A week later, Hattie cornered me in the middle of class. I had the students working in pairs and she left her partner talking in mid-sentence, strolled casually up to the front of the room, and leaned against the stack of essays I’d just collected.
“Do you want something, Hattie?” I didn’t look up from my computer, but somehow I could still sense the curve of her hip and the tilt of her head. I knew she was wearing the wide-necked blue top that was too loose and sometimes fell off her shoulder. Her fingers tapped a beat into the desk; she always had nervous fingers. She didn’t say anything for a minute and I felt her gaze, waiting for me to look at her. I refused.
“I had some questions about the essay.”
“Yes?” I kept typing.
“I wasn’t quite sure how you wanted it structured.”
She was lying and not even bothering to lie well. The essay was a simple comparison paper between the Jane Eyre book and the play. Hattie never had a question about homework and the tone of her voice was all wrong. It was too quiet, subdued. Finally I looked at her and tried to keep my face and voice impassive. She was close enough to smell, her eyes wide and serious. Her fingers fell still as our eyes met.
“I’m sure your essay’s fine.” The words were hard to get out.
“I was worried about the third paragraph in particular. I hope you’ll think it’s okay.”
God, why was she so young? Why was she my student? Why was I still compelled by this attraction when any worthwhile human being would have stopped thinking about her as anything but a felony?
“I’ll look at it. Go finish up with your partner.” I glanced at the clock, then turned back to the computer. “There’s only a few minutes left.”
That night after dinner I put the stack of essays in the middle of the kitchen table and dug in with a red pen. I muttered comments to myself about some of them and wrote with loud, scratchy handwriting, making sure Elsa and Mary could hear me, not that either of them cared. Since the cardiologist’s diagnosis, Mary had spent every possible minute with her mother and it seemed pointless to bring up the idea of going on a date again. It felt like I was the one fading out of this house.
When I got to Hattie’s paper I was tempted to stuff it in the bottom of the pile or, better yet, just mark it with an A and move on to the next, but the perverse Humbert Humbert in me couldn’t resist reading. It was a fairly standard analysis, nothing too in-depth. She thought the book did better with character backgrounds, although the play gave them living, breathing vitality. Her words, not mine. I flipped the first page over and skimmed ahead to the third paragraph.
. . . in the case of Mr. Rochester’s wife. Due to time constraints, the play couldn’t address her moral ambiguity or even her history. Peter, if you’re reading this, meet me at the old Erickson barn on the lake at 8:30. I have to talk to you. However, the play allows Mrs. Rochester to be a three-dimensional character . . .
I did a double take, read it twice more to be sure, and then looked at the clock. 8:39 p.m. My heart began pounding. I glanced through the door to the living room where Elsa and Mary were watching American Idol from their matching rockers, cheerfully critiquing the contestants like every other Thursday night. The paper suddenly felt like a billboard in my hand, even though neither of them even glanced in my direction. I folded it twice over and stared at the white square. Perspiration broke out on my armpits and back.
I didn’t think. I walked upstairs and changed into sweats, then came back down and pulled on my running shoes, all with that white square of paper burning through my palm.
“Where are you going?” Mary asked.
“I’ve got some heartburn from dinner. Going to try and jog it out.”
“This late? It’s already dark.”
“I’ll take a flashlight.” I grabbed one from the front porch and ran down the driveway and over the hill toward Winifred Erickson’s farm. I clicked the flashlight off after the house disappeared from sight and picked up my pace, running blindly over the gravel, sprinting into the faint edge of the horizon, hoping I’d hit a pothole or land wrong and twist my ankle. I pushed harder, crushing the paper into garbage, sharpening my breath, cold muscles stiffening, then I veered off the road into the woods, praying now for a root to trip me and knock my teeth out or at least give me a nasty concussion on a tree stump. But nothing touched me. I was a ghost runner, inviolate, racing into the clearing with insane luck burning through my legs and then the barn was in sight. I stopped dead and stood there, chest heaving. A giant oak tree stood next to the barn, shadowing it from the moon. There was nothing to do except face her now.
The door gave way with a deep croak. It was dark inside, except for the glow of a small camp lantern on a stool in the corner. I didn’t see her at first, but as my eyes adjusted I found her silhouette leaning against the window underneath the oak tree. She must have watched me approach. Her hair was pulled up and she wore a red plaid jacket. I crammed my hands in my pockets. I probably should have thought about what to say before I got here.