Life Goes On--Now in Print

So, I found out that amazon.com now has a self-publishing company. It's pretty simple to use and FREE and I've decided to go through with it.

You can still read the first five chapters of Life Goes On (links below). The price is $7.00 US and is available in paperback through Createspace, Amazon, and is also available for Kindle.

Read chapters 1-5:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5

Life Goes On--Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

I’ve lived too damn long. I sighed and started copying the questions Professor Barnes was writing on the board. Our midterm was in two weeks and Barnes was one of those teachers who gave us all the questions in advance but he’d choose two to be answered on the actual test day. I wasn’t much of a fan of the system because it took away the adrenaline rush that comes with the unknown. Granted, there’s little that I didn’t have some kind of firsthand knowledge of, especially of that covered in a bachelors level European history course, but still, I get my thrills in the smallest places. I decided that complaining wouldn’t make me any friends, though, so I quietly scratched away. I like my fountain pen, even if I do get funny looks about it. At least I had finally broke down and use a cartridge for ink, back in the seventies I was that oddball with the ink-well.

Maybe I just won’t bother to study for the test, I thought, writing: ‘Compare and contrast the House of Wessex and the House of Denmark and explain the effect of the Danish kings on England’. I chuckled to myself at the irony surrounding modern complaints about “revisionist historians”—supposedly liberal scholars who go out of their way to alter the past into a form that promoted their views for a “New Age” world. I remember clearly the way that my tutors had cursed the bloody Danes, pretending that all effects of their reign had been wiped out. For as long as modern ‘professional’ historians have studied early England, the stories they’ve uncovered have never been half as wrong. History is usually told from the winner’s prospective and the truth almost always lies somewhere in the middle. If that means revising earlier histories as we discover more evidence to make them more accurate to what was real life, then what is the problem? The world wasn’t entirely the WASP ideal that modern conservatives promote. I’ve lived through a lot of history that is just now making it into the books…and even more that will never be ‘common knowledge’.

Professor Barnes dismissed us and I went back to my apartment, done with classes for the day. I thought about that question he’d asked and started chuckling again. The Danish kings sure had a hand in my English life; if it wasn’t for some obscure Danelaw, I might have lived a much simpler, and shorter, life. My father was the English king Harold Godwinson, to use the modern English spelling. You probably know him as the Harold who died at Hastings in 1066. I used to go by the name Gunhild, and still do sometimes when I play Dungeons and Dragons and other medieval-ish roll play games with friends, especially when I feel like pretending that I have a great imagination. I don’t, for the record. Real life goes far beyond anything my imagination could create.

After my father’s death, I got my first taste of formal education at Wilton Abbey, learning everything that was proper for a woman of my breeding. That stupid Danelaw made me a woman worth her weight in gold, to use an ancient concept. It made me heiress to some of my mother’s lands, near impossible under English law, which men hoped to convert into their own. One Alan Rufus decided that I would be the ideal bride and stole me away from the Abbey to marry me against what will I had, which admittedly wasn’t a lot. I was, and still am, a small woman while Alan was uncommonly tall. At the time I was flattered and submitted to my husband as was customary. In retrospect, ugh. He was fifteen years my senior and a brute in bed, but it was a long time before I learned that small fact. Sex education has always been lacking in the public sphere, though thankfully I eventually found female friends scandalous enough to enlighten me.

In any case, Alan, again seen in retrospect, made my life miserable from the first time we met. His actions toward me caused rumors to spread, and while the Middle Ages weren’t nearly as…conservative? (for all my years, I don’t think that I will ever keep track of what words mean what and when) as some may think, and I was still the laughing stock of our town. Alan laughed, too, and then he would proceed to show me how happy I should be to have him. Sigh, my poor naïve body. Still, what ‘friends’ I had told me to enjoy the fact that he was rich and that I was to be a Countess when he founded the Richmond Castle, even if my pride was slightly wounded. I knew that I was in the best position possible.

For all that I hate…well, seriously dislike, the way he treated me, now, I did love him. Or at least, I felt whatever passes as love in 1080. He was my world, or possibly, some small part of me knew that the world that I enjoyed would disappear should anything happen to him. We had no children, though not for a lack of his trying, and I had no one who would care for me. My lands had passed legally into his possession and together, they would pass on to his heir, his brother, whose only legal duty to me was as he would care for a sister, as the Bible says. But it wouldn’t be the first time that such duty was shirked in a world where Christianity was still just beginning to take hold, especially when I was still young enough to make a suitable bride. In essence, my choices were limited to the husband I had or the husband I didn’t yet know. Humans are creatures of habit and it took me a long time to embrace the thrill of the unknown. I would die to protect the man who was so vital to my life. And I did.

I wasn’t quite twenty-five that year, when a man walked into the great hall demanding a dual with Alan. I still have no idea what precisely caused this, I later suspected my husband’s fidelity, and I would not be surprised to hear that he had acted inappropriately with some woman in the man’s life. His name was Hugh de Montgomerie and he wanted my husband’s head for what he’d done. I, still the naïve child and willfully ignorant of the world around me, was certain of my husband’s innocence and stupidly stepped into the middle of their argument, which put my heart in the direct line of Hugh’s dagger. My breast stopped the hilt of the dagger, but not before the full ten inches of the blade passed through my body. I don’t recall most of what happened next, but I was told that the room went silent and Hugh’s face turned a ghastly shade of white. Alan, to his credit, caught me before I hit the floor and held my body until a trio of village women instructed him to take me to the kitchen and lay me on the table before telling everyone to leave the room. No one ever told me whether he shed any tears on my behalf, probably out of fear that he would retaliate. I remain on the fence as to whether he showed any emotion over my injury, though for a long time I liked to believe that inwardly he was broken.

The women stripped my bodice away and did their magic. Literally. They never told me exactly what they did, no matter how I asked, but after three hours or so I was suddenly aware again. I cannot say exactly where I was for those three hours; all I remember is feeling fuzzy, like my entire body had fallen asleep, blind and deaf. I hurt when awareness returned. Not just my chest, but my head, and especially my eyes and ears. It was as though three hours without even the minutest sound was too much. The buzz of a fly across the room was too loud, though this pain subsided after a few hours. The pain in my chest took longer to fade away, which turned out to be a good thing. Instead of being labeled a demon returned from the dead, I was congratulated on my good fortune that the dagger didn’t sever anything major and cause my death. The villagers stopped laughing at the way my husband possessed me, and proclaimed that I was a miracle, blessed by the angels.

The trio, though, knew the truth and shared it with me. I had died and they brought me back. It was the first time they’d tried such a spell and they didn’t know what the effects would be. What they did know was that I was bound to this Earth until I found love. But I was young and married. I knew that I had already met the requirement demanded by the spell that saved me. We actually shared a laugh at my good fortune, since I could easily have been destined to be an old maid. If the trio’s laugh sounded hallow, I didn’t notice, but I did strive to love my husband more. So what if he wouldn’t admit to crying over my lifeless body? He was a warrior. Warriors do not show emotion publically, and the best warriors do not show emotion privately.

At first I welcomed the comments on my youthful appearance, and ignored the implications that they foretold. It wasn’t until Alan was on his deathbed that I finally admitted to myself that my body was no longer aging. He’d collapsed while riding around the estate, checking on its progress. When he was brought into our bedchamber he was delirious and no longer recognized those who’d been with him for over fifteen years. But he recognized me immediately as I settled onto the bed beside him, confirming my worst fears. He admitted a number of secrets which I suspect he wished to die with him and which I will not repeat out of respect to a dying man. It did nothing to change my opinion of him and still does not. The fact that he opened up in such a way suggested that he did not believe me to really be there with him, thus proving that I did not in any way resemble a woman of thirty-eight years. He died the next day leaving me heartbroken and confused. The last of the trio had passed away two years before and I still had no children to care for me.

I turned to the man who literally held my fate in his hands, Alan’s brother, also named Alan. We’d never been close, but after my Alan’s funeral, I confided in him about my fears for the future. He asked me to marry him and I accepted, wondering how I could tell him about my ageless status. He proved to be a better man than my first Alan, at least when it came to caring for me. He admitted to lusting after me for years, but he was discreet enough to hide these feelings while Alan was alive. He also proved to be more attentive in bed, though still not to the caliber of some of my later lovers. But his most valuable asset was that he recognized my problem without my ever having to tell him. After three years of marriage and no sign that I had restarted aging, he helped me forge my death and prepare for my new life on the road.

Chapter 2

Life Goes On--Chapter 2

CHAPTER  2

My apartment isn’t too large, but bigger than the one’s usually rented by second year college students. I tossed my keys into the 19th century Tiffany bowl someone had given me two centuries before, and went into the kitchen to put a small macaroni and cheese casserole from the freezer into the oven. I do not miss the old days where I kept a pot of stew in front of the fire at all times, throwing in new food whenever I had it.

I was just settling down into the leather overstuffed recliner in front of the picture window overlooking the mountains with my reading assignments for the next day when the phone rang. That might be my least favorite invention. I groaned and crossed the room to my desk to answer it.

“Ms. James?” a male voice asked.

“Speaking,” I told him only half politely. I really dislike phones.

“This is Professor Barnes. I was wondering if you could meet with me next week to discuss your midterm.”

Weird. “Umm…we haven’t taken the midterm yet.” I frowned at the phone, but put the receiver back to my ear when he started talking again.

“I know. I like to discuss the questions with students before the test to make sure that they’re on the right track with the material.”

“Oh. Okay. I guess I can stop by. Is next Monday at four fine?” Definitely weird.

“Perfect.” Was it me or did he just purr? Creep! “I will see you in class Thursday. Goodnight.” He hung up before I could reply.

I stared at the receiver before I replaced it. I would never have thought that the slightly stooping, sixty year old man would have called me in such a way. I couldn’t remember if I’d seen a ring on his finger, but if there was one, I think I would have to hurt him. I can take getting hit on my random men, but a man cheating on his wife, I cannot stand.

I sighed and went out onto the balcony to stare at the mountains. I picked this university for the scenery more than anything else. I didn’t need another degree, so why should I study in an ugly box? The sunset over the mountains did a great deal to relieve the ache I felt forming in my temples after that phone call. I honestly couldn’t believe that my professor would proposition me, but what other explanation was there? I know that if he was serious about the midterm he would have mentioned it in class and had us arrange meeting times then.

The timer on my oven rang. Oh, the beauty of modern conveniences. I took my casserole into the living area and ate while I watched the evening news. More death and destruction; same old, same old. There were a couple human interest stories, though, which always warm my heart—if only everyone could take the time to do more good than harm. After supper I checked my appointment book, adding in the meeting with Professor Barnes. I had a meeting with the Habitat for Humanity club the next day to discuss the plan for the house we were working on this Saturday. I’d spent enough of my life living in a dirty hovel and I wanted to make sure that other families don’t have to do the same.

I was just settling down, again, to read over my assignments for the next day when I saw that the teaching assistant for Professor Barnes class had included his email address on the syllabus. I decided that it couldn’t hurt to have a bit of foreknowledge about the meeting with Barnes. Maybe it really was purely a professional meeting and he’s just socially awkward enough for it to come across as creepy—it wouldn’t be the first time this has happened to me. I sent a short email to the TA to ask him about one of the questions then slipped in a comment about not knowing how to prepare for the pre-midterm meeting with Barnes.

I guess he was online at the same time I was because I was browsing one of the on-line newspapers when I got a reply:

Gretchen,

You’ll want to focus on how Harold’s death at Hastings affected the future of England, specifically how the Norman kings’ rule differed from that of English kings.

I admit to being ignorant of a meeting between Professor Barnes and the students prior to the midterm. I’ve never known him to arrange any meeting except when the student risks failing the class. I’m hesitant to make any guess as to what the two of you will discuss, but if you wish for me to be in the area during your meeting, I will be there. I understand and respect a woman’s need to protect herself from harassment of any type and if…if his intentions are less than honorable I will stand by you.

Please, let me know what else I can do for you,

Nick

I decided that having back-up would be a good thing no matter what happened, so I quickly responded with the date and time of our meeting and my thanks that I was probably over-reacting, but it would be better to be safe than sorry (for his safety, not my own, but I didn’t include that part). Our final correspondence of the night was his message to me confirming that he would be in the waiting area outside Barnes’ office during the appointment, but that we wouldn’t try to infer more about it than what we already knew.

I closed my computer and picked up the pile of neglected printouts as I walked towards my bedroom  laid them on the bedside table and went into the bathroom for a shower. I sighed as I examined my face in the mirror before I undressed. For some reason, I’ve been called beautiful for most of my life. My thick reddish gold hair, which usually curled gently down my back, was tangled and frizzy. The abnormally warm March was wreaking havoc on it. The light brush of freckles over my nose and cheeks hadn’t extended their reign over my heart shaped face since I actually was twenty-four years old. I hadn’t gotten a decent tan since then, either. I’ve been told that my pale green eyes are evidence of my old soul…to me they just look tired. I scrunched my face to see what I’d look like with wrinkles and wondered if I’d ever earn them for myself. Wrinkles are a badge of honor to be worn proudly…or so says the girl who hasn’t aged a day in over nine hundred years. Was I beautiful? Probably not this century, since I was six inches too short according to the magazines and not as petite as I could be given my height. Fifty years ago, though, I was a babe—curvy girls were definitely in.

I sighed again and turned the water on before I undressed. Indoor plumbing is definitely the best thing ever invented and I spent five minutes just enjoying the hot water. Then I felt guilty about wasting the water and quickly finished the task. Shaving was still something I found annoyingly tedious and made me wonder why women had bothered to make it fashionable in the twenties. I put on a pair of men’s boxer shorts, probably the most comfortable thing I’d ever found to sleep in, and a t-shirt before I climbed into bed to read myself to sleep.

My Wednesday was as hectic as usual. Most of my classes met in some form or another on Wednesday, but it left me Friday free, which was really worth it. Also, it’s a common day for club meetings, not that I have a lot of clubs, just Habitat, which meet twice a month, plus I volunteer at one of the local elementary schools reading with the kids on Friday mornings and work at the food bank Sunday afternoons. It’s not a fancy life, but I feel at least somewhat fulfilled. Most of my classes were interesting, but the discussion for my American Civil War class was duller than dirt. Actually that’s a lie. I’ve taken some environmental science classes and dirt is actually quite fascinating. Nobody talks in the discussion section, so it’s just fifty minutes of listening to the TA, Alexa, try and coax responses for her obvious questions. I choose to answer one question during each session, just to get my points, though I see the pleading looks Alexa has sent me begging for more participation. I don’t like to attract attention to myself, though, so I don’t comply. My goal in life is to blend in with the wall. The Habitat meeting went well, though there were the usual tangents and complaints, like you’ll find in any group made up of more than one person. Mostly we were arranging rides to the job site this weekend and discussing what we’d say at the state conference the next weekend. We don’t have much say in the way the organization as a whole is run; we are just a university club, socializing when we don’t have a job set up by ‘corporate’ within driving distance, but we do send a representative or two to the annual statewide conference to learn all the new procedures and share our progress.

I don’t attend the conferences because I’ve worked for Habitat for about twenty years in four different states and I don’t want to risk being recognized by someone who knew me under a different name, but yet the exact same face. In any case, I was acting as a driver on Saturday so I arranged a meeting time and place with the three others who’d be riding with me. I was reaching for my bag when I noticed a shadow fall across my chair.

“Gretchen?”

“Yes?” I asked, looking up at the tall, dark haired, dark eyed man standing in front of me. He looked familiar though I didn’t know him, but then except for the few people in the club that I regularly socialize with, and the leadership of the club, just about everyone in the room only bore only a passing familiarity. “Can I help you?”

He frowned at me slightly. “You don’t recognize me?”

“Uhh...sorry. I’m awful with names and faces. I call people I’ve known for months by the wrong name and if they’re in the wrong place, they’re as good as a stranger.” I laughed softly, wracking my brain to figure out where I know him from. Nothing.

“I’m Nick, TA for Professor Barnes’ class,” he said slowly.

“Shoot!” I slapped my forehead. “I knew I knew you from somewhere stupid…not that the class is stupid, just…” I shrugged. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s okay, the only time I’ve stood in front of the class was on the first day’s introduction. I’d expect better recognition skills if I led a discussion section or something.” He smiled and I felt it to my toes. Woo. Cutie. His smile faded. “I wanted to talk to you about that email you sent me.”

“Uh, first, why are you here? Forgive me if I’m leery about being randomly approached.”

“Oh. Sorry. I’ve been volunteering for Habitat since I was an undergrad. I guess you blend into the crowd too, since we’ve been attending meetings together for, what, a year and a half and I didn’t make the connection until tonight.”

“Touché.” I looked around the room and realized that it had emptied already. “Do you want to talk here or go somewhere else?” My stomach gurgled; I hadn’t eaten supper yet.

He heard it. “Have you eaten? We can stop someplace and get food.”

“Yeah, let’s go somewhere. I don’t like to miss meals.” I’ve had to go days without food, so I’m always the first person to suggest eating.

He laughed. “Not many girls would admit that.”

“They’re stupid.” I grabbed his arm and my bag and dragged him out of the room. “Let’s eat.”

We walked quickly across Grounds towards the Corner, which has two blocks or so worth of restaurants of every denomination. I pointed us towards a Mexican place. “Good?”

“Yeah, it’s one of my favorite places.” He stuck his hands in his pockets as we waited just inside the door for a table. “Do you come here often?”

“Every couple weeks or so. I’ve made a goal to eat at every restaurant this town has to offer, but there are a few that I eat at regularly for one reason or another.” I waved at Patrick who works behind the bar; we dated a couple times last year.

“Is he one reason?”

I looked up at Nick’s face. He was staring at Patrick as though he was sizing him up for a challenge. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was jealous.

“No idea what you’re getting at,” I told him blandly, but I was happy when a waitress finally showed us to a table and took our drink orders. There was no reason for him to feel jealous, at least, not since we’d just met for real today. I studied his warm brown eyes and the way his short hair stood up at odd angles as though he’d just gotten out of bed. His strong jaw line belied his otherwise scholarly appearance and careful observation of his shoulders and chest showed that they weren’t as thin as they first appeared.  

“So,” I started, setting aside my menu after deciding to order a pork chimichanga, “what are we going to do about Barnes?”

Nick handed his menu to the waitress who’d just arrived at the table bringing our drinks, and ordered a couple of tacos. I passed along my own food request. He waited until she’d disappeared again before answering.

“I don’t think we should really do anything. I’ll stay close in case you need back-up.” He took a sip of his soda.

“Yes, that’s what we decided in the email. Why are we here?”

“You were hungry,” he informed me, completely deadpan.

I stared at him for a full minute, deciding that he had to make the next move. When he made no endeavor to speak, I raised my eyebrow at him. Finally he cracked.

“I recognized you at the meeting tonight and I figured that it would be more polite to introduce myself now than wait for either class tomorrow when we really wouldn’t be able to discuss anything, or Monday. I told you that I wanted to discuss the email, more or less in case you wanted to talk about it. I also volunteer for One-in-Four, so I’ve been trained how to…well, deal with these kind of situations.” He sipped his soda again and I saw him seem to transform into a counselor or something.

“Nah, I’m not the type to go around complaining about getting hit on. I would like to know for certain that I’m the only person he invited for a meeting next week, but I have no idea how to get that kind of information without scaring him off.” I saw Nick’s eyebrows rise and I held up a hand before he could speak. “What I mean is, if his intentions aren’t educational, then I want to stop him. Sure, we could clear this up now by simply asking him what he wants, but I don’t want to make him back off because then he’ll just prey on someone else and I can’t forgive myself for that.”

“You really shouldn’t put yourself at risk.”

I made a brush off gesture. “Trust me, he won’t hurt me.”

“I don’t mean to sound chauvinistic, but stronger women than you have gotten in over their heads in situations like this.” His jaw twitched. “I don’t think you know what you’re getting into. It is easier than you think to be sucked into a situation that you cannot get out of, even when you think you are prepared for it.” He gave me a significant look, as though that alone would get me to back down. What he didn’t know is that I have had centuries of practice dealing with pricks of every shape and size, both literally and figuratively. I didn’t spend all my time flaunting my feminine wiles looking for a husband; I spent quite a bit of time practicing various combative tactics that would help me on the darkest and scariest of nights in the darkest and scariest alleyways.

“Trust me. He won’t hurt me,” I repeated, enunciating each word. “I know a variety of hand-to-hand combat techniques,” I told him lightly, as though I hadn’t just offered a veiled threat. I shrugged. “My father wanted me to be prepared for anything.” The last bit wasn’t true; my father wanted me to be a lady, and ladies have never spent time studying the arts of war. Oh sure, women have always done what they had to in order to protect themselves and their families, but ladies don’t do such things.

“Combat?”

I winced at my word choice. “Well, self-defense. I’m an army brat and my dad was over-protective.” Well, rather it was my protective second husband.

“Was?” he asked hesitantly.

“Yeah, he died a few years ago.” Understatement of the…well, century would also be an understatement.

Our food arrived then, and we ate in silence for a few minutes; me, blissfully ignoring just how many calories I was eating. The real reason why I frequent a few restaurants regularly is that I just haven’t been able to replicate the taste of their food no matter how much I’ve tried. I was going to miss the food when I left this town. One day I was going to invest in a professional deep fryer, but explaining such a thing to a nosy landlord was more than I wanted to do. I know, I know. All the professionals say that the same results can be had from a good Dutch oven and a candy thermometer, but I was still left unsatisfied. There was some sort of magic that went on within a small number of restaurant kitchens worldwide and I’d be damned if I could figure it out.

Food. For most of my life it was the most important thing. I’ve lived through more famines than I can remember properly and not because I was eating. I knew that I couldn’t die, so I chose to give my rations to the children who needed it more than me. Food was a luxury for me during those years, a luxury I could afford to give away. Restaurants, now, were my vice; a relatively modern invention that filled me in a way that my own attempts in the kitchen failed. I knew that changes in food made within the past sixty years were taking a toll on my body though. I might not have to worry about heart disease or cancer, but I’d definitely put on some extra pounds recently, more than my once emaciated frame needed, at least. I was going to have to take advantage of the gym membership that came with my university enrollment; maybe even learn how to swim.

I realized that Nick was watching my silent worship of my supper with an amused expression. I blushed and wondered what he thought I was thinking about.

“Enjoying your dinner?” he asked, grinning.

“Oh yes. I love the chimichangas here. Those chain places just can’t compare. Do you want a bite?” I noticed that he’d almost eaten all his tacos. I moved to take another bite of my fried burrito.

“Sure,” and he reached over and stole my fork before it could reach my lips. I rolled my eyes at him as he licked it clean.

“Perv,” I growled under my breath. He gave me my fork back, blushing as he looked both shocked and ashamed at his action.

We idly discussed the Habitat house we would be working on this Saturday, the warm winter we were having, laughed at the fiasco that was politics, and a few other topics that have since slipped my mind. The conversation was easy, even when we didn’t agree. Before we knew it, the restaurant was almost empty and our check had been delivered and was starting to gather dust.

I pulled out enough cash to pay the bill as Nick reached for his own wallet. “I got this.” I told him firmly, waving his money away. And before he could comment further, I grabbed my bag and practically ran to the register. I heard him laugh as he joined me at the front of the restaurant. I was stuffing the receipt into my pocket when we reached the sidewalk outside the restaurant.

“I’ll walk you home,” he told me, not leaving room for argument.

I was opening my mouth to do just that when I realized that there was no point. He volunteers for One-in-Four, which advocates the male role in rape prevention. He was going to escort me home even if it meant following me from a block behind. I told him thank-you and led him in the direction of my apartment, a couple blocks away from the restaurant. He left me at my doorstep and told me he’d see me in class the next day before turning around and heading back towards Grounds.

Chapter 3

Life Goes On--Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

Professor Barnes wasn’t in class on Thursday. Nick walked into the classroom about five minutes after it was supposed to start, looking slightly green. I learned why when he walked to the computer to load a presentation before standing behind the podium.

He took a deep breath and focused his eyes on a spot on the wall at the back of the room. “Professor Barnes is sick and he asked me to give a lecture today about my thesis project.” He spoke quickly, his voice shaking and he paused to swallow loudly, never moving his eyes. “While my lecture is consistent with that taught in this course, the content will not be on either the next midterm or the final, you don’t need to take notes and if you want to leave and use this period to study for the midterm we have in a week and a half, you may.” He paused again and finally allowed his eyes to roam the room, as though pleading for everyone to leave so that he didn’t have to give the lecture. Half of me wanted to stand up and break the ice in case anyone wanted to go who didn’t have the courage to desert. The other half of me wanted to stay and send positive energy to Nick. I really was interested in his thesis subject, so in the end, I stayed and Nick’s expression looked like he was silently whimpering when everyone else stayed as well.

I coughed loudly to get his attention. When he finally looked at me (as was half the class because I sounded like I was dying), I gave him my best smile to encourage him. The smile he returned was small, almost a grimace, but his shoulders seemed to relax a tiny bit.

He cleared his throat and this time his focus was on me. “Okay. So, I’m interested in the lives of medieval European women, specifically from 1200 to 1500 CE.” He clicked the pointer and the first page of his presentation appeared on the screen.

I choked back a scream. It was a photograph of a painting I’d posed for in 1329. One of my artistic, and coincidentally gay, husbands had talked me into standing for it and I’d agreed. It was my face he’d used on The Virgin’s body and it was the first time that I’d posed for anything. I hadn’t seen any of them in over a hundred years and always they’d been standing anonymously on someone’s wall or in a museum.

I looked at Nick and prayed that he hadn’t seen my panicked expression. He frowned slightly, but seemed to shrug it off.

He discussed his method for finding nuggets of information on women, so long ignored by historians, specifically using court cases and wills and that his focus was on how women differed from and challenged the society that men, and other women, created for them. I could tell that he was turning on every woman in the room, many of whom I’d seen in the women’s history courses I’d taken. There aren’t many men willing to admit to taking women’s studies courses, let alone join the major.

His presentation included quite a few photos of various artistic pieces I’d posed for. My shock had worn off and once Nick “zenned” into the subject that he so obviously loved, he was able to talk calmly. If I hadn’t seen his behavior at the beginning of class, I would never have known that he had such severe stage fright.

No one noticed that the class period had ended until a student from the next class opened the door. It was obvious that Nick was going to be a fantastic professor if he decided to go in that direction.

I packed my things quickly into my backpack and waited for Nick in the hallway.

“You did great,” I told him, grinning.

“I guess. Thanks for the support. I really thought I was going to puke at first.” He looked sheepish. “What kind of historian has stage fright?”

“I noticed. Hence my rather fantastic interpretation of a person hacking up a lung.”

He laughed. “So,” he said, his laughter fading and he shifted his feet. “I have an extra ticket to see J. Nathan Bazzel do Jefferson downtown tonight. You want to come?”

I held my breath for half a second. He was asking me out on a date? “Umm…sure, if it’s not over too late. I’m expected at Clark Elementary at 9am tomorrow.”

“It’s from 8 to 10 with a small reception afterwards, but we can skip that if you need to leave.” He had that pleading look in his eyes again. “I really don’t want to go alone. Most of the history department is going to be there…including my ex-girlfriend,” he mumbled, “and I’d rather not go stag since…” he trailed off and looked down at the floor for a moment before he met my eyes. “It’s just as friends, honestly.” He crossed his heart.

I laughed. “I’ll be your arm candy. Don’t worry.”

“Do you want to grab dinner before? Or we can just meet at the theater.”

“Dinner is good. How about Downtown Thai? I’ll meet you there at 6:30?”

“Okay. I’ll be there.” We parted at the stairs where he went off towards the TA office and I went up to the exit.

At home I sorted through my closet looking for something suitable to wear. I’d kept a few outfits from throughout my life and I liked wearing them for costume and Halloween parties. I pulled a crisp white shirtwaist from the closet. This decade, I mostly wear “vintage” t-shirts and jeans to fit in with the typical 21st century college crowd, but my shirtwaists had proved to be a fun alternative. Jeans would be too informal for the show and if I wore a long skirt with the shirtwaist, I’d definitely look weird. I put it back and reached for one of my favorite items.

It was a riding habit from the mid-18th century. It’s a simple piece, black wool with blue trim and a high collar. Jacob had wanted me to order something much more elaborate, but I was firm on the fact that I favored practicality over fashion. For all that it was plain, it complimented my figure in a way that the more decorated jackets didn’t, flaring out at the waist to emphasize the taper. In all my years, there have always been women who would rather look bad in something full of ornamentation, than something plain yet flattering.

I decided to pair the jacket with a black pencil skirt and simple pair of black pumps. I hopped into the shower to freshen up before I got dressed. For the first time since my marriage to Phillip, I had to pull my corset strings tight enough to alter my waist in order to fit into my jacket. For all that I hated the corset during that marriage and rebelled against the fashion ideal that a smaller waist is a better waist, when used, I guess properly, I found I got more support from my corset than a modern bra. Normally I’d tie it to match my natural figure, but now my waist was bigger than it’d ever been before. I only had to remove an inch, but it was still a pain. Yeah, I was definitely going to go to the gym…next week.

I started walking towards downtown at six and by six-fifteen I was regretting my clothing choice. It had been too long since I’d used the corset to cut off my circulation and I had to walk slowly to keep from fainting.

Nick was waiting for me outside of Downtown Thai. “You look great,” he told me, looking me up and down. He was wearing a dark blue silk button down and dark slacks with basic black dress shoes.

“Thanks,” I said, a bit breathlessly. “Shall we go in?”

He took my arm and led me inside. “I took the liberty of making a reservation, just in case.”

“That was a good idea.” We were seated quickly and I had to sit up extra straight to keep my blood and air flowing properly.

“Are you alright? You look a little pale.” Nick’s expression was concerned as he peered at me over his menu.

“I’m fine. Just my vanity getting the best of me,” I told him, trying to breathe out in a way that would grant me an extra bit of space.

“Your vanity? What did you do?” he asked, setting aside his menu and looking me over again.

I blushed. “My jacket wasn’t fitting, so I put on a corset—I’m cutting off some of my circulation. But I’m okay. I’ll adjust eventually, you don’t need to worry; just don’t expect me to do any running.” I laughed quietly.

Nick’s eyes narrowed during my explanation. “That’s stupid. Your body is fine.” He let out a breath loudly. “I’m shocked that you of all people would do something like this—you seemed so comfortable in your own skin, but I guess you’re just like other silly women thinking your appearance is the most important thing!” His voice rose with his anger. He stood up. “I’m sorry, but I cannot condone such actions.” He reached for his wallet. “Here’s your ticket to the show,” he said, holding it out to me.

I didn’t take it from him. I sat there stunned. No man had ever said anything like that to me. In fact, more than one had made me tie my corset tighter or to do other things that I hadn’t cared to. I blinked up at him in shock.

It took a moment for me to find my voice. “Wait! Please! Please sit down,” I begged him as he moved to leave. “Let me explain.”

He scowled down at me with his hands jammed into his pockets. “I don’t think that there’s anything to explain.”

“I didn’t put on the corset to make myself look smaller,” I told him quickly. “I just love this jacket and I wanted to wear it tonight. I didn’t realize that I’d gained so much weight; it used to fit perfectly. I’ve never had trouble when I put on my corset before, so I’m as shocked as you are about my predicament.” I noticed that people were staring at us. “Please sit down. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I’m more than uncomfortable enough for both of us.”

He sighed and looked around, not seeming to see anything, before he sat down again. “Sorry about my outburst; I just really have a problem with women hurting themselves for society’s whims.” He looked a little sheepish.

“It’s fine. I actually appreciate the sentiment—not many guys would say something like that. I want you to know that if I’d known that I was going to have this much trouble breathing, I would never have worn this outfit. Like I said, I’ve never had this much trouble with the corset and by the time I regretted the choice I was running late.”

A tiny Thai woman came over to ask if we were ready to order. The distress on her face told us that she’d stayed back, not wanting to interrupt Nick’s tirade. We both ordered Pad Thai, mine mild pork and water to drink, his spicy beef and sweet tea.

“I hope that I can eat like this,” I told him, laughing again. I quickly regretted the laughter when I had to gulp air for relief. “Ugh. Now I know how Keira Knightly fell off the wall in Pirates of the Caribbean,” I said, rubbing my chest.

“You really should just go home and change. It can’t be good for you to wear that thing,” he said, drawing out the last word.

I waved my hand. “I’ll be fine. I’m stubborn enough to exist without air.”

He shook his head. “I can bet,” he murmured.

We sat in silence. “Are you mad at me?” I finally asked tentatively.

“No. I mean, I have no reason to be mad at you—it’s your life. I just reacted badly. Let’s talk about something else. How about those Cowboys?” he asked, the corner of his mouth lifting into half a smile.

“Ugh. I hate the Cowboys…and the Redskins, so don’t even ask. When it comes to football and just about all sports I root for the underdog unless I can’t stand them.” I felt a sudden pinch on my side from the corset and wiggled in my seat to ease the pain.

“That’s probably the stupidest invention ever,” he told me.

“Not really. In my own experience, it’s more comfortable and supports better than a modern bra and more versatile than structured clothing. It’s just when it was used to make waists smaller that it became a nuisance,” I admitted without thinking. My eyes went involuntarily wide when I realized what I’d said. Modern women don’t wear corsets!

“You make it almost sound like you wear a corset under normal circumstances,” he said, turning to thank the waitress who brought our food. She heard the nature of our conversation and I saw her face grimace as though she expected Nick to start shouting again. I smiled at her as I accepted my dinner, stalling for time.

“Yes,” I told him, finally. “I do wear a corset usually. And that’s why I can tell you that there have been much worse inventions throughout history. Take the air conditioner, for one. Prior to its general use, homes were being built with what we now call “Green” ideas. They employed building practices that maximized cross-ventilation and were turned to take the best advantage of the sun. Then the air conditioner was came along and homes became dependent on non-renewable energy to heat and cool them. Sixty years later and we’re moving back to building practices used in the Thirties and Forties—what was the point? And don’t get me started on the gas engine for automobiles. There were plenty of cars running on electricity back in 1900. Could you imagine where we’d be if the gas engine hadn’t taken over the market? And it’s not like there was that great of an advantage for gas over electric, as the current market for such vehicles indicates.”

“Okay, okay. No need to bite my head off,” he laughed, holding up his hands. “Eat so that you can’t lecture me anymore.”

“Yeah, you don’t want to get me started on plastic,” I replied, taking a bite of my pad thai. Delicious.

We talked about his thesis subject and I asked him what he’d learned about sex in medieval times.

He choked on his noodles and swallowed half of his tea before he could answer me. “Why would you ask that?”

“Well, it’s the obvious question, isn’t it? It’s the ultimate thing that wasn’t published, so aren’t you curious about how it was? I took a class last semester called Women in America and our all female class felt comfortable in discussion section wondering about the sex lives of Puritans. I mean, they’d have a dozen kids in a two room house; it isn’t much of stretch to think that they were having sex with children in the room, or even in the bed with them. You shame the feminists you claim to promote if you ignore such an important part of everyday life.” I scowled at him before smiling to show him that I wasn’t very serious.

He held up his hands in surrender. “Sex is complicated enough without me trying to make a historical statement on it. I just want to show women acting against the societal rules…”

“Which includes sex,” I interrupted, laughing.

“…and am not complicating things by speculating on a subject that has no objective, or even subjective, evidence,” he finished, ignoring my interruption. He checked his watch. “We should get moving if we want to get a good seat for Jefferson.”

He stood to pay the bill before I could even get out of my seat. My years of practice at sitting and standing elegantly had obviously deteriorated due to malnourishment because I was having trouble standing up without bending my back, impossible to do with my corset as tight as it was. I finally was able to scoot to the edge of my chair so that my short legs could get the leverage they needed to stand up.  I vowed again to go to the gym and to never tighten my corset beyond my natural waist again.

Nick was shaking his head again when I joined him at the door. I ignored it and started walking towards the Paramont without him. He caught up to me after only three steps, not exactly difficult in my current condition.

There was a line already forming outside the theater. It’s no wonder in this town that a Jefferson interpreter would be so popular. There was a knot of professor-types standing off to one side, laughing. Nick waved at them before walking over with me following behind.

“Gretchen, this is Professors Jones, Robbins, Patterson, Cooper, and Richmond,” he told me, indicating each. “They make up the majority of the Early American History department.”

I shook hands with them all, exchanging welcomes.

“We plan to test this Bazzel guy with the really hard questions,” Professor Robbins told me conspiratorially. “I wonder where he stands on the problem of Jefferson being the ultimate hypocrite when it comes to his ‘Ten Rules to Live By.’” She laughed. The tiny, plump woman peered at me over her spectacles (this woman did not wear glasses—they were definitely spectacles), “you do know that he broke every single one of his rules, right?”

“Oh yes ma’am,” I said quickly. “He bought so much stuff on credit and had to sell land and slaves to pay for it and he left his heirs a massive amount of debt to deal with after his death, which breaks two of his rules for sure.”

“Ahh, the girl knows her history. Good choice, Nick,” she praised, patting him on his back. He looked uncomfortable at the implications of that statement.

“We’re just friends,” he told her firmly, but she waved her hand ignoring him. I just smiled politely, looking at the rest of the professors who seemed amused by the conversation.

“Are you in the history department?” Cooper asked me.

“Yes sir, but I’m not in any particular area—I’m just taking whatever classes sound interesting.”

Professor Richmond turned to me, “Have you taken anything in the American History section?”

“I took your Civil War class last year—I really liked it a lot, especially your focus on what was happening in Congress while the states were seceding. It gave a refreshing perspective to the conflict.” Richmond looked impressed, too. “But the real question,” I continued, “is why a medieval Europe TA is hanging out with a bunch of American history professors.” I looked up at Nick.

“Easy, I majored in American history for my undergrad. Professor Richmond was my advisor.” He shrugged and started scanning the crowd, I supposed, for his ex. He must have spotted her because he moved a step closer to me. “The doors are open,” he informed us.

The professors found their place in line and we filed in behind them. Nick pulled out his wallet for our tickets and frowned when he only found one.

“It’s in your pocket,” I told him quietly, remembering that he’d stuck it there when I’d refused to take it from him at dinner.

“Oh yeah,” he said, blushing slightly. He pulled the now crumpled ticket out of his pocket and tried to straighten it before he handed it to the ticket taker. The girl looked at Nick as though wondering what the poor ticket had done to him.

He took back the stubs without comment and put my arm through his before guiding me to the main auditorium. We found seats next to the professors who looked more like teenagers about to heckle a movie than serious college professors about to listen to a program. Professor Robbins had even pulled some Milk Duds out of her purse. I declined the offer of the candy.

Nick wordlessly offered me his hand to sit in the padded folding seat. I took it gratefully, though I think I could have sat without incident if I’d tried very hard. I felt Professor Cooper’s eyes on me, but I ignored the question he didn’t ask.

I settled into my seat and only had to push myself up with my arms once when it became too hard to breathe. One cannot slouch while one is wearing a corset. Bazzel turned out to be a great interpreter of Jefferson. He addressed the controversies and quirks of Jefferson with the same wit and charm that it’s most likely the third president possessed. I was quite surprised to find that the two hours had passed so quickly.

“Are you ready to leave or do you want to go to the reception?” Nick asked me, once again offering his arm.

“Let’s go to the reception. I want to see Professor Robbins corner Jefferson,” I said, grinning up at him as I stood.

He laughed. “Yeah, that should be something to see.” We followed the crowd to the lobby which had been transformed into a reception area, namely by the addition of two tables filled with food and drink. Nick and I avoided the tables and were discussing the idea of leaving because the crowd made it impossible to get near Bazzel when she appeared again.

“Sharon,” Nick nodded to her in greeting.

“Nick!” she said excitedly, kissing him on the cheek with her hug. “I didn’t expect you here. I thought you were done with us Americans.” She laughed loudly.

Nick shrugged. “You know that I like stuff like this.”

“Oh! Who’s this?” Sharon asked, suddenly seeing me. She was much closer to Nick’s height, about seven inches taller than me. I wasn’t quite sure if her blond hair was natural or not, but she was very pretty with big blue eyes and wearing a red wrap dress that hugged every one of her curves.

“This is Gretchen. She’s in Professor Barnes class and graciously agreed to accompany me tonight.” I shook her hand, noting the formal way Nick introduced me. He was trying to keep all emotion from his voice. They must have broken up fairly recently.

“You! Dating a student? I cannot believe that Mr. Straitlaced himself would ever do such a thing.” She looked me up and down as thought sizing me up.

“We’re not dating,” I told her, just as stiff as Nick. “We were talking about class and somehow the conversation got to how I wished I’d been able to get a ticket to tonight’s show. When Nick told me that he had an extra one, I told him that he wasn’t coming without me.” If Nick was shocked that I’d lied so smoothly, he didn’t show it on his face. He even nodded a bit as though he hadn’t practically begged me to come with him that very afternoon.

“Oh.” She shrugged at the information, as though bored. “That’s an interesting jacket you’re wearing. Is it vintage?”

“Yes. I picked it up at some shop awhile ago.” I told her.

“It fits you like a glove! Can you even breathe in that? Did you have it tailored?” She gestured for me to spin around, which I did. “If so, they did a fantastic job! It must be so hard for you to find clothes to fit your body.”

“No, it’s not tailored. I was just blessed with a body from the 1800s. It’s one of the few things that I like about my height and shape—I can wear just about anything over two hundred years old.”

“You’re so lucky.” she laughed, flipping her hair. “I just can’t wear anything off the rack.” Her smile seemed forced.

“That’s too bad.” I opened my mouth to say something along the lines of her looking like a stick.

“And on that note,” Nick interrupted, “I think it’s time for me to take Gretchen home. I’ll see you later Sharon.” He took my arm and steered me towards the door, not stopping until we were outside.

“Stop! Can’t! Breathe!” I told him, panting. He’d dragged me a little too quickly out of the theater. He paused to allow me a minute to breathe shallowly. I felt another pinch, which I rubbed to relieve. “Okay,” I said after a couple minutes. “I’m good.”

He started walking towards my apartment building. His stiff posture told me that he was irritated…again.

“Now what?”

“What?” he asked, confused.

“You’re in a bad mood again and I want to know what I did this time.” I stopped walking and put my hands on my hips.

He turned to look at me. “I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at me…or her…or I don’t know why I’m mad.” He stared up at the stars for a minute. “I have no idea why she suddenly decided to break up with me a couple weeks ago and that’s frustrating.”

“And you still love her,” I said, wearing my serene, all knowing expression and nodding slowly.

“Yes, no…I don’t know.” he mumbled, shoving his hands in his pockets again.

“Well, you’ve come to the right woman. If there’s anyone on this planet who understands what it’s like to love someone and not have their love in return that’d be me.” Oh how true, how true.

“I really don’t think I should talk about this with a student…”

“Then forget that I’m a student,” I told him. “I thought we’d decided that we were friends.”

He groaned. “Fine.” He started walking again. “We started dating fourth year after we’d both been accepted to the grad program, after being friends for a few years. I thought things were going great and we were even discussing marriage and then out of the blue she breaks up with me and won’t even tell me why. I don’t think that there’s another guy, but isn’t the partner always the last to know?”

“She called you ‘Mr. Straightlaced’—do you think that maybe she found you to be too conservative for her taste? That’s gotten in my way a few times.”

“You sound like you’ve had a lot of relationships,” he commented idly before answering. “I don’t know. I don’t think I’m too conservative; you know, being a feminist and all.”

“You know, there’s more to a relationship than conversation that can be condemned by one’s preferences. Maybe you are too conservative in the bedroom?” I asked gently.

“What is it about you and sex?!?” Nick asked too loudly, turning to face me. “Is that all you think about?” His face was bright red from embarrassment.

“No, it’s not the only thing I think about, but it is an important part of any relationship. And trust me when I say that it can be the difference between one that lasts and one that falls apart for seemingly no reason. And if you are this uncomfortable talking about it with a friend, then I’m willing to bet that you’re just as uncomfortable talking about it with the person that matters—and if you can’t talk about it, then it’s partially your fault if the relationship fails,” I said gently, resting my hand on his arm.

“Look, I grew up in a household where such stuff wasn’t discussed beyond ‘don’t get your girlfriend pregnant’. And that was enough sex education for me. So can we please change the subject?” He was obviously flustered by this conversation.

“Fine, fine, but I really think that you should think about it.”

We walked in silence the rest of the way to my door.

“I don’t want to seem weird, but can I have your phone number?” he asked. “In case I want to talk about stuff...” he said vaguely.

“Sure, and let me have yours.” We traded the numbers before saying goodbye.

“I’ll see you Saturday, I guess.” He said before turning to leave.

…

I would have run up the three flights of stairs to my apartment if that had been physically possible, but as it was, the only sprinting I did was to get through the row of buttons on the front of my jacket and take it off as soon as I got through my door. When I reached for the strings at the back of my corset, I found…Hell. The stupid bow I’d tied behind my back had knotted and I couldn’t work it loose. I struggled with it for almost five minutes and was nearly in tears when I realized my luck. I grabbed for my cell phone and prayed that I hadn’t transposed the numbers for Nick.

“Hello?” he asked tentatively.

“Oh thank God!” I swooned. “I need help, please.”

“Help? What’s wrong?” His voice sounded strained. I could hear his footsteps as though he was running.

“I’m stuck! Karma’s a bitch and my stupid corset won’t let me out!”

There was a whoosh of breath on his end of the phone and the footfalls were gone, like he’d stopped running and bent over to laugh. “You should cut the damn thing off and be done with it.”

“No! I can’t. Do you know how hard it is to find a corset that is both tasteful and comfortable? For some reason all the lingerie stores want to sell me exotic things that women wear like they’re outer clothes. I don’t care if you laugh your ass off, please get me out!”

He was still snickering when he wheezed “I’m at your apartment building, which number are you in?”

“302,” I pushed the button to let him into the foyer.

“No elevator?”

“Sorry,” I said sarcastically. “You’ll get real sympathy from me when you climb all those stairs in a corset that is cutting off all your air. Hurry!”

“You seemed fine earlier tonight, what’s the rush now?” He huffed, apparently not used to climbing stairs, even in this town.

“Earlier I knew I’d be out of it in a matter of hours. I’m getting claustrophobic from that feeling that I’m going to be stuck forever.”

“I’m coming, I’m coming…hold your horses,” he wheezed again, but this time from the climb, not laughter. “How the hell did you get up these stairs before?”

“Practice.”

“I’m here.”

I opened the door before hanging up my cell. Nick was bent in half in my hallway, trying to catch his breath. I grabbed his collar and tried not to slam the door when I pulled him into my apartment. Honest.

“Get me out!” I said through gritted teeth, presenting my back to him.

He coughed, rubbing his neck. “Woman, have some patience. And I can’t reach the knot or see what I’m doing with you standing on the floor.” He went to the dining table and brought back a chair. “Excuse me,” he said, just as a formality before he picked me up by the waist and stood me on it.

I stood, using the back of the chair to keep my balance, while he worked at the knot at the small of my back. After a few minutes of no progress, and with more than a few grunts from both parties, he warned me that he was going to do something “that is probably going to hurt.”

He grabbed what he could of both sides of the corset and pulled them tighter to give some slack to the strings. I whimpered and saw stars. But he was able to loosen the knot and quickly pulled the sides apart again. For the first time in nearly five hours I was able to take a full breath. The feeling was almost orgasmic, and I threw my arms around Nick’s neck in thanks.

“My hero,” I moaned into his shoulder. He put his arm around my waist and lifted me down from the chair as I slid limply to the floor. “Air is good.”

He laughed quietly before untangling my arms and nudging me to sit on the chair. I smiled up at him, not caring that the corset was drooping and my camisole was showing more of my breasts than it was covering. I saw him lick his lips after glancing down. I chuckled and he blushed knowing that I knew he’d peeked. “Sorry,” he whispered.

“It’s fine. If I didn’t want you looking, I would have covered myself better,” I told him lightly, giving a small shrug that might have attracted his eyes to my chest again. It had been a long time since I’d let a man share my bed; after my last relationship I’d decided that I was tired of being hurt and all my dates since had been purely platonic. Ninety years is a long time to be celibate, but I wasn’t sure that I wanted to change our budding friendship that way so soon. I held my breath (in a manner of speaking—I wasn’t going to go there again) waiting to see what he would do.

Nick cleared his throat. “I should go.”

I gave a small nod, though neither of us moved. We stared into each other’s eyes, wondering what the other would do and what they wanted. Nick broke the tension when he closed his and took a step away from me, making the situation clear.

I nodded again. “That’s probably the best decision,” I said quietly. “Not the most fun,” I told him, louder, chuckling, “but probably the best.”

He gave me a small smile before he turned around and let himself out of the apartment. I stood and removed the corset before throwing myself onto the couch to watch some mind numbing television before bed. Yep. Celibacy sucks.

Chapter 4