seconds, then pulled away.
Driving, thinking of Carl’s phone quirks, she remembered a night at Max
& Erma's, Carl said he was going to pin a phone pager on her butt. Laughing
that off, he explained, not a loser, never was, never would be, he loved her
madly.
Then, there it was again. That uncanny feeling, a hairline crack in the
porcelain. A fear that someday that crack might lead to a violent end. But no,
that couldn't be, TV news stuff, she wouldn't allow it, she was too intelligent
to allow that to happen. In any case, one thing she had resolved, there would
be no children. To assure that, meticulous with the management of her body,
leery of pills, she relied on cervical caps.
Nearing campus, she gripped the steering wheel with both hands, smiled at
a thought: Nothing in reality ever seems to match up with what you dream or
think or create in your fantasies. Something like that … on with knowledge.
CHAPTER TEN
Just after 10:00 A.M., Rachelle turned into the empty faculty parking
lot next to Bessey Hall and drove to a remote corner where she nudged her Saab
into a slot. Her sentiment, often expressed: Why waste time exercising if
you park close, takes elevators, etc .
Walking to the Bessey Hall entrance, savoring the smell of fresh-cut
grass, she felt something else—a stillness in the air, impending discovery.
She entered the building, made her way up one flight of stairs to the second
floor and walked the short distance to her office. At the entrance, she noticed
that someone had drawn a smiley face on her bumper sticker and written after
the Berlo 'meanings are in people not words' quote: Trouble is, all we gots
is words .
She entered the receptionist area.
Opening mail, her assistant, Kay Jackson looked up, “And a good morning
to you, Dr. Z.”
“Good morning, Kay.”
“You look chipper this morning, must have heard about Elisabeth Sweetwater.”
Rachelle raised an eyebrow.
“She resigned, going to Central Michigan, heading the Communication Department.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“Memo from Dean Rait.” She held the memo up. “Short and sweet.” Rachelle
took it and read.
Kay said, “Going for a jog?”
“Yes, later.” She handed the memo back to Kay. “Who's been writing on my
Berlo sticker?”
Kay looked surprised. “I didn't notice….” Her eyes narrowed and she thumped
her letter opener to her desk, “I bet I know.”
“Who?”
“Some weird student was in here this morning, met me at the door,
looking for permission to take your new course. Undergrad, senior, pushy, needs
some elective hours, left a permission form, his advisor signed it. So did … well
here.” Kay held out the form. “He has all the signatures but yours … didn't
follow instructions.”
Rachelle took the form, scanned it in a glance.
Kay said, “He's a presumptuous asshole.”
Rachelle smiled. “Genius is sometimes disguised as such.”
“Not this guy, he's weird.” Kay circled an index finger at her temple.
“Dressed like a Russian peasant … ratty T-shirt, some kind of army boots,
hair like an uncut lawn. Quoting Robert Frost. Please, Dr. Zannes, don't let
him in. I don't wanna have to deal with him all year. I can see it now, he'll
be in her every time there's a glitch in the cock crows twice.”
“Kay, be nice.” Rachelle entered her office, closed her door, and
flipped on the overhead lights.
The office space about the size of a modest motel room, the beige walls
exuded library stillness. To the right of the entrance sat a modest wood desk
behind which was a blue-fabric-covered chair. Two similar covered straight-back
chairs faced the desk. The floor covered with gray commercial grade carpet,
closed vertical blinds blocked light coming through a window. A round conference
table with four chairs sat next to the window and open shelves on two walls
were replete with journals and books of all shapes and sizes. A third wall
featured oil
Driving, thinking of Carl’s phone quirks, she remembered a night at Max
& Erma's, Carl said he was going to pin a phone pager on her butt. Laughing
that off, he explained, not a loser, never was, never would be, he loved her
madly.
Then, there it was again. That uncanny feeling, a hairline crack in the
porcelain. A fear that someday that crack might lead to a violent end. But no,
that couldn't be, TV news stuff, she wouldn't allow it, she was too intelligent
to allow that to happen. In any case, one thing she had resolved, there would
be no children. To assure that, meticulous with the management of her body,
leery of pills, she relied on cervical caps.
Nearing campus, she gripped the steering wheel with both hands, smiled at
a thought: Nothing in reality ever seems to match up with what you dream or
think or create in your fantasies. Something like that … on with knowledge.
CHAPTER TEN
Just after 10:00 A.M., Rachelle turned into the empty faculty parking
lot next to Bessey Hall and drove to a remote corner where she nudged her Saab
into a slot. Her sentiment, often expressed: Why waste time exercising if
you park close, takes elevators, etc .
Walking to the Bessey Hall entrance, savoring the smell of fresh-cut
grass, she felt something else—a stillness in the air, impending discovery.
She entered the building, made her way up one flight of stairs to the second
floor and walked the short distance to her office. At the entrance, she noticed
that someone had drawn a smiley face on her bumper sticker and written after
the Berlo 'meanings are in people not words' quote: Trouble is, all we gots
is words .
She entered the receptionist area.
Opening mail, her assistant, Kay Jackson looked up, “And a good morning
to you, Dr. Z.”
“Good morning, Kay.”
“You look chipper this morning, must have heard about Elisabeth Sweetwater.”
Rachelle raised an eyebrow.
“She resigned, going to Central Michigan, heading the Communication Department.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“Memo from Dean Rait.” She held the memo up. “Short and sweet.” Rachelle
took it and read.
Kay said, “Going for a jog?”
“Yes, later.” She handed the memo back to Kay. “Who's been writing on my
Berlo sticker?”
Kay looked surprised. “I didn't notice….” Her eyes narrowed and she thumped
her letter opener to her desk, “I bet I know.”
“Who?”
“Some weird student was in here this morning, met me at the door,
looking for permission to take your new course. Undergrad, senior, pushy, needs
some elective hours, left a permission form, his advisor signed it. So did … well
here.” Kay held out the form. “He has all the signatures but yours … didn't
follow instructions.”
Rachelle took the form, scanned it in a glance.
Kay said, “He's a presumptuous asshole.”
Rachelle smiled. “Genius is sometimes disguised as such.”
“Not this guy, he's weird.” Kay circled an index finger at her temple.
“Dressed like a Russian peasant … ratty T-shirt, some kind of army boots,
hair like an uncut lawn. Quoting Robert Frost. Please, Dr. Zannes, don't let
him in. I don't wanna have to deal with him all year. I can see it now, he'll
be in her every time there's a glitch in the cock crows twice.”
“Kay, be nice.” Rachelle entered her office, closed her door, and
flipped on the overhead lights.
The office space about the size of a modest motel room, the beige walls
exuded library stillness. To the right of the entrance sat a modest wood desk
behind which was a blue-fabric-covered chair. Two similar covered straight-back
chairs faced the desk. The floor covered with gray commercial grade carpet,
closed vertical blinds blocked light coming through a window. A round conference
table with four chairs sat next to the window and open shelves on two walls
were replete with journals and books of all shapes and sizes. A third wall
featured oil
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