Wednesday dawned early for me, after a restless night of replaying my afternoon with Zach. I was edgy, snapped at everyone, let my mind wander back to the conversation of the day before. The next four days were no better. It seemed that Monday and my appointed meeting time would never, ever arrive. Then, suddenly, it was two-thirty Monday afternoon without warning; I was frazzled, tired and looked like a bag woman I'd seen once in the back of a French-Quarter patrol car. I slid out of the elevator when it reached the fourth floor of the English building, reluctant and faintly nauseated. Conversation with a literary idol no longer seemed like a fun way to spend an afternoon, but like unspeakable torment incurred by the bad karma my mother in law assumed I carried with me.
Halfway down the hallway I passed two girls leaning indolently into the wall, each clutching red-marked sheets of paper.
"He's pretentious," one of them said. "He's just so full of himself. Like he's Ernest goddamn Hemingway or something."
"Yeah, but, he's always right," the other said. "His revisions, suggestions. You take all his criticism, and so do I. He's... he's really good, Mary."
I could guess who they were talking about. Zach's reputation among his students wasn't quite as rosy as the one he enjoyed among literary critics. The students who admired him were scared of him and the ones who didn't care for his work tended to hate him outright. For some reason the girl's displeasure made me smile slightly as I knocked on his office door.
"Come in," he barked. I found him bent over a pile of papers at his desk, a ray of afternoon sunlight slicing across his cheekbone. He held a hand up, motioning for me to wait. I closed the door and took the chair in the corner, watched his eyes racing across the page and back again before he stopped, scribbled something in the margin and then put down his pen.
"I'm glad you came," he said. "I sort of thought I'd have to track you down somewhere."
I shrugged and smiled. "Here I am. You should tell me why, though, before the nervousness gets to me."
He laughed. "Why are you nervous?"
"I told you, you're intimidating. Surely you've noticed. I just saw some of your students in the hallway..."
He waved a dismissive hand. "They're hardly students. I want you to work for me, Katy."
He barely paused for breath between the two thoughts and I was caught off-guard. I stared at him, slightly confused. He nodded encouragingly at me.
"I'm allotted the funding, apparently, for an assistant. Between the state's stipend and my publisher, I can pay you more than you're making now. I know it's not about money for you, but I just want you to know. I just need someone to help with meetings, with grading papers and meetings with my agent and publisher and all. I also," he stopped, looked down at his legs and then back at me with a touch of self-consciousness, "need some help when I travel. Which I do more than I'd care to. Conferences and interviews and book-signings, you know? I can do it by myself, but it's difficult and I don't have to. Its work, it's probably more than it's worth, really. But you said you like my writing, this would be a chance to be involved in it. I don't need an answer this second--"
"I want to do it."
"Are you sure? Don't you need to talk to..."
"No. The last thing my husband would ever do is interfere with my career." I was flushed now, very excited and leaning forward in my chair, tapping the toes of my Converse like a little girl. "I don't like your writing, Zach, I love it; I love literature and I always wanted to be a part of that world. I just can't write. Now you're telling me that's not an obstacle, of course I'm going to do it."
"Okay." He pushed himself off the seat of the wheelchair absentmindedly; I watched the way his legs moved as he did so and got a tingle down my spine. Much to my immense discomfort, he saw my eyes on his legs and took the conversation there. "Have you ever known a paraplegic?"
I shook my head.
"Well, you'll learn," he told me solemnly. "I don't need a nurse; you're not going to be involved in any medical procedures. But it's a fact of life, and a big one. It's a pain in the ass when I travel, for sure, and that's going to become your problem. Also, I'm not entirely pleasant all the time."
"I've heard."
As if on cue there was a knock at the door. He shook his head, pinched the bridge of his nose and called out "Yes?"
The door opened and there was a pale face underneath a thick black Mohawk. "Professor, I need to talk to you about Saturday."
"Jef, I need you to go away. I'll see you at four thirty, when I don't have a choice."
"But, Prof--"
"Out." The door closed again and he looked ruefully at me. "Do you see what I have to deal with?"
I was looking behind his head at the bookshelves. Near the top, out of his reach, were picture frames and large volumes of classic poetry. Closer down, where he could get at them, were slim copies of a few of his own. I counted four (three novels and a book of poetry) present out of thirteen that he'd written. I wondered what the difference was, how he decided what he needed readily at hand. Again, he noticed my eyes.
"None of them should be here." His hands fell to his thighs and he rubbed them without thinking. "It's ego. They should be at home, but I like to know they're there."
"Would you sign mine?" I asked impetuously.
He shrugged, "Sometime." He looked back at the stack of papers on his desk and then again to me. "When do you want to start?"