Zahra ate a forkful of kale. “That sounds like a novel waiting to be written.”
“Maybe. Except I think Anne Tyler already did it. Or Anna Quindlen.”
“Probably. The Annes and Shakespeare have already written everything. What is your new life like? Is it liberating? Exhilarating? Frightening?”
“Mostly happy,” said Sam. She couldn’t begin to think how she’d explain the Rabbit, even if she were inclined to. “A bit disconcerting sometimes.”
“I can imagine. How are you spending your days?”
“Not writing,” Sam said, and laughed. “Spending time with my fiancé, whoiswriting.” She smiled. “It’s the first time I’ve called him that. We just got engaged.”
“Congratulations! First marriage?”
“For him. Second for me.”
“The happy one. Come on, let’s see it.”
Sam held out her hand. The ring fractured rainbow light all over the office.
“That is arock,” said Zahra. “True congratulations. If your betrothed is a writer, he either is very successful or has a trust fund. Or a secret life of crime.”
Sam squinched up her face, puzzled. Did Zahra not know who William was? Did she not remember she’d gotten Sam’s name from him? But then, maybe William had presented Sam as a professional colleague instead of saying they were together. Their engagement was so new. It would take time for his privacy policy to erode.
“Actually, he’s an alum of your program,” Sam said. “He was the one who recommended I come teach for you today, because he had a conflict. William Corwyn?”
Zahra blinked and sat back in her chair. “I see.”
She didn’t make a face, but her sudden impassivity was such that she might as well have. “What is it?” said Sam. “Is something wrong?”
“No, certainly not. I know William. He was in my years here.”
“Oh, I didn’t know you were a Harrington alum as well. That’s so funny. And so great. Congratulations yourself!”
“Thank you.”
“So,” said Sam, “you must know all the young William stories. Give me the dirt!”
Zahra did not smile, and Sam felt her own grin wilt. “Wait. Is there actual dirt?”
“I would not feel comfortable talking about this,” said Zahra. “It is not my place.”
“Zahra,” said Sam. “Please.” A shiver rippled across her skin despite the stuffy office. “I know we don’t know each other, but you’re right. My first marriage was not happy. Or rather, it was not wise. And if I’m making a mistake with this one, if there’s something I should know, please. I’m asking woman to woman. Tell me.”
Zahra was silent a moment longer, then got up and shut her door, which had been open a few inches in case a student came by.
“You attended an MFA program, am I right?” she asked, sitting back down.
Sam nodded. “In the late nineties.”
“So you remember what they were like. Cutthroat. Mercilessly competitive. Like the Roman arena. Especially then. Especially for women.”
“Mine was more like Wendy and the Lost Boys,” Sam said, and recounted for Zahra her experience as the only woman in her graduate program—how she’d had to prove herself via belching, swearing, drinking, ruthless expurgation of adverbs and adjectives, and participating in the workshop torture ranking system: How bad had the author’s experience been while in The Box, unable to speak?, tickling, slapping, punching, waterboarding, or the worst, Zahra should forgive her, the anal pear? How all the guys wanted to be posthumously famous and Sam wanted to be on Oprah, and how her friend Jean saidGod save us if Sam gets published, she will be all the more insufferably bourgeoisie, and how, when Sam did sign with Mireille, they had hauled her to the student pub and toasted her with tequila shots:To Sam, the fucking bitch!
Zahra smiled faintly at Sam’s description. But still she did not laugh.
“You were lucky,” she said. “Our program was not like that. We had the dick-swinging, of course. Women as well as men. But it was not friendly. It was vicious. It was designed to push out the weak. And I am sorry to say William was the worst of them. The ringleader of the lads. A real bully.”
Oh God, Sam thought. “How so?” she asked.
