books on the bookshelves, hanging up a couple of posters on the walls and the back of the door. But after three or four rotations of grad students and other adjuncts, any attempt to make it feel more permanent than it was seemed futile and pathetic. The truth was, he didn’t know if he’d even have a job lined up from one semester to the next. There had been times when he’d been able to get only one section of US History to 1865; when he was lucky, they’d offer him two or three. Only one tenure-track position had come open the whole time he’d been there, and it had gone to a woman who had published four books already. He knew that if he wanted a real academic job, he’d have to go on the job list and be willing to move. He’d have to relocate to Mississippi or Kansas or Florida if he wanted tenure. Benefits. All those things you’re supposed to have by the time you’re thirty with a PhD. But what he’d realized in the last several semesters was that, while he loved history, he really didn’t like teaching it.
Sara was constantly suggesting that he should be willing to look beyond Flagstaff. She could work anywhere, she said. And it was true, as a nurse her options were limitless. California, she said. New England. I don’t care where I am as long as I’m with you. She’d gone as far as to print out real estate offerings in places like Maine and Oregon, places where she knew there were openings at universities. “We could sell the house and have a good down payment,” she said. “It would be an adventure.”
He knew that although Sara had grown up in Arizona, there were times when she was envious of her friends who had left. One of her girlfriends from high school went to Los Angeles after graduation and had made a pretty good career in commercials. They’d see her at least once a month on TV selling Jell-O or laundry detergent or tax software. And her friend Stacy from nursing school had married some guy she met on spring break and moved to Manhattan, where he got a job at a big financial firm. Sara talked about Los Angeles and New York as if they were the most exotic places in the world. “We could move to DC,” she had said. “Wouldn’t it be nice to go back home?”
The only thing that kept Sara from insisting they move was that her family still lived here, her parents just a couple of hours’ drive to Phoenix, her brother in Tucson. And while she claimed to dream of leaving, Ben suspected that he could probably call her bluff at any moment. They had dinner with her parents at least once a month, her mom was always coming up to take her shopping, and her dad showed up every time something needed to be fixed whether or not Ben was able to fix it himself. What would have made her happier than anything was if Ben would agree to move to Phoenix.
Ben sat down at his computer, looked at the desktop photo of one of his office mate’s daughters, and checked his e-mail. He clicked through the excuses and apologies from his students who hadn’t made it to class, through the spam, and then stopped. He clicked on the first e-mail Shadi had sent and nervously clicked REPLY.
Can you meet me for lunch today at Café Espress? Around 1:00? he typed and looked around the office guiltily, as though someone might be peering over his shoulder.
Within moments, she responded. I’ll be there.
Café Espress on San Francisco is one of the few places in town where you can actually get something healthy to eat. Organic produce, sandwiches on crunchy homemade bread piled high with sprouts. Sun tea. Punks and hippies. Sara called it Café Patchouli. He’d picked it because it was a place that Sara never went.
Shadi was already there, sitting at a table in the window; she waved and motioned for him to come join her. He thought about being on display like this, like a clothing store mannequin or a sports shop kayak. He thought about who might see him and what they might say.
The warm air enveloped him as the door
Sara was constantly suggesting that he should be willing to look beyond Flagstaff. She could work anywhere, she said. And it was true, as a nurse her options were limitless. California, she said. New England. I don’t care where I am as long as I’m with you. She’d gone as far as to print out real estate offerings in places like Maine and Oregon, places where she knew there were openings at universities. “We could sell the house and have a good down payment,” she said. “It would be an adventure.”
He knew that although Sara had grown up in Arizona, there were times when she was envious of her friends who had left. One of her girlfriends from high school went to Los Angeles after graduation and had made a pretty good career in commercials. They’d see her at least once a month on TV selling Jell-O or laundry detergent or tax software. And her friend Stacy from nursing school had married some guy she met on spring break and moved to Manhattan, where he got a job at a big financial firm. Sara talked about Los Angeles and New York as if they were the most exotic places in the world. “We could move to DC,” she had said. “Wouldn’t it be nice to go back home?”
The only thing that kept Sara from insisting they move was that her family still lived here, her parents just a couple of hours’ drive to Phoenix, her brother in Tucson. And while she claimed to dream of leaving, Ben suspected that he could probably call her bluff at any moment. They had dinner with her parents at least once a month, her mom was always coming up to take her shopping, and her dad showed up every time something needed to be fixed whether or not Ben was able to fix it himself. What would have made her happier than anything was if Ben would agree to move to Phoenix.
Ben sat down at his computer, looked at the desktop photo of one of his office mate’s daughters, and checked his e-mail. He clicked through the excuses and apologies from his students who hadn’t made it to class, through the spam, and then stopped. He clicked on the first e-mail Shadi had sent and nervously clicked REPLY.
Can you meet me for lunch today at Café Espress? Around 1:00? he typed and looked around the office guiltily, as though someone might be peering over his shoulder.
Within moments, she responded. I’ll be there.
Café Espress on San Francisco is one of the few places in town where you can actually get something healthy to eat. Organic produce, sandwiches on crunchy homemade bread piled high with sprouts. Sun tea. Punks and hippies. Sara called it Café Patchouli. He’d picked it because it was a place that Sara never went.
Shadi was already there, sitting at a table in the window; she waved and motioned for him to come join her. He thought about being on display like this, like a clothing store mannequin or a sports shop kayak. He thought about who might see him and what they might say.
The warm air enveloped him as the door
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