Chapter 3: The Notebook

Darkness fell. Rick sat at his laptop reading student essays. He heard a rap at his door.

"Brenda?"

"Rick -- have you seen Roger today?"

"Yes ... earlier."

"He didn't come home for dinner."

"He hasn't left for his conference, yet -- has he?"

"Conference?" Brenda asked. "What conference?"

Rick sighed. "An economics conference in Philadelphia. Didn't he tell you?"

"No but he always waits 'til the last minute to break news like that. He knows it upsets me to think about being home alone at night. Roger hates to see me when I'm upset. He really hates it when I get emotional."

"I'll be right here so you really won't be alone."

She nodded. "I know and it helps knowing I have a friend next door. I know he hasn't left because his suitcase is still in the closet. I tripped over it this morning. Oh, well ... he probably just got pulled into some after-hours meeting or something."

"I'll keep an eye out for him."

"Thanks..." She gave him a little wave and headed back to the apartment.

Dawn twilight was filtering into Rick's bedroom window when he heard the garage door open and then close. He looked out and saw Roger's car heading toward the university.

He was finishing breakfast when he heard a rap at his door. "Hi, Brenda," he said. "Come in." She entered, holding a dog-eared spiral notebook. "I saw Roger leave this morning," he remarked," so I deduce he eventually came home."

"Yes -- he said he got into an economics argument that moved its location from campus to one of the pubs. Roger loves to argue -- he loves disputes. I think it's one of his art forms."

"So much I've gathered."

"He came home rather drunk. Roger has a problem with drink. One drink is just right, but he can't stop at one. Two is too many, but he can't stop at two, either. Three is never enough..."

"Then I guess he's lucky to have come home in one piece."

"Yes. And Roger makes a belligerent drunk. He argued with me and we both did quite a bit of shouting and throwing things. I hope we didn't disturb you."

"I was dead to the world." He regarded her. "He didn't strike you -- did he?"

"No. I've made it clear that is one thing I will not tolerate -- we won't get even a second chance. I do know how to take care of myself, Rick. And I have my secret weapon."

"What's that?"

"I have a couple of old cell phones tucked in drawers where they're handy, and I keep them charged. I have one in my bag, too. They're not connected to a plan -- Roger doesn't think I need a cell when we have the phone in the bedroom. Even if a cell phone isn't activated, it still can make calls to 911."

"Where did you get these?"

"From friends. When someone tells me she's getting a new phone I ask if I can have her old one."

Rick nodded. "I didn't know that. It's pretty smart -- but I knew you're a smart cookie. I try not to pry, Brenda. The last time I attempted to pry, Roger rebuked me rather firmly. But I have a sort of instinct when it comes to someone who's being taken advantage of. Tell me -- are you happy with Roger?"

"Happy is such an ambiguous word."

"Happy isn't ambiguous at all. Your answer was ambiguous."

She smiled and nodded. "I suppose it was. Rick -- Roger rescued me from a very bad situation at home ... one with my stepfather. I don't want to elaborate, but for that I am extremely grateful to him."

"Then -- I'll be grateful, too."

Brenda presented the notebook to him. "I came over because I was hoping you could do me a favor."

"What favor?"

"I'd like it if you could hold onto this for me -- for safekeeping."

"What's in it?"

"They're little stories I wrote ... when I was in middle school, mostly ... stories about Greek gods and goddesses and heroes and heroines. When I was a teenager, daydreams about these characters became my escape and I wrote down some of them. I hadn't thought about this for years until we brought up the topic of Greek myths at dinner on Saturday. I decided to dig it out and was flipping through it when Roger came home ... drunk. He grabbed it and played keep-away and threatened to shred it..."

"I understand."

"It's of value to me, Rick -- even if anyone else would think it's drivel. I mean ... I don't know why Roger dislikes my little escape."

"Keeping someone from the things they enjoy is cruel, Brenda."

"I suppose it is..."

"I'll keep it safe and you can have it any time you want it. Would you mind if I read it?"

"There's nothing in it except fantasies from the head of an adolescent girl. Go ahead, if you can tolerate reading such stuff."

Rick opened a filing cabinet beside his desk and placed it in the drawer. "It'll be right here whenever you want it." He regarded her. "Brenda -- what do you do with your days when Roger is at work?"

"I enjoy my solitude."

"Don't you get lonely ... bored?"

"There's a difference between being alone and being lonely. I'm not often lonely, and I enjoy quiet. I don't get it much when Roger is around."

He smiled. "That I can understand. Have you considered finding a job?"

"Roger doesn't think I need one. He thinks we can live on what he earns."

"It's good to have your own income," he replied, "if only for some security."

"For what sort of work am I qualified? Flipping burgers? Running a cash register? I'm not interested in those jobs."

"Do you have a degree?"

Brenda shook her head. "I went to college for a couple of years while Roger was working on his PhD. Then the money ran out and I had to quit."

"What was your major?"

"Humanities ... I wanted to do something with Ancient Greece."

Rick nodded. "Makes sense..."

"I was disillusioned in college, too. I couldn't take the courses I really wanted."

"Most schools require a core curriculum," he replied.

"Besides, what work could I find even if I had that degree? It's not exactly a seller's market for humanities majors. Roger has a saying -- that science majors ask, why does it work; and engineering majors ask, how does it work; and industrial design majors ask, how can we build it; and marketing majors ask, how can we sell it; and finance majors ask, how can we afford it; and economics majors ask, what is its impact. And, humanities majors ask, do you want fries with that?"

"I was a humanities major and I'm doing all right," Rick replied.

"You're a prof. How many humanities students go on to be professors?"

"All of my grad students have done well."

"What sorts of careers do they have?" she asked.

"Oh, it varies ... some work in museums as curators or conservators ... some find work as archivists and some go into education. Eva, my current student, has a shot at something big -- bigger than me. Your major isn't nearly as important as the degree, Brenda. The degree shows that you can go the distance. That's what is most important."

"Going the distance -- something I couldn't do. I've made some bad decisions, Rick -- I know I have and I have regrets."

"You've alluded to some challenges. Maybe now is an opportunity for you to pick up where you left off. As Roger's spouse, this school will waive tuition. You can finish your degree for free."

"Roger and I aren't really married."

"If he declares you as his significant other, you're still eligible."

"I don't know..."

"Think about it. It is an opportunity for you."

She smiled. "I will think about it. Thanks for taking an interest in me, Rick."

"I'm an educator. My mission is helping young people succeed."

"I'm twenty-four -- I'm not a young person."

"Well -- I'm thirty-eight and that makes you a young person to me."

Brenda turned toward the door. "Oh -- this morning Roger told me about his conference. In a way I'm glad you did let it slip -- knowing about it helped me keep my emotions in check. Roger hates it when I make a scene. He leaves for Philadelphia tomorrow and returns on Saturday."

"I'll be here if you need anything."

"Thanks. Knowing that is a comfort to me."

Rick sat at his desk and brought up a student's essay. He closed the lid on his laptop, opened the drawer and retrieved Brenda's spiral notebook. Putting his feet up he flipped it open and began reading.

He read several pages, then stood and proceeded to the apartment and knocked on the door. Brenda opened it. "What is it, Rick?" she asked.

He held up the notebook. "I read some of your stories. They're remarkably good."

"You think the stories are good?"

"Well ... The situations are a bit naive..."

"They were written by a thirteen-year-old girl," Brenda replied.

"They were written by a thirteen-year-old girl with a remarkable command of the English language. I read students' writing all the time." He held up the notebook. "I have a stack of upperclass essays to read and grade. Not one of them is as well-written as your stories."

"Really?"

"Really. I think you have a natural talent for language, Brenda. I'd like to show this to Alexis."

"Who is Alexis?"

"He's a colleague ... another occupant of one of Roger's coveted tenured chairs. He teaches writing and he also publishes a periodical of new writers' material. I think he'd be interested in seeing this."