One More Time (37 page)

Let’s give it one last chance.

Once more, with feeling.

One more time.

* * *

The time hung heavy on Matt’s hands. He walked the length and breadth of the French Quarter over and over again. He hit every tourist spot, unseeing, and followed a number of tours without hearing what was said. He ate without tasting the food on his fork, though it was probably spectacular, and went through the markets without savoring the scents.

Someone was reading his book.

And not just anyone: Leslie was reading his book.

Matt was terrified – that it was worthless; that it was incomprehensible; that she wouldn’t understand it; that she wouldn’t like it.

That there would be no common ground from which they could go forward.

That the book would prove that they were too far apart to stay together.

That the book would make his worst nightmare come true.

Because, in hindsight, Matt saw that the one thing he had wanted most in the all the world was the one thing for which he had been afraid to ask. Now Leslie was reading his work and his entire future hung in the balance.

He didn’t sleep.

He didn’t really live.

He just marked time until he could get on his booked flight to Boston on Tuesday, get home and find out the truth.

* * *

Leslie, meanwhile, was up reading most of the night. Beverly came and went; Annette came and went; both spoke to her, but Leslie wasn’t entirely sure what they said.

The girls slept in the kitchen for a long time, but eventually even they gave up on Leslie and abandoned her for better sleeping facilities upstairs. They’d slip into Annette’s room, Leslie knew, because their dog beds were there. She didn’t’ doubt that if she peeked into the room in a couple of hours, they’d both be sprawled on Annette’s bed with her.

Tonight she didn’t care. She was lost in a fictional world of Matt’s making, a tale of two brothers as different as chalk and cheese. It was fiction, and yet it was infused with the truth as only Matt could tell it. His own experience made the brothers real, made them living characters who were both noble and flawed. His ability with word brought the crises to fever pitch, made Leslie laugh, made her cry.

The brothers seemed to be opposites, two very different men in pursuit of similar objectives, two men raised to compete with each other. Yet in the course of their journey, the found a new understanding and compassion for each other, though it was not achieved easily. They wrung each other out, turned things back on themselves, made each other work for a balance and a camaraderie that Leslie knew would sustain them for the rest of their lives.

At four in the morning, Leslie turned the last page, exhausted by the emotional journey she had endured along with the two brothers in the story. She looked around her kitchen, saw the darkness gathered outside the windows, saw that all other windows facing the backyards were shadowed.

The house was silent, only the sound of breathing and the quiet hum of the furnace filling its walls. The streets were quiet outside, all of the town lost in slumber.

How much of this story was owed to Matt’s competition with James over the past two years? How much nuance and detail of that was owed to their upbringing, as the two Coxwell brothers closest in age? How much was owed to Robert Coxwell and his ambitions, either in fiction or in truth? Leslie couldn’t tell. She couldn’t unfurl what she knew to be truth from what she believed to be fiction.

And that was the power of Matt’s book. It could have been all true. It could have been all fiction. But it was powerful in a way that only a work that blended both fiction and truth could be.

It was honest. That realization made her stop and stroke the manuscript, because such honesty could only have come from the Matt she knew and loved. This book was infused with his perceptiveness and his insights and his view of the world.

That was what made it so potent.

And she wasn’t afraid to tell him that particular truth.

* * *

Tuesday was the kind of day that called for the best armor Leslie had. She had a fuchsia La Perla under wire bra that she had bought on an adventurous day and only had worn once. This was its day. It was understated for La Perla, relying upon exquisite cut instead of ornamentation for its star power. There was no lace, but the edges were finished with two narrow lines of silk satin piping, one cream and one a sapphire blue that made the fuchsia zing. There were three scrumptious little freshwater pearls, one at the center front and one each where the strap met the top of the cup.

It was, Leslie recalled once she had it on, the best fitting and most flattering bra she’d ever owned.

The pink twin set was a given, on this day of challenges, though Leslie’s hand faltered slightly when she stepped up to the mirror to put on the pink lipstick.

She looked like a different person, maybe a more interesting person than she was. No, she finally looked like the interesting person she was, instead of a pale substitute.

Annette was right, though: she needed new shoes.

Leslie descended to the kitchen, drawn by the smell of fresh coffee. The girls came trotting to greet her although there was no sign of Beverly “No snowballs this morning,” she told them. “I have to go to work.” Champagne sighed at that and headed back to the dog bed that now occupied the corner of the kitchen floor. Caviar strolled over to sit at Annette’s feet.

Leslie blinked to find her daughter eating Raisin Bran with sliced bananas on top. Annette noticed her glance and waved her spoon in greeting. “You get used to eating sawdust,” she said with a philosophical shrug. “I like the pink a lot.”

Annette couldn’t be in that bad of a mood: she had broken out her favorite black
Battlestar Galactica
T-shirt. Maybe something was going on at school.

Maybe it had something to do with Scott Sexton.

Leslie knew better than to ask.

“Have the girls been out?”

“I took them for a walk after I started the coffee,” Annette said. “Mission accomplished.”

“And your grandmother?”

“No sign of her yet.”

Leslie took a sip of her coffee and sighed contentment. “You’re spoiling me, you know.”

“I could get used to you spoiled. It brings out your inner alien.”

“And that’s a good thing?”

Annette grinned.

“So, do you need a ride to school this morning?”

“No, thanks. I’m going to walk.”

Leslie blinked, then blinked again at her daughter’s mischievous grin.

Annette leaned over her cereal bowl to confide something of such obvious import that Leslie leaned closer instinctively. “I have found the most awesome bra,” her daughter said, “and it costs a fortune and you’re going to have to buy it for me soon.” She nodded sagely. “Really soon.” Then she eyed Leslie, as if expecting the offer to be rescinded.

“Good. I’m ready anytime.”

Annette grinned and bounced a bit.

“You know, it’s funny, but I seem to have lost a book I once had,” Leslie mused. “And it’s not like me to lose track of a book, but I just can’t figure out what happened to this one.”

Annette flushed and Leslie smiled.

“Guess it’s gone for good,” she said with a wink.

“I’d think so,” Annette agreed and they shared a smile.

T
his was it.

That was Leslie’s thought as she strode down the hall, outwardly confident and inwardly terrified, toward her afternoon lecture. Everything was riding all this, she felt, all the chips were on the table and she’d called ‘double or nothing’. It was frightening to have risked so much by challenging Dinkelmann.

She hadn’t even thought to wear the Rosie the Riveter bra.

On the other hand, she hadn’t felt so much anticipation for a class in years. Maybe anticipation mingled with terror was a better description.

Maybe they had all dropped the course.

Maybe none of them had prepared.

Maybe they would have absolutely nothing to say, and all two hundred and seventy-five souls would stare at her in silence for two hours.

Scary prospect. Maybe she should have brought a lion and a Christian or two.

The fact was that there was no way to tell for sure in advance how it would all work out. Which was similar to a lot of other things, which was not the most reassuring thought Leslie could have had.

All possible mortal preparations made and the result was left in the hands of the gods. Not being a particularly religious individual—and experience had shown her miserable success rate with divine intervention—Leslie wasn’t optimistic.

She gripped the door handle to the lecture hall, took a deep breath and hauled it open.

The chatter within was abruptly silenced by her appearance. To her astonishment, at least two-thirds of the class as she knew it had shown. She continued to the lectern as if she’d expected nothing else.

“Good afternoon,” she said, letting her voice carry over the room. “Is everyone prepared?”

There were some murmurs of assent and a lot of shuffling of papers. Several of Leslie’s grad students had offered to help by taking attendance for her and she greeted them quietly, giving them some instruction on how to have the students sign in without disrupting any potential discussion.

The class waited restlessly, either anxious about each having their chance or terrified of being singled out.

“I’d like you all to move down, closer to the front,” Leslie said once the grad student cum emissaries were dispatched to their missions. “That way, we’ll be able to hear each other better. I’d like you to meet several of my grad students—Fatima and Michael and Ilona and Chi-Van—who have graciously offered to take attendance during our discussion. Please have your student identification on your desk and be prepared to sign in with your student number. They will also take note of anyone who arrives late or leaves early.”

At that, the back door opened. Everyone glanced over their shoulders to see who was late, and Leslie caught her breath when Dinkelmann stepped into the back of the hall. He seemed discomfited to find all eyes upon him.

Leslie was discomfited that he and she were wearing the same color of pink.

At least she told herself that that was what was making her heart leap. He glanced about and quickly claimed a seat, clearly hoping to disappear.

Leslie wasn’t inclined to give him his three wishes.

“As you can see, Dr. Dinkelmann, who is head of the history department, will be observing our discussion today as well.” Leslie smiled at her daunted students. “Here is your chance to impress Team Fuchsia and nail that graduate school referral.”

A ripple of laughter rolled through the hall, though Dinkelmann did not smile. He seemed particularly concerned with opening his notebook and taking the cap off his pen.

“As you know—or I hope you know—we will be discussing the emergence of the notion of the individual in medieval society today. This will be a free-ranging discussion, so please put up your hand when you have something to contribute. I’ll try to ensure that you all have your chance to share what you’ve learned. I’d like you each to stand when you speak, as that will aid your voice to carry.” Leslie smiled and gestured to a familiar student. “Mr. Carmichael, would you like to start us off, maybe with a nice broad working thesis?”

He stood, a lanky kid who was both pompous and self-conscious. “Yes, Dr. Coxwell. I’d like to suggest that the emergence of the notion of the individual was both the culmination of medieval society, resulting in the highest achievements of the era, and its doom, as the notion of the supreme importance of the individual necessitated the end of the middle ages and the beginning of the Renaissance.”

It was pretty good for something off the cuff. “Excellent. My only quibble is that the word “necessitated” implies an inevitability, Mr. Carmichael. I’m not sure that anything in history is inevitable, but other than that one small item, it’s an excellent working theory. Tell me more about what you mean, or why you arrived at this thesis.”

“Well, I focused on architecture, and the changes in the design of private residences over the course of the middle ages...”

To Leslie’s delight, the discussion took a life of its own. Mr. Carmichael talked about changes in architecture from a few large communal rooms to private rooms and private sleeping arrangements.

Another student contributed some comments on walls, the increasing popularity of walled gardens for private contemplation, and the internal division of rooms in all buildings.

They talked about the pursuit of solitude and its fruits. They talked about the growing importance of identification of the individual creator with the work of art: of paintings being signed, of poets ensuring that their name was associated with their work, of even monks copying chronicles making note of their own name in the margin when once they would have worked anonymously.

Someone brought up the notion of a personal relationship with the divine, of worshippers meeting God as an individual instead of en mass during Mass, of gnosis and Cathars and people reading the bible for themselves and how the Reformation was a natural outgrowth of that. That led them down the road of women’s role in religious life, of visionaries like Julian of Norwich and Teresa of Avila, who communed with God and shared their experiences. They talked about Joan of Arc, and her discussions with angels, as well as her abilities as an individual in rallying the military fortunes of France.

Another student had examined the notion of the solitary quest in poems and literature, particularly in the Arthurian cycle and the adventures of the Knights of the Round Table, who sought personal growth in order to glimpse or potentially possess the Grail. Previous to the popularity of these stories, a knight traveling alone was believed to be a threat or an outlaw fleeing his past, this student declared and Leslie concurred, but these stories defined the solitary traveler as a hero instead.

They talked about livestock being moved out of peasant huts and into their own barns or outbuildings. That led to the inevitable discussion about sex and its presentation in popular medieval fiction, how it changed from being a deed done while surrounded by others—in a peasant hut, or in a shared bed in a feudal castle—to an encounter requiring seclusion and privacy.