Carthage (47 page)

And captivated too by Eddinger’s impassioned readings of excerpts from Mary Wollstonecraft’s
A Vindication of the Rights of Women
and William Wordsworth’s
Prelude;
poems from William Blake’s
Songs of Innocence & Experience
that entered her imagination powerfully. Cressida had never before read Mary Shelley’s
Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus,
and chose to write her term paper for the course on this curious prose-parable that was so very different in both tone and substance from the myriad manifestations of “Frankenstein” in the popular imagination.

Soon,
Frankenstein
entered Cressida’s dreams. Not content with composing a conventional paper of about twenty-five pages Cressida felt obliged to present her material in an experimental form: a collage of texts by Mary Shelley and other “revolutionary” thinkers (Friedrich Nietzsche, Oscar Wilde, Sigmund Freud, Franz Kafka), illustrations of Dr. Frankenstein and his monster (including original drawings by Cressida herself), and a “deconstructed” argument about
Frankenstein
(by Cressida Mayfield). The more Cressida worked on the project, the more driven she was to work on it further; as she’d become obsessed with M. C. Escher in high school, so she became obsessed with the
Frankenstein
project
in the spring term of her freshman year at St. Lawrence University. As usual in such circumstances she neglected her other courses; her awareness of her residence-hall suite mates was so slight, often she couldn’t recall their names, or their faces.
Am I rude?—so sorry!
But Cressida wasn’t sorry, and she never apologized.

Weeks passed. The May 1 deadline for term papers in “Romantics & Revolutionaries” passed. Vaguely Cressida was aware of the deadline yet with a part of her mind she seemed to have thought of herself as exempt from it since, unlike Professor Eddinger’s other students, she wasn’t involved in writing a mere term paper for a university course but in presenting the ultimate interpretation of
Frankenstein
in all its forms.

Yet each time Cressida believed the
Frankenstein project
was finished, she discovered yet another theme that had to be explored. And then it seemed to her necessary that the various texts, including her own “argument,” should be presented in appropriate fonts, and in some cases written by hand (by Cressida herself, in imitation of the original writers’ handwriting); it seemed necessary that the entire project be presented on double, oversized pages, with hand-bound covers; for in the Age of the Computer, what is more appropriate to an evocation of Mary Shelley’s (singular, fated) monster than a one-of-a-kind project that could not be replicated? Brilliantly, or so she believed, Cressida presented “Cressida Mayfield’s” term-paper argument in the distinctive font of a typewriter, to set it apart from computer-fonts. And then, she discovered H. G. Wells’s
The Island of Dr. Moreau,
and felt obliged to consider it in her project, since Dr. Moreau was a debased type of Dr. Frankenstein; she felt obliged to include a deliberately crude comic strip to dramatize her thesis that mankind is destined to create monsters that, once created, turn against their creators. And she was inspired, very late one night, to include a dialogue between two individuals on the subject of the federal government’s “crusade against terror”: one of them a young soldier in the U.S. Army and the other an older man, a veteran of World War II. (These were, respectively, Brett Kincaid and Zeno Mayfield though of course Cressida’s father had never served in the military.) Girls in her residence hall were curious about Cressida’s project, which involved original and striking drawings, except—“Isn’t this too long? Aren’t you working too hard? When is the deadline?”

Cressida shrugged. Deadline?

How petty it seemed to her, how
school-girlish,
to worry about a deadline. When Professor Eddinger received her project, he would make an exception of her, she was certain.

A first draft of the completed project was fifty-two (thick, double) pages long; the fourth, final draft was seventy-six pages. Not a term paper but an outsized book measuring fourteen inches by six inches, with a beautiful hand-designed cover into which was set an original drawing (by Cressida Mayfield) of Frankenstein’s monster as an uncannily human-looking figure in a military uniform.

At last, near the end of the spring term, Cressida brought to Professor Eddinger’s departmental office a large box containing the
Frankenstein project,
leaving it with a (disapproving) secretary who promised to place it on the professor’s desk. She thought
He will summon me! He will call me to come see him.

She was sure of this. She’d seen how, through the semester, Eddinger had often glanced in her direction, even when she hadn’t raised her hand to answer one of his provocative questions.
He is aware of me. He knows me.
Cressida had not missed a single class in “Romantics & Revolutionaries” nor had her grades in the course been lower than A.

And so, she wasn’t surprised when Eddinger sent her a terse but friendly email asking her to please come see him.

She wasn’t surprised when she entered his office, to see that he’d spread out the
Frankenstein project
on a table, and that he clearly admired it.

Standing beside Professor Eddinger, Cressida saw that he was a wiry-trim little man, just slightly taller than she was, with legs that appeared foreshortened, like a dwarf’s; though in no way was his body misshapen. He wore a checked shirt with short boxy sleeves to the elbow and trousers of some plain fabric, no necktie and on his feet, surprisingly, sandals with black socks which he had not worn during the semester, at least not while lecturing in their class. His hair was thin, a gray-buttery color; his face was fine-creased like something that has been left out in the sun. And his eyes were startling-bright, fixed upon her.

“Miss Mayfield! This is extraordinary work. I have never received anything remotely like it in thirty-six years of university teaching, here at St. Lawrence and previously at Williams.”

Cressida was stricken with shyness. Though she’d imagined words like these yet now she could not respond.

“Decoding
Frankenstein
as a cultural and ‘biological’ phenomenon is a wonderfully original approach, Miss Mayfield. And I feel quite the same way that you do, about our current wars—the ‘crusade against terror.’ Is it possible that you are just a—freshman?”

Cressida nodded,
yes.

“It’s amazing, bold work. It must have required weeks of effort. I’m particularly struck by these brilliant line-drawings of the ‘monster’ as a boy-soldier who becomes a ‘military strategist’—his metamorphosis is entirely convincing. In fact I’m flattered, Miss Mayfield, you’ve handed in more than we would expect at this university for a senior honors thesis, and the assignment was just a term paper, to count for approximately forty percent of your grade in my course.”

Was she expected to speak? Cressida could not think of anything to say.

“The problem is, Miss Mayfield, which you must have considered—this ‘term paper’ is twelve days late. Even if I’d extended the deadline for you, that would have been over a weekend at the most—let’s say that you’ve handed it in nine days late.”

To this, Cressida had no excuse.

She’d rushed to Professor Eddinger’s office in tossed-on clothes—denim jacket, jeans. Her hair was a mad scribble about her small pale girl’s face. Vaguely she’d thought the day would be chilly and overcast with fog but now at near-noon it was brightly sunny, and warm. She could not think what to say to Professor Eddinger who spoke to her so reasonably, and with regret.

“You see, Miss Mayfield, in the most elementary sense it isn’t ‘fair’—it isn’t ‘just’—to make an exception for a single student, while others struggle to get their work in on time.”

Cressida stood stunned. Cressida did not dare lift her eyes to the professor’s bright alert eyes, that were fixed upon her in a way she wished to perceive as kindly, and not assessing.

“That no one else in the class could possibly have accomplished this in the same period of time is beside the point, you see. I’d given a deadline—many times. And you chose to ignore it.”

Ignore.
Cressida tried to comprehend
ignore.

“Can you explain why this is so late? Apart from its length, and its excellence, I mean.”

Cressida stood very still trying to think. A flutter of thoughts in her head, like frantic butterflies. A terrible impulse came to her, to seize the
Frankenstein project
in her arms, to take it back from Professor Eddinger and run from his office—except, where?

The river. To the river. You must throw yourself into the river.

“I hope you were not ‘experimenting’ with me? Testing me, to see if I would accept this late paper, despite the deadline?”

Numbly Cressida shook her head,
no.

In slow drowning waves the knowledge washed over Cressida, her professor did not think that she was so special after all.

He didn’t know her father Zeno. Was that it!

To the river! You are so ridiculous, so ugly.

Ugly should not be allowed to live.

When Cressida couldn’t seem to reply, Professor Eddinger continued, now in a rapid, vexed voice: “Miss Mayfield, there is no question but that your work is good. I mean—very good. I mean—brilliant. I found myself utterly enchanted by this ‘project’ even though, initially, I’d been reluctant even to examine it, because you handed it in so late, and without any attempt of an excuse—a medical excuse, for instance.” Eddinger paused, as if giving Cressida an opportunity to claim—what? (Dyslexia, autism? Schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, paranoia? Stupidity?) “Unlike some gifted students I’ve had in the past, you don’t work swiftly and carelessly—or, if you work swiftly, you take exceptional care, and revise. And expand. This is the way of the ‘creative artist’—to revise, expand. But there really isn’t time for that sort of perfectionism in a university semester. And ‘Romantics & Revolutionaries’ is an undergraduate, three-hundred-level course. I would not criticize you for spending too much time on this project but only for refusing to acknowledge the restrictions others were obliged to acknowledge. Obviously this is an A-plus project, if it were to be graded at all.” On a sheet of paper, Eddinger scrawled, in red Magic Marker ink, A+, as if he were speaking now to a kindergarten student. “You see, this is the ‘grade’ if there were a grade. But the project is nine days late, and I have made my requirements as clear as possible, and cannot and will not alter them for anyone. I realize that this is petty, Miss Mayfield—but it is necessary, for pettiness can be a virtue, at times. Because the project is late, it must be penalized. Not the project, which is A plus as we have seen, but its lateness—that grade is D.” With an irritable flourish, Eddinger scrawled D.

Was he intending to suggest the childishness of grades? The pettiness? Yet Cressida stood stunned, uncomprehending.

In truth, she’d forgotten that she would be
graded.
In her long hours immersed in the project, particularly in the numerous line-drawings she’d done out of which she’d selected just a fraction to include in the project, she had forgotten that she would be
handing in
the work to a professor, to be assessed and judged.

“I—I don’t know what I . . . I don’t . . . I guess, I . . .”

Like a brain-damaged person Cressida stammered. These words were thick and ungainly in her mouth like big clots of uncooked dough and her mouth was suddenly dry of saliva, she could not swallow.

“Unless,” Eddinger persisted, “—there is some sort of ‘disability’ you might claim? A health issue, medical excuse . . .”

Cressida shook her head,
no.

Vehemently Cressida shook her head,
no.

She felt a wave of disgust wash over her. Self-disgust like a bad taste in the mouth.

For there was a
familiarity
about this situation, it was not new or original.
Déjà vu
was the term, always accompanied by a sensation of disgust, nausea.

In high school too Cressida Mayfield had surprised, shocked, disconcerted, disappointed and annoyed her teachers, she’d heard their voices of regret tinged with vexation, frustration; she heard her parents’ voices—
Oh Cressida! Oh honey—again?

And Zeno, registering disgust as well as dismay.
God damn, Cressie! Not again.

Blindly Cressida turned, and ran out of Professor Eddinger’s office. She heard him call after her but paid no heed.

Run run run you are so stupid, so ugly. Get to the river before it’s too late and they stop you.

At the river, south of Canton.

On the riverbank walking swiftly. Away from the small town, and from the university she’d come to despise.

For it was a death sentence, unmistakably.