Page 49

“Well, not so much Erato,” Barbara says, and ventures another sip. “I don’t write love poetry, as a rule.”

Emily gives a delighted laugh. “A girl with a classical education! How unusual and delectably rare!”

“Not really,” Barbara says, hoping she won’t have to drink this whole mug, which looks bottomless. “I just like to read. The thing is, I love Olivia Kingsbury’s work. It’s what made me want to write poetry. Dead Certain… End for End… Cardiac Street… I’ve read them all to bits.” This isn’t just a metaphor; her copy of Cardiac Street did indeed fall to pieces, parted company with its cheap Bell College Press binding and went all over the floor. She had to buy a new copy.

“She’s very fine. Won a batch of prizes in her younger years and was shortlisted for the National Book Award not long ago. I believe in 2017.” Em knows it was 2017, and she was actually quite pleased when Frank Bidart won instead. She has never cared for Olivia’s poetry. “She lives just down the street from us, you know, and… aha! The picture clarifies.”

Her husband, the other Professor Harris, comes in. “I’m going to gas up our freshly washed chariot. Do you want anything, my love?”

“Just the Sheepherder’s Special,” she says. “A cup of ewe.”

He laughs, blows her a kiss, and leaves. Barbara may not like the tea she’s been given (hates it, actually), but it’s nice to see old people who still love each other enough for silly jokes. She turns back to Emily.

“I don’t have the courage to just walk up to her house and knock on her door. I barely had the guts to come here—I almost turned around.”

“I’m glad you didn’t. You dress up the place. Drink your tea, Ms. Robinson. Or may I call you Barbara?”

“Yes, of course.” Barbara takes another sip. She sees that Emily has already finished half her cup. “The thing is, Professor—”

“Emily. You Barbara, me Emily.”

Barbara doubts if she can manage calling this sharp-eyed old lady by her given name. Professor Harris’s mouth is smiling, and there’s a twinkle—so to speak—in her eye, but Barbara isn’t sure it’s an amused twinkle. More of an assessing one.

“I went to the English Department at Bell and spoke with Professor Burkhart—you know, the department head—”

“Yes, I know Roz pretty well,” Emily says drily. “For the last twenty years or so.”

Barbara flushes. “Sure, yes, of course. I went to her about maybe getting an introduction to Olivia Kingsbury, and she said I should talk to you, because you and Ms. Kingsbury were friends.”

Livvie may think we’re friends, Emily thinks, but that would be stretching the truth. Stretching it until it snapped, actually. But she nods.

“We had side-by-side offices for many years and were quite collegial. I have signed copies of all her books, and she has signed copies of mine.” Emily gulps tea, then laughs. “Both of mine, to say fair and true. She has been considerably more prolific, although I don’t believe she’s published anything lately. Looking for an introduction, are you? I suspect rather more. You want her to mentor you, which is understandable, you being a fan and all, but I fear you will be disappointed. Livvie’s mind is still sharp, at least so far as I can tell, but she’s very lame. Can hardly walk.”

Which doesn’t explain why Olivia did not attend last year’s Christmas party, which she could have done from her computer—she does have one. But Livvie (or the woman who works for her) did not refuse the elf-delivered beer and canapes; they were happy enough to take the food and drink. Emily has a resentment about that. As Roddy would say, I have marked her in my book. Black ink rather than blue.

“I don’t want mentoring,” Barbara says. She manages another sip of tea without grimacing, then touches her folder, as if to be sure it’s still there. “What I want, all I want, is for her to read a few of my poems. Maybe just two, even one. I want to know…” Barbara is horrified to realize her eyes have filled up with tears. “I need to know if I’m any good, or if I’m just wasting my time.”

Emily sits perfectly still, just looking at Barbara. Who, now that she’s said what she came to say, cannot meet the old woman’s eyes. She looks into the brackish brew in her cup instead. So much is left!

At last Emily says, “Give me one.”

“One…?” Barbara honestly doesn’t understand.

“One of your poems.” Emily sounds impatient now, as she did in her teaching days when faced with a dullard. Of which there were many, and she had no patience with them. She stretches out a blue-veined hand. “One you like, but one that’s short. A page or less.”

Barbara fumbles open her folder. She has brought an even dozen poems, and they are all short. Thinking that if Ms. Kingsbury did agree to look (a long shot, Barbara knows), she wouldn’t want to look at any like “Ragtime, Rag Time,” which runs to almost eighteen pages.

Barbara starts to say something conventional, like are you sure, but one look at Professor Harris’s face, especially her bright eyes, convinces her not to be so foolish. It wasn’t a request but a demand. Barbara opens her folder, fumbles through the few poems with a hand that’s not quite steady, and selects “Faces Change.” It has to do with a certain terrible experience the year before, one she still has nightmares about.

“You’ll have to excuse me for a bit,” the professor says. “I don’t read in company. It’s rude and it hampers concentration. Five minutes.” She starts to leave the room with Barbara’s poem in her hand, then points to the cannister beside the tea. “Cookies. Help yourself.”

Once Barbara hears a door close on the far side of the living room, she carries her mug to the sink and pours all but a single swallow down the drain. Then she lifts the lid of the cookie jar, sees macaroons, and helps herself to one. She’s far too nervous to be hungry, but it’s the polite thing to do. She hopes so, at least. This whole encounter has a strange off-kilter feel to her. It started even before she came in, with the way the male Professor Harris hurried to close the lefthand garage door, almost as if he didn’t want her looking at the van.

As for the female Professor Harris… Barbara never expected to get past the front door. She’d explain her business, ask Professor Harris if she would speak to Olivia Kingsbury, and be on her way. Now she is sitting alone in the Harris kitchen, eating a macaroon she doesn’t want and saving the last sip of awful tea, for which she’ll offer her thanks, just as her mother taught her.

It’s more like ten minutes before Emily comes back. She doesn’t leave Barbara hanging when she does; even before sitting down she says, “This is very good. Almost extraordinary.”

Barbara doesn’t know what to say.