Gabrielle
I read through the email again, looking for something I’d missed. It was far from a job offer, but it was a chance. It would mean getting out of Sawyer without having to slog through another year, without being consumed with anxiety about the rumors of Tyler catching up to me. I started to reply but then saw the time—almost two. I would write back first thing in the morning.
Just before I shut the computer, I noticed at the top of my inbox, the link to reopen my Facebook account. I checked the little box beside it and hitDELETE.
CHAPTER 12
Things moved quickly. I wrote Gabrielle in the morning and we spoke that afternoon. I dove into getting my application materials together, working into the night: updating my research statement, pulling syllabi and assignments for my teaching portfolio. I sent everything over late on Monday. By the end of the week I had a first-round phone interview with the search committee. The next Monday, the first day of spring break, the department chair called. Would I make the trip out for a campus interview? Itineraries were settled, flights were arranged, and on Thursday, I left for New Orleans.
Ohio to Louisiana, it turns out, is not a bustling route, so I flew through Dallas and waited a few hours for my connection. The Dallas airport was a city unto itself, compacted down to its capitalist heart: a giant shopping mall. I picked through the limp, wet leaves of a $20 salad and reviewed the notes for my research talk. I would present from my Fall Fest lecture, along with some sections drawn from the book’s introduction. I boarded the next plane and by the time we landed in New Orleans in the blue-black of mid-evening—one of those frictionless touchdowns, the wheels meeting tarmac with no snag, just matter returning to itself—I had a version of the talk that felt right.
I had offered to take a cab but Gabrielle insisted on picking me up. She chattered the entire drive, effusive and friendly, pointing out landmarks and offering history lessons. We passed buildingsabandoned and untouched since Katrina. Gabrielle told me about a new city council candidate, young and razor-sharp. Everyone was getting excited she might have a real shot at winning a seat, and Gabrielle had just joined her door-knocking team. Off the freeway, we drove through wide, lush roads, windows down, the thick swampy air, familiar from home, washing over us.
“That’s right, you’re from Florida,” Gabrielle said. “This climate will suit you, then. Some of my colleagues complain about the heat, but after all those winters in New York, I love it. A little sweat is good for you.”
“These houses are incredible.” Weighty beasts set back in expansive lawns, the buildings celebrated themselves, ostentatious and grand. Even the smaller ones puffed out their chests.
“This area is really rich. And white. Beautiful but dull. The administration will only pay to put people up at the campus hotel. Which is fine for a few nights. But you’d want to live closer to me, other side of town.”
“You’ve been happy here?”
“I can find things to quibble over, but it’s a great job. The students are eager. And New Orleans just chills you out. It’s like you can’t help but find a work-life balance because we’re here. It’s the South. It’s Louisiana.”
“Sounds pretty great.”
“And Sawyer?”
I hesitated. “Sawyer’s been good to me.”
“Yes?”
“I’ve learned a lot and my teaching has improved. I just want to see what’s out there.”
“I know it’s stressful being on these visits. And, god willing, I’ll never go on another one. Nightmare. When I interviewed atCornell, the chair insisted I get a drink with him after the dinner. Just the two of us, this creepy guy old enough to be my grandfather. He downed three frozen margaritas—keep in mind this was February—and then had his divorce lawyer meet us so he could sign some papers.”
“Oh my god. What is wrong with academics?”
“Anyway, I appreciate the stress of these interviews. But I’m not trying to assess you. I already know I’d love having you in the department.”
“You’re very kind.”
“No, it’s selfish. I want fun, smart people here. You can ask me about anything, I’m not going to bullshit you.”
“Okay. Deal.”
“And, no offense, but you don’t have to bullshit me.” She switched to an appeasing, sing-songy voice. “Sawyer has been a wonderful place for me to develop as a scholar and teacher, and I’m excited to bring those experiences to the next phase of my career. Blah, blah, blah.”
I laughed. “That is what I sounded like, isn’t it?”
“No judgment. It’s how you have to be on these things. But don’t feel like you have to be that way with me.”
I thought of what my non-bullshit answer might be: Well, I’ve been lonely and depressed for a long time, maybe my entire life, but Sawyer only compounded things. I dated a guy from the Math department I’m not sure I was even interested in, though I should have been. And then I tanked everything for a nineteen-year-old boy who upended my life and ruined me for sex, which I am certain will never be that thrilling again. Did I mention he was my student?
As we neared the campus, the streets narrowed, and we passed through some blocks of bars and restaurants. “For students,”Gabrielle said, “Lots of chain imports from the suburbs. But there are some good spots, too.” The sidewalks swarmed with groups of people coming, going, hanging out.
“This feels like a real place.”
“I know tomorrow is epic, but after all the official stuff is done, we’ll hang out, a few of us. So you don’t think campus is all we have to offer. It’ll be me, obviously. And Tommy Pak, he’s amazing, our experimental poet, you’ll like him. Desiree Lamar—she’s on the committee, so you’ve talked with her. Brilliant, born and raised here. Her book of essays on post-Katrina New Orleans is coming out this summer. It’s going to be huge. And Claire Albers. She’s working on this crazy project, I don’t really understand it. Something about cybernetics and modernist lit. She’s great. Anyway, we’ll sneak you out of the hotel after everything is done. We can just chill and answer any questions you’ve got.”
