In front of them was the tavern, the deeply rutted entranceway lined with cars and trucks, the string of half-burned-out lights casting a yellow haze under the roof. As he guided the car through the deep mud ruts, he realized he had both hands on the wheel. When had he let go of her hand? He turned left, where he saw parking space at the end of the lot. He turned off the ignition and thought: Only in some stupid Hollywood movie would the man lean over, now, and kiss the woman. What woman? Cheryl Lanier was nineteen years old. The woman he had been holding hands with, the “woman” he had been about to kiss, was his student, though for a few moments he had entirely forgotten that. What did Cheryl Lanier want, or expect? Certainly not McCallum’s treatment, if she was so upset by what McCallum had done. McCallum with his peanut-butter sandwiches and the huge apples he shined on his pants leg, then tossed in the air with his hearty “God bless” if you passed his open door and had even the briefest exchange with him.
He opened his door, meaning to go around to her side, but she opened her door at the same time and stepped out, standing on tiptoe as she surveyed the mess she’d have to maneuver through. She’d walked a straight line as perfectly as a tightrope performer by the time he caught up with her — he’d forgotten to lock the car and had to go back — and when he did catch up, he took her elbow, though she was already maneuvering with no trouble. Her parka was so thick he could barely feel her elbow beneath the padding.
He steered her to a table away from the jukebox. The table was round, small, covered with a red-and-white-checked cloth. Salt was sprinkled around the salt and pepper shakers. He put his thumb into the salt spill and shifted it into a straight line, then brushed it into the palm of his hand. He dropped it on the floor, and as if he’d rung the dinner bell, a large waitress with dyed yellow hair appeared, her hair clipped back with a butterfly barrette, the butterfly motif echoed by a silver butterfly pin above her name tag, which said MYRTIS.
“Let me have a Jack Daniel’s on the rocks,” he said.
“A Heineken, please,” Cheryl said.
The waitress was preoccupied; she didn’t register Cheryl’s age. Marshall wished that Cheryl had ordered a double, in case the waitress eventually snapped to and noticed. But how could you do that? How could you order a double beer? He called after her, “Let me have a draft as a chaser.” Myrtis nodded and kept going.
“You know,” Cheryl said, “when I was in your office the other day and you were recommending poems to read in that anthology? It took me a minute to realize that sometimes you were telling me the title of a poem, and other times you were saying the poet’s name. When you said ‘Orr,’ I thought you were contradicting yourself about my reading Roethke. Or someone else, I thought you were saying. And ‘Wright.’ I thought you were, you know, corroborating what you’d just said — that you’d given a title correctly. That you were right.”
“You’re avoiding the subject,” he said.
“I don’t even feel good about telling you what I’ve told you,” she said.
“Let me make a phone call,” he said. “Take a look at the menu. Let’s go ahead and order.” He pulled the plastic menu out from between the napkin holder and a bottle of ketchup and put it in front of her as he got up to call Sonja. There was someone on the phone, so he went into the men’s room and peed, standing next to a balding man in a black motorcycle jacket and blue-and-green-striped pants. As the man zipped his fly, Marshall heard the man humming “Rock of Ages.” Outside again, the phone was available, and he reached in his pocket for a coin, then dialled his number.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” Sonja said.
“I’m listening to some kid’s problem,” he said. “I’m giving him a ride back to his dorm, but the weather’s gotten so bad, we’re going to have coffee and sit it out for a while. You didn’t have to go out in this, did you?”
“No,” she said. “I’ve been home all afternoon.”
“Good,” he said. “I’ll see you soon.” Then: “Love you.”
“I love you, too,” she said.
“I’m actually with a girl, not a guy. We’re drinking. She’s telling me about her roommate’s problems, which I’m about as interested in as reading random names in the phone book.”
“Marshall,” Sonja sighed. “Why do you make fun of me for being paranoid when I’m not paranoid?”
“I love to tease.”
“Well, so do girls love to tease, so be sure it’s her roommate she’s talking about while you drink, not herself.”
It had never occurred to him. What Sonja had just said was absolutely correct: she might be having such trouble talking to him because she was making a personal confession. There might not even be a roommate.
“Marshall?” Sonja said. “Has my brilliant warning struck you dumb, or do you have something else to say before you go back to your boozing and flirtation?”
“I love you,” he said. It seemed the simplest thing to say.
“What’s the kid’s name?” she said.
“Henry,” he said. That, too, seemed the simplest thing to say. It was written beside the phone, in green ink: “Henry gives Alex good head.”
When he hung up, he walked slowly back to the table, turning sideways to give their waitress more room. She was holding a big oval tray loaded with bowls of spaghetti and meatballs. It smelled wonderful, but as he inhaled he realized he’d been breathing shallowly because he had a headache. The glossy, wet roads, the same winter itchiness everyone else had, a lying phone call to his wife, whom he did love, something happening between himself and a young girl he hardly knew that was not entirely in his control — why bother to wallow in your midlife crisis if you were going to clamp down on your itchiness by exerting control? — and now, the idea had been planted that there might not be a roommate, that Cheryl Lanier might be making a personal confession.
“I drank your Jack Daniel’s,” she said, as he returned to the table.
He looked at her empty beer bottle. He looked at the empty glass. “I see you did,” he said, trying not to sound as surprised as he was.
“Because you’ve got a beer anyway,” she said.
“Should I have stayed gone longer?”
She smiled at his little joke.
“I could turn my head,” he said. “I’ll count to ten, and if the beer’s still there, I’ll assume you didn’t want to take the opportunity.”
“I also took a Valium.”
“You did?” he said. His thoughts raced: Sonja was right; this girl was someone to beware of; she wasn’t just revealing herself to him, she was flirting with real danger. Mixing Valium and alcohol, let alone tossing down a generous shot of Jack Daniel’s.… Good he’d come back to the table in time to stop her from drinking everything from every glass, her desire for him turned suicidal, or — less flattering to think, by far — her suicidal desire provoking a desire for him.