lgfour

Part Four.

IV.
Isabelle knew she was in over her head the second she saw the Pyrenes rise in the darkness from the east. It was just as she remembered it at 14�the hills were green, rolling from house to house, life to life, with bleating goats and rocked fences. She always caught a glimpse of people walking along the property fences in pairs. Isabelle looked as if she wanted to wave from the bus, but instead held her hands in her lap and watched with tired eyes for the signs pointing toward Pamplona/Iru�ea. The leaves caught under the bus were flipping in orange and red blurs, then fastening against the muck on the sides of the road; no matter how Isabelle tried to focus she could not�her thoughts rotated in the same chaotic fashion.
               The bus was musty and warm with a stale sense. There were 9 others inside�cinco hombres, dos mujeres y los ni�as de ellas. Isabelle was the only American and it was painfully obvious. The children even seemed to sense it as they sang soft songs while holding onto their mothers� legs. They were school age, and vivid with their speech. Isabelle could tell what excited them as she tried not to look at them directly�they would shy away at her slightest intention of friendliness, then forget about her presence entirely as they began to resume their singing and question their parents about the words as they spit them from their mouths. When the parents answered, the child would look in her direction and it took everything within Isabelle�s power to look away and not intervene. Out the window. At her map. The scribbled words in her curled-paged notebook. She looked at them as if she no longer recognized them. As though she couldn�t remember anymore.

                The bus arrived in Pamplona at 11.00 and Isabelle was greeted by bright sunshine on a busy street. Her bags were large and awkward, and because of the hustle in the city, no one seemed to notice. She looked at the scene for a moment and smiled as it passed around her in cinematic slow motion, low music growing in her ears and rising from the back of her throat softly. She continued lugging her bag on her shoulder, and dragged the other from its handle as the wheels clicked on the walkway. The map Isabelle held tight in her hot, wet hand indicated that her flat was one block from the drop off point; Isabelle walked as quickly as possible to arrive in front of it, circling the street twice and stopping abruptly, finding its small sign by chance. She stepped inside a small doorway and rang the bell to find someone to help her. Her voice was weak and broken--she cleared it three times, restarting the conversation.
�Hola. Necessito el cuarto para Professora��
�Ah! S�! Professora de Americana! Se�ora Isabelle Marot�s�?�
�S�.� Isabelle smiled at him as he happily and anxiously grabbed the keys and dangled them inside his hand. He pushed a paper toward her as she signed it quickly. He came around the counter and grabbed her large bag, and pointed toward the stairs. Isabelle followed in overwhelming nervousness, holding her stomach.
                 The hallway was narrow, and the paint was old and in dire need of touch up. Isabelle looked up to the next level joined by the steep and skinny staircase in a curious fashion�unable to see all the detail she desired. She stood off to the side on a small landing as the doorman passed by her. They exchanged smiles as he stuck the key in the door. It was the only room up that particular staircase, and he indicated that there were three others placed throughout the bottom floor to access the other flats. Isabelle walked inside and immediately felt strange in its obvious difference from the typical American room. Difference from the flats in Paris, too. She chuckled slightly and watched as the man put her bag down.
�Gracias!� she smiled shyly. He smiled and stood next to her, pointing out the various features of the large and empty room---dividing them where he could.
�La cocina, el ba�o con ba�era bueno, el patio, la cama�.� He raised his eyebrows at her when he slowly and seductively mentioned the bed and Isabelle had to chuckle again.
�Gracias! Gracias! Que bonito, se�or! Que bonito!�
�Bienvenido.� He smiled, handing her the key. She tipped him what few pesetas she had, and sat on the bed.

Isabelle fell asleep with the rest of the city, and awoke around 16.00 to find herself disoriented and confused. The phone rang, and she had a sudden fit of anxiety that squeezed her chest tightly and made her heart race and skip.
�Hel--�hola�no. damnit. Diga!� she sighed heavily.
�Se�ora Marot?� the female voice said.
�Yes?� she asked. The voice laughed.
�You are in Spain now! You have to use the phone in Spanish! It is Director Vandas! Como estas?�
�Bien, bien, Y t�?�
�Fantastico! Would you like me to come by and show you around?�
�That would be wonderful, yes!� Isabelle said excitedly. Her stomach growled and turned in nervousness, again. She supported it carefully with her arm, radiating warmth through her thin shirt with her warm hand.
�I will be there around 19.00 then.� She said.
�Great! I can�t wait! Adios!� Isabelle put the phone down and took a deep breath. As her smile faded she stood heavily on her feet, tired. Heavy with social dread. New people weren�t crippling, only a burden on selfhood. Too often compromising. She paced in her room, her mouth moving to match the gentle hum she expelled between mutters and rambles.
                 Isabelle went down the stairs to meet Mrs. Maria Vandas, pulling in her scenery as she stood on her nervous, but very excited legs. It was warm, but cool�with a slight breeze that tickled her just enough to button up her cardigan and slip her hair behind her ears. It seemed as though the darker it got, the happier the city appeared. People passing by shed friendly glances on each other, and Isabelle, as they whizzed by on bikes, pushed carts, and crossed streets. The coolness of the night was sneaking through, and forced her to smile as she watched the brightly colored leaves fall from the trees in sultry red bouts.
�Se�ora Isabelle Marot?� a woman asked, placing her hand softly on Isabelle�s arm. Isabelle looked at her with surprise and stepped back a bit, caught off guard. The woman drew her in and commanded a smile, as Isabelle looked at her amazing features, in pure awe and moderate dumbfoundedness. She had huge brown eyes, and perfectly combed hair, which made her look twice as professional as her crisp pants suit did. Her skin was crystal clear, punctuated with full lips colored in burgundy. She had a huge smile.
�S�,� Isabelle said. �Director Vandas?� She continued to stare.
�S�,� she smiled. �So nice to finally meet you.�
�You also!� Isabelle said, extending her hand. Se�ora Vandas pulled Isabelle�s shoulder aside and kissed her cheek, and she blushed.
�Shall we?� she said, pointing the direction of the downtown center area of the town. She latched arms with Isabelle and they began to stroll.
Se�ora Vandas rattled off historic tidbits as they walked, and acknowledged many of the passers by. Everyone seemed to smile at Isabelle, and look at her twice, which made her mildly uncomfortable. Isabelle was happy to have someone native to the city to associate with.
�They will warm up shortly,� she said. �There is a difference between tourist, and teacher.�
Isabelle smiled at her, and watched her walk from the corner of her eye--she was a beautiful woman. She was anxious to see her husband, and children. The two women went through a few smaller alleyways and arrived before a large building where Se�ora Vandas turned to Isabelle and smiled.
�La Escuela?� Isabelle asked, her eyes wide and excited.
�S�,� she said. �Nuestra escuela.�
She explained that there were only 8 classrooms inside, and that classes ran from 8.00-13.00, then again from 17.00-21.00. Isabelle was instructed to choose three class times a day, and would have first pick because she was the guest. Isabelle smiled kindly at her, and looked at the school again. It was small, but old looking and gorgeous--the sort of place people could only dream of working in because each day of seeing it was incentive to always return happily. It commanded loyal in its beauty.
�Bonsoir Maria!� a man said, tipping his hat while approaching. He tapped his cane against the cobblestone to gain the women�s attention and part from their private conversation and awe.
�Bonsoir! Ca v�?� Se�ora Vandas said with a grin. Isabelle stood quietly and listened. He smiled at her, and they spoke about their respective days in French. Isabelle followed secretly and deduced he was a fellow Professor.
�Je vous pr�sente le professeur Isabelle Marot.� Maria said, gesturing towards Isabelle. The man tipped his hat at her, and smiled, extending his hand after she had backed away from his lips going toward her cheek.
�It is nice to meet you,� he said with a very thick French accent on his English. Isabelle giggled and both Maria and the man demanded to know why. Isabelle explained that it was strange to be so far from home, in the midst of so many different languages, and spoken to in English. Their conversation continued as though she didn�t add anything whatsoever.
�My name is Michel Alain. I�teach French language, and Literature. It is�a pleasure to meet you.�
               �Qu� fino!� Isabelle said, nervously putting her hands in her cardigan sleeves. He was in his late 30�s, tall and thin. He had a pack of cigarettes in his hand, and shiny shoes. His hat was cocked and he had a smug grin. Sensing her nervousness, he turned back to Maria and tipped his hat.
�Buenas noches ellas,� he said turning away, flipping a cigarette in his mouth and tapping his cane against the ground.
�Viejo mejor!� she said, laughing. Isabelle smiled at her as they watched him walk away.
�Hay professoros otros de Italia y Francia.� She said, excitedly. �Y ahora, Ingl�s.�
�Fantastico!� Isabelle said, looking up at the school. Maria smiled at Isabelle and let a hissing �s� slip between her lips.
�Tengo hambre?� she asked, raising her eyebrows. Isabelle nodded.
�S�!�
She pointed to the left and the two of them began walking back towards the busy center of the city. Maria was still talking, pointing places out and Isabelle nodded often, confirming her interest and attention, listening the best she could while still watching everything with unblinking eyes, capturing every second.
They sat at a very dark restaurant and Isabelle studied the menu carefully. Maria was friends with the staff, and conversed with them freely as Isabelle shyed away and hid inside the menu.
�T� eras tim�do!� Maria said, smiling at her. �No necessitas!�
�No?� Isabelle asked, looking at her large smile. She shrugged and sunk in the seat a little. �Nada mas en una semana.�
�Muy bien.� She said, raising her drink to her lips. Isabelle took a deep breath and continued to look around wildly.
�Ingl�s y Literatura. S�.� She said, making a collective list in her mind. �Qu� escritores?�
�Ah�Henry Miller, Ernest Hemingway, y F. Scott Fitzgerald.� Isabelle said. �Solo Americanos que salirendo vivir en Europeo.
�S�! Te gustar�a leer ellos?!� she clapped her hands together. �A m� tambien!�
Isabelle smiled pleasantly at her and folded her hands in her lap, waiting patiently for dinner. She refrained from expressing her wish that she was at home, alone. Silence was more awkward than talking, and talking was not what Isabelle wanted to do. She wanted to sit�like a rock in the tide, and watch. Feel. Exist.

�You know, I don�t understand Americans,� Michel said, blowing his cigarette smoke to the left of Isabelle as they sat knee to knee in a small caf� on the sidewalk across from the school.
�How so?� Isabelle inquired, watching him take another seductive drag. His jaw was sharp and cleanly shaven. She could imagine his long fingers pulling his skin taut as he dragged a straight razor across his face, eliminating the white cream. His fingers seemed to enjoy the smoothness just along the bone ridge, which he stroked while he formulated a response.
�Well,� he said �Perhaps that is not true. Maybe I understand them too well.�
�You still have to explain how,� she said. He nodded at her with a coy smile and put his hand on her knee. Isabelle could feel the warmth radiating through her pants as she sat back and looked at him sternly.
�Fine. Well�you are just�so quick.�
�Quick?� she asked. �In what respect?�
�You act fast, live fast, die fast.� He said.
�Perhaps�� Isabelle said. She was waiting for him to move his hand from her leg, as she silently prayed that he wouldn�t.
�The Americans are always rushing--rushing to grow up, and die.� He said. He put his cigarette between his lips and took another out of the pack in his pocket, preparing to light it. The short stub bounced between his lips as the red glow of the cherry gave his fine featured face even more of a marble finish. Once he had them switched he began to gesticulate again.
�You are always rushing�but to nothing that nurtures growth. Rushing to wipe your own ass and have lavish affairs�you marry numerous times and just start your life over every month. You have control issues�always in charge of everything. Emotions, actions, feelings�American�s make their own hell and try to convince themselves it is not bad.�
Isabelle sat back listening to the criticism. She didn�t know what to say. She didn�t know if she agreed or was offended. She sat silent and had no idea how to combat his statements, but knew that since he had said it, she couldn�t expel it from her mind.
�Here�you do not seek a wife. It just happens. You seek friends. You seek yourself.�
�And in America�?� she asked.
�In America you are pregnant by 18 and divorced by 25.�
Isabelle sat back and looked at him coolly.
�I see.�
�Everything is available for you to plunder. Here�we have a class that does not allow it.�
�And I fit into all of your stereotypes?� she asked crossing her legs and arms, mildly insulted and curious all at once.
�Yes and no.� he said. Isabelle nodded at him with little amusement and pushed her glasses up. �I don�t know you enough to say at this time.�
�Well. Thank you so much for the enlightening conversation, Michel.� she said backing her chair up and double-checking the contents of her handbag. He sat back and looked at her.
�What? You are not upset with me now, are you?� he asked.
�Just�disgusted. Things are not as simple as you think they are,� she said. �Goodnight.� She stood and exited the caf� terrace.
�Let me walk you to your flat,� he said getting up and pushing his cigarette into the tray on the table. He dropped a few coins down on the surface with a small chime and rushed to be alongside her. He took her arm and they began down the street.
�Isabelle�I did not mean to insult you.� He said. �I was not directing any of those things at you.�
�It is hard because they are all true�in some respect.� she said. �I live that way sometimes. Or have�or will�and knowing that you will see me that way so immediately is disheartening.�
�Disheartening?� he asked, questioning the vocabulary.
�Upsetting.� I said. �Disappointing.�
�Ah�thanks.�
Isabelle nodded away from him and watched the street as they walked. He was rambling on and she could hardly listen�his grip on her arm seemed too tight. He was unmistakably evil, but she couldn�t look away for too long.
�Bonne nuit,� he said kissing her cheeks, stopping at the front steps of her flat. The coolness of Isabelle�s face, matched with the warmth of his lips, drew her closer than intended as she kissed his cheeks back. He still had her arm and they looked at one another silently, their breath forming little warm circles against each other. Isabelle bit her lip softly and looked as though she would have kissed him full on the mouth had he not been so sure of himself. He knew it�he knew she was holding back. He knew he had some element of control.
�You American girls�� he said. �So raw.� Isabelle stepped back and wiggled out of his grip. She excused herself abruptly and went up the stairs. She plopped on her bed thoughtfully. �You American girls� was repeating over in over in her head. She was suddenly Daisy Miller. June Miller, even�and she had no idea.

****

                      Michel Alain had been born to Fran�ois and Marie Alain just after the political upheaval in their small town in France�the proximity to the Spanish border made the city anxious in civil unrest and the people tried to live their normal lives. Michel�s bottles were mixed with the additions of biting tongues and produced the outcast 'viva la France!' attitude that crumbled in the countryside schooling of young Michel. Michel took great pride in telling Isabelle his story in a mixture of French and English. She always listened carefully, never interrupting. Michel hated to be interrupted when he was discussing the role his father had chosen for him, which he had broken from.
                     "You will be a doctor," Fran�ois said, "A boy made of science and nothing but! Married, with sons of his own�such a life for you!"
                     At 15 Michel began specializing his education, and after learning English and Spanish began to find more joy in reading and translating the manuals of sculpting tools and anatomical figures than the actual Medical science of it all. He took incredible joy in watching the words shift from language to language�he couldn't tell you the disease, the symptoms or anything else explanatory, but label. In all different languages.
                     Lab science made Michel's stomach turn-yellowed skin and blackened blood-if anything touched his sterile protectants he would loose his footing and fall over his own feet in an effort not to fall then to the floor, which was glazed with the same unmentionables that spun Michel's head.
                     Michel had to take the train to Bordeaux to attend the University and continually contemplated his refusal to be medical and sterile like his father. His love was for the language--being close to Spain gave him the opportunity to take the train just a little too long and appear in a place completely fresh to him. In a country where the people chose their own destiny and they were not stagnant. He would discuss with others on the way to school each week and would always, very passionately, rationalize his education on the way home. Preparing.
Speaking to his father was always the same.
"I read Don Quixote," he would say. "In Spanish."
It was these dialogues that Michel began to overly play his father, and give a caricature of his character and voice. The speech and accent could have been something from an Absurdist stage production.
"Ah�to hell with your books! What wrong with French? And besides, if you read too much your eyes will go and your hand will begin to shake�then what kind of surgeon will you be?!"
                Michel's fresh faced second decade was doomed by his fathers hopes and dreams for him. His son would not be caught dead in a factory, or doing anything that defaced his precious France. To be strong and have a place, enveloped in the world and existing�nothing more.
                   In his final year of school Michel decided, on one of his commutes, that his time in Bordeaux did not have to coincide with his father's dreams-what Fran�ois Alain did not know would not need to be justified. His degree would be his cover plan-his excuse for dabbling in literature and language classes in his spare time.
When the degree was complete Michel began working in the medical field, the blood on his hands making the distaste in his mouth twice as bitter for his father who would not allow him to venture to his own dreams. The Americans Michel met always had dreams--he was employing their technique to survive his father. Suffer today for tomorrow�the mere thought of that would have forced Fran�ois to deport and strip away the Alain name from him. Michel would be a joke if they knew�especially after the crash.
                  Michel made money and began a double life--he continued classes to be what he wanted to be. Barely able to stand on his feet (not to mention when bodily functions and work were concerned), unable to face his parents, afraid to escape. He could go to America and live�it crossed his mind a few times. Each time he met someone from a different region of the country--South, East�they were all so different. Convenient fears of flying or taking a ship kept him from having to ever discuss travel plans with his father--he surely would have complained.
Michel was alone and ambitious, in love with the world but unable to enjoy it much beyond its traditional hypocrisies and monotonous days. Alone, unloved, unaccepted, and unsuccessful until the day he arrived on Spanish soil.
                 There was a medical school anxiously recruiting scholars to teach low level courses in Spain and Michel jumped at the chance. It was in Spain�in Spanish�it was out of the clinic, apart from the blood and guts and bodily functions that made him so queasy. It was perfect.
                "Make more doctors in the world!" Fran�ois shouted as Michel waved goodbye to him at the train station. Michel, now 25, could not sit still. He was like the children he found in the waiting room of the clinic--always needing the bathroom, to move, to fidget. He was escaping.
               Pamplona--a combination of French and Spanish for Michel; close to the border and close to his heart. Michel did not understand just how French he was until he was past the Pyr�n�es and speaking a language that still was, on occasion, foreign, exotic and strange. Michel, who only adapted the French life when he was apart from his land and the family that aggravated him so!
              Each time, Isabelle wanted to mutter that Michel could never really escape. Never really get away. That France was always just a step away. She successfully held her comments in and allowed him to continue.

                The Spanish were a puzzle to Michel in his first few years. He taught his classes and took some on his own, awarding himself degrees in his interests and attaining jobs to teach them in the place of the medical odyssey his father had, unwillingly, started him on.
               A young, passionate, knowledgeable Spanish woman, Maria Robres, a fellow professor at the University was the first to commend Michel for his work with language and literature. Michel was thrilled to receive recognition and worked closely with her for many years, bridging the informational gaps between countries that existed so close, but so far away.

Michel�s story ended at the arrival of his successful job in Literature and Language, the epitome of rebellion and dream following.. Isabelle and Maria often discussed him and laughed over his pride filled stories and how they never changed. Maria began to indulge in exposing Michel for who he really was, and started telling her own story to Isabelle along with it. She discussed how when Michel and her had first met they each returned to their respective homes in the evening, never once assuming the romantic connections they could have. Michel never had time for actual girls--few had caught his eye. For the most part he spent his time with friends, around large tables with food and drink, talking, spouting, enjoying. He had always said to live your life to get into someone's pants was not worthy of life. He had to live for the minute�for the moment something funny came out of his friends mouths, for the times they ran with the bulls down the narrow passageways of Pamplona. For all the times he passed the Plaza Del Torros and he felt obligated to mention literary influences in conversation for mere homage of vicarious exploration.
             Spain agreed with Michel, though he seemed to be rather elite among the rest. He walked one step ahead of his peers, his head facing the sun, his long neck and slender fingers gripping his scarf, his veiny hands grasping his papers and he trotted on the cobblestone walks to the university. If any woman had been interested he would not have noticed--not even Maria. Isabelle questioned if they had ever discussed their relationship and she shook her head and continued on to fill in Michel�s holes.
                  Maria, in her respect and admiration for Michel promoted him to departmental chair when her time as reigning Director came to full power. Michel, who had grown rather arrogant by then, assumed the issue was merely because of his talent and teaching, his brilliance and success at his subject matter and not because Maria had always had a spot for him in her heart.
                At this time, Maria gave up after endless attempts to draw his attention to her feminine qualities, and was whisked away by tall, lean, well-dressed charming man who owned a series of bars and caf�s throughout the city. Cedro Vandas proposed within the year and the couple went to Granada to hold ceremony and celebrate-coincidentally where they had both grown up mere kilometers apart from one another.
The coincidence and growth of their relationship left Michel bitter and lonely--Maria being stolen from his days provided an unhappy mask to share with his students. The boys were quick to invite him out on evenings and the girls�the girls were always anxious to walk with him, and he was always, and in turn, anxious to walk them home. It wasn't until one night, 6 years into teaching that he noticed how beautiful and perfect the young minds were as their dark eyes shimmered in the moonlight, all humming illumination combined with skin and smiles. Electric charges.
               Michel was unaware of himself until this point, as well. Until he had found someone to be attractive for he never thought twice about his dark hair that was combed the same was his mother combed it when he was 5, his well shaved face that was purely essential to produce a look of success (which rang in his ears each morning as he shaved in the voice of his father) or his clothes--suits that had been worn down and parts that had been replaced.
Rumor had it that the night he walked his student Corazana home from class was a night not easily replicated even in his own mind. Her gentle swinging of her arms softly brushed against his, her laughter rich and musical, her words clear and construed with wisdom beyond her education. Michel wanted terribly to kiss her as she turned inside her house and disappeared for the night--he watched as her silhouette walked up the stairs and into her bedroom. His heart was racing and his breath was quick and heavy and he sped down the street to reach his own flat. His neighbors, friends of Maria�s, reported that he roared into the place, losing his clothing as he went, and peered at himself in a scratched mirror from his washing sink, his undershirt stained brown and his boxers a dull blue, wrinkled with the day. Water dripped from his dark hair, pulling it into his face, and from off his nose. He looked at himself and turned away, seeing the picture frames of his family, his French newspapers on the table, and threw them all into a corner and covered them with the towel he dried his face with. He laughed at himself as he got into bed and thought heavily the entire night.
                When Maria returned from her festivities in Granada she could hardly recognize Michel. His suits matched and were slim and slick, lined perfectly with his body and face, his hair done just so and his features seeming sharper than before. He smiled at her with a devilish grin and turned into his classroom leaving her standing aghast in the hallway.
               That night after class he kissed Corazana and solidified the change within himself. Lust had filled his body and searched violently for an outlet. He had never noticed the way the girls looked at him until his lips met Corazana's that fateful night, and he certainly never looked at anyone the same way. His father was but a mere obstacle�a victim of his charms. The only answers he needed now were to his own questions.

Isabelle had plenty of questions for him. She wanted to connect with him on a level he wanted to exclude her from. She had been black listed because she was American.
�Have you been to that caf�?� Isabelle asked, spilling directions to obscure streets in Paris to Michel as he sat across from her at a sidewalk caf�.
�No�no.� he said. �I do not admire Paris. I did not grow up there�I never want to live there.�
�That is too bad,� Isabelle said. �It is a very lovely place.�
�Lovelier than America?�
�Sometimes,� Isabelle said.
�Ah! That is because it is France.�

�You are leaving rather abruptly,� Michel said, pulling on Isabelle�s hips as she ransacked her things and pressed them into her bags.
�I need to go,� she said, throwing his hands off her. He grabbed around her waist and turned her toward him with a hefty groan.
�What is the matter with you?� he asked.
�I can�t be here anymore,� she said. She fought her way out of his grasp and continued pacing the room while packing.
�Is everything okay?� he asked. She looked at him with tears forming in her eyes and shook her head with a strange open-mouthed grin.
�No,� she said. �But it will be.� Michel stood in front of the window and watched her move her things with intensity. There were beads of sweat collecting on her brow and she was giving out a small noise with each heaving breath.
�Are you coming back?� he asked.
�No,� she said. She sat down and took a few deep breaths before staring at the wall alongside Michel�s head. �I can only stand Spain at night.�
Michel looked at with utter confusion and proceeded to collect his jacket from off the back of the chair and put it on. When he approached her for a kiss she turned her back to him and he left silently.
Isabelle left silently within the same hour.

Isabelle approached her father on the street and gave him a kiss on each cheek. He hailed a taxi quickly and they ducked inside as they joined the standstill of traffic going uptown.
�It is good to see you,� he said to her. �It is much less worrying to know you are in Los Angeles now�even though you�d be far better suited here.�
�Please don�t begin telling me where I need to be,� she said. �It is good to see you, too�but only if you can respect her choices.�
�You have changed some, Isa,� he said to her. Isabelle took his hand and held it in her lap.
�I�ve not changed, daddy,� she said. �I�m growing up.�
�More than that,� he said. �I never said it was bad. In fact, you remind me of your mother. Her confidence and passion for herself.�
�Well, thank you,� she said. �Things are going well in Los Angeles.�
�I�m glad to hear it,� he said. �I was quite relieved when you contacted me with an address there. I didn�t like having you in Spain.�
�I didn�t quite like being there,� she said. �I did for some time�but one day it just changed, and I left.�
�No need to suffer,� he said. �I�m glad you are back.�
�I�m glad to be back,� she said.
�And the University? Treating you well?�
�Quite so,� she said. �I�ve got some excellent professors to work with and they are letting me instruct while I study.�
�Fantastic,� he said.
�Yes,� she said.
A sudden silence fell between them as they rode along in the taxi; the hum of the engine and the hypnotic shuffle of the wheels captured their attention as they looked out the windows.
�How is Anna?� Isabelle asked.
�She is well,� he said. �You should see what she has done with the house in this little bit of time.�
�I can imagine it is beautiful. She seems to be a woman with wonderful taste,� Isabelle said. Frank blushed and smiled at her.
�She�s a wonderful lady,� he said. �I�m lucky to have her. And to have had her all these years.�
�I�m glad you are happy,� she said. �Though I think sometimes mother would be rolling in her grave.�
�Isabelle Valentine,� he said. �Don�t say such things.�
�You don�t think it is true?�
�Not in the least,� he said. �And besides, who ever gave you permission to pass value judgment on my life?�
�I just don�t subscribe to the belief that mother would be very happy that you are living with a woman you have known almost as long as you�ve known her�or should have known her.�
�Your mother would be happy,� he said. �She loved Anna as much as I did. I think your mother would want me to have her company now�in her absence.�
�I suppose you are always right,� Isabelle said to her father with an exasperated sigh. He cleared his throat and allowed the awkwardness to drown out the silence.

Isabelle had watched Dr. Cuthbert closely the entire semester--she was rather taken with him as an instructor. Monday and Wednesday mornings always were the most exciting. Sunday's and Tuesdays would pass by with the thought "tomorrow is Monday" or "tomorrow is Tuesday" and she would revel in the thought that she would get to hear another hour of her brilliant professor spout off from his almighty fountain of knowledge. Isabelle would go to bed early the night before, wake up bright eyed and happy in a rush to get dressed up and to school. The other girls in class had no idea the routine Isabelle survived before arriving to class. With makeup, hair curled, spotless smile and smooth lipstick she would arrive in class early and sit in her usual spot, in the front and to the lecture podium's left-he seemed to teach left most of the time. She sat straight watching the doors open and close with the constant flow of students-always watching for him to walk in with his disheveled hair and sunglasses. He carried his bottle of water in one hand, his book in the other, and took his time to arrive below and speak, always busy talking with his teaching assistants, laughing and smiling at them.
"Good morning" was the only courteous thing he ever said. She watched with wide eyes, posture straight, awaiting his eyes to fall on her area, which they always did, but not half as much as she perceived they did, each time lasting minutes and not moments. He would work himself into a frenzy, frustrating his students with concepts and ideology, making enemies with his quick retorts to answers he felt were ridiculous or not thought out. He spoke to hear himself speak�to show off all the material he had stored inside his head to get his Ph.D. Dr. Cuthbert was not one to forget himself-his work, his presence, and his superiority. He knew that she was too teaching in the department, but he never allowed her to forget she was a student. His student. She wondered what he thought about-'student, student, student' as he went from face to face, and was deluded into thinking he looked at her more often than the others. The eye contact continued in brief bouts, and she tried to always smile, batting her eyelashes just a bit, resting her face against her hand as she took notes furiously over every point he made-every phrase he invented that seemed ultimately genius, but she couldn't pull it off. She didn't glow like the rest. Every comment he made which he felt was bright or funny she caught and tried to reflect its spark. Isabelle's reaction yielded his infamous half-scrunched face type wink that implied his humor. She usually looked away after that because she was beaming and grinning ear to ear, scoffing with laughter that made people turn and look at her strange. He was direct sunlight.
Isabelle tried to create a level of common ground with him when they met in the department office, or in the hall. He always looked right over her as though she was just another small checkmark in his book and not as though she was a colleague. Isabelle continued to say hello, good morning, and other small greetings despite his inability to ever return them, or ever look at her fully when he passed by. A head nod was a small victory in the world they lived in, and Isabelle celebrated every instance in which it took place.
When Isabelle was in the office checking her mailbox Elden always seemed to walk in frantically, his hair a little grayer at the temples than the last time she saw him, with his lips puckered like he drank cold coffee for breakfast. Isabelle would watch him walk behind her, her face turning to follow. She looked down, then to the other side of her and felt him lean against the desk. He didn�t acknowledge her.
�Messages?� he�d ask in a rough bark to the secretary, and she�d not bother looking at him as she slid a piece of paper of two his direction. He�d slap his hand against the counter and take them, his briefcase bouncing against his leg as he tried to read the writing as he walked, mumbling. It was times like these that Isabelle thought twice about allowing her admiration to focus on him. Maybe her father was right�maybe things would be better in San Francisco�but she could never tell him.
During a special lecture on censorship just after the Ginsberg trial, the instructors and professors were invited to a small party where there would be some special guests, namely Lawrence Ferlinghetti, and there would be coffee. Isabelle attended with excitement where the professors, including Dr. Cuthbert, seemed to drag themselves in and relate their presence as the greatest gift from god. Isabelle sat near the back and listened as various intellectuals discussed the latest in literature and art; she wanted to join in conversation but took too much joy in listening. Suddenly she looked over at Dr. Cuthbert as the color in his face grew red and his temper began to escalate. He was speaking with Ferlinghetti and they were gesticulating a great deal, and very near each other�s faces. Anyone who did not identify the event as an intellectual symposium at the University could have mistaken the action as being the preceding action to a fistfight, or alleyway brawl. Isabelle moved in closer and listened with eagerness.
�Say, you know,� Dr. Elden Cuthbert said, gesturing towards Isabelle. The color drained from her face as she realized she was caught listening in, and she cleared her throat embarrassed, growing warm.
�Yes sir,� she said.
�You bring another academic into the discussion?� Ferlinghetti asked Dr. Cuthbert with a laugh. �You�what is your name?�
�Isabelle Marot,� she said, standing beside him and extending her hand.
�None of that child,� he said quickly, repeating her name a few times under his breath. �So. What do you think of this business?�
�I think Dr. Cuthbert is supporting his argument very well,� she said. �And I�d much rather listen.�
�Cowardly academics!� Ferlinghetti said. �And this one with a name I can�t quite place.�
�You know my father, sir,� Isabelle said. Ferlinghetti was taken aback a moment and Dr. Cuthbert listened intently as Isabelle tried to disappear into the surroundings.
�Marot?� Ferlinghetti said. �Is he another damned academic?�
�No,� Isabelle said. �He is a publisher.�
�Oh�yes, yes,� he said, stroking his chin. He thought quietly for a moment. �I met you once. You were very young.�
�In Paris,� Isabelle nodded.
�Speaking of Paris,� Dr. Cuthbert said. �Exactly where do you get off complaining about the academic�s role in art when you hold a Ph.D. yourself?� Isabelle looked at him with her eyes open wide and she walked away with an open-mouthed chuckle that she had to cover with her dainty hands so as not to be heard. She found another seat and watched them continue to argue from afar�unable to hear, and making up what they were saying. Dr. Cuthbert had become her personal hero, and all the fictional dialogue reflected it.
When the night drew to a close, Isabelle gathered herself and began down the dark walkway that the other attendees were already populating sparsely. She was looking at the stars when she ran into Dr. Cuthbert and apologized without identifying him. She had casually lost her balance and he reached out and grabbed ahold of her in fear she would tumble to the ground. She stabilized herself on his forearms and laughed before opening her eyes and seeing him face her.
�Miss Marot,� he said. �Are you okay?�
�I�m fine,� she said, pulling away quickly and trying to collect herself properly. They continued to walk in the darkness and he laughed.
�That crazy bastard,� he said. �He makes me need a drink every time.�
�He is a very strong individual,� she said.
�Let me buy you a vodka martini,� he said. �And help me forget about him before I have nightmares about him.�
�Sure,� Isabelle said, her cheeks growing red with excitement. They walked up the road a bit and stepped into the first bar they found. It was nearly empty at 10.30pm, and didn�t look promising enough to gain a crowd any larger at any time.
The two of them sat across from each other, sipping their slew of drinks as they heatedly discussed literary topics and authors. Elden, as he demanded Isabelle call him, was an angry drunk�he liked to get in his company�s face and argue his point. His British accent grew stronger the more he drank, and his words slurred together with strange points of emphasis.
�You are one hell of a gal,� he said. �You don�t argue back! You just let me waste my breath and you still win!�
�It�s a fabulous technique, is it not?�
�You bitch!� he laughed. �I lose to a woman again!�
�You do so often?�
�No�� he said. �But that isn�t the point. You�ve got a shitload of one liners.�
�This is the only time,� she said. �Generally I�m rather friendly�and can�t refrain.�
�Did I get you drunk? You must be a mean drunk.�
�Not at all,� she said. �I�m thrilled you�ve finally given me one ounce of credibility after all this time.�
�Lucky you came, then,� he said.
�Lucky indeed. I almost planned a date with Sal Mineo for the third time this week,� she said.
�Is he some damned teen dream?� Elden asked.
�I don�t know�certainly not like James is, but they are both quite lovely.�
They continued nagging one another and eventually stumbled out of the bar and back to their cars just up the road on campus. The trees whipped in the breeze and the coolness from the grass swirled over the sidewalk.
"At least shake my hand goodnight," she said. He laughed and placed his hand on her. She came closer and closer and he backed against the car, taking his hand back and letting it drop coldly at his side. There was nowhere to run--she was determined and continued to minimize the distance between them until she let out a coy smile and small breath and their faces met--sharing a sweet syncopated kiss that mixed delicious blends of alcoholic concoctions and divine sources of words. Both were flushed, pressed against one another with a small schoolgirl giggle, and their breathing in rhythm began to aggravate any of the calmness either had left in their bodies. Isabelle's hand ran down the front of his shirt and met his hand right at his waist. She avoided his hand catching hers and she hooked her finger in his belt loop and pulled him closer again, his kiss waiting for her this time. Her mouth rolled against the warmth of his neck and she softly touched the tip of his ear with her tongue. She put her hands on his shoulders and looked at him bravely, reaching her fingers through his hair just right enough to give him a shiver. He stood up straight as she opened her mouth and let her hot breath escape.
�Goodnight Dr. Cuthbert.�
Isabelle let go of him and got into her car without looking back at him. He stood watching her, dumb with excitement, as she drove away, leaving him with a tingling in his stomach, and a problem in his pants.

***

Elden Cuthbert never expected his life to be the way it turned out. As a youth, his constant laughter and inability to pay attention in class never reflected the future of his academic achievements-and the nuns were never reluctant in telling him so. Their bad teeth mocked his little round face as he marched into Liverpool each morning to escape his parents, and the neighborhood. He graduated high school and met the girl of his dreams, courted her and began to get his life on track. His scrunch-faced smile shot across the room at many company parties and he was generally quite content with his life. Graduate school overtook his passions and soon he had weighted degrees before his name and was beginning to form the life that his wife always wanted, but that he had never imagined possible.
               Choosing a profession was never a second guess-the only thing he could do besides kiss his wife and watch the world around him was to sit in bed with a book. The books turned into anthologies, and soon he was grading papers at all hours of the day to stay on top of the knowledge he so actively pursued. His wife would crawl into bed careful not to disturb the papers laid out carefully across the comforter alongside scribbled notes.
              "What are you working on, honey?" she'd ask. Elden would look over his glasses, the sheet half covering his shirtless body. His special edition Eliot volume entitled "Prufrock and other poems" was at his elbow, closed and screaming for his nightly attention.
              "These papers are ridiculous," he'd say, chuckling. "It has started me off on a whole new interpretive path. I think I've got a paper to work on."
              The papers in Cuthbert's class were not the problem. Though poor in content and not reflecting what he knew and taught, it was the soft faced girls that stared back at him with wide eyes that became such an influencing power. He constantly blushed when they stared at him straight in the face, and made every effort to narrow the proximity between the standing lecture and their seats. Their skinny legs crossed with sandals hanging off their colored toenails, perfectly soft and sculpted shiny hair, and caked on makeup and crumbled mascara covered eyes. They were astounding to look at and he often lost his words or jumbled his sentences around them, perfectly punctuated with an accented stammer and a search for the right word to regain control, but all with a grin. For the girls. It was never the boys who were trying to interpret and never the intelligent ones who were making their own connections in their future fields--only ridicule for them. But the girls�nothing they could do would ever be wrong. He played to them with clear intention--make them smile back at his aging body.
               The students had a reaction to Dr. Cuthbert, too. Rumors traveled fast in university housing and everyone loved to discuss their beloved professor, the difficulty of class, and the horrible things they could say about him. The intelligent students didn't say much, but those who struggled had more than a mouthful, both based only on how he reacted to them. By the time Isabelle had become his teaching assistant, the two of them had forged a careful professional bond, relying on one another for research and opinion for the daily lectures. The considerable growth in acknowledgment and slight climbing of the professional ladder proved that nearly anything was possible for Isabelle Marot. And much as possibility had become an airborne contaminate, the images and dreams Isabelle and Elden activated in their respective interpretations were overwhelming in emotional states that contributed extra fuel to the situation. Isabelle was already mildly obsessed, and Elden was growing more curious everyday. The single kiss they shared the previous semester had been admired in the back of each of their minds as they pushed forth to carry a professional relationship on school grounds.
****

              Isabelle nodded at the people she met at the door and began down the hallway�the lights above her flashed with an annoying buzz. She thoughtlessly knocked on a plain blue door, checking the placard twice: Dr. Elden Cuthbert.
              "Yes?" he asked from within, opening the door just a crack.
              "Dr. Cuthbert�" she said walking inside the dimly lit office. "Hi." Her eyes researched the walls every time. She practically spun in circles, surrounded by the incredible shelves of books to the ceiling, and posters of England and Ireland at the easiest convenience for staring. He turned his chair toward her on queue smiled at her, something that always took her a minute to accept after seeing his profile for most of their career.
"Hi�" he said slightly agitated with the papers he was fumbling with on his desk.
�You promised me a book,� she said, closing the door behind her softly. He nodded and sat back in his chair, his stomach stretching out, wrinkling his suit.
              "Ah...Isabelle�yes�" he said looking over his glasses at her. "That book..." he said, pulling it off his desk and handing it to her.
             "Thanks Dr. eh�Elden," She said. He nodded.
             "If you come across anything interesting, call," he said. "I've read it 3 or 4 times through but I miss things each time�it is always a discovery."
             "Certainly," Isabelle smiled. �The office, or��
�Home, dear. I�ll be home more of the time than here,� he said. Isabelle turned to go quickly, forgetting the number but escaping the discussion, when he began talking again.
�Say�I saw something that interested me earlier,� he said.
               "Yes?" Isabelle asked, turning toward him, standing still. He stopped writing for a moment and looked at her thoughtfully. Suddenly Isabelle�s stomach had a sour stench like stewing stress, and it was fighting angrily against the rest of her body. Her hand rested across it.
               �I saw a review you wrote,� He said. �I didn�t expect to see it in the publication I found it in. I was impressed.�
                �Oh,� Isabelle said. �Do you have it? I haven�t seen it.� He began to dig into a stack of papers and pulled out a thin and plain journal. Her article was marked--he had underlined parts, as well as written notes in the margins.
�I thought you would like it,� she said. �It used a lot of your interests for support.�
               "Mainly Joyce�yes, " Elden said. He sat back in his chair and smiled at Isabelle.
                �Well, I�m pleased it got in,� Isabelle said, cradling the book she was borrowing in her arms.
                "Here�take that chair-close the door all the way. I'm curious." He said. �Tell me more about all of that�especially how it counteracts that piece I just wrote.� Isabelle did as he asked and sat facing him, her elbows resting on her knees and her hands on her face. She didn't quite know how to articulate what she thought. She feared her words would come off offensive, uneducated, or biased.
               "Well," Isabelle said, "It has been some time since I've encountered it, but I did feel it was far more about Joyce than Miller. If you are going to approach him as a topic, he should be your main focus, not your beloved Irishman."
               "This is true�my knowledge concerning him is not very deep."
               "I, however, don't believe anyone who is not�rawly taken with Miller would have noticed."
               "So you'd consider yourself one of his devotees?" he asked. Isabelle laughed at him, sitting straight and confidently.
              "Do you consider yourself one of Joyce's devotees?" she asked, scrunching her nose behind her glasses with a cute smirk. He laughed at her with flirtatious eyes and placed his hand on her knee. Everything was quiet for a moment--slow motion and still, as Isabelle shifted in her chair, and he took his hand back.
              "Overall the statements were right�" Isabelle said. "I appreciated the communication of all of your points."
              "Thank you Ms. Marot." He said. He looked at his watch and sat back in his seat.
              "Is it so wrong to want to sit in your office for hours and ignore all the meetings you have to attend?" he asked. Isabelle smiled at him kindly and stood up.
              "I'm not sure--but I'll let you know when I get to that point." she said. "Thanks for the book." Isabelle held it up and pulled it close to her breast and opened the door.
              "Have a nice afternoon," she said. He smiled at her and nodded, looking her over from shoes to hair.
              "You have a nice afternoon, too," he said. "And don't forget to call if you come up with something."
              "Sure thing." Isabelle said, slipping out of the door into the brightly-lit hallway. She sniffed the yellow pages of the book as she walked, occasionally flipping through the pages for a better enveloping gust of dust and old pages.

Like library return service, Elden Cuthbert liked his books to be returned on time. He had allotted a generous week to the borrowing of his ancient text to Isabelle, and was anxious to slide it back into the dusty, dark case it was hiding in before she asked to put it to use. Isabelle, knowing his arbitrary reasoning, brought it back as quickly as possible and tried to be friendly about it.
              "Your notes were interesting," Isabelle said, taking a seat in Elden�s dim office. He smiled at her and nodded.
              "You have to just ignore those." He said.
"Good. I did," she said with a straight face. He looked at her in alarm and she cracked a smile. He sat back in his seat and combined his hands as his elbows rested on the arms of the chair. He looked like a psychiatrist.
              "That is a beautiful ring," she said. He nodded, looking at it, and she nodded back.
"I got it in Ireland." He said. Isabelle smiled.
               "Now�I could be wrong�but is it one of those where if the crown is facing you it means you are offering your heart to others�if it is facing in it means you are married�or taken." she said.
               "Pretty much, yes." He said. They both looked at the ring on his finger, and how the crown was near his knuckle. His other hand had a wedding band. She shook her head in confusion and tried to refocus.
               "Interesting," she said, crossing her legs and pressing her foot against his desk. He nodded and smiled at her in a strange silent type way. She looked him over--through his glasses, at his brown eyes, at his silly grin, his thinning cheeks and interesting facial construction. His flat lips parted just enough when he breathed to see the tiny dark decaying spots in the cracks of a few of his teeth.
              "See something you like?" he asked. Isabelle looked at him shocked and he spun around in his chair facing the bookcase right behind him. She looked at the books as her face thawed out, realizing he was talking about books.
              "It is possible." she said. He spun back around and looked at her straight faced.
                "Now that is interesting," he said, grinning.
                Elden was a clever man�one always having full command of everything. He sat back with a sense of satisfaction at Isabelle�s startled response, and reaction at his retort. She was essentially speechless. He could tell he made her jittery--he watched her knee bounce and her knuckles crack continually as she stared blankly into the bookshelf, reading the titles that were a blur. Isabelle shifted in her seat thirteen or fourteen times, only adding fuel to the fire.
                 "How about we get coffee later and talk about the book�" she said. "I need to get going." Elden looked up at her with a spark in his eye and smiled.
                 "Sure�sure�" he said. "I'm pretty partial to the place up the street�"
                 Isabelle nodded and looked at her watch. 1.26pm.
                 "The one with the yellow sign?" she asked. He nodded.
                 "Yes," he said. She nodded in return. "How about�eh�7?"
                 "Sounds good," she said. Isabelle got up and pushed her chair into the corner, just before gathering her things in her arms. Elden jumped out of his seat and opened the door, brushing softly against her arm. Isabelle thanked him and walked outside numbly, her head exploding with ideas, her heart racing, and her body shaking.

                Isabelle managed to make it home in one piece and placed her papers on the table. Elden's book was on top of them all and it stared at her, tempting her to stare at it and be seduced. She brushed her teeth, combed her hair, freshened her makeup and spritzed herself with perfume. She sat down for awhile, watching her knee bounce as she tried not to watch the clock. 5:45.
                She brought the book into her lap and sat back holding it before her face. She laughed at his notes�the random association of topics in scribbling that only he could read. Some of his comments were entirely ridiculous, like his lectures. He liked to talk�write�he always had something to communicate. Isabelle ran her finger over his name�and his blue pen on yellowing pages and closed her eyes.

****

             "What?" Elden asked. Isabelle shook her head and laughed.
             "Nothing." she said.
             "No�really�what?" he asked. Isabelle shook her head again.
             "Nothing." she said, looking at him, her cheeks turning pink. He grabbed her arm softly and playfully got closer to her face.
              "What is it?" he asked. Isabelle looked at him from up close and tried to pull back but he didn�t let her. She laughed again and he looked down at her just slightly out of breath when she bit her lip. He moved closer and closer and then his soft, warm, smooth lips touched hers. Isabelle put her hand on top of his as it held her arm, and tried to balance herself in the 7.8 seconds they were momentarily connected. They both pulled away glossy eyes and took a deep breath.
              "I was hoping that would happen again,� he said, still holding her tight. Isabelle gasped for air and looked at him closely, her knees weakening under her weight. She looked at him sweetly and pulled him in for another kiss, sliding her hand along his back on the inside of his jacket. His hand cupped her cheek and he pulled away with perfect timing, flashing a large smile.
              "I will see you tomorrow," he said. Isabelle nodded at him and watched him back away.
"Unless you want to see me tonight,� Isabelle said very softly. Elden stopped aburptly on the sidewalk and looked at her, trying to listen. He tapped his umbrella against the ground and leaned on it, forming a classic British pose. Isabelle swallowed the air in her lungs and suffocated herself with alarm. She didn�t repeat herself, and he continued walking to his car.

*****

Elden always looked at Isabelle strange when he stepped into her room. Her small apartment was appropriate for her age and occupation�decorated slightly with European photographs and solid color. He played with his fingers and hands, his arms bouncing off his knees as he sat on the corner of her bed and looked around. Isabelle looked at him from her mirror as she finished combing her hair. He stood up and walked into the next room and began running his finger across the old books in her bookcase. Isabelle walked toward him with a smile.
              "Anything new?" he asked. Isabelle shook her head and ran her hand down his arm, pushing against his side warmly. He stood straight up coldly and turned away from her, shooting her a professional look as he nudged his glasses up his nose with his first finger. Isabelle looked at him silently and he lowered his head, knowing her message. She moved closer to him and put her hand on his arm as she went in for a kiss. He pulled away, then took her face in his hands, looking at her intensely. He kissed her hard and then let her go with a small push.
              "Ready?" He asked impatiently.
               "Yeah," she said, her breath falling short.

               Elden and Isabelle walked into class, books in arms, and took a seat in the back of the classroom. They each sipped a bit of coffee from the same shop. Isabelle�s hand rested on her leg below the table after squeezing Elden�s hand as he jumped up and slipped past his 90-student lecture class, arriving on the first level. As he placed his coffee on the podium he took a deep breath, smiled at the class, and began to work himself into a frenzy concerning English Literature's loyalties to Romanticism. Occasionally he'd ask the teaching assistants, including Isabelle, for clarification. The other two graduate students who were assigned to his Professorship were quick to answer, and Isabelle usually did not stop taking notes long enough to formulate a response.
When Isabelle walked into his office he would look at her just over his glasses with a slight smile. She�d close the door behind her and sit on the corner of his desk, closest to him, and he would run his hand up her leg.
              "So�Isa�how are you?" he asked as he slid his hand to the inside of her thigh. She looked at him and took his glasses off with a smile, sliding into his lap to face him.
              "I'm fine Elden, just fine." He let out a loud breath of air, smiling. Isabelle put her hands on his shoulders and rubbed her fingers in the graying hair around his ears and temples. She kissed him playfully and he would begin pushing up her skirt, sliding her panties down as far as he could. He�d move his hands to her chest and playfully rub over her breasts until he could see results through her shirt.
              "Mmm�Dr. Cuthbert�" she�d moan, her head thrown back a bit. She�d look at him directly and kiss him hard, biting his lip, taking his breath away. Isabelle would fumble with his belt as he continued to caress her, then she would caress him. Isabelle would stood up, lock the door, and slip her panties down her legs, and step out of them. When she came to sit back down on Elden's lap he would have his pants down around his knees and himself hard and in his hand. She�d sit down on his lap softly as he begged and moaned in her ear, unbuttoning her shirt and kissing her skin. Isabelle would link her hands behind his head and lift herself up a bit, sliding against him, watching his face. He�d grab her hips roughly and move her in circular motions, touching and tasting and watching. Isabelle would moan in his ear as he grabbed her harder and forced her closer, always producing a muffled cry and large breath of air, before resting against one another. Then he would look at his watch and pushed her off of his lap.
              "I have a meeting in 10 minutes."

Isabelle would slide into pajamas when she got home, and proceed in making her infamously large batch of pasta and bread. She�d flip through the channels on TV and soon turn it off, dropping the needle on the record in the player, and gather a large stack of literary criticisms--Dr. Cuthbert' latest essay assignment for his class. Isabelle would pull out her pen and began to read, sipping cranberry juice and vodka cocktail, grading. By 9 half the papers were complete and she managed to pull herself from the couch to put the food away and clean up the kitchen. As she searched for containers Elden in her kitchen quarters. Isabelle, crouched down hugging her knees, looked up at him, pushing the hair in her face behind her ears.
"Perfect timing," she said. "Hungry?"
               "Yes," he said. "Could you spare some pasta?"
               "Sure." Isabelle said. �It is my Father�s recipe.� She stood up and he came behind me and rubbed against her. He kissed the back of her neck softly and she could smell that he had been drinking.
               "Mmm�my Isa." He said. Isabelle smiled at the sound of it, ignoring the whiskey stench, and proceeded to warm up food for him.
               They sat on the couch and he ate as Isabelle finished a couple more papers.
               "Are they any good?" he asked.
               "Not too bad," she said. He ate quickly and put the bowl in the sink and sat down beside her as the record stopped. Isabelle watched him as he read through a few graded papers. He scowled like an old man�at 46 he had perfected the cantankerous sentiment of those in their 80�s.

               The next morning Isabelle awoke with her face pressed against his chest. He was holding her tight as she nuzzled against his warm, bare skin. The alarm went off at 7 and he jumped up quickly.
               "Relax! There is no class today,� she said. He ran his hands through his messy hair and left it standing on end as he pulled the covers over himself and pulled away from her. Isabelle rolled onto her back and let out a large huff, desperately trying to go back to sleep. Cold.
               An hour later, Isabelle surrendered to being awake and went into the kitchen to make coffee. Moments later Elden was up in his underclothes, holding a cup of coffee along with her. He stepped out on the porch and grabbed the newspaper like he lived there and then hid himself inside it for a couple hours.
               "So what are your plans this weekend?" Isabelle asked. He looked at her and scowled.
               "My wife comes back from holiday tomorrow," he grumbled. �I swear it is the Seven Year Itch. Each year gets worse.�
               �Oh,� Isabelle said. �Did you see the film?� He growled at her while shaking his head and she looked away from him, growing disappointed that the scene they had created was only practice for his real life. She was silent and detached for a moment.
�What are you doing?� he asked, with little concern, but interest in avoiding awkwardness.
�I�m driving up to see my father,� Isabelle said. �Maybe I�ll see Henry Miller while I�m there.�
�My own little Funny Face,� he said. �You say that every time. Why don�t you stop talking about it�you�ll never actually meet him. You never seem to learn.�
�Excuse me?�
�You talk a lot because you are young,� he said, making noise with the paper. �You know you are of no interest to Mr. Miller, so why pretend you are?�
Isabelle swallowed hard and left the table. When she returned, calmer, Elden was dressed and ready to leave. Isabelle opened the door for him and watched him walk out. As he dug into his pocket for his car keys, Isabelle stomped her foot and got his attention. He stopped, his gray hair a mess in the sunlight, and squinted in her direction.
�Enjoy your weekend,� she said. �And your wife. She is all you�ve got.�
Isabelle closed the door with a large slam and strut into the kitchen and threw the newspaper away. Elden Cuthbert never again left Isabelle lying tired on the bed when he went to shower. No more heaving chest or legs mounted together at the knees. She never again heard the water trickle off his body and lick the floor of the shower.
Emotional blackmail let Isabelle finish her studies quickly before departing from the area for bigger and better things. Elden never spoke to Isabelle again, besides for professional reasons. Their past had been eliminated as quickly as a sneeze. Isabelle did excellent work and was a solid staple to the program when she left�the endorsements they offered her to study up North were spectacular. Isabelle was anxious to leave for reasons beyond Elden Cuthbert; scholars interested in the New York School of poets had inundate the department�Frank and John were names spoken in her presence on a daily basis, and she did her best to ignore them and the nostalgic feelings they conjured up. Mr. Marot invited his daughter to work in his publishing office and had discovered an apartment she could live in while she continued her studies. Isabelle was not fond of the idea�her father and Anna had continued to live together, and were talking about marrying one another, but stalled in their decisiveness, feeling it was awkward because of their age.
The entire world disappeared when Isabelle went to sit in dark rooms and smile. �Jailhouse Rock� spared her many unpleasant, lonely evenings and she graciously accepted every one of them. Elden Cuthbert was many things, but none of those made him a match for Elvis Presley in any possible way.

***
Isabelle Valentine Marot had spent years mistaking planes for stars; 3 minutes at a time, two days of every week, 8 days of every month, 12 months of the year. Minutes adding to concrete blocks of time all sprinkled with the glimmer of hope she saw in the sky. Staring up in the cold and waiting for a small silver streak to rush through the midnight blue. The clusters of light and small change in background color. Did it shine red from the inside? A blue. An orange. Stark white�.
She never missed out on a chance to dream�never missed out on a chance to wish. She would let the words pass through her lips and hear them slide into her ears as she remembered that only secret wishes come true. She could never keep them hidden�every moment she dreamed was sought after with rawness and ambition. She lived loudly and every desire was vocalized but not necessarily heard, unless you count the millions of shimmering pinpoints above�
She was Perseus. Prideful, wrathful, and myth. All reaction. Alone like the stars, though amidst millions of others. She shone differently than the rest�headstrong and determined. She didn�t blend into the sky like the rest; they all had their particular shine but hers was always in a different direction. When the stars shined toward the sun she shined in the opposite direction, searching for new things to observe. New things to devour.

It was a Friday afternoon when she finally gathered her things to go north�pride and all. She reminded herself that a temporary move to a different city didn�t declare that her father was right all along; it was the smartest thing for her to do at this point. It was not defeat, but detour.
              Isabelle circled her car twice, expressing an overwhelming nagging that she was forgetting something, like her common sense. The most difficult thing in life is to be cognizant of your obsessions, your insanity: the things about you that just didn�t function normally. Isabelle was no exception�in fact, she was the rule. She was so busy mouthing what she was going to say in the reflection of the driver�s glass in the big black Ford that she departed without the proper traveling supplies. Her romantic departure North bound was supplied with merely a pack of cigarettes, a blouse, and pair of pants, which only provided an alternate to her outfit of the same�a blouse, cardigan and scarf. Her head was wrapped tightly and the open window blew the slightly loose flaps around her ears, against her cheek. Her short bangs and dark hair highlighted her dark eyes, even when pulled back into the silk scarf. She chewed on gum graphically for the first hour and suddenly spit it out the window like a man spitting tobacco. She felt like her father when she drove the car�the car he used to drive her around in while they lived in New York City. Now things were different.
The first hour saw the first 50 miles completed. The quality of her riding compelled her to find an alternate method of entertainment, her gum on the road someplace miles back�or on a windshield. She searched for her matches and came up empty handed and nearly dead a few times as she swerved on the road, nearing oncoming traffic. She eventually gave up on her search and stopped at a run down gas station on the outskirts of town and stocked her cardigan pocket full of matchbooks after batting her eyes at the attendant and borrowing a cigarette from his personal pack. She openly walked out with a stack of napkins in her grasp which were intended to serve as the notebook she had foolishly packed away deep in the trunk. Isabelle intended on capturing her innermost thoughts for Miller as she stopped on her trip. Capture her passions�or variations, to say the least. She reformulated all the ways she could say �you amaze me�put my heart and soul at ease. Comfort my mind and essentially lead the existence of my life.� She had tried every one of them in various outfits, watching herself in the mirrors at home and now in her rear view mirror as she pulled back onto the road, the white stick bouncing in her lips as she repeated the same words again and again. She smoked furiously despite the cigarette�s inability to confine her nervousness.
Driving down the road as the street lamps grew farther and farther away brought an anxious sensation Isabelle was not familiar with. It felt like the past---the first day of school after a year that was horrid. Like the day Frank told her he couldn�t be with her. Those days she would listen to Michel say horrible things about the Americans. The day her letter to Alvaro was returned. Her mother. The makeup and the clothes couldn�t hide the ugliness of the past. The manipulation and lies. The intense withholding of information. Illness and heartbreak. Being alone.
She started driving faster to avoid the thoughts catching up with her. The speed she was going would allow her arrive at her destination sometime Saturday evening. She contemplated his actions. His life. Would he be eating? Sleeping? Writing? Reading? Playing Ping-Pong? Would he even answer the door!?
It was useless to analyze and predict so much, but she didn�t know how to stop it. She could not even slow it down or divert it. A fantastic indication, she thought, that things exist a certain way for a reason.
Isabelle rolled the window up as it began to sprinkle, and the rain continued to fall throughout the night. When it grew stuffy inside the car she rolled the window down and took deep breaths of the wet dirt smell. Her arm was damp, which ruined much hope of being warm later in the day, which with the developing storm, looked as though luck was not on her side.
Around 3 am Isabelle stopped and sat on the hood of the car. It was warm, and offered a calming buzz for being in the middle of a cold, dark place. The red glow just behind the fins of the car gave a pink illumination to the patches of cloudy sky. It had stopped raining for the moment, and the clouds were clearing enough to allow her stare at the stars busily�too consumed to notice if it had started again. There were three that she always counted out on her fingers. She�d point to them, and draw them with a sour look on her face. An internal dread at their incredible reliability. She could always find immediately�they lined up in a line, and they made her angry. She would laugh while imagining her misfortune, and continued narrating to the darkness surrounding her car.
              �I love the sky�.all but three stars�� and in the manliest voice she could produce from the confines of her breast, she formulated his response. �Those three stars are constantly radiating every ounce of the universe right into my eyes and heart.� She laughed at the patheticness of it all�the irony that permeated her every day. But it made her that much stronger, or sounder than crying, to say the least.
She drove the rest of the night with the window down to keep herself awake. The cold ocean smell, mixed with the rain, was held hostage inside the car and she breathed deep as much as she could�it was heavenly. She had creased and began to rip the pack of matches she had tightly in her hand, the paper material growing damp with her wet grip, though it was nearly empty.
His house held much of the mystery. Finding his house in the small community wouldn�t be difficult�Big Sur didn�t hold the massive gates that Beverly Hills did. Maybe he�d be sitting on the front porch watching the breeze move the trees, maybe sketching on a tablet, or coming back from a hike. Isabelle could nervously say �hi� while noticing him on a path off the way, and he could give her a raise of his eyebrow and a crooked smile. Isabelle had surpassed believing he would fall in love with her or hang on her every word. Elden had reinforced those fears more than she cared to admit. Henry was probably married, and had been married to quite a few women. He had his pick. He was also a good deal older than she was�1891 offered much more history than 1935. Everything he had discovered was yet to be found by her mind. This would limit their conversation and activities, though she wouldn�t admit it at all. She returned to the scenarios flooding her mind.
Perhaps he�d throw the door open angrily, watercolor on his hands.
She had read articles referring to his anger of being bothered. You could be the most important person to contemporary literature and he would angrily spout from his door (or sometimes through an informal ubiquitous letter!) for you to take your leave and leave him be.
There was little fear of this, despite the cognizance of it. What if it was the complete opposite, she wondered. What if he greets me warmly and spends hours fascinating me with his words. It was a lovely vision to entertain and Isabelle entertained it as much as possible.
She had introduced herself already�in dozens of letters that had never gained response, though Isabelle demanded that silence was response in itself. Isabelle�s letters sometimes took over her sanity, if there was such a thing. She had a tendency to make her lovers into her own Miller�they thrashed about to be themselves, but it was an impossible feat.
It was nearing dawn and the sun began to illuminate the trees from behind. Isabelle hadn�t intended to drive all night, but much like her thoughts, she got lost in the darkness.
When she reached Big Sur she didn�t know what to do with herself. Isabelle turned around and drove into more desolately populated areas and pushed back another night from just off the road. She visited a market and picked up two bottles of wine and some bread�the clich� French diet she had grown accustomed to. She watched the afternoon pass by schizophrenically, and became inebriated in the confines of the car. � bottle of wine built her up, and began back toward Big Sur. Her slow driving and obvious impairment made it impossible to escape large storm just miles from the town, though it made the curvy road more enticing. She could nearly see some homes illuminating the hilltop above, and parked the car in a sludge of dirt and water as she continued to watch them twinkle in the distance.
The storm passed as it neared 2am. The clouds cleared. Isabelle climbed out of the car and stretched, leaning against the water-beaded hood.
As Isabelle stood mere feet away from his home�the home of a genius, a home inhabited by the man who knew her better than god�the gentle breeze shook the trees until they lost the nerve to withstand the abuse, and the leaves fell to the ground. The stars peered down brightly, and Isabelle watched her breath softly enter the air that Miller himself was breathing. She found herself unworthy and crept back inside the car to sleep.
The morning sun made it warm inside the car, and Isabelle�s eyes itched and burned. She drank the rest of the wine and the remnants of coffee, now cold, from a night prior. It was gritty, and bitter, and she wanted to spit, but she swallowed it as if it were some form of punishment for existing. She scraped her teeth with a napkin and stepped out of the car to begin up a path towards the small community of homes. Driving would be far too obvious, she muttered to herself, smoothing out her clothes as she stood up. To park in front of his house would be appalling!
The trees were still shaking as Isabelle tripped over rocks she hadn�t expected to mark her path. She was still a bit drunk and didn�t expect any voice to approach her.
�Hello there,� it said with convicting presence. Isabelle looked all around her, taking hold of a tree, and searched for the maker of the crude, broken, Brooklyn tone.
�Hello?� he said again. Isabelle�s heart raced and she sat herself down, head between her knees, trying to breathe. Her face was pale and her cheeks pink. Her hands were shaking coldly.
�Are you okay?� he asked, his feet in Isabelle�s line of vision. She looked up at him reluctantly, searching for his face, and was blinded by the sun. She closed her eyes once she saw where she was. The moment the color came back to her face she stood up eager to flee, and made only two or three steps before having to slow her pace. She sat down again. He followed closely and was back in front of her. Isabelle looked at him dead on and took a deep breath, trying to escape by looking at the trees.
�I�m sorry,� Isabelle said.
�For what? Trespassing or not speaking?� he asked.
�For being here.�
�Why is that? It�s a glorious day and so peaceful!� he said, looking around at the scenery. �Especially to trespass.�
�I think I came to break the peace.� she said.
�What�you want to interview me? Have me answer your life�s darkest questions?� he asked, laughing.
�No. No. In fact, I just wanted to make sure you were real,� she said.
�Well, I am. Now be on your way.� He shooed her away with his hands.
�I don�t want to bother you, but I came a long way because I adore you. Your writing has changed me�but I know you�ve heard that many times before.�
�Yes. Yes I have. You young ones enjoy fattening my head.�
�I want to talk. I know the interpretations of your experience, but you�I want to know you. For five minutes! Ten minutes! An hour!�
�Did you bring anything to quench the thirst we will invariably talk up?� he asked. Isabelle pulled her bag to her side and pulled out a bottle of wine. He stepped closer and took it from her hands, examining the label closely. He pointed at his house and looked at me.
�Can you make it inside or do I have to pull the cork with a twig? Or my teeth!?�
Isabelle pulled herself up and followed him up the path with weak legs.
�I was out walking in my favorite place, where I can see everything like I own it.�
               She looked around searching for possible spots that fueled his curiosity.
�It�s beautiful out here�the storm last night had me a bit upset. Tainted my view a bit�� she said.
�It was pretty wet,� he said. �I painted most of the night�A beautiful woman came to me and told me how much she disliked me. It was fantastic.�
He opened the door and went inside as Isabelle followed reluctantly. He stopped abruptly and faced her toward the door.
�No, no, the porch.� He said. �It�s far too beautiful outside.� She stepped back out of the doorway and sat on a barstool, leaving the comfortable chair for him. He returned with two glasses and a bottle opener. He popped the cork and poured. The wine tasted like rain falling from the sky.
His voice was so raspy Isabelle couldn�t believe that gentle words ever came from him on the rare occasions they did. It was broken and moderate, typical for a smoker of his age. After all these years in Paris and California his native Brooklyn tone never dissipated. He sounded like a dirty gangster�he had the twang and the huff. He needed a cigar and a short glass of gin. Isabelle stared. Her accent was never strong--she was never receptive enough to get one.
�Miss?� Henry asked, watching Isabelle stare at the clouds as they scattered with the breeze. She jumped out of her head and looked at him, almost tipping out of her seat. The sky was darkening, but she continued to glance upward because it was the easiest way to steal a glance of the man she had waited so long to meet. He was entirely humble, and egocentric at the same time. It made Isabelle chuckle randomly, and made him look at her with a smile.
�Do you have any children?� he asked. Isabelle felt awkward as he pursued personal information from her, and not she from him.
�No,� she said quietly.
�Married? Divorced?� he asked. �All the ridiculous conventions that people file their relationship status under.�
�Neither. I can�t ever have a relationship. We never meet eye to eye on the inside.�
�Better to know now�I know many beautiful women, but I never cease to be amazed at their insides�who they are.�
�Yeah, I�ve read that somewhere.� Isabelle said. She wanted to take his hand and kiss him�just once. She had romanticized about it like a teenage girl�it meant they were going to get married, have a baby�be together forever. She decided he�d laugh if she ever tried. She could handle him thinking she was crazy. Obsessed. Wacky. But to laugh at her�think her stupid and ridiculous, was something she could not ever handle from him or anyone. She already got it from everyone else in life�he had to be different.
Isabelle still didn�t understand the conventions of adult relations. If she loved someone, she loved them. If she was attracted to them, she was attracted. But never did her love for someone make her want them�except for Henry. She only wanted to be close to him. To see him how few others had. To drown in a depth people could not imagine.
�I wish I was born in the year 1900�so I could have been one of your girls in Paris,� Isabelle said randomly, startling him. He shot her a look and chuckled.
�Darlin, they aren�t people anyone should desire to be.�
�I would have made them seem like rancid meat,� she said very self-assured, making a face. �Those trashy women. Even the writers, you know. Talentless trash.�
�Offending my friends isn�t a way to win me,� he said. �But I do understand your point. Your opinion is valid.�
�I�m glad you feel that way,� she said. Isabelle could see a chair against the wall just below the hill. Toys were scattered throughout the yard.
               �What is it like to be your wife? What in the world makes them sick of you?!�
�You are blinded by love, child! I ramble, I can hardly walk and soon they�ll be feeding me gruel!� he said. �I�m old now, wrinkly and pompous!�
�What is wrong with that? What difference does that hold from the young Miller?!� Isabelle demanded. He placed his hand on hers and her throat tightened, making the words come out with difficulty. Her mouth was dry, but she continued to speak. �I love all of that. Even perfection has flaws.�
�Perfection! Ha!� he laughed loudly. �You feed my ego when it�s already a glutton!�
�I reveal a truth perhaps you�ve forgotten.� She said, looking at him with her eyes open wide.
�Perhaps.� His hands were folded in front of his face as if he was praying.
�There is not one author who can touch me as deeply as you do�or even touch others! Your connection is real.�
�Real connection,� he grimaced with a chuckle. �I�ll show you my left hook!� He rolled his sleeve up and made a fist. Isabelle brought her face closer and stared him down. He smiled at her and took her arm, leading her away from the porch. It was dark and rain was looming again.
�The wine,� he said, �on an empty stomach, has made me weak. Let us have a conversation on meat and potatoes and I�ll show you I truly am of piss and vinegar.�
�If that is an invitation, I am more than happy to show you my culinary styling.�
�If you cook as well as you analyze, it will be a worthy meal,� he chuckled. �There is a market down the road a bit. You have a vehicle, right?�
�Yes, yes. Tell me what you�d like.�
�Get two steaks�potatoes�beans! Green beans�and more wine.�
�Certainly.�
�And a pack of cigarettes,� he said showing her his hollowed pack. She smiled at him as he balanced on a chair.
�Would you like to join me?� she asked. �In case you see anything?�
�Perhaps,� he said.
�Please.�
He smiled and put his glasses on, taking her arm as they walked over the uneven ground to the car.

Once they returned to Miller�s house Isabelle was a bit surer of herself�if she could drive with him in the car, she could do anything. She stepped foot in his house and took a deep breath of musty air. Her eyes searched the walls frantically, attempting to catch every detail.
Isabelle browned the steaks and made gravy, potatoes, green beans and poured the wine. Henry set the table and occasionally came in to check on her creations.
�God sent me a maid,� he laughed. �A young, beautiful cook and conversationalist.�
�Funny what fans will do,� Isabelle said. He nodded and exited the room again.
It took 25 minutes to cook. Henry smiled at the service, sat across from Isabelle at the table. She prayed, to a god she didn�t believe in, that the food was delicious. Henry took a mouthful of potatoes and chomped on them hungrily. He followed each spoonful with a gulp of wine, depreciating his cup quickly. Isabelle refilled it four times, and added to hers as often as possible.

Isabelle�s stomach hurt after dinner. She sat with her hand over her stomach and Henry stopped conversation to ask if she was all right.
�It is always my luck that meat makes me sick,� she said. �And of course, my stomach knows I am finally head to head with the man I�d waited my entire life to meet.�
�Poor thing. Can I get you anything?� he asked. Isabelle shook her head weakly and leaned back in her seat.
�Ping-Pong will have to wait until morning, then.� He said quietly. Isabelle�s inside grew fiery and she wanted to ask him for clarification and explanation as to his statement. All the thinking she did made her stomach turn faster, and she tried to calm down again.
�Can I lay down?� she asked. He smiled warmly and lead her to his room.
�I�m going to clean up while you rest,� he said. �Then I�ll come check up on you�and we can talk some more.�
Isabelle nodded and laid down on the cool soft surface. Her stomach began throbbing. She stared at his bed in the dim light, and traced the pattern of the spread with her finger. His bedroom was ordinary, and books surrounded the room. She couldn�t quite see the titles, but guessed that they were marvelous, and in a bunch of languages. It was growing darker by the minute.

***
               �I met you once before,� he said. �You were very small.�
�Yes?� Isabelle asked curiously. �When mother was still alive?�
�Yes,� he said. �It was sometime in�1940.�
�That is the year she died.�
�Mmm,� he said, meditating in tenderness. �I remember that you were so well behaved�and you had those giant eyes that looked at me in alarm every time I spoke to Val.�
�I don�t remember,� she said.
�No�I wouldn�t expect you to�especially because our interaction was short. Frank and I picked you up from school and walked home�you were on his shoulders and I kept tickling your back�and you couldn�t figure out what it was, and couldn�t feel to find out or catch me without falling!�
�And?�
�And we went to your place�it was dark and stuffy�and Val sat practically still in the corner and hardly recognized me.�
�She must not have known you well,� she said.
�You are right,� he said. �After she left Paris we wrote one another maybe twice. That�s all.�
�And once she did recognize you?�
�I think she was confused by my presence. She looked all around�at the walls and your father and I, then jumped out of her chair when she saw you latched onto Frank�s leg. Then she leapt at me with a hug.�
�Maybe she thought she was in the past,� Isabelle said. �I must have been the rude awakening.�
Henry put his hand over Isabelle�s and rubbed it softly.
�Your mother had a lot going on,� he said. �She always did. After that she and I went out for a walk, even though she was tired�and I had to hold her up with my arms. She talked�but not like we are�it was flighty babble, really. She swallowed most of her words.�
�She sounds frightening,� Isabelle said. �I�m glad I don�t remember.�
�I remember,� he said, rubbing his face, �thinking she was the living dead. She had changed dramatically. When we walked she�d look at me tearfully and then back at her feet without a sound. She disappeared into random shops for a few minutes and would come back to the street front with renewed surprise and a grin. She�d take my hand and it would shake in hers�and she�d begin to ramble energetically for awhile before running low again.�
�I�m beginning to see why father never talked,� Isabelle said.
�She fell off the curb a few times and my hand grabbed around her waist before she�d hit the ground. I could feel every single rib in her chest and her sharp hip bone catching on my hand�she had become so thin and frail I could have pushed her over with a sneeze. She had such a ghastly look I was afraid to be around her�she had grown a vacant stare and it made my bones rattle. I took her back to your father and she returned to her chair in the corner and forgot all about the rest of us�she just looked out the window intently.�
�How long was this before she died? She was obviously ill,� Isabelle said.
�I didn�t hear of her death until you and your father moved to California a year or two later,� he said.
�Oh.�
�I suspect it was just before, though. She smelled of defeat�she was waiting for death. She couldn�t make it come fast enough, it seems.�
�She couldn�t?� Isabelle said. �Because she was sick�and trying to get better. Hoping.�
�She was making herself sick,� he said. �I think she was ill, but she took it further. Too far.�
�Oh?� she asked.
�I don�t know. I�m no authority on your mother. You should be asking your father.�

�Isabelle, dear,� Anna said, kissing her cheek upon her entrance. �It is so good to see you.�
�You too,� she said, putting her bag down on the front table and walking through the house her father had bought, and Anna had ruined.
�It looks very different,� Isabelle said. �You did a nice job.�
�Thank you dear�I still have a lot of work to do,� she said, pointing to areas and rattling off her plans. Isabelle smiled and let the sound go in one ear and out the next. Her father walked into the room and put his glasses and paper down on the table as he pulled Isabelle into his arms.
�Isa,� he said. �I�m so glad you are here.�
�It is good to see you,� Isabelle said, trying to pull away and look at Anna and her father admiring their accomplishments. She clenched her jaw and put forth a smile as they went into the sitting room to converse more comfortably.
�How was your trip?� Frank asked.
�Good, thanks,� Isabelle said. �It was a gorgeous drive.�
�The car didn�t have any problems, did it?�
�Not in the least, father.� Isabelle said. �It is not very old�you took great care of it.�
�I�m glad it is working out for you, dear.�
�You look lovely driving it, too,� Anna said. �Like your mother.�
�That is funny,� she said startled and cold, �Because I feel like father when I drive it.�
�That is because you have seen me drive it so many times,� he said with a laugh.
�Since you mentioned it,� Isabelle said. �I have some things to ask you.�
�Yes?� Anna and Frank both said in unison.
�About mother,� Isabelle said. Frank sat back in moderate disinterest and Anna looked at him as though she would have to escort him from the building.
�What is it?� Frank asked, rubbing his eyes.
�I want to know about her,� Isabelle said. �You never told me anything when I was small�or big for that matter.�
�You never asked,� Frank said.
�A child shouldn�t have to ask about her mother,� Isabelle said.
�What would you like to know, dear?� Anna said. �I knew her, too.�
�I want to know everything,� she said. �Why you went to Paris�why she came back�what happened when she came back.�
Frank looked at her with mild concern.
�How do you know about all of that?� he asked. �That was before you were born.�
�Because stories don�t go away,� she said. �They sit in the guts of people just waiting to tell them.�
�Who?�
�Miller,� Isabelle said.
�Miller doesn�t know your mother,� Frank said, angry. �They had a superficial relationship.�
�I trust what he says,� Isabelle said. �I never had anything else to base it off of.�
Isabelle sat straight up in her seat and looked at her father powerfully. She did not look away as he writhed in his seat and tried to figure out what he was going to say.
�Look. I don�t know what to tell you. You know some things already,� he said. �You are more than welcome to go into the attic and go through her things�paintings, clothes�everything.�
�But you won�t tell me,� Isabelle said.
�I can�t,� he said.
Isabelle closed her mouth and looked away from him with contempt. Anna got up and brought a tray of cookies and coffee into the room and Frank indulged as Isabelle sat in silence.

�He won�t tell me anything,� Isabelle said to Henry as they sat on the porch, smoking.
�He�s an interesting fellow, your father,� Henry said.
�He is hypocritical,� Isabelle said.
�He is trying to protect you, perhaps,� Henry said. The smoke swirled around their heads as the crickets began to chirp loudly and the dusk of night rolled in. They silently admired the change for a few moments.
�I went through her things,� she said. �Some paintings and journals.�
�Anything of interest?�
�I try to interpret her paintings but I cant seem to do it without knowing what was going on at the time,� she said. �Same thing with a lot of writing.�
�It is a valid concern,� he said. They quieted again.
�What did you think of my mother?� Isabelle asked, breaking the silence. �As a person.�
�Well�� Henry said. �I think you need to let me think about that some before speaking.�
�Next time, then.�
�Next time.�

�You wouldn�t believe what he said to me this time,� Isabelle said in a mad hurry. She jumped up the steps of the porch and threw open the screen of Miller�s door and found him inside, writing. He looked up at her with interest and sat back to listen. He lit a cigarette and watched her pace. She spouted about the journals she had been reading, and how when she had confronted her father about certain figures mentioned he grew red in the face and told her to stop.
�Sounds like you found a hot spot,� Henry said.
�Many,� she said. �My whole life is a hot spot.�
Henry looked at her carefully, at her creamy calves and how they ran into the bottom of her gray skirt. She took a deep breath and walked to the table where Henry�s elbow was pressed. The paper had many cursive scribbles on it and she leaned over him to see what they said.
�What are you writing?� she asked. He looked at her body, bent over his lap, and smiled.
�Just a letter,� he said. She looked back at him in the same position and smiled sweetly, realizing how close she was to him. She crouched down beside his leg and balanced herself against it. He sat back calmly and continued to smoke while watching her from the corner of his eye. She eventually moved to face him, on her knees, and looked up towards his face as it revealed little reaction. Each inch she moved, every button she undid, warranted a little more reaction until he had taken her hand and placed it on the button of his pants. With heart fluttering, Isabelle pushed forward in her seduction, and began to undo her shirt. Henry touched her face and asked her to come closer. She stood, trembling before him as he hiked her skirt up, and kissed her thigh. He played with her a little and told her to sit on his lap as he pushed her down hard onto him, and kissed her softly before driving her simply mad with the greatest night of her life.

�What are you doing?� Henry asked. Isabelle had taken her hair down and shaken it around her bare shoulders. Henry wrapped his hands around her waist and pulled her close. Her dark hair fell on her cream skin in curly strands.
�You said she wore her hair like that,� she said.
�And?�
�And I don�t want to be like my mother,� she said, sitting up and posing for him with the different stylish possibilities. �Which is least like her?�
Henry looked at her face and naked body and rubbed his mouth against her side.
�That one,� he said as she quickly fastened it in a barrette and pounced on top of him. She closed her eyes and breathed deep as his hand ran up her side and he rolled her over.
Henry pressed against her roughly and she gasped for air.
�Mmm�yes. That one,� he said, looking at her bite her bottom lip with an intense, pink-cheeked vigor. He closed his eyes again and pressed harder.
�Oh Val�that one.�

END.