Chapter Nine
Heron
Heron rushed out of her research seminar to meet Charlie at the library. They’d planned to go up to the Librotory to work on their final project, but when she found him at his favorite table near the back windows, he was slouched over his laptop and hadn’t even begun to pack up.
“Ready, babe? We only have two hours on the press, and we can’t get another slot before the project is due.” She thought once he knew she was there, he would gather his things and follow her upstairs.
He tipped his head back to look at her, despondence written across his face. “I’ll never be ready. I just took a practice test and got a 151. That’s not good enough for any of the top schools, not with my GPA.” Charlie’s grades were fine, but he wasn’t on the honor roll like Heron.
She squinted down at his laptop screen. “It looks like you need to spend more time on logical reasoning. Here, see—this is the chapter you should focus on. Why don’t you reread it and see what concepts need more attention while I go print our stuff on the press, and then I’ll help you? We can bind everything on Saturday.”
She’d planned to spend Saturday working on her thesis; her outline was due at the end of the semester, but it could wait until Sunday. She’d figure it out. Other than the challenge of finding the time to fit everything in, she liked helping Charlie with his LSAT studies. It was satisfying to puzzle through the test questions, and she often found herself biting her lip to keep herself from blurting the answer before he got to it.
Charlie beamed up at her. “Really, babe? That would be so great. I know the Book Arts class is an easy credit, but I need to make a good grade in it for the sake of my GPA.”
The art class wasn’t easy, but since she’d been doing all the conceptual work and writing the artist statements while Charlie had been focused on the mechanical tasks like mixing ink, pressing paper, and setting type, she could see how he perceived it that way. It was fine though; she loved the class and for Charlie it was only a distribution credit.
“Sure.” She smiled. “No problem. I’ll swing by here when I’m done, and we can make flash cards.” Dealing with material visually helped Charlie learn better. Heron found it fun to make flashcards and charts and bought a new box of markers every year for studying with Charlie.
“You’re the best.”
“I know.” She waved as she made her way to the stairs, glad to find the Librotory empty. She’d rather Ben didn’t know Charlie wasn’t working on this with her.
Printing the pages took much longer on her own since she had to mix the colors, ink the roller, prepare the paper, and change all the blocks of type herself.
She consulted her detailed notes of how each page should be run. The assignment Ben had given them was to print ten copies of a twenty-four page book, text and images. Heron’s concept was to print the Zodiac, with a list of words for each sign and an accompanying image. Some were literal interpretations of the signs. She had etched a simple line drawing of a lion onto a plexiglass plate for Leo, for instance. Others were representations of people she loved who were born under the sign. For Charlie, a Gemini, she’d found an anatomical drawing of a heart, then traced it as a mirror image of itself so they faced each other on the page, like butterfly wings. Heron and her dad were both born under Taurus and for that she’d traced a grape leaf onto a printing plate, planning to go in later to watercolor each page by hand.
She’d been surprised when Ben asked what sign Bea was, and then produced an old brass plate from the motley collection of antique printer’s items, with labeled diagrams of the Scorpius, Hercules, Cygnus, and Sagittarius constellations marked on it.
“Don’t feel obligated to use it,” he’d said, “but I thought it might work. It caught my eye because I’m a Sagittarius, but Scorpio’s there, too.”
It was perfect, and Heron planned to give one of the copies to Bea even though astrology was very much not her cousin’s thing. Using this image would make the whole gift even more special to Bea, she hoped. She’d caught a note of more-than-professional fondness in Ben’s tone when he’d asked about her. Maybe her silly little plan was actually bearing fruit.
As she ran the prints, her mind wandered over what she needed to do in the next two weeks, before finals ended. She made a mental list:
1. Finish Book Arts project—underway
2. Finish rough thesis draft—underway
3. Study for Social Justice final
She knew the concepts, and some of them even overlapped with Charlie’s law school application material. That would be fine, she was a good test-taker even though exams made her feel queasy.
4. Write the final paper for Twentieth Century Art History
Her stomach dropped. She planned to write about the collaboration between Jackson Pollock and Lee Krasner, but she hadn’t even started. She’d been so focused on everything else, it had slipped down her to-do list, but it was due soonest—on Monday.
Heron’s heart pounded as she mentally rearranged her outstanding tasks, trying to find room there somewhere for a day of research and a night of writing. Tomorrow? It would have to be tomorrow. She couldn’t slide the thesis work any later; it was due Tuesday and she needed to have her advisor look it over before she officially turned it in. She blew a slow breath out through pursed lips. Tomorrow, then.
Done printing, Heron stacked the book pages with tissue between them to keep the ink from smudging, slid them into the cubby she and Charlie had been assigned, and went to meet him. She hoped he was feeling better.
Bea
Bea could polar align a Newtonian telescope without even thinking about it, but she went through six sets of printable dividers before she got the science division’s photocopier to line up the section headings for her tenure portfolio properly. It was ridiculous that she had to submit a paper copy. Everyone reviewing it would have access to an electronic version with dynamic links and videos of her teaching and presenting, but according to Rick, reviewers liked to have a paper copy to leaf through “over a cup of tea.” She’d spent the past hour swearing at the copier.
Finally done, she gave herself a moment to lean against the Formica counter in the copy room, paging through the summary of her professional accomplishments. It looked good. She was as ready as she would ever be. And the physical copy would be a nice memento to add to her bookshelf when she was awarded tenure. Or a good start on application materials for a new position. She winced at this last thought. She should try not to worry about it until she had reason to believe she needed to. It wouldn’t help anything to torture herself for the months it would take to get the final determination.
It was drizzling, so Bea wrapped the binder in a plastic shopping bag. The sidewalk leading from the science building converged with the one leading from the library; Bea and Ben reached the intersection at the same time.
Ben fell into step next to her. “Hi.”
Bea’s face felt flushed. She’d been fussing with the hot photocopier, but she couldn’t discount the warming effect of Ben’s smile. “Oh, hey.”
He nodded at her plastic-wrapped binder. “Is that the tenure tome?”
“Sure is. All my professional accomplishments plus all my hopes and dreams in one handy three-ring binder.”
“I’ll walk with you.” It was raining harder now, and cold, but neither of them rushed.
After a moment, Bea said, “I didn’t see you at the cafe today.” Lately they’d been appearing in the coffee line together at roughly the same time. Surely only a coincidence, a vagary of their respective schedules, but she hadn’t realized how much she’d been looking forward to it each day until she missed him this morning.
“No,” he said, “I’m actually headed over to get a coffee now. I came in a little late today because I’ll be on the reference desk until ten. Finals, you know how it is.”
Bea nodded. She’d been holding expanded office hours all week.
“Incidentally, your cousin was huddled over a table near my office when I came in this morning and was still there when I left. I’m not sure she’s even moved from her chair. I know these kids go pretty hard studying, but Heron looks monumentally stressed out. Would it be too weird if I took her a coffee?”
It was typical of Heron to be working so hard Ben would take notice. Bea admired how devoted she was to her studies, but it was beyond exasperating to see her knocking herself out to graduate with honors but totally complacent about figuring out what she was going to actually do with her degree once she got it.
“That’s kind of you. I’m sure she’d appreciate it, but I’ll go see if I can get her to take a break.”
They’d reached the spot where their paths diverged again, hers up the steps to the administration offices, his toward the student union building. “Sounds like a plan. Good luck with that.” He pointed at her binder.
“Thanks. Fingers crossed.” Bea was struck with the urge for some small parting gesture, a quick, casual embrace. She must be losing her mind entirely. Instead, she said, “So, big plans for the holidays?”
“I’ll fly to meet my oldest sister and her son in Chicago, then we’ll drive to Peoria to spend Christmas with the rest of the family. I have three nieces and four nephews. It’s all very Norman Rockwell,” he said. “Every year, my mom drags everyone to church on Christmas Eve and then pretends to be annoyed when we have a snowball fight in the parking lot afterward.”
“Sounds nice,” said Bea, thinking of her Thanksgiving in Coral Springs, full of double-edged comments and awkward silences.
“It is, but it’s also complete chaos. How about you?”
“No chaos for me. I’m staying here. I saw my folks over Thanksgiving and that dose will be adequate for a while. It’ll be quiet.”
“Ah, well, enjoy. I’ll be back before New Year’s, enjoying a little quiet, myself. Or, not so quiet, maybe, if I can drum up some plans.”
“Nice. I bet you’ll need a break from people after all the time with your family.”
“Sure.” He tipped his head to the side, as if waiting for something more.
Bea suspected there was some sort of standard, well-adjusted flirty girl response she was supposed to have made to his comment about New Year’s Eve plans, a casual remark tossed off to let him know she’d be receptive to sipping champagne and sharing a midnight kiss. The problem was, she’d be damned if she knew what it was. Half the time she was around Ben, she felt comfortable and natural. The other half, she floundered, too unsure of her feelings—and his—to have any idea how to respond.
When she didn’t come up with anything, Ben said, “You’d better turn that thing in before it starts raining harder.”
“Right.” She watched him walk away for a second before entering the building. Pausing in the vestibule, she removed the shopping bag and stuffed it in her coat pocket, pushed her shoulders away from her ears, and strode into the administrative offices. After giving the portfolio to President Phillips’ assistant she felt a rush of adrenaline. Her future was quite literally in the hands of others now.
Professional anxiety mingled with the unfamiliar electricity of whatever the hell was going on with Ben, sending a current of nerves bubbling through Bea. Her step was brisk as she walked back toward the library, fueled by nervous energy from both sources. She was sorry Heron was having a rough go of finals week, but she couldn’t help being a little glad her cousin’s troubles would give her something else to focus on.
Heron
The library usually cleared out on Friday evenings, but finals week was different; it was still packed at six. Heron was in front of her laptop in one of the fourth-floor study carrels, a sliver of the library that had escaped renovation. Ancient carpet, which had possibly once been tan, was threadbare in patches where desks had been repeatedly dragged around by generations of students attempting to escape the insidious draft of cold air from the old casements. It was nearly always empty, which was why Heron liked it. She’d tried pulling one of the nubby pumpkin-colored armchairs up to her desk a few hours ago so she could curl her legs into it, but her feet kept falling asleep. Art books and highlighted copies of journal articles littered the table around her laptop, and she could scarcely keep her eyes open. She’d arrived at nine this morning to stake out her spot and gather her research materials. Now, her head ached and the last time she’d tried to stretch her neck her muscles had protested so severely, she’d decided it would be easier to remain tense. She kept catching her chin in a drift toward her chest. It took all her effort to keep her eyes open and focused on the page in front of her.
At a tap on her shoulder, she jolted and looked up into the concerned face of her cousin.
“I heard you’ve been here all day,” Bea said. “Did you even eat lunch?” She picked up Heron’s water bottle and shook it. Empty. “Honey, you’re not even staying hydrated. Come on. I’m springing you.”
“I can’t just leave all this stuff. I’m so close to done.”
Bea peered at her laptop screen and huffed. “Page four. You’re halfway there. Maybe two-thirds if you half-ass it, which I know you won’t. Come on, I’m taking you to my house for dinner and a nap. This will all be here when you get back.”
“It will not,” Heron complained. “The library assistants will come by and reshelve everything.”
“No, they won’t,” Bea said. “I have an in with the librarian in charge of the reference desk tonight. He’ll ask them to leave this corner alone.”
Heron smiled at this. “But somebody else might take my spot.”
Bea glanced around at the empty corridor. “I doubt it.” She pulled a cardigan from her bag and draped it over the back of the chair. “There. It looks like you’ve only stepped away for a few minutes. Now, you’re coming home with me, and I won’t take no for an answer. The abstract expressionists can wait. I’ll bring you back,” she said, cutting off Heron’s protest. “I promise. After a little food and some rest.”
Heron did feel unsteady going down the stairs. Now that she was up, she felt hungrier and more exhausted than she’d realized. She let Bea usher her into the warm car and closed her eyes, opening them only when they pulled up in front of Gallo D’Oro. Bea dashed out minutes later with a bag of takeout cartons. She settled Heron on the couch with a plate of tacos, a blanket, and Herschel purring softly at her side.
An hour later, Heron was back in Bea’s car rested, fed, and armed with a thermos of the Earl Grey tea Bea kept in her kitchen just for her. Bea tucked a bag of almond MM’s into her pocket. “For later. Don’t tell Ben I encouraged you to take food into the library.”
As they drove back to campus, Bea said, “Where’s Charlie tonight? I thought you usually studied together.” Heron could tell she was making an effort to keep her tone mild.
“He’s super stressed. I mean, I only have finals and my thesis, Charlie has all that and the LSAT, which is way more important.” This was technically true, Charlie was stressed, which was why he’d told Heron he needed to “blow off some steam” with the guys instead of joining her at the library.
“Mmm,” was Bea’s noncommittal answer.
Heron had to admit she felt much better, and the last pages of her paper flowed across the screen as she typed with renewed confidence in her assertion that Krasner’s work had been far more innovative after Pollock’s death.
She finished a few minutes after two. Heron wasn’t keen on walking home alone at this hour, but she didn’t want to call Charlie. She hoped he’d gone to bed so that he could make good on his promise to study hard the rest of the weekend.
Bork caught up with her in the vestibule. “Hey,” he said. “Heading home?”
“Yes.” They started across the quad together, chatting about how their senior year was going. Like Charlie, Bork was a politics major, but he was hoping to go to graduate school for public administration. “It’s deeply uncool, I know, but I want to make a real impact. And I think maybe the best way to do that is to get into the rooms where policy decisions are being made.”
“I didn’t realize you had such a serious side.”
He shrugged. “Well, I’m not that guy here. I’m Bork. Goofy nickname guy.”
They were passing the amphitheater and Heron heard rustling and a giggle coming from behind the shrubs surrounding it. It had always been a popular spot for mischief, even on a frigid night during finals week.
She said, “Does it bother you? That everybody calls you Bork instead of Bryant?”
“At first, it did a bit. It started first year. The SOD house chef always has Friday nights off. When my mom and stepdad went out on weekends, I used to make pancakes for my little sisters. Most of the upperclassmen were out at the bars. So, I thought, hey, I’ll make pancakes for the guys who are stuck here. But the flour was in this giant canister on the top shelf, and I dropped it and ended up completely coated. Half the kitchen, too. Like, absolutely everywhere, it looked like a blizzard.”
Heron laughed at the mental image.
“We were all trying to grow mustaches that November. Mine came in fast. Apparently, with the flour all over my hair and face, I looked like the Swedish Chef, so when the guys came in and found me, they started chanting ‘bork bork bork.’ And there you have it. It stuck. Actually, it was Charlie who started the whole thing, now that I think about it.”
She had to admit it did sound like Charlie to take a joke a touch too far. “Do you want me to talk to him? Ask him to knock it off?”
“Nah. Especially not now.”
“I’m sure he would apologize if he knew it bothered you.” They’d reached the sidewalk in front of her apartment building, and Heron stopped walking.
He shrugged. “Sure. But like I said, it’s not something to make an issue of. I’d rather be goofy nickname guy than the guy who can’t take a joke.”
“Okay, well, thanks for the walk.”
“Any time.”
Heron let herself into the lobby, feeling the fatigue deep in her body as she mounted the stairs. Bork—Bryant—had such a clear ambition for after graduation. When she entered the apartment, she found Maggie asleep on their couch. Heron pulled a blanket over her friend. Maggie had her plans set, too; teaching middle school language arts. And Charlie had been planning to go to law school for as long as she’d known him. Maybe Bea was right that she hadn’t thought enough about what to do after graduation.
Sophomore year, she’d decided on an art history major because those were the classes she enjoyed most. Then when Bea pressed her about the impracticality of art, she added sociology because those classes were interesting, too, and there were lots of ways they could be combined into a single thesis topic. She hadn’t thought about what careers they might lead to, and if that was a mistake, it was too late to correct it now. Inspiring career paths had revealed themselves to everyone else Heron knew, past and present. Her dad had begun thinking about winemaking when he was her age, and Bea had already been applying to PhD programs. Was there something wrong with Heron that made her not want to think beyond graduation?
Heron definitely didn’t want to apply to grad school just because she couldn’t think of something else to do—especially not if she couldn’t get into a program near Charlie. And what type of grad school exactly, she hadn’t considered. So what if the only things she felt good at were making clothes and loving Charlie? Wasn’t that enough for now?