Life beyond Backstory has kept me occupied these past few weeks. And will continue to do so, as I write in the wee hours of the night. Which somehow seems to fit Dimitri's persona.
Feedback has been much appreciated (was that a use of the question-raising passive! By whom, eh?). It is true that it inspires and encourages me to continue writing this story. Because if no one is reading this, why bother to post it? I've got the story in my head. But oh, the upcoming chapters...
Chapter 18: Countdown
Each day, the last week I worked as a teacher at Upton Sinclair, each hour, each minute, mattered. Of course at the time I didn't know it was a week of lasts, the last Monday I would teach Literature: Craft and Critique, the last Tuesday, the final time I would discuss Gardner's choice of Grendel as a protagonist, the concept of creating novels based on novels, literary fan fiction. The last pop quiz. The one I never did hand back.
At the close of the school year, the last week is usually a week of farewells, of closure, finals, summations, endings. Discussions of summer and future plans, with a predetermined last day. But I didn't know it was my last week, or even my last day, and there were no goodbyes. Except for one.
*****
All weekend, I kept the Chekhov book by my bed, read it, reread it. And, for the first time, I indulged, and allowed myself to fantasize. I had held myself in check so stringently all these months. Opening some doors, I know, that shouldn't have been touched. But I never let myself, for lack of a better word, sexualize Grace. Grace was Grace, she made my heart beat a little louder when she entered the room, invariably seeing her brought a smile to my face. But I knew that if I allowed myself to think of kissing her, it would be impossible to face her objectively and asexually in class. As it was, I was not doing a very good job, lately, of maintaining a teacherly objectivity in the classroom.
But that weekend, I felt reckless. And lonely, and... something else. And I gave in to fantasies, telling myself they were in my head, my head alone, they need never go beyond the borders of my mind. I'd leave the house and they'd stay behind, up in my room, locked safely away from me.
I pictured the two of us on some remote mountainside, far from everyone who mattered. A cheesy Harlequin romance setting, but I didn't care. I pictured lifting my hand to touch the delicate garnet pendant she sometimes wore, allowing my fingers to rest against her bare collar bone, to move my hand to the back of her neck, to feel the soft wispy hairs at the nape, to pull her toward me and feel the length of her body against the length of mine. To smell the clean, herbal scent of her shampoo as I pulled her close. And as I thought of her there, that night, in my bed, I felt passion, a sensation I hadn't experienced in so many years, that I didn't understand, at first, what I was feeling.
I had never expected to be alone, all alone, at 40. It was not how I had pictured my life right now, and I felt as if I were running along on a gerbil wheel, the sensation of moving forward, exerting myself, but going nowhere. Thinking of Grace lifted me outside of myself, gave me a strange kind of hope for change, for future brightness. Around Grace, with her enthusiasm and insight, I felt enthusiastic and insightful and funny and fun to be with. I felt as if I had something to offer another person beyond what I could offer as a teacher, on a personal level, and that it would be cherished.
The weekend before the last week was a last one too; Friday was the last time I went out with Jerry and Rene – just the three of us this time. And my sister April... things changed between us after, though not permanently. Saturday I had dinner with April, Liam, and the kids, who always insist I tell them a "made-up" story. Distracted by a created world of ravens and doves, cooing and cawing and avian royalty. But again, at night, Grace came, bidden and unbidden, to my bedside mind, and I gave in and relished my indecent thoughts. Thoughts they would remain, I told myself. Thoughts by themselves were okay. No one would know.
*****
The book went from my bedside to my valise on Monday morning. I felt its added weight as I carried it around. Opportunities came, I hesitated, opportunities went. I thought of the Chekhov collection as Grace's already; by not giving it to her, it was as if I was not returning something I had borrowed that was rightfully hers. The book, or the declaration?
I knew Tuesday had to be the day. And I knew I had to watch myself. We had been discussing the Grendel of John Gardner's novel of the same name, and Grendel as he originally appeared in Beowulf. The class had started out animatedly enough, but gradually participation waned. There's little more annoying to a teacher than the realization that your class has not done the work they were supposed to. I thought of the last surprise quiz I had given them and the pitiful results. Still, I continued, and asked, "Why re-tell the story of Beowulf from the monster's point of view?"
Silence, and then both Grace and Alexa, who was sitting just in behind her, raised their hands. I may have imagined it, but it felt to me, then, as if Alexa were daring me not to call on her. Her raised hand was almost a challenge, and I thought of the way she had been scrutinizing me lately, as if she were memorizing details. Observing, as some brilliant teacher had advised her to do. So I pointed to her and said, "Yes, Alexa?" I pulled my chair up and sat in front of the class, waiting for her to speak. I saw a look of annoyed surprise flash through Grace's eyes, but this was not a private tutoring session. I could not appear to be favoring Grace.
Alexa was not a great speaker, perhaps the reason why she chose to work behind the scenes in theatre. Awkwardly, she said, "Um, maybe he just liked Grendel as a character. I mean, maybe when he read the original Beowulf he just sort of…identified…with, you know—"
I really did think she was finished, though she left the thought dangling. I waited a moment for her to continue, and when the pause lengthened, I said, "No, I don't know. Explain it to me."
She opened her mouth, and I was prepared for a few more seconds of Alexa's stilted, banal explanation. But Grace jumped in. And spoke succinctly and clearly and assertively. "Well, maybe he felt like a monster," she said, looking around. "I mean, sometimes you do, sometimes you just feel like a monster."
Our eyes met. Flash of images – that conversation we had about her stepsister during the auditions. The indulgences in my head this past weekend. I smiled. "Exactly," I said. As if it were just the two of us in the room, having the discussion. But it wasn't, and Alexa's voice cut through my momentary reverie.
"Um, that's exactly what I was about to say only you cut me off," she asserted.
If all was as innocent and objective as it should have been, her accusation would have seemed merely humorous, and I would laughingly apologize. Instead, I weakly protested, "Oh, well, forgive me, I know it might seem like I was cutting you off, but what I was trying to do was to—" And there I was once more, graceless under pressure, floundering for an excuse, when the bell rang. Gratefully, I shifted gears, remembering the thought I had had earlier during the lull of participation. I spoke loudly, to be heard over the end-of-class shuffles and noise, "Okay, so finish Grendel. And listen, I know I said no more pop quizzes. That was before I saw your scores from the last one. So, expect the unexpected."
I stood, returned to my desk, and gathered my papers together. I opened my valise and put them in, and saw the book. I had to give it to Grace today. Now. I wanted her to have it before we went to see Rashomon. And I didn't want to analyze why. But how to get it to her? Walk over to her? But then, fortuitously, she approached my desk. Before she could say anything, I handed her the book. "Oh, uh, here," I said quietly. "It's that book I was telling you about." She reached for it; our fingers brushed. Flash of a paper wine cup. Flash of a car ride. Flash of electricity. For the briefest second, we held the book together, a connection joining us physically, and then I released the book into her hands.