19. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

I t was the end of the day on Friday, and the week in which Forrest had buried his father, and Lucy's relationship with Forrest had both begun and imploded was coming to an end. It had been a busy week.

After the past few evenings on her couch, Lucy feared her eyes would never return to a non-puffy state. She'd shed tears like Kentucky house tea sheds condensation. During the day, she was in the office, constantly reminded of Forrest every time she looked up but at least too busy to wallow. When she went home, her mind was free to focus on Forrest, trying to decipher where exactly she had gone wrong. Was it the glass of wine (or was it two) that she had consumed at his father's table? Was it when she had agreed to go to Mayfield with him in the first place? Or was it Edith's damned green shirt?

Emails to students graduating in December had just been sent with a multitude of attachments Lucy would have to badger them to complete and return. Unfortunately, no part of college came without paperwork, including getting out of it. To reward herself, Lucy was taking a moment to do absolutely nothing. She sat in her swivel chair, rhythmically rotating it ninety degrees to the right and then back to the left with equal rotation. Back and forth. Back and forth. Swivel chairs were one of the few things in life that didn't completely lose their childhood charm. When Lucy was little, her dad would spin her in his office chair as she giggled until her mother would come in and complain about the indignity of it all.

After one last swoosh, Lucy shook herself from her reverie. Students had cleared off campus ready to start their weekend, so now was her chance to do the thing she'd been putting off all day: turn in her official resignation. President Burke had been thrilled with her phone call Wednesday morning, the day after the funeral.

Glancing through the doorway into Dr. Hubert's office, Lucy saw Edith sitting across from him with her feet propped on his desk, a glass of Kentucky Bourbon sitting on the arm of her chair. Dr. Hubert was leaning back in his own chair, a glass of amber liquid propped on his ample stomach. He was laughing at whatever outrageous and boundary-pushing statement Edith had just made.

Lucy walked in and sat in the second chair he kept opposite his desk. Dr. Hubert immediately pulled a glass and flask from his bottom desk drawer. "Here, Lucy, dear. Let me get you a little something to start the weekend."

"That would be lovely. I could use it. I'm afraid I need to talk to you two."

In all reality, she was only obligated to tell Edith as the department chair. But since Forrest was out of the office on bereavement and Porter had headed home to start family movie night early, it seemed natural to tell the two who were in the office with her.

Edith quirked an eyebrow. "I don't know if I want to hear this. Would it be okay if I put my fingers in my ears and yelled 'Na-na-na-na'?"

Dr. Hubert swallowed a gulp. "I'm lucky. If I don't want to hear something, I just turn off my hearing aid."

Edith said, "Now might be a good time to do that."

"That won't be necessary," Lucy said. What she had to say would be sad in the way one gets sad the day after Christmas because something really good has passed. But Lucy was not naive. She knew the office would chug along without her. She took one fortifying sip of her drink and said through the burn, "I'm officially resigning my position as secretary. I've accepted the job as President Burke's assistant."

Edith and Dr. Hubert each took another sip of bourbon. "Damn it," Edith said.

"President Burke said I'm welcome to come here a couple hours a day while you transition and train someone new. I'm sorry. I really am. I just need a change of scenery. I need to try something new, see what I can do outside of this office."

"We understand, dear." Dr. Hubert’s short proclamation reverberated through the room. His voice really was created by the gods of academia for lecture halls. Lucy fidgeted in her chair, as if repositioning would stop a tear from making an appearance.

"Thank you, Dr. Hubert."

Edith said, "And as for me, I understand, too. And I support you. I just think it is a shame you aren't leaving our office to, I don't know, run the UN or be Secretary of State or something. You're brilliant. And insanely competent. President Burke is lucky to get you."

"That's incredibly kind, Edith."

"I'm not trying to be kind."

Lucy held up her hands, the liquid swishing in her glass. "Of course not."

From her desk, Lucy heard a text message notification. "Let me go check on that."

When she got there, she saw the words, "Could you tell the old man I've arrived?"

Lucy returned to Dr. Hubert's doorway. "Time to put away the fun stuff and pop a mint. Mrs. Hubert is here to drive you home." She laid a tin of Altoids in front of him.

"Oh Lucy, there will never be another like you." He popped the mint, and then groaned at his knees as he stood up. Lucy could swear she heard joints popping across the room.

After he left and Lucy started cleaning up her desk, Edith came into her space with her arms crossed and questions in her eyes. "Lucy, is working in the President's office what you really want to do? Is this your top choice?"

"My top choice? What do you mean?"

"If you were dreaming, if you were at summer camp doing an ice-breaker activity and you had to say what you wanted to be when you grew up, would you say, 'I, Lucy O'Shields, want to be the administrative assistant to the president of a small liberal arts college?'"

"I mean, no? No, who wants to be that when they're fourteen and covered in bug spray next to some acne-riddled boy they have a crush on?"

"Wow, I really hit a chord with the summer camp analogy."

"But really, Edith. I wanted to be married to Colin Firth and have three daughters, all of whom would love to read Jane Austen and the Bront? sisters, and we would live in England, obviously, and have crumpets for whatever meal English people eat crumpets at. That was the level of my dreaming, and I'm pretty sure that ship has sailed."

"Okay, but 32-year-old Lucy. The one standing in front of me whose dreams of Colin Firth have clearly been crushed. What does that Lucy want?"

Lucy fell heavily into her chair. In reality, she'd spent so many years basking in being needed by the four people wreathing her office, she had not questioned her own lack of ambition. But now, she was beginning to wonder if she had just been biding her time, wondering if Colin Firth was actually the bearded guy in the office to the right, and he was just taking his time noticing that his perfect companion was answering the phone. Maybe she hadn't been content so much as she had simply been willing to wait for other people to fulfill her dreams.

"Edith, I'm so ashamed to admit this, but adult Lucy doesn't have dreams or goals. I forgot such things even existed."

Edith's voice softened, a rare phenomenon for her. "That's okay, Luce. Let's start with this question: What have you enjoyed doing the most, career-wise, during your time here with us?"

Lucy thought back to the conversation she'd had with Forrest a few weeks ago, when he had asked her why she edited for him. "Oh, well, that's easy. I love editing. I love finding all the mistakes you all make. I love the red ink, and I love being the one person who is really good at spotting typos or grammatical errors or gaps in lines of argument. I mean, that isn't part of my job as secretary. I've just done it on the side. But I've always loved it."

Edith nodded as Lucy talked. "Okay. That’s good to know. We'll file that information away for now. But don't worry, we'll get back to it."

"Oh dear. Have you become my life coach? When did that happen?"

Edith tapped the edge of Lucy's desk. "Don't you worry about that. For now, I meant it when I said I understood why you had to take the other job."

"Good. Will you help me shop this weekend for clothes for my new gig?"

"Ooh, with color?"

"Yes."

"And prints?"

"Sure?"

"And accessories?"

"How can the world's biggest feminist be so girly?"

"I'll pick you up at nine o'clock tomorrow morning."

***

In the bleak gray and white landscape that was Forrest Graham's apartment, the lone occupant lay on the floor between the beige sofa and the television, his neck kinked so that his head wouldn't be on top of one of many greasy pizza boxes strewn across the area. He was wearing boxer briefs and an old Nirvana t-shirt he had found in the dresser of his childhood room. It smelled musty. He wasn't sure if the odor was a product of not having been worn for twenty years, or if it was from having now been worn three days by a man in desperate need of a shower. Either way, it was musty.

His beard, usually so smooth, looked as though he had slept on it from half a dozen different angles. He wasn't sure how he had achieved this effect seeing as how he had not slept on his face. Apparently, all those fancy oils Gracie supplied him with worked miracles. He had not walked into his bathroom for anything but the use of the toilet for days, leaving his facial landscape neglected to say the least.

Forrest had lowered himself into this position with much groaning, hoping it would ease the pain in his lower back, a gnawing ache that had started gathering about halfway through day two of sitting on his couch binging on war movies. Forrest stared at the circular ring of light cast onto the ceiling by the lamp. Once upon a time, Forrest would get sore from jogging too far or doing too many pull-ups in some college dorm competition. Now, he was sore because he had sat on the couch too long? Forrest cursed aging and couches and lower backs. As he raised his arms over his head in an attempt to stretch his back, he cursed the need for showers while he was at it.

Forrest had seen a lot of blood and gore since walking out of Lucy's apartment Tuesday night. Somehow, crying during the motivational speeches that occurred before the climactic battle scenes seemed more acceptable than crying over the current wreck in which he found his life. So Forrest wept over basically the same words declared by similarly-muscled men in battles ranging from the Middle Ages to the Vietnam War. It didn't really matter the era. Apparently, generals have been giving the same speech for quite a while now, and the same short, doe-eyed sidekick has been dying for all of that time, as well. Despite the repetition, Forrest allowed the tears to flow each time. He had years of suppressed emotion to make up for. If he was stuck doing bereavement leave, he would bereave the hell out of it.

What Forrest did not think about when those tears were flowing was his father's weak whispers during that last day, how he had clearly wanted to have a normal conversation with the two kids he'd neglected so much when they had lived under the same roof as him during their youth. He did not think about the worry in Gracie's eyes when she had said goodbye, worry about him, Forrest. He banished thoughts of how damn tragic alcoholism was and what a good dad his father likely would have been had he not been sick with longing for the next glass.

And he sure as hell did not think about Lucy. About the hurt he had put in her eyes, or the pleading he had heard in her voice, or the way she felt when they were pressed together within the tight confines of a twin bed. Those thoughts were strictly off limits.

After determining that stretching had no beneficial effect on back pain, Forrest contemplated the possibility of bending a knee towards his chest. Just as he was groaning with the effort to do so, he heard a knock at the front door.

"Oh shit." He was going to have to stand up. And put pants on.

For the first time in half a week, Forrest moved quickly. Grimacing, he jumped up and ran to his bedroom, pulled on a pair of jeans that were crumpled on the floor. Running his hands down his legs, Forrest made a futile attempt to flatten the wrinkles. Apparently, wadding jeans within a pile of clothes was not the best storage option. Just as he reached the door, the bell rang for a third time.

Forrest opened the door to find Dr. Hubert and Porter standing side-by-side, and in front of them (and at least a foot shorter than either) was Mrs. Hubert, her finger still on the doorbell button. She was decked out in a purple tweed pantsuit and matching hat, and her other hand held the handle to a rectangular quilted case with "The Huberts" embroidered on the side. Dr. Hubert's eyes were inscrutable beneath the shadow of his eyebrows, Porter looked apologetic, and Mrs. Hubert simply looked determined.

"Forrest, boy," she declared as she held up the hand with the mystery container. "I've brought a casserole. When one is sad, one needs to eat. That is what I always say. So let's get you eating."

"How kind of you." Forrest stepped back, allowing Mrs. Hubert to step in.

She likely thought she was talking under her breath, but given her hearing loss, it was quite loud when she said, "Oh, dear. We've got some work to do." With that, Mrs. Hubert headed directly for his kitchen. Forrest flinched at the sound of her inhaling when she saw his kitchen, buried as it was under even more greasy pizza boxes.

"Hello, son," Dr. Hubert said as he walked in.

"Dr. Hubert, it's good to see you."

As Dr. Hubert headed for the couch and started moving some trash to clear a space to sit, Porter pulled Forrest onto the front porch. He frantically whispered, "Dr. Hubert said he wanted to come check on you. I had no idea Mrs. Hubert was coming, too, and she insisted on driving. Turns out, they're both too old to be driving, Forrest. Too damn old."

Forrest, lacking the emotional energy required to feel sorry for Porter’s plight, said only, "Sorry, bud," while patting Porter's shoulder as he walked over the threshold into Forrest's den of slothfulness.

Porter paused mid-stride. "Whoa, Forrest. What happened here?"

"My dad just died." Forrest had not expected to play that card quite so soon.

"Forrest, dear?" Mrs. Hubert's voice rang from the kitchen.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Where are your cleaning supplies?"

Forrest ran to the doorway of his kitchen. "Really, Mrs. Hubert, that isn't neces-"

"Oh, hush. Where are they?" Her tone left no room for argument.

"Under the sink."

"Good. Now you go keep the doctor company."

Although they were all technically doctors, Forrest didn't have to ask to whom she was referring. He returned to the living room, removed an empty soda can from the recliner next to the couch, and gingerly lowered himself into the seat.

Barely holding in a growl of pain, Forrest said, "Well, gentlemen, how are you today?"

"Actually, Forrest," Dr. Hubert said, "we have come to ask you that question."

Forrest pulled on the collar of his t-shirt the way he pulled on his tie when a student asked a question he didn't care to answer. Then he remembered he wasn't wearing a work shirt with a tie, but rather a Nirvana t-shirt with a hole in each armpit. He crossed his arms over Kirk Cobain's face.

"Oh, you know, all things considered, I'm doing fine."

"Really?" Porter said. "Is that why I had to move two empty bags of Extra Fiery Cheetos before I sat down. Because no man as close to forty as you are is okay after eating two bags of Extra Fiery Cheetos."

"I've been better, obviously." And, yes, those two bags had cost him dearly, but he would never admit it to Porter.

Dr. Hubert crossed his hands over his bulging mid-section and closed his eyes. Forrest braced himself for the truth-bombs Dr. Hubert was likely to drop. "Forrest, as you know, I am an avid reader of the great Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and as such, have become more intuitive than I would be otherwise. So allow me to intuit a few things."

Shit. "Yes, sir."

"Since the time you first joined us, son, I have been impressed with your drive and fastidiousness and control. You were so young for a professor, and yet you immediately contributed immensely to the department. Looking around your apartment and seeing you today, I would say that our normal, self-controlled Forrest is in some dire straits. I'm sure that this is in large part due to the passing of your father, a man I'm convinced must have been wonderful to have raised a son like you despite struggling with the great onus of alcoholism."

An image of his father sitting at the table holding his essay after the basketball game flashed through Forrest's mind. With it came a flicker of gratitude, just enough to make him loosen his grip on his bitterness. "Yes, sir."

"However, I suspect that your father's passing does not account for all of your distress."

Forrest placed his right elbow on his left arm and propped his chin into his cupped hand. The position covered more of Cobain's face. "Hm-hmm?"

Dr. Hubert's eyebrows rose like an owl posturing as he looked directly at Forrest. "Our dear Lucy informed Dr. Rose and I yesterday afternoon that she has taken a position as the administrative assistant to President Burke. I suspect you know of this development."

"I’d heard." Forrest squirmed. Why wasn't Porter saying anything? Couldn't he have brought one of the boys for a little distraction?

"Furthermore..."

Of course there was more.

"Forrest, I suspect that losing Lucy's presence in our office just as you are dealing with another great loss must be quite devastating to you. Especially seeing as how you are so particularly fond of her."

Porter was checking a cuticle at very close range. Was he suppressing a smile? That bastard.

"Well, we are all fond of Lucy, aren't we?" Forrest said. Porter snorted. Forrest trudged on. "Admittedly, I have always found her to be charming and kind and an engaging conversationalist..."

"Forrest, son. Forgive me for interrupting your list making, as entertaining as it is, but I am no fool. It may have been many decades since I was in the first stages of love for my dear Mrs. Hubert, but I assure you, I remember each detail of how it felt and how it looked and how I acted. You, son, are smitten."

Just as Forrest was about to mount his counter-argument, Mrs. Hubert walked past them with a laundry basket that, good grief, had a pair of his boxers laying at the top. He jumped to his feet, "Mrs. Hubert, really, you don't have to do this. It's so kind..."

"Hush, boy. I will decide what I do or do not do. We all need help in our times of grief. So I'm here to help."

Forrest fell back into his seat, completely helpless. No wonder Lucy could always get Dr. Hubert to do whatever he was supposed to do simply by name-dropping Mrs. Hubert. "Yes, Mrs. Hubert."

After showing a remarkable ability to be completely silent, Porter said, "Good choice."

Forrest sent him a glare, and then in exasperation said, "Okay. Let's say you're right and I do have a thing for Lucy. I've already blown it."

"How's that?" Now Porter was going to join the conversation?

"I've never had a single disagreement with Lucy in the ten years I've worked by her side. At least not over anything more consequential than which is the best sandwich condiment. But we are together one time..." Oh no. That was definitely an admission in front of Dr. Hubert that he had slept with Lucy. "One time - well, really one-and-a-half - but anyways, now she hates me. You should have seen the look in her eyes the last time we spoke. It was hurt and anger and confusion. It was nothing good, and I put those feelings there."

"I would assume," Dr. Hubert said, "that you feel this anger and pain means you two did something wrong. Your conclusion after these events is that you and Lucy should not be together. Am I correct in interpreting what you are saying?"

"Of course that’s what it means. People can't be together in a relationship if they are fighting all of the time."

"Says who?" Dr. Hubert sat up straighter, asking the question with the verve of a great orator. "After fifty years of marriage, I can assure you that arguing is an essential part of the package, and if done right, damn good foreplay."

Forrest's eyes swelled unblinkingly. Porter nodded his head once and said, "Quite right, sir. Quite right."

Dr. Hubert lifted his hands from his stomach, his palms facing outward as he said, "But perhaps I'm overstepping my bounds. Maybe you and Lucy just don't suit. Perhaps you tried and found you have no chemistry?"

Forrest immediately guffawed. He tried to articulate his denial, that no, indeed, a lack of chemistry was not their problem, but he couldn't seem to get past a bout of sputtering.

Porter looked to Dr. Hubert. "I had no idea a blush could be visible through such a bushy beard."

Dr. Hubert said nothing, but Forrest could swear he winked back at Porter.

Finally, Forrest managed to say, "A lack of chemistry is not the problem."

Just as the words left his mouth, Mrs. Hubert strode into the room with a feather duster. He didn't own a feather duster, did he? Had she brought her own feather duster? Who walks around with a feather duster in their purse? "We need some color in here, dear. Tomorrow, I'll bring over a few wall-hangings someone donated to the church's thrift store. We'll see what we can do."

Before he could come up with a way, anyway, to get out of redecorating, she was off to another room and another task. Forrest tried to decipher how he'd come to this moment in life. Was it only a month ago that he’d sat across from Dr. Wray bored out of his mind while listening to the latest research on some bug thing he couldn't remember? Now he was a disheveled wreck in the middle of a filthy apartment that Mrs. Hubert was cleaning while Dr. Hubert gave him relationship advice and Porter watched with a smirk.

Dr. Hubert continued, "So if chemistry isn't the problem, what is?"

Forrest didn't have to sputter or hesitate or even think. Because in between all the war movies and insides-torching food, he had been ruminating on this same question. "I'm the problem. When I was young, I saw what my mom leaving did to my dad. And Gracie told me what they had been like when they had been together. Crazy about each other one minute, fighting like cats and dogs the next. So I promised myself a long time ago that I wouldn't go down that road, I wouldn't fall madly in love and do all of that business. I don't want to ever hurt anyone that way, and I'd rather not be hurt either. And I haven't. I've been careful in all of my relationships. I've kept things neat and tidy, and no one has gotten hurt. And now, the one person, the one person I most don't want to hurt, I've hurt. Because for all of one night, I let my guard down."

"Oh Forrest," Porter was sighing and rubbing the bridge of his nose. "There is just so much misinterpretation going on there."

"There really is," Dr. Hubert confirmed with a nod.

"What? That's harsh." Forrest had been expecting consolation, support.

Porter said, "I don't really know where to start. I mean, I don't know where to start in explaining to you all of the different ways you're wrong about this. There are so many. You are the most brilliant scholar I've ever met. But this is just..." He sighed the sigh of the long-suffering.

"Porter?" He was suddenly chatty.

Porter continued, "Here's the thing, Forrest. I know I'm supposed to give you the you-are-not-your-dad talk right now, but really, it's more complex than that. To be fair, you are a little bit your dad. You are the part of your dad that calls his son's secretary at least once a week to check on him. The part that collects and reads the thousands on top of thousands of words his son writes over the most minuscule details of 19 th -century American Literature."

"Your writing really is prolific, Forrest," Dr. Hubert said.

"Thank you?"

Porter continued, "That's the part of yourself that shows up at my house when Charlotte is out of town to play with my boys while I get Anna to bed. But the parts of your dad that missed school events and never made you dinner and didn't know how to talk with you about basic growing-up problems, those parts of your dad you clearly are not. In large part because he made sure you didn't become an alcoholic like him. He was just sick, Forrest. He didn't have some fundamental flaw passed through generations of Graham men that makes them unsuitable for relationships. It isn't that complicated. He was just sick.

"And as far as what happened between him and your mom, Forrest, there was stuff going on there that you don't understand nor are you likely to ever fully understand. They were both dealing with substance abuse and who knows what else. But the important thing to remember is that Lucy is not your mom. Clearly. I mean, is anyone more dependable than Lucy?"

Porter looked to Dr. Hubert who quickly added, "Decidedly not. At least, no one that I have ever had the pleasure of meeting."

"So while this avoid-love-like-the-plague strategy may have served you well for a long time, it is no longer working for you, friend. It’s time to move on."

There was silence in the apartment except for the bustling of Mrs. Hubert in the kitchen. Finally, Forrest said, "Even if you’re right, I'm afraid I've already blown it. I really hurt her."

Dr. Hubert's eyes shut again and he exhaled deeply. "Son, that is Lucy's decision to make. But you underestimate our Lucy severely if you think she would give up so flippantly on someone she cares about so deeply."

Forrest had thought several days ago that he’d reached the limits on how much pain he could feel. But Dr. Hubert's words tightened his chest with a flicker of hope that was in and of itself sweetly painful.

Mrs. Hubert poked her head out of the kitchen. "Gentlemen, go wash up. Dinner is ready."

His chest felt another squeeze, and he realized in horror that his eyes were watering. No one had ever cooked a meal for him in that bleak little gray kitchen during his entire ten years of occupancy.

All three men called out, "Yes, ma'am."