The St. Ambrose School for Girls(66)
I am instantly nauseous as I revise his shower scene to include a woman with a brilliant mind and long dark hair and a smoking habit that’s a necessary flaw. Because without that personal failing, she’d be too divine to exist outside the pages of the Bible.
“It’s…” I flounder, and hope that he ascribes the awkward silence to a gathering of my thoughts about the book. As opposed to a grappling with his sex life with his wife and the tension with his father. “I think the author has a great knowledge of the prehistoric period and likes to share what she’s researched with her readers.”
“You find the information parts tedious, too, then?” he asks with a smile.
“I think they’re heavy-handed, yes. But the plot does move along.”
“Not into any new territory.” Oh, how I love to hear him dismiss that which I find dismissible. “It’s just interesting to deconstruct things that work in the market, you know.”
I find myself narrowing my eyes on him, and I partly close the book, saving my place with my forefinger. I tap on the author’s name on the cover.
“You want to write one of these, don’t you,” I say to him. “You’re reading these commercial books and analyzing the plots not to become an editor, but to become a writer. And you’re starting with this kind of fiction because you think it’s easier to break into.”
His face flushes, and I feel Einstein brilliant for having guessed an inner truth of his—plus the fact that I’ve seen behind his proverbial curtain wipes away all the wife stuff. I am special once again. I am on his radar once again. Even though Sandra is in town and the pair of them probably just had sex in his shower, I have secret knowledge of his inner workings. His thoughts and fears. His goals. His motivation.
“That sounds like I’m selling out, doesn’t it,” he hedges.
And his conflict.
“I don’t think so.” Short of him becoming an axe murderer, I’d support any career choice of his. “Not if you believe in what you write.”
“I’ve taken a stab at a couple of stories, actually. Much to my father’s disapproval, none of them are the great American novel. For him, it’s Scribner’s or it doesn’t count. Going on to get my PhD is a negotiated way of not disappointing him again.”
I suddenly want to read what Nick’s put to the page with an unholy desperation. “I’m sure your books are very good.”
“They’re not. But I feel like they might be good enough for commercial stuff. I’m not going to live off my father forever. I’m not a child.”
Now his voice becomes bitter, and I welcome the show of honest emotion.
“You can do it. I believe in you.”
“You’re sweet, Sarah.” Nick checks his watch, which is gold and has an alligator band that is brown. The fact that he can wear something that expensive with a sweatshirt makes me feel like he is a down-to-earth man of character. “Crap. I’ve got to go get into a suit.”
“I’ll put your things in the dryer if you like? I’m just going to be waiting down here while my stuff gets done.”
“You’d do that? Oh, my God, that would be great. I use unscented detergent, and if the clothes sit wet, they start to smell pretty quick. Just regular heat, please.”
“Absolutely. I’ll take care of everything for you.”
He takes a moment to stare at me. Then, tilting his head to the side, as if he’s seeing a new angle to my face and he likes it, he says, “You’re the best, Sarah.”
My entire body blooms from the compliment. And even though he leaves, his presence stays behind with me in the sweetly scented laundry room.
I look to the detergent dispenser. I am never using something with a fragrance again.
I get so distracted playing and replaying each syllable and every glance of the interaction that before I know it, his washing machine ceases its spin with a click and a deceleration of its drum. While my load churns on, I place his book carefully aside and rise to my feet, wiping my hands on my pants to make sure they are clean.
As I pop the lid to our machine, I glance around. There isn’t a plastic basket of his that I can see and using my bag feels too intimate, like I’m stroking the back of his neck. I decide I’ll makeshift one of his Tshirts as a net to carry his clothes across to the dryers.
Before I reach in to touch the things he wears on his body, I take a deep breath and have an uncharitable moment of feeling so much more superior to Ms. Crenshaw. Nick would never allow her to do this. No way.
For one, he’d never hear the end of it.
Bending over, I extend my hand into our Maytag and I pull out the first piece I come in contact with. It’s the Nirvana T-shirt he wore the first day we all arrived. As I spread the wet bundle out on the closed lid of the machine to the right, I allow my hand the scandalous pleasure of skating lightly over the damp fibers, the lettering, the image. The fact that I know where he saw the concert and under what circumstances—during one of our chats, he told me he went with his college roommate—gives me another secret thrill. I have personal knowledge of him. I’ve pierced his privacy boundary, and not as a trespasser, but an invited guest.
Pulling out another piece of his clothing, I blush. Boxers. In a dark color. I don’t inspect these, as that would be indiscreet. I’m quick to grab something else, teasing it free of the wet twist formed by the spin cycle. Jeans. Like the ones he’s going to change out of so he can wear a suit for his tyrant of a father who fails to recognize his genius.