Or the fact that Handler lives on Birch Street?
I suspect a hot bath might help, but once I’ve pushed off the bed, I find myself drifting over to the desk. I plop into the chair and open my laptop.
If Mel’s haiku really was a reference to Birch Street—and sadly not to reading poems with me—perhaps Handler was a bigger influence on her than Logan and I recognized. Spending time in his presence—not mine—might have been what she longed for when life to her felt too much like a pathless wood.
I google the college website and click my way to a bio for Professor Jeffrey Handler. He did his undergraduate work, it says, at Bates Collegein Maine, which, like Carter, is a small, prestigious liberal arts school, and he earned both his master’s and PhD from Princeton. Under “Publications” are the five volumes of poetry he’s written, as well as a dozen or more academic articles. It appears he’s been at the college for over fifteen years, but there’s no mention of where he was previously.
Then, out of curiosity, I search online for “Alison Handler, artist.” A link to her website pops up immediately.
As it turns out, she does paint dreams—just not very nice ones. Though the paintings are done in pretty, gauzy colors, every image is downright creepy. In one of the four on the home page, there’s a horse standing on a dining chair and staring across a small table at a young woman eating from a plate piled with wax lips. In another, a baby about nine months old sits on a blanket with one of his chubby arms stretched outward. As I peer closely at the image, I notice he’s holding a bunch of tiny teeth in the palm of his hand.
These must be some of her newer pieces, so I take a minute to scroll through what’s featured under “Work” in the nav bar, wondering how her style has evolved. But these paintings are just as disturbing. In one, a woman in a sleeveless white dress is lying prone on a trapeze-like platform with her right arm dangling over the side. There are three silver zippers running from her wrist to her elbow. Do they represent a series of injuries?
At the bottom of the page is a contact link for Alison as well as the address for her studio—“57b Birch St.” It must be in a section of their house with its own entrance, or in a separate building on the property.
I check the bio page next. It’s brief, stating only that she grew up in Boston, graduated from Oberlin College, and has an MFA in studio art from the State University of New York at Albany, which is about twenty-five miles southeast of Cartersville. The bio also lists some art shows she’s been featured in and provides a link to an article from a local publication that’s a roundup of young artists from the region. Published five years ago, it gives her age then as thirty-four.
My best guess is that Handler is in his early sixties, which means Alison is over twenty years his junior.
With my curiosity further piqued, I search next for a wedding announcement and soon find it. They married in Boston sixteen years ago. The announcement gives Handler’s job then as professor of English at Colby College in Maine and Alison’s simply as artist.
How did they meet?I wonder.In New England somewhere, when he was at Colby and she, perhaps, had moved back to the Boston area?
I go to the Amazon site and click one by one on the five poetry books he’s published, swiping through each “Look Inside” sample until I reach the bio in the back. The three most recent collections list him as a professor at Carter. He wrote his second volume, I see, while teaching at Colby.
It’s the bio in the very first collection that makes me bite my lip in surprise. These poems were published twenty-five years ago when Handler was an associate professor at Oberlin College. That must be where he eventually met Alison.
I’m about to close the link but catch myself and instead scroll back to the dedication page.
It reads:To my wife, Dalia.
So, he was married to someone else while at Oberlin—at least initially. Until, perhaps, he met and fell for Alison. Whoa ... was she a student in one of his classes, and he began seeing her clandestinely?
I’m whisked back to the awkward moment I witnessed this morning in Handler’s office, the female student standing too deep into his personal space.
Does Jeffrey Handler have a taste for younger women, particularly college girls? What ... what if Mel wrote about returning to birch not because the backyard classes were inspirational for her but because Handler was the new man she was smitten with?
The thought chills me, and yet right now, at least, I don’t have a shred of proof that I’m right.
I strip off my clothes and open the taps on the tub, but as the hot water begins to steam the room, I realize I’m now too wired to soak in a bath. I throw on my jeans, along with a sweater and loafers, and take the elevator to the first floor. Currently, there’s no one manning the front desk.
I cross the hall to the parlor. At first glance it appears empty again, but as I approach the bar, I catch movement out of the corner of my eye and jerk in surprise. Turning, I see that it’s Logan, reclining in one of the wingback chairs and holding a snifter filled with an amber-hued liquid.
“Oh,” I blurt out.
“Hello,” he says quietly, not faking any cheer. It looks like he’s practically melted into the chair, with one leg stretched out across the bloodred ottoman.
My eyes dart to the chair across from him, checking for another presence, but fortunately, he’s alone. I wonder if Lisa is sulking in the room after being told she should have kept her mouth shut.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“Having a brandy, trying to drive terms likeforensic odontologistout of my head ... Shall I pour you one, too?”
“No, I just want sparkling water,” I say, continuing to the bar. “I’m not much of a brandy drinker anyway.”
I hear him chuckle behind me, and turning back around, I see him take a long swallow of his drink.
“What’s so funny?” I ask.
