If I had thought my dismissive attitude toward Grace at the end of the GSA meeting would put her off, I was mistaken. In class the next day, Grace positively glowed with excitement. As she came into the room, and several times during class, I noticed she gave me what seemed like significant looks. Like she knew something that she expected me to know too, to understand, and I wasn't quite sure I was on the right wavelength. She interrupted my lecture on Donne to rave about the poems of another poet, nameless, whom she had just read, whose poetry, she said, was much more effective than Donne's. "It made you realize how you felt about everything," she said.
This passion was exactly the kind of reaction a poet might hope to get from a reader, and I didn't quite know how to respond to what she said – thank her, but bring the subject back to Donne, ask her for a more specific example comparing this poet to Donne, discuss expectations of poetry through the ages -- when, again, I was saved by the bell, which gave me a moment to gather my thoughts, try to regain my control, my footing after she interrupted the flow I had planned for the class. "That was an interesting point you made," I said, finally, amidst the confusion of students packing up, moving about, leaving.
She looked at me, grinning securely as she put her books into her backpack. "Well, I guess I just have strong feelings," she said, "about poetry."
She smiled, and I realized, when she felt passionate and spoke with conviction, it was as she was when she played Rosalind, when she played Elizabeth Proctor in The Crucible; she was beautiful. Disturbingly so, the purity of her emotion, and I could only mutter, "We'll continue this some other time," as she finished loading her backpack.
But when I saw her express this passion again, the circumstances were different, and I could not savor it, could not respond to it, could not, really, accept it. Fraud, again, on so many levels.
*****
I hadn't had a date in six months, and the last one had a been a dismal failure resulting from a setup Jerry attempted. I thought briefly of Grace's enthusiasm that afternoon, of the way her eyes glowed as she spoke, then closed my eyes and shook my head to shake the image from my mind. Grownups, August, I told myself. Teacher. Student.
Chris had said to keep it simple, so I didn't get into making hors d'oeuvres I sometimes do. But I couldn't resist getting some interesting cheeses from Le Fromagerie, and opening a bottle of good Merlot. I was unwrapping the cheeses, a creamy, pungent Chabichou and a pleasant, nutty aged Gouda, when Chris knocked on the back door.
Chris looked good. She was dressed up in what I called her gallery chic. When we were together, dressing up meant a clean pair of jeans and a shirt with no paint splatters. But since she shifted from creating art to selling it, Chris's wardrobe went through a transformation. Still, I wasn't sure what to make of her transparent blouse, her black brassiere clearly visible underneath. "Your shirt's certainly not for the timid," I commented, and she curtseyed.
"I never was timid, was I, Gus?"
"No, not you. You look good, Chris. Sexy. Happiness becomes you."
"And you, my dear August, look tired. Pour me some wine and update me on your life. We have a good 30 minutes before Barry and Jazmynne arrive."
I poured two glasses and we carried them into the living room.. Chris went over to the CD collection. "Got some new show tunes, I see. The Producers?"
"It's fantastic. Even if you don't like musicals. I saw it here and in New York."
"What's this one?" She held up the CD Grace had made me.
"Oh, a student made that for me," I said, happy to be talking about Grace. "Grace. She's one of those great students – has a lot of promise as a writer. And an activist too -- she's been a strong advocate for the Gay/Straight Alliance. I think it helps kids when they see a straight girl excited about something that's more likely to brand her than benefit her."
Chris read the label. "Goo Goo Dolls? Garbage? Joe Jackson? Not exactly your style, is it?"
"I'm broadening my horizons, Chris. Next thing you know I'll be listening to your Sting music."
"Now that's quality." She lifted her glass. "Now how about a toast?"
I lifted mine. "To friendship," I said.
She smiled a distant smile, then came back and said, "To love." We clinked glasses and sipped our wine. I enjoyed the dry, full flavor, the slight warmth as I swallowed.
"Barry's show's going really well," she said. "I think it's why we made the gallery tour."
"I'll have to come see it," I said. "Now tell me more about this Jazmynne."
"Well, let's see. She's an accountant, has her own business --" Just then, we heard a knock on the back door. "Why don't you answer that and see for yourself?" Chris said.
I felt nervous, suddenly, shy, not sure what I expected out of the evening, ready for the necessary small talk of introductions. I headed into the kitchen and went to the door, But there weren't two strangers standing there, just one familiar face. Grace.
Why was she here? Mechanically, I slid open the glass door. Cold evening air swirled into the room. "Hey!" she said, still wearing her glowing smile of class.
I let out the breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. "What, what are you --" I stammered.
"I was just," she motioned her head outside, then rubbed her hands together, and stepped past me into the kitchen, saying, "God, it's really cold!"
I tried to speak, but was too shaken. Chris here, Grace here, a date coming, it didn't have to be weird, it didn't have to be awkward, it was me that was making it so. Grace under pressure, not my forte, apparently. Automatically, I shut the door as Grace continued, "I was just kind of… stuck in the neighborhood for a while" – I remembered her mentioning Jessie's mother being in the hospital, not far from my house, the rides she had to give her there – "And there's something I wanted to tell you."
She had to stop talking. I knew whatever she was going to say, it was not going to be an urgent epiphany about Donne's poetry, a pressing inspiration for the GSA dance. It was not something I wanted to hear at this moment, now, with Chris in the other room. I started saying, "And that's fine, but you see the thing is --"
But she interrupted me. Again. "No, Please!" I opened my mouth to continue, but she held up her hands, taking a deep breath. "Please, just… See, in your car the other day I just felt like there was this…" I realized I'd been holding my glass of wine all this time, and I placed it on the counter, wanting to stop those words issuing from her mouth, unable to stop them, mesmerized like an animal on the road at night, staring into the headlights that would run him down. "… connection, that I couldn't put into words, and then you put it into words. You did it for me." I knew I should be stopping her now, stopping what was going to be the confession, the admission I knew deep down I wanted to hear, but the words that shouldn't be said, not here, not now. But I remained silent still, and Grace continued, "Look, I did something which I obviously shouldn't have done, okay, but I'm glad I did it, because now I know… that I'm not alone." Her eyes shone as she spoke, and her voice broke slightly on the last word. She moved around the counter, toward me, and I remained frozen, unable to speak still, able only to watch her, terrified, as she stood less than two feet from me. "And that is such an amazing thing… to know. And—"
"August?" Chris's voice moving from the living room to the kitchen as she appeared next to me, snapping me into reality. If this were a normal situation, I should have no nervousness, detachment should be easy. But I wasn't detached, and I couldn't act easy. Grace looked mortified, slapped, the words she had yet to say evaporated. My voice trembled as I laughed nervously and said, "Ah, Chris… Chris, you, you, this is Grace, one of my students. Grace, this is… my friend, Christine Kim."
Grace attempted to smile, with her mouth, though her eyes remained shocked. I realized I should use that, use Chris to close the door I had opened for Grace, to stop any more feelings from growing. I put a hand on Chris's shoulder and said to her, "Grace is one of my most enthusiastic students. She offered to, to chair the committee for the Gay/Straight Alliance dance."
"Oh, right, you were telling me," Chris said, looking at Grace, smiling.
"Yeah, yeah. Oh -- the, the presentation, it's tomorrow, isn't it?" Suddenly it came to me, I had something to justify her presence to Chris, who I knew would be questioning me later, and I didn't want to discuss anything. Didn't want to lie. "Did I ever give you that memo?" I asked Grace.
Grace looked at me blankly for a second before her eyes widened with recognition. "No," she said, sounding relieved that I had given her an excuse to be here.
"Hold, hold on. I think it's in my briefcase." I left the kitchen, all I could do not to run from the room, panicking, not thinking I could hold up a front of normalcy another moment. I stood outside the door, catching my breath, hearing Chris's good-natured attempt to make conversation with Grace.
This is what it would be like, I realized, if I were to let this continue, to develop a relationship with Grace beyond teacher-student. The fear of being caught, the professional and legal, not to mention personal, repercussions.
"Do you call him August or Mr. Dimitri?" I heard Chris say. I swallowed, there in the living room, as I heard Grace's muffled response: "Mr. Dimitri."
There are many teachers, Jerry included, who introduce themselves to students by their first name, rather than the titled surname that was the standard when I was in high school. But I've always looked younger than I am, so I found I was able to maintain a higher level of professionalism – both in my attitude toward students and theirs toward me, if I used my surname with Mr.
I didn't want to overhear any more of the conversation, and I moved away from the doorway, found the memo in my briefcase. Turning, I passed the shelf where Grace had seen my book. But it wasn't there. Of course – it seemed obvious now. The looks, the excitement, "this other person" whose poems meant so much to Grace. Me. Doesn't even mean they were any good, but they spoke to her because I spoke to her. Fifteen years after I wrote them.
Why didn't I just loan it to her when she asked? Her excitement at knowing I was a published author made me reticent. I was afraid for her to know that part of me because I wanted her to know that part of me. It would be like she was knowing a younger me, it would be like I wasn't 25 years older than she. Twenty-three-and-a-half, to be precise.
I had gained no clarity, and no calm, by leaving the kitchen. I had to go back in, give Grace the memo, go through teacherly motions. But inside I was still reeling from her uninvited visit, from her declaration, and even, to be honest, from her reaction to my poems, the reaction every poet hopes for, secretly if not openly. The glow in the eyes of a fan, an admirer who I admired. If Chris hadn't been here? But Chris was here. Fortunately, I told myself.
I took a deep breath, went back to the kitchen. "Found it!" I said, too loudly. Grace was already by the door. I handed her the memo, which she took without comment. Still too loud, for Chris's benefit? For mine, say it and make it so? I added, "Hey, try to remember these things during school hours next time, okay?" She looked at me, and the hurt, the sense of betrayal in her eyes was palpable. But it was for her good, as well as mine. Taking things further would not do her good, my selfishness, I told myself. In a softer voice, I added, "I'll see you tomorrow."
Without saying anything, she turned and left, and I heard Chris call behind me, "Nice meeting you, Grace," but Grace was gone.
I turned back to the kitchen, shut the door. Saw my wine glass over by the cheese and walked to it, sipped long. "Looks like you have an admirer," Chris commented.
*****
Charlotte noticed a heart-shaped pendant dangling from a chain Amber wore around her neck. Amber saw Charlotte's gaze and fingered the silver wire, smiling down at it. "Pretty, isn't it?" she asked. Charlotte murmured what she thought sounded like an affirmation. "Your dad gave it to me for Valentine's Day. He can be such a sweetie. So. Are you staying for supper?"
Valentine's Day? Charlotte froze. Her parents had separated in May. What was her father doing giving hearts to bimbos three months before that? Suddenly, the thought of her father sharing their table at Thanksgiving seemed hopelessly naive. She felt stupid, bitter, angry, deceived. And respectful, a new respect for her mother, an appreciation for a strength she never suspected existed in her mother's prom-girl body. She looked at Amber's young, grinning face and felt pity, mixed again with anger. She said, simply, "Dinner? No… I just wanted to tell my Dad something, but I'll tell him another time. Happy Thanksgiving."
She left, and walked,walked, feeling the cold November wind whip through her, letting her body match the coldness in her heart, till heart and flesh and mind felt equally numb.