Confucius Jane (14 page)

“I'm learning all kinds of new things today.” Sutton cocked her head as she regarded the vast hall before them. “So, what's the plan?”

“I usually try to find a spot on one of the benches near the main entrance to the trains.” Jane pointed toward the wide corridor across the room. “Shall we?”

As they walked across the large flagstones, Jane wondered whether Sutton's presence would make it difficult for her to work. In order to do this properly, she needed to sink into a sort of trance state in which she quieted her mind and opened her ears. Being near Sutton made her want to live fully in the moment. Would the hyperawareness serve to sharpen her focus, or destroy it?

“Do you…” Sutton trailed off, sounding uncharacteristically uncertain. As she struggled to voice whatever she wanted to say, her fingertips caressed the inside of Jane's wrist in an utterly distracting manner. “Would you mind if I tried, also? Just to listen, I mean. To collect the sound bites—not to arrange them. I'm no poet.”

The question made Jane feel warm inside, as though she'd just sipped hot chocolate on an empty stomach. It was exhilarating to know that Sutton was curious enough to want to try finding poetry herself. Her interest somehow legitimated the act. That meant more than she could possibly know.

“I wouldn't mind at all. Would you like a piece of paper?”

“Please.”

Unfortunately, tearing a piece out of her notebook meant she had to let go of Sutton's hand. “I don't have an extra pen, though.”

“I have one.” Sutton patted her small purse as they entered the mouth of the hallway.

“I usually sit on one of these,” Jane said, gesturing to the benches on both sides.

“Why don't you pick whichever one you want, and I'll sit opposite? That way we won't be hearing the same things.”

Jane wanted to protest that Sutton's idea also meant they wouldn't be sitting next to each other, but she could hardly push her luck at this point. “Sounds good. I'll check in with you in a little while. Though if you want to leave at any—”

“I'm a free woman. Yes, I know.” Sutton shot her a bemused smile and rested her hand light on Jane's forearm. “I think this will be fun. Relax, okay? Just do what you usually do. Forget all about me.”

“Not likely,” Jane muttered as Sutton turned away to find a seat on one of the benches along the left side of the corridor.

Mirroring Sutton's position, Jane pulled out her pen and opened to a fresh page. After writing down the date and location, she exhaled slowly, trying to empty her racing mind. Immediately, her attention strayed to Sutton, bent industriously over her paper, tucking her hair behind both ears with a practiced motion. Silently berating herself, Jane closed her eyes and took a few more deep breaths. Without her visual sense engaged, the sounds of the busy hallway became more distinct. As she concentrated harder, the hum of human voices began to resolve into individual words and phrases, each spoken in an intonation as unique as a fingerprint.

“Oh my god, shut up! Are you serious?”

“C'est bien,
ça.”

“If there's anyone who deserves to be taken care of on her birthday, it's her.”

“This anger you have is not about the refrigerator. It's about everything else. It's about our life.”

Jane's eyes snapped open and she gripped the pen tightly as she began to scribble down any line that leapt out at her from the cacophony. Some were instant gems. Others might seem banal at first glance, but proved essential in combination with other phrases.

“She was the one calling the shots on the meeting.”

“A genuinely weird-looking person.”

“He stopped answering my phone calls.”

Years ago, when she had first begun to gather lines, Jane had paid too much attention to the people speaking the words. By now, she was disciplined enough not to look up from her notebook. If she did, she would risk being immediately sidetracked by the diversity of the crowd. That elusive, single-minded focus would dissolve, and instead, she would begin conjuring up stories about the people who passed her by. People-watching was useful on those rare occasions when she composed original poetry, but otherwise it was a distraction.

“They have shrimp spring roll.”

“Well, I can measure it.”

“I don't wanna go nowhere that I can't breathe naturally!”

When her hand began to ache from so much sustained scribbling, Jane was tempted to see how Sutton was faring. Gritting her teeth, she resisted the urge and closed her eyes again, trying to force her consciousness back into that tantalizing state of suspension in which the lines trickled through unfiltered.

“It's so rude.”

“What did the other broker show her?”

But as the minutes passed, it became harder and harder to concentrate. When the first tendrils of a headache began to curl along the back of her scalp, Jane gave up. Rolling her neck in slow circles, she tried to ease the ache in her shoulders. And then, finally, she allowed herself to look over at Sutton.

She was staring off into the distance, eyes slightly narrowed, pen poised above her paper. Suddenly, her hand fell to the page like a hawk plummeting fiercely to the earth in search of prey. After writing furiously for a few seconds, she stopped as quickly as she had begun. Somehow, she must have felt Jane's gaze, because in the next moment she looked up.

Jane stood and watched the crimson spread across Sutton's cheeks as she waited for a break in the foot traffic. Not for the first time, she felt grateful that Sutton couldn't seem to hide that particular sign of her attraction. Even when she was in one of her distant or reticent moods, her blushes always gave her away.

After darting through the crowd, Jane sat next to her, not quite daring to let their thighs touch. “How's it going?'

Sutton smiled. “I think I have a few good ones.”

“Yeah? Are you enjoying it?”

“I am.” Sutton looked thoughtful. “I've never stopped to listen before. It's fascinating. And there's a certain meditative quality to it—similar to when I do yoga.”

Jane was suddenly overwhelmed by the image of Sutton in a matching set of skin-hugging tank top and pants, subtle muscles guiding her lithe body through a complex series of yoga poses. Swallowing hard, she clutched at her pen and notebook and tried not to betray her distraction.

“So, a few good ones, you said? Like what? I mean, if you don't mind sharing.”

Sutton cleared her throat. “‘I kind of feel like myself now.' I enjoyed that one a lot.”

“Sounds like someone in the middle of an identity crisis, doesn't it? What else?”

“‘They treat you like you don't matter.'”

“Wow. Another good one.” Jane was itching to write these down herself. Would Sutton mind? “Anything else?”

“This one was my favorite: ‘I'm not dating your clothes. I'm dating you.'”

Jane laughed. “Perfect!” She dared to lightly touch Sutton's knee. “You're really good at this.”

She handed over the paper. “They're all yours.”

“Are you sure you don't want to give it a try? Assembling your own poem, I mean?”

“Oh, no. I'm not a very good writer at all, and certainly not a creative one. I need all my writing mojo for my next article.”

Jane scanned the other lines on Sutton's list and shook her head in admiration. “These are great. Thank you.”

“I'm glad I could help. I'd like to do it again sometime.”

Again
. Twice today, Sutton had made reference to the future. Once might have been a fluke, but twice? Jane was starting to believe she really meant it. The thought made her happy—probably happier than it should have, given the facts. Sutton's life was hardly stable, after all. Within just a few short weeks, she would learn where she had matched, and whether any of her fellowship applications had come to fruition. She might find herself anywhere in the world, come summer. Logically, Jane knew, this was a terrible time to begin any sort of relationship. But the dull, monotone voice of reason held no persuasive power whatsoever.

As though suddenly realizing what she had said, Sutton changed the subject. “Have you ever had your poetry published?”

“One. In
The Iowa Review,
last year.” Jane felt a little silly tooting her own horn, but on the other hand, she wanted Doctor Sutton to know she really did have some talent. “It won an award.”

“That's great! May I read it?”

A rush of self-consciousness set Jane's stomach churning. “If you really want to.”

Sutton leaned closer, and Jane had to clench her free hand to stop herself from reaching out to smooth away the frown lines on her brow. “Not if it will make you uncomfortable.”

“I've always had trouble showing my work to people.” Jane shrugged and looked away, trying to downplay her anxiety even as her nausea grew worse. “It's weird. I don't know why. But I would never have submitted my poem anywhere if it hadn't been a course requirement in college.”

“I'm sure it's not easy to show people something that's so deeply personal.” For a moment, she rested her palm atop Jane's. “No pressure, okay?”

“Thanks.” Jane was trying to figure out how to segue to a different topic, when Sutton did it for her.

“So, where did you go to college?”

“Hunter.”

“My family lives a few blocks north of there,” Sutton said. “You know, we've probably passed each other in the street.”

“Oh, I don't think so. I would've remembered you.”

There was that blush again. Jane loved it more every time. Visibly trying to compose herself, Sutton rolled her eyes. “Right. What was your major? And when did you graduate? I just realized I don't even know how old you are.”

In a heartbeat, Jane's good mood vanished. As her head began to throb in earnest, she lowered her gaze to the ground. Dimly, she noticed a discarded piece of gum less than an inch from her right foot. She'd dodged that sticky situation, but there was no escaping this one.

“I'm twenty-three. And I didn't.”

“Didn't?” Sutton sounded confused. Jane didn't dare look.

“I didn't graduate. I mean, I haven't. Yet. My major is creative writing,” she added belatedly, cringing as she awaited Sutton's reaction. Spoken aloud, the words sounded worse than they had in her head. And really, what had she been thinking? A college dropout, trying to kindle a romance with someone who had earned the title of doctor, twice over?

And then she felt the warm pressure of Sutton's hand between her shoulder blades. “Jane.” When she didn't respond, the hand began to rub in soft circles. “What's wrong?”

“What's wrong?” Jane raised her head and stared at Sutton, not bothering to hide her surprise. “I just told you I didn't finish college.”

“You did. And I was about to ask why you decided not to, when your entire body went tight as a drum.”

Jane tried not to betray her surprise. She could hardly confess that she'd expected Sutton to instantly judge her. Blinking quickly, she tried to pull her wits together. “All creative writing majors at Hunter have to do a senior thesis. I was excited to do mine, and I had a great advisor—my favorite teacher of all time.”

“What was she like? Or he?”

“He. Anders.” Thinking of him dredged up the familiar grief, but it was tempered by the opportunity to share his legacy with Sutton. “He was this self-professed hippie who had dodged the draft by fleeing to Canada. He ended up traveling the world, teaching English and writing short stories. Over time, his fiction was well received, and he ended up settling in New York and taking the job at Hunter. Anders insisted we call him by his first name and refused to answer to anything else.”

“I can see how much you admire him,” Sutton said. For a moment, she looked to be on the verge of saying something else before she closed her mouth. Jane could tell she wanted to press for more details but was being patient for her sake.

“Just after my junior year ended, Anders was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. He was gone by August.” She spoke the words quickly, hoping Sutton wouldn't hear the snarl of tears in the back of her throat. But whatever Sutton had heard must have made an impact, because she gently threaded their fingers together again.

“I'm so sorry.”

Jane nodded. “Me, too. It was such a shock to everyone, and just … so unfair.” Willing herself to hold it together, she met Sutton's eyes. They were light, light blue, and shining in sympathy. “He was one of the good guys. He should have been around for another two decades at least.”

Sutton squeezed her hand. “Fuck cancer.”

Jane blinked in surprise at the quiet yet vehement words. The vulgarity sounded strange coming from Sutton's mouth, but all it took was one look at her face to see that she meant it.

“Well said.”

“Going back for your senior year must have been difficult.”

“It was. The worst part was the person they'd hired to replace Anders, Professor Ryan. He had an MFA in poetry and a few awards under his belt, and he'd just published a translation of—” Realizing she was rambling, Jane cut herself off. “The point is, he was totally full of himself. He was also young, and apparently all the straight girls found him attractive.” She shook her head. “We got along about as well as oil and water. When I started describing my project to him, he went off on a diatribe about how found poetry wasn't real poetry and that I needed to be original. I felt totally paralyzed. When my first deadline came, I had nothing to turn in.”

“I'm sorry he was cruel to you.” Sutton gently stroked her fingers as she spoke, and Jane found herself starting to believe that reliving the most stressful time of her life in vivid detail might be entirely worth it, so long as Sutton never stopped touching her.