In The Attic Study
For
Lily he wiped down the desk and the floor
near the wastebasket. Lily was prim in her
own way, an aristocrat, and wouldnt
identify with the dustballs, not like the
older women, coming back to the university
after ten, twenty years of service to house
and husband, rust in the hinges, dead leaves
in the drainpipes the older ones liked
that natural musty look; it would have been
OK for them at home if they hadnt been
in service, OK to bring in some weeds and
flotsam, let nature have her say, could be
even Jameson, Sheldrake, Ross, and Carlton
III would take to it if they had a chance
to relax the watch it was a matter
of slack, and heaven be damned there was none
of that, so they loved the scholar all the
more,
him
with his love of literature and ideas, looking
straight into their eyes as they lightly discussed
the role of courtly love in the medieval paintings,
looking straight at them, and it was so exciting
being seen like that, almost too much to bear
in their time of need, just thinking about
the lost years with no words attached, even
almost thinking about it could bring
tears to their tired eyes going back
to school was a monumental leap into a future
attached to a real self, you can see why they
loved him in his cloister setting, devoting
himself to classic art and refined thoughts
about higher matters than changing the oil
and doing up the popcorn and chips for Sunday
football, she couldnt even leave the
house after the game started, he called her
name a hundred times before the half-time
dodge to the john,
the
professor was another species, a timeless,
ageless scribe, you didnt even notice
his paunch, it was practically as big as Harrisons
if you wanted to count inches, but, well,
maybe it was the nice tall height, maybe the
little roll of the eyes when you said something
he thought clever, maybewell, more like
actuallyit was being whispered to in
the hall so crowded with coeds he simply had
to move closer, whisper in her ear how teens
will probably never appreciate the meaning
of love, let alone its expression, their sensibilities
destroyed by television, they never let the
honey lines of great love literature and great
painting teach them what higher emotion could
be like,
they
were wild with drinking parties and cheap
grass, a lost generation so depressed they
hadnt the first idea about joy and passion,
he was like a monk when he talked like that,
looking down at their faces from his rainbow
clouds, pulling them right into the colors
till they flushed at how deep down they responded,
surely the ancient priests had magic like
this, locked up in their Latin thoughts until
something in the real world called to them,
when it came to him, it came to seem that
only they never mind how they were
stretching their tailored slacks these days
it was a new day, he showed that, coming
out of his ivory tower for them, only they
could break the spell demanded by his vows
of celibacy.
Breaking
a monk was nothing they would talk about,
not to absolutely anyone, but it was exciting,
o so exciting to think they could break a
priest, that their own beauty could be so
irresistible it would neutalize his vows,
he was only supposed to love the nuns, like
sisters, like his cousins and his mother back
in Ohio doing their obedient lives at the
family store and going to church every week
and looking down when Father ONeill
asked them again why they couldnt come
for vespers on Wednesday or Thursday just
before work, it wasnt like a full mass,
oh, dear no, maybe twenty minutes first to
last, hed be mighty thankful to Christ
if she could just get herself there the one
morning, wouldnt they just think of
what a model theyd become for the young
ones, and even then theyre thinking
what a fine, strong mouth moved and pursed
on the face of Father ONeill, when he
laughed they could see his teeth and his tongue
even though he smiled just so wide, not like
Father Stedman, mouth like a horse and all.
A
pretty picture, wondering about the mouths
of monks, and little knowing the dusty books
on Piers the Plowman were set just so for
the Catholics among them. He liked the whole
scene, liked that Lily was a Catholic and
part of that weirdo background, liked how
she wanted to be pure and couldnt be,
probably wild in bed, hed see to that,
and she wanted it, too, he knew it as he knew
his name.
On
the appointed Wednesday, Lily was right on
time and wearing that powder blue angora with
the V neck he had praised that day when she
stayed after class to discuss her Guinevere
paper, Lady Guinevere and Lancelot and Mark
in seven paintings between 1150 and 1850.
She was the last conference of the afternoon
thank god, he thoughtand, lucky
for him, the next to last was a no show. "Should
have known," he thought, but there was
time to tidy up and place a few choice items
on the desk near the student chair. He ran
some water in his hair and paper-towelled
it dry, just enough so the comb would go through
and give it some height before drying completely.
Then he dotted his neck with HIS. Hell, it
always make him feel better, almost like ice
cream, and hell, even if he could almost
be her grandfather, No! he wouldnt think
about that, not now when a true flower was
about to enter his life. He put the survey
research on the bookshelves. No sense scaring
her off, seeing books on booze. He could always
say he was researching for a paper, on (drunken
painter), maybe. No one knew. And no one would.
And
then the tentative knock on the door and he
knew she knew what she was coming to, she
had to, she wasnt a kid, she was 18,
maybe 19, for gods sake, she would know
by now what it meant when a real man looked
at her the way he did, she even looked back
last time, and that sealed it, didnt
it?
He
let her in, hoping his excitement didnt
show. She had brought in her papers, looking
very troubled, and he thought hed calm
her down first by pointing her attention to
the three books hed planted next to
where her breasts might brush the spines.
Hes chosen Chopins The Awakening,
The Art of Loving by Erich Fromm, and
proofs of his brothers new book, Alisoun
of Bathe, any one of them could open doors,
she just had to ask, and she would, she was
so good about things like that, god, it would
be wonderful when he knew it was all in the
bag.
"Lily,
have you seen these books before?" he
asked, seeing her sitting there, troubled
and not getting centered.
"Is
Kate Chopin related to Frederick?" she
asked tentatively.
"No,
but its a good guess. Kate wrote at
the turn of the century, and this book is
about waking up sexually after being in a
suffocating marriage and half asleep with
her husband for twenty years." And she
looked up, eyes widening, and there she was
as he had conceived her, and he knew she was
interested and curious.
"They
didnt love each other?" she said,
turning her attention to this subject more
precious than her studies, her parents, even
daily life.
"They
didnt love each other," he repeated
gently, hoping shed feel if not know
what he was trying to tell her.
"Thats
very sad," she said.
"
but she was a great and passionate
soul. It was destiny that shed meet
a man who really appreciated her "
"Well
thats what everyone says they want,
all the novels and my friends "
"
and her inner beauty."
"Yes,"
she said, looking right at him this time.
"He
made her come alive."
"Then
she was lucky."
"Do
you think so??"
"I
do! A woman shouldnt be treated like
a child."
"No.
She deserved much more..." and he reached
out and lightly placed his hand on hers, not
so that she couldnt move it out from
under, but enough to show how it could be."
"What
did she deserve?" she asked, knowing
she was pushing a dangerous button, they werent
talking about literature anymore, it was,
who was it?, it was them, thats who,
and she felt a pang of recognition in her
groin and it almost made her jump, and she
was horrified and overjoyed, and though she
had the idea of running, hearing them all
yell Run, Run in her inner ear, in her mind
her only thought was to gently place her other
hand on top of his and seal the bargain. But
she didnt have to do it. Keeping his
eyes riveted on hers, he simply raised her
hand from above and reached his other hand
beneath so could enclose her fingers and caress
her hand until the shaking stopped, she knew
when it was starting, she almost wept it was
so awful, him knowing what a baby she was,
hed know instantly how inexperienced
she was, how shed never never done such
a thing before, not with Dan, not with Hank,
and never never never with a grown man, a
real man who could make her feel this way.
She
almost withered at the thought of what lay
ahead, but somehow he put life into her hand
with his warm enfolding, and it spread through
her like hot tea and she knew it was O.K.,
it wasnt a big thing for him, he probably
even liked it, yes, he liked that he could
warm her fears and suddenly she was in love
with his liking it, the relief was so great
she almost winced, it would have been an animal
sound if shed let it out, some forest
animal near death, she wondered if that kind
of thing happened when you made love and you
couldnt hold it in any longer, shed
heard about that and that was what this was
all about.
As
for Charles, he was on fire by now, she was
the most beautiful thing hed ever seen,
he wanted to rip her sweater off as he threw
her onto the Persian rug and thanked his lucky
stars as he held himself back, thank god,
thank god, that his romantic soul had figured
the exact right thing to do at the turning
point, she was calming down now, he could
feel it through his palms and fingertips,
all he had to do was hold steady and the ship
would forge ahead through the byways and sea
currents, a woman coming up from the depths,
it would easily last a year or two.
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