Extra Credit (31 page)

They weren’t as evolved as cavemen, but I kept that observation to myself.

“I’m so, so sorry, Alison. Really I am.”

She sounded so distraught that I couldn’t do anything but assure her that it was fine. “It’s over now, Christine. There has been a lot of collateral damage in the wake of Chick’s … passing,” I said, knowing that she still believed he had been murdered and not taken his own life, “but let’s just all move on. How does that sound?”

“That sounds great,” she said. “Maybe during the Christmas break, you and Bobby would come up for dinner?” she asked, her tone hopeful.

I responded instantly, knowing that any hesitation whatsoever would hurt her feelings. “Of course!” I said, far more enthusiastically than I actually felt. I figured when the time came, I could find an excuse. Hanging out with Christine and Tim—except when absolutely required and necessary, say, when the girls were involved—was very low on my list.

“Tim got a panini press for himself and all he wants to do is make sandwiches,” she said, laughing. “I can’t believe it took him this long to buy one, but there you have it.”

At the mention of Tim, the sandwich king, and his new panini press, I thought back to the conversation I overheard at their house about his wanting the money. All I could muster was a weak chuckle about Tim’s latest purchase. Did he want the money to finally pursue his dream of making sandwiches all day long for the well-heeled Greenwich crowd? Or did he just want a nice little nest egg, more robust than the one he presumably already had, for the little trolls in the event he checked out early? Or, now that he was out of work, did he need the money just to survive? Who knew? I tried to wrap up the conversation, having a few classes awaiting me interspersed with lunch, a coffee break at some point, and then office hours. After that, sleep. Lots of sleep. Then all of this would make sense, or so I hoped.

“Is Tim there, Christine?” I asked. “I want to ask him a quick question about my money market account.”

She laughed. “Here? Alison, he won’t be here until after ten. He’s working on a big deal at the office and has been out every night for the past two weeks. I’m really hoping it closes soon so we can get back to normal.”

I immediately felt sorry for her. He wasn’t at work, and God knew where he was; I had a feeling he wasn’t scoping out locations for the sandwich shop. I hung up and immediately did another search on Westcore, finding out that it was still a robust and functioning hedge fund, and one for which money seemed to keep rolling in, if the gorgeous Colonial with its chef’s kitchen was any indication.

So, where did Tim go every day?

I decided I would deal with that later, opting instead to send Max a text message telling her that I was thinking of her; I knew she wouldn’t respond, with another day of the wake ahead of her, but it made me feel better. Over the course of our two-decade-plus relationship we had had our ups and downs, I reminded myself. I got mad at her. She got mad at me. It always blew over. Until now. This time felt different, as if her hurt were really emanating from her core and generated by something much more portentous than just our usual topics of squabbling. The death of her father and my inability to be there for her when she was going through everything that went along with such a tragic event was on a par with all of the things I had already gone through: the death of both of my parents, my first husband’s infidelity and then our contentious divorce, his murder. She had been with me through all of those life events and then some.

I, however, had dropped the ball in the biggest way imaginable and couldn’t have felt worse if I had donned the proverbial hair shirt.

I put my head in my hands and fought back the urge to cry. “Pull yourself together,” I whispered. “You’ll work this out, too.”

I wasn’t so sure, though, and that was the most painful thing of all.

The funeral was the next day, and I had to think that once it was over and the process of living her life began again in earnest, I’d at least be able to talk to Max, if not get us back to the way we were.

I went through the motions of teaching my classes, ate lunch by myself at a corner table in the cafeteria, and held office hours, just as I had planned. By the end of the day I was beyond exhausted, the last several minutes of my office hours dragging on, a time on a Friday afternoon when no one was likely to appear. I could barely keep my eyes open, but I knew it wouldn’t look good if a student happened by only to find me slumped over my desk, drool running from my mouth onto a stack of uncorrected papers. I rallied and, as soon as the clock hit five minutes to five, started to pull my things together so I could get home. I had no idea if Crawford was coming home early, late, or on time, his schedule being completely unpredictable, so I didn’t get my hopes up. I’d see him when I’d see him, just like always, and maybe if he was late, I could squeeze in a nap that wouldn’t interrupt my regular sleep but would allow me to have an actual conversation with him that wasn’t punctuated by loud yawns.

The knock at my office door nearly made me burst into tears, the identity of the knocker most likely someone who wanted to spend some time setting up the outline for a paper that was due the following week. I don’t know when I had gotten so conscientious, but there you have it. Whereas in the old days, I might have been known to fall silent, pretending that I wasn’t behind the frosted glass of the decades-old mahogany door, these days, I was the model professor, always available, always willing to help. It crossed my mind that I could fold myself in half and hide under my desk until whoever it was went away, but guilt got the better of me. My best friend was already suspicious of my moral fiber; if word got around school that Professor Bergeron hid under her desk so that she didn’t have to deal with students, my shaky reputation would take another hit, crumbling once and for all. I shoved the rest of the papers in my bag and called out to the person on the other side of the door to come in, hoping that usual social cues like me donning my coat and jangling my keys would hasten his or her departure.

It was Mary Lou Bannerman. With a large cup of something hot, if the steam coming out of the little hole on the plastic lid was any indication. I smiled. In spite of my exhaustion, seeing her was just the lift I needed. She brandished a manila envelope as well as a wide grin.

“What’s that?” I asked, referring to the cup.

“It’s the beginning of my manuscript!” she said, obviously excited and proud.

It wouldn’t be in good taste to ask after the cup again, so I expressed my delight over her pages instead.

“Will you read it?” she asked.

“Now?” I asked, my enthusiasm waning.

“No, silly,” she said, putting it on my desk. “Whenever you get a chance. I had a burst of creativity last night and just started writing.” She pointed at me. “You were right. When you’re ready to write, you’re ready to write. It just flowed out of me.”

Finally, someone appreciated my wisdom. I stared pointedly at the cup she was holding, protected by a wide cardboard ring that would keep the hot in and off her hand.

“Oh, and this is for you,” she said, handing it to me. “Chai tea. From the cafeteria, not some fancy coffee shop, I’m afraid.”

I looked at my watch. After all my years teaching here, I had no idea that the cafeteria was open at five on a Friday. “Really? They’re open?”

She looked momentarily flustered. “I have an in there,” she said. “I’ve made quite a few friends among the staff, and once they heard it was for you,” she said, throwing her arms wide, “well, the world was my oyster, so to speak.”

Nice to know I had friends in high places, or at least ones where you could get a burger after closing time. I opened the cup and inhaled deeply. “Thank you, Mary Lou. I was starting to fade.”

“Do you have five minutes?” she asked, sitting down in her usual spot across from my desk.

How could I say no? I sat back down behind my desk and sipped the tea. Chai wasn’t my favorite, but it definitely hit the spot at the end of a long day, not to mention week. I fingered the envelope on my desk. “I’ll read this first chance I get, Mary Lou. Was it difficult writing about the topic?” I asked, referencing her husband’s murder.

“I’m not there yet,” she said. “I’m talking about how we met.”

“How
did
you meet?”

“At work,” she said, a slight flush coming to her cheeks. “He had his own company, and I was an assistant to the director of marketing.”

I took another sip of my tea.

“I know I’m married again and very happy, but can I confess something?” she asked, her blue eyes shining. Tears? Or a glimmer of what was past? “He was my soul mate. I will never love anyone the same way again.”

I stared at her, not sure why she was sharing these feelings with me. Had I blurred the line between student and professor so much that I was now in the business of listening to confessions of the lovelorn? Probably. I could do nothing now but sit and listen, my head feeling heavy, the lack of sleep catching up with me and making me inert. I took a bigger sip of tea, which seemed to perk me up in the short term but wasn’t doing a lot to counter my feelings of exhaustion overall.

She dropped the manila envelope on my desk. “The synopsis and some pages. I would love your opinion. It’s all in there.”

I stood, not really wanting to have this conversation in the confines of my office. Outside, darkness was settling over the campus, and the last student stragglers, the ones who hadn’t immediately left the building after their last class ended, were scurrying back to their dorms to prepare for whatever that particular Friday held in store. I put the remaining papers in my messenger bag and asked Mary Lou if she’d like to continue our conversation on the way to my car; all of a sudden, a heat was creeping up my neck, and I felt like I needed to get out of my office and into the chilly night air.

She followed me out of the office area and into the stairwell. As soon as I hit the outside and the cold air, I got light-headed and grabbed on to the new banister that now ran along the back steps. Mary Lou chattered away, oblivious to the fact that I was dead on my feet. I took another sip of tea, now a comfortable temperature. With each passing step, I felt slower and slower, my legs feeling leaden as I navigated the stone stairs. We reached the top and headed toward the parking lot.

“Do you feel that way about your husband?” she asked. The way she said it indicated to me, even in what was becoming a weakened state, that she had already asked me at least once before but I hadn’t answered.

I stared back at her, not sure how to respond. Of course I felt that way about Crawford, but did I really need to get that personal with her? Suddenly I realized that even if I wanted to answer, I couldn’t. My tongue was thick and unmoving in my mouth, and I attempted to lick my lips.

“Are you sick?” she asked, a look of such great concern on her face that it made me nervous.

I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. I felt my knees give out and I hit the macadam, pitching forward and breaking my fall with my hands. The combination of the cold ground and the rough surface was doubly bruising, and I felt the pain course through my hands and up my arms, an insult to the nerve center in my brain. The papers that I had been packing to take home escaped from my bag and skittered off the side of the parking lot, my eyes following them, not really understanding what I was seeing.

“Professor Bergeron?” she asked, her tone frantic.

A student hurrying by stopped when he saw me falter and go to the ground. It was Meaghan’s boyfriend, and even though I was having a hard time telling which end was up from my perch, I could see in his eyes that he was thinking about continuing to move rather than help me, but something got the better of him. His conscience, maybe? I didn’t know, but he scurried over and helped me up.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Thank you, Alex,” I said, finally nailing his name, even in my altered state. He was a big guy, so getting me off the ground wasn’t too much of a chore, even with his heavy backpack over one of his shoulders.

He looked worriedly at Mary Lou. “She doesn’t look good. Is she alright?”

Mary Lou looked behind her. “I’ll take care of it. Thank you for coming to our assistance,” she said.

“Are you sure?” he asked. “Should I call her stepdaughter?”

“Her stepdaughter?” Mary Lou asked, as if Meaghan’s existence weren’t something she had considered. Now she looked worried.

“Yes, her stepdaughter. She’s my girlfriend,” he said, giving me a glance that told me that he knew I wasn’t pleased with the relationship.

“No,” she said. “Thanks again. I’ll take it from here.”

I really wasn’t able to form a coherent sentence, so I stood idly by, my hands scraped and bloodied, while this exchange played out between Mary Lou and Alex. After a few more questions from him and reassurances from her, he wandered off uneasily.

Behind me, I heard the sound of a car coming up the one-lane road that wrapped around campus and served as the exit on this side. It came to rest on the far side of the road, just below the cemetery and what I hoped was the ever-watchful spirit of my old friend, the late Sister Alphonse. Still unsteady on my feet, I attempted to grab the papers that were on the ground, but the action proved too hard. I looked at Mary Lou and, with every ounce of energy that I had left, attempted to tell her something.

“I don’t feel well,” I managed to get out after only getting one errant piece of paper back into my bag, my limbs heavy and shaky, my mind muddled.

The car was still idling by the curb, and I saw Mary Lou give it a nervous sideways glance.

“Who is that?” I asked, hearing an edge of hysteria in my voice. Between the way I felt physically and the way she had suddenly stopped talking, choosing instead to cast her gaze about shiftily, I had a feeling that things were about to change for the worse.

The driver’s door of the car opened, but it was too dark for me to see anything except that the figure who got out was large and male.

Mary Lou put a hand on her hips and looked displeased. As the figure got closer, she got more agitated. Finally, when he had made his way to us, she looked at him and in a voice dripping with disappointment and despair asked him one question that left me even more baffled.