thepoems. I’m looking forward to 1999. I expect good things. God bless, Sam.”
Poems? What poems? She’d already warned JC about getting close to Sam. Now it seemed she had sound reasons for concern. Her hand was trembling. And suddenly she wanted to be in his bed, even if alone.
The cat was on the bed, a splash of sprawled purity against the navy blue duvet. Effie shooed him from the room and closed the door behind him. Then she picked up the bedside photo of herself, searching once again for what made it special to JC. It had been taken about five years earlier, during a time of emotional drift when even the university had become a source of insecurity and disappointment, mostly because of the mental collapse of the man who headed her department. But Effie, at the time, was also being noticed for her study of Celtic antiquity interpreted through art forms,
The Penannular Circle and the Celtic Ethos of Uncertainty
. Her work had been well received, not just by the Celtic crowd, but by Sociology as well. And when the head of her department died, she got his job. She had the doctorate in history, but it helped that she was female, an attractive redhead who could have stepped straight out of a Georgian lithograph, a fluent native speaker of the Gaelic language and Canadian to boot.
There was a chill in the bedroom. She found a pair of JC’s sweatpants in a bottom drawer. Then a T-shirt. Before undressing, she leaned close to the full-length mirror on the closet door and, again, studied her face for signs of the deterioration that she dreaded now that she’d begun the headlong sprint toward sixty.
The thin, soft skin below her eyes was only mildly crinkled. Her neck was smooth, with only the slightest sagging between her chin and throat. She stripped quickly, then clambered into thesweatpants and noted with some satisfaction that her legs were just as long as his; there was noticeable thickening at waist and hips, but her thighs were still compact from her energetic daily walks to class. Sliding the T-shirt over her head, she paused for just a moment to observe that, with upraised arms, her breasts were those of someone half her age, well formed and still relatively firm. Many years before, when she had made a self-deprecating comment to Sextus about their size, he’d laughed and reassured her that one day she’d be grateful. “They’re long-term assets,” he had told her. “They’ll be outstanding over the long haul, not sitting on your lap like sleepy puppies when you’re old and fat.”
Crude, she now thought, though she still smiled at the memory.
And then she was in JC’s bed, but it was terrible Sextus on her mind as she drifted off to sleep.
They stopped somewhere in Quebec because Sextus said he was hungry. He needed a sit-down meal. They’d been living on soda pop and chips and chocolate bars all day and were a little edgy. They were in Rivière-du-Loup. The waitress couldn’t speak English, and Sextus struggled unimpressively in French. “You must be Lou,” he joked. The waitress was confused. “Lou from River du Lou.” She didn’t get it, so he ordered. “Deux Cinquante,” he said, holding up two fingers. “Et deux poulet chaud.” Effie wasn’t sure what he’d asked for, but they got hot chicken sandwiches and beer
.
Looking out the window, he said, “I don’t think I could handle it if I thought that you were feeling guilty about anything.”
“What’s wrong with guilt?” she asked
.
“Guilt is poison,” he said
.
“Guilt is normal,” she replied. “Bitterness is poison.”
He dredged a french fry through congealing gravy. “I wonder what your father thinks,” he said
.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
She woke up vaguely angry, a half-remembered dream producing acid in her gut like the half-absorbed heavy nightcap she now frequently consumed, against her better judgment, to help her sleep. Sleep had become an issue. Also dreams that left her troubled. Lying
Poems? What poems? She’d already warned JC about getting close to Sam. Now it seemed she had sound reasons for concern. Her hand was trembling. And suddenly she wanted to be in his bed, even if alone.
The cat was on the bed, a splash of sprawled purity against the navy blue duvet. Effie shooed him from the room and closed the door behind him. Then she picked up the bedside photo of herself, searching once again for what made it special to JC. It had been taken about five years earlier, during a time of emotional drift when even the university had become a source of insecurity and disappointment, mostly because of the mental collapse of the man who headed her department. But Effie, at the time, was also being noticed for her study of Celtic antiquity interpreted through art forms,
The Penannular Circle and the Celtic Ethos of Uncertainty
. Her work had been well received, not just by the Celtic crowd, but by Sociology as well. And when the head of her department died, she got his job. She had the doctorate in history, but it helped that she was female, an attractive redhead who could have stepped straight out of a Georgian lithograph, a fluent native speaker of the Gaelic language and Canadian to boot.
There was a chill in the bedroom. She found a pair of JC’s sweatpants in a bottom drawer. Then a T-shirt. Before undressing, she leaned close to the full-length mirror on the closet door and, again, studied her face for signs of the deterioration that she dreaded now that she’d begun the headlong sprint toward sixty.
The thin, soft skin below her eyes was only mildly crinkled. Her neck was smooth, with only the slightest sagging between her chin and throat. She stripped quickly, then clambered into thesweatpants and noted with some satisfaction that her legs were just as long as his; there was noticeable thickening at waist and hips, but her thighs were still compact from her energetic daily walks to class. Sliding the T-shirt over her head, she paused for just a moment to observe that, with upraised arms, her breasts were those of someone half her age, well formed and still relatively firm. Many years before, when she had made a self-deprecating comment to Sextus about their size, he’d laughed and reassured her that one day she’d be grateful. “They’re long-term assets,” he had told her. “They’ll be outstanding over the long haul, not sitting on your lap like sleepy puppies when you’re old and fat.”
Crude, she now thought, though she still smiled at the memory.
And then she was in JC’s bed, but it was terrible Sextus on her mind as she drifted off to sleep.
They stopped somewhere in Quebec because Sextus said he was hungry. He needed a sit-down meal. They’d been living on soda pop and chips and chocolate bars all day and were a little edgy. They were in Rivière-du-Loup. The waitress couldn’t speak English, and Sextus struggled unimpressively in French. “You must be Lou,” he joked. The waitress was confused. “Lou from River du Lou.” She didn’t get it, so he ordered. “Deux Cinquante,” he said, holding up two fingers. “Et deux poulet chaud.” Effie wasn’t sure what he’d asked for, but they got hot chicken sandwiches and beer
.
Looking out the window, he said, “I don’t think I could handle it if I thought that you were feeling guilty about anything.”
“What’s wrong with guilt?” she asked
.
“Guilt is poison,” he said
.
“Guilt is normal,” she replied. “Bitterness is poison.”
He dredged a french fry through congealing gravy. “I wonder what your father thinks,” he said
.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
She woke up vaguely angry, a half-remembered dream producing acid in her gut like the half-absorbed heavy nightcap she now frequently consumed, against her better judgment, to help her sleep. Sleep had become an issue. Also dreams that left her troubled. Lying
Similar Books
