Grand Avenue (9 page)

“Luck is only part of the equation,” her mother had once said. “You’ve worked very hard for what you have. And you had the good sense to choose well.”

In the end, her mother had told her, we are the choices we make.

“I love you,” Susan told her husband again, wondering if she said it often enough. She lifted her head toward his, kissed him on the lips.

“I love you too,” he said, responding with surprising eagerness to her kiss, their sudden desire catching them both off guard, but building quickly, so that what began as an innocent expression of gratitude soon became something quite different. Susan felt her body stir in response to her husband’s gentle touch, her senses, only moments ago on the verge of total collapse, suddenly heightened and wide-awake, anticipating each new caress.

“Are you ready?” he asked some moments later, and Susan nodded, wrapping her legs around his waist as he
entered her. Their bodies rocked together quietly, harmoniously, until Owen asked again, “Are you ready?” and again, Susan nodded, and Owen raised himself onto his knees, thrusting deeper inside her until her head was buzzing, her body tingling, her entire being vibrating. They never tell you about this part in health class, she thought, everything inside her poised to explode. They use cold, clinical words like
climax
, which works better as a literary device, or
orgasm
, which sounds as if it’s something that should be confined to a laboratory, but they never get close to what actually happens when two people make love: the pure and utter joy of total surrender.

“Who has multiple orgasms?” Susan remembered Vicki demanding on that Super Bowl Sunday some eight months ago.

“I’ve never had an orgasm,” Chris had admitted, and Barbara had confessed to always faking hers. Even Vicki had confided she didn’t experience orgasm through intercourse. When pressed, Susan had declined comment and left the room. Better to appear shy than smug, she’d decided, choosing not to tell the others she experienced orgasm on an alarmingly regular basis. Sometimes all Owen had to do was touch her in a certain spot on the side of her neck …

Maybe I’m just easier to please, Susan thought now, although she’d never considered herself particularly sexual. Certainly, she didn’t see herself as sexy. Attractive enough, yes, especially if she were to lose a few pounds, but nowhere near as pretty as Barbara, Chris, or Vicki. And certainly no one looking at Owen would fight to get into his bed. They’d choose
Barbara’s husband, Ron, because he was tall and good-looking, or Vicki’s husband, Jeremy, because he was rich and powerful, or Chris’s husband, Tony, because he was cocky and full of bravado. And they’d all choose wrong.

In the end, we are the choices we make.

“How are you?” her husband was asking now.

“Good,” Susan said, a purr in her voice. “I’m good.”

Seconds later, securely nestled inside her husband’s arms, Susan closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep.

“In our survey of the liturgical beginnings of drama,” Professor Ian Currier was explaining to the class of approximately forty-five less than enthusiastic students, “we’ve talked about the handful of twelfth-century plays that had real artistic merit, most notably those from the Fleury playbook.”

Susan fidgeted in her hard seat of polished wood, struggled to keep her eyes from closing. I have to get more sleep, she decided, although how she was going to accomplish this feat was open to question. Between going to classes, writing essays, studying for tests and exams, looking after two young daughters—although mercifully, Whitney was easier in every respect than Ariel, which only made Ariel all the more difficult—and making sure her husband didn’t feel neglected, Susan understood there simply weren’t enough hours in the day or, more precisely, in the night, when she needed them most. She pushed herself up straighter in her chair, arched her back, stifled a yawn, returned her attention to the soft drone of Professor Currier’s voice, a voice that all but shouted his been-there, done-that,
hate-doing-it attitude. What was she doing here? Where exactly did she think a degree in English literature was going to take her?

“Yet even the Fleury plays were tied closely to very specific liturgical occasions and were sung during intervals in regular church services,” Professor Currier continued. “As we’ll see in
The Conversion of St. Paul
, this play, which was probably staged on the Feast of the Conversion of St. Paul on January twenty-fifth, adheres pretty closely to the biblical account of his conversion as related in the Acts of the Apostles.”

Around her, Susan heard the movement of pens scurrying across paper like a bunch of tiny wild mice and realized she hadn’t copied down a thing since the lecture had begun. She opened her notebook, reached toward the large canvas bag at her feet for a pen. Immediately, she felt something glom on to her finger, like a leech from a freshwater lake, she thought, recalling the unpleasant incident from her childhood when her parents had taken Susan, along with her older brother and younger sister, to the cottage one summer, and Susan had insisted on going in the water that very first afternoon, even though her mother had cautioned there might be leeches. But Susan was too busy showing off for her little sister to fully appreciate her mother’s warning, and she’d emerged from the water with several hideous black blobs fastened to her arms and legs, only to see her little sister run from her in terror. Susan had tried pulling at them in a vain effort to dislodge them, but that only made things worse, and blood soon trickled down her limbs in thin, squiggly red lines. Her mother had explained that the horrid
things couldn’t be pulled off without damaging the skin below, and that they could only be removed by a liberal sprinkling of salt. “And then you have to eat them,” her older brother had teased gleefully, sending Susan scrambling across the sand, screaming and shrieking her dismay, until her mother caught up to her and calmed her down by assuring her that if anyone was going to have to eat the nasty things, it would be her brother.

Susan extricated her hand from her bag, relieved, yet simultaneously dismayed, by the sight of Ariel’s half-eaten orange lollipop sticking to the inside of her index finger. “Great,” she said, much louder than she’d intended.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Norman,” Professor Currier said immediately, “did you have something to share with the class?”

Damn those big ears, Susan thought, shaking her head. They don’t miss a thing.

“Sorry,” she muttered, pulling the offending lollipop off her finger with more force than necessary, so that it came apart, and several stray pieces fell to the floor, shattering like chips of glass.

“A little snack, Mrs. Norman?” Professor Currier asked, chin lowering as his eyes peered over the top of his round, wire-rimmed glasses.

Did he possess X-ray vision as well? Susan wondered, as several nearby students laughed nervously, perhaps grateful at not being the object of his considerable and much feared derision.

“I would think you’d be well acquainted with the perils of eating between meals,” the professor
remarked, his gaze returning to the podium in front of him before the full import of his remarks had time to register. “In
The Conversion of St. Paul,”
he said, as if one thought followed naturally upon the other, “we have the familiar elements of twelfth-century church drama, including the conversion of a sinner to grace and a narrow escape from dangerous enemies, as well as the continuing conflict between worldly power and the power of God’s salvation.”

Susan felt her skin on fire beneath her white sweater, her neck flushing pink, her cheeks burning bright red. How dare he speak to her that way! How dare he make fun of her weight!

Was that what he was doing? she backtracked immediately. Or was she being overly sensitive? Maybe his comments weren’t intended as anything more than a slight rebuke for her having disrupted the class. He probably knows he’s as boring as hell, she thought, and he takes advantage of certain situations to inject a little much-needed levity into the proceedings. In the future, she’d be careful not to present him with any more such opportunities at her expense. Let the other students bear the brunt of his mean-spirited barbs. They could take it. They were tougher and stronger and at least a decade younger than she was.

Whom was she kidding? Susan thought, casting a furtive glance around the over-heated old room. They were babies, for God’s sake, most still in their teens, their faces unfinished canvases, awaiting the brushstrokes of experience to complete them. What was she doing here among them when she so clearly didn’t belong? What distorted ego had persuaded her to keep pursuing a university
degree that would gain her nothing in the long run? Except an education, she reminded herself. Except the satisfaction of a job well done.

And who was to say her degree in English literature might not prove practical after all? Vicki was constantly encouraging her to speak to her husband about a job at one of his magazines. Maybe when she had her diploma safely in hand and her children were both ensconced in school all day, well, then, she might just visit Jeremy Latimer’s ever-expanding empire after all.

“The chief aim of church drama of the twelfth century was not to educate the masses, but rather to create beautiful works of piety and wisdom, and the use of many different poetic forms and literary genres, as well as classical references, suggest a level of considerable literary sophistication.” Professor Currier looked up from his notes, surveyed the classroom. “Fine, then. All right. For next Friday, I want to see a five-thousand-word essay comparing the Digby and the Fleury versions of
The Conversion of St. Paul
. There will be no extensions, and this paper will be worth twenty-five percent of your term mark. But,” he continued with a wink, “women with big breasts get an automatic pass.” With that, he placed his notes in his worn leather briefcase and snapped the case shut. “That’s it.” The boldness of his smile accentuated the baldness of his head. “Class dismissed.”

There was some laughter along with some embarrassed tittering as the students gathered their belongings together and exited the room. Only Susan remained in her seat, unable to move, scarcely able to breathe.

“Problems, Mrs. Norman?” Professor Currier asked.

Susan shook her head, her gaze rooted to the floor. Tears stung the corners of her eyes, as if she’d been slapped. What was the matter with her? Why didn’t she just get up and leave?

“Is something the matter?” Ian Currier pressed.

Slowly Susan lifted her eyes from her feet, floating them toward the professor’s general vicinity, although she was careful not to look at him directly. If she looked at him, she might say something she’d regret. And he was her professor after all, the man who decided whether or not she passed her course, achieved her much coveted degree.

“Susan?”

So now her name was a question in itself, Susan thought, wanting to run away and hide, as she had that afternoon on the beach when confronted by her brother’s cruel taunts. Avoidance—her first reaction to any kind of unpleasantry. Followed by the conciliatory gesture. Anger was a tremendous waste of energy. Most problems could be solved with a few soft, well-chosen words. Besides, what exactly was she so upset about anyway? An innocent remark, obviously intended as a joke, that no one took seriously, that no one else in the class seemed the least offended by. She was making a mountain out of the proverbial molehill, probably because she was still smarting from Professor Currier’s earlier comment about her weight, although she’d undoubtedly misinterpreted that one as well. She was being much too sensitive. Probably because she was so tired. She really needed to catch up on her sleep.

Susan heard movement, looked toward the podium only to find it abandoned, and Professor Currier walking toward the door. Leave well enough alone, she thought. “Professor Currier,” she said.

Ian Currier stopped at the sound of his name and swiveled toward Susan, so that by the time she reached his side, he was facing her head-on. “I thought there might be something on your mind,” he said, waiting.

He’s not that much older than I am, Susan realized, pushing her hair behind her ears, trying to decide what she wanted to say. “I thought that was a rather inappropriate comment,” she began, thinking,
Damn, too general, way too vague
.

“Which one was that?” he asked, as she’d known he would. He was smiling, his dark eyes challenging hers.

“What you said about women.”

“Women?”

“Women with large breasts.”

“Ah, yes, women with large breasts,” he repeated, his lips twitching in obvious amusement at her discomfort.

“I didn’t think it was appropriate.”

“You don’t think women with large breasts are appropriate?”

He’s playing with me, Susan thought, growing bolder, refusing to back down. “I didn’t think your comment about automatically giving passing grades to women with large breasts was appropriate.”

He nodded, his gaze lowering to the front of her white turtleneck sweater. “I don’t see where you have anything to worry about, Mrs. Norman. Your chest appears more than ample to secure a passing grade.”
His smile tugged at his cheeks, widening, showing teeth.

Like a snarling dog, Susan thought. Instinctively, she took a step back.

“Now if you’ll excuse me,” he said.

“I won’t excuse you.” The words were out of Susan’s mouth before she had time to consider them.

“What?”

“I won’t excuse you. I think your comments are out of line. I think you owe the class—and me—an apology.”

“I think you’re the one who’s out of line here, Mrs. Norman,” he said quickly, biting off her name and spitting it into the space between them. “Now I know it’s the eighties, and women’s lib has seized control of common sense, but really, Susan, have you no sense of humor?”

“I have no sense of
your
humor,” she retorted.

Professor Currier shook his head sadly, as if he were the one offended. “I look forward to your essay,” he said, then walked briskly from the room.