Fool's Journey (7 page)

Yes, this was definitely the
poem.

           
Later, as she read the verses to her class, she felt the
tension of the poem creep into her voice. Although there were only twelve
students enrolled in the seminar, the university, with its legendary
inefficiency, had assigned the class to a lecture hall that seated fifty. The
seats were bolted to the floor, contributing to a sense of rigidity that
clashed with the free flow of ideas she hoped to foster. Each class had its
particular chemistry, and this one had been destined from the start to be
awkward.

           
When she finished reading, the class sat silent, looking
at her. They'd clearly been in too many classes where the professor had
interpreted the meaning for them. In spite of only having taught one other
class thus far today, she felt drained by the stress of the last twenty-four
hours. She hoped she wouldn't have to drag a discussion out of this group.

           
"What did you notice about this poem?" she
asked after a moment passed. "Anyone?"

           
They responded with still more silence. The waiting game
had started. Deirdre took a seat at her desk. Say something, she willed them.
Say anything.

           
Several were whispering to one another. One or two were
exchanging glances. Todd Hall, a tall, athletic blond was staring right at her,
though, with his "you'll give in before I do" smirk. She might have
described him as handsome, but his cold Aryan looks reminded her too forcefully
of a member of Hitler Youth. She had once overheard a giggling pair of smitten
admirers describe him as "studly." She supposed that meant that when
he walked, he led from the pelvis. His writing, too, seemed to generate from
that region. His poems were blatantly phallic.

           
The seconds ticked by. Finally, the door flew open and
Adam Watts rushed in, wool poncho askew, his curling hair an uncombed mop. Adam
was disorganization personified. Scraps of paper always seemed to follow him in
a swirling cloud as they dropped from his pockets and notebooks. He reminded
Deirdre a little of herself. She liked him and his poetry.

           
Adam stopped in his tracks and looked around the silent
group. "What are we supposed to be doing?" he whispered loudly to the
closest student.

           
"We're supposed to be having a discussion,"
Deirdre told him. "Can't you tell?"

           
He started to answer, then stopped himself.

           
"Actually, Adam," Deirdre went on, rescuing him
from the awkward moment, "I just finished reading a Dickinson poem and was
waiting for a response to it." She handed him a copy.

           
He looked at it and nodded. "I really love this
poem. I read it for the first time a long time ago, but I keep coming back to
it."

           
"Why do you suppose that is?" Deirdre asked,
relieved that the silence had been broken.

           
Adam shrugged. "I guess because it's so sad without
being sappy. When I write something sad, I always feel like I'm saying 'gee,
feel sorry for me.' This poem doesn't do that."

           
"That's bullshit," Todd broke in. Like a bad
actor, he seemed to make a conscious effort to insert contempt in his tone.
"The poem's about sex, but Dickinson was such a repressed piece of dried
up New England, such a Puritan, she probably didn't even know it."

           
Deirdre stifled a sigh. In some ways she preferred her
class to be silent. "What do you mean, Todd?"

           
"I mean the little virgin of Amherst wanted it
pretty bad. She was dying for it."

           
"I assume you mean she wanted sex," she said,
keeping her voice carefully neutral.

           
Adam turned to Todd. "You're reading a lot into
this, aren't you?"

           
"Sorry to spoil the patron saint of poetry for you,
Adam, but it's there in black and white. 'A loaded gun' – it's a penis."

           
"But she's talking about her life," another
student put in tentatively. "At least, I think….”

           
"Right," Todd went on, "the gun's
loaded—it's never been fired. She's a virgin poetess."

           
"You're mixing your metaphors," a girl next to
him snapped. "The gun can't be both her virginity and a penis. Make up
your mind."

           
The discussion carried itself along after that and
Deirdre let it play itself out. By the time the class drew to a close, a number
of factions had asserted themselves, none of whose interpretations, Deirdre was
forced to admit, would have borne close critical examination.

           
She could have asserted herself more, injected the voice
of reason, but she felt too exhausted. Last night's lack of sleep must be
catching up with her. She could not afford this sort of performance when
Freemont Willard observed her class. Again, she felt a nagging apprehension as
she thought of him. Bess Seymour's words came back to her:
prepare yourself for filth – I’m going to tell you some secrets.

           
"Interesting discussion," Deirdre told her
students at last, breaking in on their comments. "Let's take the last few
minutes and write. You can either say something about the way the discussion
went or spin off a quick poem of your own. When you're done, just hand it in
and you can leave."

           
They wrote silently for the next several minutes. Todd
Hall wrote only a few lines, then he leaned back in his chair, watching as his
classmates began to file out.
 

           
"You're finished, aren't you, Todd?" she asked
when only he remained.

           
He raised out of his chair with a slow smile and strolled
toward her, then dropped his paper on the pile with the rest.

           
"Have a nice evening, Deirdre," he said as he
sauntered out of the room.

           
Deirdre encouraged students to call her by her first
name, but there was something in Todd's tone, something both intimate and
offensive, that made her wish he called her "professor."
 
She glanced down at his paper. He had merely
reasserted what he had already said during class. In the margin, though, he had
sketched something almost like one of Georgia O'Keefe's flower paintings. A
second later, she realized it was a poor attempt at depicting the female
genitalia.

           
 
Creep! she
thought. Students who sexually harassed professors were fairly rare, but not
unknown. She'd be tempted to file a complaint against him if he were a better
artist. Just as with Freemont, though, she’d have to bite her tongue and bide
her time. There were ways of making people regret their actions that had
nothing to do with policy, ways that would not bring her any unwanted
attention.

           
 
Deirdre gathered
the sheaf of papers from the desk and put them in her satchel without looking
at them further. She glanced at her watch. It was a little after five o'clock
and she wanted to get to the bus stop before it got too dark. The long walk
from the humanities building along a dimly lit series of paths made her a
little uneasy under the best of circumstances. Tonight, it felt downright
reckless.

           
Except for her lunch with Bess, she wasn't planning to be
on campus tomorrow. She'd just stop by her office to check her voice mail, then
be on her way.
 
It was usually best to
make sure that no new committee meetings had been scheduled. Attending those
meetings was the dreariest part of her job, but they were required and would be
part of her review. She couldn't afford to miss one, not now. Maybe she was
being paranoid, but she wouldn't put it past Freemont to schedule something
without telling her, just to keep her off balance.

           
Deirdre turned the key in the lock and opened her office
door.

           
"Burning the midnight oil, Emily?"

           
She jumped, then turned to see Freemont leaning in his
doorway across the hall from her. Speak of the devil, she thought, then
shuddered.

           
"I didn't mean to startle you. I didn't know you'd
be here so late. Meeting someone?"

           
She ignored his question and asked one of her own.
"When will you be observing my class?" It sounded abrupt and awkward
to her, even a little rude.

           
 
"I don't
really know, my dear," Freemont replied as if nonplused. "I thought
I'd just pop in sometime." He paused and gave her a slow smile. "I
like surprises. Don't you?"

           
She maintained her composure with an effort. God, she
hated the man!

           
"I'll give you a schedule," she said and
returned his smile.

           
"Don't worry about it, little Emily." He paused
a moment before continuing. "I know your schedule. I know it by
heart."

IX.

           
 
Deirdre allowed herself the luxury of a cab
ride home, partially because she was unusually tired, but mainly out of a
shuddering desire to put herself at a distance from the university and Freemont
Willard as quickly as possible. The insinuation in his tone had panicked her
momentarily. It was his nature to unnerve women, but tonight she was almost
afraid. She had told no one at the university about yesterday's incident at the
market, yet Willard must have sensed the remnants of her alarm like a shark
sensing blood in the water.

The
twilight city flickered by the cab's windows. How many sat huddled behind their
doors, wondering how long their security would last?

           
When the cab drew up in front of her apartment, she paid
the driver and stepped out into the night. Glancing at the darkened windows as
she climbed the stairs, it crossed her mind that this was one more place to be
left behind.

           
No
. She was
through running. Whatever happened, she'd stay.

           
She shut the apartment door behind her and slid the
security chain into place. She had left her manager a note that morning asking
him to install a deadbolt, but it looked as if nothing had been done about it
yet. She switched on a light and examined her surroundings cautiously before
taking even a step.

           
Everything she'd managed to forget today in the midst of
the university's particular brand of sinister events came flooding back to her.
The box containing the dried flower wreath still sat on the coffee table
exactly as she'd left it. She wished she had a fireplace so she could burn the
wretched thing and remember only flames and rising smoke. The thought came and
went. How frustrating, how futile, that only symbolic actions came to mind.

           
Passing footsteps rang on the sidewalk below, then faded
into the night sounds of the neighborhood. Her scalp prickled, as if a hand had
run its fingers through her hair.

           
"Shit!" she whispered.
It was
appalling that even innocent sounds should strike her now as menacing. She'd
never before felt threatened here—until now. It made her angry that her home
had lost its power to comfort. It wasn't fair.

           
The rest of the evening stretched bleakly before her. It
was barely nine o'clock, but she felt exhausted. It seemed too early to go to
bed, though. Maybe she'd put on her nightgown anyway and relax. Maybe even have
a drink. A big one. She wanted to fall straight to sleep tonight, not lie in
bed turning the day over and over in her head as she had the night before.

           
She switched on her computer as she passed by her desk on
the way to the bedroom. Not bothering to turn on the light, she took a long
nightgown from the chest of drawers. Her Jane Austen nightgown, Panda called
it. White and virginal. Part of the costume, she thought grimly. She undressed
quickly in the darkness and pulled the gown over her head. It felt secure and
familiar.

           
Passing by the computer again, she opened her email
connection and continued back toward the kitchen. A bottle of brandy, a gift
last Christmas, was still almost half full. Drinking alone made her feel
self-indulgent, but this seemed a good night for self-indulgence. She poured an
inch of golden liquid into a snifter and carried it back out to the living
room.

Selecting
a CD and setting it to play, she turned off the living room lights. Then she
took her drink and stood at the window, her head full of thoughts. She let the
night and the music wash over her. The brandy was strong and fiery. Good
medicine.