Fall Semester (13 page)

Chapter 14

Malcolm

M
alcolm Vashal had never been so careless. Never, never in his professional life had he visited the home of a graduate student—much less a
female
graduate student. While that alone was not in direct violation of university policy, it certainly left him vulnerable to judgment and censure. And if Maren Gardner filed a harassment complaint against him? He’d be crucified.

These thoughts fired through his prefrontal cortex, but as he ladled chicken and sausage gumbo out of Styrofoam containers into a saucepan in Maren’s kitchen, he did not care. From the moment she’d opened the door to him in her fevered and weakened state, there had been only one conceivable course of action: to take care of her.

Eschewing the microwave, Malcolm placed the saucepan on one of the gas burners of Maren’s small stove and set it on low. Maren had told him where to find two trays, and he readied them with bowls of rice, spoons, and napkins. Maren coughed roughly from the living room, and he winced at the sound. He wished he had thought to pick up some cough syrup when he stopped to buy the Advil. Of course, he had been rattled by the flower displays at the grocery store and had spent five minutes debating on the appropriateness of a small bouquet of freesia. In the end, he decided that medicine and food were more essential under the circumstances, and, thus, they would be the most acceptable.

The surreality of the situation danced in the periphery of his mind as he stood in Maren’s kitchen and stirred the gumbo. It was startling how easily she had accepted his presence, his help. He had offered to dry her hair out of necessity—there was no question of her leaving it wet—but when he actually began the delicate task, he’d found himself completely enraptured.

The experience was a feast for the senses. Even drooping against the sink, Maren was graceful loveliness. Her yielding and vulnerability only made her more beautiful. As he lifted and dried each lock, the perfume of her shampoo surrounded him, and it called to mind jasmine pearl tea. He had almost dropped the hair dryer when he heard her moan in pleasure—the sound grasped him deep in his belly, and he couldn’t keep himself from whispering his praises.

“Estás preciosa....No me pudiera resistir.”

When he had finished, her hair was a cascade of shining waves, and he permitted himself the briefest caress before chastising himself and backing away. As she’d stood, he noticed that the color had come back to her cheeks to a distracting degree. The urge to touch her face had been overwhelming.

Steam hovered over the little pot of gumbo, pulling Malcolm out of his reverie. He was grateful that Maren could not see his addled state from where he had nestled her in the living room. He spooned a generous helping of sausage, chicken, and roux-brown broth into Maren’s bowl and gave himself a modest serving, wanting her to have ample leftovers. The order had come with a small loaf of buttered French bread. He broke half of this and set it on her plate, rewrapping the rest in foil. Carefully, he carried both trays to the small living room and set them down on the coffee table in front of a dozing Maren. She leaned back against the arm of her mocha-toned couch with her head to one side as she clutched a blanket under her arms. He gave thanks that the sound of his arrival caused her to stir because he could not have woken her otherwise.

She blinked up at him and smiled before surveying the trays with some surprise.

“Wow! So much! And it looks delicious.” She met his eyes again. “Thank you. I can’t thank you enough.”

“It is my pleasure,” he answered, truthfully.

She allowed him to set her tray in her lap, and she helped herself to a spoonful.

“Mmmm...perfect. Just what the doctor ordered,” she said between bites. When Malcolm saw that she had everything she needed, he began to eat as well. The gumbo was rich, spicy, and deliciously warm. He congratulated himself on an excellent choice. He watched her dunk a piece of bread into the broth and savor it, and this gave him an odd sense of pride. Malcolm hid his smile in a bite of gumbo.

“What made you decide to do this for me?” she asked, shyly, flicking her eyes back and forth between her bowl and his face. Malcolm took his time swallowing and didn’t meet her look when he answered.

“I wanted to check on you and make sure you were alright.”

Maren seemed to contemplate his answer as she casually swirled her spoon in her bowl.

“Why?” she asked, finally.

Malcolm stared into his gumbo for a long moment before looking up at her.

“Because I mean to be your friend.” In a sense, it was an honest answer, just not a completely honest answer, but he couldn’t very well tell her that he was there because he couldn’t stay away.

Her expression was unreadable.

“Do you have many friends, Dr. Vashal?” Her tone was free of irony, but she watched him closely.

“No.” He answered without apology or self-pity, just candor. Those things had never been important to him.

Her expression was unreadable as she turned her attention back to her meal. As they ate in silence, Malcolm worried that he had made her uncomfortable. He quickly finished his dinner so he could prepare to leave.

“I think I would like that...very much,” she said, softly. At first, Malcolm assumed that she had understood his silent haste and was endorsing his decision to leave at once—until she spoke again.

“And I would like to be
your
friend,” she added. Maren gave him a self-conscious smile, and she could only meet his eyes for a moment before she looked down again and hid her own behind feathery lashes. The uncontrived smile, the blush that came to her cheeks, the warmth in her voice all testified to her honesty.

Malcolm could not remember a time when he had felt such a sense of welcome. It was a tangled thrill of warmth and ache in equal measure, a slightly alarming sensation that he wanted to tuck away and explore later.

“I’m afraid I’ll get the better end of the bargain,” he said, wryly.

“I don’t know about that,” she said, arching her brow in a way that Malcolm found particularly becoming. Maren gestured to her empty bowl. “I don’t see how I can compete with gumbo and French bread. You’ve already set the bar pretty high.”

“Would you like more? There’s plenty,” he offered.

“No. Thank you. Truly.” She shook her head, looking drowsy and content. “I couldn’t eat any more.”

“Then I’ll just take these,” he said, standing and gathering up the dishes and trays.

“Oh, you really don’t need to...,” she began to protest before coughing again.

“I insist,” he said, brooking no argument and carrying the dishes into her kitchen. Malcolm stopped her sink and filled it with hot water and dish soap. He had made light of it, but he had not been joking when he said that he would fare better than she. Malcolm knew that he could not be less deserving of her friendship and whatever that meant—her time, her attention, her goodness. He wasn’t inclined to examine the doubt too closely, but he found himself wondering if his association might harm her, and not just because he was a professor and she was a graduate student. Malcolm knew himself. He knew that he could take a woman who was ignited with youth and happiness and ruin her. J.J. had been exceedingly clear about that the day she left him.

You know just how to drain the life out of me....Loving you was the worst mistake of my life.

Malcolm scrubbed the saucepan as though he could debride himself of the painful memory. She had been right, of course. Malcolm had failed miserably as a husband. He had never been unfaithful—he would not have dreamed of that; he had never been violent, despite his temper; he hadn’t drunk more than the average man, and he hadn’t used money against her. Malcolm’s love had fallen short. In the beginning he had believed that his love was enough to compensate for his dark moods, his egotism, his lack of society. Indeed, in the beginning, Malcolm thought that J.J. had loved these things about him. Instead of being daunted, she had laughed at these traits, calling him her “wicked loner”. Shortly after they were married, J.J. had tried to “reform” him, condition him with her cheerfulness, her teasing, her parties. When this showed no effect—save a stubborn resolve on his part—amusement became tolerance. Tolerance gave way to disappointment. Disappointment matured to disgust.

No, Malcolm should never have married. Not J.J. Not anyone. He did not have the capacity for it.

Everyone would be better off if you became a fucking hermit.

It was true. And here he was—doing God knows what with a graduate student. It was a recipe for disaster. He needed to leave. Now.

“I’m sure that dish is quite clean,” Maren said from behind him. She was standing in the doorway of the kitchen, watching him. He had no idea how long he’d been at the sink, scouring the same pan. He also had no idea how long she had observed him. For the first time in a very long while, Malcolm blushed.

“You can’t be too careful,” he mumbled, clearing his throat. Maren crossed the room and stood next to him at the sink. She took the pan from his hands with a puzzled smile and rinsed it one final time, setting it on the draining board with the rest of their dishes.

“You shouldn’t be up and about,” he gently admonished. Even though she looked more restored than when he’d arrived, she was still too pale. Too frail. And that fever...

“You should be lying down.”

“I came to see what was taking you so long.” She glanced at the small pile of clean dishes with mirth. “OCD? Are we?”

“Funny,” he deadpanned. She laughed. Despite his impulse to bolt a moment before, Malcolm had to suppress the urge to touch her, to graze her sleeve or grab the tie of her robe and tug her toward him.

Her laugh became a cough. She turned away from him and buried her face into the crook of her elbow, nearly crumpling as the racking shook her. It sounded terrible, dangerous even. Without thinking about it, Malcolm laid a hand on her back and rubbed her gently. Finally, she straightened and breathed cautiously. He frowned at her.

“You might have bronchitis or the beginnings of pneumonia. Do I need to take you to a walk-in clinic?”

She shook her head and wiped her eyes.

“No, I’m fine. Really.”

“You’re anything but fine,” he leveled, raising an eyebrow at her.

“Dr. Vashal, I feel so much better. I’m warm, dry, and fed, thanks to you.” She gave him a blazing look as she spoke. “I can feel that I’ve turned the corner.”

Malcolm could only nod at her gratitude, but he felt like it was his cue to leave.

“Then I have succeeded,” he whispered with the slightest bow. “I should be going.”

“Oh!...Of course.” Maren said, before looking at her feet, but Malcolm questioned whether or not he had seen a look of disappointment pass over her face for an instant. He found himself hesitating.

“Do you have everything you need? Will you be alright?” he asked with genuine concern.

“Yes, thank you. Thank you for everything.” She coughed slightly again, and, again, he frowned.

“If you do need anything,...” he dug into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a card. “I hope you’ll call. My cell number is right there.”

He handed her the card and watched an angelic smile, soft and peaceful, smooth her face.

“If that’s what a friend would do....,” she ventured.

“Indeed,” he said, his voice hushed, and his eyes still savoring the beatific smile. Again, the urge to touch her tore at him, and he stepped toward the door to thwart it. “I do hope you feel better soon.”

“I will,” she said, following him.

He put a hand on the door and opened it without taking his eyes off her. She looked so delicate and lovely in her robe with the shining locks he had dried falling over her breasts. A part of him hated to leave her alone, unprotected.

“Goodnight, then.” He stepped out onto the stoop. “Don’t forget to lock the door behind me.” He pulled the door closed and watched through the pane as she turned the deadbolt.

Malcolm sighed as he shut himself into the Accord. His mind roiled. It was impossible to be near her. It was impossible to stay away. He knew he did not deserve her company. Still, he knew that if she asked, he’d be able to deny her nothing.

He started the car and drove home. Minutes later, when he pulled into his own driveway, his phone chimed with a message. The number on the screen was unfamiliar, but his breath caught as he read:

Monday, Oct. 23:
7:14 p.m.

I hope you will keep my number as well and give me the chance to return the favor.

In friendship,

Maren Gardner

Inside, Malcolm rummaged through his kitchen pantry until he found the neglected tin of jasmine pearls. He pried off the lid and was rewarded with the sight of several dozen tightly balled whorls of dried jasmine flowers. Closing his eyes, he sniffed the tin and found himself surrounded by damp hair and sweetness. Standing in his kitchen, he moaned.

Malcolm filled his tea kettle and set it on a burner. Despite his better judgment, he opened Contacts in his phone and created a new entry for one M.G.

Chapter 15

Maren

M
aren still had a cough on Wednesday morning, but she had not run fever since Monday night, and it was time to return to school. Helene volunteered to pick her up before her 9:00 class, saying that Maren was absolutely forbidden from taking her bike.

As she waited in the kitchen with her book bag and purse, she scrolled through the text messages that had recently accumulated on her phone.

Tuesday, Oct. 24
9:40 a.m.

How are you feeling today?

Tuesday, Oct. 24
9:41 a.m.

Better. No fever. Thanks.

You?

Tuesday, Oct. 24
9:41 a.m.

Me? I’m not the one nearly succumbing to pneumonia.

Tuesday, Oct. 24
9:42 a.m.

Very funny. Neither am I.

And you didn’t answer the question.

Tuesday, Oct. 24
9:43 a.m.

Ah, so not succumbing to pneumonia and not easily distracted.

I am well. Better, in fact, knowing that you are on the mend.

Tuesday, Oct. 24
9:45 a.m.

Glad to hear that the flu vaccine actually works.

Tuesday, Oct. 24
9:47 a.m.

Yes, perhaps you should try it next time.

I’m heading to class. I’ll be done at 11:30.

Do you need lunch?

Tuesday, Oct. 24
9:48 a.m.

No. I’m good. This FRIENDLY guy I know brought me a TON of gumbo.

Tuesday, Oct. 24
9:50 a.m.

He sounds creepy. Be careful. And get some rest.

Tuesday, Oct. 24
5:50 p.m.

Did I just see you run past my house???

Tuesday, Oct. 24
6:16 p.m.

It couldn’t have been me. Maybe it was your creepy friend.

Tuesday, Oct. 24
6:18 p.m.

I don’t think he’s creepy.

I think he’s sweet.

Tuesday, Oct. 24
6:20 p.m.

He should keep his distance.

Tuesday, Oct. 24
6:22 p.m.

I hope he doesn’t. He makes me laugh.

Tuesday, Oct. 24
6:23 p.m.

Will you be at school tomorrow?

Tuesday, Oct. 24
6:24 p.m.

Yes, I think so.

Tuesday, Oct. 24
6:24 p.m.

Good.

Maren bit her bottom lip against the smile that was threatening to split her face. When she had texted him with her number on Monday night, and he had not responded, she wondered if the gesture had been unwelcome. But his attention the next day made her bold, and she blushed a little at that boldness.

But she was also careful. She had assigned the name “Indiana” to his contact information in case he texted her while she was with Helene or another graduate student. And as good as it felt to flirt with him, she was disciplined. She wouldn’t get carried away or appear silly, and she wouldn’t embarrass him—or herself—in front of anyone.

So when Helene pulled into her driveway and beeped the horn, Maren met her with a relaxed smile.

“You still look pale,” Helene said in greeting. Maren rolled her eyes.

“Well, I feel about 100 times better, and I have so much catching up to do,” she defended, buckling her seatbelt. “How have you been? I feel like I’ve been in a submarine for a week.”

“Not
much
to report,” Helene said, meaningfully.

“Oh? Is Jess still on good behavior?”

“A regular boy scout. I swear, I didn’t think he could keep it up this long. It’s been....what?...a month since the conference?” Helene guessed.

“Yeah, something like that. Is he still asking you out every day?”

“He’s not asking me out. He’s asking me to have breakfast with him—”

“He’s asking you out,” Maren asserted.

“And he’s not asking me every day anymore,” Helene amended.

“Why? Did you go? And I missed it?!?”

“No. Of course not. I haven’t gone. He said he was changing his strategy,” she explained. “He thinks it’s become routine for him to ask each day and for me to decline, so he’s going to ‘randomize’ his invitations, but he assured me that he still
wants
to ask me every day, so if I change my mind in the meantime, I should let him know.”

Maren laughed and then coughed.

“You still sound awful,” Helene said, grimacing, as they pulled into an empty spot on Rex Street.

“I’m fine.”

Helene turned off the car and eyed Maren wickedly.

“Sooo....Rob Terrence came by the bullpen on Monday afternoon, asking about you since you weren’t in the workshop Friday or Monday. I
told
you he’s had his eye on you since the beginning of the semester.”

Maren wrinkled her nose.

“When I told him you were sick, he said to tell you that he hoped you’d feel better.”

“Well, that was...nice.” Maren managed, gathering up her things and stepping out of the car.

“What’s wrong with Rob, Mare? He’s not an ogre.” Helene followed, and they crossed Rex together.

If he really liked me, he would have made sure I was okay.

Maren had to squelch her smile and concentrate on Helene’s question.

“I don’t know....I can’t tell what Rob’s really thinking....I just get a phony vibe from him.”

“So if he asked you out...?”

“No, thanks.” They stepped into Griffin and headed for the center stairs.

“So, what? Have you taken a vow of chastity this semester?” Helene asked.

“Have you?” Maren countered, half glaring.

Helene bit her lip.

“No, but I probably should.” Her voice dropped to a whisper as they reached the second floor. “My resolve is weakening.”

Maren couldn’t help but smile.

“Well, if you spend the night with him, I’m sure he’ll treat you to breakfast.”

Both girls dissolved into laughter as they reached the department office. Dr. Vashal stepped out in front of them, carrying a stack of mail.

“Good morning, ladies,” he said as he passed them, but his eyes only found Maren’s.

Maren’s heart sped up at the sight of him.

“Good morning.” She managed to sound completely casual, and she followed Helene into the office, checked her box—which had accumulated quite a pile in her absence, thanked Helene for the ride, and dashed off to her ENGL 102 class.

She felt her phone buzz in the pocket of her jacket, and she checked the message as she stepped into her classroom.

Wednesday, Oct. 25:
8:56 a.m.

You still look pale.

Maren sighed and texted back.

Wednesday, Oct. 25:
8:57 a.m.

So I’ve heard, but I’m fine. I feel much better.

About to teach. Catch you later?

Wednesday, Oct. 25:
8:57 a.m.

Yes.

Maren begrudgingly tucked her phone away, took out her notes, and started class.

“I trust that since class was cancelled on Monday, everyone had a chance to finish
Gulliver’s Travels
, and we’re all ready to discuss satire,...right?”

Her inquiry was met with a general groan.

After her class, Maren went to the bullpen and sat down at her desk, unsure which task to tackle first in her efforts to catch up. She had left her cubicle in a state of disarray when she had gone home sick on Friday, and while Helene had been kind enough to deliver her purse and book bag over the weekend, half of what she’d needed to work on had been left behind.

Maren set about tidying up and arranging books and papers into prioritized piles, starting with the mail from her department box. An announcement about Thursday’s Barnes & Noble reading topped the stack, followed by a catalogue for classroom posters—which Maren tossed to the recycling bin—her fall issue of
The Modern Language Journal
, her October pay stub, and, lastly, a small but beautiful bookmark.

On the bookmark was a close-up of a petite jasmine bouquet lying on a piece of faded, handwritten parchment—like an old letter. Maren smiled as she admired the token because it was delicate and simple and something she would have chosen for herself or a dear friend. She turned it over and found a note in a tight but tidy hand:

Medieval lore promised that nosegays protected one from the plague. Keep this handy just in case.

There was no signature, but Maren knew without a doubt that Malcolm Vashal had put it in her box.

She giggled with delight, studied the lovely picture again, and wondered when he had left it for her. It was so thoughtful, so sweet. And the humor in his note undercut any trace of sappiness, making her enjoy it all the more.

Maren allowed herself to admit that her crush had grown wings. Still, if she and Dr. Vashal were only meant to be friends—after all, it was all they could be and more than she had ever imagined—she told herself that she would be able to keep it in check. Having such a friend, one who admittedly had few friends himself; one whom she shared with no one else; one who was brooding and playful in equal measure; one who looked out for her,....Well, that was no small thing. No small thing at all. It was special. It made Maren feel special, and she was grateful.

She dug her phone out of her pocket and sent him two texts.

Wednesday, Oct. 25:
10:07 a.m.

Nosegays? Is that even a real word?

Kidding. I love the bookmark. Thank you.

In less than a minute, he replied in kind.

Wednesday, Oct. 25:
10:07 a.m.

I have no idea what you are talking about.

You are welcome.

In class at the moment (students taking Hawthorne test).

Are you free for lunch?

Maren’s heart contracted, and she felt a thrill of fear.

Wednesday, Oct. 25:
10:08 a.m.

I have a break at noon after my poetry workshop.

Um...is it “okay” for us to have lunch?

She bit her lip, waiting for him to answer. She waited. And waited. Maren began to wonder if she should have kept the question to herself. Did asking it make it seem like she thought something more was going on than there was?

Wednesday, Oct. 25:
10:22 a.m.

“Um” is not a word. Lunch is definitely “okay.”

Meet me in my office: 205E. I hope you like Thai.

Wednesday, Oct. 25:
10:23 a.m.

What’s not to like?

Exercising more self-restraint than she felt, Maren shoved her phone back in her pocket and opened her binder to the four poems that her class would workshop. She had yet to read them and give her feedback, and she had less than an hour to do so.

Dr. MacIntosh greeted the assembled seminar solo, apologizing for Dr. St. Martin’s absence.

“It seems the flu is going around,” he told the class, and he smiled gently at Maren. “Welcome back, Maren. I’m glad that you are well.”

“Thanks, Dr. MacIntosh,” she replied, nervously.

Rob Terrence had chosen the seat across from Maren, and he smiled at her eagerly.

“We were supposed to get a poem of yours on Friday, right?” Rob asked.