Staci Peters - Every Man For Anne

"One Mickey Finn coming up. Here, let's flush these down the toilet," she said, gathering up the halves of the plastic capsules. "I'll just put this bottle back on the shelf and we're all set to go."

They heard a whistling outside as they went back downstairs, followed by the rusty creak of the mailbox lid. Anne opened the front door.

"Nothing for you, I'm afraid," she told Silke.

"Oops, I'm sorry. This is addressed to both of us."

She was holding a garishly colored postcard of a cruise ship sailing into a semi-tropical sunset.

"Dear Anne and Silke," she read out. "Had a fine flight over and an interesting stay here in Las Palmas. Joining our cruise ship this afternoon. Still very excited. Take care, both of you, and don't get in to any mischief. Love Mom and Dad. P.S. Hope you do well with your final grades."

"If only she knew," said Silke.

"You mean about the grades?"

"No… about the mischief."

"Hark at you," teased Anne. "Who's the worrier now?"

"Let's get going," said Silke. "I can hardly wait."

"Neither can I," agreed Anne. "So let's keep our rendezvous at the Corner Bar."

Right then, John Martin was thinking about a drink too. He finished marking the essay in front of him and tossed it onto the pile with all the others. Thank God that lot's done, he thought to himself; sometimes it felt as if he'd never reach the end of term. Why on earth did he let himself get stuck with freshman English? Next time there was a department meeting on course allotment, he'd pull a little rank; after all, surely he'd been there long enough to pick and choose his own courses. There were at least three people who'd joined the English Department after him. Why shouldn't they look after it?

What a term it had been. And now, finally, it had come to an end. Damn, he cursed inwardly, I've still got that last Creative Writing class tomorrow. He looked around his office for inspiration and his attention settled on a red leather-bound edition of the Tales and Poems of Edgar Allen Poe. That's it. I'll read them "The Pit and the Pendulum," tell, them that's the kind of vivid imagery to aim for, and then dismiss them with a blessing for the summer.

He picked up the University Bulletin and glanced down at the list of faculty publications. His own name was followed by the details of a book review he'd written for Modem British Fiction, an academic quarterly to which only he and Professor Kendall subscribed, At least; as far as he knew they were the only ones with sufficient interest in the new novels. Martin never quite got over seeing his name in print but it was odd that he'd never gotten around to writing that important novel he knew he carried within him. Oh well, maybe I'll start on it this summer.

His eye caught his name repeated again… no, it was an announcement of faculty activities that said his wife, Professor Joannah Martin of the Psychology Department, was off to a three-thy conference. She'd been in very good spirits when he'd said goodbye to her at lunchtime and wished her a safe journey. Why didn't she seem that enthusiastic when they had an ordinary weekend to spend at home together? The car, he suddenly thought Of course, she's taken the car, so I'll have to walk home. No matter. I'll stop off at College Corner and have a beer. I don't even need to get home for supper.

Martin walked down the corridor to the Department's washroom. As he rinsed his hands, he inspected himself in the mirror. Teaching takes it out of one… I do look tired. Still, going on forty soon, and not a fleck of grey. He ran a comb back through his mop of dark brown hair. A few years younger and I'd grow it longer at the back, but it always looks so silly when a college professor tries to ape his students. He had a square face, rather striking hazel eyes, and full, almost sensual lips. He looked at his reflection rather distantly; it never occurred to him that his female students might occasionally find him quite attractive.

Sally Rossiter had visited his office earlier that week to make a -great display of the obvious charms of her budding figure. But then that wasn't out of any attraction to John Martin, he realized. Rather ft emphasized her desperate need to get at least one. B grade this term. There's always one of them that'll try it on, thought Martin, but why pick on me? I'd be foolish to succumb to such a trick. News would soon get around the department and what a buzz that would make. Anyway, she's much too young. And the same went for those two foolish girls who had submitted some rather second-rate attempts at erotic fiction for their Creative Writing papers. Erica Jong might have the experience and talent to get away with it, although he never had got to the end of Fear of Flying, but Anne Weston and her young German friend shouldn't have tried to write about things they could obviously have no first-hand knowledge of… Really, what a silly put-on.

Martin stacked the freshman papers on the secretary's desk and walked down the stairs and out into the late-afternoon sunshine. He returned the greetings of two of the better students in his Dickens seminar as he cut across the rolling grass lawn in front of the main University building. A strip of bare earth had been beaten by the march of countless feet to and from the corner bus stop. Martin ambled along this track, enjoying the warm glow on his skin. He loosened his collar as he went.

A beer at the College Corner Bar, he thought with anticipation, no, two beers, and then he'd stroll down the hill and stop by at the variety store and look through the magazine rack. Maybe there'd be some good short fiction or an interesting interview in this month's Playboy. His own self-deception never really occurred to Martin. After all, when he did buy Playboy he rarely got around to reading the articles, although he'd inspect the photo layouts with aroused enthusiasm. Sometimes, late in the evening, he'd stop behind in the front room while Joannah got ready for bed and look, through the back issues at the girls. When it felt good and hard he'd follow her to the bedroom and make his usual overtures. Joannah rarely refused him. I'm lucky that way, he thought Once or twice she's claimed to be just too tired to please me, but she's never been so corny as to plead a headache. Still, it would be nice if she'd take the initiative occasionally.

"Hello, John," a voice interrupted his speculations. "Well, we're nearly at the end."

It was Richard Nash, one of his colleagues, walking in the opposite direction.

"Hi, Richard," he replied. "Going back for another round?"

"Just some last-minute marking. I'd like to get shut of it and leave the weekend clear."

"I finished mine this afternoon." John pulled a face.

"Lucky you," said Richard. "See you later, John."

Richard moved off and John stood at the curb patiently obeying the wait sign although the nearest car was fully a hundred yards away. The lights changed, John crossed over, and there was almost a spring in his walk as he approached the college tavern. He pushed through the door and it took a few moment for his eyes to adjust to the smoky gloom. Damn, it was the end of term; he should have realized the place would be packed.

"If it isn't John Martin," a student greeted him with a pronounced slur in his voice. "Hello there, Professor."

"George," be nodded. "Looks as if you've done some celebrating already."

"Right on, Prof. Come and join us for a drink."

"Well, really I… "

George clutched at his arm with one hand while using the other to sweep the crush of people aside.

"Make way, make way. I've got a thirsty man here."

They were almost at the bar when John felt someone else tugging at his other sleeve.

"Professor. Martin, why don't you join us. We've got a table in the corner."

It was Anne Weston. Thank goodness there was someone to rescue him from George Weber and his hard-drinking locker-mom pals.