Becoming Mrs. Lewis(32)

Jack’s rooms were on the third floor of the New Building, “new” meaning built in 1733. The building was a beige stone rectangle behind the quad of Magdalen proper. I strode under the arched entryways on the bottom level and then climbed the curved stairwell, worn smooth by shoes and time. I ran my hand along the cool stone wall and then found myself in front of his door—third floor, third door. Mr. C. S. Lewis stated the brass nameplate, Tutor of English Literature. I knocked timidly, and yet the door sprang open as if he’d been waiting with his hand on the knob.

“Joy!” He stepped aside. “Welcome.” He stood there with his arms spread wide, that lighthearted smile on his face, his eyes steady upon mine. He wore a dressing robe, thick gray flannel with a wide collar and striped piping at its edges. It was tied around his waist with a thin rope, and below I could spy his suit and the blue tie loosened against his throat.

He noticed my gaze wander to his dress. “My robe.” He patted his chest. “There’s only coal for warmth here, and this keeps me warm. Come in. Come in.”

I straightened my shoulders and smiled at him. “Seeing all of this is great fun. Thanks for the invitation.”

“If only my students felt the same way. You might be the only one who has ever crossed the threshold of this room and offered the word fun.”

“I will do my best to be more solemn,” I said and formed a serious expression, furrowing my brow.

“Ah, yes. Much more appropriate.”

His rooms were a trinity—a cluster of a bedroom (closed door), office, and living area. I followed him into the office, which was covered in cream-painted panels rather than the dark wood I’d imagined. Books seemed to stabilize the room. A grandfather clock ticked nearby, and an earthy-colored oriental rug covered the floor edge to edge. His desk sat in the middle of the room—simple and dark wood, a chair shoved tightly underneath. A plush upholstered chair faced the desk askew, as if glancing sideways at the work in progress.

“Is this where your student sits?” I asked and pointed to the chair.

“It is.”

“May I?”

“Please.”

I plopped down and exhaled, wiggled off my shoes and stretched my feet. “I believe I have walked all of Oxford and Headington.”

“Well then, I’m all the more glad to offer you a rest.” Jack sat at his desk chair, bordered by the fireplace behind him. Framed photos of what appeared to be either the Irish or England countryside were lined along the mantle.

Jack tapped out a cigarette from the package on his desk, lit it, and took in a long draw. He rested his right arm around the back of his chair and with his left held the cigarette across his bent knee. “I know,” he said, as if I’d rebuked him. “It’s a terrible habit, but I started at twelve and there doesn’t seem much to be done about it now.”

“Twelve?” I laughed. “However did you get away with that?”

“I got away with a lot,” he said. “Didn’t you?”

“No. Not at all. I stayed out of trouble mainly because my most pleasurable activity was reading, and you can’t get in much hot water doing that. And of course I was scared to death of my father—that helps one be good as one can be.”

“Ah, fear as motivation.”

“You know, right now you look like your photo in Time magazine,” I joked with him. “Like you’re posing all over again.”

He adjusted the round spectacles on his nose. “I was much younger and thinner then.” He sprang from his chair. “Which reminds me. I have something for you.”

He walked to the bookcase, plucked a slim volume from the lineup, and extended it to me. I accepted it into my hands.

Mere Christianity.

My eyes flashed with tears, and I hoped he didn’t notice. “This book changed my life,” I told him.

“No. God changed your life. My book just jolly well appeared at the right time.”

“Yes. At the right time.” I opened the cover to the title page: For my friend, Joy Gresham. C. S. Lewis. I looked up. “It’s a first edition. Signed to me.” I gave myself away by brushing at a tear.

“Yes, it is.”

I flipped to a random page in the middle of the book and read as if he’d highlighted the words. When a man makes a moral choice two things are involved: the act and the feelings and impulses inside of him. The words rang like condemnation, and I closed the book.

“I don’t know how to thank you.” I wanted to hug him, but instead I sat primly in the chair with the book clutched between my hands. My heart, I felt it bending toward him, our friendship as intimate as any I’d ever had in my life.

“No need for thank-yous,” he said. “I’m honored the book has meant so much to you.” He stepped closer, looking down at me gently, and if it had been any other man, I would have believed it was not only admiration that emanated from his eyes, but quite possibly more. But it wasn’t any other man—it was Jack.

I pointed to his desk, where a thick pile of papers lay scattered among an inkwell, unopened letters, and a cup of half-drunk tea. “What are you working on now?”

“Oh hell,” he said with a wash of his hands over his desk. “It’s my nickname for the work that might be the very death of me. Sixteenth century—The Oxford History of English Literature, Volume Three. O.H.E.L.” He shook his head. “You see why I just give the bloody thing a nickname.”