Slow Surrender Page 16

  “That’s smart,” she said, fingering the crystals woven in the netting. “And then bondage?”

  “And then bondage,” I said. I didn’t bother to tell her about all the stuff with Stefan.

  “Oh my God. Was it like being kidnapped?”

  “No! It wasn’t like that at all. It was more like being turned into a work of art. He used ropes and these.” I showed her the long string of pearls. Each one was identical and perfect.

  Becky whistled appreciatively at the pearls, but she was more interested in the bondage. “But he pretended to be forcing you to do it, right?”

  “No, it wasn’t like that, either.” I stopped and thought about it. Wasn’t that what all those fantasies from pirate movies and Westerns were about? About being captured and tied up so the captor could have his way with the victim? “You know, it really didn’t feel like that at all. It was more like a game we were playing. Being tied so I couldn’t use my hands was only one part of it.”

  “Is that what they mean by ‘recreational sex,’ then?” Becky asked.

  I couldn’t help it. That made me laugh and picture little old ladies who took macramé classes at the recreational center learning to tie different kinds of knots and ropes. “Um, I don’t think so,” I said when I stopped laughing. “I think recreational sex is any sex you have that’s just for fun and not, I guess, for purposes of having a baby or developing a serious relationship.”

  Wait. By that definition, then, was the game that he and I played just for fun? I felt like it was much more serious than that. It was emotional, passionate. Stefan had tried to get rid of me by claiming I would get discarded because it wasn’t a serious thing. Yet James’s actions made it seem as if this was a serious thing. Why would Stefan have warned me away otherwise? The conversation I’d overheard uptown added to my point. The woman telling him not to make me into another Lucinda led me to believe she was afraid of him getting too involved as well. He had bought me a phone. He had also promised me a future of pleasure earlier tonight. He had even introduced me to someone who could be useful in a job hunt, someone way better than the jerk Renault had sent me to interview with.

  When he was teaching me to read people, he had said to add up all the facts. It only takes a few points to define which way a line points. Thinking about it, I realized I had more than a few points from him that pointed to how serious he was about me. He hadn’t only been teaching me to read people: he’d also taught me to read him.

  Beyond all that, I felt it in my gut, in my heart. I shared an intimacy with him I had never had with another person, not only sex, but also a kind of knowing each other that was hard to put into words. I felt safe and protected when I was with him, safe enough to leap into one erotic adventure after another. I thought about how he held himself back, how armored he was, and how it seemed like I could pierce that armor anytime I put my mind to it, with a joke or with a kiss.

  Stefan was right. I would be dangerous to him if I wanted to hurt him. That thought sent a delicious thrill through my belly as I realized it was good for both of us that I was starting to feel as protective of him as he did of me.

  “Rina? Are you okay?”

  “Oh, sorry. Yeah. Just thinking.”

  “I’ve been meaning to tell you. I found a piece of mail for you on the stairs in the vestibule. I think it got put in one of the neighbors’ mailboxes and they left it there, but it’s postmarked like a week ago.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’s from the art history department. I put it on the kitchen counter.” Becky then ran her fingers over the dress one last time. “When are you going to wear it?”

  “I don’t know. He sort of hinted I would be wearing it soon, but I’m not sure when.” I reached up and took the tiara off.

  “Well, you better find out, because you’re going to need shoes to go with it, and we have to go out shopping for them,” she said as she headed back to the bathroom to comb out her hair.

  “I’m seeing him Friday. I’ll ask then,” I said.

  It was going to be a long week.

  Ten: A Man Who Wants to Rule the World

  The letter from the art history department turned out to be from the head of the department, warning me that there were various pieces of paperwork that I had to turn in by certain dates in order to graduate. A few of them, in fact, were already late, but they were generously giving me an extension. Great. The papers were all things that required Renault’s signature, of course. I wondered if I could catch him at one of his classes and get him to sign the documents in public, where he couldn’t pull anything.

  Surely he wouldn’t be so brazen as to refuse in front of everyone. Of course, maybe he would take it as a sign I was giving in, but I didn’t care as long as he signed them. That wouldn’t solve the problem of him refusing to approve my thesis, but it was a step.

  I walked from the department secretary’s office to the building where his class was being held. It looked like it was snowing, but really it was just winter’s last hurrah. The sidewalks were all slush and the streets were small rivers. Ah, springtime in New York. I clutched the folder of papers close to my chest and stomped through the wet weather.

  I fumed about the incident all over again. It didn’t matter that he threw the printout in the trash, I told myself. He could access the current version of the document in the department computer server any time he wanted to. He was only doing it to freak me out and fuck with me. Literally.

  He didn’t really mean to block me from graduating, did he? He’d made his bid to get his jollies and it had failed. He’d move on now, right? I tried to convince myself that if I pretended the scene at his house had never happened, then he would pretend, too.

  That got me to thinking about the thesis. After talking with Martindale, I wondered if I shouldn’t refocus the conclusion from a more general treatment of gender by the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood to one focused specifically on sexuality?

  Oh, but Renault would surely see that as a come-on. Ugh. And besides, the previous work was surely good enough to deserve to get out of here, wasn’t it?

  The classroom was in a large building with an atrium entrance, where high echoes bounced off the glass and stone. I got into the elevator.

  When I got out on the floor, I started walking slower and slower. I knew I needed to get there before class ended so there would be people around, but maybe I should try Thursday instead. Maybe it would be better to get there before class instead of after, so he’d be stuck there and more easily pressured.

  I approached the door, my throat feeling dry. It had a tall, narrow window and I could see they were still in session. Now what? Slip in and sit in the front and hope I didn’t disturb the lecture too much? Or wait out here? But if I waited until people were already leaving, that might be too late.

  I stood there too long dithering. By the time I decided I should slip in, people were starting to stand up from their seats. I opened the door and hurried over to the desk, where he was putting away the books he had brought with him. He was hunched over, placing them into a bag, while a student was asking him something, but she seemed to be the only one in line. Okay, maybe she would be quick.

  I was standing behind Renault, but I could hear what he said clearly enough. “Well, Miss Sementello, I would strongly advise a revision meeting with me to pull your grade up.” She had curly, dark red hair, round eyes, and very white cheeks. “If you could come by my office tomorrow at two—no, wait, I believe I have another appointment then. I have an hour in the morning before my office hours. Why don’t you come by my house first thing tomorrow morning?”

  I stared at her from behind him. I could barely hear what he was saying my heart was pounding so hard in my ears. Don’t do it! Don’t go! I tried to give her some kind of signal by staring extra hard. What else could I do?

  She wasn’t really paying attention to me, though. Although she agreed to meet him, she whined about the early hour, and he cut her off—exactly the way he did m
e.

  Unbelievable. Not only did he do this to students regularly, but he also had an MO.

  She flounced off and I nearly ran after her. It wasn’t a large seminar, so the room had emptied out. He turned then and saw me.

  “Miss Casper,” he said, his expression severe.

  “Professor Renault,” I said, launching into my practiced speech. “I received a letter from the department this week insisting that I turn in these signed forms.”

  He didn’t move for a moment, didn’t breathe, and I wondered what thoughts were going on behind his narrowed eyes. He was probably trying to figure out how much he could get away with or whether signing any of the documents committed him to approving the thesis itself. “Let me see them.”

  I produced the sheaf of papers and he laid them out on the table, putting on his glasses to examine them. He made a “hmph” sort of sound and signed the first one, then the second. He picked up the third and looked it over, then signed it also.

  He thrust them back at me without looking at me or saying anything more. I didn’t push it. I just took the papers and nearly ran out the door.

  Down in the atrium as I came out of the elevator, I saw her, the red-haired girl. She was going through the revolving doors to the outside. I hurried to catch up.

  She was pausing to open her umbrella in the shelter of the building when I caught up.

  “Um, excuse me, you don’t know me, but…” Oh God, how could I tell her? What was I going to say? “Look, maybe it’s just me or maybe it’s nothing,” I began. I looked both ways and then back at the doorway to make sure he wasn’t sneaking up on us. “I’ve heard that being alone with Professor Renault is risky.”

  She gave me a look like I’d opened a smelly bag of shit. I guess in a metaphorical way, I had. “Who the hell told you that?”

  “Look. It’s talk that goes around the department. I’m a grad student. He’s my thesis advisor.”

  She was still giving me that look.

  “He’s done it to me,” I finally admitted. “The whole bit, asking me to come to his house instead of his office, first thing in the morning, and then…” My throat seemed to close up, and that finally cracked her expression. She went from disgusted to concerned. “Then…”

  I couldn’t even get the words out. She put a hand on my arm. “And then?”

  “He’s got a goddamned pillow on a shelf in his office that’s for people to kneel on while they service him,” I said. My face was beet red. “You’re the first person I’ve told. Don’t go to his home, please. Call and cancel the appointment. Make him meet you at his office.”

  She rubbed my arm. “Oh, honey, oh my God, you have to report it.”

  I shook my head. “It’s useless. I’ll only get myself into even more trouble. I want out, that’s all. I don’t even know if I can say it again.”

  “Here.” She dug a tissue out of her purse and handed it to me.

  I dabbed at my eyes and blew my nose. “I’m all right. I’m fine. That was just hard to say.”

  “I’m sure it was. Thank you so much for warning me. Let’s exchange phone numbers.” She dug her phone out while I wondered whether to use my new one or the old one. How about the new one? That was where all the secrets currently were.

  “Right.” Becky’s idea suddenly popped into my head. “If you’re in trouble and you need me to come ring the doorbell, you can call me. If you use the word sunset, I’ll know you’re in trouble. Tell him you have a conference call you can’t miss or something.” Oh, this wasn’t making any sense.

  “I have no intention of letting him do anything funny, no matter where I meet him,” she said. “If he tries, my first call will be to nine-one-one. I’ll definitely call you to let you know if anything happens, okay?”

  “Okay. Thank you.”

  We parted and I went to a coffee shop for some ginger and chamomile tea to try to calm down. I sat with my mug and held it, breathing the steam without drinking and trying to unknot my frayed nerves.

  I jumped when I felt James’s phone chime. I took it out of my pocket to find a text from him that read, Just thinking of you.

  I texted back, What a coincidence. Thinking of you too.

  His answer was a smiley face and then: In a meeting. Must go. My turn to speak.

  I sent back Good luck and then realized the time. I needed to get back to the department office to turn in the papers before anything could go wrong. They closed at five and I had five minutes to get there. I could make it.

  I squeezed in the door around some deliverymen just before the clock on the church across the street struck five and was worried to see the secretary was not at her desk. I don’t know how it is in other universities, but the person who has the true, ultimate power to make or break you in our art history department is the department secretary. Ours was an older woman with a formidable hairdo, sculpted of many curls and pins and dyed an improbable shade of burgundy, her hands heavy with gold rings.

  I shifted nervously from foot to foot, then saw her. She was directing the deliverymen, who were wrestling a large crate over the lintel and into the main foyer. Once they made it over the hump of the lintel, she came over to the desk. I was grateful that she sat down instead of shooing me away.

  “This is the paperwork I picked up earlier,” I said timidly.

  “Oh yes, hand it over. Nice work turning it around so quickly.” She skimmed the things I handed her. “Oh, here, you sign this one, too.” She handed me a pen and indicated the corner of her desk nearest me.

  I signed and handed it back. “Yeah, I just tracked him down at a class he teaches and wouldn’t let him go until he signed them,” I joked.

  She took all the papers and stamped them with a very Official-Looking Stamp and then filed them in two very Official-Looking Folders. “There. Did you need something else?”

  “Yes, one other thing.” I tried not to sound completely pathetic. “What’s the date again by which I need my advisor’s signature on the final draft of my dissertation?”

  “Oh, well, technically he and the committee don’t have to sign off until the date of your defense, but these days usually the defense is more of a formality, a chance to show everyone what you did. They can sign at any time leading up to it. But the last date would be twenty-four hours after your defense. Have you scheduled it yet?”

  “No, but I’ll get right on that.” The makeup of my committee was the other thing besides the date that I needed to talk to Renault about and had been avoiding since the “pillow” appointment. “Thank you.”

  I turned around to see the workmen uncrating what they had transported. An abstract glass sculpture, on a black pedestal. Something about it looked similar to the one that had been on the table at the hotel.

  There was no plaque or sign yet. I hurried back to the desk, where the secretary was putting on her coat. “Excuse me, but do you know the name of the artist who did the glass piece there?”

  “Oh, it’s new,” she said. “Let me think. John something, Jim something…”

  Another woman came down the hallway then, also wearing her coat and taking an umbrella out of her bag.

  The secretary turned to her. “Esther, what’s the name of the artist who did the glass piece?”

  “Oh, let me think.” I realized then who she was, Esther Carmichael, the head of the department. She had short white hair and wire-framed glasses so round they looked almost like bicycle wheels. She snapped her fingers as she remembered. “Lester. J. B. Lester. American. From upstate, I believe?”

  “Thank you,” I said, and gave her a little nod. “It’s very nice.”

  “Aren’t you Karina Casper?” she said as we all moved toward the exit.

  “I am.” The one time we’d met before was when she’d told me my old advisor needed to be replaced. She seemed like a very nice woman, even if a little spacey sometimes.

  “I’m looking forward to your graduation, my dear,” she said as we stepped out onto the street. The snow/sl
eet/rain had stopped. “You’ll be the only doctorate degree awarded from our department, I believe.”

  “What about Feisenhurst?” the secretary asked.

  “Oh, he’s hopeless,” the professor said, making a hand motion like throwing something away. “Every time I think I’m going to get rid of him, he ends up back for another year. One more and we kick him out for good, I suppose.” She patted me on the arm. “Good luck, dear. Are you still on your first draft?”

  “Er, yes. I’m a bit stuck there at the moment.”

  “You’ll get past it. You have all the ideas in your head. You just haven’t thought them all yet.” She looked up and wrinkled her nose at the pending bad weather. She put up an umbrella and she and the secretary moved off together.

  I went the other way, wondering what I was going to do if Renault pushed the issue. Maybe dropping out and avoiding Renault and the whole mess was the way to do it. But that would leave people like Esther Carmichael disappointed.

  He had signed the papers at least. And he had found someone else to harass. Maybe if I left him alone for another week or so, he’d soften up and let me go.

  He had to or I’d report him. Right? But then I thought, Well, you haven’t reported him yet. Obviously no one has. He’s probably got some way of dealing with that kind of threat.

  My feet took me on autopilot back to my building. I microwaved some macaroni and cheese and then got in bed—or onto my futon, as the case may be. I could hear Becky in her room, but I didn’t even go to say hello. I put my head under my pillow and lay there in the dark trying not to think about it.

  Then I remembered the snazzy new phone. My old laptop computer was too creaky and ancient to run a current Web browser. The only programs that worked were a word processor and a few old games. I usually had to go to the library to surf the Web or do research.

  I did a search for “J.B. Lester Glass Artist” and immediately got a hit for a website. I clicked on it and up came an online gallery of photos of glass pieces. I tapped on the biography page, holding my breath while it loaded, hoping there was a photo. Could I have found him?