"Hello, Oscar. What have I done to deserve this visit?"
"Well, Walter, I was at a party this past weekend, at which I witnessed a pack of drunken adults sacrifice an entire pig for one child's birthday, and I thought of you."
"You still have that charm, I see."
"Could you imagine me any other way?"
Oscar abandoned the harbor of the dark, cobwebbed doorframe, and stepped into the office, taking a seat in the heavily padded wooden chair in front of the desk. He eased himself down and found the chair more comfortable than he imagined it having the right to be.
"What can I do for you?" asked the man who had been called the Walrus behind his back for at least three decades, as far as Oscar knew.
"I was just in the neighborhood, and I thought I'd drop in to see an old friend. There's no harm in that, is there?"
"Of course not, but I know you well enough to realize you aren't passing through anything. You live three miles away, and unless you've taken up driving recently, you walked the entire way. So what's wrong?"
Oscar straightened his collar and frowned, relinquishing his pretense of nonchalance, and then, after thoroughly clearing his throat, went straight to the point, surprising both Walter and himself.
"I'd like a job," he said.
"A job? What sort of job?"
"As a professor."
Walter smiled broadly, as if being let in on a grand prank to be played on the entire university.
"And in what subject would you like to corrode our youth?" he asked, humoring the aged writer's request.
"Literature, of course. Although, if you offer badminton, I wouldn't mind trying my hand at teaching that, as well. I'm quite spry."
The smile on Walter's face gradually deflated to a grimace with a long, exhaled sigh.
"We've been over this, Oscar. You know that we no longer have much of an English department, and what does still exist is only there to make sure that the men and women who attend our fine university don't graduate as complete idiots. I hate it as much as you do, but there's nothing I can do."
Oscar's expression was blank and constant, as if the words streaming from his colleague's mouth had absolutely no meaning. In all honesty, he cared nothing about the job, but it seemed as good an excuse as any to see a familiar face, even if the content of such a visit sent him spiraling further into a depressed state.
"I've been sleepwalking again. I woke up the other morning to find myself at the cemetery, lying beside Maddy's grave."
Walter bowed his head.
"Christ, Oscar. I'm sorry."
"I suppose there's a witty remark about Poe to be made, but I find that I don't quite have the energy."
"Have you thought about seeing a doctor?"
"Not really. I just wish I had something to keep me busy, some sort of distraction. I think that's what would help the most. So you see, I was at least half sincere about the professorship."
"You should've seen the girl who came to see me a few minutes ago. She was a fierce one. A bit of a spitfire. Wants to study English, and won't take no for an answer. She reminds me a bit of you, to be honest."
"I like her already. This university needs a swift kick in the ass."
"I suppose if you're badly in need of something to do, you could always offer yourself to her as a private instructor. Her name's Kate Knight, and--"
"Absolutely not."
Walter snorted.
"This coming from the man who's still making the birthday party circuit? Come on, anything would be better than doing that for the rest of your life."
"I may be a whore, but I'll be damned if I demean myself by stooping to the level of a tutor."
"Fine, be that way, you crotchety old man. How about the book, at least? That should be keeping you busy. You've said it's your supposed defining work."
"And I've barely settled on the title. I'm afraid I'm completely, hopelessly stuck. I can't even find the words to begin. Can you believe that?"
"You? At a loss for words? No, I honestly can't. You're still using that old typewriter, aren't you?"
"Of course. What else would I use?"
Walter tugged proudly on his mustache and spun around in his high-backed leather chair, reaching beneath a small table that stood against the wall, from which he pulled a black nylon satchel with a long shoulder strap that rested in folds on the desk's surface as he pushed it across to Oscar.
"What's this?"
"When Brouvard left last year, he turned in his university-issued laptop. We've never had another use for it."
"And you think I'll have a use for it? Walter, I've only just recently acquired a beeper, and I do hope it becomes fashionable once again."
"Yes, yes. You're a Luddite, Oscar. I know it. Everybody who's ever met you knows it. We've been through this before. Just give it a try, will you? You might be surprised at how well it works."
"Fine. I'll do it for you. If nothing else, I'll have a very expensive cutting board for chopping onions."
Oscar leapt up, pushing the comfortable chair back against the wall of the cramped office, and looped the strap over his left shoulder, knowing that that one was less likely to give than the right.
"You're always welcome here, Oscar, but you don't have to walk three miles just to see an old friend. Give me a call sometime, and we'll have dinner. Caroline and I would be glad to pay you a visit."
"Of course. Thank you, Walter."
The two men shook hands, and the taller and thinner of them then turned to the door and disappeared down the empty, echoing hallway, his every footstep sounding out a cadence that, irritatingly, he could not block from his mind. Pushing the large wooden door open, he was greeted by the even, muted tones of entirely other world, of which he realized he was a very, very small part.
He marched home in the lingering twilight, then prepared a light dinner of a bare, green salad and a small portion of spaghetti covered in a thick, red sauce, the can of which claimed that its contents would taste homemade. It tasted nothing like Madeleine's.
After a full half hour of pondering over the keys of his beloved typewriter, he abandoned it, staring instead at the nylon satchel he'd tossed on the couch with no intention of opening, and then decided that writing was not in the cards for this night. He changed into his night shirt and pajama bottoms and slipped beneath the warm covers of his bed.
In the morning, he awoke with the cool breeze gently caressing his face and sat up on the damp, green grass. The stone stood in front of him, and he wasn't entirely surprised. He'd felt a certain inevitability, deep down understanding that he would find himself here once again for reasons beyond any rational explanation, so instead of shaking his fist and screaming a promised curse at the heavens above, he relented. He spread his legs out in front of him and stared at the smooth face of the marker, save for those few words etched in the center.
"Good morning, Maddy," he said with a smile.
"Well, Walter, I was at a party this past weekend, at which I witnessed a pack of drunken adults sacrifice an entire pig for one child's birthday, and I thought of you."
"You still have that charm, I see."
"Could you imagine me any other way?"
Oscar abandoned the harbor of the dark, cobwebbed doorframe, and stepped into the office, taking a seat in the heavily padded wooden chair in front of the desk. He eased himself down and found the chair more comfortable than he imagined it having the right to be.
"What can I do for you?" asked the man who had been called the Walrus behind his back for at least three decades, as far as Oscar knew.
"I was just in the neighborhood, and I thought I'd drop in to see an old friend. There's no harm in that, is there?"
"Of course not, but I know you well enough to realize you aren't passing through anything. You live three miles away, and unless you've taken up driving recently, you walked the entire way. So what's wrong?"
Oscar straightened his collar and frowned, relinquishing his pretense of nonchalance, and then, after thoroughly clearing his throat, went straight to the point, surprising both Walter and himself.
"I'd like a job," he said.
"A job? What sort of job?"
"As a professor."
Walter smiled broadly, as if being let in on a grand prank to be played on the entire university.
"And in what subject would you like to corrode our youth?" he asked, humoring the aged writer's request.
"Literature, of course. Although, if you offer badminton, I wouldn't mind trying my hand at teaching that, as well. I'm quite spry."
The smile on Walter's face gradually deflated to a grimace with a long, exhaled sigh.
"We've been over this, Oscar. You know that we no longer have much of an English department, and what does still exist is only there to make sure that the men and women who attend our fine university don't graduate as complete idiots. I hate it as much as you do, but there's nothing I can do."
Oscar's expression was blank and constant, as if the words streaming from his colleague's mouth had absolutely no meaning. In all honesty, he cared nothing about the job, but it seemed as good an excuse as any to see a familiar face, even if the content of such a visit sent him spiraling further into a depressed state.
"I've been sleepwalking again. I woke up the other morning to find myself at the cemetery, lying beside Maddy's grave."
Walter bowed his head.
"Christ, Oscar. I'm sorry."
"I suppose there's a witty remark about Poe to be made, but I find that I don't quite have the energy."
"Have you thought about seeing a doctor?"
"Not really. I just wish I had something to keep me busy, some sort of distraction. I think that's what would help the most. So you see, I was at least half sincere about the professorship."
"You should've seen the girl who came to see me a few minutes ago. She was a fierce one. A bit of a spitfire. Wants to study English, and won't take no for an answer. She reminds me a bit of you, to be honest."
"I like her already. This university needs a swift kick in the ass."
"I suppose if you're badly in need of something to do, you could always offer yourself to her as a private instructor. Her name's Kate Knight, and--"
"Absolutely not."
Walter snorted.
"This coming from the man who's still making the birthday party circuit? Come on, anything would be better than doing that for the rest of your life."
"I may be a whore, but I'll be damned if I demean myself by stooping to the level of a tutor."
"Fine, be that way, you crotchety old man. How about the book, at least? That should be keeping you busy. You've said it's your supposed defining work."
"And I've barely settled on the title. I'm afraid I'm completely, hopelessly stuck. I can't even find the words to begin. Can you believe that?"
"You? At a loss for words? No, I honestly can't. You're still using that old typewriter, aren't you?"
"Of course. What else would I use?"
Walter tugged proudly on his mustache and spun around in his high-backed leather chair, reaching beneath a small table that stood against the wall, from which he pulled a black nylon satchel with a long shoulder strap that rested in folds on the desk's surface as he pushed it across to Oscar.
"What's this?"
"When Brouvard left last year, he turned in his university-issued laptop. We've never had another use for it."
"And you think I'll have a use for it? Walter, I've only just recently acquired a beeper, and I do hope it becomes fashionable once again."
"Yes, yes. You're a Luddite, Oscar. I know it. Everybody who's ever met you knows it. We've been through this before. Just give it a try, will you? You might be surprised at how well it works."
"Fine. I'll do it for you. If nothing else, I'll have a very expensive cutting board for chopping onions."
Oscar leapt up, pushing the comfortable chair back against the wall of the cramped office, and looped the strap over his left shoulder, knowing that that one was less likely to give than the right.
"You're always welcome here, Oscar, but you don't have to walk three miles just to see an old friend. Give me a call sometime, and we'll have dinner. Caroline and I would be glad to pay you a visit."
"Of course. Thank you, Walter."
The two men shook hands, and the taller and thinner of them then turned to the door and disappeared down the empty, echoing hallway, his every footstep sounding out a cadence that, irritatingly, he could not block from his mind. Pushing the large wooden door open, he was greeted by the even, muted tones of entirely other world, of which he realized he was a very, very small part.
He marched home in the lingering twilight, then prepared a light dinner of a bare, green salad and a small portion of spaghetti covered in a thick, red sauce, the can of which claimed that its contents would taste homemade. It tasted nothing like Madeleine's.
After a full half hour of pondering over the keys of his beloved typewriter, he abandoned it, staring instead at the nylon satchel he'd tossed on the couch with no intention of opening, and then decided that writing was not in the cards for this night. He changed into his night shirt and pajama bottoms and slipped beneath the warm covers of his bed.
In the morning, he awoke with the cool breeze gently caressing his face and sat up on the damp, green grass. The stone stood in front of him, and he wasn't entirely surprised. He'd felt a certain inevitability, deep down understanding that he would find himself here once again for reasons beyond any rational explanation, so instead of shaking his fist and screaming a promised curse at the heavens above, he relented. He spread his legs out in front of him and stared at the smooth face of the marker, save for those few words etched in the center.
"Good morning, Maddy," he said with a smile.
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