ALMOST ENOUGH - Pt 3

by Jean Roberta

Seated in the dark, in the passenger’s seat of Markie’s little car, I was too nervous to let the silence build between us. “I didn’t know you got that song title from my poem,” I ventured shyly.

“I really like most of your poems,” she answered casually. “They have unusual imagery.” I chose not to notice her slight emphasis on the word “poems.” During the few months we had worked together, she had asked me to bring a selection of my unpublished poems, stories, opinion pieces and short plays each day for her to read over the lunch hour. Feeling like Scheherazade, I brought something for her entertainment every day until I began running out of material, and then I wrote more lesbian stories for her to read. She advised me to change the plots of some of them, and some she didn’t discuss at all. I was now writing stories, inspired by Markie’s interest, for an openly lesbian collection.

She drove in the same smooth, sexy way that she sang and played musical instruments. She seemed to be following a predetermined course that led, not to her house or to my apartment building, but to the edge of town where artifical light ended and the stars could clearly be seen in the vastness of the night sky. “Do you mind if we just talk for awhile?” she proposed, pulling the car to the side of the road. It wasn’t really a question, and she didn’t seem to expect an answer.

“Markie,” I forced myself to say while I still had the nerve, “I always like talking to you, but I can’t be sure what kind of relationship you want to have with me. Tonight was great -- is great, but I mean, do you think of me as one of your friends? You and Elaine,” I added quickly.

Smiling coolly in the dim light, she picked up my nearest hand and began stroking each finger in turn. I didn’t pull away. “Have I hurt your feelings?” she asked gently. Her resonant voice tickled my ears.

I couldn’t answer for a long moment. “That’s not, I mean -- yes.” I felt my face burning. “I never know what to expect from you. You’ve been really good to Emma, and I appreciate it, and you’ve shown more interest in my writing than anyone else, but I know who your friends are and I’m not -- I don’t think I’m one of them.”

She leaned forward, and I caught a sudden whiff of her hair gel, mixed with sweat and cologne. The smell was intoxicating. “Oh?” she asked with great concern. “Why don’t you think you’re a friend of mine?” She slid a warm arm around my shoulders and pulled me closer. “Mmm?”

Danger signs were flashing red in my mind, but the temptation was unbearable. I realized that she was about to kiss me, and that I would not try to stop her. Worse, I would respond.

At the last possible moment, she pulled back. “Oh, I’m not being fair to you, babe. I shouldn’t put you in this position.” To my relief and disappointment, she withdrew her arm and shifted in her seat. “Well, let’s just talk,” she proposed again. “I really want us to be friends -- Jean.” After caressing my name, she stroked my hair. “Your hair is such an unusual color,” she commented. “In the dark it looks brown, but in the light it looks red or gold. It has so many different shades.”

I really didn’t think that anything about me was as unusual as she claimed, but any compliment from her was a treat for my underfed ego. “Thank you,” I muttered, embarrassed. I didn’t know what else to say.

“I really admire you for hanging in there,” she went on. “It must be hard to work on a Master’s thesis and keep up your other writing when you’re a single mother and you need to earn a living. I don’t really know how you do it.” I don’t look down, I thought. As I’m not doing now. “How is your thesis coming, by the way?”

I had hoped she wouldn’t ask about this nightmare project which, like the threads on Penelope’s loom, seemed never likely to be finished. “My faculty adviser takes three months to read each revision of each chapter I write,” I told her. “If I try to speed him up, he takes offense and tells me he’s busy. It’s as if he doesn’t think he owes me anything. I asked if he wanted me to find a new adviser, and he told me ‘you can do what you like.’” I imitated the voice of a furious man with a Ph.D. whose ego is wounded. Or maybe that was just the voice of a man who lashes out because he knows he has done wrong and has no intention of admitting it. “When I talk to other people on my committee, they tell me to talk to him.” I didn’t tell her how much this situation reminded me of my marriage to an angry drunk.

“You should report him to Graduate Studies,” Markie advised me indignantly.

“That’s the other problem,” I explained. I gathered breath. “Several times now, when I’ve been waiting for my adviser to get back to me, I get a stiff letter from Dr. Snake saying I’ll be thrown out of the Master’s program unless I can explain my failure to finish my thesis within the deadline.”

“Dr. Snake?” My listener was intrigued.

“That’s not her name, that’s just what she’s called,” I explained. “She’s the Dean of Graduate Studies, but before that she was a biology prof with a specialty in herpetology, the study of snakes. I don’t know how she came to be an administrator. Maybe she used snake venom to kill off everyone in her way.”

A coiled thought suddenly struck Markie. “I know who she is!” she told me dramatically. “I wonder why she’s not supporting you. She’s a fuckin’ dyke herself.” My defender sounded surprisingly angry.

“I always thought so,” I agreed with her, “but she’s not out at work, and in any case, that cuts no ice.” Hot tears stung my eyes, so I closed them. “Every time I explain why my thesis is taking so long, she reminds me that my advisor is a respected member of the English Department. Somehow she doesn’t think his delays are his fault. I’m the lowest person on the totem pole, so I’m blamed for everything. I think they’re in cahoots to play with my mind until they get tired of this game, and then they’ll throw me out in disgrace. I’ve talked to everyone I could think of who might help, and they all send me back to my advisor. There’s no appeal procedure, and I have no rights. I don’t know what else to do.”

“Don’t they know you’re a single mother?” Markie demanded.

Hearing that voice without seeing the face it came from felt too weird, so I opened my wet eyes. “Oh yes,” I answered. “It’s a small university, and I’ve been there forever. Everyone knows too much about me, except maybe -- but they know about my modeling for Visual Arts. I’m sure that doesn’t impress anyone in my department or Grad Studies.” The thought of being discussed behind my back as a naked slut for art students and a wannabe literary scholar made me feel nauseous. “Even the fact I’m a divorced mother probably makes them think I don’t belong in an academic institution. I’m not the right type. Employers see me the same way. But the folks at Welfare think I’m slumming. Or lazy. They don’t know what a thesis is, and I’m sure they think I had Emma so I could rip off the taxpayer.” I felt a scream rising into my throat, and tried to swallow it back down.