He took a folder of essays off his desk labeled “The
Benefits of Head Lice and Society.” He dropped it on top of
the stack I was holding with both arms and dove back into
the pile of yellowed paper on his desk. He strained his eyes
to read the headings, thudding packets onto my stack, crumpling and tossing loose sheets onto the floor.
“Read them, annotate them, and construct a synthesized thesis about each of them.” He muttered his directions
at his desk and gave me “An Unabridged History of the Cotton Gin,” sending dust clouds down my throat. I knew that if
I coughed I’d let the entire pile topple over, so I swallowed
hard and nodded. “Musings about Picasso, Volume Seven:
Beyond the Blue Period” was digging into my collarbone. I
leaned back.
“You’re already at a loss, I’m afraid,” he sighed. “You
have to work harder to get to where I was by your age.” I
nodded again, my chin brushing the top of the stack. The
papers reeked of mold and chalk. I couldn't understand how
trees, the majestic creatures that anchored down the land
so it couldn't float away, could be whittled down to yellowed
paper and stamped with some old man’s “musings.” He
cleared his throat, still looking down at his disheveled desk.
“It’s tough being a young woman, but I’m giving you a special edge. You’ll be able to relate to the man you marry, and
understand him when he needs to discuss something important.”
I set the pile down on his desk and leaned forward,
forcing him to look me in the eye.
“ Isn't this why my mom sent me to finishing school?
So I could have the right manners and proper etiquette?”“If it had worked then you wouldn't be slouching over
my desk and invading my space. Look at you.” I stood up
and saw that my palms had left fleeting prints of perspiration.
“And don’t you start in on a rebellious phase. You’re nineteen. We've nearly skipped it altogether.”
I took a step back and studied him. Glasses under a
horizon of deep frown lines, a brow that never unfurrowed,
the faded suit jacket with decade-old pit stains, the dusty
office filled with paper, the view from the window of a dozen
untouched acres. I turned to go.
“I have something for you,” he said. “Not from me, but
from someone I’m sure you’ll like when you get a chance to
meet him.” He fished a ring out of his pocket and handed it to
me without getting up. It was simple, silver and had an inscription that said “4-26.” I checked my watch.
“That’s next Saturday.”
“Yes.”
“What’s on Saturday?” He chuckled and looked up at
me for the first time.
“Oh, you’ll see.”