the police barricades.”
“Man, I lived that. Why should I want to write about it?”
Agnes sighed. Maybe Christa had a point. “It’s just that I’m no help to you with this vampire stuff,” Agnes said. “It’s formulaic, genre fiction.”
“You would be of more help to me with
my childhood
?”
“Well, with more serious stories, yes.”
Christa stood up, perturbed. She grabbed back her vampire story. “You with all your Alice Walker and Zora Hurston. I’m just not interested in that anymore. I’ve done that already. I read those books years ago.”
“Christa, please don’t be annoyed.”
Please do not talk when Mr. Stauffbacher is talking
.
“You’ve got this agenda for me.”
“Really, I don’t at all,” said Agnes. “It’s just that—you know what it is? It’s that I’m just sick of these vampires. They’re so roaming and repeating.”
“If you were black, what you’re saying might have a different spin. But the fact is, you’re not,” Christa said, and picked up her coat and strode out—though ten seconds later, she gamely stuck her head back in and said, “See you next week.”
“We need a visiting writer who’s black,” Agnes said in the next depart mental meeting. “We’ve never had one.” They were looking at their budget, and the readings this year were pitted against Dance Instruction, a program headed up by a redhead named Evergreen.
“The Joffrey is just so much central casting,” said Evergreen, apropos of nothing. As a vacuum cleaner can start to pull up the actual thread of a carpet, her brains had been sucked dry by too much yoga. No one paid much attention to her.
“Perhaps we can get Harold Raferson in Chicago,” Agnes suggested.
“We’ve already got somebody for the visiting writer slot,” said Stauffbacher coyly. “An Afrikaner from Johannesburg.”
“What?” said Agnes. Was he serious? Even Evergreen barked out a laugh.
“W. S. Beyerbach. The university’s bringing him in. We pay our five hundred dollars and we get him out here for a day and a half.”
“Who?” asked Evergreen.
“This has already been decided?” asked Agnes.
“Yup.” Stauffbacher looked accusingly at Agnes. “I’ve done a lot of work to arrange for this.
I’ve
done all the work!”
“Do less,” said Evergreen.
When Agnes first met Joe, they’d fallen madly upon each other. They’d kissed in restaurants; they’d groped, under coats, at the movies. At his little house, they’d made love on the porch, or the landing of the staircase, against the wall in the hall by the door to the attic, filled with too much desire to make their way to a real room.
Now they struggled self-consciously for atmosphere, something they’d never needed before. She prepared the bedroom carefully. She played quiet music and concentrated. She lit candles—as if she were in church, praying for the deceased. She donned a filmy gown. She took hot baths and entered the bedroom in nothing but a towel, a wild fishlike creature of moist, perfumed heat. In the nightstand drawer she still kept the charts a doctor once told her to keep, still placed an X on any date she and Joe actually had sex. But she could never show these to her doctor; not now. It pained Agnes to see them. She and Joe looked like worse than bad shots. She and Joe looked like idiots. She and Joe looked dead.
Frantic candlelight flickered on the ceiling like a puppet show. While she waited for Joe to come out of the bathroom, Agnes lay back on the bed and thought about her week, the bloody politics of it, how she was not very good at politics. Once, before he was elected, she had gone to a rally for Bill Clinton, but when he was late and had kept the crowd waiting for over an hour, and when the sun got hot and bees began landing on people’s heads, when everyone’s feet hurt and tiny children began to cry and a state assemblyman stepped forward to announce that Clinton had stopped at a Dairy Queen in Des Moines and
“Man, I lived that. Why should I want to write about it?”
Agnes sighed. Maybe Christa had a point. “It’s just that I’m no help to you with this vampire stuff,” Agnes said. “It’s formulaic, genre fiction.”
“You would be of more help to me with
my childhood
?”
“Well, with more serious stories, yes.”
Christa stood up, perturbed. She grabbed back her vampire story. “You with all your Alice Walker and Zora Hurston. I’m just not interested in that anymore. I’ve done that already. I read those books years ago.”
“Christa, please don’t be annoyed.”
Please do not talk when Mr. Stauffbacher is talking
.
“You’ve got this agenda for me.”
“Really, I don’t at all,” said Agnes. “It’s just that—you know what it is? It’s that I’m just sick of these vampires. They’re so roaming and repeating.”
“If you were black, what you’re saying might have a different spin. But the fact is, you’re not,” Christa said, and picked up her coat and strode out—though ten seconds later, she gamely stuck her head back in and said, “See you next week.”
“We need a visiting writer who’s black,” Agnes said in the next depart mental meeting. “We’ve never had one.” They were looking at their budget, and the readings this year were pitted against Dance Instruction, a program headed up by a redhead named Evergreen.
“The Joffrey is just so much central casting,” said Evergreen, apropos of nothing. As a vacuum cleaner can start to pull up the actual thread of a carpet, her brains had been sucked dry by too much yoga. No one paid much attention to her.
“Perhaps we can get Harold Raferson in Chicago,” Agnes suggested.
“We’ve already got somebody for the visiting writer slot,” said Stauffbacher coyly. “An Afrikaner from Johannesburg.”
“What?” said Agnes. Was he serious? Even Evergreen barked out a laugh.
“W. S. Beyerbach. The university’s bringing him in. We pay our five hundred dollars and we get him out here for a day and a half.”
“Who?” asked Evergreen.
“This has already been decided?” asked Agnes.
“Yup.” Stauffbacher looked accusingly at Agnes. “I’ve done a lot of work to arrange for this.
I’ve
done all the work!”
“Do less,” said Evergreen.
When Agnes first met Joe, they’d fallen madly upon each other. They’d kissed in restaurants; they’d groped, under coats, at the movies. At his little house, they’d made love on the porch, or the landing of the staircase, against the wall in the hall by the door to the attic, filled with too much desire to make their way to a real room.
Now they struggled self-consciously for atmosphere, something they’d never needed before. She prepared the bedroom carefully. She played quiet music and concentrated. She lit candles—as if she were in church, praying for the deceased. She donned a filmy gown. She took hot baths and entered the bedroom in nothing but a towel, a wild fishlike creature of moist, perfumed heat. In the nightstand drawer she still kept the charts a doctor once told her to keep, still placed an X on any date she and Joe actually had sex. But she could never show these to her doctor; not now. It pained Agnes to see them. She and Joe looked like worse than bad shots. She and Joe looked like idiots. She and Joe looked dead.
Frantic candlelight flickered on the ceiling like a puppet show. While she waited for Joe to come out of the bathroom, Agnes lay back on the bed and thought about her week, the bloody politics of it, how she was not very good at politics. Once, before he was elected, she had gone to a rally for Bill Clinton, but when he was late and had kept the crowd waiting for over an hour, and when the sun got hot and bees began landing on people’s heads, when everyone’s feet hurt and tiny children began to cry and a state assemblyman stepped forward to announce that Clinton had stopped at a Dairy Queen in Des Moines and
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