Chapter Three
Five weeks into the spring semester
SITTING AT A SMALL, SQUARE-SHAPED, WOODEN table next to a window in the library at NU, I gazed outside, soaking in the sunlight yet feeling the wintry draft from the window’s poor ventilation. My laptop’s screensaver had kicked in, patiently waiting for me to return my attention to it. The view from the sixth floor was inspiring, giving away to the panorama of the NU campus with all its trees and benches and grassy knolls and lawns set against the horizon of the New England sky, perfect for Frisbee or football throwers, nappers, and lovers, of course.
Ever since Sam’s funeral, I’d taken to occasionally re-writing the crappy eulogy I’d delivered. About a week after the funeral, at the EdmundCollege memorial service, Sam’s brother Kevin delivered a eulogy that practically led to a standing ovation. I could hear my mother’s voice admonishing me for insisting I do the eulogy myself at the funeral.
Anyone who knows me knows that my love life was a train wreck from day one. When it came to gravitating to the good guys, my compass needle pointed south. When it came to sound judgments, my romantic wires always got crossed. When it came to sex, I consulted several sources throughout my life, some of which were later discredited. But Sam was the one who taught me about love.
I think the reason why Sam was such a great teacher was because he allowed people to see his flaws as well as his virtues—in fact, to him, a flaw was just as much an attribute to writing as a talent. He shared my concept of revision as embracing the possibilities that live within the flaws. His humanity came out on every page that he wrote and shared with his students, and his students loved him for it; he was “real” to them.
Sam had a curiosity for life and took pleasure in simple things. Books. Trees. A cup of coffee. A photograph. He couldn’t carry a tune to save his life, but admired those who could. He was also an incurable collector. I don’t remember how or when it started, but someone gave him a bobble-head doll, and pretty soon word got out that he liked bobble-head dolls. In fact, I don’t think he was particularly fond of them until he started receiving so many of them—then it was just a big joke. And now the bookcase in his study is filled with bobble-head dolls.
This eulogy really blows.
***
As director of the freshman writing program, I’d always been busy, but Jeff was right—my workload had doubled since returning to school. In addition to catching up on the previous semester’s activities, staying on top of the writing program’s daily goings-on, and teaching my own course load, I needed to design and write a document detailing program assessment guidelines and procedures, implement the procedures, and report on the findings. What’s more, I also supervised the freshman writing faculty, totaling close to thirty instructors; updated program policy statements and information on the department website; charged a committee to research new textbook options for the following year; and attended budget meeting after budget meeting with Jeff, the dean, and other administrators. All this was followed by a two-day writing technology conference in Albany—Sam and I would’ve made an extended weekend of it.
I sat on two university faculty hiring committees, one tenure review committee, and three graduate student thesis committees. My assistant program director had stepped in and handled my responsibilities following my abrupt departure last semester, and I found myself repeatedly thanking her, as well as apologizing every time I delegated yet another task, many more than I would have under normal circumstances. Meanwhile, Jeff had ordered my academic advising students to be redistributed to other department faculty members for the remainder of the academic year.
One of the scholarly articles that I’d submitted for peer review prior to Sam’s death had been returned to me and sat under the mountainous pile on my desk, untouched. And I repeatedly failed to return my editor’s calls regarding my book proposal for a new collection of personal essays. The essays themselves still idled in a first-draft gridlock.
Work failed to serve as a refuge; instead, it backed me into a corner. What was once a passion was now a burden. Where I once displayed unwavering confidence, I now broke into a cold sweat. I did nothing well anymore, nor did I want to. As the semester dragged on, I found myself putting off appointments, delaying deadlines, and avoiding phone calls. The stack of unanswered emails in my virtual inbox piled just as high as the stack of paper in my actual inbox.
Most disturbing of all was how little I cared, and not for lack of trying.
Chapter Four
FOLLOWING SAM’S DEATH, I’D DROPPED ABOUT TEN pounds. Many times I entered Shaws supermarket with a cart, but rarely left with anything beyond a can of soup or a box of instant rice. At school, I designated protein snack bars as a new food group.
Cooking had become something of a ritual in Sam’s and my relationship. In the way that John Lennon and Yoko Ono had taken walks in Central Park every day prior to his murder, Sam and I would convene in the kitchen, drinking water in wine glasses, and either one cooked while the other watched (most of the time I was the onlooker, simply because he was the better cook and I enjoyed the view), or we shared the deed—I’d season and spice, he’d slice and dice, then we’d fry or broil or bake and flip a coin to see who cleaned up. Cooking time was communion time, and the kitchen was our holy place. Our friendship blossomed while we silently stirred tomato sauce; our passion enflamed while we melted chocolate for ganache and drizzled it over warm cupcakes; our fights defused while we banged pots or chopped garlic by laying the knife flat on the cloves and pummeling it with our fists.
Food tastes better when it’s prepared with love. Even charred toast or goppy pizza dough made it past our palates without complaint.
I avoided the kitchen almost as much as I avoided the bedroom.
One Saturday morning at Shaws, I loitered up and down the aisles, eventually getting to the cookie aisle and stopping at each brand. Pepperidge Farm Mint Milanos. Nabisco Vienna Fingers. Sunshine Hydrox. Mrs. Field’s Chunky Chocolate Chips. Newman’s Own Organic Fig Newtons.
I hadn’t bought packaged cookies in ages.
I looked at the Keebler section. Just stopped and stared at and contemplated them, in a Zen-like trance. Then I grabbed a box of Grasshoppers from the shelf and dumped them in the cart (“cheap-thrills Girl Scout Thin Mints,” Sam used to call them; he was a cookie monster and never gained an ounce, the rat-bastard). Quicker now, with a stride in my step, I wheeled the cart to the dairy section, yanked a quart of milk from the shelf without stopping, and headed for checkout.
When I got home and entered the house, Shaws plastic bag in tow, I headed straight for the den, plopped on the couch, handled the remote, and channel-surfed until I settled on a marathon of Project Runway episodes on Bravo. Without using dishware, I consumed half the tray of Grasshoppers in less than sixty seconds, chased by half the bottle of milk.
In a state of numbness, I lay back on the couch and watched TV for five hours straight while two stacks of essays that I’d collected at the beginning of the week remained on my desk in my home office, still unread.
Before I went to bed, I finished the rest of the cookies and milk, and the next day I did a full food shopping, including two more boxes of cookies and a half gallon of milk that I devoured within four days.