to sober myself for the morning, I do not. On the walk back to campus I hear the bells in the clock tower tolling, signaling that it is ten o’clock and the end of study hall.
The students at Lancaster have a half hour between the end of study hall and check-in with their dorm parent in preparation for lights-out at eleven. Many of them take advantage of this small window of freedom by gathering in the student union, or taking walks with their boyfriend or girlfriend. Coming onto the main walks of campus, I encounter many such students, and they greet me cheerily, with a “Hello, Mr. Winthrop,” but I just barrel along, my head full of wine, my feet unsteady as I trudge.
It is a beautiful night. Unseasonably warm, and above the flatlands of the campus that border the river the stars look close enough to touch. At one point I stop just to drink in the sky. I am on the central path that runs from the girls’ dorms up to the main campus. I am so fixated on the magnificence of the sky that I do not see the couple moving hurriedly toward me until they are on top of me, and I hear the girl say, “Keep going.”
But the boy says, “Good evening, Mr. Winthrop,” and as he does I pivot my head toward them and watch as they pass me. To my great horror, the girl is Betsy Pappas, her arm locked in the crooked arm of Russell Hurley, the tall new basketball star. He gives me a great cocky smile, as if he knows all about me and Betsy.
“Hey,” I say, somewhat drunkenly, but they are moving swiftly toward the main campus. I say it again, more of a growl than actual words, but their young legs have already taken them out of range. I can no longer see them. Then, for a moment, near the road, the yellow light of a streetlamp picks up their silhouette. I can see his tall figure, and the shorter one next to him. In the black night it is hard to tell where he ends and she begins.
I wake with a huge head. A pounding headache from all the wine. Lying in bed, I recall a shameful memory from the night before. I returned to the house, drunk and full of misplaced aggression from seeing Betsy with Mr. Basketball, to find Elizabeth curled up in the fetal position on her bed, her eyes open and staring blankly at the wall. She did not look up when I came into the room. I stood there, swaying slightly, and still she did not look up at me. It occurred to me that the catatonia she had been flirting with for months had finally taken hold, and rather than speak to her softly, try to bring her out, try to bring my wife back, I instead spoke to her in anger.
“Are you going to spend your life in this bed? Is that what you are now? It’s very nineteenth century, Elizabeth. You know that, don’t you? Should I fetch the doctor to look in on your consumption?”
She glanced up at me briefly, then back to the wall.
“You have nothing to say?” I ask.
This finally gets her attention. “No, it’s you who has nothing to say,” she says.
“Oh, is that right?” I say, eager to engage. “If you haven’t noticed, I have a school to run. Not that you would know anything about that. There was a time when that was important to you, though it has been so long I can hardly remember.”
“Go to sleep, Arthur.”
I stomped my foot. “Do not tell me what to do. I am not a child. Speak to me, Elizabeth.”
“Go to sleep,” she says again, and perhaps because she refuses to look up at me, or perhaps because even in my drunkenness I see something in the emptiness of her eyes, something that says I will not reach her, not this night, anyway, I give up.
I go to the guest room and pass out with my clothes on. And this is how I wake: starfished in my suit on top of the covers, mouth dry, full of shame.
I muddle through a seven-hour board meeting, and there are times I think I will not make it. I am soupy with hangover, and when I present my report to the board—an hour of straight talking—it is as if someone else were speaking. My words come
The students at Lancaster have a half hour between the end of study hall and check-in with their dorm parent in preparation for lights-out at eleven. Many of them take advantage of this small window of freedom by gathering in the student union, or taking walks with their boyfriend or girlfriend. Coming onto the main walks of campus, I encounter many such students, and they greet me cheerily, with a “Hello, Mr. Winthrop,” but I just barrel along, my head full of wine, my feet unsteady as I trudge.
It is a beautiful night. Unseasonably warm, and above the flatlands of the campus that border the river the stars look close enough to touch. At one point I stop just to drink in the sky. I am on the central path that runs from the girls’ dorms up to the main campus. I am so fixated on the magnificence of the sky that I do not see the couple moving hurriedly toward me until they are on top of me, and I hear the girl say, “Keep going.”
But the boy says, “Good evening, Mr. Winthrop,” and as he does I pivot my head toward them and watch as they pass me. To my great horror, the girl is Betsy Pappas, her arm locked in the crooked arm of Russell Hurley, the tall new basketball star. He gives me a great cocky smile, as if he knows all about me and Betsy.
“Hey,” I say, somewhat drunkenly, but they are moving swiftly toward the main campus. I say it again, more of a growl than actual words, but their young legs have already taken them out of range. I can no longer see them. Then, for a moment, near the road, the yellow light of a streetlamp picks up their silhouette. I can see his tall figure, and the shorter one next to him. In the black night it is hard to tell where he ends and she begins.
I wake with a huge head. A pounding headache from all the wine. Lying in bed, I recall a shameful memory from the night before. I returned to the house, drunk and full of misplaced aggression from seeing Betsy with Mr. Basketball, to find Elizabeth curled up in the fetal position on her bed, her eyes open and staring blankly at the wall. She did not look up when I came into the room. I stood there, swaying slightly, and still she did not look up at me. It occurred to me that the catatonia she had been flirting with for months had finally taken hold, and rather than speak to her softly, try to bring her out, try to bring my wife back, I instead spoke to her in anger.
“Are you going to spend your life in this bed? Is that what you are now? It’s very nineteenth century, Elizabeth. You know that, don’t you? Should I fetch the doctor to look in on your consumption?”
She glanced up at me briefly, then back to the wall.
“You have nothing to say?” I ask.
This finally gets her attention. “No, it’s you who has nothing to say,” she says.
“Oh, is that right?” I say, eager to engage. “If you haven’t noticed, I have a school to run. Not that you would know anything about that. There was a time when that was important to you, though it has been so long I can hardly remember.”
“Go to sleep, Arthur.”
I stomped my foot. “Do not tell me what to do. I am not a child. Speak to me, Elizabeth.”
“Go to sleep,” she says again, and perhaps because she refuses to look up at me, or perhaps because even in my drunkenness I see something in the emptiness of her eyes, something that says I will not reach her, not this night, anyway, I give up.
I go to the guest room and pass out with my clothes on. And this is how I wake: starfished in my suit on top of the covers, mouth dry, full of shame.
I muddle through a seven-hour board meeting, and there are times I think I will not make it. I am soupy with hangover, and when I present my report to the board—an hour of straight talking—it is as if someone else were speaking. My words come
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