writer: Even with the eyes closed, you could see.
* * *
During his office hours the following week, sitting on the bench in the hallway, I waited with nearly rabid anticipation. Someone was already in there; I could hear the dueling murmurs of a male voice and a female one, punctuated by an occasional shriek of female hilarity, all of which increased my annoyance. Was there a cocktail party going on? Were drinks being served, and damp little sandwiches? Finally the door opened and Abigail Brenner, one of the other students from the class, emerged, holding her tedious story about her grandmother’s recent death from double pneumonia, which she had been reworking pointlessly since the first day of class. From within the office, I could see Castleman at his desk; his jacket was off, and he was in his shirtsleeves and tie.
“Well, hello there, Miss Ames,” he said, finally realizing I was there.
“Hello, Professor Castleman,” I said, and I sat across from him on a wooden chair. He held my new story in his hand, the one I’d left in his department mailbox.
“So. Your story.” He looked at it serenely. There were almost no markings on it, no red-pen hieroglyphics. “I’ve read this twice,” he said, “and frankly, both times I’ve found it to be wonderful.”
Did he say this about everyone’s story? Had he even said it about Abigail Brenner’s dumb story about her grandmother? I didn’t think so. It was my story that was good. I had written it for him, specifically wanting to please him, and apparently I’d succeeded.
“Thank you,” I said quietly, not meeting his eyes.
“You barely know what I’m talking about now, am I right?” he asked me. “You have no conception of how good you are. I love that about you, Miss Ames; it’s a very touching quality. Please don’t change.”
I nodded, embarrassed, and I understood that this was how he wanted to see me: unusual but innocent, and I found that I didn’t mind appearing this way. Maybe, I thought, it was even true.
“Miss Ames, Miss Ames,” he said, smiling. “What am I going to do with you?”
I smiled back, beginning to feel at ease in this strange new role. “As my friend Laura would say,” I told him, “maybe you should pickle me.”
Castleman folded his hands behind his head. “Well,” he said slowly, “maybe your friend Laura has a point.” Then the playful moment passed and we got to work, leaning together over my story. There was walnut on his breath, I noticed. “ ‘The trees bent back, as if in apprehension,’ ” he read aloud. He made a bunched-up face, as though he’d eaten a bad nut. “I don’t think so. Kind of phony, don’t you think? You’re better than that.”
“Well, yeah, I wasn’t sure about that line,” I said, and all of a sudden I knew it to be the worst line ever written in the history of student assignments.
“You got carried away with your own voice there,” Castleman said. “I did that myself when I was an undergraduate. Of course, unlike you, I had no reason to get carried away.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’re a good writer,” I assured him.
“I don’t know what I am, but I’m certainly not one of the naturals,” he said. “I’m the type that sits there slaving away all day and thinking someone will give me credit for effort. But here’s an important thing to remember, Miss Ames: In life, no one gives you credit for effort.”
There was a knock on the door, and Castleman quickly closed my short story, then said, “So when you’re sitting up late at night agonizing over your work, just know that you have an admirer.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“And for God’s sake,” he said, “get rid of those apprehensive trees.”
I laughed in what I hoped was a knowing way, and then stood, taking the story from him. Our hands briefly touched, knuckle to knuckle.
“Come in!” he called out, and the door swung open and Susan Whittle, the redheaded girl from class, entered.
* * *
During his office hours the following week, sitting on the bench in the hallway, I waited with nearly rabid anticipation. Someone was already in there; I could hear the dueling murmurs of a male voice and a female one, punctuated by an occasional shriek of female hilarity, all of which increased my annoyance. Was there a cocktail party going on? Were drinks being served, and damp little sandwiches? Finally the door opened and Abigail Brenner, one of the other students from the class, emerged, holding her tedious story about her grandmother’s recent death from double pneumonia, which she had been reworking pointlessly since the first day of class. From within the office, I could see Castleman at his desk; his jacket was off, and he was in his shirtsleeves and tie.
“Well, hello there, Miss Ames,” he said, finally realizing I was there.
“Hello, Professor Castleman,” I said, and I sat across from him on a wooden chair. He held my new story in his hand, the one I’d left in his department mailbox.
“So. Your story.” He looked at it serenely. There were almost no markings on it, no red-pen hieroglyphics. “I’ve read this twice,” he said, “and frankly, both times I’ve found it to be wonderful.”
Did he say this about everyone’s story? Had he even said it about Abigail Brenner’s dumb story about her grandmother? I didn’t think so. It was my story that was good. I had written it for him, specifically wanting to please him, and apparently I’d succeeded.
“Thank you,” I said quietly, not meeting his eyes.
“You barely know what I’m talking about now, am I right?” he asked me. “You have no conception of how good you are. I love that about you, Miss Ames; it’s a very touching quality. Please don’t change.”
I nodded, embarrassed, and I understood that this was how he wanted to see me: unusual but innocent, and I found that I didn’t mind appearing this way. Maybe, I thought, it was even true.
“Miss Ames, Miss Ames,” he said, smiling. “What am I going to do with you?”
I smiled back, beginning to feel at ease in this strange new role. “As my friend Laura would say,” I told him, “maybe you should pickle me.”
Castleman folded his hands behind his head. “Well,” he said slowly, “maybe your friend Laura has a point.” Then the playful moment passed and we got to work, leaning together over my story. There was walnut on his breath, I noticed. “ ‘The trees bent back, as if in apprehension,’ ” he read aloud. He made a bunched-up face, as though he’d eaten a bad nut. “I don’t think so. Kind of phony, don’t you think? You’re better than that.”
“Well, yeah, I wasn’t sure about that line,” I said, and all of a sudden I knew it to be the worst line ever written in the history of student assignments.
“You got carried away with your own voice there,” Castleman said. “I did that myself when I was an undergraduate. Of course, unlike you, I had no reason to get carried away.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’re a good writer,” I assured him.
“I don’t know what I am, but I’m certainly not one of the naturals,” he said. “I’m the type that sits there slaving away all day and thinking someone will give me credit for effort. But here’s an important thing to remember, Miss Ames: In life, no one gives you credit for effort.”
There was a knock on the door, and Castleman quickly closed my short story, then said, “So when you’re sitting up late at night agonizing over your work, just know that you have an admirer.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“And for God’s sake,” he said, “get rid of those apprehensive trees.”
I laughed in what I hoped was a knowing way, and then stood, taking the story from him. Our hands briefly touched, knuckle to knuckle.
“Come in!” he called out, and the door swung open and Susan Whittle, the redheaded girl from class, entered.
Similar Books
