Russell Thurston removed a sheaf of papers from his leather briefcase and then slid the case into the space between his desk and the wall of his home office. He hung his tweed blazer on the back of the chair. He slipped off his good leather dress shoes; he peeled away the black nylon dress socks, releasing the damp warmth between his toes, and then replaced them with his cozy wool ragg socks and extra roomy, broken in loafers. He took off his tie and unbuttoned the top button. This, for him, was casual comfort. He took the papers and a pen and padded down the hall on the plush blue carpet that Cath kept perfectly clean, not that it was hard. They were tidy people and it was just the two of them now.
He passed the kitchen door and the rattle of Cath cleaning up. She stood at the sink, a quiet work rhythm swaying her rounded shoulders, her comfy figure enveloped in a baby blue and pink house dress that she wore over her blouse and slacks to keep them clean. He should help maybe; but no. Not tonight, though it would be pleasant to chat and laugh with her, dish towel in hand, rather than face student compositions. He still had work today. Tuesdays and Thursdays were his late nights, an evening class followed by grading.
The gas fire was on in the living room. He took his usual chair with the ottoman; Cath would come later and perch on the couch, legs curled up beside her, and pick a book from the large stack of floral volumes on the floor beside it. He stretched out his legs, slipped his bifocals from his shirt pocket, and stroked his chin as he began to read. His whiskers were beginning to emerge again, rough over the soft fullness of his jowls.
But when Cath came in, wiping her damp dishwater hands on her slacks and then slipping on the gray cardigan she’d left draped on a chair, he was staring into the fire, not at the paper in his hands. She peeked her head into his line of vision. “A penny for your thoughts?” She smiled.
Russell flapped the papers impatiently. “I don’t know why I bother.”
“Because this is too brilliant to keep to yourself,” Cath said, tapping his forehead. Russell shook his head, a small, bitter smile on his face. “No, it’s true,” she insisted.
“I’m not the kind of teacher that changes lives, I’m afraid, my dear. No letters from former students about how my class freshened their outlook, made them wiser, prevented disaster. I’m just a necessary stepping stone on the way to their future. Three credits to get out of the way.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do, though.”
“What has you so down, anyway?” Cath perched on the arm of his chair. How she would have scolded the children for doing that when they were still small and at home!
“This drivel. This BS. I’ve had them all semester and they’re still writing like infants.” He picked up the papers and dropped them back on his lap.
“It’s only English Comp. 101, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but it’s meant to teach something. And that something isn’t supposed to be basic literacy. These kids don’t read, Dot. Not anything, not even...I don’t know, Amish fiction or cozy mysteries or whatever it is you have over there.” Russell gestured to the pile near the corner of the couch that sagged from her daily evening reading habit.
She should have been offended, of course, but Cath didn’t have a pretentious bone in her body. She read what made her happy; that was all she wanted from her books, in contrast to Russell’s books that not only described the unhappiness of the world, but dissected it under a microscope. “That can’t be true,” she said, “They must read something.”
“They watch movies night and day, Cath. That’s it. Or...did you know there are these apps that are all short films? Like 15 seconds or something. What can you say that matters in 15 seconds? But that’s all these kids have in them. 15 seconds of attention.”
“Oh, I doubt that very much.” Cath laughed, but he didn’t feel the least bit better.
“No, no, it’s true. Maybe someone learned something from me twenty, thirty years ago. But my usefulness is past. Whatever these kids need, I can’t give it to them. Do you know what I am Cath? Do you know?” He gestured vehemently down the length of his body, “I’m a trope. Look in the dictionary under ‘irrelevant outdated English professor’ and you’ll see me, in all my tweedy white male glory.” He took off his bifocals and put the end of one arm in his mouth, striking a philosophical pose.
“Oh nonsense,” Cath laughed, “Anyway, if you can’t see past that, how do you expect the kids to?”
“I don’t. I truly don’t expect them to.” He moved to rub his forehead in exasperation, but Cath kissed his hand.
“What has you so riled up right now, anyway.”
“These compositions.”
“What’s so wrong with them?”
“Here, read it.” He thrust the paper on top into her hands.
Cath slid down off the arm of the chair and into his lap with her head on his shoulder as she read. When she finished, she said, “Aw. I think it’s sweet.” Russell sighed, her reaction, from his perspective, only proving his point.
“It’s insipid.”
“Why?”
“It’s shallow.”
“I think it’s nice.”
“Exactly.”
“Grumpy old curmudgeon.” Russell scowled. Cath laughed.
“Cath, my JOB is to teach these people to recognize and appreciate good words. Important words. And to maybe even string a few of them together meaningfully into ideas that matter.”
“Maybe not everyone has it in them.” Russell harrumphed in accordance with his tweed jacket and loafers.
“So what do you suggest I do?”
“Keep trying. Keep exposing them to the good words, the deep ideas. Keep teaching them what you know.” Russell sighed and continued looking sulkily into the fire. “Are they all like this? Sweet little love stories?”
“Not ALL. But a fair handful. Silly fluff.”
“Russell Thurston,” she said authoritatively, putting her hands on his face and turning his eyes to look into hers, and then she kissed him. “Do you know what the problem is?”
“Yes. Where shall I start?”
“The problem is…,” she nuzzled close to him and he smelled the baby powder sweetness of her neck, “...that no matter what you want to tell those kids, there really isn’t anything more profound than love, is there?”
People seem to like this little essay about maple syrup time in Maine. Have a look if you like!
Feel like more fiction? Try The Imperial, a Mercy short story. (Mercy is my novel, coming out in January!)