Oppressive.
And it wasn’t just Annette.
For a long time Morgan had been directionless. He’d realized it while working with the old man, Fred Jones. It was the first time he’d felt like a poet or a teacher in years. And he’d realized it again talking to Annette Grayson, telling her how he’d blown with the wind from one temporary job to another.
And then there was Annie Walsh. The dreams were getting worse. In the most recent, he could hear her clawing under the ground. His dream self tried to dig her out, pale hands ripping at the hard winter ground, digging without a shovel, fingernails hurt and bleeding.
Morgan shuddered.
Ginny’s breathing changed, and Morgan suspected she was awake. They both pretended to sleep.
After half an hour, Morgan figured something had to give. He opened his mouth, drew breath to speak, didn’t know what to say, and shut it again.
“What is it?” Ginny asked.
“I didn’t know if you were awake yet.”
“I’m awake.”
Morgan still didn’t know what to say.
Ginny said, “It’s like we have a secret together. Don’t you think that makes people close? It’s kind of a prefabricated intimacy. And I need this once in a while, to be close and naked with somebody I can trust. Maybe a weird kind of trust but it’s there, and I want you to feel it too.”
“I feel it.”
“It doesn’t seem like you do. I can’t handle boys my age. If they sleep with a girl once, they either think they own her or they want to throw her out like an empty beer can. I like that you’re older. I want us to be friends. I read your poetry book.”
“Which one?
“The other one. The hat one.”
“
“I thought it was pretty good.”
“Thanks.”
“Are you working on anything now?”
Morgan squirmed, shifted away from her. “Not right now.”
“Writer’s block.”
“No.” It came out more harsh than he’d meant. “I just haven’t decided on anything yet.”
“I think you’re stuck.”
“What would you know about it?”
“I want you to be able to tell me.”
“It’s not anything for you to worry about.”
“This is part of it,” Ginny said. “I want us to tell each other things.”
“I don’t want to tell you.”
A shrug. “Got to tell somebody. Do you have anyone to talk to?”
“I’m not a talker.”
“That’s bad.”
“Yeah…” He didn’t know what he wanted to say. He’d been closed up, closed off, didn’t know how to say what was wrong. Maybe he didn’t even know because he couldn’t say it out loud. “What if I try, really try my best, and nothing comes?”
He’d never said that out loud before.
“We all get scared.” She twirled his chest hair.
That was all she said. Morgan suddenly felt tired again. He moved closer to her, put his head on the pillow. He felt lighter. He drifted. Sleep.
When he awoke, Ginny was gone. Morgan didn’t feel bad about it.
He walked around the cold house naked, looked into each room. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but he felt he was looking for something. An invisible need drew him. He wandered to his desk, opened the bottom drawer. An old accordion folder.
His poetry.
Halfhearted attempts at least a year old. He winced at the pages. Old themes and strategies mixed and matched and rehashed. It was painful to read but he made himself. He wrapped up the folder, put his head in his hands, and closed his eyes. It was worse than he remembered. Even his grad students were showing brighter sparks of originality.
He lifted his head. Set his jaw. It was time. Too long he’d galumphed along, stagnant. What was it Keats had written?
No more.
He showered, dressed. He scooped up the poems quickly before he could change his mind. He jogged to his Buick, drove to campus.
In Albatross Hall he took the stairs up two at a time. On the fifth floor, he listened for the music. It wasn’t there, but it didn’t matter. He knew the way. He found Valentine’s office, knocked once, barged inside. He was breathing hard, heart thumping into his throat.
Valentine sat on his couch, sipping a cup of tea. He arched his eyebrows at Morgan. There was a portable TV the size of a toaster on Valentine’s lap.
“These are some of my poems.” Morgan showed him the folder. “I’m-” He shook his head, cleared his throat. “I’m having some problems with my writing, and you’re the single greatest living poet I know. I need your help.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Valentine said. “
Dean Whittaker sat at his desk, shuffled papers, made stern phone calls to department heads. He went about the machinery of being dean, the dogged determination of an academic administrator. He crossed
A knock.
Whittaker looked up. “Come in.”
The door swung open, and Jay Morgan walked in. He flipped a two-fingered salute at the dean and sat in the chair across from him.
“Good. You got my message,” Whittaker said. “I tried to find you in your office, but you’re a hard man to track down.”
“Sorry, I was consulting with a colleague.”
The dean searched Morgan’s face. There was something different about the man. His head was up. He was smiling. There was an easy look in his eyes. The dean thought he might smell alcohol.
“I wanted to talk to you about the Spring Reading. We usually have a few handpicked grad students read. I want you to make sure Sherman Ellis is one of them.”
Morgan smiled big. “Sure. Let’s give him an NEA grant too.”
Whittaker frowned, shot radioactive heat rays out of his eyes at Morgan.
Morgan gulped. “You’re serious.”
Whittaker raised an eyebrow. He’d had nothing but complaints about this Ellis kid, and so he wasn’t surprised at Morgan’s lack of enthusiasm. He’d had to be tough with a few of the faculty to keep them in line on the subject.
“I take it he’s doing well in your workshop.”
“Not at all,” Morgan said.
“Tough titty. Look, Morgan, we both know this is a public relations move. The university wants to show off their new African-American student. With or without you the administration wants Ellis. But if you don’t want to be part of this, I completely understand.”
