One of my favorite writers is here as a guest professor this
semester. Her name is Alice Barrett and
she is best known for her short stories and novels, which, as one critic says, “put a
feminine/feminist spin on Updike and Cheever.”
Her office is next door to Emily’s.
Emily and I went to hear her lecture. She is in her early forties and bounces
around like a Labrador puppy. She says
“terrific” a lot. It seems funny to say
that she’s cute, but there’s something about her, an exuberance that you
wouldn’t expect if you just knew her writing, which is about WASP angst and
love affairs and acting out.
Emily thinks she’s neat.
“So many writers are into being all miserable or angry. But she’s so open and friendly.”
“Do you think she might be a prospect?”
“I don’t know if she’s gay, straight, bi or whatever. There’s not that much biographical material
on her, just short paragraphs at the end of her stories. Basically, they say that she’s from
Connecticut and that she and her two cats are ‘academic migrants’, getting
writer in residence and guest professorship gigs. She’s usually in her office at lunch
time. Come over and I’ll introduce you.”
I’m going to meet an author!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Memories of Joanna
Alice Barrett
Joanna’s
beauty was not the kind that “hit you slap in the eye” as his grandfather used
to say. She didn’t wear makeup and her
hair hung to her shoulders, often tied back in a tail, the tail of a sensible
workhorse, not a spirited pony. But
there was something about her. It seemed
that she was above the tricks women used to attract men, and that gave her an
air that one might eventually describe as beauty.
It
was only gradually that he noticed her.
She was one of his wife’s friends, a voice on the telephone or a fellow
guest at parties. She listened more than
she talked. Sometimes, hearing his
assertively extroverted wife’s end of a phone conversation, he wondered how
Joanna, or whomever she was talking to, ever got a word in.
It
was a party, though, that brought her to his attention. He had wandered out to the patio to escape
the noise and found her sitting on the glider.
“I
suppose we should be mixing,” he said.
“Isn’t that what parties are for?”
Joanna
smiled, “I’ve found that people don’t mix much unless they have an agenda -- to
make business connections or hook up.”
“Hook
up?” He knew what it meant.
“Get
laid.” There was a slight smirk on her
face, as if she knew she’d surprised him.
“So
I suppose neither of us wants to do that.”
He had given her an opening, but either she didn’t see it or she was
pretending not to.
“Did
you ever know or read about people who say the only person at a party they want
to be with is their significant other?”
she asked. “Why bother getting
dressed up or using the gas? You can
talk to them at home.”
“Food,”
he said. “And drinks.” (And the chance to see women in their special
occasion clothes, although he only thought that.)
“I’m
not into drinking. This is diet soda.
But food, yes. In fact, I’m going
to get some now. Can I bring you
anything?”
“Oh,
no thanks.” Later when she didn’t come
back, he realized that had been a mistake.
He would have liked her to come back.
After
that, she kept popping up in his life -- her voice on the answering machine
with a message for his wife, a chance meeting with her husband at the drug
store. And her name keep recurring. An investigative reporter was (it seemed)
constantly being interviewed about her latest book on a celebrated murder. The convenience store clerk’s nametag said
“Joanna” next to a unicorn sticker. He
started keeping a Joanna count and briefly wondered if he should include JoAnnes,
but decided not to.
And
then, damn her, she got into his head, a place where she had no business. He was happily married with four children and
two dogs. But there she was. He imagined having conversations with her –
well not really conversations, because she didn’t say anything. He could always imagine his wife’s replies,
which he supposed was a good thing.
Joanna was probably (he couldn’t say for sure, of course) the kind of
woman who, in his grandmother’s words, “wouldn’t say boo to a goose.” Joanna would probably just look at the bird,
as if daring it to say “boo” to her.
He
even dreamed about her. That was
annoying. He disliked dreams, the good ones as much as the bad, since they
offered happiness that didn’t exist. And
they came uninvited.
He
would wait it out. It had happened
before. The last time was with his wife, and he’d fixed the situation by
marrying her. That was not an option.
So
he went to the mega bookstore that also sold music as well as coffee and books,
feeling oddly nervous and a bit guilty, but pleased with himself, like a child
who has thought up a clever bit of mischief or a teenager sneaking the first
cigarette or beer.
“May
I help you?” asked the young clerk, probably an English or history BA, who told
people she was “in retail.”
“I
was looking for a Bob Dylan album. Would
that be in Folk or Rock or Alphabetically by Artist?”
“Are
you looking for a particular one?”
“Well,
the one with ‘Memories of Joanna.’”
The
young woman went to the computer behind the desk. After several minutes of frowning and shaking
her head, she finally smiled. “Oh . . . Here it is.
But it’s Johanna and ‘Visions
of’, not ‘Memories.’”
He
bought the CD anyway, but didn’t open it for weeks.
