Holly, if Tom had really wanted to die, he wouldn’t have jumped into the pond during a party when there were so many people around to stop him; the fact that none of us had did not dissuade her. Holly was convincing, but I wasn’t convinced. I’d seen something in Tom’s eyes that night, something unhinged, as if whatever tethered him to reality had come loose, like a screen door flapping in the wind. Andy might have had more insight, but we weren’t speaking.
While everyone was talking about Joanna and Tom, I couldn’t stop thinking about Connelly. I was cagey about where I’d been when I heard the crash—getting something out of my coat, I said when people asked. I hadn’t told anyone about the kiss, not even Debra. In the absence of having anyone to talk to, I kept having to remind myself it had really happened, and then, once I did, I wondered what it meant.
By the time I walked into Room 203 on Wednesday morning, I’d replayed the scene in the bedroom so many times, it threatened to crumble in my hands like an old love letter. Connelly wasn’t there yet, and for a moment I imagined it had all been a dream, that Joanna had never stopped teaching, that I’d never met Connelly. Then suddenly there he was, unzipping his parka with his big hands, the same hands that had held my wrist and touched my hair.
We were discussing Ramona’s story that day. Connelly seemed more animated than usual, offering praise to Ramona, complimenting Ginny on her careful reading of a passage. He barely glanced my way. I’d wondered what he might say when we were finally alone, if he would kiss me again or tell me it had all been a mistake; now I worried he wouldn’t say anything at all. The thought threw me into despair, and I counted the minutes until I could run back to my room, never to emerge again.
When class was over, I hurried for the door, but Connelly stopped me, holding up two fingers as if he were hailing a taxi. I waited by the door while he said something to Ramona. When he laughed at something she said, I imagined him leaning over to kiss her, too.
“All right,” he said when she left. “Let’s go up to my office.”
I followed him silently up the stairs, dragging my feet the way my mother hated: “You look like you’re being led to the executioner.” That’s how I felt as Connelly led me down a long, dark hallway on the fourth floor, lined with mostly empty offices.
“Why is your office up here?” I asked. Most English professors had their offices on the second floor.
“They always stick me up here. Whenever I fill in for someone, it’s usually at the last minute.” He fumbled for his keys. “I like it up here though. Nice and quiet.”
Connelly’s office was small with a slanted ceiling that made it feel smaller. Unlike Tom’s office, which faced the campus green, Connelly’s office was in the back of the building and had a view of the parking lot. It was sparsely furnished—desk, chair, a couple of mismatched bookcases; a brown leather sofa was the only thing that looked new. No photos or framed diplomas, plants or kitschy mugs. Nothing to indicate he was here to stay.
“You’ve taught here before?” I asked as he gestured for me to have a seat on the sofa.
“A couple of times. I filled in for Joanna after Igraine was born, and once when she was on book tour. Tom, too, when he was ill.” The heater in the corner clanked loudly. “God, that thing never shuts up. Aren’t you hot?” He pointed at me still in my coat. I had it buttoned nearly to the top.
“I’m okay.”
Connelly walked over to the window. “Nice to have some sunshine for a change. Although they say it’s supposed to snow this weekend.”
“It’s February, what do you expect? I mean, everyone makes such a big deal about the weather. At least in February, there are no surprises. It’s February: it’s cold, it snows. March on the other hand—I hate March.”
“Oh yeah?” he said, the hint of a smile on his face. “Why do you hate March?”
“It’s inconsistent—sunny one day, freezing the next. It offers the promise of spring, but never delivers. Nope. Give me January or June.”
“Got it.” Connelly was unwinding a paper clip with his fingers, twisting it into a long spiral. I’d read an article once that said the way you bent a paper clip revealed something about your personality, but I couldn’t remember anything else it said.
“So,” I said, “did you want to talk about the weather?”
“No. I did not want to talk about the weather.” He placed the paper clip on the windowsill and sat down at his desk. “I wanted to talk about what happened the other night. At Joanna and Tom’s,” he added, as if I needed clarification. “That’s not something I usually do, kiss young women in coatrooms.”
“I’m sure it isn’t.”
“I’d had quite a bit to drink, and I think it clouded my judgment. I hope you didn’t take it the wrong way.”
“I didn’t. Take it the wrong way—or any way.” My face burned. This apology, or whatever it was, was humiliating. He was drunk? It sounded like the kind of thing a frat guy would say. I expected better from him. I stood up, glad I’d kept my coat on so I could leave quickly.