well together for a time. She appreciated his passion for his work—he was so definite, so confident in his opinions. Surely some of that would rub off on her! And though he would never admit it to anyone but her, he secretly admired her disdain for the program, her unwillingness to play the game. It helped him keep perspective when the pressure got too much. They were constantly arguing and making up, which Kathryn mistook for a good sign. After all, her parents had never fought, never so much as raised their voices, and look at what happened to them.
Paul’s parents, WASPs from Main Line Philadelphia, were cordial but stiff with Kathryn, and her parents didn’t know what to make of Paul. “Are you sure he’s not gay?” her mother whispered worriedly after meeting himfor the first time. “He wears those odd shoes. And remember, you thought Will was straight, too.” “I think I’d know by now,” Kathryn said, laughing, but the question kept her up at night. He could be; how would she know? When she finally asked him, he took the question more seriously than she would have liked. “I’ve given it a lot of thought,” he said, “and I can honestly say that no, I don’t think I am.”
By now, despite her misgivings, Kathryn had grown to love him. When he took her hiking at Rockfish Gap and presented her with his grandmother’s engagement ring, she didn’t hesitate to say yes. They were married a year to the day after they met, in a tiny stone chapel on the edge of campus, in the middle of a rainstorm. Kathryn wore a long white vintage dress and pearls; he wore a tuxedo he owned and a bow tie made of kente cloth. At the front of the church on the right sat Paul’s nuclear family; Kathryn’s mother and brother, Josh, sat at the front on the left, and her father and stepmother sat in the middle. A scraggly bunch of their grad-school friends, bearded and bespectacled and pale, filled the middle pews. Rolling thunder drowned out their vows.
After the ceremony they raced across the wet lawn through pouring rain with tux coats over their heads toward the cars. Josh rode to the restaurant with Paul’s siblings, Maura and George.
Paul and Kathryn, following behind them in Paul’s ten-year-old Saab, watched Maura pull out a joint and hand it to Josh over the seat. “They’re smoking pot,” Kathryn said, incredulous.
Paul nodded.
“I can’t believe it.”
“They’re celebrating, Kat.” He turned to look at her, and she noticed that his eyes were glazed and red.
“Oh, my God,” she said. “You’re high.”
He shrugged and put his hand on her knee. She pulled away. “Oh, c’mon, Kat. Lighten up,” he said.
Kathryn dropped out of the program six months later, after abandoning a master’s thesis on the topic of “[Gyn]Ecological [W]Rites of Spring: Edna Pontellier’s Rude Awakening.” Paul made the cut three monthslater and headed off into the thickets of the Ph.D. program, exploring D. H. Lawrence and Zola and their depiction of miners as working-class heroes. His working title, he joked, was “Mining the Great Minds’ Mines.”
As Paul’s research took him deeper beneath the surface, Kathryn found herself gliding contentedly along the top. She’d been writing occasional articles for the News-Sentinel, a weekly newspaper run out of a tiny office in the basement of a warehouse, and when she quit the program they asked her to edit the arts page full-time. The job didn’t pay much, but it was enough to live comfortably on and start paying off her student loans. Her life quickly settled into a pleasant routine. She went to exhibits and openings, poetry readings, play performances. She bought fresh vegetables at the farmer’s market on Wednesdays and warm bread at the gourmet food and wine shop on Market Street in the afternoons. As she got to know the town beyond the university, she found that much of the population consisted of grad-school dropouts like herself who had come to Charlottesville for an
Paul’s parents, WASPs from Main Line Philadelphia, were cordial but stiff with Kathryn, and her parents didn’t know what to make of Paul. “Are you sure he’s not gay?” her mother whispered worriedly after meeting himfor the first time. “He wears those odd shoes. And remember, you thought Will was straight, too.” “I think I’d know by now,” Kathryn said, laughing, but the question kept her up at night. He could be; how would she know? When she finally asked him, he took the question more seriously than she would have liked. “I’ve given it a lot of thought,” he said, “and I can honestly say that no, I don’t think I am.”
By now, despite her misgivings, Kathryn had grown to love him. When he took her hiking at Rockfish Gap and presented her with his grandmother’s engagement ring, she didn’t hesitate to say yes. They were married a year to the day after they met, in a tiny stone chapel on the edge of campus, in the middle of a rainstorm. Kathryn wore a long white vintage dress and pearls; he wore a tuxedo he owned and a bow tie made of kente cloth. At the front of the church on the right sat Paul’s nuclear family; Kathryn’s mother and brother, Josh, sat at the front on the left, and her father and stepmother sat in the middle. A scraggly bunch of their grad-school friends, bearded and bespectacled and pale, filled the middle pews. Rolling thunder drowned out their vows.
After the ceremony they raced across the wet lawn through pouring rain with tux coats over their heads toward the cars. Josh rode to the restaurant with Paul’s siblings, Maura and George.
Paul and Kathryn, following behind them in Paul’s ten-year-old Saab, watched Maura pull out a joint and hand it to Josh over the seat. “They’re smoking pot,” Kathryn said, incredulous.
Paul nodded.
“I can’t believe it.”
“They’re celebrating, Kat.” He turned to look at her, and she noticed that his eyes were glazed and red.
“Oh, my God,” she said. “You’re high.”
He shrugged and put his hand on her knee. She pulled away. “Oh, c’mon, Kat. Lighten up,” he said.
Kathryn dropped out of the program six months later, after abandoning a master’s thesis on the topic of “[Gyn]Ecological [W]Rites of Spring: Edna Pontellier’s Rude Awakening.” Paul made the cut three monthslater and headed off into the thickets of the Ph.D. program, exploring D. H. Lawrence and Zola and their depiction of miners as working-class heroes. His working title, he joked, was “Mining the Great Minds’ Mines.”
As Paul’s research took him deeper beneath the surface, Kathryn found herself gliding contentedly along the top. She’d been writing occasional articles for the News-Sentinel, a weekly newspaper run out of a tiny office in the basement of a warehouse, and when she quit the program they asked her to edit the arts page full-time. The job didn’t pay much, but it was enough to live comfortably on and start paying off her student loans. Her life quickly settled into a pleasant routine. She went to exhibits and openings, poetry readings, play performances. She bought fresh vegetables at the farmer’s market on Wednesdays and warm bread at the gourmet food and wine shop on Market Street in the afternoons. As she got to know the town beyond the university, she found that much of the population consisted of grad-school dropouts like herself who had come to Charlottesville for an
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