Chapter 12
12
Alice
Meet him after class. Wait until the room has emptied out. It smells like erasers and sweat, wool and wood polish. Pretend to be organizing your notes, collecting a pen off the floor, clasping and reclasping an earring. Remember that line he wrote in his first novel about women’s ears: like stray treasures, crinkled and pink.
Stand close when he’s looking down. Speak more quietly because your mother says that men, like kittens, respond to whispers. Tell him you need help with narrative arc. Somehow, whenever you write, time stands still. Look for cues. He is putting books into his briefcase. He is checking his watch. There are no cues yet. Take note.
Okay, he says. Come on up.
Carry your coat to his office. Don’t put it on. Walk in front of him when he holds out his arm. Ladies first. Be aware of the defining angles of your back, your neck. He’s behind you. Wear the Chanel No. 5 that your mother left on your nightstand. Every woman needs this, she’d said as she turned the bottle to face out. You knew she was talking about men.
Steady your breath as he unlocks the door, goes in, dumps his stuff on the desk. Wait for him to get organized, settled. You want him to feel not rushed.
Try not to obsess—it will only jack up your speaking voice, run you around in circles. Still, he is the reason you are here. Mostly, he is the reason you write. There were other schools that you could have gone to. There are other writers you love. But him. When you read his work, again and again, you felt like a character in it. Like he writes from his heart to yours directly. In a way, you have been writing back to him since his first book came out, five or six years ago—you were working next door to the bookstore—when you were just getting into literature, and it was just beginning to save your life. In a way, it is as though he understands you better than anyone. And you him. And the suburbs. And your mother.
Think, for a moment, about cinema and drama. How nothing, in real life, has ever measured up. It is never as good as you imagined it. Until him. Breathe out. Look up and then down again with just your eyes. It is all too much pressure and also just enough.
Then start by saying something sincere about his body of work. You’ve read everything—the novels, stories in magazines, the small book of poetry. You loved that too. Tell him—and be conversational—that he’s changed your mind about moths, semicolons, even Scarsdale, where you’re from. Also, about getting old. He laughs with his mouth closed, without looking up (also better than you imagined). You didn’t mean to joke. But okay.
Maybe the flattery is too much.
Change tack then. Tell him about O’Connor. Or maybe Carver. Tell him the other work you have enjoyed so far, that you’ve sped through, that has made sense to you in terms of plot. Thank him for that. He’s opened up a whole world of fiction, and you want him to know, you say. This class is so important to you. Still, he hasn’t looked your way.
Realize that it wasn’t the right time for any of it. A lost opportunity. Keep the faith.
Notice that he’s flipping through someone else’s story. He lands on a middle page and smiles. Good, he whispers. Cameron’s? Terry’s? Ignore the urge to tell him that they’re not serious. They’re taking this class for credit. You’ve been writing your whole life. Wonder if he knows that. Wonder how to get it across without being sentimental. Your mother has told you not to be too much.
I have some specific questions, you say. Pull up a chair not across from but next to him. Cross your legs. You are a forearm’s distance apart. Joke: Sorry! Is this too close? Make sure your laugh isn’t spitty at all. Hold your voice up from the bottom. It makes you sound more adult.
He pushes up his sleeves. He’s old enough to be your father, but his hair is thick, his face unlined, clear eyes; his arms are strong from something outside. Woodworking? Jogging in the Park? He leans against the wall. He’s in a cotton sweater that does something nice to his shoulders. In the beginning, there is potential for magic in everything. The way he wears his sweater feels like a gift. He smells like oranges but also, leather. He turns on a light on his desk. The thing about his eyes, you think. They must have been the same when he was three. Goodness but also mischief. The color of a squirrel’s back.
Catalog the items on his desk: one deer antler, two stained mugs, a stack of anthologies, a pair of knit gloves, an expensive pen, envelopes with frayed tops, a dead pink flower, a toy car and a toy dinosaur, a wooden block with the letter M , a photo of his wife—must be, blurry in a gold frame. She’s in white and the floors are painted white, she’s got a gap between her teeth and a dimple, and behind her, there’s a large plant in a terra-cotta pot.
There is what you’ve liked about him for years: he writes about women with kindness and reverence; at readings, he wears suspenders, chews gum, laughs at his own jokes.
There is what you like that you’re just finding out. Everything else.
Ask yourself if you feel guilty. Ask yourself why you always put the cart before the horse.
So, he says. As far as your work, I’m not sure the issue is arc. Ask him what the issue is. Surely, he says, you’re not writing the story you want to write.
Wonder if this is your in. Or maybe a suggestion? Or maybe too much can actually be too much. Stop staring at his face.