Winter Jacket (11 page)

“Oh, right.  I’d nearly forgotten about that.” L
ie.  I’d been checking my email obsessively since she’d left my house weeks ago with the promise to email me when she’d finished.

Her smile
was so big, it threatened to cleave her face in half.  “I really like Esther.  She’s a little dark, but I think she’s funny.”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying it so far,” I returned in the most professional voice I could muster.

“When I’m finished, maybe we could meet and talk about it?  If you’re not too busy, I mean.”

Yes!

I nodded, holding back the enthusiasm that was bubbling just beneath my surface.  I mentally gave myself a high five.

Hunter
fidgeted again.  “I’m sorry to run off, but I have to go; my dad’s waiting out front in the car. I’m just supposed to be grabbing a pound of coffee.” She held up a bag of ground beans that I hadn’t noticed until now.  I blamed it on the distraction of her tennis skirt. “He’s addicted to their breakfast blend.”

“I might have to go to a 12-step program myself.” I tapped my own ceramic mug.

              “It was really great running into you, Professor Graft.” She started walking backwards, inching her way towards the exit.

I
smiled and mock saluted her with two fingers to my temple.
God, could I be anymore awkward?
I mentally chastised.  “Have a nice summer, Hunter.”

She nodd
ed her head as she continued walking backwards toward the main exit.  “You too.” 

Her elbow caught a young man coming through the front door.
She bobbled her dad’s bag of coffee beans, nearly dropping it, before retaining her composure.  I watched her apologize profusely to the man overdressed in a suit in the summer.  I covered my mouth with my hand, hiding an amused grin.  Hunter turned and rushed out of the coffee shop without looking back.

Charming, indeed.

When she left, I grabbed my phone and texted Troian:
She likes the book!

My friend’s
response was immediate.
What are you talking about?

I realized I hadn’t told Troian about
Hunter showing up at the English department’s party and her lingering in my home office with my cat Sylvia and
The Bell Jar
.  I’d decided to keep it to myself knowing she would have found a way to turn Hunter petting my cat into a million and one perverted euphemisms.  

In that moment, I decided to continue keeping it to myself.

Sorry, that text wasn’t for you,
I lied.   

I stored my phone out of sight on the off-chance that Troian would keep texting and pestering me.  I typically didn’t keep things like this from my best friend, but I felt that just this once I might keep this private.  I didn’t need her making conversations about good literature into an illicit act.  And it’s not like I’d let Hunter borrow D.H. Lawrence or any of my 1950s lesbian pulp fiction collection.  There was nothing improper about an English professor lending a good book to a student for some summer reading.  I’d just have to keep telling myself that. 

+++++

Even though I didn't teach summer classes (one of the perks of working at a small school), I still man
aged to keep myself busy over the next few months.  I had plenty of school-related work to do between getting materials ready for Fall semester, working on my paper for an academic conference I was presenting at in mid-September, and making revisions to my collection of short stories.  I'd also managed to spend valuable time with friends, mostly Troian and Nikole, and a few coffee get-togethers with my ex-girlfriend, Cady, but I had also made the trip to my home state of Wisconsin to visit old friends and family.

I hadn't thought much about a particular blonde former student of mine, but every once in a while something happened that reminded me of her.
Mostly it was just flashes of a familiar shade of hair color, which was exacerbated because in summer everyone goes blonde.  But I also found myself going to Del Sol's more often than usual hoping I might bump into her again. But her dad must have quit his coffee fix or she was avoiding the place because I didn't see her there the rest of the summer.

It was late into the summer, just weeks before the start of Fall semester, when I finally heard back from Hunter.  I’d nearly given up on ever hearing from her again or getting my book back.  Bitterly I’d considered it a proper punishment for breaking my “No Book Lending” policy.

The email she’d sent me was brief, if not a little rambling, far too polite, and overall very Hunter-like.  When I read it to myself, I could practically hear her voice and see her blushing and ducking her head:

              Hi Professor Graft,

             
I just finished your book, and I wanted to know how you wanted me to               give it back to you.  I won’t be on campus much this semester because it’s my               senior year and I have an internship at the hospital, but I could drop it off               at your house or bring it by your campus office. 

              I’m sorry it’s taken me so long –              I’m really not this slow of a reader.  I’m               hoping you’re still interested in talking with me about
The Bell Jar
when               you have some time. I really enjoyed it. Thank you for the               recommendation.

              I hope your summer went well – even if you had work to do.

                            - Hunter Dyson

I snapped each knuckle separately as I
read and re-read the email and thought about my reply. My mom had once told me I would get arthritis if I kept cracking my knuckles.  I was sure it was an Old Wives’ tale meant to scare like if a toad peed on you, you'd get warts.  Or how masturbation gave you hairy palms. 

What was an appropriate, professional response? How should we meet so she could give me back my book? 
Troian’s voice popped into my head:
“Oh, I know how she can give it to you.”

I thought about Hunter’s offer to drop the book off at my house.  It was an unnecessary and out-of-the-way gesture;
she could just as easily put the book in my faculty mailbox, and she’d never have to actually see me.  It reminded me of other unnecessary acts – taking her jacket off in my faculty office for a 15-minute meeting, checking on Sylvia when she heard a crash in the back of my house, touching and turning my book at the coffee shop.  They were all small gestures and I’d unnecessarily fixated on them as meaning something. 

I knew what I had to do.  I needed to stop this ridiculous, fantasy relationship
with a student nearly 10-years my junior, who was most definitely straight.  I moved my fingers over the track-pad on my laptop.  I watched the little arrow scrawl across the screen, and I clicked Delete.

+++++

CHAPTER SIX

"Another pale ale?" the blonde behind the bar at Peggy’s asked me.  I vaguely remembered her name as being Leah and that she had her Masters in French Literature.  We’d struck up a conversation once upon a time about
Madame Bovary
, one of my favorite works of French literature.  Troian had scolded me after we’d left the bar that night for being too nerdy.

I nodded.
 I'd finished off my first pint quickly, but planned on pacing myself with the second.  Peggy's was busy tonight, but the bar area was relatively vacant.  I'd claimed a barstool without much effort. Most of the other bar patrons were on the dance floor or occupying the tables along the perimeter of the bar.

Leah
removed my empty pint glass and placed a fresh cocktail napkin in front of me.  As she poured me another pint, I twisted on my stool and glanced around the bar.  I wondered if Megan still worked here, but I wasn’t about to ask Leah.  I hadn’t been back to Peggy’s since that night, months ago. I’d been absent partly because work had gotten busy, but mostly because I was too embarrassed to show my face.  One-night-stands weren’t my typical fare and almost-one-night-stands were altogether embarrassing.

I’d come to Peggy’s tonight though because it was a new semester, and
I was frustrated with one of my writing seminars. No matter how many in-class workshops I facilitated, they couldn't seem to figure out how to write a 5-paragraph essay.  Normally after a challenging day I'd go home to Sylvia and run myself a warm bath, light a few scented candles, and read a novel in the bathtub.  But tonight, after marking up one horrible essay after the next, I needed something a little stronger than a vanilla candle and warm sugar bath scrub.  I'd left a message on Troian's voicemail to see if she wanted to meet up so I didn't have to drink by myself, but so far my phone was silent. I vaguely remembered her mentioning a date night with Nikole, but I couldn’t recall if she’d said it was tonight or not.  This was one of the drawbacks of being an extra-wheel.  I desperately needed to find a wheel to call my own.  Or just a girlfriend.  That would work, too. 

I’d thought about calling Cady to see if she wanted to meet up with me tonight.  But I knew from the last time we’d briefly talked on the phone that she’d just started dating someone exclusively.  I didn’t want to complicate things and the way I was feeling tonight, lonely and self-depreciating, I was sure to do that.  Cady was familiar and comfortable and that was dangerous. I wanted her to move on without me continually dragging her back down.  I wanted her to be happy because I doubted she could ever be that with me.

“You guys are busy tonight,” I said to Leah, conversationally.

She set another pint of beer in front of me.  “The start of a new school year is always good for business.  A whole new crop of freshmen.”  She grinned mischievously.  “Or fresh
meat
.”

“Now you sound like Troian,” I said, shaking my head but smiling.  She was always teasing me that freshmen were the only reason I never took her up on the offer to work with her in Hollywood.

“Where is that pocket-lesbian tonight?”

I shrugged and twisted my glass on the bar top. 
I played with the condensation on the outside of the pint glass and drew patterns with my fingertips.   “Date night with Nik, I think.”

“Gross,” Leah said, echoing my cynical thoughts. “Those two are so sweet, it makes my teeth rot.”

As she walked away to attend to another thirsty lesbian, I took a moment to appraise the friendly bartender.  Leah was nice.  She had a good sense of humor, was educated, and had a nice ass.  I could do much worse.  I
had
done much worse.

I grabbed my beer and twisted back around on my stool to watch the people out on the dance floor.  Peggy’s always drew a mixed crowd on weekend nights and tonight was no exception.  It was the only gay bar in about a 50-mile radius and it pulled patrons from all over.  Tonight’s dance floor was packed with an assortment of co-ed women, no doubt from my school and other area universities, a few skinny-jeaned men, and a handful of older lesbians who, after a few beers, danced unapologetically with little rhythm. 

It had always amazed me that such a supposedly conservative area could boast such a large, vibrant queer community.  When I’d first been hired I’d been concerned that I’d have to stay Closeted until I found a job at a different, more liberal school.  So far my sexuality had been a nonfactor, especially in the English Department.  It made me feel more confident about my decision to pursue tenure at this school.  Tenure went both ways; the school needed to commit to you to stay on permanently, but you also needed to commit to the school as well.

The crowd on the dance floor seemed to part, affording me an unobstructed view of a tall blonde on the dance floor.
My approving gaze immediately went to the woman.  I had a type and tall blondes were certainly it.  My pint glass nearly slipped out of my hand when I realized I knew the tall blonde.

Hunter.

What was Hunter Dyson doing in
a gay bar?  

The slightly elevated dance floor was crowded, but Hunter was tall and her blonde head of hair poked up among the masses.
 Under the shroud of dimmed lights and flashing neon strobes, I allowed myself the indulgence of really looking at her, something my guilt-complex hadn't allowed me to do in a while. The music was a remix of some Top 40 song I’ve heard overplayed on the radio.  Her eyes were bright and she threw back her head, laughing.  She wasn’t the most provocative dancer I’d ever seen.  Actually, she danced just like I imagined she would.  Her movements were hesitant, contained, like she was afraid to break out of her comfort zone. I didn't recognize the other girls who danced with her in a loose circle, their strategic formation challenging only the bravest souls to try and infiltrate their group, but they all looked to be about Hunter's age so I suspected they were also students, maybe fellow classmates from the nursing program.

There was a very real possibility that she wasn't gay.
I was sure that a number of straight co-eds from my campus came to Peggy's because there wasn't a bouncer outside checking IDs, and I couldn't really recall having seen any of the bartenders ask patrons for proof of their age, either. Even Troian had boasted proudly about not having her ID checked and she looked about 12.  That was part of the reason I typically avoided this place on the weekends during the school year. Besides the alcohol angle, I'm sure a few co-ed women came to Peggy's either to experiment with their sexuality or to go slumming – to see Real Life Lesbians in their natural habitat.  

I knew I should probably leave.
I didn’t care if students knew I was gay – I didn’t hide my sexuality – but I didn’t like putting myself in situations where I might possibly observe an underage student drinking alcohol.  I gave serious consideration to leaving, but I still had a full beer, and I'd be lying if I didn't admit to being curious as to which of those categories my former student belonged.  Was she gay? Or was she just here to dance?

I thought about texting Troian to tell her about this recent development, but I knew she'd interrupt her date night with Nikole to message me back.
 I didn't want to do that to either of them, so I resisted the urge to reach for my phone.

I intended to spin back around and finish my beer, not willing to let myself become a gawking voyeur. But just as I'd made that decision, from across the bar, grey-blue eyes caught my own.
 I was sitting too far away to decipher a specific emotion if it passed across her visage – shock, confusion, embarrassment, or something else altogether. But I did observe her grab the attention of the girl dancing closest to her, and then she started to maneuver
off the dance floor and walk directly toward me. 

As I watched her weave through the crowded bar and steadily eliminate the distance between us, I felt a little like a deer in headlights.
 
This can't end well
, my brain warned me.
Shut up, brain
, I tossed back.

Her cheeks were flushed and a peculiar smile had found its way t
o her face. “Professor Graft?” Her voice was nervous, but not necessarily confused.  It made me wonder if my sexuality was public knowledge among the small student body. 

“
How are you, Hunter?” I managed to stumble out. I self-consciously put my glass of beer on the bar top.

“I’m good,” she said, routinely falling into polite small talk.  This was safe territory.  “And you?”

“Good, good,” I returned.  I bit down on my lower lip.  I didn’t know what to say.   In the classroom, in my faculty office, or even in an off-campus coffee shop, I could muster up the courage for casual conversation.  But not at a gay bar.

“Do you dance?” she asked. 

I couldn’t tell if she was asking me to dance with her or if she was just making conversation.  I didn’t want to read too much into it.

“Not when anyone’s looking.”

She glanced wistfully out at the dance floor.  “Me either.” Normally the space went unused, but on nights when they bothered to hire a DJ it always seemed to fill up.  “But I’m here with some friends, and they dragged me out there.”

I cleared my throat and shifted on my bar seat.
“Well, don’t let me keep you from them.”

She shrugged, fine boney shoulders visible beneath her tank top.  It was a far cry from the blue puffy winter jacket.  “I’m not really in the dancing kind of mood anymore.  It’s so hard to just be ‘on’ all the time, you know?”

I nodded in understanding.  After marking up so many papers that day, I’d felt emotionally and mentally exhausted.  It was a wonder I had managed to drag myself here tonight, but I hadn’t felt like being in an empty house all day. 

She cast a furtive glance in my direction.  “How about you?  What brings you here tonight?”

“I was trying to drown my sorrows,” I explained, looking down into the bottom of my glass, “but my sorrows learned to swim.”

She leaned against the bar top, perceptively closer.
“So not only do you teach English,” she said, quirking an elegant eyebrow, “but you’re also a poet?”

I shook my head. “I’m a writer.” As if there was a world of difference.  I’d paraphrased Frida Kahlo, but I didn’t bother to explain that to her.

She smiled, truly beaming, and I knew I was in trouble.

I grabbed my
drink and the paper napkin lifted with it.  “What’s the point?” I grumbled. I picked it off and threw the wilted napkin back down on the bar.

“I think it’s for bar preservation,” she smiled. 

I stared hard at her face, hoping that the intensity of my gaze was masked by the dim bar lighting. She should smile all the time.  I wish I were funnier or wittier so I could produce that slow curl of generous lips spreading to reveal two rows of perfect, white teeth on demand.  She smiled with her whole face, grey-blue eyes crinkling at the corners.

“I don’t mean to pry,
” I said suddenly, “and you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, but are you gay?”

The smile faltered.  “I’m not sure,” she said, looking away.  “That’s kind of why I’m here tonight.”  She looked back in my direction, her face looking full of remorse.  “My friends mean well, but I’m just not a club kind of girl.  I don’t know what they thought I’d find here tonight.
” Her shoulders heaved as she sighed.  “They’re just excited for me, I guess.  Like me exploring my sexuality is a shiny new car they want to take for a ride.  But when do
I
get the keys to the car, you know?”

“I think that’s the most I’ve ever heard you speak in one sitting.”

She blushed prettily, eyes back on the bar top.  “I’m sorry I wasn’t a better student,” she murmured.

“You were fine,” I reassure
d her.  I didn’t really feel like talking shop.  Not here.  Not tonight.  Not with her.

I took another drink of my beer.  It was a good
pale ale from one of my favorite local brewers.  I might not know much about wine, but I was certainly a beer snob.  As a university professor I should have been knowledgeable about floral bouquets instead and chatted nonstop about my most recent trip to Wine Country. But that wasn’t me.  Hell, I’d hardly ever left the Midwest. I’d always felt like a fraud – like a graduate student in professor clothing.

“I always had more to say,” she noted
wistfully, “I was just never brave enough to say it.  I’d replay what I wanted to say over and over in my mind, but when I’d finally built up the courage to speak, we’d moved on to another question or another topic.”

“I was like that in college too at first,” I admitted with a slow nod.  “You get over the fear with time though.  You care less about making mistakes or looking bad in front of your peers.”

“I’m sorry,” she apologized. “This probably isn’t how you imagined spending your night.”

I shrugged.  I had no plans.  “How about you?  How did you imagine the night turning out?”