When I heard his voice, I almost weakened. “I miss you,” I said. “Willie and I just got back from our walk, and I’m standing here naked, wet, and cold. I wish you were here.”
“So do I.”
“How are you at phone sex?” I said. “Under the circumstances, I’m up for anything.”
“So am I,” he said evenly. “Unfortunately, I’m in class right now. We take a break in an hour. If you’ll leave me a number where you can be reached, I’ll get back to you and we can try that new procedure.”
The flush started at my toes and ended at my scalp. “Alex, are all those government people sitting there listening?”
“That’s right.”
“I must be pathological.”
“Not pathological,” he said. “Just healthy. Giving me some energy to rechannel. This is going to be the most inspired class I’ve taught since I got here.”
“Baudelaire said he wrote with his penis.”
“The French have some interesting systems,” he said mildly. “I’ll see what I can do about putting that one into place.”
When I stepped out of the shower, the phone was ringing. I picked it up. “Still naked,” I said, “but now clean, and with that hemp oil you gave me for Valentine’s Day at the ready.”
“I’m sorry, I must have the wrong number.” The voice of the woman on the other end of the line was familiar.
“You don’t have the wrong number, Livia. I should apologize. I was expecting someone else.”
“I’m glad you have love in your life,” she said.
Her tone was guileless, but I felt a pang. There was no love in Livia’s life, at least not the kind that involved hemp-oil massages. Late one night when we were walking to the parking lot together, Livia had confided that since her marriage ended she had been celibate and that celibacy brought her peace. I had scrambled unsuccessfully for a sensible response, but driving home I realized that if my husband had dumped me as publicly and as brutally as Kenneth Brook had dumped Livia, I might have considered celibacy, too. He had chosen his wife’s birthday party to do his dirty deed and, after three years, the memory of that evening still made me want to bury my head in the sand.
From the outset, the party had been out of controclass="underline" the drinks were too strong, and the toasts too frequent; the meal was served so late that people simply rearranged the food on their plates, poured themselves another double, and lurched towards the next indiscretion. When Kenneth Brook tapped his glass, boomed that he wanted our attention, and draped an arm over Livia’s shoulder, the room fell silent. It seemed that, despite their tempestuous relationship, Kenneth was about to pay tribute to his wife. But Kenneth had other fish to fry. As he announced that he had managed to both inspire and impregnate one of his graduate students, he could barely keep the smile off his face. When he added that, as a man of honour, he had no alternative but to marry his child’s mother, I think he honestly expected we would burst into applause, but we weren’t that drunk. Stunned sober, people mumbled their goodbyes and left. Livia wandered off to another room. Kenneth disappeared out the front door, presumably in search of a more receptive audience. Alone with the carnage of the aborted party and none too sober myself, I decided to put the food away. Like many decisions that night, mine wasn’t wise.
When I opened the kitchen door, I saw that Livia had taken refuge there. She was leaning against the counter, singing “Happy Birthday” and trying to light the candles on her store-bought birthday cake. She was very drunk. As she swayed towards the forest of candles, match after match flared, then burned out between her fingers. She hadn’t managed to ignite a single candle, but the blue icing roses on her cake were almost buried beneath a mulch of charred matches.
“Let me help you with that,” I said.
When she turned to face me, I saw that she was crying. Her gaze had the watery despair of a drowning woman. “It’s my party,” she said, then she lit a fresh match and returned to her Sisyphean task.
I didn’t see Livia Brook again till the following September. Classes were over, and she spent spring and summer on the West Coast drifting through the misty regions of New Age thought. When the fall term began, Livia reappeared, tanned, thin, and carrying some sort of ritual bag adorned with bells and filled with gemstones guaranteed to heal the heart, ward off evil, and focus the mind. I had never been a proponent of enchanted bags, but Livia’s seemed to have power. For the first time since I had known her, she was sober, focused, and purposeful.
During her marriage to Kenneth Brook, Livia’s life had centred on her husband. Beyond teaching her classes and picking up her paycheque, she had shown little interest in the day-to-day business of the university, but suddenly she was inviting colleagues for tea and soliciting their opinions about where our department was headed. Invariably, these tete-a-tetes moved from the abstract to the personal. As they poured out their career ambitions and disappointments, Livia’s colleagues were warmed by what Ed Mariani referred to as her “rampant empathy.” There was talk that when Ben Jesse’s tenure was over, a woman as perceptive as Livia would make a fine department head.
When the Kevin Coyle case erupted, the rampant empathy that had caused Ed and me to raise our eyebrows saved our department. Ben Jesse asked Livia to meet regularly with the women who had accused Kevin until the charges against him were given a fair hearing. Ben’s confidence that open communication would contain the women’s anger proved ill-founded, but the women trusted Livia, and when Ben died we all knew that Livia was our best hope for achieving reconciliation. Every member of our department supported her proposal that we make a special effort to recruit female candidates to fill the two vacancies created by Ben’s death and an early retirement.
Landing Solange, who was brilliant, had been a coup for our small university; however, Livia had been forced to argue Ariel’s case vigorously. Ariel’s paper credentials were acceptable rather than extraordinary, and she had interviewed poorly. The hiring committee found her warm and likeable, but equivocal about academic life. Livia, who had met Ariel the summer before at a women’s retreat on Saltspring Island, maintained that Ariel was simply suffering from post-dissertation ennui, and that by the time September rolled around she would be itching to get into a classroom. And Livia had a clincher. Unlike Solange, Ariel was a prairie girl who loved her birthplace. Our university wouldn’t be a stepping stone for her; it would, Livia assured us, be “forever.”
Livia had been right about Ariel – at least in part. The students had loved her, and she had been a glowing presence in our department. That morning when I heard Livia’s voice I felt the debt of her gift, the weight of her loss.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“It’s about Ariel’s class,” she said. “There are still three weeks to go, and you’re the logical one to take over.”
“Livia…”
She cut me off. “I know you planned to do some writing this spring, but plans change. I’ve learned that.”
“So have I,” I said. “Ian’s death taught me that nothing is certain. But Livia, I’m not getting any younger, and I haven’t exactly got a dazzling list of publications.”
“You still have the summer,” Livia said quietly. “Ariel doesn’t. Jo, she was so committed to this class.”
I could feel my pendulum being drawn into Livia’s rhythm. “Okay,” I said. “As soon as we get back from the lake, I’ll come up to the university and grab a syllabus and a class list.”
“Come this morning,” Livia said. “Then you’ll have the weekend to get prepared. Rosalie will have everything ready for you.”
I did not accept the yoke gladly, but as I drove to the university, I knew I had no right to complain. As Livia had pointed out, I did have the summer; besides, Alex had called, and for a novice he gave great telephone.