LITMIR.BIZ

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introductory literature course. She had been focusing on Business then, but still needed a few liberal arts classes. The professor of the art course was young and hip, enthusiastic and funny. Vivian had a crush on him, with his silver earring and long black ponytail, his tawny skin and brown suede coat. And when Dr Lightfoot showed slides of sculptures and paintings, museums and cathedrals, and talked about the creativity and methods that formed them, it was the ultimate escape. Vivian was hooked.

      Nowell said that Art History was a major like English, designed for those who wanted to teach and she’d need a doctorate degree if she followed that course. The Business major was more broadly applicable, he said, non-limiting. She could have Art History as a minor; business would guarantee her a job.

      When Vivian announced her plans to her parents over dinner one night, their reactions were restrained. Her mother gazed at her over her tortoise-shell reading glasses. ‘I thought you were really interested in art,’ she said.

      ‘I am,’ Vivian said, ‘but I think that the Business degree would open up more avenues, that’s all.’

      ‘Why do you need other avenues, if art is what you enjoy?’ Her mother stared at her plate, slicing her prime rib with the efficiency of a surgeon.

      ‘I’ll still have a minor in art,’ she said. ‘It’s hard to find a job with a Bachelors degree in Art.’

      Her mother only raised her eyebrows but her father lifted his wineglass to Vivian. ‘I think it’s a fine decision, Vivie,’ he said.

      She knew they wanted her to follow them into academia, but she lacked their self-discipline, their ability to narrow focus. She didn’t have their attention spans; her mother had said so herself on many occasions when Vivian put down a book to watch television, when she abandoned a project before it was finished.

      Vivian kept her office job after graduation and was promoted within a year to Administrative Assistant. Nowell moved from the bookstore to a short stint at a bakery, to his last job at the magazine, editing and proofreading. In the evenings and during weekends, he worked on his book. Between her job, housework, and keeping up with friends, Vivian’s life seemed just as full as when she attended classes and studied for finals.

      They settled into steady jobs and a stable routine, but started to fight more for some reason. Nowell was incredibly tense throughout the writing of his book. Frustrated by the long hours at the magazine, he stayed in and wrote most weekends, often from Friday evening until Monday morning. In the cramped apartment, his tension was infectious. They bickered over small matters. Vivian tried to get out of the way during these times. She’d spend a day at the mall with a friend or drive around the city, doing errands. She didn’t mind doing things alone. Being an only child had given her a certain self-reliance. Like her mother, she could content herself with her own tasks and ruminations.

      After the book was finished, Nowell relaxed into his old self and became easier to live with again. When his grandmother died and he presented the idea for an extended working vacation, Vivian had been unwilling at first to leave her job, where she had seniority, three weeks of vacation and a decent salary. But in the end, quitting had yielded no regret, only a slight wistfulness for leaving a part of her life behind. She was ready for something to change.

      In the fragrant grass in front of the old, white house, Vivian laid on the fold-out chair and thought about Dr Lightfoot, the way he paced back and forth in front of the chalkboard, the cable to the slide projector trailing after him like a microphone cord. When he wanted to explain something more clearly, he asked the girl in the last row to flip on the lights then he’d look into the students’ eyes or write on the board in furious scratches of chalk. He showed slides in every class, excitedly pointing out notable features of the art. His hands were delicate over the screen, seemed to curve around the edges of the sculpture or brush the surface of a painting with soft, tenuous fingers. He had a deep respect for art, even the mere projected image of it.

      ‘Viv!’

      Her eyes opened. The lawn chair was mostly covered by shade; only her feet and the bottom half of her legs were still in the sun.

      The screen door squeaked as Nowell poked his head outside. ‘Your mother’s on the phone.’

      Vivian walked gingerly over the still-damp ground, groggy and disoriented.

      Her mother was working on a new book; she’d been distracted and unable to talk about much else. Her research would take her to the site where a volcano erupted fifty years ago. She planned on taking a sabbatical and going in the fall for at least a month. Vivian asked about her father.

      ‘He’s at school,’ her mother said. ‘That summer course.’

      ‘Tell him I said hello.’

      ‘I will. How’s Nowell’s book coming along?’

      ‘He’s been working non-stop since I arrived. It’s so quiet out here. I think it’s been very good for him.’ Vivian shifted her weight on the chair, which was cold and sticky against her bare legs.

      ‘Has he established a regular schedule?’

      ‘For his writing?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘He works most of the day,’ Vivian said. ‘He starts early, before I get up.’

      ‘And how is your work on the house going?’

      ‘It’s going to be a big job, that’s for sure.’

      Her mother shifted the phone. ‘Worse shape than you’d imagined?’

      ‘There’s a lot of junk around,’ Vivian acknowledged, ‘and the entire thing needs painting.’

      ‘That should keep you busy.’ Her voice sounded doubtful.

      ‘So far I’ve been taking it pretty easy.’

      Neither spoke for a few moments. The silence over the phone line was vapid, like air. Vivian had the impression of pressing her ear against a hole in a wall. On the other side, openness and space. ‘Mom?’

      ‘Yes?’

      ‘Do you remember that vacation, the summer when you taught the writing workshop?’

      Her mother answered quickly, without thought, ‘Of course.’

      ‘I did it on purpose, you know.’

      ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

      ‘When I got lost,’ Vivian said, pushing the receiver to her ear. ‘It wasn’t Dad.’

      There was a pause; emptiness again like the line was dead.

      ‘You were eight years old.’

      ‘Nine.’ Vivian stared through the screen door. On the lawn chair, the beach towel rose in ripples with the afternoon breeze, its corners flipping wildly back and forth. She spoke more hesitantly, her voice losing strength. ‘It was my fault.’

      ‘You wandered off, that’s all.’

      ‘Then why…’

      ‘Hold on Vivian.’ Her mother set the telephone on a hard surface. Vivian could hear her definitive steps fading then after a short time, growing louder again. When she came back on the line, she changed the subject.

      ‘What have you been reading, Vivian?’ Her mother believed everyone should constantly be reading something, preferably something of substance.

      ‘Fashion magazines and the TV Guide,’ Vivian answered, to irritate her.

      Another silence like an empty room, like the inside of a bubble.

      They talked about the weather for a while and when this most generic and easy of topics was exhausted, they said good-bye.

      Vivian replaced the receiver in its cradle and walked over to the curtain that divided the kitchen from the study. There was always the faint taste of misunderstanding where her mother was concerned. As much as

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