Romantic Trapezoid
A Novel
Victor L. Cahn
Romantic trapezoid
A Novel
Copyright © 2010 Victor L. Cahn. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical publications or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher. Write: Permissions, Wipf and Stock Publishers, 199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3, Eugene, OR 97401.
Resource Publications
An Imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers
199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3
Eugene, OR 97401
www.wipfandstock.com
isbn 13: 978-1-60899-241-6
eisbn 13: 978-1-4982-7217-9
Manufactured in the U.S.A.
I
She was three hours late. On a scorching July afternoon, she was three hours late.
Then again, in Dave’s mind she was always three hours late.
Several times he had cautioned her. “You remember what I tell my students.”
“No, I don’t,” she’d reply. “What do you tell them?” Then her brow would purse in mock concentration.
“That I start classes on time. That when we make an appointment, I expect them to be on time.”
“You’re so forceful.”
“I have to be. Otherwise they’d take advantage.”
“You must be the most forceful professor in the whole Department.”
“Possibly.”
“Maybe the entire University.”
“I doubt that—”
“Certainly the cutest.”
“Melissa . . .”
“How can I resist such brute energy?”
Her irony was so disarming that Dave usually abandoned his point. Sometimes he’d try to insist that his concerns warranted more respect, but then she’d lay her legs across his, slip her arm through his, and rest her head near his, and before long the admonition lost its urgency.
They had met nine months earlier at a party in the Manhattan loft of Arnold Holman, one of Dave’s former students and now a playwright with substantial Off-Off-Broadway credits. Melissa was not the most classically beautiful woman in that room full of actresses and models, but to Dave she was the most striking: tall and trim, with dark eyes and straight black hair that fell over her shoulders. Her outfit, too, was smashing: a turquoise blouse, a black skirt, black stockings, and black stiletto boots, topped by a black velvet cloche. Studying her from across the room, Dave decided that she “glowed with puckish sensuality.” He was pondering how to draw her away from a circle of revelers that included Arnold himself, when their host waved him over.
“Dave Mattes, everybody: New Jersey’s leading expert on film, and the man who taught me more about movies than I’ve ever needed to know.”
“Hi, Dave,” said the chorus.
“Hello.”
“We were talking about Lawrence Tierney, Dave, and I told them you were the authority.”
Tierney remains an iconic figure from film noir, one of Dave’s specialities, but on this occasion he resisted the impulse to overwhelm his listeners with a disquisition. Instead he simply supplemented gaps in their discussion, directing most of his comments toward Melissa, whose eyes, he believed, focused on him. “And Tierney was just as dangerous off screen as on. Had all sorts of scrapes with the law.”
As his audience drew closer, Arnold interrupted. “I’ve heard about that. He was a bad drinker, wasn’t he?”
“Indeed.”
“Then he fell out of sight.”
“In so many words.”
“Didn’t he make a comeback in Reservoir Dogs?”
“Hm-mm. But only after shooting an episode of ‘Seinfeld.’”
“‘Seinfeld’! You’re kidding!”
“Nope. He played Elaine’s father.”
“Hey, I remember that show! The one with the suede jacket.”
“That’s it. And apparently he terrified the cast. Even stole a knife from the set.”
This trivia turned the conversation to “The Simpsons” and “South Park,” popular specimens of what Dave considered an inferior medium. Thus he drifted aside to focus on Melissa.
To his surprise, she drifted with him, and presently he found himself sitting next to her on a couch, listening to a voice that was seductively deep.
“I could see you knew a lot more.”
“About Tierney?”
“About a lot of things.” She tucked one leg under her, and placed a hand on his wrist. “Tell me now.”
“You’re sure you want me to start?”
“Absolutely.”
“I’m tough to turn off.”
“That’s what I’m counting on.”
Dave smiled. “Okay, but don’t forget: you asked.”
“Believe me, I won’t.”
With a boyish shrug, Dave expounded a bit on cinematography in the 1940’s, then returned to the subject at hand. “But, as I said, the most fascinating thing about Tierney was how his screen roles blended into his life.”
She grinned. “This sounds dishy.” As she pressed the top of his wrist, her thumb squeezed gently from underneath.
Leaning forward, Dave heard his own voice drop lasciviously: “Oh, he was a wild man.” Suddenly he sensed himself on the verge of repetition. “Forgive me. I’m talking too much.”
“Not at all.”
“You’re very kind, but it’s an occupational hazard.”
“I could listen to you all night.” He felt her body slide toward his.
After a few more private moments, the pair offered apologies to Arnold, and departed for a late snack.
By Thanksgiving, Dave was spending every weekend in Melissa’s Soho apartment. He’d arrive Thursday afternoon to treat her to dinner and a narrative about his week, including both compelling moments from the classroom and morsels of faculty sniping. At first Dave hesitated to relate these matters, which had been dismissed by one date as “piddling,” and disdained more subtly by several others. Melissa, however, soon learned the names and quirks of his colleagues, and thereafter overflowed with queries.
“What did Ferguson say?”
“He kept his mouth shut.”
“But he’ll support your motion, right?”
“Only if it gives him less work.”
“I thought he cares about the students.”
“That’s what they all say.”
“You think he’s lying?”
“He lied about reading that woman’s paper. He lied about the memo. And he lied about speaking to the Dean. Why should I expect the truth this time?”
“What are you going to do?”
“I still have the votes to ram it through.”
“You