Fool's Journey (12 page)

           
She had watched at the window, making certain her aunt
got into a cab and rode away, then waited to make sure it was more than just a
trip around the block. Thankfully it went toward downtown, not in the direction
of the university. Eunice's mention of visiting the university had hit her like
a punch to the stomach. How quickly everything she'd hoped for could fall
apart. What if somehow Eunice knew she stood on the brink of promotion and
acclaim? Her stomach lurched at the thought. There were no guarantees, but she
prayed that once Eunice’s bank account was warmed, she’d disappear, at least
for awhile.

           
The bank was only a few blocks further up Queen Anne Hill.
She always carried a safe deposit key with her. Despite what she’d told Eunice,
there was no trust, just cash in a cold steel drawer. She went through the
signing in, comparison of signatures, the escort to the vault, and breathed
freely only when she was alone in the cubicle.

           
She opened the box. As always, the sight of that much
money was unnerving, especially as she considered the source: her father’s
patents. They still continued to earn enormous amounts each year, but she used
none of it, let it filter into various accounts. The statements came to a post
office box. Three times a year she visited it and threw them all away. There
were fewer chances for discovery that way. Disassociate yourself from money,
and few bothered with you.

           
The safe deposit box held only the amount that had been
in her parents’ account at the time of her father’s death. This she kept to
care for her mother, but that was all she ever touched. She wanted no part of
it. She lived on her salary and her writing. Until now, it had been enough.

           
Deirdre
slid ten one-thousand dollar bills from a packet and put them into her satchel.
Paying off her aunt was part of taking care of her mother, she supposed. After
a moment’s consideration, though, she took the rest of the packet: forty
thousand. An inarticulate sense of anxiety told her she might need it. Then,
she slid the box shut, secured it with the manager, and left the bank.

           
Running far later than she’d expected, she summoned a cab
for herself, and directed it to take her to the Wyndham.
 
There she instructed the cabby to wait while
she ran in and left a thick envelope addressed to her aunt with the clerk at
the front desk. A minute later, she was on her way again

           
She’d done well, she told herself. She’d dealt with a
nasty surprise with efficiency and strength. Now it was over and done with.

           
As the cab wove through the midday traffic on the way to
Dmitri’s Cafe, she turned her mind to her upcoming lunch with Bess Seymour. She
wasn’t looking forward to it, but at least whatever Bess had hinted at would be
out on the table, known and therefore disarmed.

           
When she arrived, Deirdre scanned the restaurant, hoping
she wasn’t so late that Bess had given up on her. A morning gone awry often
portended that the rest of the day would follow that ragged path. The place was
almost empty, but she didn't see her colleague anywhere.
 

           
“There you are,” came a voice from behind her. “I knew if
I went to the ladies room you’d come while I was gone. Our table’s outside.”

           
“I’m glad you’re still here,” Deirdre said, relieved.
“I’m sorry I’m so late. Something came up.”

           
“Not a problem,” Bess smiled. “I started without you.”

           
She led Deirdre past a potted palm and a beaded curtain
to an outdoor patio where the weather was held at bay by umbrellas and sizzling
heat lamps. At the table an open bottle of wine stood beside a plate of
kalamata olives and feta cheese.

           
“I’m drinking retsina,” Bess said as she seated herself.
“You’ll join me, won’t you?”

           
Deirdre nodded. “It tastes like poison, but I love it.”

           
Bess poured a glass of the pale gold wine and handed it
to Deirdre.

           
“To good things,” she said.

           
Deirdre tapped Bess’s glass lightly. Amen to that. She
took a sip and savored the familiar shudder that always accompanied her first
sip of retsina. It was like drinking Chardonnay mixed with paint thinner.

           
 
She leaned back in
her chair and sighed, content to draw a veil over the morning’s events. If she
could put those out of mind, perhaps she could address her other problems.
Regardless of what Bess’s revelations entailed, Deirdre needed someone to talk
to, someone who could, hopefully, guide her through the upcoming tenure review.

           
In the past, she and Bess had attended the odd committee
meeting together, but their conversations had been limited to such subjects as
admissions standards and proposed course offerings. That, and a few day-to-day
pleasantries in the hall comprised their communications. Northwest University
was not the sort of collegial place where senior professors looked out for
newcomers. There had been several times, however, when Deirdre had accidentally
revealed independent thinking during a faculty meeting. Bess had always been
there to deflect any ill will at such effrontery from a junior professor.

           
“When’s your next class?” Bess asked. She looked tired,
more tired than Deirdre had ever seen her. Thin lines around her eyes and mouth
betrayed strain and fatigue. Bess must be due for a sabbatical, she thought.

           
“I don’t teach on Tuesdays,” Deirdre reminded her.

           
“Good.” Bess refilled her own glass and took a sip. Then
she looked at Deirdre. “I have a lot to say to you and I don’t want to rush
it.”

           
Deirdre’s curiosity was mixed with anxiety now. Something
was coming she didn't want to hear. Her mind flashed immediately to Eunice.
What if . . . ?

           
“I need to make some things clear," Bess began.
"This is very difficult. You might have noticed I don't share very
easily." She took another sip of wine. "What I'm about to tell you
will change the way you think of me. You’ll lose respect for me.”

           
Deirdre shook her head. "Don’t
be absurd–"

           
“Hush!” Bess interrupted. “Just
listen to me, Deirdre. I’m going to tell you a story that will make you sick.”
She looked into her wineglass for a moment before meeting Deirdre’s eyes. “I’m
only telling you this because I'm going to die soon."

           
Deirdre felt her eyes widen. Simultaneously, Bess Seymour
gave her a crooked smile.

           
"I see I have your attention." Bess said it
lightly, but her voice was unsteady.

           
Shocked, Deirdre reached across the table and grasped
Bess's hand. It felt as frail as her mother’s, almost as if it might crumble. Her
fears felt so selfish now.

           
“Yes, my old enemy is come for me at last. Cancer took my
mother and my sister. Now he’s here for me.”

           
Deirdre felt as if she'd been punched. Until this moment,
she'd had no idea how much she'd come to value the quiet, sensible woman.

           
“What about treatment?” she heard herself ask.

           
Bess shook her head. “That's not an option.”

           
“What do you mean? Have you seen another doctor, gotten a
second opinion? There’s got to be something you can do.”

           
“I’ve considered my choices, but I’ve made a conscious
decision to do nothing—except resume some old vices." She reached into her
purse and drew out a pack of cigarettes.

           
That was why they were sitting outside. Deirdre watched
in horrified fascination as Bess lit the cigarette and drew on it with deep
satisfaction. She's helping herself die, she thought.

           
 
Bess exhaled and
watched as the smoke circled their heads. "Trust me on this, Deirdre—I
know all about cancer. I’ve seen it up close. They can shoot me full of poison
or they can whittle me down, piece by piece. Call me vain, but I’d like to
avoid making my final exit both bald and boobless. I’m going to take the third
option.”

           
Deirdre felt a chill descend.

           
“I’ll just sit back and wait for Mr. Death. It’s the only
way I can keep the shreds of dignity I have left.”

           
“What do you mean, ‘shreds of dignity?’ You’re a
recognized authority in your field. Your students admire you–”

           
“You don’t know anything about it,” Bess snapped impatiently.
Deirdre felt the tears start in her eyes.

           
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. Look,
we’re not here to discuss my health. I’ve already made my decision. I only
mention it at all so you’ll know what prompts me to tell you this sad, stupid
story.”

           
Bess drained her glass, poured another and went on. “This
is the story of how I was a fool and handed my freedom over for less than
nothing. It’s a story I don’t want to happen to you.”

           
What could this possibly have to do with her? What did
Bess know? Deirdre sat back and prepared herself to listen. It was all she
could do.

           
“It started when I came to the university about
twenty-five years ago,” Bess began. “I was full of myself, sure of myself.
Academically, at any rate. If there was an award, I’d won it. I made my
reputation early, but it was in Victorian literature, you know, not gender
issues. That was my quiet little vice. No one talked about gender in academe
back then, let alone homosexuality. If anyone had known about either, my
research or the fact I was a lesbian, I’d never have gotten tenure, especially
here. The university is only nominally religious now, but there was a time they
took their Baptist charter seriously. Twenty-five years ago, gays and lesbians
lived in their quiet little closets and pretended to be normal.

           
“So, there I was, the bright young star of the
department.
 
My career path rolled out in
front of me like a red carpet. Life was good. Diana, the woman I was in love
with, had moved in with me. Times were so innocent no one thought anything of
two women living together – they even called us bachelorettes!”

           
She laughed briefly and took a long drag on her
cigarette.

           
“Freemont Willard started at the university the same year
I did,” she went on. “He was crap then, just as he is now. However, his future
looked a lot bleaker than mine did, though. His field was supposed to be
creative writing, but he rarely published, and certainly not anywhere you'd
brag about."

           
"I've always wondered about that," Deirdre said
slowly. The mere mention of his name prompted a wave of disgust. "Some of
his early stuff was brilliant. Some of it made me want to cry."

           
“Me, too," Bess admitted. "But that's part of
this story, too." She poured herself more wine and topped off Deirdre's
barely touched glass.

"We
came up for tenure at the same time, Freemont and I," she continued.
"I was a shoe-in, but he looked shaky at best. That was fine with me. He
gave me the creeps, slithering around with his innuendoes and cheap feels. I
was ready to write a brilliantly nasty letter for his file and vote against him
in good spirit."

           
"I can see why. He should be selling used cars, not
dealing with students. What happened?"

           
“Freemont likes to play games," Bess continued
.
"And he only plays games he can
win. He showed up at the apartment one night, about six months before our
reviews. Diana was out of town, visiting friends in Vancouver, or so I thought.
He just walked in, looked around. I asked him what the hell he was doing.

“‘Bess,
I just want to let you know about my salvation,’ he said.

           
“I didn’t know what he meant, but I soon found out. He
had pictures, pictures of me and Diana at the beach. We’d thought we were
alone, but he must have hidden himself somewhere. He used a telephoto lens. The
pictures were . . . very invasive. I felt physically sick. I think I would have
thrown up, but I didn’t want to humiliate myself in front of him. ”

           
Deirdre felt an answering rush of nausea as Bess related
the tale; It was as if every instinctive disgust she’d ever felt in response to
Freemont Willard had found its way into her body in the form of pale,
abominable worms. And if she felt so invaded, how much worse must it be for
Bess?