I.
Liv does not have a boyfriend, nor has she since ending an eight-month affair with a bluegrass musician. He gave concerts most nights of the week while she sat and pretended to be interested in the plight of the 19th-century Appalachian. At a house show in someone’s living room, the bluegrass musician beaned Liv in the head with the neck of his banjo. She scanned the crowd, but everyone seemed too drunk to have noticed. Before she could break up with him, the bluegrass musician moved away. Liv switched her major from music theory to French.
Most of the original college friends Liv made in her prerequisite courses have moved away. Liv finds herself the oldest person in the new crowd she has infiltrated. At night, the new friends dance. They carry their weed in glitter-painted, felt-lined cigar boxes. They wear puffy faux-fur boots. While at first these new friends gave Liv a sense of mature authority, by now they just make her feel old. And poor. She refers to them as The Babies, if only to herself.
Liv has one separate friend: Jen, a bartender. Jen lived in France for a year, teaching English. She also danced at a topless cabaret. Fantastic, Liv thinks. Jen likes to talk about sex in general, and especially as it relates to her previous Parisian clientele. They asked me to get a tan before they hired me, Jen says. A minor celebrity came in, a comedian, Jen says. I danced for an actor who was basically a midget, but you’d never know onscreen. Liv especially likes that one. Another glass of wine, Jen says. Liv watches Jen uncork the bottle, wondering how her white arms ever took a tan.
Sometimes the women speak French together, but Liv usually bows out with a joke when she gets stuck on a verb tense. She feels comfortable only with nouns. Hibou: owl. Phoque: seal. She likes textbooks with themed chapters: Au marché, À l’école, Au cinéma. She received an unusually high grade on the test over cinema vocabulary, and now she likes to translate credits in her head. The terms sound very clean and accurate.
Tais-toi. Just get with someone, Jen advises, when Liv hints at her oldness, her loneliness. You’d be amazed at how much time an affair can take off your hands. Or not. Either way, Jen says, you need something new to talk about.
*
Liv realizes she is interested only in older men. Or at least she should be. They have money. They’ll eat more than tacos. And they are an antidote to the quick-aging effects of The Babies. Those in domestic peril especially arouse her. She makes this realization as she watches her French professor wobbling through the semester, alluding to the fact that he’s been having familial problems and may or may not be leaving a cult. In the midst of this transformation, he appears at the bar where Jen works. That night, Liv feels more attractive than usual due to a slight but recent hairstyle change. He joins her; they speak frankly. He has only just started drinking—mostly wine and dark beers. Stouts. He hides it from his wife. And good black coffee, which he doesn’t hide. You sound like a beatnik, Liv says. He explains it has taken him thirty-eight years to figure out what he wants. She leans in. He cups his hand to his mouth, assessing the alcoholic content of his breath. Then he asks for a piece of gum. My wife, he offers, and Liv attempts to wordlessly communicate that she understands his risky perch between the future and the past.
On the last day the professor apologizes to the class: I’m going through a divorce. He pauses, leaning against the table, his hands on the knees of his pants—loose-fitting, pleated corduroys that fill Liv with longing. I’ve taken a job in Nevada, he says. So I won’t be able to be anyone’s honors thesis advisor. In case anyone was planning to ask.
Liv thinks about loss. She wishes she could cry like in movies: a blurry close-up, a single drop of water sparkling down her pale cheek. In reality, she blotches unevenly and excuses herself to the bathroom. She sits on the low seat, pressing her hands to her eyes until she feels calm. After completing her final essay on Candide, Liv decides she will seduce the professor before his move.
She stakes him out the way she knows how, frequenting the bar in which they had had their original run-in. She buys new clothes—including an allegedly Parisian cut of underwear, on Jen’s advice—and practices a few alluring French phrases that she will likely be too timid to use. Bon soir, sexy, she says to the mirror. Then she scowls at her messiness and plucks an errant hair from beneath her eyebrow.
Finally the professor appears at the bar, with his arm around a girl Liv’s age. He is drunk and smoking a cigarette, his shirt tucked in and one too many buttons undone. Liv orders another glass of wine and tries not to look over. She pulls sequins off the owl on her new-but-vintage purse, collecting them in a pile on the bar. Then she looks. He waves and walks over, hand-in-hand with the girl. This is Kathleen, he says, lifting their hand-lock. And this is Liv: la toujours adorable. The girl named Kathleen swats his arm, and the couple exits. Liv studies the outline of where they were. Knowing it could have been her is not a comfort. She sweeps the pile of sequins onto the floor.
II.
Liv considers her unmarried writing teacher. He is younger than her French professor and the size of a football player; this provides a tantalizing initial shock as he lumbers into the first class session. And his name is French: DuBois. The woodcutter, or something with woods. Although DuBois is a dedicated teacher and leaves extensive notes on her short fiction, Liv does not excel at writing. She crafts her first story about a cat who catches mice in a church. One day, the cat happens upon a dead nun in one of the pews. Another student criticizes: What’s so interesting about one dead nun? Why don’t you make it ten dead nuns? But DuBois had written in the margin: Nice riff on cats. For the rest of the semester, Liv focuses only on ignoring the class and sending sexual vibes toward DuBois.
Since she never sees DuBois outside of school, she relies solely on creating interesting portraits of herself in class. One day she wears wear a turtleneck and glasses; the next, a skirt with heeled boots. She thinks he might have glanced at her legs, but she receives no other indication of his interest. Then he enters the class unusually early one afternoon, and draws a map of his neighborhood on the chalkboard. Liv recognizes it. She admires how neatly DuBois draws his streets, how unwaveringly his hand wields the chalk. He draws an “x” on several corners. It’s the right time for magnolia trees, he says. These are the good ones in my neighborhood. This one, he points, is especially good right now. Like crazy. Liv’s stomach rises; she is sure he has given her a personal task to complete.
After the next class, Liv shuffles around in her bag until the room empties. She approaches DuBois. I saw the trees, she says. The flowers are really beautiful. He appears pleased, and he asks if she lives in the neighborhood. A few blocks down, toward campus, Liv says. Not far, she emphasizes. DuBois responds, As soon as school’s out I’m going to see my family. I need someone nearby to watch my cats. Are you around? Liv feels herself getting blotchy but says yes. I just figured you like cats after that story you wrote, he says. I do like cats, Liv agrees, and she pencils her phone number at the edge of a page in his gradebook.
*
A wooden star dangles off DuBois’ front door. It rattles when Liv knocks. DuBois answers quickly. Thanks for coming over, he says. I don’t drink but I think I might have some old rum if you want some. Liv declines—rum is a drink for pirates and not for a romantic encounter—and sits on his couch. He glances at the space beside her, then selects a grey armchair. Those are the cats? Liv guesses, pointing at two speckled brown blobs under the dining room table. Homer and Groucho, he confirms. They’re identical, except that Homer has cookies-and-cream paws. Liv nods, doubting she will get close enough to tell.
Tell me what you like to eat and I’ll get it for when I’m gone, the teacher says. I like sandwiches, Liv answers. What kind? She thinks for a while, trying to come up with a fascinating sandwich variety, but ends up having to answer honestly. Grilled cheese, she says, and they laugh. He stands suddenly and walks toward the kitchen. She follows.
They stop in the dining room, when Liv inquires about a painting of three boys. That one’s me, DuBois says, pointing. And that one there is a really famous writer. Then he kisses her. Liv fears she will faint from the suddenness and enjoys having such a Victorian feeling for as long as it lasts. Eventually, she is glad to have worn her good underwear. As DuBois pulls it down, his thumbnail pierces the lace. She appreciates having some evidence of his strength to remember while he is away.
After an hour of DuBois doing things to her, they are both hungry. A grilled cheese? he suggests. She puts on one of his t-shirts, which hangs to her knees, and sits on the chair he has pulled into the kitchen for her. She watches his massive movements as he butters bread and slices cheese. But in the end, the sandwich burns. I don’t know what happened, he says. Liv says, It’s probably because of the wok. He frowns. Is this a wok? he asks, holding up the giant pan with the sandwich still stuck to the bottom. Shit, he says, I must be nervous. Liv cannot imagine feeling greater happiness.
They see each other two more times before his trip. Each time, DuBois asks her to go out with her friends and then come over. Liv temporarily reassociates with The Babies, enjoying her social routines while knowing what awaits her. She wears giant shirt after giant shirt as she sits in his lap. How many drinks did you have? DuBois asks. If the number is five, he kisses five times. Did you have any cigarettes? he asks. If she says one, he kisses again.
They always eat after: sandwiches, popcorn, desserts. Liv loves to see DuBois scoop ice cream, his brute strength misplaced, the rectangular carton buckling into a circle in the crook of his arm. He makes her giant sundaes, topped with butterscotch syrup that he presses from the bottle with both hands. He eats a pint of yogurt in a single sitting. They watch VHS tapes of stand-up comedy. DuBois goes through every tape in his collection, and he makes a separate shelf for the ones Liv has not seen. Liv grows comfortable hearing and saying the word pussy, and she tries to seem as worldly and sensual as she has convinced him that she is.
*
Liv is uncomfortable being alone in DuBois’ house until she finds the notes he has hidden. Under a pillow: Wish I was here. In the bread bin: For a wok-grilled-cheese. On the bathroom mirror: Turn the water on a little and Homer will do a cute thing. She turns on the water. Within fifteen seconds, one of the speckled cats materializes at the door. He regards Liv suspiciously. She sits on the edge of the bathtub. Then the cat jumps into the sink, positions his head directly under the faucet, and laps up the water that runs off his fur into the basin. Liv realizes she is probably in love with DuBois.
She feels she should write in his bed. She brings over a journal and jots down a line or two. In your bed without you, she writes. She gets a pen mark on the white comforter and has to haul it to the laundromat, where the mark only partially disappears.
Liv and Jen drink the old rum on DuBois’ porch. It’s a nice house, Liv says. I’m proud of you, Jen says. But do you think it’s a liaison? Temporary? Liv explains about the ice cream sundaes. She explains about the notes. These are signals of great potential. She asks Jen for a cigarette and thinks about DuBois as she exhales.
Liv remembers her previous life: walking through the streets, scanning for magnolias; referencing a clumsily drawn map in her notebook; breathing the green smell of flowers; rolling petals between her fingertips; wondering about the possibilities of life, even her own. Now, Liv does not recognize that girl. La fille, she thinks, and feels strange and satisfied.
*
DuBois has not called since his return.
His family must have fucked him up, Jen says. There has to be a reason.
Liv removes a cigarette from a pack she has purchased for herself. She is tired of asking people for things. She looks out the bar window and thinks about being somewhere else. Then she thinks about the ghost of the pen mark on his comforter and wonders if this permanent intrusion could have been a contributing factor. At least it’s kind of a fulfilled fantasy, Jen says. Liv pictures the teacher alongside Jen’s actors and comedians—those men who appeared much larger on screen than they actually were. It does not work.
What about that guy there, Jen offers. I think he teaches Philosophy. Liv looks at the man across the bar. He wears a khaki coat and keeps one hand to his chin, his elbow propped firmly on the granite surface. Liv imagines his limp-fish handshake, his tongue a dead fish in her mouth. He needs to get a tan, Liv says, and the women laugh. You’re crazy, Jen says, folle. She touches Liv’s cheek. You’ll come with me next time I travel. We’ll have a real adventure.
Liv starts to walk home, veering slightly toward the teacher’s house. Maybe there has been a misunderstanding. She tries to visualize all possible outcomes of a knock on his door. The negatives win. She decides she will walk past, and no more. Just another look at the neighborhood trees.
Of course the lights are off at DuBois’ house, and to make matters worse, his car is absent from the driveway. Liv heads diagonally across the street before she crosses his walkway. Across the street, a dog barks from behind a flimsy fence, charging her as far as it can. Liv jumps to the side. Her knee buckles, and her ankle slightly rolls. But she laughs, flips her hair, and attempts to toss her head back in the breeze. There is still a chance that DuBois could be watching, or that someone could.
III.
The French professor has remarried. A Haitian doctor, very close to his age. He met her on a volunteer mission. He finds great purpose with her, on the island. And though he would never reveal this to his previous colleagues, he finds Haitian Creole much more beautiful than Parisian French, and also much easier to understand.
He thinks sometimes about his former students. They seem like parts of another life, run together like sea water, with bright darting fish and plant matter occasionally revealing themselves in sudden detail. He thinks about when he was a student himself, how the world didn’t seem large at all—seemed, in fact, to be closing in around him. He hopes that none of his students felt that way. If they did, he wishes for them the happiness he has found in reconnecting with nature and with the love of other people in a place very, very far from where he was born.
______
Guest Editor: Rebecca Evanhoe was born in Wichita, KS. She earned a BA in chemistry from the University of Kansas, and an MFA from the University of Florida. Her work appears in Harper’s Magazine, Gulf Coast, Vice, Gigantic, Bat City Review, and elsewhere.
Photo credit: chuddlesworth / Foter / CC BY-NC-ND