with the boundless sky and intoxicating fertile beauty of my adopted state. I call it exotic. Watch the movie
Field of Dreams
to understand what I mean. It occurred to me that horror didn't have to fester in the traditional Hawthorne-invented gloom of New England, or in the oppressive ghettos of decaying major cities, but in bright sunlight, in the midst of splendor. Remember Cary Grant racing desperately to escape the machine-gun bullets from the "innocent" cropduster in Hitchcock's
North By Northwest
? I began to envision a series of stories that would take advantage of the broad Midwest and Interstate 80 and the space, the sublime, hence terrifying
space
between one isolated community and another. I explored that notion in several stories: "The Storm," "For These and All My Sins." Others. Even the
time zone
changes are fraught with danger.
So if you desperately need security (as the hero of "But at My Back I Always Hear" does and as its
author
does), you choose this story as representative of your work. My alter-ego professor sacrifices his life and his soul for his family. Good man. I understand him all too well. Because given the chance, I would gladly have sacrificed
my
life and soul to save my son.
But at My Back I Always Hear
« ^ »
Â
She phoned again last night. At three a.m., the way she always does. I'm scared to death. I can't keep running. On the hotel's register downstairs, I lied about my name, address, and occupation. Although I'm here in Johnstown, Pennsylvania, I'm from Iowa City, Iowa. I teach — or used to teach until three days ago — American literature at the University. I can't risk going back there. But I don't think I can hide much longer. Each night, she comes closer.
From the start, she scared me. I came to school at eight to prepare my classes. Through the side door of the English building I went up a stairwell to my third floor office, which was isolated by a fire door from all the other offices. My colleagues used to joke that I'd been banished, but I didn't care, for in my far-off corner I could concentrate. Few students interrupted me. Regardless of the busy noises past the fire door, I sometimes felt that there was no one else inside the building. And indeed at eight a.m., I often
was
the only person in the building.
That day I was wrong, however. Clutching my heavy briefcase, I trudged up the stairwell. My scraping footsteps echoed off the walls of pale red cinderblock, the stairs of pale green imitation marble. First floor. Second floor. The fluorescent lights glowed coldly. Then the stairwell angled toward the third floor, and I saw her waiting on a chair outside my office. Pausing, I frowned up the stairs at her. I felt uneasy.
***
Eight a.m., for you, is probably not early. You've been up for quite a while so you can get to work on time or get your children off to school. But eight a.m., for college students, is the middle of the night. They don't like morning classes. When their schedules force them to attend one, they don't crawl from bed until they absolutely have to, and they don't come stumbling into class until I'm just about to start my lecture.
I felt startled, then, to find her waiting ninety minutes early. She sat tensely: lifeless dull brown hair, a shapeless dingy sweater, baggy faded jeans with patches on the knees and frays around the cuffs. Her eyes were haunted and wild. Deep and dark.
I climbed the last few steps and stopped before her. "Do you want an early conference?"
Instead of answering, she nodded bleakly.
"You're concerned about a grade I gave you?"
This time, though, in pain she shook her head from side to side.
Confused, I fumbled with my key and opened the office, stepping in. The room was small and narrow: a desk, two chairs, a wall of bookshelves, and a window. As I sat behind the desk, I watched her slowly come inside. She glanced around uncertainly. Distraught, she shut the door.
That made me nervous. When a female student
Field of Dreams
to understand what I mean. It occurred to me that horror didn't have to fester in the traditional Hawthorne-invented gloom of New England, or in the oppressive ghettos of decaying major cities, but in bright sunlight, in the midst of splendor. Remember Cary Grant racing desperately to escape the machine-gun bullets from the "innocent" cropduster in Hitchcock's
North By Northwest
? I began to envision a series of stories that would take advantage of the broad Midwest and Interstate 80 and the space, the sublime, hence terrifying
space
between one isolated community and another. I explored that notion in several stories: "The Storm," "For These and All My Sins." Others. Even the
time zone
changes are fraught with danger.
So if you desperately need security (as the hero of "But at My Back I Always Hear" does and as its
author
does), you choose this story as representative of your work. My alter-ego professor sacrifices his life and his soul for his family. Good man. I understand him all too well. Because given the chance, I would gladly have sacrificed
my
life and soul to save my son.
But at My Back I Always Hear
« ^ »
Â
She phoned again last night. At three a.m., the way she always does. I'm scared to death. I can't keep running. On the hotel's register downstairs, I lied about my name, address, and occupation. Although I'm here in Johnstown, Pennsylvania, I'm from Iowa City, Iowa. I teach — or used to teach until three days ago — American literature at the University. I can't risk going back there. But I don't think I can hide much longer. Each night, she comes closer.
From the start, she scared me. I came to school at eight to prepare my classes. Through the side door of the English building I went up a stairwell to my third floor office, which was isolated by a fire door from all the other offices. My colleagues used to joke that I'd been banished, but I didn't care, for in my far-off corner I could concentrate. Few students interrupted me. Regardless of the busy noises past the fire door, I sometimes felt that there was no one else inside the building. And indeed at eight a.m., I often
was
the only person in the building.
That day I was wrong, however. Clutching my heavy briefcase, I trudged up the stairwell. My scraping footsteps echoed off the walls of pale red cinderblock, the stairs of pale green imitation marble. First floor. Second floor. The fluorescent lights glowed coldly. Then the stairwell angled toward the third floor, and I saw her waiting on a chair outside my office. Pausing, I frowned up the stairs at her. I felt uneasy.
***
Eight a.m., for you, is probably not early. You've been up for quite a while so you can get to work on time or get your children off to school. But eight a.m., for college students, is the middle of the night. They don't like morning classes. When their schedules force them to attend one, they don't crawl from bed until they absolutely have to, and they don't come stumbling into class until I'm just about to start my lecture.
I felt startled, then, to find her waiting ninety minutes early. She sat tensely: lifeless dull brown hair, a shapeless dingy sweater, baggy faded jeans with patches on the knees and frays around the cuffs. Her eyes were haunted and wild. Deep and dark.
I climbed the last few steps and stopped before her. "Do you want an early conference?"
Instead of answering, she nodded bleakly.
"You're concerned about a grade I gave you?"
This time, though, in pain she shook her head from side to side.
Confused, I fumbled with my key and opened the office, stepping in. The room was small and narrow: a desk, two chairs, a wall of bookshelves, and a window. As I sat behind the desk, I watched her slowly come inside. She glanced around uncertainly. Distraught, she shut the door.
That made me nervous. When a female student
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