by John Cody Bennett
January, a new semester, a new section of Modern American Fiction: I’m in my blazer and my tie at the head of the table as students fill seats in the seminar room and wait for class to begin. We start with names ― Dylan, Eli, Jasmine, etc. ― and proceed next to the syllabus and to a discussion of grades and course objectives and required class texts. Near the end of the hour, I read from “Daisy Miller” until a student named Grace raises a hand, and I call on her to speak.
Dr. Harlow, excuse me, she says. It’s already 9:06, and I have a class right now. I’m late.
I apologize and dismiss them at once. I can’t help it: time flies with new students ― especially bright ones ― and I often lose track of myself in my passion for a text, or in the sharp thrill of a successful class lecture. In a hurry, Grace thanks me as she leaves, and I say goodbye.
For weeks class continues as always with “The Aspern Papers” and “The Jolly Corner.”
But then at the beginning of February, something unusual happens and alters the trajectory of my year. From the house I rent on Florida Avenue behind the football field, I hear every weekend ― even in winter ― the sound of parties at Phi and Sigma Nu and the revelry that spills from the French House into Abbo’s Alley and along Texas Avenue. I sit on my porch and content myself with sips of whiskey and wave to drunken students as they stumble in my yard. At 47 I’m not without sympathy for these antics; it’s Sewanee, after all: there’s little else.
Three girls ― sophomores, I think ― wander by the porch and squint in my direction.
Dr. Harlow? says Grace. Is this where you live? I didn’t know that! And is that a drink?
Without much prodding, I invite the girls to the porch and pour them shots of Jameson in plastic cups and offer them some ginger ale. I admit I’m surprised when they linger, but I enjoy the laughter, the repartee, and it’s nice to have company. It’s like we’re conspirators or members of a club; and for middle-aged bachelors like me who struggle with anxiety, it’s good to belong.
Later that month, I select a student named Kenton to discuss “The Beast in the Jungle.”
Dr. Harlow, he says. I’m sorry, I didn’t read it. I didn’t know it was due today. I forgot.
I poll the class. Raise your hand if you did the reading. Keep them up. Let me see them.
A few students, perhaps five of the 17, lift their hands into the air. I count them.
This is sad, I say to them as I lay on the guilt. This is ridiculous. This is pathetic.
At the center of the table, I can see Grace waving at me as if she’s desperate to be heard.
Dr. Harlow, she says. I know I didn’t read it all, but I read most of it. I read to page 473!
473? I say. I slam the book. You all don’t deserve this class! I leave them. I storm out.
For the next few weeks, we study “The Art of Fiction” and I assign them no papers. As a group we seem to have effected a truce, but Grace is shy towards me now and rarely volunteers.
But then in March before spring break, I overhear students in the back room at Stirling’s Coffee House. Amid jokes and gossip and surreal giggles, I catch the sound of my name; I sit up.
It’s bad, says one. It’s not Modern American Fiction, it’s just Henry James! It’s bullshit.
Yeah, I’ve heard he’s, like, always drunk, says another. And he, like, sleeps with students!
Oh, no, not him, says the first one. There’s no way. He’s not that type. You know I can tell.
A lone voice defends me. I like Dr. Harlow, says Grace. I mean, he is odd. But he tries.
He tries. Her words sustain me as the campus empties, and although there are days in the break when I barely leave the house, I discover during this time a desire for strenuous activity and engagement with others. Against all of my usual instincts, I hike the Perimeter Trail and attend a service at All Saints with a few of my colleagues. I visit the University Farm and assist Dr. Preslar in feeding the goats and tending the greenhouse, and I tour in a pilgrimage the nearby George Dickel and Jack Daniel’s distilleries and cross them from my bucket-list. I sample Schnapps with a visiting German professor after a screening of Aguirre in Gailor Hall; and for the first time in years I review my lesson plans and course notes and attempt to reorganize them.
In April, the students return, and I lead them through a complicated analysis of my favorite short story, “The Figure in the Carpet,” and ask them to recite small portions of the text.
All right, Grace, I say with the authority of a maestro or a circus ringmaster. You’re on!
She begins: Isn’t there for every writer a particular thing of that sort, the thing that most makes him apply himself, the thing without the effort to achieve which he wouldn’t write at all ―
I consider these lines in that voice of hers and interrogate their significance for the next several days until suddenly on a Friday afternoon I witness a scene that shakes me from my enchantment and plunges a knife into my soul. From the window of my third-story office, I gaze out across the library’s front yard and divine from my perch a glimpse of Grace and a senior Anthropology major, a Lambda Chi, strolling hand-in-hand together between Spencer Hall and the Archives and chattering like a pair of lecherous apes. It’s true, I can only gasp at this indignity ― so astonished, I am, so bewildered. For a moment at my desk, I clutch the bust of Toscanini and conceal my eyes with my palm and plead for darkness, or an emptiness of thought.
That night, and for many nights, I mix Manhattans on my porch and drink without restraint or embarrassment until the world spins around me and my bourbon is exhausted. Twice in a week I claim sickness via email and excuse the students from class; I assign them, instead, an essay on “The Great Good Place” and grade them Pass/Fail. At one exceptionally weak moment, as I wield my red pen, I contemplate for Grace an appropriate punishment. However, I ultimately shy away from the deed; I pass her sterling paper and inscribe a little note: Good job.
At the end of April, two former students hide in the yard and prank me from the bushes.
Harlow! they yell. Harlow! Vereker! Give it another turn of the screw! Go on! Give it!
I summon the two tipsy rascals to the porch ― Coy and Dupree ― and we shoot Old Forester together and talk of art and literature and beauty and truth and all the rest. From time to time, I lose the thread of our conversation, but naturally the boys remind me, and I pick it back up. After a few hours, they remember a party: To the Delt house! they exclaim, and I tag along.
But in the darkness of the fraternity, I blunder aimlessly among the dancing bodies and recognize no one. I cling to a keg in the hall, and with the syllables of my name on the students’ lips, I listen for familiar voices and seek faces from the past. My head aches; my spit tastes funny; my shoes stick to the floor: I collapse. Someone shouts and carries me out ― I see Grace.
Mr. Harlow? she says. Mr. Harlow, are you OK? Are you all right? Sleep good. You sleep.
I awaken in the morning in the woods behind Benedict. I brush myself off. I head home.
And then, after a long and difficult semester, the month of May arrives to me at last, and I never look back. It’s the final class of Modern American Fiction, and I ignore the complaints of my students and teach in one hour the entirety of “The Turn of the Screw” before I release them.
We reach the end, and as the students file out, Grace pauses by my desk; she thanks me.
What for? I say. What have I ever done for you? You enjoyed my class? You liked it?
Of course, I cannot recall what she answers me ― but does it even matter? ― for I sense an intimation of interest in her words, and I tell you I use it, I use it myself, I live on it.
Category: Featured, Short Story