Winner of the Gival Press Short Story
Praise
“Visiting Writer by John Tait, commands one’s attention. With warm-hearted accuracy, Tait’s sharp, realistic dialogue, deft, understated descriptions, and profound understanding of all his characters’ motivations and desires plunge the reader into the sometimes comedic and sometimes pathetic poses, intrigues, and jealousies inherent in a modern writing program. But the situations he describes could be those among any small, insular group. We cringe at the same time as we laugh uneasily, recognizing ourselves or people we have known and empathizing with his well-meaning, self-effacing protagonist.”
—Joan Goldsmith Gurfield, judge
John Tait
Visiting Writer
Winner of the Gival Press Short Story
Though Joanie and the visiting writer are less than a third of the way across Topawako Gorge when the trouble begins, closer to the rope bridge's beginning than its end, it seems easier to keep moving forward. And so, Joanie coaxes the woman, whispers encouragement, even tugs her sleeve. But the visiting writer is well stuck, gripping the right-side guide cable with both hands, eyes lost in some bottomless panic, then just not there at all.
When a few of the seniors who squeeze past ask if everything’s all right, Joanie smiles and says it is, and the wind blows, and the bridge sways, and she has no idea why they’re even up here except Topawako bridge was the third item on the itinerary after the airport pickup and the stop at that roadside store with the walnut bowls. After this a glass of wine at the cliffside bar, a visit to Moorehead Observatory, dinner at the Comet, then the writer's evening lecture. Though right now Joanie will be grateful if they can just get off this bridge.
“I’m scared of heights too,” a passing woman in a transparent raincoat says. “Just look straight ahead. Pick a point on the other side. You’ll be over before you know it.”
Joanie thanks the woman. The visiting writer doesn’t acknowledge the advice, keeps staring into the gorge’s depths where rock folds into shadow, her gaze so unswerving that it makes Joanie want to look too. Joanie presses the visiting writer's surprisingly muscular shoulders, moves to the other side and pulls her by her elbow, hoping to activate some instinct, some reflex of being led. Nothing.
As a last resort, Joanie pretends she’s admiring the view, takes out her phone. She doesn’t know who else to call so she dials Dan’s number, has to look it up because she’s deleted his contacts, both his office number under “Prof. Overton” and his cell number under just “D.”
Dan finally calls her back. “Hey. Did you just call? I couldn’t understand what you were saying in your message.”
It must be the wind. It whips through the gorge now, over and under where they swing, flaps the visiting writer's fashionable navy ensemble, flutters the loose strands at the base of her blonde crown of hair, intricately pinned and clipped. Joanie shields her phone with her palm. “Sorry to bother you, Dan. I’m having a problem. With Amanda.”
“What’s wrong?”
“We’re stuck on the bridge over the gorge.”
“What?”
“I think she's panicking or something. She won’t move.”
Dan mutters something she can’t understand, the wind whistling around her.
“What?”
“I said didn’t you tell her it’s high up?”
“I did. I told her we didn’t even have to go this way, that we could just drive over to the bar. But she said she wanted to.” Joanie feels strange talking about the woman as if she’s not right here, this rigid, twisted figure beside her like some petrified Pompeiian.
“Jesus,” Dan sighs. “Okay. Don’t make it worse. Stay calm. Just talk to her.”
“I don’t know if she can even hear me.” Joanie drops her voice again. “This is really strange, Dan.”
“I’m still having trouble understanding you.” He's shouting again.
“I think it might be something more. She's been acting odd all day,” Joanie says, though there’s no time to describe the woman’s blank-eyed non-greeting at the airport earlier, or the muttered monologue she’s kept up all afternoon in the back seat of Joanie’s Civic, the strange utterances and half-phrases. At first Joanie ignored it, just excited to be in the presence of such a special person. Only as it continued did she start to worry. Like in the roadside walnut bowl store, where the visiting writer muttered with such agitation that other patrons backed away. Or soon after, when she kept stared for almost five minutes into the giant bowl on display by the store exit with the same fascination that she’s staring into Topawako Gorge now.
“Joanie, I’ve got my undergrad workshop in twenty minutes.” Dan sighs. “Okay. I’ll be there soon. Goddamnit.”
“Hey there? Miss?” It’s another passing senior, a guy in an actual Stetson and string tie, a toothbrush moustache. He’s speaking to the visiting writer. “How about we take a little walk, the two of us? You with me, Miss?” He threads his arm through the crook of her elbow, gently turns her. More sensibly, he’s steering her around to walk the shorter way back instead of the longer way forward.
And, amazingly, the visiting writer is walking now, arm linked in the old cowboy’s, Joanie hurrying ahead to clear them a path. As they stroll, the man chats about the extinct creek that cut this gorge deep into the sandstone, about the Osage who first built a trading post here. His patient voice calms Joanie too. And then they’re across, on the concrete slab with the bridge moorings then the welcome grass, and Joanie almost feels like weeping.
“You all have a good day, ladies,” the man says, tips his hat and heads back to his wife, who waits in the shade, taking her arm just as he took the visiting writer's. Joanie watches the old cowboy limp away and feels a little sad, a little thrilled.
Joanie phones Dan soon after from her car. “No need to come,” she says. “Everything's okay.”
“Good. Hey, can I talk to her?”
“Yeah, I think so.” Joanie glances in her mirror. The visiting writer is half-reclined in the back seat, taking slow breaths -- a hitch now and then, though she seems better. “Hey? Amanda?”
The visiting writer meets Joanie's eyes in the mirror, blinking.
“It’s Dan. Dan Overton.”
The visiting writer accepts Joanie's phone, holds it oddly in her palm before raising it to her ear.
“Danny!” her voice brightens, maybe with pleasure, maybe effort. “No. Having a great time. Sure. I’ll see you then. Okay. Will do.” She hands the phone back.
“A little change of plans, Joanie,” Dan says. “Maybe take Amanda to eat now then right back to the B & B. Let her rest. Or maybe a few of you could take her there now while someone else picks up some food for her and --”
“It’s just me here,” Joanie says.
"Oh." Dan pauses. “You okay looking after her by yourself?”
“Probably."
"Great. Listen, I have to go, but --"
"So, I made a reservation at Moorehead. Should I . . .?”
Dan laughs wearily. “Yeah, maybe no observatories today.”
“I actually paid for the tickets myself. Will I still be able to get reimbursed if –”
“Jesus. Yes. Just turn in the receipt.” A pause, a sigh. “Sorry. Just get Amanda fed. Get her back to her room to rest. Get her to her lecture later on. It's not complicated."
Joanie hasn’t heard it in some time, this particular, admonishing tone, though she remembers it: that time last year when she confessed to Dan she hadn’t changed her Civic’s oil in five years, or that other time when she told him she occasionally took her TA pay to a check-cashing place. She remembers it in milder forms too, like that night, the two of them tangled on her futon watching movies, when he found out she thought Sam Peckinpah was a cartoon character, laughing until tearful, Joanie suddenly embarrassed about something she hadn’t known until that moment she ought to feel embarrassed about.
“Okay,” she tells Dan. “See you later at the lecture.”
The Comet is a fifties-style diner, loud and bright, with waitresses in paper hats and a vintage jukebox. It’s a fun spot to visit with a group, like when the entire graduate workshop came here with Gus Antonello, the novelist, who wouldn’t stop raving about the place, even got misty-eyed at the Sam Cooke songs. The Comet is not such a great place to eat alone today with the visiting writer, the woman staring at the laminated menu with bewilderment, looking distracted by the loud doo wop and the gum-popping waitress hovering beside them.
“What do you recommend?” the visiting writer asks Joanie finally, helplessly.
“Um. I’m vegan so I haven’t tried much here. The burgers are good, I’ve heard.”
“People like our burgers,” their server confirms, is starting to look impatient.
“Maybe a grilled cheese?” the visiting writer says, though when it arrives she barely eats, just detaches its corners then its crusts, presses the molten cheddar with her thumbs. The cheese looks hot, possibly painful -- Joanie almost utters a warning.
While they're waiting for the check, Joanie fishes in her purse for her wallet, feels the folded pages there, that short story she’s brought, after much anguished deliberation, to present to the visiting writer when the right moment arises. In the afternoon’s events, she’s forgotten about it. She could offer it now, she guesses, during this lull. Though, as she watches the woman’s slack face and clouded eyes, it still doesn’t feel like the best time.
After dinner they head back to the B & B, the fancy one off Grosvenor. It’s actually near Joanie’s place, though it’s a winding drive on the other side of a woods from her complex with its boxy apartments and never-emptied dumpsters.
“I’ll be back at 7:30 to pick you up,” Joanie says outside the visiting writer's room door at the end of the first-floor corridor. “So, just take it easy, okay? And call me if you --”
“Do you want to come in?” The woman hasn’t entered the room yet, seems stuck again, halted on the threshold with her roller case.
“Oh.” Joanie hesitates. “Sure.”
The room is fussily decorated with stained-glass mobiles and embroidered throw pillows, smells faintly of sandalwood. The visiting writer lays her bag on a chair but has trouble opening it, yanking the expansion zipper instead of the main one until Joanie wonders if she should help. The woman sits on the brass-framed bed, untucks her blouse, showing her flat stomach. When she reaches to unhook her bra, Joanie looks discreetly away.
“Dan showed us an old picture of you two back in Iowa,” Joanie says, just to break the silence. "In a bar with a group of people after your workshop. Ed McKay and Julie Thanh. I had no idea all of you studied together."
The visiting writer nods. More of her hair has come loose, tresses escaping the mass of pins and clips. She undoes her belt then the top button of her jeans.
“You all looked so young.” Joanie halts. “Sorry, I didn’t mean you. You look the same. I meant Dan. It’s hard to imagine Dan ever being a student. It's hard to imagine him being . . . well, anything but what he is.” She wishes she could quit this inane babbling.
Only with her jeans halfway down her thighs does the visiting writer seems to remember her ankle boots, frowning at them like some puzzle, tugging off one then the other, her socks coming with them. Her feet are small and very pink. Soon her jeans are off too, draped inside-out on the bed.
“Is Danny still with that woman?” the visiting writer mutters. “Donna? Deborah?”
Joanie feels a quiet alarm, wonders why the visiting writer would be asking this, though she was the one who brought Dan up, of course. “No. They haven’t been together for a while. I mean, I don’t think.”
The visiting writer nods, crawls deeper onto the bed, curls on her side.
“Okay,” Joanie says. “Looks like you’re all settled in. Maybe I’ll head out.” She reaches into her purse, feeling the pages again, her folded story. “Hey, I know you have a lot to do, getting ready for your talk. But maybe I’ll leave this here just in case you have spare minute to --”
The woman is speaking into her pillow, indistinct.
“Sorry?”
“I said could you lie down with me? Just until I fall asleep. Sorry, I’m a little out of sorts.”
Joanie has read a number of the visiting writer's novels and poetry collections, reread a few of them last week while she drafted her introduction, enjoyed them, only a little scandalized again by the erotic stuff, by the love poems to both men and women, all those mouths and tongues, giving and receiving. “Okay. Sure. Just a second.”
Joanie takes off her shoes, lies as close to the mattress’s edge as she can. A few moments later, when the visiting writer squirms back against her, she has nowhere to go. They’re almost spooning now, some detached part of Joanie observes. She isn’t sure where to put her arms, leaves them straight at her sides. She stays like this, shoulder aching, breath stirring the hairs on the nape of the woman’s neck where the grey roots show.
The quiet muttering resumes for a time then subsides, and Joanie is wondering if the visiting writer is asleep when she feels the grasping hand, the constriction around her left wrist, too surprised to resist as the woman tugs her own hand the short distance to her stomach, lays Joanie’s palm flat on the hot skin there. Joanie struggles briefly, feebly, tries to pull free, though she has no leverage, nothing to brace herself with, stops finally. Over the next minutes Joanie tries only to breathe and not panic, can feel the rise and fall of the woman’s breathing under her trapped hand. Though now the woman is definitely asleep, is snoring a little, grip loosening, though Joanie waits a few more minutes before she draws out her captive arm, inching away, climbing from the bed, putting on her shoes.
Joanie heads out to her sun-hot Civic, sits in it but doesn’t start it, grips the steering wheel, waits for the dizziness to subside. Checking her phone now. One newly arrived text. Zipping her purse, the splayed pages visible, the short story she’s forgotten to leave with the visiting writer upstairs.
The text is Dan, of course, asking if everything's okay. Joanie writes back that it is.
"So A’s scared of heights,” he texts back. “Glad we didn’t take her bungie jumping."
Joanie would like to write back, to joke back. She could also tell him the truth, the most ironic thing, that she's afraid of heights too, was mostly worried about that in the lead up to the visit to the gorge, of embarrassing herself in front of their famous visitor, though she forgot about all of that when the crisis hit. Only now does it come back to her, that first glimpse of the canyon below, the distance, the depth, feeling the panic herself until she breathes deeply, grips the steering wheel, thinks of good things – her niece in Syracuse, the part in Anna Karenina when Kitty and Levin get together, the old cowboy at the bridge today. And after that, since it’s too late by now to go home before she’d have to return here, she just sits and waits.
“What’s going on here?” the visiting writer asks Joannie in a fierce whisper, almost an accusation, an hour later when they arrive at Alumni Hall, the audience already filing in past the cardboard display with its black and white photo of the visiting writer's unsmiling face. It’s almost the first words the visiting writer has spoken since Joanie pulled in to pick her up at the B&B twenty minutes ago, relieved to see the woman ready and waiting in a chair the front parlor, equally relieved she seemed to have no idea who Joanie was, no recognition at all in her slack face and bleary eyes.
“It’s your lecture,” Joanie tells her now, pulling into the reserve space out front. “Remember? You’re giving a craft talk then answering questions.” She sees in the woman's dark eyes only incomprehension, consternation, can feel her own panic coming again. “Don’t worry. It'll be fine. Just follow me.”
In the small hall, they sit up front, and Joanie scans the roomful of faces but can't spot Dan or Gina or Jefferson or anyone else who might be in charge, realizes with dismay that maybe she is. A few minutes past the hour she walks to the podium, reads her introduction, that little paragraph she’s agonized over these past weeks, trying to make it feel personal but not self-indulgent, knowledgeable but not pretentious. There’s polite applause as the visiting writer joins her at the podium, staring at the audience while they stare back, turning to Joanie then, eyes still empty. There isn't going be a craft talk today.
"Maybe we can move right to some questions," Joanie says. "Does anyone have any for Amanda?" Another silence, the room staring back, the full weight of their gaze. "Okay. I’ll start."
Joanie reads from the back of her file card one of the questions she scribbled for any slow spot in the Q & A, a softball about the most recent novel.
The visiting writer blinks at her a moment before she speaks. "No, the dual narrative came naturally. From the beginning I had these two voices in my head, both demanding to be heard. The real challenge was trying not to let them compete, drown each other out."
An equally thoughtful answer to Joanie’s second question, then a wry joke, the audience laughing with her. The next question comes from someone other than Joanie, thank god, some earnest undergrad wanting to know about the visiting writer's work habits, the woman answering this tired question with equal skill and grace. After that, she makes it seem easy, the affectionate back-and-forth with the audience, the gentle wit, Joanie slinking back to her chair at some point, sagging there with relief.
After the session, Joanie lingers in the room’s corner, away from where the visiting writer sits, still holding court, away from the other grad students who she can see now as the crowd thins. They’re all in Dan’s fiction workshop this semester, are sitting together in a blob in back. A few of them spot Joanie and wave but stay in their little huddle. They’re probably conducting a postmortem of this week's workshops, Joanie guesses from the wry expressions, the mean laughter. Though it annoys her, Joanie wishes she could drift over and join them.
Dan finally appearing, making the rounds, exchanging pleasantries with the workshop blob, waving to Amanda, coming Joanie’s way finally, a long exhalation before he sits in the chair next to her. He’s in a blazer and jeans, his blond hair disordered in that youthful way he's adopted, tousled to screen his bald spot.
“Well, that went better than I thought it would.” He sighs. “Nice intro.”
Joanie frowns by reflex. “Not really.”
"No, I liked that bit at the end about contested memories. Really nice."
In spite of herself, she's pleased, though she grimaces, shrugs. In the silence after, Joanie thinks of describing to Dan the afternoon's events, though she still isn't certain how to talk about some of it, especially the episode at the B & B. She mostly wants to tell him about the gallant old cowboy who rescued them at the bridge, a story she guesses he would enjoy, that reminds her of characters he’s written in his stories. She isn’t sure why she holds off, maybe because sharing such things is no longer possible between them. Maybe it’s more selfish than that. Maybe the old cowboy is someone she wants to keep for herself, something about the old man’s courtliness, his patience, his kindness – all of these things almost disappeared from this world.
“So, I didn’t realize it was just you with her today.” Dan’s brow flexes. “Where the hell were Miguel and Travis?” He's glowering, stern and disappointed -- angry Professor Overton. A little jarring.
“I think Miguel’s having car trouble.”
"Well, they better get it sorted. They're taking her to breakfast, right? Maybe keep your phone on tomorrow just in case, okay?” He sighs, leans in. “Thanks for babysitting her today. I know she can be a handful. She’s even more of a diva now than back in the day.”
“Dan, I think Amanda might be having some real problems.”
“No, she’s always been like this. Space cadet." He laughs. "Drama machine.”
“I'm just saying she seems really confused, really . . .”
But now Karla and Hong from the fiction workshop are heading over, and Joanie knows to leave Dan alone now, to detach herself and drift, put distance between them, only glancing back as she reaches the exit at his face surrounded by those other, eager ones.
It was Dan’s fourth or fifth apology, three months ago, calling Joanie late, whispering how he couldn’t stop thinking about all the ways he’d failed her, failed himself, fallen into every tired cliché he despised, weeping with self-disgust on the phone, Joanie surprised again to find herself the one doing the comforting.
“And you deserve so much better, Joanie,” he said with what sounded like real anguish. “Promise me you’re going to find something better. Somebody better. Okay?”
He said similar things in his emails, those messages he asked her later on to delete. She did this, though she’d read some of those messages often enough by then to remember whole sections, like that passage near the end of his final message:
You’re a wonderful, talented young woman bound for great things. So, I don’t want you to feel sad about this. And I want you to consider that maybe what you've been feeling wasn't ever really about me. Maybe what you were really feeling was about what's happening inside you. Your own talent, your own gifts. I know it’s easy to mistake that excitement for other things. To misdirect it. I was just the dummy sitting at the front of the classroom.
She read that part so many times, a little touched, a little embarrassed. Confused too. Was that what actually happened? She isn’t sure how well it fits her own recollections, if the feelings he describes match her own. True, she cried when he broke things off the first time and a little the second, final time. Though even that ending coming just a few months after it all began. So brief. Everything moving so quickly to its finish from its start, from that afternoon in Dan’s office when he was telling her some wistful story about his father, the Oklahoma rancher, dropping him at the state college, about his first literature class, feeling like a dumb hick while the other kids chatted about Joyce and Marquez. Joanie had been struggling against the crush all semester, so stupid, so banal. But she felt something so tender then, listening to that story, felt a reckless courage too, laying her hand over Dan’s on his chair arm, almost relieved when he pulled away and gave her a puzzled look.
The terse email came a few days later, asking her to stay after that evening's workshop. Joanie sat all class in agony, stayed in her chair as the others left, Dan sitting back in his chair, waiting too until the voices in the corridor receded.
“I just thought I should, you know, clear the air,” he began. “Sorry if I was rude the other day in my office. I was just unprepared.” Squinting at her now, laughing. “I mean, you really took me by surprise, Joanie.”
And Joanie was just launching into the apology she’d rehearsed, how she’d long had this problem, crushes on the wrong people, how it was something she really needed to examine, to fix. Though Dan wasn’t listening, was grasping her shoulders, was kissing her. And even as she was absorbing that, he was steering her over to the room’s corner, to the little, scarred table where she and Hong had proofed the fall issue of Topawako Review that same afternoon.
“Dan, just a second . . .” she began as he lowered her, as he undid her jeans, though she wasn’t sure what she wanted to tell him, maybe that she hadn’t had a chance to shower today, maybe that she didn’t want to do this right here and now on this table with the extra workshop stories still stacked beside them.
But they were already underway, Joanie not left with much to do but stare at the florescent lights, try not to think about one of the maintenance staff wandering in, or worse, one of her classmates returning for a forgotten jacket. The next night, at Joanie's apartment, was more enjoyable, more relaxed, though Dan did complain afterward about the dirty dishes and the ants in her sink. Though that’s where they mostly met from then on, at her place, never at his house because of his nosy neighbor who worked in the Provost’s office.
After their final breakup, Joanie agreed with Dan that it was best to keep quiet. Agreed it was best too that she quietly change thesis directors, that she skip Dan’s spring workshop and wait for Gina’s in the fall. Dan sighing on the phone: “I know it's not fair. I know this is you paying for my stupidity.” Though in truth she was relieved, wouldn’t have wanted to sit in the little conference room with Dan and the others in sight of that scarred little table.
And after that, the only evidence of Dan in her apartment, in her life, that pack of disposable razors in her bathroom, that jar of bay leaves he bought, amazed she didn’t have any. And the two post-it notes. The blue one saying “sorry L” that he’d left attached to the broken lid of her coffee maker on one of the mornings he’d stayed over. Then the green post-it from a few days later reading “fixed it! J” though he actually hadn’t, though the carafe still doesn’t seal like it used to, lets her coffee get cold by mid-morning.
The day after the Q & A, Joanie is just getting up, when she sees Dan's text:
Just talked to Miguel. Everything set for breakfast. Talked to A. too. (She seems better today BTW). So you can take it easy. Thx again for yesterday. You went above and beyond. See you later at the reading. D
Joanie feels relieved, can maybe get some work done this morning, some actual writing. Though she feels a faint disappointment too. If the visiting writer is more lucid today then maybe she wishes she could be there, maybe have an actual conversation, the one that was supposed to take place yesterday, that seemed promised in the email exchange that Dan forwarded to her last month, Dan describing to the visiting writer the red-haired young woman who would be picking her up at the airport then adding “Joanie’s one of our best and brightest,” the visiting writer responding: “Great. Tell her to bring a story for me to read.”
The text from Miguel arrives not long after Dan’s, asking for directions to the B & B, no apology for yesterday’s no-show. His second text comes just minutes later:
she won’t open her door. told us to go away. WTF? the pickup was for 9, right? what are we supposed to do now?
Joanie sighs, thinks of interceding but holds off, texts Miguel to call Dan – they can sort this out – puts her phone down and sits back at her computer.
Joanie opens her thesis novel, starting in on the fifth chapter, fighting through the inevitable worries that this is a broken chapter in a broken novel that she’s only continued because Dan and the workshop liked the first few chapters, so now all she can do is forge ahead on this lost cause as if it isn’t one. And then, as often happens, she’s distracting herself with something else, with something new, a sketch of the old cowboy at the bridge, his courtly charm, his bad-hipped walk. And she’s lost in that for a while, that pleasurable absorption, all else receding. But then the third cup from her damaged coffee carafe doesn’t taste as fresh, and then the text and email alerts are coming again -- the encroaching world of cold coffee and obligation. And now her phone is ringing with some unfamiliar number. She ignores it the first time, picks up when it starts again.
“Who is this?” the caller demands.
“Um, it’s Joanie Pappas.”
“This is Amanda Beck. The writer.”
Joanie sorts through various confusions, why the woman is calling her, why she’s introducing herself as if they've never met, why she sounds so angry. “Hi, Amanda. How are things going?”
“Where are you?”
“Pardon?”
“This is Joanie, right? The girl who's been driving me around here?”
Joanie hesitates. “Yes, it’s me.”
“So, I’ve been sitting here all morning. Waiting for you. I haven’t had anything to eat since yesterday.” There’s bright agitation in the woman’s voice.
“Sorry. Didn’t some people come by earlier to take you to --”
“No, I’ve been sitting here alone, waiting. Is there a plan for today? Anything to do? I mean, what is there to do?”
“Okay, I’ll call Miguel and Travis, see if they can take you to brunch or lunch.”
“I don’t know who those people are.”
“They’re other grad students here. They’re --”
“Sorry. I just want to eat. I don’t want to wait.”
“Okay. Sure. I'll be right over.”
And after that there is only time to dress, to hurry out to her car, texting Miguel on her way.
The visiting writer is waiting downstairs again in the ornamental chair in the B & B’s foyer, wearing another coordinated ensemble, this one mostly shades of crimson, with blood red lipstick, her throat wound with a silk scarf of the same hue. Her face looks even paler today, maybe powdered. The net effect is unnerving.
Downtown, Joanie’s circles the square looking for parking, Joanie points out the old opera house and the Beaux Arts city hall building that they always show off to visitors, though the woman barely looks.
“This place has good sandwiches, I think,” Joanie says, though she’s only been to the Plum Tree Cafe once years ago when she first arrived and was eager to sample everything.
“Fine.”
They enter, and Joanie immediately knows it’s another blunder: lace tablecloths and doilies, the reek of potpourri, some sort of quilting display on the wall behind the register. The other patrons are pairs and quartets of older women, nibbling at salads. As the two of them sit by the window, the other diners stare at the visiting writer like she’s a jungle cat, and she stares back. Joanie eats her watercress sandwich hurriedly when it arrives, so lukewarm and tasteless that she almost gags, texts the restaurant address a second time to Miguel, watching for him. The visiting writer barely touches her own sandwich, detaches the corners and crusts again, though she does seem calmer now, clearer.
“Sorry.” The visiting writer laughs. “I think that maybe someone did come by my room earlier. I might have thought it was housekeeping. I might have told them to go away.”
“That's fine.”
“Can you apologize for me to them?”
“I’m sure it’s no problem. Really.”
The woman is peering at her across the table, a recognition, a dawning. “Joanie. You’re the one Danny talked about in his emails. The good writer.”
Joanie looks up with surprise, with pleasure, then dismay as she remembers the short story still tucked in her purse back home. “Well, that’s nice of him to say.”
“He said a lot of good things about you.”
“Oh.” Joanie shrugs, laughs, feels the blush continuing. “Well, that’s nice too.”
The woman squints. “So, I’m guessing you’re the dependable one here, right?”
Joanie keeps smiling though she’s starting to feel uneasy.
“The girl they count on to get things done.” The woman sips tea. “Every writing program has one.”
Joanie watches, unsure how to respond, wonders if she's being mocked. Though the woman's eyes are going distant again.
“Tell me. Is Danny still with that woman?” The visiting writer grimaces. “Donna?”
“No. They’ve been divorced for a while. Before my time. I mean before I got here.”
“Well, poor Danny, I guess.” The visiting writer laughs in a way that sounds both fond and mean. “Poor, sad Danny.”
Joanie nods, smiles, a small revelation as she watches the woman’s wry expression, hears the relish in her voice, hasn’t thought until this moment that the visiting writer may also have some history with Dan.
Joanie has talked to no one about Dan except her sister, who lives far away in Syracuse, whose life has diverged from hers, more concerned with her new daughter than any of the things they used to enjoy, who told Joanie early on she wasn't going to judge her about Dan but wasn't going to hold her hand either when things went south.
If only Joanie knew for sure what she suspects now, maybe she could confide in this other woman, share insights, compare notes, maybe even make jokes. And though Joanie’s certain that wouldn’t be wise, wouldn't be safe, that it isn’t in any way a good idea to talk with the visiting writer about what happened between her and Dan last fall, it tempts her just the same through the rest of their meal, up until she pays and tucks the receipt in her pocket.
Miguel never appears at the restaurant, but he’s at the reading that evening, sitting with the rest of the workshop blob. Miguel and a few others give Joanie the stinkeye as she leads the visiting writer in, probably think she’s engineered this, monopolizing their well-connected guest. Joanie just feels tired as she takes a chair on the far right of the hall, surprised when the visiting writer sits beside her instead of in her reserved seat out front with Dan and the other faculty.
After Miguel’s introduction, the reading goes well, though the visiting writer leaves off abruptly in the middle of a few pieces as if she’s grown bored with them, even omits the ending of the one story where Joanie remembers absolutely loving the ending. But it’s a good reading, nonetheless. Because the writing is excellent, and because she reads it well.
At the end, the visiting writer pauses, offers a gracious smile. “I just want to say again what a pleasure this has been, and what a great community you have here. Thanks, Danny. Thanks, Gina and Jefferson. And the rest of you too.” She sighs, removes her reading glasses. “And I do want to give a special thanks to someone, to my lovely Joanie over there, my kind and patient guide without whom I would have been utterly lost. Thank you, Joanie. For everything.” The fond look the visiting writer casts across the lectern now, across the hall, makes Joanie flinch and blush.
“So, I’ll maybe read one more thing.” The visiting writer dons her glasses again. “It’s new. Very new. So bear with me, okay?” The crowd chuckles.
The piece is either a prose poem or some sort of lyric essay. It does seem new, as if it's still finding its shape. It’s also, amidst all the stylistic flourish and dense metaphor, clearly about sexual intercourse. About exploring a new lover, a younger woman. A redhead, as it turns out. Uncomfortable coughs sound between the stanzas. A woman behind Joanie hustles her young daughter toward the exit. When Joanie isn't staring down at the tops of her shoes, she can see, a few rows ahead and to her left, Dan’s loafers, soles grinding as if he’s putting out cigarettes. She can see too, in the periphery of her vision, the faces turning toward her, one by one, from the workshop blob.
“That’s all,” the visiting writer says at the end, sighing, spent. “It’s been wonderful. Thank you again so very much for having me.”
Some time later, Dan dodges past student union workers stacking chairs, approaches Joanie, not quite looking at her as he sits beside her.
“She's almost done with the book signing. I can drive her back to the B & B. And Karla’s confirmed for the airport drive tomorrow. So that’s it. You’re done. Thanks again. For everything.” He doesn't make eye contact until he’s finished speaking, just a brief glance, maybe a question in it, though he’s already heading away.
Joanie watches as Dan crosses to the book table to collect the visiting writer, politely dismissing the few book club ladies who linger there. Then the two of them are exiting, arms linked, Dan walking a little ahead, maybe with some impatience, maybe propelling the visiting writer a little like a bouncer escorting a troublesome drunk. Joanie leaves by the opposite exit, taking the longer route so she won’t have to pass anyone she knows, walking through the chilly parking lot alone.
The call wakes Joanie late, almost one AM. Though the number is familiar, she’s too sleep-fogged to place it.
“Sorry," Dan whispers, mumbles further apologies while Joanie sorts through her waking confusion, the mild panic. He called late like this a week after their first breakup, only revealed a few minutes in that he was out in her parking lot, weeping then, pleading to be let in.
“It’s okay. I was awake,” Joanie lies. “Everything okay?”
“Not really.” Dan laughs grimly. “I’m just sitting here, wondering what the fuck is wrong with me.”
Joanie says nothing, glancing around her dim apartment at the strewn clothes she was too tired to throw in the hamper, at the stack of dishes on the counter. She hasn’t washed her sheets in a couple of weeks. If he’s out in the parking lot now, if he asks to come up, she supposes she will allow it, supposes it may resume after that, all of it, though the mere idea makes her tired.
“Do you know I met somebody?” Dan laughs. “A couple months ago. On Tinder of all things. She’s an event planner. She has ten-year-old daughter. They’re both amazing.”
“That’s great, Dan. I’m happy for you.”
"Right." His breathing has become ragged again. He makes a sound between a cough and a groan. “I just slept with Amanda.”
Joanie stays silent.
“I wasn’t planning to. Didn’t want to. We had a few drinks. And she just wouldn’t let me leave. She was kind of relentless.” He sighs. “What am I saying? It’s my own fault. Fucking idiot.”
“Wow,” Joanie manages.
“I can’t go home like this. Samantha's there. And I feel disgusting. I was thinking. I’m not far from your place. I know this is big ask, Joanie. But could I come over and use your shower?”
“Can’t you use the one there?”
“I don’t want to go back up there,” he says, his voice plaintive and small. “I really don’t.”
Joanie hesitates, could definitely refuse, go back to sleep. Probably should.
"Okay," she says at last. "I guess it’s all right."
After they hang up, Joanie puts on her robe, is washing a few dishes when he arrives, faster than expected -- the familiar knock, the rapid crescendo and decrescendo. He slips inside, hair tousled, face flushed, glancing behind him once like a spy arriving at a safe house, that action familiar too.
“Thanks so much, Joanie. Sorry for this. I won’t be long.”
And after that she hears him in her bathroom, urinating, fussing around, the taps running. If he’s brushing his teeth, she hopes he’s using his finger and not her brush like he did a few times when he stayed over. She found something poignant about it then, feeling the damp bristles after he’d gone. Now the thought makes her stomach tighten.
The shower is running. “Joanie,” Dan calls out. “Do you have any shampoo besides this lavender stuff?”
“No. Sorry.”
“Okay. It’s fine.”
Soon after he’s out, in his shirt and jeans again, barefoot, holding his socks. With his hair plastered down, maybe a little more gone than a few months ago, he looks briefly older, though after he’s rubbed the towel through his hair, tousled it upward, he’s boyish again.
He's pacing now, frowning, checking messages on his phone, leaving a hushed message over by the window, returning, smiling at her. “Hey, that's new, right?” Pointing to the philodendron in the corner.
Joanie nods. It is new, a birthday present from her grandmother.
He leans on the chair arm to put on his socks, lips pursed, a small grimace before he slumps onto her couch, head in his hands. "Oh, goddamnit."
Joanie sits in the chair across from him, pulls up her knees.
“I can’t believe it. She did it to me. Again.” He laughs mirthlessly. “Same as before. I was in a great relationship back then too that she completely fucked up.”
Joanie sits and watches.
“I’m not even attracted to her. I wasn’t back then. It was some end of the semester house party, and I was drunk, and she got me into a back bedroom somehow. She kept sending me poems for weeks after, this goddawful sestina about my cock, 'like a stunned snail.'” His imitation of Amanda’s throaty quaver is surprisingly accurate. "My girlfriend found that one, moved out the same day." He shudders and laughs, cradles his chin his palms. “Sorry, I’m oversharing. I can trust you not to spread this around, right? I mean I would deserve it if you did. But I’m hoping you . . .”
“I won’t.”
He breathes, sits up, tucks in his shirt. “Thanks, Joanie.” Now, his eyebrows knit, expression stern, he’s becoming Professor Overton again, the transformation a little jarring. “So, Amanda said you didn't give her anything to read.”
“No, I . . . I didn’t really get a chance.”
“Jesus, Joanie.” Dan sighs. “You have to seize these opportunities. Amanda’s a nut, but she knows a lot of important people. We’ve talked about this. You’re a greater writer, but you can’t just sit back and wait to be discovered. Or you’ll wait forever.”
“I know.”
“Well, maybe you can still send her something. Don’t wait on it. Do it soon. Remind her who you are. I mean, I'm sure she'll remember.” His quick, questioning glance once again.
“I will.”
He stretches, sighs. “I tried to warn them, Gina and Jefferson, about inviting her here, told them what she’s like these days. This no-boundaries nightmare who shows up and wreaks havoc. It’s why she’s never had steady job. Why she’s still living hand to mouth. It’s all she does now, just coasting on her notoriety, on her schtick.”
“I don't know,” Joanie says quietly. "I think she's a great writer."
“Well, sure.” He’s watching her again now, the same questioning look as before.
“That last poem at the reading tonight. It wasn’t about me, Dan. I mean, I didn’t . . .”
He laughs. “I didn’t think you did. And it’s none of my business anyways.” The silence then. “Okay, I’ll get out of your hair now. Sorry, again for waking you. And thanks for the shower.” He’s turning to leave, picking up his leather valise, scrutinizing himself in the small mirror beside the door, hand on the doorknob.
“Dan?” Joanie says before she’s entirely certain what she’ll say next.
He turns.
“There’s something I wanted to talk about.”
Joanie watches several expressions cycle through his face: weariness, impatience, irritation, before he smiles. “Yeah, I wanted to say something too. I know things maybe have been tough for you these past few months, and I want to say again that I –"
“It’s actually about something else. My coffee maker. The one that you broke.”
Nothing shows now in Dan’s face save for bafflement. “I thought I fixed that.”
“You didn’t fix it, though. The lid still doesn’t seal right.” Joanie sighs. “I don’t know if I told you, but my uncle gave it to me when I got admitted to the program here. It was like one of the nicest things I own. And I used to love so much when I first got it, getting up early, drinking coffee all morning while I was writing. It was like my favorite thing.”
He is still watching her, still confused.
“I’d like you to buy me a new coffee maker, Dan,” Joanie says. “I can send a link. You can just have it delivered. No need to bring it.”
Dan smooths his hair, tugs his cuffs, begins to mouth something, seems to think better, nods finally. “Sure. Sorry about that. Yeah, send me the link.” Now his eyes are busy, maybe wondering how to disguise the charge on his credit card bill. His problem, Joanie decides.
Turning as he reaches the door, laughing. “Is there anything else?”
“No, just that. The coffee maker.”
“I mean, if there’s anything, you can tell me. Right? Anything else I can do. Or anything that needs fixing.”
Joanie stares back, shakes her head.
And now he’s out the door, stepping carefully down the damp concrete stairs, gripping the handrail. When he’s nearly to his car, under the lamps, Joanie sees him glance back once more, probably can’t see her watching from her dark window. He still looks confused, though maybe something else too, a measure of alarm, maybe even fear. The next time he looks back, maybe from inside his car, she will no longer be watching him, will already be back in bed.
The next morning, Karla bails, texts at the last moment that her car won’t start. A short time later, Joanie stops outside the Grosvenor B & B, hair still wet from her shower, only realizing as she pulls up that she’s once again forgotten her short story, still sitting, dog-eared and worn, on the table by her door. Though it doesn’t really matter, though that story probably needs more work anyways before she shows it to anyone.
The visiting writer emerges, blinking in the sunlight, wearing a new ensemble, all black, hair turbaned like a silent movie starlet. She slides into the back seat, sits there stiffly, only squinting at Joanie’s face in the mirror once they’re some distance down on the road.
“Oh, it’s you,” the visiting writer says. “Good.” She leans back in her seat, muttering a while then quiet, eyes closed, maybe dozing, only waking as they’re passing the shops along Airline Road, sitting up. “Weldon’s Hand-turned Walnut Bowls,” she reads blearily, laughs.
“Yeah,” Joanie says. “It’s that same place we visited on the way in. You remember?”
“Could we go in again? I think I want to.”
Joanie glances with dismay at her dashboard clock, already cutting it close -- ninety minutes until the flight. Though she pulls into the gravel lot regardless, relaxing a little once they’re inside the shop because there’s something soothing about the fragrance of the rich wood. Amanda wanders through the tables and shelves, touching edges and sides of bowls. Joanie browses too, staring at the circles and ovals. She’s never appreciated how strangely beautiful the display shelf is, this honeycomb of fragrant wood, struck now by how, close up, you can see the ghosts of the trees the bowls have been in their knots and rings. Would there be a way to work this place into her new piece, Joanie wonders, the one about the old cowboy? They don’t fit exactly, these fragments, but maybe that’s the challenge -- the cowboy standing here in this incongruous place.
Joanie’s lost in that for a time, and it’s only when she looks about that she realizes she can’t see the visiting writer anymore, not in the room she’s in or the smaller galleries on either side. Joanie hurries from end to end, glances at her watch, more time passed than she imagined. She forces herself calm, hunts from one end of the store to the other, even the back workshop with the lathes and swept piles of shavings. Her phone vibrates in her pocket. Dan, she sees when she brings it out, but doesn’t answer, keeps searching.
“I’m here.” The visiting writer speaks from behind her, stands in a spot by the front doors where Joanie could have sworn she just looked. The woman is holding something, offering it.
It’s not the bowl Joanie would have picked for herself, an oblong oval with a knot near its center. Its varnish is light, almost like not enough has been applied. When she takes it from the woman the thing feels both heavy and light, both rough and smooth in her palms.
“For you,” the visiting writer says and laughs. “Because I’m a problem. And because you’re kind.” She sighs. “Too kind.” The woman watching her now with clear gratitude, with concern too, watching until Joanie is first to look away.
The bowl is too large for Joanie’s purse, so she hugs it with both hands, tight against her chest. She has no idea what she will use it for, where she’ll put it, this object that demands to be used, to be displayed.
“Thank you,” Joanie says. “I love it.”
On the way out, they stop by the other bowl, the improbably huge one on display by the exit, cut and turned from the massive trunk of some ancient walnut. They stand on opposite sides of it for a time, Amanda, the visiting writer, tracing a finger around its edge, again transfixed, staring into its depths, intent on whatever she’s seeking in there. On the other side, Joanie does the same, touches the smooth wood, stares into the shadows within. Cars kick up dust in the parking lot. A low wind, funneled along the lip of Topawako gorge, swoops in to clear the dust. Joanie’s phone buzzes in her pocket. The minutes until the visiting writer's departing flight dwindle. But they ignore all these things, Joanie and the visiting writer, their eyes in the same depths, their fingers walking the same, smooth circle.
About the Author
John Tait is a Canadian-American writer whose stories have appeared in Narrative, Crazyhorse, Prairie Schooner, Southwest Review, and The Sun and have won prizes such as the Tobias Wolff Award, the Rick Demarinis Fiction Award, and the H.E. Francis Award for Fiction. He is an Associate Professor of Fiction at the University of North Texas.
Photo by Nan Jiang.
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