Elise Blackwell - Grub

At this interview, the final question was: “Why would you even consider a job with a 4/4 teaching load that won’t pay you enough to live within a hundred miles of our college?”

Margot smiled at them, seeking eye contact with first one and then the other interviewer, trying to make them remember her when they discussed candidates later. “I like to work hard,” she said, “and I live frugally.”

She had two hours before her next interview and so she toured the publishers’ displays in the exhibits hall of the convention center, looking at the glossy covers of the intellectual biographies published by larger publishing houses and written by those few academic celebrities. She also examined the matte covers of the literary studies texts and poetry volumes of the university presses. The literary journals and magazines were there, too, so Margot paged through a few in the hopes of finding an appropriate one to submit a story she was contemplating. Thumbing through a journal with an austere brown front and no art, she found Frank Hinks’ last story, published post-humously. Margot dug through her purse until she found a ten-dollar bill and four rumpled ones.

“Thank you,” said the older man with the cashbox, seeming surprised by the sale.

At another table, a periodical with Kandinsky-like art on the cover caught her eye. Thumbing through, she recognized the name of the woman she’d been billed with at the CIA Bar: Clarice Aames. Her story, titled “The Lethal,” opened with a child’s pet guinea pig giving birth to offspring with no eyes. Margot set down the magazine and went to freshen up.

For her third interview — for a tenure-track job at a public university in the deep South — the timing of her knock was fine, and Margot was ushered into the room by a skinny man with a goatee, who introduced himself as the department’s poet. She was also introduced to “the Shakespeare guy” and a woman whose specialty was Caribbean literature.

They occupied the only chairs in the room, leaving her to sit on the high bed, her feet dangling several inches above the floor. Their questions were straightforward, ranging from what she would do if a student turned in a truly wretched piece of writing to queries as to her literary influences. They agreed with Margot that reading was the first and best training for any young writer.

Margot nodded and continued, “While I’m not suggesting that writers should be trained as critics—”

“Why the hell not?!” The poet leaped from his chair. “The entire problem with literature is that young writers don’t think enough about what they’re doing.”

Margot tried to explain her point of view. “I agree with you completely that young writers should be trained in literature, probably before they try to write.”

The poet slammed his leg with his fist. “How am I supposed to know whether you’re agreeing with me because you agree with me or because you want the job?” He looked furiously, left to right, right to left, left to right.

“It’s both,” Margot said. “I want the job, but I wouldn’t misrepresent my views.”

“What? I can’t hear you. If I can’t hear you in this small room, how are students supposed to hear you?”

Margot swallowed hard.

“Now I suppose you’re going to cry. Look, you seem like a nice young woman, and I admire you for writing about leprosy — brave choice that — but we can’t have you crying in the classroom.”

With nothing any longer at stake, Margot stood. “I can think of no better words to leave you with than these, from the final paragraph of The Return of the Native : ‘He left alone creeds and systems of philosophy, finding enough and more than enough to occupy his tongue in the opinions and actions common to all good men. Some believed him, and some believed not; some said that his words were commonplace, others complained of his want of doctrine; while others again remarked that it was well enough of a man to take to preaching who could not see to do anything else. But everywhere he was kindly received.’” She sucked in a large but silent breath. “It’s difficult to imagine that our world might actually be crueler than that of Mr. Hardy.”

The poet nodded vigorously and laughed. “But remember this: those folks tolerated Yeobright because ‘the story of his life had become generally known.’ We don’t know you from Adam. Now, however, I’m a bit impressed.”

Realizing that all might not be lost and that indeed this poet who could quote one of her favorite novels might actually be a kindred soul, Margot slipped her hand tentatively out to shake his good-bye. As she turned to the Shakespearean, though, the safety pin holding up her skirt popped open, and it fell nearly to her hips. She clutched at her waistband and backed from the room, bent over her briefcase and thinking you won’t call me, I won’t call you .

As had been the case during her book tour in Vermont, Margot was able to disassociate herself from what was happening to her, to see herself as though she were a character in a novel she was writing or reading. And again, as in Vermont, the book she was living was a minor comi-tragedy. She walked in her increasingly uncomfortable shoes back to the cattle-call area. In the closest bathroom, sardined between women busily brushing hair, blowing noses, and reapplying makeup, she double checked the security of her safety pins, patted her face with cool water, and put on a little lipstick. Get this job, she told herself, and wished she were indeed a character in a novel so that she could write her own ending.

There were three interviewers at the table, two men and a woman, all small and somewhat nebbishy, and she felt more comfortable with them than she had with any group of people in a long while. They actually discussed literature, and Margot grew hopeful as they told her about their library and bragged about their small Illinois town’s farmers market.

“It gives us something to do as well as something to buy,” said the older of the two men, smiling at her in a way that felt more paternal than anything she remembered from home.

When Eddie Renfros read the galley of his wife’s book, he’d known at once that his suspicions had been well-founded. Just as he had always assumed might happen, Amanda was having an affair with Jackson. Worse, she was writing about it for the whole world, which would now know him as the lazy, underachieving, alcoholic spouse of celebrity novelist Amanda Renfros.

Still, he’d been prepared to forgive her, provided that she agreed never to see, speak to, or mention Jackson Miller again. But not only was she uninterested in his forgiveness, she seemed relieved that her adultery had been discovered.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you myself, and I’m sorry if you’re hurt,” she’d said, her face composed.

“You’re going to stop it right now.”

She shook her head. “No, Eddie. It’s really a question now of who will live where. You’re welcome to the apartment, if you can afford it. You should certainly be the one to stay here for now.”

Calmly, her eyes clear and her hair perfectly shiny, she packed a single suitcase, kissed him on the cheek, and thanked him for those months of their marriage that had been good. “I did love you, Eddie, and I kind of wish that we had never let it get past the point of no return. Probably we were never right for each other, but I don’t think I would have written The Progress of Love if it weren’t for you.”

“You’re welcome,” Eddie spat out, but he no longer had the energy for real venom.

It was this listlessness that prevented him from taking scissors to the clothes Amanda had left behind, an idea he relished right up to the moment he pulled the scissors from the drawer, replaced them, and reached for a shot glass instead.