Unstately, not quite plump Buck Mulligan had been causing me a considerable bit of anxiety for a number of months and as I woke up I realized he had outsmarted me yet again. I slid naked from my rumpled sheets and snatched my glasses from the nightstand, not bothering with the contacts. Down the steps and through the den I saw no vomit and no poop. His schedule had adjusted to mine and the new brand of chow was agreeing with him, along with whatever else he had eaten. I did not bother to prepare myself for the coldness captured in the kitchen floor, nor the mess.

His raid on the refrigerator had left bits of honey-baked turkey sandwich meat, fresh Muenster cheese, a whole onion and half a head of lettuce, along with a cracked jar of Dijon mustard waiting for me on the linoleum kitchen floor. Instead of waiting for daylight, he had done his work in the nighttime while I slept.

"What did you do?" I walked into the kitchen and uttered what was fast becoming the weltanschauung of my life. "You’re not supposed to do that."

He looked somewhat repentant. His head was low to the ground, body in a doggy squat, tongue running across his teeth as though it were cleaning away the evidence. The tongue was actually a nervous response, an indication to me that he knew he had done wrong. He was the only dog I knew who possessed such an idiosyncratic reaction to the trouble he brought on himself.

"I suppose you need floss?"

I would have received the same reaction if he had urinated on the carpet or vomited on the mini-flight of stairs that led up to the bedroom. He was predictable: urination was for the den and regurgitation took place on the stairs. The territory was scoped out, each served as the recipient of a bodily function it seemed he and the area had agreed upon. Sometimes I imagined him urinating in the den while staring up into my bedroom.

I knelt down and surveyed the destructive results of his appetite. He whimpered a good morning and I nodded in his direction. Thankfully, I did not stock much food into the refrigerator. What was left? Soda, some beer, milk, juice, an untouched tomato, and a bowlful of old tuna fish he hadn’t bothered. Must be bad. I threw away the tuna fish first and then turned my attention to the floor. I’d gotten off fairly easy, no liquids.

"Did you like the Muenster cheese? I had the turkey, too; that was good," I took a harsh tone with him, but he knew it was pretense.

He took a step closer to me and continued to whimper. He stroked my leg with his muzzle. I patted him on the head as I picked up the saran wrap he had salivated on the night before. He rubbed the broadside of his body against my ass. The bits of turkey and cheese wrapped up in the plastic nicely and I pitched it in the trash. He was the only man in my life and his habits were as familiar as my newly ex-husband’s: raiding the fridge, leaving a mess, waiting to do things he desired when I was not around, and failing to eat his vegetables. The latter was the only habit that had not been passed on to my daughter.

"You didn’t eat your vegetables you bad little man."

He sneezed a reply.

I scooped up the lettuce and onion in a paper towel. A feeling of guilt passed over me as I disposed of it. A speaker from the developing world had been on campus the week before; I’d listened to the speech from my office as he exhorted people on ways to recycle, to give, to live environmentally conscious lives that could alter the course of Spaceship Earth.

"He doesn’t live with you," and I could have sworn Buck shrugged in concurrence. "This could have been made into at least one meal."

He knew that, he’d eaten it.

I cleaned up the mustard from the floor with a damp rag. The garbage would have to go out to the dumpster before work. I would have to get dressed.

"We’ve gone through this three times," I said and went to the kitchen’s utility drawer. "I suppose I have to do this before bed now."

I sensed an attitude of resignation from him as I held the duct tape and scissors before his eyes.

"You may have figured out how to open the refrigerator, but I have an opposable thumb that allows me to use the duct tape. All I have to do is get in the habit of sealing this damned thing whenever I’m not using it."

I stopped talking to him. He sat dumbly before me as though ready to do tricks for biscuits. The absence of the mess wiped the guilt from his mind. His tongue had stopped flushing saliva between his teeth; the last tasty bits of the turkey and cheese were in his gullet. I cut three strips of tape and placed them on the already ruined spots of the fridge’s door and side-panel. I longed for an ugly, barrel-chested McCarthy-era fridge with a locking door. Buck wasn’t a communal feeder though; he would have understood the latch and developed a physical loophole. As things stood, I feared he might decide to try and chew through the duct tape.

Whenever this happened, I worried that I wasn’t feeding him enough. In the beginning, when his male counterpart had left for the sunshine state, he had started the vomiting. I switched dog food and took him to the vet. The doctor could find nothing wrong with him, but he thought I was a bit underweight and looked peaked. He referred my dog to a psychologist and told me to get some rest and try switching brands of food myself. The vomiting soon stopped, the urinating soon followed, and now he had devised a method of refrigerator entry unparalleled by any modern-day domesticated animal.

I gave him a mixture of chow and dog biscuits for breakfast. He didn’t touch them.

"Suit yourself, Buck," I said.

I ascended to the bedroom, shut the door, and sighed. I desired a quiet moment in my mind. Months ago I had stripped the place of everything. The furniture, the paintings, the wallpaper, the carpeting, and even most of my clothes had been sold, donated, and–if there were no takers, disposed of at the dump. Gabe had taken the electronic equipment: the stereo, television, and the computer to Florida; I didn’t mind though, it was all his. I worked to replace it at an affordable rate: a free computer with an Internet service plan that I was chained to for what seemed like the rest of my natural life (the divorce lawyers couldn’t have done better than the ISP), a nineteen-inch television outfitted with basic cable that was almost forty dollars a month, and a small boom box. I clicked the play button and "Là ci darem la mano" filled the room at a moderate volume. It was the closest I would get to my area of expertise all day.

I stripped the tepid sheets from the bed and replaced them with a fresh set, breaking the creases from their neat folds. I caught sight of myself in the full-length mirror. Hunched over the bed, I noted the aged flab of my body–the wrinkles, the slight pouch–accentuated by the position of action; the tousled, gray-flecked hair crowned my face. I still had a pleasant face I decided. Age was something best ignored, but not to the point where one looked foolish. I looked okay when I stood up straight, even better in clothes. I finished the bed, and everything residing on the floor–socks, a nightgown, and candy wrappers–found its way into the hamper in the walk-in closet.

Hard pellets of water issued forth from the plain chrome showerhead as I worked the lather in my hands over the slopes and crevices of my body. I scratched deeply into my scalp as I applied the shampoo; my mind fashioned a fantasy in which, under the pulsating spigot, my silver-flecked hair discarded its gray winter crystals and returned to its lusty black of a decade ago, and my skin soaked in the rich additive vitamins of the lather to rejuvenate itself to a youthful vigorous appeal not unlike that of two of my night students. I had long ago ceased to desire the natural physical refinements of the day students. I dried my body and took pleasure in the mirror made opaque by the steam of the shower. I blew dry my hair before the mirror on my dresser.

My closet left me in a mental space somewhere between indecision and painful memory. The clothes were still mostly new to me; all he had given me was now on the backs of faceless strangers. The new stuff still did not feel like me. Like the apartment, which had naturally retained its own layout while accommodating entirely new objects, the clothes all felt unfamiliar. It was almost as though I had borrowed them from a best friend who shared my size and recalled seeing them on her. Today’s selection required guesswork. I needed something comfortable for working but also appropriate for Easter dinner with Amy.

I decided on a deep blue skirt with a white blouse, comfort that could dine at a fine restaurant. It also went with the fading winter chill that was still grasping at the air.

I prepared a small black handbag with the appropriate accessories. The full-length mirror flattered me now, and I adjusted my hair with a grace and confidence that had been absent all morning.

In the kitchen, Buck’s bowl remained untouched.

"Not hungry," I said to him.

He slapped his tail on the floor and made a low horn-like sound as if to wish me well on my trip. I fed him a biscuit, which he politely took from my hand.

"Now, I’m going to check with Diya across the way about walking you," I said. "Today, you are going to be a good boy and leave the fridge shut."

We seemed to have an understanding. Some of my colleagues complained that they talked to much to undergrads and not adults; I wondered how they would feel if they knew about my conversations with Buck. Lately I had begun to think of him as the most agreeable and communicably gifted male on the planet.

"Be good and I’ll bring back good news about Amy from school."

He seemed pleased with this and I slipped out the door and locked it.

"Diya," I said and knocked.

"Yes," the door opened and a pleasant looking Jordanian woman answered the door. "Oh hello Dr. Wakelin. Are you going out?"

There were two children, a boy and a girl, playing with dolls and small, die-cast cars in front of the television set on the floor. The infamous purple dinosaur I was relieved to have never been subjected to sang another upbeat song of cheer that the children sang along to as they sat across from each other.

"Yes," I said. "I wanted to talk to you about walking Buck."

Her son smacked the television shut.

"Oh yes, four-thirty good?" She said.

Her daughter began to protest with strained vocal chords and tears.

"Excuse me I am talking," she scolded.

"I have to make fluffy," the boy shouted.

"Wait." She said and turned back to me.

"Yes, that should be great," I passed her the key.

"I have to make fluffy," he harangued his mother.

She turned to him and yelled something in a language I didn’t know the children spoke.

I looked at her quizzically.

"He’s got to shit," she said.

"Oh," I nodded.

"Have a good day."

Holiday break had arrived, but I was on my usual schedule. A paper was waiting for me at my office. I took my car rather than the pavement; I had the trip later. It was only a couple of hours away on Route 1, but I still was not looking forward to it. I wanted to fast forward the day, wanted the paper to be finished, the drive to be over, and the first fifteen minutes of my meeting with my daughter to conclude on a pleasant note that would allow us to move forward on agreeable terms.

My daughter blamed me and because of that I was worried that she would not be good company at dinner. How can you defend one adulterer and hold another accountable? Three months before I had picked her up from the airport. She had taken a semester off and had wintered with her father in Casey Key. In the car she described the key as a stretch of paradise, not even as wide as a sports stadium. Her father’s investment firm was doing well, blue chips were replacing the tech stocks at a comfortable rate and he had speaking engagements booked well into next year. He had two academic offers from beachfront universities and had acquired his new estate, a sprawling Spanish-style villa, from a college dean who had gone down in the disgrace of a revealed embezzlement scheme. His girlfriend, Zoe, was twenty-eight and a lot of fun to hangout with. She made a point of telling me Zoe had taken her to a place called Sweating Stallions; I considered it wise on my part to let her syllables dissipate without question. I knew better and, out of the corner of my eye, observed her intensity, her eyes attempting to blast a way into the concealed matter of my medulla oblongata. In the car she was the smart, recently experienced twenty-something who had discovered the pleasure accentuating her sexual allure in a skimpy, black bikini during the descent of the globular Helios. If she had not fully experienced it, she had a hint of the passionate taste of ephemeral relations with members of the opposite sex based on the instinct of transient and guiltless lust. When I brought her home to the renovated apartment her reaction was immediate, strong, and negative; the little child in my daughter had returned with an adult’s anger.

"What the fuck did you do?"

"Don’t use that language in here," I scolded her and immediately regretted it. I needed her understanding more than she needed a reproach for her etiquette.

"You’ve gotten rid of everything," she said awestruck. "Is this even the same apartment?"

"Of course it is," I said. "I just changed a few things."

"Buck," she called, "Buck."

I opened the door and called across the hall to Diya. Amy cast a dark look at me. A few moments passed and the dog finally came over from Diya’s apartment. She took his face in her hands and probed his eyes closely. He licked her face.

"Dad said you got rid of everything. Did you give the dog away to the Arabs?"

"Young lady you know better."

I couldn’t help myself, but it was just the reaction she wanted, and she was proud to have created it.

It was a weekday; weekends were strictly for her friends. Tomorrow she would board a plane and travel back to Florida for a more formal Easter celebration with her father and Zoe. I assumed Sweating Stallions would be closed for Easter; those boys had mothers somewhere to go to too. They couldn’t all be throwaways.

I was interrupted by a knock on my door.

"Emily, are you working on your vacation too?"

It was Laurie Farmer, the school’s stylistics expert and master linguist, and the recently published author of "The Stylistics of Jane Austen: Speech, Style, and the Class of Intelligence." She was also the pen behind the pseudonym associated with other racy and lurid texts that were guaranteed to earn her more money.

"Working on Joyless James today?"

"No, I’m working on a paper that Heidi asked me to write for her upcoming conference on technology; it’s about Robert Frost and the technology of the telephone."

"Is he a big fan or another Luddite?"

"From our perspective, a Luddite, but not really," I said. "The telephone was a pretty risqué technology when it came out and Frost had some fun with it."

"Another dirty boy with a high IQ."

It was a particularly apt comment; Laurie had an IQ in the upper 190s.

"What are you doing here?"

"I’m making money, Emily," she said. "Jane Austen receives applause, but Ms. Paulette de Cocklique immensely enhances my savings account. I only wish I could put it on my publication list for the tenure committee."

I smiled at the thought of the tenure committee reviewing passages of oral sex. "What are you writing now?"

"It’s all based on my current troubles. I have a young woman–you know, a thinly disguised me who has gotten a boob job and is waif thin–sleeping with all these tenure committee members to appease them and get her tenure. She has sex every three pages and ruminates on it every three paragraphs. In between I have a plot about her inner guilt and the innocent young boy to whom she’s married. They have sex missionary style, which she likes; I have her bending over for the dean. Torrid, I know, but that’s the way I feel."

"I know how you feel," I said.

"Hey, it’s a great stress relief and I get a kick out of printing choice sections on university letterhead."

"I hope you use the printer in your office," I said. "They will fire you, de Cocklique or no de Cocklique. Imagine what the students would think if they knew what you were doing?"

"I’m sure some of the alumni read the little pink and blue covered books. Someone must, they pay very well. Anyway, they might fire me anyway," she said. "I’m so scared they are going to say I don’t have enough publications. And that bastard Rocklidge hates me."

"He hates all women, ever since his wife left him," I said. "Anne Tierney can fix things with him."

"I’m just scared. I wish I could be evaluated on my teaching and not on my publishing. I keep hearing things about how they change the rules and how the president is quite nuts when it comes to that sort of stuff. Am I being silly?"

"Not at all," I said. "It’s very stressful, but you are so good. If the committee doesn’t take you they are nuts. Harvard and UC Berkeley doesn’t walk through the front door everyday."

"Were you nervous?"

"Are you kidding? I’m still getting over it and it happened over fifteen years ago."

"You are always so cool though," she said. "Even when the extraordinary happens. You are like a celebrity around here since you got a personal visit from you know who."

She gestured to where my autographed picture with former President Bill Clinton hung.

We looked good together, Bill and I, a big open smile on his face complemented by the gleeful expression of incredulity I wore. That week was right when the impeachment scandal was breaking via Matt Drudge and Michael Isikoff–before the independent counsel, the apology and the lurid details tarnished yet another image of the youth and hope and Camelot that America always looks to subscribe to. Students I didn’t know still dropped by to see the photo.

The shot was taken on one of the hottest days of the summer. He had come to campus to give a speech to education and the globalization of the world. The business students were particularly interested in what he had to say; some protest activity was going on, due to the impeachment crisis and the general hatred the president seemed to attract wherever he went.

Although an active voter, I was under pressure to complete a paper for a conference and not really interested in the speech. Secret service men greeted me when I showed up to work. They informed me that my office overlooked the square where the event was to be held; the stage and podium where he would speak from was right outside my window. I told them that I had to work on my paper and showed them the research I had brought as well as the official documentation that stated I had a real conference to attend, with a real deadline. They had already spoken to the dean about me, had searched my office and car, and now had to search me: identification, handbag, briefcase.

Needless to say, they performed a thorough inspection, which I passed; but I wasn’t quite free.

Two agents, Benjamin and Phillip, joined me in my office. Their first act was to shut my window. They were non-communicative after a brief, formal greeting. They took the two chairs I kept out for students and stared intently out the window. The building wasn’t air conditioned and relied heavily on ventilation. Already sweating from the search, I felt the temperature going up to a boiling point as I concentrated on analyzing the Citizen in the Cyclops chapter.

The square was a long rectangular lawn of fresh summer green. Two columns of trees would greet the carbon dioxide of the president’s words and shade the student audience from the white heat of the sun. The ebony platform soaked up the sun’s rays, and I imagined it to be the temperature of an oven floor. Agents formed a human barrier around the black stage. Others drifted through the crowd in a seemingly aimless fashion; still others secured the perimeter of the square. I looked across at the windows of the other buildings, most were shut, others were occupied by agents. I found it all very necessary.

My work did not advance much at all when applause sounded in the square. I stood up and went to the window; the agents joined me.

"He looks good today," I said and received no reply.

I didn’t know what had ignited the cheers, but the reaction was enough to get me to listen in and analyze what he was saying.

The president’s talk was part history lesson and part advertisement. He translated the jigsaw puzzle of the globe into a worldview of inclusion through economics and education. In a masterful display of balanced rhetoric, he talked of national and global interests and how it all related to the individuals gathered before him. He made no distinctions between the novice and the professional economist, he explained his positions with anecdotes and facts that informed and empowered the former and persuaded the latter.

"And you know this isn’t limited to just those seeking to enter the business world and politics," he said. "It affects those pursuing the law, especially those with an interest in International law; to those of you interested in the medical profession, many of you will be working with people in the developing world and solving the unique problems those countries are and will be facing; and even those of you who are going into education. Look," he gestured toward my window and the whole student body looked right at me. "This topic is even of interest to your professors who were too busy to attend."

Some of the students applauded, why I have no idea. Others waved. Others just stayed focused on the president.

"Hi Doc," he said and waved.

Then he returned to the text of his speech and concluded with a list of final points he wanted the students to take with them. A gregarious and congeal leader, he stepped down into the crowd when he was finished. The secret service followed him as he pressed the flesh, spoke to individuals, and allowed himself to be interviewed by the media covering the event. Then he entered our building, which was sealed by security, and purchased a bottle of water from the vending machine in the lounge. It was a rare occasion when this president was ahead of schedule and Benjamin and Phillip offered to escort me to meet him. I took advantage of the opportunity.

The press was still trying to get to him. They hadn’t had enough. Outside cameramen repositioned their equipment at odd angles to get a candid shot through the windows of the building. Some reporters tried to persuade the secret service to allow them in for an exclusive; others interviewed the students and protesters. The students were well behaved. The protesters were not. Foul language at a high volume raged for a moment and then died down as the human vocal chords became physically weary. The square would need an hour or two before it returned to its morning serenity; the lawn would require a week or more of meticulous care to return to its former neo-utopic state.

"Mr. President," Phillip said. "This is Professor Emily Wakelin. The person–"

The president nodded and Phillip stopped speaking.

"Hello Dr. Wakelin," he said. "Thanks for illustrating the urgency of this issue by coming to your window."

I thanked him for coming, for speaking, and for making me a momentary center of attention. He had an erudite manner about him and seemed at ease with the unfamiliar terrain and with me. Benjamin got me a bottle of water.

The president asked me how I liked the speech–he had penned it himself–and what I was doing in my office when I had stopped to listen to the speech. I told him I had enjoyed the speech and found it informative, although I was pretty familiar with his positions from my reading and friends in the Poly-sci department. I told him about my paper, the heat in my office, and the help I received from Benjamin and Phillip. He laughed and got another bottle of water. A cacophony of voices erupted as the doors were ruptured open by an overzealous member of the press determined to capture herself on videotape asking the president about the impeachment proceedings. The reporter was rebuffed by security and the president’s demeanor became solemn. He asked if we could go to my office. We did, accompanied by Phillip and Benjamin who waited outside.

He took a seat in one of the student chairs and replenished himself with the water. Still perspiring, he asked me to open the window.

"Won’t that violate–"

"Don’t worry, I’ll tell them I told you to do it. Besides, if the press sees the open window they might think I’ve left."

I did as I was told and the absurdness of the situation hit me as I watched the people on the lawn. I was in my office with the President of the United States, and he was hot and thirsty. I turned from the window and saw him admiring my working library.

"You teach a lot of Irish literature," he said.

"Yes," I said. "I also teach a lot of courses on modernism, mostly 1890-1941."

"I’m heading to Ireland in the next few months," he said thumbing through my most precious copies of my main study. "They are experiencing the greatest economic revival in all of Europe." He turned to me and smiled, the book open in his huge hands, "There’s quite an amazing story taking place in that nation. They are truly waking up from the nightmare of their history."

I was captivated. I took a step closer to him and engaged him in a discussion about the books, my work, and Ireland. In person, the charisma was evident. His manner was open and friendly, his wit unmistakable, his phrases seductive, and his knowledge seemed boundless. He had been everywhere during the past six years, the country’s leader and representative. He possessed a talent for looking right into your eyes and making you feel like you and the subject at hand were the center of the universe. The conversation may have only lasted ten minutes, but it was one no one else in my field would ever enjoy. I didn’t defend anything; I can’t judge a relationship, Amy, that I’m not involved in. How do we know what is going on? I taught you not to judge, but to do what is right for yourself and by yourself.

"Benjamin, Phillip," he opened the door.

"Yes sir," they responded dutifully.

"Take Professor Wakelin into custody," he said stepping back. "She opened that window."

"What?" I was in shock as the two agents stepped forward.

"I gotcha!" he shouted with glee and I almost collapsed.

The agents broke into jovial laughter.

"I had you going there for a second, Doc," he said with a big openhearted laugh. "Just kidding."

I didn’t know whether it was the heat or the company, but I felt dizzy and crashed into my chair, exhausted.

"It’s time to get going Mr. President."

He nodded. "Here, Ben, help Professor Wakelin up out of her chair, poor woman’s exhausted. Nancy can you get a photo of Professor Wakelin? She’s played an integral part in explaining economic globalization today."

Nancy, an aide, came into the office and in a flash I was caught in one of the few photos with the president that would not make it onto the cover of a tabloid.

"And nothing more happened?" Laurie asked with a leer.

"No," I said. "Despite all reports to the contrary, he was a gentleman and exceedingly well informed about seemingly everything."

"Well I guess that is part of the man."

"Yes," I said. "That’s the part I met."

"There are other sides to him, though," she suggestively raised her left eyebrow.

"There are other sides to everybody. That was the side I met."

"I suppose you missed your chance," she said.

"For what?"

"You could have gone on 60 Minutes or 20/20, exposing one of the other sides that you didn’t meet," she said. "You could have been the next scandal, especially with that private photo of just the two of you."

"It’s not really private," I said. "Benjamin’s in it, see him in the background?"

She nodded.

"I’ll just have to write the episode into my next book," she smiled.

"Don’t you dare," I said.

"What do you care, you don’t read them anyway," she said.

"I guess if you don’t get tenure, you can always write for the tabloids."

"Don’t say that," she said. "Happy thoughts only."

"What are you doing tonight?"

"Staying at home with Frank and chewing my nails about tenure. Actually Frank has a big case and probably won’t be home. I probably could just stay here and try to finish this book."

"What about Easter?"

"Oh, the pretense of experiencing happiness at going to see one’s in-laws?" she smiled. "I’m putting off thinking about that for as long as possible. This weekend. Where are you off to tonight?"

"I am going to take my daughter out for Easter. She’s taking a plane back down to Florida tomorrow night to see her father," I said. "So tonight is my only chance."

I looked at the clock and considered how long it would take me to get to Amy’s.

"How is Amy doing?"

"Okay," I said. "Her grades are very good. She has a townhouse, has friends–"

"Boyfriend?"

"I don’t know," I thought of Sweating Stallions and repeated, "I don’t know."

"You’re sure she doesn’t have a boyfriend," she said. "Are you in denial about it?"

I shrugged, "What’s a mother to do. She’s an adult now and can do what she wants as long as she has the means. And she does, from the school, her father, me, and apparently Zoe. She has free tuition, free rent, free money, and has experienced something akin to free love."

"Does she also go to the free lay church in the free lay state?"

"I don’t think she attends church much," I looked at the ground. "I don’t want to think about the lay state; she’s my baby."

And of course that was what engaged my mind as I packed up my car and started out for her school. I had started out early on purpose. I imagined the campus, almost ready to bloom, and planned to walk around its peace on my own before going to Amy’s townhouse. Traffic was a light steady stream. I listened to my favorite talk radio show; Mel Brooks related the comic and tragic moments of his life and career.

In line at the tolls I considered the benefits of EZ-Pass.

I crossed state lines and tried to think of a way to break the ice with Amy. I didn’t know what mood to anticipate, which made it hard to think of words or phrases that might make for a better visit. Would we talk about her father? Probably. Her trip to Florida? Definitely. Her school? Yes. I was so proud of her in so many ways. Despite the upheaval at home during her last year of high school, she had graduated second in her high school class, a member of the national honor society, and was on the varsity golf team, a sport she’d learned under the tutelage of her father in happier times. How many golf tournaments had he made me endure? Endless Sundays of Nicklaus, Norman, Crenshaw, Strange, Faldo, Mickelson, Duval and, at the end of our marriage, Woods. We tried to play together as a family, but I didn’t have the patience; but Amy was almost a natural, following whatever instructions her father gave her.

I could picture them on the golf course together. Possibly it was on the links that he explained his side of things to her. During those private moments beyond my influence he had listed his reasons, created a false history of a time before her own reliable memory was able to inform her.

"I never wanted anything bad to happen, Amy."

She looks up at him from her shot. They are standing around the green. I can see his ball lying on the green, a successful shot from the fairway. Amy’s ball sits in the first cut of rough just off the smooth putting surface; she is preparing a bump and run shot.

They are alone. The scene is still and the course serene, no birds, no wind.

"Your mother and I have just grown apart," he tells her softly. "I love you very much and I never wanted to hurt you, but our marriage just can’t go on like this."

He pauses and prepares to verbalize the truth, because above all I still believe him to be a truthful man. The soft tone remains; a note of tenderness touched by fear is expressed through it.

"I have made some bad mistakes, it’s true. But I tried to make up for them and she just won’t let me. You have to understand–"

"Daddy," she responds to his warm voice, the gentleness of the moment.

He inhales and this prevents her from continuing. She wants to hear what he has to say.

"I feel like a failure," he is on the verge of tears. "You’re my little girl and I don’t want this or anything to stand in your way. Your mother and I will settle this thing, but I don’t want this to hurt you anymore than it has; and I don’t want it to come between us."

She lets her club fall to the ground and walks toward him.

"I never meant to hurt you," he looks at the turf. "I never meant to hurt anyone."

"I love you daddy," she hugs him.

"I love you too, sweetheart."

I exited the highway and completed my journey. The campus foliage had begun to revitalize itself in the wake of the refreshed sun. The budding leaves of the thinner branches waved in the light breeze as I pulled into the visitor parking lot. A talented landscape artist had chain sawed the school’s mascot and letters into a row of boxwoods which proudly stood before the building housing the information center, student lounge, café and bookstore.

A foreboding chill changed my mind about walking the campus nature trail. I opted to get some coffee and browse in the bookstore while I waited to meet my daughter. I turned on my cell phone.

Studying book lists in campus bookstores was a latent hobby of mine. I didn’t pursue it at all, but when I had the opportunity I always took note of what other schools were reading. Here was the curriculum in full, the canon according to this school’s intellectual community. I checked out my area first and found most of the text, aside from the anthologies, to be from 1850 to today. A literary theory teacher was featuring Kate Chopin, Zora Neale Hurston, and Louise Erdich in addition to her chosen critical anthology. The writer-in-residence seemed to have a preference for Madison Smartt Bell, A.M. Homes, and Russell Banks. An Americanist had ordered the most famous works of Twain, Hemingway, Faulkner, and DeLillo for his students; and had runoff his own supplemental packet of short fiction. The shelf displaying the Irish literature course included Wilde, Yeats, Joyce, Doyle, and Heaney.

"Hello Emily," a voice massaged my ear lobe. "Do you approve of my selections?’"

Jack Tanner stood beaming at me.

"Hello Jack," I hugged him. "I was just going to check out the history department."

"Well, history has come to you," he said. "How are you and what are you doing in my bookstore with a cup of coffee?"

"Very well, thank you," I said. "I’m killing time before I go to see my daughter."

"That’s nice," he said. "I just saw my son last week, he made Harvard Medical School, can you believe it?"

"Congratulations, Jack."

"His mother didn’t think he had a prayer. I had him apply to a bunch of schools, but this one came back and we are just ecstatic, truly in a state of disbelief," his glow grew as he remembered the celebration. "I just hope the work and stress don’t kill him."

"Anthony’s a hard worker as well as gifted, he’ll make you proud."

"You must be proud of your daughter," he said. "Don Bremer had her in class last semester and said she was first rate. A fine mind and a sunny disposition."

"She’s always amazed me," I said; maybe she was only moody when she was around me.

"But you young lady are a lawbreaker," he pointed at my cup of coffee. "Why didn’t anyone stop you?"

"I don’t think they care much about the books. If I walked down the CD aisle or the software rack, they might take notice."

"This is true," he said. "Let’s go over to the café and get you a refill; you can tell me how things are in Philly. Any more visits from Mr. Clinton. You know he and his wife are working in different states these days."

"Very funny," I said and followed him over to the café.

He ordered a Café Latte and we sat by the windows.

The school was flourishing; enrollment was up; an anonymous donor had contributed enough to add a new wing in the humanities complex solely for media and cultural studies. In the summer, the department would hold its second Media and Communication studies conference. He was presenting a paper on tweens.

"Are you interested in that stuff?"

"Well, since Professor Stevenson produced his bestseller, the school is giving generous support to faculty members who do research in that field."

"And your interest is tweens?"

"Middle schoolers," he said. "They are marketing the clothing, accessories, and basically the life-style of high schoolers to the younger kids. There is a pattern in which every age group is looking at every other age group for its own vision of an ideal and its biologically unobtainable. You can’t be a cool eighteen-year-old when you are eleven."

"Like the Eternal Twenty-One store," I said, "which is targeting me."

"Right," he said. "But it’s more destructive than that. At least you have memories of your twenties. Today, every age group is being urged to look at the age they are not, to plan for it and to be it. Not only are these middle school kids getting caught up in the fashions and desires of another age group, which in its most harmless manifestation exhibits itself as the buying of clothing but they are getting involved in adult situations–sex and drugs are the big ones. In many cases, a lot children never get a chance to accept their own person when they relate themselves to others, and many only accept each other on the basis of how much the other conforms to the unrealistic standard that is being constantly marketed to them."

He told me about his research, a series of six studies on children in the northeast. It was compelling research and a troublesome argument; Time magazine was interested in the findings. He told me he would send me an advance copy of his paper before the conference and implored me to clear away a weekend to attend the conference.

He asked me about the upcoming Irish studies conference in the summer. I started to give him the details when I saw my daughter on a couch in the main lobby kissing a skinny boy wearing a Buckcherry T-shirt. I thought she caught my eye and I quickly focused all my attention on Jack.

"My daughter is out there kissing this guy," I said.

Jack nodded, his grin hadn’t left him.

"Now you know why parents should only arrive at their appointed time in their appointed place. The false face doesn’t betray what the false heart knows."

With a perfectly open and honest face, my daughter entered the café with the young man. He was tall, and his facial features–high cheekbones, a nose that ended in a slight incline, and thick, cherubic lips made for kissing–a testament to my daughter’s good taste.

"Mom," she said with a wide smile. "You are here so early. Why didn’t you call me?"

"Amy," I feigned surprise; we had silently and mutually decided to ignore what had just happened.

She embraced and kissed me on the cheek.

"I am so glad to see you," she said.

Jack continued to smile at the impromptu play-acting.

"Mom," she said stepping back. "This is Alex."

"Hello, Mrs.–"

"Alex, my mom is a doctor."

"Hello Dr. Wakelin," he extended his hand. It was a liberal hand, hot and moist; a line from Othello to Desdemona snaked its way into my mind: "The hearts of old gave hands, but our new heraldry is hands, not hearts."

"Emily, I better go," Jack said and embraced me. "Call me when you get a chance and we’ll do lunch," he turned and shook my daughter’s hand. "Bring Amy along, I’ll find out how much she really learned from Dr. Bremer’s class."

"Hey," she protested.

"Just kidding," he squeezed her shoulder. "Look after your mother tonight."

"Yes, Professor Tanner."

Jack gave Alex a friendly tap on his shoulder, "Behave yourself, Alex."

"Later on Professor Tanner," Alex said.

Jack left us and I didn’t have to wait long to find out if Alex was going to dinner with us.

He wanted to kiss her but didn’t. He just squeezed her shoulder and smiled at her, and then at me. Then he looked back at her.

"Well, I gotta go," he said. "Have a good time and I’ll think about what we talked about."

He sauntered off at a slow pace. My daughter and I watched him. I had questions but decided to hold them for now. We had other things to discuss.

"You look wonderful," I said. "Did you lose some weight?"

"Thanks mom," she said.

I looked harder. "How much?"

"Mom, I’ve been swimming and working out a lot," she said. "The golf coach wants us to be in shape. The pros all work out to enhance their game. The coach thinks it will be good for us."

"Well," I paused reminding myself not to sour things from the beginning. "Well, you look great anyhow. Do you feel enhanced?"

"Yes," she said. "Steamers?"

"You don’t have to go back to your townhouse for anything?"

"No," she said and patted her knapsack. "Everything I needed today is packed in here."

I noticed the "TB" embroidered below the knapsack’s main zipper; she had kept his name. Amy Billington. I followed her waif-like figure to my car. Her good mood felt genuine and I was sure it had nothing to do with me. I considered the possible sources: Alex vs. going to her father’s. I decided I was much more comfortable with Alex as the source of her apparent elation. If she were thinking about her father, I decided, she would be in a more taciturn mood.

On the way to the restaurant, Amy mentioned her difficult philosophy final. World literature had been her favorite subject. The golf team was strong this year, and she was in the team’s fourth slot with a three handicap; the girl who was number one consistently broke par. They had a match scheduled with my university a week after Easter.

"I’m sorry mom, but we’re going to crush you," she smiled.

I wished her well and wished she would. I did not like the golf coach at my school. A failed tour pro, he was a bitter and unpleasant man who had created such fear and anxiety in one of my students that, from midterms to finals, the boy’s grades dropped from an "A-" to a "C+," mostly due to his failure to read the books. Amy seemed to get along with her coach and was even doing this exercise program at his behest, something she had never done in high school.

"I’m really glad you are here," she said. "I was worried you wouldn’t want to see me."

"Don’t be ridiculous," I said. "I’m just sorry I couldn’t bring Buck."

"He’s cute," she said. "How is he?"

"He broke into the refrigerator again."

"Did you forget to duct-tape it shut?"

"He broke in at night," I said. "Now I’m duct taping it morning, noon, and night."

She giggled at the thought of her mother the PhD outwitted by the dog.

We arrived at Steamers, her favorite seafood restaurant. The smell of hyacinth was heavy outside the restaurant. We were seated immediately; she’d called ahead.

Our waiter was a tall, dark-skinned young man in the uniform white shirt and black pants. His twisted curls of hair were like the twisted locks of a blackberry tree, and his accent was from southern Italy. He provided us with water, rattled off a list of specials more complex than the questions on my PhD oral exam, and offered to get us drinks. Amy ordered an amaretto sour, and I did the same.

"Do the boys tease about it being a ‘girl drink’?" I asked, not wanting to ask who recommended them to her, but wanting to find all the same what her friends said about her taste for this mixed drink.

"Alex does a little," she smiled, as though she’d revealed a dirty little secret to me. "But he has no problem buying them for me."

"And what does he drink?"

"Mom," she said and, of course, my probing had already been made. "He drinks what all boys drink: beer."

"Some things don’t change."

"It’s not even good beer."

The young man came back–pad in hand. Amy ordered the soft-shelled crab and I had the broiled stuffed flounder. She ordered the house white wine with our meal. I couldn’t help it, before we moved on to other topics I had a few questions.

"So what does Alex do," I asked.

There wasn’t a hint of irritation in her voice when she answered me: "He’s into ecological science and social work. He reads a lot of Jeanette Winterson, doesn’t really like sports, loves nature walks, and was part of an exchange program that went to Chile last semester."

"I like Jeanette Winterson," I said. I had taught her book Sexing the Cherry two semesters before and had recommended Written on the Body to Laurie–she’d loved it. Amy let out a giggle.

"Good, you guys have something to talk about," she said. "He’s a really great guy."

"How long have you known him?"

"We just started going out about a month and a half ago. He was involved with this other girl, but that’s over now," she sipped her amaretto sour.

"Do you know this person?"

"They went out for two years–he’s a junior and they met freshmen year–but it didn’t work out and now he’s with me."

I sipped my drink, knew she had more to say from the anxious tone of her voice.

"She went to Chile with him and they had a fight down there and broke up," she continued. "That’s what we were talking about before. He’s still like affected by it, thinks it was all his fault, but I keep telling him he’s a great guy and that he should just forget it."

"What about that guy Rob, the golfer, you saw last year?"

"He’s so," she twisted her lip in discontent at the thought. "He’s so straight and boring. He was always worried about his game and stressed about his grades and he always did fine. We just grew apart."

Our food arrived along with the wine.

"The waiter is cute," she said.

"Mediterranean," I said. "Did you get the travel pack I sent you? The summer trip to Europe that we talked about?"

"No," she said. "I haven’t checked my mailbox in a couple of days. I’ve been so busy with golf and Alex and planning this trip. I’m sorry. I’ll check it as soon as we get back. I’m sure it’s there."

"If you don’t want to go, that’s fine–"

"Are you kidding me, I want to go?" she said. "There is a big European influence down where dad is."

I nodded. The flounder was delicious.

"He told me he is going to take me on his new boat and we are going to tour the canals of the city."

It’s not a realistic scene I imagine because I know what the canals look like, but I envision Amy sitting in a gondola, her father the gondolier. Morning light clarifies the placid scene of red-roofed houses and cerulean water rippling along the edges of the boat. Her father effortlessly controls their path; my daughter tranquilly admires the serenity of the still life surrounding her. She listens to his calm, reasoned words, his version of the past, why life is so much better now. Will she consider moving here after she finishes school? Zoe meets them at the dock and takes Amy’s hand.

"Come check out the studs I found in town."

"See you later girls," her father says.

Amy waves goodbye as Zoe leads her to some debauchery she hasn’t yet experienced.

"That sounds nice," making a conscious effort to stop my imagination.

"I’m excited about it. I like boating and fishing," she continued to eat.

"Any other plans?"

"I think we are just going to play it by ear," she said.

Zoe had not been mentioned and I didn’t know if that was because she thought it would upset me, or if the comment, "play it by ear," meant "Zoe and I are going to do something really wild." I suppressed the temptation to ask her directly about the woman. I wondered if Amy was having sex with Alex yet. If she was just a student in one of my classes, I would have put a check in the "yes" column without a second thought, but she is my daughter and I want to believe differently.

The waiter returned with another round of drinks. We ate in silence after answering his query as to whether everything was okay. I watch Amy. She seems smaller, more impressionable, and more vulnerable than my students though I am consciously aware that she is now older than many of them. Why does everything we love always seem so fragile and fleeting? How many more dinners would I have alone with her before she graduated? How many more opportunities would I get to talk to her without the distraction of company? How long would it be before she married and a spouse’s opinion was revered as much as her mother’s or father’s? What would he think of her divorced parents? Her father in the midst of a mid-life crisis with a twenty-something? Her shut-in, celibate mother writing papers on technology, sexuality, and canonical literature? Would he ask me to tell my Bill Clinton story?

"You know there was a time," I paused. "Perhaps I should say, is a time…but maybe that isn’t quite right either."

"What is it mom?"

"Your father and I were once complete strangers," the words tumbled out of my mouth like bulky wooden blocks, metaphysical splinters cut into my gums.

"I know that," she said refusing to recognize the awkwardness of the moment.

"Your father is very hurt," I searched in vain for phrases that would resuscitate my speech. On paper everything was so easy, you could revise and revise, and show a friend, and revise some more. "You already know about how we met and the early part of our marriage. Look, people make pledges to each other, and I’m not talking about public wedding vows, I’m talking about private promises, commitments, and agreements. When people get married there is an image of that person they are marrying and the two people are trying to get to know as much about each other as possible, but that they are also trying to learn as much as they can what the other person thinks about them. In other words, they are trying to learn what their image is; because that is ultimately what the other person is seeing and is expecting to live with. We all make agreements through our imaginations and when reality–"

"Mom," she shook her head. "What are you trying to say? Dad didn’t live up to the image you ascribed to him?"

"No," I said. "I mean, well, let me be direct–"

"Please."

"What happened between your father and I has nothing to do with you or–"

"I know that."

"He’s hurt."

"I know that."

"I’m hurt."

"Mom," she said. "I know that, too. If everybody is hurt why can’t everybody work on fixing it?"

She paused.

"Why is it every time I talk to you or dad you are both always trying to give me some convoluted explanation for something that is very simple. Why can’t we just work on fixing things?" she dropped her head for a moment. "Mom I love you. I know things aren’t going back to the way they were, but forget about the speeches and the explanations. I love you and I love him and I’m not choosing between you. I may be bitchy now and then, but what do you expect?"

This was still all new to us and the passage of time didn’t make it familiar."

I remained silent. I didn’t know what was happening this Easter, but I knew it was coming, and I’d meet it in whatever clothes it showed up in. We all had to take new steps, Gabe, Amy, and myself. We had to accept each other as we were rather than what we imagined each other to be. We had to reinvent our relationships to one another, to accommodate Amy’s adulthood as well as the change in our family ties. My daughter instinctively understood this.

Few people were out on that chilly spring night. The drive back to campus was quick. I parked in front of the student lounge.

"Happy Easter," I said. "And think about Europe."

"Why don’t you come up," she said.

"That’s not necessary."

"Why not," she said. "I’ll get the book from the mail and we can look it over together. My roommates are all out and I’m all packed. I got one class tomorrow and then I’m off. A lot of people aren’t even going to class tomorrow."

"But you are," I said.

"Yes mom, I am," she shook her head. "Come in and we’ll look at the tour book."

We walk into the student center. Despite what Amy has said about the campus shutting down, the food court is filled with students eating late dinners. Amy points down a long, narrow hallway lined with student mailboxes, one on top of the other, like miniature prison cells. I nod.

"I am going to go get a coffee," I tell her and head toward the café.

She doesn’t question this and heads toward the metal box that holds her mail.

I go into the student store. I want to get her something for her trip. Bags, books, posters, shirts, mugs, software, notepads, cards, electronics, candy, I settle on a beach bag, shirt, and a notepad. She needs none of it, but buying it makes me feel good. I also get a card and put fifty dollars in it.

"What are you looking at," a female voice scolds.

"Nothing. Just pick one and let’s go," a familiar voice says.

I turn and see Alex. He is by the magazine stand located in the corner of the store. He stands behind a young woman with his arms wrapped around her torso.

I turn away from the scene and the girl behind the register begins to tally my purchases. She gets them in the bag and is swiping my credit card when Amy comes into the store.

"Mom, what are you doing? I thought you were going to–"

She stops speaking as she becomes aware of Alex’s presence. My stomach flushes itself with a familiar, acidic sensation, my muscles tighten and my mouth becomes dry. The two, walking side by side rather than arm in arm, casually approach the line and see my daughter. The girl is taller than Amy and wears an almost joyous expression that I perceive to be full of challenge.

"Hey," her voice is like a quick jab at Amy.

"Hey," Alex says.

"Hey Alex," Amy says.

I sign the credit card slip the cashier lays out in front of me.

"Hi Mrs.–Professor Wakelin."

"Hello," I say taking my bagged goods.

"What are you guys up to?"

"Nothing," the girl says. "We just ran into each other. Crew is having a big party."

Alex is standing between the two girls.

"Want to meet up there?" Alex says and I’m not sure which girl he is talking to.

"I have to go," the girl says. "I’ll meet you guys there. Call me if you change your mind. Rugby might also be having something."

"How was dinner, Amy?"

"Fine."

He steps forward as though to embrace her, but thinks better of it. I get a whiff of his breath and hope that they are walking to Crew or Rugby or wherever they are going.

"I have to go back to my place to pack," Amy says. "I’ll call you at your place in a little bit okay?"

"Okay," he says. "If I’m not there just call me on the cell."

I followed her out and down to her town house. She didn’t say anything. The place was dark. No one home, just like she had said. I turned on the light. The townhouse had two levels: kitchen, half-bath, and den were on the first level, and the living quarters were on the second level. Pointing up the stairs were arrows with signs reading "Hotties Within" and "Abode of the Skinny Little Bitch."

"Roommates," she said. "I got the book."

"We don’t have to go over that stuff right–"

"No," she said. "We can. Would you like some coffee? Tea?"

"I’m fine," I said and gave her the gifts. "Here, and don’t forget to read the card."

"This is not necessary," she said as she saw the money.

"Treat your father to lunch."

She hugged me and went to the kitchen. I heard her put on the kettle.

"Mom," she said and stopped.

I didn’t know what to say. I knew she wanted to ask. What were they doing? She wanted to know. Did you observe anything? But she refrained.

"Honey," I said.

"I’ll be right back."

She went up the stairs and I heard a door slam. I looked at the tour book, still sealed in its plastic. A thud sounded through the ceiling and I went to the stairs. I peered up at the pale gray bathroom door and listened to a gagging sound coming from within. The kettle whistled. I rushed back to the kitchen and shut it off. Steam rose from the tea. I let it steep a moment. When I heard the bathroom door open I tossed the bag in the trash.

I went upstairs. One room was open and dark, the other shut, an edge of light lining the floor. An innocent scene of spotless porcelain, not a hint of evidence was to be found in the bathroom. I knocked on the door. My daughter opened it, teary-eyed and shirtless. I knew what she was doing because it was familiar to me. She had been scrutinizing herself in light of new evidence of a deficiency perceived by another that she had not noticed before. She was trying to live into the imagination of another person and it wasn’t working. After she had purged her stomach of her dinner, she had examined her body in the mirror, the profile of her torso. I gripped her in my arms and her eyes streamed their fluids onto my shoulder pad.

"What’s wrong with me? I like me," she said. "Why can’t he just forget about her? Why does she have to be so perfect? Taller, thinner–"

But her crying grew deeper and the recognizable syllables were drowned out in the wetness of her pain. No words of comfort, no advice that would be deemed adequate came to my mind. I kissed her and held her as best as I could. I realized that my body was more familiar to her than hers was to mine. Mine had stayed a similar shape and size her whole life, a steady constant presence she had embraced throughout her life, from very little to now, fully-grown. I rocked back and forth with her until she finished.