The Two of Us

Chapter 1“Why is writing important to you, Professor Whitley?” The question was posed by one of my students sitting at the back of the room. Robert Gallagher had never raised his hand to ask a single question during the semester before today. He was one of those stragglers who arrived fifteen minutes late to class every Tuesday and Thursday, plugged in his earbuds and crashed in the corner of the room, slumped in his chair as if he had sauntered into a different classroom just to observe. Today, he wore his college football jersey and a knitted brown cap, his bottom lip and left eyebrow pierced with small metal rings. He was built tough for sports, his physique muscular and resilient, which reminded me of my former self twenty years ago. Standing behind the podium in front of the classroom at Brockton State College where I taught creative writing part time, I contemplated my answer to his question. I looked around the room at the dozen faces staring back at me—all my Thursday morning students in attendance at the same time—a feat in itself—and stood stick-straight, forming my short answer in the back of my mind. I gripped the sides of the podium, the ends of my fingers turning white with pain. “That’s a good question, Robert,” I said, noticing the fuzzy image of my father’s weathered face materializing at the edge of my wooly vision. I had gone to bed late last night after leaving my dad at Brockton Hospital a few minutes after midnight. I turned to the blazing morning sun spilling into the classroom from the set of windows to my right. Blinking back the dizzying whiteness of the day, I looked to where Mr. Gallagher sat hunched over in his chair, his formidable brown eyes searching me and waiting for a response. “Writing is important to me for two reasons,” I said. “It’s therapeutic, and I need to do it.” The room grew silent, as if it was the first smart thing I had said to them that early part of the autumn semester, literally poetic in its brief response. “Therapeutic how?” Robert asked, pulling himself into a straighter position and removing his annoying earbuds. I walked around the podium to the front of the room and perched myself on the edge of the long table where I stacked my students’ portfolios from last week’s writing assignments, and stared out at a sea of inquiring faces. I’d hazard a guess that the class was more interested in discussing my writing life than that of Joyce Carol Oates and Ray Bradbury, two of my favorite scholarly and literary muses. I clamped my damp palms together and hooked glances with everyone in eyeshot. “Writing is therapy for me. I write mostly for myself and enjoy how the words flow as I’m writing shorthand.” “I thought you wrote comics,” Robert shot out behind a smartass grin. “You’re right, I do. But I also write in a journal, especially at night after the day is through and it’s just me and the words.” “What’s the second reason?” a girl named Laura with glasses and pink-dyed pigtails asked in the second row. I looked at her, stupefied, forgetting that I had mentioned a two-part answer. I cleared my throat and reached for my half empty thermos of lukewarm coffee I brought from home. Swallowing down the marble-size lump in my throat, sensing anxiety building in the back of my mind, and thinking about my father, I closed my eyes. When I opened them a few beats later, I turned to nineteen-year-old Laura Willman and grinned. “For most of you, writing is a major lifeline. Like air, food, and shelter.” I had captured everybody’s attention, even Robert’s, whom I was certain was half-lost listening to me, and drowned out in a hallucinatory state of that wretched noise he called music, the earbuds jammed back in both of his ears. Maybe I’d introduce him to real music one of these days, I thought, recalling my time spent with Dad last night, both of us listening to his classical and jazz favorites, restoring our father-son bond. Robert might also appreciate a new introduction to different kinds of music to expand his musical influences. I continued. “When I’m not writing, I’m miserable. Writing is much like eating and breathing. If I’m not doing those things, to put it mildly, I’m not living.” “Do you feel dead, then?” somebody asked. The air in the room was stifling warm. It was difficult to think clearly or take a deep breath, like the walls were closing in on me. My mind was racing, and my anxieties were escalating to dangerous new levels. I stood and ambled back behind the podium, where I felt mostly safe, but also kept a professional air of someone who should be in charge. My legs felt weak, soft like noodles, and I thought I was going to fall over if I didn’t hang on for the remaining ten minutes of class. I answered the short, curious girl named Clarissa with a firm nod. “It’s difficult to explain, but yes, I feel like I’m not living unless I’m challenging myself to my fullest potential.” My father, Henry, said a week ago when I was sitting next to him in his hospital bed doodling a new idea for a comic strip in my sketchpad, “The easy road is paved with disappointments. Take the long, difficult road and work hard.” Before the end of our class, after which I would not see these inquisitive faces until we reconvened next Tuesday, I glanced up at Clarissa’s densely drawn mascara eyes. Raccoon eyes. “In other words, if I’m not writing, or working towards an end goal, I’m abusing my talent.” I thought about my last comment, waiting for Clarissa to respond. Abusing. An interesting word choice, I thought, trying to explain to my inner voice that I meant to say wasting, not abusing. But it was not lost on the class, or Clarissa, who was nibbling her pencil eraser and twiddling the curly strands of her chestnut-brown hair. “Are there any further questions about today’s lecture?” I asked. “Or next week’s writing assignment?” Everybody seemed eager to pack their bags with their textbooks and notebooks and race out into the last balmy month of the year. Fall would be here before we knew it, along with the beginning of a long, cold Adirondack winter. The bottoms of chairs scraped along the floor as the rush of bodies shifted and clamored out from behind desks, and meandered to the front of the room. “Don’t forget to pick up your writing portfolios,” I said. “And if you have any questions about your final essay grades, you know where you can find me. You can call me or stop by during my office hours today between 1:30 and 2:45.” I collected the day’s roster of student names, today’s lesson plans, and other paperwork, and stuffed everything on top of my father’s monthly medical bills inside my brown leather briefcase. As I navigated through a throng of students, wishing everyone a good week, someone called my name. I turned to Robert Gallagher hurrying toward me, slinging the strap of his shoulder bag over his head and waving last week’s assignment at me, a miffed expression on his stern face. “Professor Whitley, hold up.” My grip tightened on the briefcase handle. I held his intense gaze. He smelled like patchouli oil, a whiff of cardamom. He removed his hat and I noticed he had his hair in a man bun, wrapped tightly in a rubber band. His features hardened when he asked, “Can we talk about my lousy D?” I looked down at my watch—11:45 A.M. “Come by my office today.” “It won’t take long.” I could hear the eagerness in his determined tone. “I’ve got to be somewhere right now, Robert. I’d rather you use my office hours so I can give you my full attention.” “I can’t. I’ve got class.” I sighed. “Walk with me, Robert.” I strolled down the corridor and around the corner to the side door, stepping out into a blindingly buoyant sun. I closed my eyes against the heat of the late morning light warming my face, praying for good news about my father. Robert stood on the steps next to me, waiting for me to say something. I turned to him. “What do you aspire to do after college?” He shrugged and adjusted his heavy-looking book bag over his shoulder. “I want to write.” “What do you want to write about?” Another shrug. His face took on the weight of someone who had been thinking too hard. Deep wrinkles pitted his high forehead, as he squinted against the harshness of the bright day. “I don’t know.” “From one writer to another, let me give you some advice. In order to write you have to experience things.” He moved out of the way to let a group of students exit the side door and descend the stairs. “What kind of experience?” “Life.” “Whatever happened to write what you know?” “Well, that’s half of it. But good writers recycle everything that happens in their life—good and bad—and they write about it. You’re still young, and you’ve got a lot of living to do. A lot of experiencing and researching along the way will help strengthen not only your writing, but you as well. Everything builds character and makes you a stronger person.” “Why are you telling me this?” “Because I was where you are when I first started out as a writer. I knew I wanted to be a writer, but I wasn’t sure how it would take form, and help pay the bills, and make me happy.” I paused. “Writing is hard, and it’s a struggle, and you will need to work one or two jobs to put food on the table. But when you invest in the hard work and energy needed to be a good writer, the journey will be rewarding.” “I’m not going to be rich or famous like Stephen King?” I fought back laughter, didn’t want to diminish his dreams of being a writer or bruise his young beginner’s ego. “Most likely not. But that’s not why we write.” “Then why, if not for big houses, swimming pools and sports cars?” “Most writers live a modest life, Robert. Not like Stephen King or Dean Koontz. Writers take pride in the writing, not the royalties.” “Am I going to fail your class?” he asked, changing gears. I paused and let a parade of students enter the building, their high-spirited conversation and laughter infectious. I smiled at Robert. “First, I think you need to decide what you want from writing. Whether it is the sheer joy of sitting down and creating make believe worlds and characters, or a hefty paycheck with a different profession. It will be up to you how much hard work you want to contribute and put into your studies.” He nodded. “I understand what you’re saying.” “Good. Because every student in my class has the potential to be better than they are. But it is their call, not mine. So, when you receive a D on an assignment, use that as motivation to work harder and reach for something much bigger. Something that will give you satisfaction from the work itself.” I reached my hand out to shake his. “I’ve got to get going. If you need to talk about your assignment, you know where you can find me.” “Thanks, Professor Whitley.” * * * * I stepped out from beneath the atrium of the English Department’s front doors and wandered along the crowded sidewalk, sharing the short walk to my car with a cluster of students. Someone from my morning class yelled, “Have a good day, Professor Whitley.” It was Laura Willman, the girl with pink pigtails and trifocal glasses. She waved energetically from across the recently mowed lawn. She was walking with a group of friends, laughing, and her carefree expression, mingled with a splash of golden sun brightening her round face, forced me to return the smile. I wished I had been more carefree in my twenties, I thought, staring around the campus grounds at the younger crowd. As I pulled out my car keys from my pants pocket and crossed a patch of grass to get to my car, I wondered where the last twenty years had gone. As I unlocked the car, I heard a voice call my name. I thought it was another student, but when I turned around, the face of the handsome man I had been talking to on Tinder was standing ten feet from me, leaning against a sycamore, his muscular arms locked across his beefy chest. Liam—the man with whom I exchanged a handful of private DMs. He was a spot-on model for L.L. Bean, or J. Crew, an outdoorsy type, rugged and built for heavy workloads. He waved. My hands were shaking so hard I couldn’t raise my arm to wave back. I grinned at him instead, my mouth corkscrew twisted. We had messaged each other last night when I was visiting my father at the hospital. He told me he wanted to meet. Talk. Get something to eat. It was happening so fast. I wasn’t ready for a relationship, and knew from other online experiences that most guys were only interested in one inevitable thing. But Liam was different. He was thoughtful, calling to check on me when I was at the hospital. Or he’d text just to ask if there was anything I wanted. He seemed like a gentleman. I fidgeted with my car keys and nodded as Liam approached, strolling over to me, carrying a brown paper bag. Wearing shorts and sneakers, he looked like he had just come from the gym. Sweat stains ringed the collar of his grey muscle shirt and armpits. “Rev My Engine” was printed in black, bold letters across the front of his skin-tight shirt. His arms were larger than dumbbells, and the defined muscles in his legs flexed as he walked. At the curb, he handed me the paper bag. “What’s this?” I asked, leaning against the driver’s side door. “Breakfast. Panera.” I took it, feeling my cheeks blush with heat. I looked around to see if any of my students were watching us. The warm heat wafting from inside the bag awakened my olfactory palate. I thanked him, said I was sorry that I looked surprised, even though we had texted each other last night about meeting this morning. Seeing Liam face to face seized me, made my pulse quicken and my legs feel weak. It had been a long time since I had been with another man. Six years, I think. Most of the faculty parking area was empty, except for a few students heading to class in the adjacent main building. I turned to Liam. “Thanks.” “No problem. I remembered you saying that your class ended a little before noon. I hoped I wouldn’t be late.” My DM to Liam last night was short and quick. Liam: Can I stop by after your class tomorrow? I’d like to see you. Me: Okay. How’s noon? Liam: I’ll see you then. (Smiley face emoji and thumbs up) I stared down at the brown paper bag. “An egg white omelet, Swiss cheese, and spinach on a poppy seed bagel,” he said. “You didn’t have to.” “I wanted to.” I nodded. “I appreciate it.” We stood in awkward silence for a few seconds until he asked, “What are you doing next month?” I looked at him, deadpan and speechless. “How’d you like to go to the fair with me?” he offered. I had not thought that far ahead. “The fair?” He nodded enthusiastically, adopting a childlike expression. “Yeah. You know. Cotton candy. Clowns. Hot dogs. Haunted houses. Bumper cars.” “I, um…I don’t know.” “Come on.” He stepped closer and slapped me on the arm, gesturing playfully. My heartbeat quickened at his genuine, sexy smile, his warm hand strangely comforting on my skin. “I’ll give you some time to think about it,” he said. I swallowed down a lump of fear climbing up the back of my throat. “So, how’s everything else?” he asked. “You doing okay?” “Work keeps me busy and distracted.” “A small break might help too.” I stared at the tiny spot of grease stain on the bottom of the bag, and looked back up at Liam. His five o’clock shadow, chiseled bone structure and needle-sized cleft in his jutting chin made me weak-kneed. My stomach growled. “It sounds like you could use that bagel,” he said. “I skipped breakfast.” “I’ll let you go, then. Enjoy your sandwich.” I held up the bag. “Thanks again.” He turned to leave, but something in his hawk-like gaze gripped me. “When can I see you again?” he asked, turning halfway, and staring at me over his shoulders, his big hands tucked into his tight gym shorts. I shrugged. “I’ll text you?” I nodded, thinking about how uncomfortable I was talking on the phone. He winked. “I’ll text you soon.” I thanked him a third time for the breakfast, sounding ridiculous and embarrassed, stuttering and tripping over my words. He waved and headed off in a slow jog toward Main Street. I was the only one in the parking lot outside the English Department building, holding a crinkled paper bag from a man I barely knew, and feeling alone.