my crooked-legged wooden table, on which decades of sticky beer and ashes clog the jagged contours of sad old carved declarations of love and hate, I take stock of the crowd. I am strongly tempted to walk out.
Just then I see Delia, the director of the rape crisis center, at the far end of the room with a group of women—a rare sight at Ivan’s. She’s wearing jeans and a black leather jacket, and looks effortlessly bad-assed. She folds over the table and breaks; with a satisfying smack, the balls scatter around the table. Two rattle into pockets. I have never mastered the break.
I had said I would call Delia, and then I didn’t. I completely forgot about it. Seeing her again, though, I feel the same urge to connect, or try to. It’s as if I’m once again a lonely little girl on the playground, friendless. I check on Brad, who is neatly arranging nine balls in a tight diamond; Sean hovers nearby. That settles it. I start toward Delia, leaving my beer behind.
She demolishes her opponent in no time and then, spotting me among the spectators, separates herself from her cluster of companions. “Not exactly a faculty hangout,” she greets me.
“That’s what I like about it. I come here with a colleague sometimes.” I nod in Brad’s direction. “At the moment, though, I need to get away from the kid he’s playing with.”
“I can see how you might,” she says, after a mere glance at Sean. I’m grateful that she’s so quick to pick up on the fact that there’s something off about him, something palpably wrong. I allow myself to feel vindicated. And then her eyes dart back in his direction and linger for a second, narrowing. She’s just remembered him from somewhere, and the association is not a pleasant one. Considering her line of work, this seems like cause for concern.
“Do you know him?” I demand. “Where do you know him from? Because I have a bad feeling—”
She cuts me off. “It’s nothing,” she says. “Never mind. I shouldn’t have said anything.” I’m not reassured, not in the least. It seems less likely that she isn’t sure of her memory than that some scruple prevents her from telling me what she knows. A confidentiality agreement? My mind begins to construct scenarios in which Delia could have encountered Sean, producing an impromptu series of brief horror movies. “If you know something, I really wish you’d tell me,” I press, my voice low.
Delia raises a hand to her friends, waves her index finger to indicate that she just needs a minute. It isn’t rude, exactly, but I feel dismissed. “No,” she says. “Really. It’s nothing.”
Her friends are eyeing me askance. They look to me like women from the center—volunteers or victims, it’s hard to tell. Definitely not sorority girls. What do I look like in their eyes? Hapless, dowdy movie professors flicker across my mind. Pop culture isn’t kind to academics.
I take the hint. “Anyway, I just came over to say hi. Listen, do you still want to have coffee sometime?” I hear the note of urgency that has crept into my voice. She knows something about Sean. She is someone in whom I might confide, at least in a limited and strictly unofficial way—someone who might even have useful advice.
“You have my number, right? Call me, if you’re serious.” She turns away, and I cross the room to rejoin Brad. As a child I used to imagine that there was some sort of force field around me, deflecting people; that feeling returns as I make my way through the crowded room with peculiar ease.
I reach Brad and slip my elbow through his. “Let’s go,” I say.
What was Delia thinking when she looked at Sean?
“But I’m winning.” Brad waves his cue in the direction of the table.
“Of course you are.” I retrieve my abandoned beer and down the last swallow. “I’ll take you out for pizza.” I let him go make his excuses to Sean and catch the dark look my student sends my way. Brad is still pulling his gloves on and
Just then I see Delia, the director of the rape crisis center, at the far end of the room with a group of women—a rare sight at Ivan’s. She’s wearing jeans and a black leather jacket, and looks effortlessly bad-assed. She folds over the table and breaks; with a satisfying smack, the balls scatter around the table. Two rattle into pockets. I have never mastered the break.
I had said I would call Delia, and then I didn’t. I completely forgot about it. Seeing her again, though, I feel the same urge to connect, or try to. It’s as if I’m once again a lonely little girl on the playground, friendless. I check on Brad, who is neatly arranging nine balls in a tight diamond; Sean hovers nearby. That settles it. I start toward Delia, leaving my beer behind.
She demolishes her opponent in no time and then, spotting me among the spectators, separates herself from her cluster of companions. “Not exactly a faculty hangout,” she greets me.
“That’s what I like about it. I come here with a colleague sometimes.” I nod in Brad’s direction. “At the moment, though, I need to get away from the kid he’s playing with.”
“I can see how you might,” she says, after a mere glance at Sean. I’m grateful that she’s so quick to pick up on the fact that there’s something off about him, something palpably wrong. I allow myself to feel vindicated. And then her eyes dart back in his direction and linger for a second, narrowing. She’s just remembered him from somewhere, and the association is not a pleasant one. Considering her line of work, this seems like cause for concern.
“Do you know him?” I demand. “Where do you know him from? Because I have a bad feeling—”
She cuts me off. “It’s nothing,” she says. “Never mind. I shouldn’t have said anything.” I’m not reassured, not in the least. It seems less likely that she isn’t sure of her memory than that some scruple prevents her from telling me what she knows. A confidentiality agreement? My mind begins to construct scenarios in which Delia could have encountered Sean, producing an impromptu series of brief horror movies. “If you know something, I really wish you’d tell me,” I press, my voice low.
Delia raises a hand to her friends, waves her index finger to indicate that she just needs a minute. It isn’t rude, exactly, but I feel dismissed. “No,” she says. “Really. It’s nothing.”
Her friends are eyeing me askance. They look to me like women from the center—volunteers or victims, it’s hard to tell. Definitely not sorority girls. What do I look like in their eyes? Hapless, dowdy movie professors flicker across my mind. Pop culture isn’t kind to academics.
I take the hint. “Anyway, I just came over to say hi. Listen, do you still want to have coffee sometime?” I hear the note of urgency that has crept into my voice. She knows something about Sean. She is someone in whom I might confide, at least in a limited and strictly unofficial way—someone who might even have useful advice.
“You have my number, right? Call me, if you’re serious.” She turns away, and I cross the room to rejoin Brad. As a child I used to imagine that there was some sort of force field around me, deflecting people; that feeling returns as I make my way through the crowded room with peculiar ease.
I reach Brad and slip my elbow through his. “Let’s go,” I say.
What was Delia thinking when she looked at Sean?
“But I’m winning.” Brad waves his cue in the direction of the table.
“Of course you are.” I retrieve my abandoned beer and down the last swallow. “I’ll take you out for pizza.” I let him go make his excuses to Sean and catch the dark look my student sends my way. Brad is still pulling his gloves on and
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