Chapter Seven #2
Dave slipped both feet in and pulled the sheets straight up to his head.
“Oi…” he began, fading into heavy, easy breaths.
Landon did not begrudge him the sleep—not in the least. He didn’t begrudge anyone rest. Landon only wished there was a way to join the ranks of the living dead without taking the pill that would forever erase Rose from his memory.
Bright and early Thursday morning, Landon marched into the registrar’s office and sold the bubbly young woman behind the counter a story.
“I’ve been accepted for next year, into the contemporary art master’s,” he said, the assumption he’d made about Rose’s course of study just one in a long line of assumptions.
“And I spoke to the admissions coordinator for the master’s, and he said I could audit a few classes while I’m in town.
I’m trying to find the right lodging. You’ve got to, you know, if you’re moving the wife and kids across the pond.
I just put down the deposit, and I’m praying I didn’t make the wrong choice. ”
The woman puckered her lips. “She,” the woman said, and even in the one syllable Landon detected a lilting Scottish accent.
“Pardon?”
“The admissions coordinator is a woman. Who exactly did you speak to?”
Landon should have been prepared for this, and probably should have spent more time at the shared hostel computer, but one side effect of his off-kilter charm was that he was not particularly practiced in not getting his way.
He took a new tack. “I’ll be honest with you,” Landon said, leaning over the desk and dropping his voice.
“I’m a prospective student. I just really wanted you to take me seriously.
I’m only here for a few weeks, and this is a second career thing for me—a real midlife crisis.
The loans are going to be crushing, and I need to know if it’s going to be worth it.
Is there anything you can do? I know I should have talked to the admissions coordinator.
I really should have. I just want to see what first-year master’s students do in this program. ”
At that, she perked up. “You should have said so.” The woman grabbed a pamphlet off her desk and held it up to him.
“And I’ll be honest with you: Professors are much more agreeable to a prospective student sitting in than an accepted one.
If they have to do it at all, they’d prefer to be making a sale. ”
Landon tried not to let his relief show. “You’re a lifesaver.”
“I do get that a lot.” The woman clicked her mouse three times and studied the screen. “There aren’t many classes at the tail end of the week.” She pulled her large wire glasses down her nose a touch. “And the semester’s winding down. I could get you into a composition class next Tuesday.”
“Is there anything today?” Landon asked, heart threatening to beat straight out of his chest. He couldn’t imagine languishing in the hostel five more days when, for all he knew, Rose was in this building right now, or walking down the street with a tote of supplies in hand.
Landon squinted until he could read the name printed in gold against the woman’s black name tag. “Catriona, is it?”
“Cat,” she said with a warm smile. “We’ve got some electives on today, but I’m not sure that would give you the information you need.”
“It will,” Landon said. “I’m an elective guy. If the electives aren’t top notch I’ll have to go have my midlife crisis somewhere else.”
The woman chuckled. “How do you feel about life drawing?”
Landon didn’t have the faintest idea what that was. “Can’t get enough of it.”
“It’s not for everybody.”
“If it’s today, it’s for me.”
“Last name?”
He’d thought this far, at least. Landon Calloway had written new Rose a letter. He could not be Landon Calloway. “Burke,” he said. “Jamie Burke.”
“Think you can amuse yourself until two p.m., then, Jamie?” she asked. He nodded, probably too eagerly. “Give me that brochure.” Cat took it from Landon’s outstretched hand and annotated the map in purple pen. “And you think you can find the studio on your own?”
“Yes,” he said, this time sure he was failing to hide his latent emotion. “I’ll find it.”
“If I were you, I’d spend the next six hours tracking down a sketchpad, pencils, and charcoal,” Cat said, suddenly serious.
“They’re knee-deep into this work, and if you don’t show up looking thoughtful, Professor Amos is well within his rights to leave you in the hall. It’s sensitive subject matter.”
“Sure, yes, of course,” Landon said. “I will. I’m halfway out the door.”
The woman looked up at him from under thick, dark lashes. “And I get off at five. If that’s information that’s helpful to you at all.”
Landon tried not to laugh, wondering exactly what he’d done to invite the comment. “Got the wife and kids to think about.” He wiggled his wedding ring in front of his face—a ring he would slip into his pocket the minute this exchange was done. “Like I said. Moving them here from the States.”
Cat shrugged. “Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me.”
He called his thanks behind him as he skittered out.
Landon had been there since one thirty, clutching his new sketchbook like a lucky charm, certain that at any moment Rose would walk through the door and take a seat next to him.
At ten minutes to two, the seat to his right filled with a young man who couldn’t have been older than twenty-four, with a handlebar mustache and jeans so ripped Landon didn’t understand how they still hung on his slight frame.
Two minutes later, the seat to his left filled with an older woman in purple overalls, her gray hair pulled back into pigtails and her face set in an expression of such calm contentment that Landon couldn’t help but wonder what kind of life she’d led—or erased—to earn it.
He tapped his foot nervously. The seats kept filling.
Old people, young people, men, women, the room was an eclectic mix.
Nobody exchanged pleasantries or chatted, just prepared their sketchbooks and sharpened pencils.
Landon’s breath was so loud that he thought seriously about trying not to breathe until the professor arrived.
“Let’s get started on time this afternoon, shall we?
” A short man wearing the largest glasses Landon had ever seen fiddled with the curtains until blackout blinds finally unfurled.
He followed a long orange extension cord to an outlet, then turned on a bright spotlight against a white curtain.
The room felt instantly charged, the chipped paint and worn chairs taking on new life in both the darkness and the light.
“Gesture drawings to warm up,” he said, confirming Landon’s suspicion that he was indeed the professor.
“For the sake of our prospective student”—he said the phrase like an epithet—“forgive me while I explain again the exercise you’ve all been doing since September.
Gesture drawings are your opportunity to sharpen the connection between your eye and your hand.
You’re momentarily free from anatomy and pushed into essence: How is she moving, what emotions does her action evoke, how do you capture rhythm and movement?
As the poses get shorter, your drawings should become more fluid.
Try to divorce yourself from your analytical brain and let the theater of it all flood the senses. ”
A woman in a white robe entered, dark hair rolling down her back in waves.
“We’ll do six poses to start. Two minutes, one minute, thirty seconds,” the professor said.
The room hummed with the opening of sketchpads and the squeaky streak of charcoal on paper as the woman dropped her robe to the floor and stepped into the light.
Landon’s sketchpad slipped out of his hands and dropped to the floor.
“Something the matter?” The professor eyed him pointedly, clearly seconds away from telling Landon to prospect elsewhere.
“No,” Landon managed to say. “Nothing.”
He couldn’t think. He couldn’t breathe. The years had altered her form slightly, her hips wider and breasts heavier than they’d been the day she’d peeled off her clothes at the pond and asked him to jump. But she was singular, unmistakable, and still the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on.