Rory, blushing.
“Nothing.” Shay smiled, drunk on schadenfreude. “That’s awesome.”
“It’s the same narrator,” sneered Carl, who still looked debauched and exhausted from whatever he’d done last night. Not too tired to trounce the dumb blond man across the table, apparently.
Fleming felt that this called for a vote. “Did anyone else think there were many different narrators throughout the story?”
No one else raised a hand.
“Anyone?”
At lunch, arranging his papers, Fleming found the class roster. There were indeed supposed to be ten students in his class rather than the nine who had been showing up. The missing student’s name was C. L. Levy. He e-mailed the university office from the ship’s public computer terminal, which was embedded in a wall of foam-colored naval ornaments, as if long ago pirates stood here and checked their Facebook pages, yelling to the next pirate in line to wait his fucking turn.
A reply popped into his inbox a few minutes later, saying that all ten students were paid in full. No one had canceled at the last minute. No one had written in for a refund.
That was a lot of money to be paid in full, only to not board the ship, or to board the ship and not attend class. In the afternoon workshop session he asked his students if anyone knew of this C. L. Levy, but none of them did. “Man or woman?” asked Helen, thoughtfully, as if that might determine her answer. He didn’t know. “Alive or dead?” she asked. And that he didn’t know, either. They seemed to think that C. L. Levy was just another writer he was recommending to them. Professor Fleming was stalling again.
After dinner Fleming went to the front desk to see if C. L. Levy was on board. Of course they couldn’t give out that information.
“Isn’t there a passenger manifest?”
Yes, there was a passenger manifest, but it wasn’t for passengers.
Back in his cabin, Fleming told Erin about it on the phone. The missing student, the possibility that someone had gone overboard last night, and the ensuing head count that woke him up.
“Huh,” she said.
“Weird, right?”
“I guess. I mean it’s not really that weird. It’s normal for them to do a head count. Is that what you said was weird? Or was something else weird?”
Dear Jesus, what was going on between them?
He took on the overly patient tone she hated. Explained it slowly. Offered a short course on the uncanny for his wife. Theories and origins of strangeness. And then, when he was done, Erin had been proved right, again without speaking. None of it seemed particularly weird. When you put it that way.
“I feel concerned, that’s all.”
This surprised Erin. Had he never expressed concern before? “I don’t know why you’re telling
me
. If you were really worried, wouldn’t you have done something about it instead of calling me?”
“Okay, I won’t talk about this to you anymore, I promise.”
“Oh, you’re going to pout now?”
“Gosh, Erin, I still haven’t stopped pouting from last time. But I have more pouting saved up after this pouting is finished. Don’t worry, I’ll let you know when the new pouting starts.”
She hung up.
On the way out of his room, Britt was waiting for him in the hallway, waving a black glove.
The little stalker had found his room.
“How come you’re not writing?” he asked, as if he’d run into her in public somewhere. Some cheerful patter, instead of screaming his head off in fright.
“How come
you’re
not, Professor?”
Did Fleming have this to look forward to every time he came and went? Could he get a new room? He’d sleep in the fucking lifeboat if he had to. He’d play it off cheerfully, using the deep reserves of cheer he stored in his infinitely sized happy place. He had cheer to goddamn spare. Maybe he’d get another room just to stash his extra cheer. How other people, Erin most of all, shook off moods, or, more impressively, pretended not to have them in the first place,
“Nothing.” Shay smiled, drunk on schadenfreude. “That’s awesome.”
“It’s the same narrator,” sneered Carl, who still looked debauched and exhausted from whatever he’d done last night. Not too tired to trounce the dumb blond man across the table, apparently.
Fleming felt that this called for a vote. “Did anyone else think there were many different narrators throughout the story?”
No one else raised a hand.
“Anyone?”
At lunch, arranging his papers, Fleming found the class roster. There were indeed supposed to be ten students in his class rather than the nine who had been showing up. The missing student’s name was C. L. Levy. He e-mailed the university office from the ship’s public computer terminal, which was embedded in a wall of foam-colored naval ornaments, as if long ago pirates stood here and checked their Facebook pages, yelling to the next pirate in line to wait his fucking turn.
A reply popped into his inbox a few minutes later, saying that all ten students were paid in full. No one had canceled at the last minute. No one had written in for a refund.
That was a lot of money to be paid in full, only to not board the ship, or to board the ship and not attend class. In the afternoon workshop session he asked his students if anyone knew of this C. L. Levy, but none of them did. “Man or woman?” asked Helen, thoughtfully, as if that might determine her answer. He didn’t know. “Alive or dead?” she asked. And that he didn’t know, either. They seemed to think that C. L. Levy was just another writer he was recommending to them. Professor Fleming was stalling again.
After dinner Fleming went to the front desk to see if C. L. Levy was on board. Of course they couldn’t give out that information.
“Isn’t there a passenger manifest?”
Yes, there was a passenger manifest, but it wasn’t for passengers.
Back in his cabin, Fleming told Erin about it on the phone. The missing student, the possibility that someone had gone overboard last night, and the ensuing head count that woke him up.
“Huh,” she said.
“Weird, right?”
“I guess. I mean it’s not really that weird. It’s normal for them to do a head count. Is that what you said was weird? Or was something else weird?”
Dear Jesus, what was going on between them?
He took on the overly patient tone she hated. Explained it slowly. Offered a short course on the uncanny for his wife. Theories and origins of strangeness. And then, when he was done, Erin had been proved right, again without speaking. None of it seemed particularly weird. When you put it that way.
“I feel concerned, that’s all.”
This surprised Erin. Had he never expressed concern before? “I don’t know why you’re telling
me
. If you were really worried, wouldn’t you have done something about it instead of calling me?”
“Okay, I won’t talk about this to you anymore, I promise.”
“Oh, you’re going to pout now?”
“Gosh, Erin, I still haven’t stopped pouting from last time. But I have more pouting saved up after this pouting is finished. Don’t worry, I’ll let you know when the new pouting starts.”
She hung up.
On the way out of his room, Britt was waiting for him in the hallway, waving a black glove.
The little stalker had found his room.
“How come you’re not writing?” he asked, as if he’d run into her in public somewhere. Some cheerful patter, instead of screaming his head off in fright.
“How come
you’re
not, Professor?”
Did Fleming have this to look forward to every time he came and went? Could he get a new room? He’d sleep in the fucking lifeboat if he had to. He’d play it off cheerfully, using the deep reserves of cheer he stored in his infinitely sized happy place. He had cheer to goddamn spare. Maybe he’d get another room just to stash his extra cheer. How other people, Erin most of all, shook off moods, or, more impressively, pretended not to have them in the first place,
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