Margot Dalton - Memories of You

If he does, I intend to kill him. I have a hunting knife under the pillow and I’m not afraid to use it. I’m not.

Today is my seventeenth birthday.

Twenty years later

JON CAMPBELL WATCHED in surprise as the beautiful woman at the back of the classroom stared at him across the row of desks. It was just a few seconds, but it seemed like an eternity that their eyes locked, and the colour drained from her face.

Could she be startled because he was so much older than the rest of the class? Somehow her reaction seemed disproportionate.

He certainly wasn’t the only middle-aged man who’d ever gone back to college to finish a degree. Even Jon had been surprised by the number of people his age he’d encountered on this first day of classes.

In fact, Jon wasn’t the oddity he’d feared he might be. And the campus was big enough that he wouldn’t be an embarrassment to his children, especially his son Steven who was a freshman at the same college.

While he was puzzling over the professor’s reaction, the woman turned abruptly and made her way to the front of the room.

“Good morning,” she said, moving away from her desk to stand in the middle of the room. “My name is Dr. Camilla Pritchard, and this class is intended to develop your creative-writing skills as well as to examine the work of some well-known authors. There is an extensive reading list that I will distribute at the conclusion of today’s session. You will need to read every book promptly in order to be prepared for assignments and class discussions.”

Her voice was crisp, but her hands, gripping a notebook, trembled slightly. Again Jon wondered at her nervousness. Did she feel threatened by one of her students?

They all looked so young. This was a senior class, but the participants still seemed like babies, freshfaced and anxious. A couple of them were chewing gum, while the thin boy sitting across the aisle from Jon appeared to be asleep.

“The workload is quite heavy,” the professor went on. “And, as you may have heard, I’m not tolerant of slackers.”

Jon grinned privately, amused by the contrast between her face and manner.

Oh, I’ll bet you’re not nearly as tough as you pretend, he told her silently.

She glanced at him almost as if he’d spoken aloud, and her cheeks turned faintly pink. She looked away quickly.

“There will be a daily writing assignment in addition to research papers and regular class work. If you feel this may be too much for you, I encourage you to drop the course immediately while you’re still in time to transfer to a different class. Otherwise, you run a very real risk of being assigned a failing grade or an incomplete rating.”

No wonder some of the students complained about Dr. Camilla Pritchard, Jon thought. He’d overheard a group of young men earlier in the day, loudly discussing this English professor.

A “dragon,” one of them had called her. And then, practically in the same breath, a “real babe.”

Now that Jon had seen her, he could certainly understand the boy’s conflicting reaction. Camilla Pritchard was tall and graceful. Her face was finely carved, with high cheekbones and deep blue eyes, and she had an elegant straight nose.

But her beauty went beyond these physical attributes. There was something in the depths of that face, those remarkable eyes, that hinted at a person hidden in a complex private world.

Jon shifted awkwardly in the little desk as she began to discuss the process of creative writing, putting a few terms on the blackboard like “stream of consciousness” and “constructionism.” Jon tried to pay attention, but the sun from the adjacent window was warm on his back, and the room was so quiet, and he was not accustomed to this complete lack of physical activity.

Eventually his mind began to wander down sunlit paths of its own. He found himself wondering idly what the blond professor would look like in a bikini— or completely naked.

He shifted in his desk, aware suddenly of an uncomfortable stirring in his groin.

At that moment, the professor caught his eye. She’d moved nearer to ask a question of a student in the next row. Jon looked down hastily.

What a fool, he thought. Like a kid in seventh grade with a crush on the teacher, getting aroused by his daydreams. Next she’d ask him to go to the blackboard and he’d have to figure out some way to save himself from real embarrassment.

But the professor seemed reluctant to have anything to do with him. She directed rapid-fire questions at most of the others, but none at her oldest student.

Again Jon thought about that strange moment when their eyes had first met. She’d been so shaken.

Could they have met somewhere?

There was something about her that was vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t get close to the memory. It was as elusive as the disappearing image of a half-forgotten dream. Maybe he was simply experiencing déjà vu.

After all, if he’d actually met somebody like her, he wouldn’t be likely to forget her. Because she, without a doubt, was one of the most beautiful, desirable women he’d ever seen.

She moved toward the back of the room and stopped by the desk of the sleeping young man, who gave a start and looked up in alarm.

“Your name?” she asked.

The boy swallowed hard and cleared his throat. He was pale and obviously scared. He looked even younger than his classmates.

Probably no more than nineteen, Jon thought. Awfully young to be in a senior-level English class.

“Enrique,” he whispered at last. “My name is Enrique Valeros.”

“Do you intend to sleep through every class, Mr. Valeros?”

The boy had a shock of black hair, expressive dark eyes and clothes that were shabby but well tended. His voice was softly accented with the musical cadences of Spanish, and his thin hands trembled on the wooden surface of the desk. Jon couldn’t tell if the tremor was because of fear, or fatigue.

“I’m very sorry, ma’am,” he muttered. “It won’t happen again.”

Something about the boy tugged at Jon’s heart. He wondered why Enrique Valeros was so tired, or what he was afraid of. A quick glance at the professor’s blue eyes convinced Jon she shared these feelings of sympathy, though she was trying to remain stern and expressionless.

“I really hope it doesn’t happen again, Mr. Valeros,” she said.

She moved to the front of the room and picked up one of the books on her desk, a thick volume on grammar, punctuation and usage.

“This will be our only formal textbook,” she told the class. “I expect you to obtain a copy and use it as your guide. Failure to comply will result in immediate deductions from your grade on all written assignments. Are there any questions?”

A sullen-looking young woman near the front of the class asked for more details about the daily written assignment and the reading list. Dr. Pritchard clarified her expectations. Without another word, the girl picked up her books and left the classroom.

The professor surveyed the group. “Anybody else?” she asked. “Let me repeat that it’s much better to leave now if you feel incapable of handling the work. In two or three weeks, dropping the course will no longer be an option.”

The students listened silently.

“Mr. Valeros,” she said, moving partway down the aisle, though she was still careful to keep a row of desks between herself and Jon, “have you had occasion to read Silas Marner?

“Yes, ma’am,” the boy whispered. “I have read it.”

“And what can you tell us about Eliot’s narrative style in that book?”

“It…The book is much more…” Enrique struggled for words while the teacher watched him in silence. “It is more gentle and poetic than Adam Bede, or Middlemarch, he said at last. “It shows George Eliot’s…it shows her quiet, mystical side.”