“But I think young Sam here will have good insights.”
“I’m sure she will. Another day.”
“Very well.” He winked at me and slid the pages into my bag as he followed his wife to the kitchen. “Another day, Sam.”
We cooked, chopped, tasted, and laughed throughout the day. We didn’t talk about anything specific, just stuff that meant nothing and everything: books, movies, weather, trees, politics, school, personalities, Chicago, art . . .
After an amazing meal, during which I did not embarrass myself or insult anyone else, we grabbed seats on the couch for their annual Thanksgiving Day tradition of watching George C. Scott as Scrooge inA Christmas Carol. I’ve read the book about six times, but I’d never seen the movie. At each reading I struggle with Scrooge’s turnabout. It seems too fast, too complete. I mean, he resists goodness with the third ghost, and then flips almost instantly into the embodiment of St. Nicholas. It never made sense to me.
But post movie I feel differently about Scrooge. I watched the transformation play across the screen, and I saw his longing for love and community earlier in the story than I’d noticed in the book. From the beginning, I now suspect his isolation hurt him deeply. I watched as he painfully built each wall in his life and, even more dramatically, how he tore them down. It was both wonderful and unsettling.
Afterward the professor offered to drive me home, but Mrs. Muir invited me to spend the night.
“It’s so late to go home, dear. Why don’t you stay? There are clean sheets on the guest room bed and fresh toiletries in the bathroom.”
“I don’t want to impose.”
“Not at all. I want to try a new French toast recipe tomorrow, and Robert is hardly helpful. He says everything tastes good.”
“Everything does,” the professor protested.
“Stay, and then I’ll know the truth.” Mrs. Muir smiled at me.
“Samantha will be just as polite as I am, my dear. She won’t be objective at all . . . No, wait! She corrected my Shakespeare. Maybe she will give you an honest opinion. Let’s keep her.”
The professor laughed as I felt the color rise to my face.
He caught my arm. “Samantha, I value your little blunder, as you might regard it, and hope you take my teasing lightly.”
I simply nodded. Mrs. Muir took that as a yes to stay and led me to the guest room. My mind remained muddled as I brushed my teeth and turned out the lights. Then panic hit—the nightmares.What was I thinking? What if I wake up my hosts?I lay there for hours listening to the house settle and the clock tick. The room smelled like starch and lavender, and eventually I fell asleep. No dreams.
And that is how I know what one should eat and what one should do on Thanksgiving Day. The whole day played out like every movie and story I’ve ever seen or read.
But now school’s back in session and I’ve been researching, writing, and editing all day. I’m going bowling with the Conleys this evening, so that should be a good break. Josh is joining us—that was like pulling teeth.
“I don’t want to bowl, Sam. Come down here. We’ll go to dinner.”
“I’ve already accepted. Besides, I’d like them to meet you. They see your car in their driveway, they should know who drives it.”
“So if they meet me, and know it’s my car, you won’t kick me out so early?”
I thought about this and couldn’t see the link. “I guess.”
“Okay, bowling it is. I’ll be there by six.”
Maybe his point was that no one likes an unknown car in their driveway, but one accepts, even welcomes, the car of a friend. I still don’t get it. At least he’s coming. I think Isabella will like him. Every time we watch a movie, she asks if I think the actor is cute. And Josh is cute.
So I have a break coming in two hours—which is good because my head is about to explode. I’m sure most of my classmates are resting before the storm of exams in a couple weeks, but work presses me. I’m still at the bottom, Mr. Knightley. TheEvanston Reviewrejected my last submission, by the way—so much for Johnson’s advice about getting encouragement from smaller papers. I can’t even get published there. I hate the bottom.
Back to work,
Sam
DECEMBER 11
Dear Mr. Knightley,
Do we ever get a break? Can’t we thrive? Why work to make our lot in life better if we keep getting beat down?
