Chapter Nine

“Are you sure you have to go back so soon, Lils? It feels like you just got here,” my dad said as he lifted suitcases into the trunk of my car. “Is there a young man you’ve neglected to mention to us over the past few weeks?” His hazel eyes twinkled as he stuffed Rosie’s duffel bag into the back seat.

“No, I’m not dating anyone, not that I would have been able to get in a word edgewise about him if I were dating,with Rosie’s perpetual wallowing for Alex,” I answered and let out a harrumph as Rosie’s elbow connected with my ribs.

“I wasn’t that bad,” Rosie said as she walked over to Dad and straightened the deputy badge pinned to his police-issued coat. “And besides, you won’t have to hear my pining again until summer break.”

Technically, Rosie was my identical twin, but her hair was cut in a bob, and its blonde color came from a bottle. She had gained about ten pounds last semester, had skin that was slightly bronzed, and she had pretty much gotten her wish: her very own face that she didn’t have to share with me. There was a familial resemblance, but no one would peg us as twins.

We were very close, but Rosie wanted her own identity and not to be forever known as one of the Clay twins. I could respect that.

“If I’d known that you were going to head back to Bloomington from the airport, I would’ve taken a vacation day to take Rosie there myself,” Dad said as he threw his arms around me in a bear hug that left me gasping for air.

“I know, Dad, but you and Mom have to work, so it’s not like you two are going to be around. This’ll give me a couple of days to kick back and relax before second semester,” I said once I could breathe again.

My mom had worked so much overtime during the holidays that I had barely seen her. She made a point to wake us at 5:30 this morning so we could eat breakfast with her. I had been considerably grouchy during the meal, but I was thankful for the extra time with her now.

“Rosie, your mom and I will see you in a couple of months. Please, no arrests this semester for underage consumption,” he warned as he gave her another hug. “The voters won’t think well of it come the election.”

It was easy for me to forget that Dad was running for sheriff when I was at school. He would make a wonderful one, too. He had paid his dues working as a deputy for the past twenty years and he led a life marked with stability. Stable wife who worked as a nurse, check. Twin daughters who were dependable and well-grounded, double check. Well, almost. He still wasn’t letting Rosie off the hook from when she was arrested during the summer before our Freshman year in college. And I hadn’t been outed as a “crackpot greenie about to ruin any chance of her father becoming sheriff.” Yet. That was thanks to Rosie being the center of attention and my mom working some extra shifts at the hospital.

I gave my dad another hug and climbed into the car. Rosie stared at me and pursed her lips as she cocked her head to the side. I braced myself as the key went into the engine. Rosie wasn’t going to let me off the hook so easily.

“You’re hiding something,” she said before we pulled out of the driveway. “Are you meeting up with some guy?”

“No. I am a little worried about the snowstorm they’re predicting for this weekend. I don’t want to risk driving through it, especially if it’s like the one a few years ago,” I answered. The meteorologists were calling for snow this weekend, but it wasn’t supposed to be anything like the blizzard when we missed nearly two weeks of our sophomore year in high school.

“That makes sense, but I still think you’re hiding something. No guy?” I shook my head. “A girl?” she asked with a cringe. “Not that I wouldn’t still love you, but if you’re dating a girl, I would wonder how that got by me for all these years.”

“I’m not dating anyone, male, female, no one. I just want some peace and quiet.” It was somewhat true at least.

“Well that’s a relief.  So you really only had one date this past semester? It’s just hard to believe that Ryan guy was your only date. I hope you’re not still carrying a torch for Eric,” she said matter-of-factly.

“We dated for two years and I thought he was the one. I know it’s over, but I don’t want to rush into another doomed relationship.”

Rosie took my answer as permission to talk about Alex for the next hour and a half. A part of me was happy when we said our goodbyes in front of the security check at the airport, but I knew that it wouldn’t take long before I was missing her terribly.

I hauled my luggage into the apartment and shivered as I dropped the suitcases onto my bedroom floor, removing a plush robe from their contents and sliding into a pair of fuzzy slippers. I turned on music and unpacked as I danced along to my Destiny’s Child CD. Survivor was exactly what I aspired to be.

Once everything was in its place, I sat on the couch with my cell phone in hand, debating whether or not to call the professor. I punched in his number, closed the cell phone, and repeated the actions about four times until reality of my being a chicken sank in. This time, the phone did not snap shut as a sharp exhale passed my lips.

“I’m glad you called,” Professor Weaver said. From his tone, a smile definitely accompanied his words. “I’d begun to think you wouldn’t.”

Apparently a normal person would have run away from this project by now.

“Would you care to join me for dinner so we may discuss this weekend?”

“I don’t have any plans other than to buy a few groceries, so when and where would you like to meet?”

“I’d rather not be seen together in public as it may cause tongues to wag unnecessarily, and who knows who could see us. Would you be willing to come to my townhouse?”

And his neighbors wouldn’t talk about a young coed moseying into the professor’s house during winter break? Why was I worrying about this now? For the past five months I would have walked through fire to score an invite to his house, but now that the opportunity had arisen I was being skittish? My nerves were getting the better of me. This is business, not pleasure, and he’d given no indication that pleasure would ever be an option. But a girl could hope.

“What’s your address?”

“226 North Pembroke Way in Stonehenge Villas. Will 6:30 work for you?”

I agreed to the time knowing that it would give me ample time to run my errands and make myself presentable.

I knocked on Professor Weaver’s door at exactly six-thirty, stamping my boots on the welcome mat in front of it to remove the snow caked upon them. He greeted me and invited me in, removing my coat for me and hanging it on the wooden coat rack that stood in the foyer as I kicked off my boots. He looked very relaxed in his loose-fit jeans and gray sweater, and I found myself staring at how perfect he looked in those jeans.

“Omigosh, that smells delicious,” I said as an aroma of meat and wine strengthened with each step forward through the living room.

“I hope it will be--it’s beef bourguignon, and it should be ready in a few minutes.”

We walked past a black leather L-shaped sofa and matching chair that probably cost two months of my parents’ combined salary, and the largest TV I’d ever seen in someone’s home. The walls were bare with the exception of one poster-sized black and white photograph of a girl kneeling in conversation with a statue of Abraham Lincoln.

“Your poster is beautiful.” I took a step closer to admire its subtlety.

“Thank you. That’s actually my niece in the picture. I took it about fifteen years ago while I visited with my sister and her in DC. She’s a little older than you, and an officer in the army now.”

“You must be proud of her.”

“I am,” he answered as we walked into the kitchen. “Here, why don’t you have a seat? Would you like a glass of wine?”

I scooted a cushioned wrought-iron chair away from the glass table and took a seat, casting my eyes downward as I answered him. “I’m not twenty-one yet.”

“I won’t tell if you won’t. The drink will wear off before we have dessert, but I can easily pour you some soda or water if that’s what you would prefer,” he said as he poured some Burgundy into a goblet.

“I’ll have some wine.” He handed me the goblet and poured himself another glass, a drop of wine rolling down the bottle. He wiped his index finger along the trail of wine and then placed the bottle onto the marble countertop.

“How was your Christmas?” he asked after he swallowed a sip of wine.

“It was good. I got to spend a lot of time with my sister and friends from high school. Got pretty much everything I wanted for Christmas. Couldn’t have been much better,” I replied. “How was yours?”

“I saw my family in upstate New York on Christmas and then watched the ball drop in Times Square on New Year’s Eve. All in all, a great holiday season,” he said as he stirred the pot on the stove.

“I’ve never been to New York. Is that where you’re from?”

“Yes, I’m originally from Buffalo. My folks still live there,” he answered. He drained the water off the potatoes then mashed them with heavy cream and butter.

“There goes my diet, Professor.”

“I hope dieting isn’t one of your resolutions this year. You certainly don’t need it. And please call me Jack.”

There was no way I could call him Jack. “I can’t call you by your first name, unless you change it to Professor. It seems disrespectful to do so.” An expression came over his face as I said it, and I wasn’t sure how to label it. It might have been disappointment, but the look didn’t linger for long.

He dished the meal onto plates and carried them over to the table, setting mine in front of me and then choosing a seat at the opposite end.  The first bite of the bourguignon was delectable and rivaled anything I had ever eaten in a restaurant. The man could cook, and each bite grew better than the last, until my stomach had reached its capacity. After dinner, I cleared the dishes from the table and helped wash them. Professor Weaver would brush by me as he dried and put away the dishes, and areas awakened in me with each accidental touch.

“We’ll have crème brulee in a few minutes, but let’s go to the living room for now. It’s more comfortable there,” he said as he stowed the pots in the roll-out cabinet beside the stove.

Glad that dessert had been pushed off for a little while, I sat on the recliner and he took a seat on the couch. His eyes steadied on mine and signaled that small talk had ended. It was time for the real discussion.

“Are you nervous about tomorrow? Do you know what to expect?”

I knew that the project would come up at some point. I didn’t want to think about it though, much less discuss it. “I am a little nervous. I know that I’m going to be in a dark room with no light and very little food or water until Sunday afternoon. I’m going to be unreachable until then and I don’t like that either, but I keep telling myself that I can do anything for three days.”

“That’s a good way to look at it. I think I have a way so you won’t be completely incommunicado,” he said as he handed me something that looked like a peach-colored bean. It had a small black button on the side. “This is worn in your ear, much like a hearing aid. If something happens and you need assistance, you’ll be able to send a message to me. Do you know Morse code?”

“Do I look like a sailor?” Of course, I didn’t know Morse code. As a girl raised in the eighties and nineties, I had no need for it. I had technology on my side.

“It’s three short, three long, three short,” he replied.

“And if I do that, you’ll come save me?”

“I’ll be able to find your location with it, and I’ll bring every police officer in Bloomington as backup. And yes, I will save you come hell or high water,” he answered.

“How did this come into your possession?” I started to thumb the button on its side to test what would happen.

“I can’t tell you that, but this is so I can be sure that you’ll be okay. I will only be nine taps away from you, which is better than nothing.” He demonstrated how it worked, the taps resulting in his cell phone ringing and the caller ID registering as 505. If that didn’t look like an SOS, nothing would.

“Did the subject of your conversion come up with your family during break?”

“No. I didn’t tell them because I knew they’d be upset by it and I’m not really converting,” I said, using air quotes when I said it. “I figured it wasn’t worth the turmoil it would cause with them and if something like this became public knowledge, my dad would have zero chance of winning his election. Outside the church, you’re the only one that knows. I don’t think even my roommate is aware of it. She just thinks I’ve been seeing someone, which we both know is untrue. I think I probably have ‘psycho’ tattooed on my forehead, and only guys can see it.”

“No, there’s no tattoo there.” He laughed. “I do believe that boys may find you intimidating. I’ve seen your male classmates hang on your every word. They lack the confidence to approach you.”

“Yeah. I’m not getting that at all. If I’m so desirable, why can’t they simply tell me? Or when I do actually get a date, why do they turn out to be complete jerks? Ryan seemed so sweet until we were actually on our date. You say that the guys watch me, but name one of them that isn’t Ryan. I don’t believe you can.” Anger tinged my voice for no apparent reason. I didn’t feel I needed a man in order to feel complete, but maybe it was my sister finding love and talking about it for the past month that had gotten the better of me. Perhaps I was jealous of her. Maybe the professor could give me some insight into the male psyche and tell me what I was doing wrong.

“Lily, you want me to name one? I’ll name four from inside the lecture hall. Your teacher’s assistant, Oliver, for one. The other two male TAs would total three, and that guy who always sat behind you, Michael was his name I believe, glasses, built like a moose, would be four. He stared at you from the moment you walked into the hall, until he left the room, and he did this during each class. I believe the only reason he passed the class was because he paid attention when you were answering questions. That kid has it bad for you.”

“Michael? The football player? I sincerely doubt that. He’s just looking for a hole, and that is so not me.” I had seen Michael at numerous parties throughout my two and a half years on campus, and he was always surrounded by whatever flavor he craved for the week. He had never extended our conversation past hello.

“How do you know that, Lily? He may not be approaching you because he thinks a little more highly of you than that,” the professor countered. “I know that if I weren’t a professor and had I met you off campus, I would have made a point to get to know you a little better.” His words energized me as the possibility of a dalliance with him shot heat throughout my body.

“You aren’t my professor anymore.” He had given me permission to call him by his first name, after all.

“True in some regards, but false in others. Either way, I’m nearly twice your age and it would reflect poorly upon both of us at this point in our lives.”

His words stung, and a lump formed in my throat. “I should probably go. I don’t like driving in snow and I’ve got a stressful weekend ahead of me. Thanks for dinner, Professor Weaver. It was delicious.” I didn’t want to leave, but knew that staying would further diminish what remained of my self-esteem.

“You won’t stay for dessert?”

“Honestly, I’m full.” I just wanted out so my tears would have no witnesses.

“Okay, but can you please call me when you get home to let me know that you arrived safely?” he replied. “Also, and this is assuming everything goes well and there’s no reason to use the device, but please let me know how the weekend went after you get out. You can stop by here--I should be here all day--or give me a call. I hope everything goes well.”

I told him I would and then slipped into my coat and boots and trudged to my car. Dime-sized snowflakes pecked my forehead and tears rolled down my cheeks as I realized that I had become Professor Weaver’s marionette.

He didn’t want me.