Mislaid: A Novel
By Nell Zink
3.5/5
()
About this ebook
LONGLISTED FOR THE 2015 NATIONAL BOOK AWARD
A sharply observed, mordantly funny, and startlingly original novel from an exciting, unconventional new voice—the author of the acclaimed The Wallcreeper—about the making and unmaking of the American family that lays bare all of our assumptions about race and racism, sexuality and desire.
Stillwater College in Virginia, 1966. Freshman Peggy, an ingénue with literary pretensions, falls under the spell of Lee, a blue-blooded poet and professor, and they begin an ill-advised affair that results in an unplanned pregnancy and marriage. The two are mismatched from the start—she’s a lesbian, he’s gay—but it takes a decade of emotional erosion before Peggy runs off with their three-year-old daughter, leaving their nine-year-old son behind.
Worried that Lee will have her committed for her erratic behavior, Peggy goes underground, adopting an African American persona for her and her daughter. They squat in a house in an African-American settlement, eventually moving to a housing project where no one questions their true racial identities. As Peggy and Lee’s children grow up, they must contend with diverse emotional issues: Byrdie deals with his father’s compulsive honesty; while Karen struggles with her mother’s lies—she knows neither her real age, nor that she is “white,” nor that she has any other family.
Years later, a minority scholarship lands Karen at the University of Virginia, where Byrdie is in his senior year. Eventually the long lost siblings will meet, setting off a series of misunderstandings and culminating in a comedic finale worthy of Shakespeare.
Editor's Note
Achingly good fiction…
No one else writes like Nell Zink. Her dialogue is infinitely sharper than real life, and she manages to turn racism, sexism, classism, and Southern history into rich veins of pitiless, yet breezy comedy.
Nell Zink
Nell Zink grew up in rural Virginia. She has worked in a variety of trades, including masonry and technical writing. In the early 1990s, she edited an indie rock fanzine. Her books include The Wallcreeper, Mislaid, Private Novelist, and Nicotine, and her writing has appeared in n+1, Granta, and Harper’s. She lives near Berlin, Germany.
Read more from Nell Zink
Doxology: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Nicotine: A Novel Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Private Novelist: Fiction Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5
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Reviews for Mislaid
299 ratings31 reviews
What our readers think
Readers find this title to be a mix of opinions. Some readers found it extremely good, fantastic, and enjoyable, while others found it terrible and a waste of time. However, there were also positive reviews that praised the book for being wonderful, witty, and funny. The book has elements of satire and a surreal story that captivated readers. Overall, it is an interesting and enjoyable read, with a mix of humor and thought-provoking moments.
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5While in college, Peggy, a lesbian falls for one of the teachers, Lee, who just happens to be gay. During their affair, Peggy becomes pregnant and they become married. After years of misery, Peggy decides to run away taking her 3 year old daughter and leaving behind her 9 year old son. Afraid Lee will have her committed; Peggy devises a plan to hide from the world by adopting an African American identity for her and her daughter. With clever writing this book explores themes such as gender, race, and sexuality. I found myself enjoying the majority of this book but found myself skimming through the last part.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5I found it quite bizarre in the beginning. Having purchased it because it was billed as being hilariously funny, I was immensely disappointed to not even crack a smile for about 60% of the book. But the last 40% caught me. I still heard no laughter, but I did enjoy it. I'm also glad I read it, which is worth a star by itdself.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5I had just read about this on Charlotte's thread, and then I went to the library and what should be staring out at me from the new editions shelf?! Serendipity, I cried, as I snagged it. And what a lovely find it was! I read it in just two sittings. It is irreverent and witty, and I thought finally an American fairy tale that encompasses all of the bizarre, inconsistent and incongruous voices of a country whose doctrine declares equality for everyone but has yet to deliver its promise. It reminded me of those old screwball comedies (think Cary Grant) that had the clever dialogue and the plot that was always spinning slightly out of control, only without the censors to say, "Wait a minute, you can't do that. You can't say that." Completely and totally engaging, it will pull you into its pages and not release you until you have read every last word. Highly recommended."Because people never grow accustomed to lies. They either believe them or they don't. And a big lie is never forgiven. The person who told the lie stops existing, and in his place stands a paradox: the truthful liar. The person you know for sure would lie to you, because he's done it before and confessed. You never, ever believe that person again."
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5I loved the quirky wittiness of this book and the way gender, race, and legal lines were stretched and blurred. Anyone who has contemplated running away from prescribed roles, even if it is only in one's head, will find something in this book.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5I enjoyed this book. A satirical (I think!) odyssey, funny as hell in some parts, especially in the beginning. I was laughing so hard, I nearly fell off the couch (good thing I was at home!). I will admit, there were times I had no idea what the author was talking about (many times, actually!), I think because she seems much more worldly and erudite than I. But, no matter, I still enjoyed it anyway....☺️ I am definitely open to reading more of her works.
- Rating: 1 out of 5 stars1/5This book is terrible! The plot was all over the place, dialogs are unreal. The flippant treatment of a lot of sensitive topics not fitting the plot. This book is an absolute waste of time.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Very funny, very silly. Fast paced, jokey, weird, perverted. I loved it!
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Oh dear, an American novel that should have been written and screened on TV in the 70’s so we could laugh at the hairdos and flared trousers. Sorry to be so unfair but it did read in that 70’s unreal, pastiched, stereotyped, cliched manner. Sorry again.
- Rating: 1 out of 5 stars1/5Such a terrible book. It's just stereotypes and bad writing. Why does it have so many good reviews?
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5I'm not sure what to think of this book. It was interesting enough to keep my attention, but the character's circumstances were a bit whacky at times.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5I think it was wonderful and different. Thanks a lot
www.1facetr.com - Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Wonderful and witty! Lesbian girl gets knocked up by a gay man and married him. After about a decade together she leaves him. She takes her daughter and assumes a black identity. This is the funniest part of the book. Two clearly white women telling everyone they're black. Overall, it's such a fun read.
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5If Mislaid sounds a little off its rocker, that’s because it is. And it’s meant to be. It’s witty and funny and pointed and smart in ways many books never dare to be. Unfortunately, that pointed wittiness only works about 50% of the time. The rest of the novel feels less like a novel and more like a collection of scribbled drafts or tributaries Zink started to navigate before realizing they led nowhere—it just doesn’t add up.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Hysterically laugh out loud spots that number in double digits. Some funny so subtle that I had to read and reread to appreciate. The mind of this author must be a frightening fast-paced multidimensional dreams cape occasionally touched by reality.
The book I have read in a very long time with characters both believable and ludicrous in nature. Characters with either the insight of predictable behaviour or the ability to completely surprise themselves in their reactions to others leaving all parties with outstanding revelations.
The period of time encompassed with national and international events touched on and the resultant effects are relevant but not given importance in comparison with the nature of the importance placed on key people and their evolve mentioned. For the most part people either maintain their mores and basic beliefs or return to them having not wandered far from their original identities.
The subtle tongue in cheek statements indicate an innate sense of humour the author controls with just the right vocabulary and timing. Her writing moves very quickly and transitions from past to present smoothly in a way that carries the reader along easily without feeling the need to back track through the book searching for something there must have missed.
The only thing I found lacking but it could just be a curiosity of mine, is more time spent on the history of the squirrel sanctuary and the displacement of Temple's family. Not necessarily a contributing factor to the story, but of interest to me.
All in all it is an excellent book that I highly recommend especially if you are looking for a fairly light read complicated only be convoluted family ties. I would especially recommend Lacey Cox-Boyd read this book.2 people found this helpful
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5I enjoyed this book immensely! It was a surreal story that me devour this book in two days! I'm hoping for a sequel!
3 people found this helpful
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5I love this book! ;) I am recomending it for all
1 person found this helpful
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Fantastic .
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Thats realy good .
- Rating: 1 out of 5 stars1/5. Really good
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5
Really good - Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Its interesting :) .
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Its fantastic .
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Extremely good .
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5nice ................................... .
- Rating: 1 out of 5 stars1/5Terri fic
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5amazon your shared ppt, we need such success key of PPT please
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Its interesting :)
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5good
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5fun
- Rating: 1 out of 5 stars1/5I really hated this book so much that I find it hard to not be personally offended by everyone who left a positive review and tricked me into reading it.
2 people found this helpful
Book preview
Mislaid - Nell Zink
DEDICATION
My life would be harder
without the magnificent collective
Zeitenspiegel Reportagen,
to whose members and supporters
I gratefully dedicate this book
EPIGRAPH
. . . among the rabble—men,
Lion ambition is chain’d down—
And crouches to a keeper’s hand—
Not so in deserts, where the grand—
The wild—the terrible conspire
With their own breath to fan his fire.
—E. A. Poe, Tamerlane
CONTENTS
Dedication
Epigraph
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
About the Author
Also by Nell Zink
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
One
Stillwater College sat on the fall line south of Petersburg. One half of the campus was elevated over the other half, and the waters above were separated from the waters below by a ledge with stone outcroppings. The waters below lay still, and the waters above flowed down. They seeped into the sandy ground before they had time to form a stream. And that’s why the house had been named Stillwater. It overlooked a lake that lay motionless as if it had been dug with shovels and hand-lined with clay. But the lake had been there as long as anyone could remember. It had no visible outlet, and no docks because a piling might puncture the layer of clay. Nobody swam in the lake because of the leeches in the mud. There was no fishing because girls don’t fish.
The house had been a plantation. After the War Between the States it was turned into a school for girls, and after that a teachers’ college, and in the 1930s a women’s college. In the 1960s it was a mecca for lesbians, with girls in shorts standing in the reeds to smoke, popping little black leeches with their fingers, risking expulsion for cigarettes and going in the lake.
The road from the main highway forked and branched like lightning. You had to know where Stillwater was to find it. Strangers drove to the town of Stillwater, parked their cars, and walked around. They thought a college ought to be impossible to miss in a town that small. But people in Stillwater didn’t think you had any business going to the college if you didn’t know where it was. It was a dry county, and so small anyway that most businesses didn’t have signs. If you wanted even a haircut, or especially a drink, you had to know where to find it. The biggest sign in the county was for the colored snack bar out on the highway, Bunny Burger. The sign for Stillwater College was nailed to the fence by the last turnoff, where you could already see the outbuildings.
The main house faced the lake. The academic buildings and the dorms were behind the main house around a courtyard. All the girls lived on campus. From the loop road, little dirt tracks took off in all directions, leading to the faculty housing where the station wagons sat crooked in potholes under big oak trees.
The reason strangers came looking for Stillwater was a famous poet. He had a job there as an English professor, and was so well respected that other famous poets came all the way to Stillwater to read to his classes. Tommy, the smartass owner of the white snack bar in town, called them international faggotry
and always asked them if they wanted mayonnaise with their coffee.
Peggy Vaillaincourt was born in 1948 near Port Royal, north of Richmond, an only child. Her parents were well-off but lived modestly, devoting their lives to the community. Her father was an Episcopal priest and the chaplain of a girls’ boarding school. Her mother was his wife—a challenging full-time job. This was before psychologists and counseling, so if a girl lost her appetite or a woman felt guilty after a D&C, she would come to Mrs. Vaillaincourt, who felt important as a result. The Reverend Vaillaincourt felt important all the time, because he was descended from a family that had sheltered John Wilkes Booth.
The Vaillaincourts had a nice brick mansion on campus. Peggy went to the local white public school to avoid a conflict of interest. Her mother had gone to Bryn Mawr and regretted not sending Peggy to a better school. Can’t you imagine a college that’s academically a little more intellectual?
she asked Peggy. What about Wellesley?
But Peggy wanted to go to Stillwater.
It came about like this: Her PE teacher, Miss Miller, had said something about her gym suit, and Peggy had realized she was intended to be a man. Gym suits were blue and baggy, but as you got older, they were less baggy and sort of cut into your crotch in a way that was suggestive of something, she didn’t know what. Miss Miller had stood in front of her and yanked her gym suit into position by pulling down on the legs. She placed her big hands around Peggy’s waist and said something to the effect that her gym suit had never fit her right and never would.
She had felt close to Miss Miller since the day she fell down in third grade and knocked out a tooth. Miss Miller dragged her to the bathroom to wash the blood off her mouth, and the tooth went down the drain. There goes a nickel from the tooth fairy,
Peggy had said. Miss Miller dug into her pocket and produced a quarter. No other adult had ever given her so much money all at one time. The scene was stuck indelibly in the child Peggy’s mind. Her allowance was nine cents—a nickel and five pennies, of which she was required to put one in the collection plate.
Realizing that her girlhood was a mistake didn’t change her life immediately. She could still ride, play tennis, go camping with the scouts, fish for crappie, and shoot turtles with a BB gun. Around age fourteen, it got more complicated. She informed her best friend, Debbie, that she intended to join the army out of high school. She knew Debbie from Girl Scout camp. Debbie was from Richmond, a large and diverse city. You’re a thespian,
Peggy heard her say. Get away from me.
Debbie picked up her blanket and moved to the other side of the room. Then Peggy’s life changed. Debbie had taught her to French kiss and dance shoeing the mule, knowledge that was supposed to arm them for a shared conquest of debutante balls. And now this. Betrayal. Debbie never spoke to her again. Peggy told her mother.
A thespian,
her mother said, bemused. Well, darling, everybody gets crushes.
Her mother was from the generation that thought a girl’s first love is always a tomboyish older girl. She gave Peggy Cress Delahanty to read. It was counterproductive. You are not, absolutely not, going to join the army. Do you hear me? You are going to college. Get this out of your system. You’ll laugh at yourself someday.
Her mother suspected her of having a girlfriend already, and sent off for brochures about early admission to Radcliffe. She didn’t believe in coeducation, but her daughter’s plight called for desperate measures.
But Peggy didn’t have a girlfriend. Once she accepted an invitation from Miss Miller to a barbecue at the state park. There were only women there and no other girls. She recognized the woman everybody said was the maintenance man at the elementary school. It was indirectly her fault that Peggy thought of man
as a job title. They were playing softball and taking it really seriously, hitting the ball so hard you could get hurt. Peggy left the party to play horseshoes with kids from the Baptist church instead and get a ride home on their bus.
She began paying more attention to the thespians at school. They were fat girls and nice boys with scarves around their necks under their shirts. She auditioned for a part in Our Town and didn’t get it. Afterward the drama club went to the drugstore for milkshakes, and the director, a senior, explained to her about lesbians. He chuckled and shook his head a lot. Everybody else laughed so loud that Peggy felt inconspicuous, despite the topic. His voice was almost a whisper. You and your friend Miss Miller are bull dykes. You should go to dyke bars in Washington. Or Stillwater College.
Miss Miller is not my friend!
After that, word got back to Peggy’s mother, and Miss Miller and the maintenance man were fired and moved away. Peggy insisted Miss Miller had never done anything untoward. Becoming a man and a thespian had been her idea. Her mother said, You have chosen a very difficult life for yourself.
Then they shopped for patterns, because Peggy’s debut was coming up and, lesbian or no lesbian, you had to have a tea-length off-the-shoulder dress made of boiled cotton with a flower print and tulle underskirts. Cutoff overalls were fine for hunting turtles in the woods, but even Peggy wanted to be pretty for cotillion. In the end she was so pretty she stopped herself cold. She stood in front of the full-length mirror in the ladies’ dressing room at the Jefferson Hotel in her slip and silk stockings and felt an almost overwhelming need to masturbate. She adjudged herself the prettiest girl she’d ever seen. I feel pretty, oh so pretty,
she sang instead, waltzing with her dress as though it were a girl. Pinocchia, granted her wish. Someone to love. Then she graduated and went off to Stillwater.
For freshman orientation she bobbed her hair and took up smoking cigarillos. She had bought some new outfits at an army surplus store. She did not question her childhood equation of liking girls with being a man, and in black khakis and a black crew-neck sweater, she found herself rough, tough, and intimidating. She looked darling. The short cut made her curly hair form a crown of soft ringlets. She regarded her narrow hips and flat chest as boyish, but in 1965 they were chic.
Also, as much as she wanted to be a man, she was revolted by hairiness, fat bellies, belching, vulgarity, etc. Her slim father wore ascots and got manicures. His face was soft and his shirts had monogrammed cuffs. She thought black penny loafers with white socks à la Gene Kelly was the epitome of working-class butch.
The campus was a complete universe. You never had to leave. There were visiting boyfriends and girlfriends from other schools, parties and mixers, intercollegiate sports, a mess hall and a commissary, even a soda fountain. As self-contained as an army base. But no basic training. No cleaning, no cooking. The work you had to do consisted of things like ponder Edna St. Vincent Millay. If you screwed it up, they didn’t criticize you. They invited you to their offices, offered you sherry, and asked you what was wrong.
I can’t believe it, Peggy thought. My parents are paying for me to do this for four years. If you majored in French, you could spend your third year at the Sorbonne. But the seniors who had been away came back looking lost. New cliques had formed without them, and their French friends never visited. Peggy took Spanish instead. She decided to major in creative writing. She wanted to write plays for her fellow thespians.
Peggy’s roommate was a girl from Newport News whose father was in Vietnam. This girl was used to a strict, confining regimen. She obeyed Peggy to the letter. If Peggy said Your alarm clock goes off too early,
the girl would set it an hour later. If Peggy said I like your pjs,
the girl would iron them and wear them all weekend. It didn’t make her terribly interesting. Peggy was attracted to a sophomore from Winchester who was boarding her horse at a stable up in the hills. This girl routinely wore fawn jodhpurs and ankle boots, and every day for breakfast she ate ice cream, which the cook kept for her in the freezer. Because her valuable horse needed to be ridden every afternoon, she was permitted to have a car. Seniors were allowed cars, but only if they were on the honor roll with no demerits. Since among seniors demerits were considered a badge of honor, the sophomore Emily was currently the only student allowed to drive. She was majoring in art history and planned to join her father’s import-export business.
Peggy stared at her and smiled until she was invited to sit in the passenger seat of her Chrysler New Yorker, parked behind the former dairy barn. Emily talked about her horse. After a while Peggy, turned toward Emily with her hands in her lap, struggling to concentrate and look fetching at the same time, felt her soul rebel. She thought she had never heard—or even heard of—anything so boring in her life, outside of church. Peggy tried mentioning a class they were in together. She mentioned the town she grew up in. She mentioned a movie she had seen recently and wondered if Emily had seen it. Eventually she said, I didn’t really come out here to talk about horse shows.
That was a mistake. Emily looked at the windshield and said, Then you’re stupid, because you like me, and that’s what I want to talk about.
Peggy got out of the car and walked into the trees. She heard the car door slam and saw Emily pull away around the corner of the barn. The beeches were starting to turn yellow and the Virginia creeper was already fire-engine red. Peggy consoled herself with their appearance, as she thought a more sensitive person might.
The famous poet at the college was named Lee Fleming. He was a young local man who had given his family a lot of trouble growing up. After boarding school they sent him to college far away in New York City. When they heard of his doings up there, they gave him an ultimatum: stop dragging the family name in the dirt, or be cut off without a cent.
Lee hadn’t been conscious up until then that he had anything to gain by being a Fleming. That is, he hadn’t realized he didn’t have money of his own.
His parents were wealthy. But he had expectations and an allowance, not money. His father suggested he move to a secluded place. Queer as a three-dollar bill doesn’t matter on posted property. Lee’s father was a pessimist. He imagined muscle-bound teaboys doing bad things to Lee, and he didn’t want passersby to hear the screaming. He offered him the house on the opposite side of Stillwater Lake from the college.
It was a wood-frame Victorian Lee’s grandfather got for nothing during the Depression. It had been disassembled where it stood and rebuilt on a brick foundation facing the lake. It was supposed to be a summer place. But it was inconvenient to get to, far from any city, swarming with deerflies, and instead of a boathouse, it had a thicket of bamboo. So nobody ever used the house. It just stood there on Fleming land, taking up space. Still, when it came time to clear-cut the trees and sell them for the war effort, Mr. Fleming couldn’t bring himself to do it. The house looked so nice with big maples and tulip poplars around it. The trail to the water led through suggestive shoots of old bamboo big around as juice cans.
Lee was not the man his family took him for. As a lover he was a faithful romantic, always getting his feelings hurt. But he was a top. He never could get it right. He could put on a broadcloth shirt and gray slacks and wingtips and look as much a man as an Episcopalian ever does, but then he would place himself squarely in front of total strangers, maintaining eye contact as he spoke to them of poetry. So everybody in the county was calling him a fairy inside of a month. But he was a Fleming, and a top. He was untouchable. The local Klan wizard worked at his father’s sawmill. The Pentecostal preacher lived in his father’s trailer park. The worshipful master of the Prince Hall Masonic lodge drove one of his father’s garbage trucks. The county seat was in a crossing called Fleming Courthouse, and the Amoco station was Fleming’s American. No one openly begrudged him a house in the woods by a lake with no fishing.
Lee was serious about poetry. He thought America was where all the most important work of the 1960s was being done. He really meant it, and could explain it. John Ashbery, Howard Nemerov, and his favorite, Robert Penn Warren. Then the Beats. He had met them all in New York, and they all had a weakness for handsome Southerners who owned counties.
At first Lee had nothing to do with the college. But then a poet friend remarked that a girls’ college in the middle of nowhere sounds like something from Fellini, and he got an idea. He asked the English department to pay for a visit from Gregory Corso.
Poets came all the way from Richmond to hear him. But the girls stayed cool and distant, even through Marriage.
Corso went back to New York and told people Lee lived in a time capsule where Southern womanhood was not dead. Two publishers and a novelist transferred their daughters to Stillwater.
In short, the college helped Lee and Lee helped the college, and they signed him up to teach a poetry course. He didn’t ask for a salary at first. Instead he asked the college to pay for his literary magazine, to be called Stillwater Review.
Three years later, the Stillwater Review was selling thousands of copies and keeping ten students busy reading submissions, and Lee was teaching three courses a semester: English poetry in the fall or American poetry in the spring, criticism, and a writing workshop.
He commuted to work in a canoe, rain or shine. When he pulled it up in front of his house, it plugged the gap in the bamboo like a garden gate. No student had ever been invited to the house. There were stories. John Ashbery shooting a sleeping whitetail fawn from a distance of three yards. Howard Nemerov on mescaline putting peppermint extract in spaghetti sauce. To hear one of the stories, you had to know someone from somewhere else who knew someone who had been invited—a cousin at Sarah Lawrence whose boyfriend’s brother was queer. Stillwater Lake might as well have been the Berlin Wall.
Freshmen were not eligible for Lee Fleming’s writing workshop. You had to take his other courses first.
Peggy thought this a ridiculous barrier. How am I supposed to understand poetry if I’ve never written any myself?
she said to Lee in the third week of her first semester in his cozy office in a garret of the main building.
How do you expect to get into my workshop if you’ve never written a poem?
Aren’t you supposed to teach us?
You’ve already missed the first two meetings.
Can I audit?
It’s impossible to audit a workshop. You have to do the work.
So can I enroll?
Name me one poet you admire.
Anne Sexton.
Lee leaned back. Anne Sexton? Why?
She doesn’t sound so good, but she’s got something to say. I read Hopkins or Dylan Thomas and I think, These cats sound cool all right, but do they have something to say?
Maybe they’re saying something you don’t understand.
Then make me understand it.
That’s like saying, ‘Make me live.’
Then make me take your workshop.
No. You think poetry is supposed to be about you, and you don’t know how to read. If you can’t read Milton, you can’t read Dylan Thomas. Take my course in English poetry.
And read Milton? No, thanks.
Then you’ll never be my student.
I’m changing my major to French.
Don’t be childish.
Is it childish to know what you want?
I want you to take my course,
Lee began, then stopped, realizing he had said something unusual and slightly embarrassing.
Peggy stood glaring at him, and he glared back.
She offered him a cigarillo. She sat down on the edge of his desk to light it for him, leaning over gracefully with her hands cupped around the match, a smiling seventeen-year-old girl with curly hair like springs, and he realized he had a hard-on.
Forget the whole thing,
Peggy was saying. I can write plays without your help. I don’t even need Anne Sexton’s help. Screw her and Milton and the horse they rode in on.
Sounds like a natural-born writer to me,
he said. I would very much appreciate your taking my course in English poetry.
I was serious. I don’t want in your workshop, even if it means I never see you again.
He looked around as if to indicate their surroundings—the Stillwater campus, all eight acres of it—and laughed.
Peggy didn’t take his course. A week later she accepted his invitation to kneel in the front of his canoe while he pushed off from the marshy, leech-infested bank with a paddle. The first thing he said was This is not a date.
Then