The hallway terminated at a series of steps that descended into a split-level living room where most of the commotion came from. In the corner, perched on the arm of a chair and holding the rapt attention of a group of female students was Dr. Wolsieffer.
A book, cracked open to the middle, rested on his thigh and he smiled at the girls before him. I couldn’t see their faces from behind, but I was sure that their expressions were nothing short of lusty admiration if the interactions in class were any indicator.
Birdie and I stood silently for a few moments. Here we were, at one of the most talked-about events in the writing department. The only other subject for interdepartmental gossip seemed to be the ceremony at the end of the fall semester each year when a recipient was chosen for the Headlights Award and subsequently granted the Gorman Fellowship, an opportunity to write a novel in a gap year between the baccalaureate and master’s programs. And all of that would be guided closely by Dr. Wolsieffer. The position was coveted, and most students viewed an invitation to one of his parties as a primer for becoming his chosen golden child.
“Shit,” Birdie said.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
She dug through her bag. “Left my cigarettes at the apartment, apparently.” She sighed and looked expectantly around the room. “There’s that Noah guy. I think I’ve seen him smoking outside the union. I shall return,” she added the last dramatically with a flip of her hair. She left me to watch the spectacle of the party alone.
I left the living room for the kitchen, intent on getting some alcohol running through my veins. Enough liquor to stock a bar sat in one corner beneath ornate ash-colored cabinets and I made a beeline for it. The kitchen was empty except for me, and the party raged on in the rooms surrounding it. I poured a whiskey and took several gulps rather than sips. I refreshed it after a few minutes and as I placed the screw cap back on the bottle, I sensed someone behind me.
I turned and came face to face with Dr. Wolsieffer. I sloshed whiskey onto my sweater.
“Shit,” I said under my breath.
I looked up at him. He rushed to help me, grabbing a rag from the counter.
“I never know what the magic remedy is for these things,” he said with a laugh as he handed me a washcloth soaked in club soda.
“I think that’s for wine, but it can’t hurt,” I gave my best attempt at friendly banter back to him.
I took the cloth gratefully and dabbed at the stain on my gray sweater. When I had thoroughly soaked the entirety of the right side of my chest, I decided to call it good.
“Have you had an opportunity to read any of Anna Karenina?” he asked, hands resting on the island behind him, creating minimal space between us. I found myself aware of the heat that radiated from his body. Too close for comfort.
“I have,” I said. “’All happy families are alike,’” I echoed the first line of the novel.
“’Each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way,’” he finished the thought before I could, and I looked directly at him, into his eyes. I wondered what Dr. Wolsieffer knew about unhappy families. I glanced at his left hand, and for the first time, noticed a wedding band. It hadn’t been there in class; I was almost positive of that.
“What do you think about Levin?” he asked.
A third of the way through the novel, Levin had emerged as the better of the two protagonists. Anna was deeply embroiled in her affair with Vronsky by that time.
“I like him,” I said.
“And Anna?” he asked.
“It’s hard to feel too sorry for her, I’m afraid,” I said.
“It was a different time. Divorce wasn’t such a readily available option,” he countered. “And the love she found with Vronsky, do you think it was anything more than infatuation and unbridled lust?” he asked, still leaning on the island behind him.
“I have my doubts about it,” I offered.
“Why’s that?” he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
“Passion like that fades,” I said. “I don’t think it would be enough to sustain an entire relationship.”
“You speak from experience?” his tone indicated a question and a smile played at the corners of his mouth.
“Not necessarily,” I blushed at his directness. He leaned away from the island and a silence descended between us. He looked down at me, a solid foot taller.
He reached up and took the half-drunk glass of whiskey from my hand, and his fingertips brushed mine. I looked away as he placed the glass on the counter behind me, and then felt his hand beneath my chin, gently turning me back to face him.
“Dr. Wol—” I began, but he cut me off.
“Tom,” he whispered.
“Ione?” Birdie’s voice pierced the bubble of energy that had engulfed us. I felt simultaneously like cold water had been thrown on me and that my face couldn’t have blushed any hotter. I reached for my lips as if to wipe away a phantom kiss. Dr. Wolsieffer—Tom—opened his mouth to speak.
“Not necessary,” Birdie held up a hand to stop him. “I don’t care what you do in your spare time,” she said, then looked pointedly at me. “Or who you do it with. I’ll walk home.”
“Birdie!” I called out after her as she disappeared around the corner and down the hallway to the front door. She held up a hand without turning to face me. She didn’t want to talk. I flinched when she slammed the door on the way out.
When I returned to the kitchen, Tom was gone, and the moment had passed. Left there alone, I wondered what sort of pandora’s box I had just opened.
VANESSA
People file into the sweat lodge like a group of lemmings headed for a cliff. Vanessa watches from the shadows, cloaked in darkness penetrated only by shards of daylight that
