Leave
Off Doves
by
Sarah Long
Midway through
the fall semester,
an unremarkable
girl in Professor
Woody’s
Advanced Fiction
workshop dyed
her hair an unnatural
shade of dark,
changed her name
to Tasmina, and
turned in a story
filled with made-up
words. She handed
out the story
to her classmates
to be work shopped
the following
week, and in it,
the main character
“rebusively”
studied her face
in a bathroom
mirror as the
“perlifitous”
water filled the
bathtub.
Some students
were dumbstruck,
unsure of a particular
word’s existence
and not wanting
to sound ignorant
in class if they
questioned the
author’s
use of an adjective
that everyone
else understood.
Others were outraged.
Words like “hiccombed”
and “apluish”
were a smack in
the face to all
their years of
training in the
proper use of
language. Some
were even a little
jealous, although
they would never
let on. They hadn’t
thought to break
the rules, and
here this girl
was broadcasting
her rebellion
to all her classmates
and the professor.
The students filtered
into class that
day, taking their
usual seats. Tasmina
was the last to
arrive, head down
and eyes averted,
mere moments before
Professor Woody
entered, his hair
and clothes characteristically
rumpled, taking
up his perch on
the desk at the
front of the room.
Woody had worked
at the university
for nearly twenty
years. He always
tried to remain
a helpful, objective
teacher, resisting
the urge to let
his personal feelings
about his students
and their writing
abilities influence
his treatment
of them. In such
a subjective field,
this was difficult
to do. He held
a professional
distance from
his students.
He politely declined
invitations to
graduation parties
and wrote generous
yet restrained
recommendation
letters whenever
he was asked,
no matter the
student. Through
the years, of
course he favored
some students
over others, but
he would never
reveal such personal
biases.
“All
right, class,”
he began. “We’re
discussing Tasmina’s
story today, is
that correct?”
He knew damn well
whose story they
were work shopping.
The truth was,
he had loved Tasmina’s
story, was floored
by it, and he
couldn’t
remember the last
time a student’s
work had evoked
such a strong
feeling in him.
But his question,
the same opener
he used every
week, was his
attempt to keep
the playing field
level and dispel
any suspicions
his students had
about preferential
treatment.
The
students shifted
in their chairs,
pulling their
heavily marked
copies of “Elephant
Summer”
from backpacks
and binders. Tasmina
sat hunched over
her desk, flicking
absently at the
eggplant-colored
polish on her
fingernails, pen
and paper ready
for the notes
she might take
as she was forced
to sit silently
through her classmates’
remarks.
No
one spoke. The
students flipped
through pages,
pretending to
go over their
notes or scribble
new ones.
“Who
wants to start?”
Woody prompted,
and when the students
continued to shuffle
and avoid his
gaze, he said,
“Mary, how
about you?”
Mary
was a safe bet
to start things
off. Always trying
to say something
nice about a classmate’s
work, vague in
her criticisms,
she had nearly
burst into tears
three weeks prior
when the class
work shopped her
contribution,
a story about
a dying grandmother
whose last wish
to be reunited
with her childhood
love is fulfilled
by her grandson
the day before
she dies. Granny’s
dying words, as
she holds her
grandson’s
hand in her left
and her sweetheart’s
in her right are,
“Now my
life is complete
and my memory
will live on in
the love we have
shared.”
Woody did everything
but physically
intervene as Mary’s
classmates ripped
her story apart
as “formulaic,”
“too sappy
to be believable”
and “Hollywood-influenced
schlock.”
Now
Mary smiled hesitantly
in Tasmina’s
direction and
began, “I
really liked it?
The main character
is really relatable
and I understand
what she’s
going through?
The descriptions
are really vivid?
Like the stuff
with the dumpster
in the alley?”
Mary
turned to look
at Woody, begging
him with her eyes
to let her off
the hook.
“Okay
Mary, thank you,”
he nodded, and
her body visibly
unclenched. “Who’s
next?”
Stefan,
the blonde Canadian
whose stories
always consisted
of poorly disguised
metaphors about
his one and only
homosexual encounter,
cleared his throat.
“I really
liked the title.
I mean, initially,
when I first picked
it up, I was like,
‘Hey, this
will be interesting.’
But then, well,
I guess I was
expecting to see
an actual elephant
somewhere in the
story. I was like,
waiting for it,
you know? So that
was kind of disappointing,”
Woody
blinked. “So…your
suggestion for
Tasmina is to
place an elephant
in the text of
the story?”
Stefan
tapped the butt
of his pen against
his cheek. “Well,
no…not necessarily.
I guess it’s
more about setting
up expectations
for the reader.
I mean, titles
are important,
you know? There
has to be a payoff.
I guess that’s
what I’m
saying.”
*
* *
Woody
had his good days
and bad days.
This one, it seemed,
was shaping up
to be a bad one.
He tried to give
his students the
benefit of the
doubt. They were,
after all, still
young and inexperienced,
oblivious to the
harsh world beyond
the safety of
their parents’
homes and sheltered
college campus.
Whenever he felt
the urge to laugh
in their faces
or physically
shake them out
of their idealistic
reveries, he had
to remember himself
as he was at their
age. Idealistic
for sure, and
cocky, bordering
on conceited,
certain that whatever
some crusty, burnout
professor had
to say was just
a result of his
own bitterness
and personal failures.
He
eyed the clock.
Soon he’d
have to drive
into town to meet
his wife at Dr.
Helbert’s
office for their
weekly therapy
session. Three
months ago, Tracy
had packed a small
suitcase and moved
out of their house.
Woody stood useless
by the kitchen
table as she washed
and dried the
dishes from the
previous night’s
dinner, her last
wifely duty before
leaving.
He remembered
feeling blocked,
stripped of the
words and inflections
that had flowed
so freely to him
for the better
part of his life.
He remembered
thinking that
if only he could
find the right
words, the perfect
symbols to convey
with absolute
clarity his feelings,
he could stop
her from leaving.
But the only words
that came to him
seemed artificial
and vague. Still,
he had to say
something.
“Don’t
go,” he
blurted. “Things
can be better.”
Tracy turned off
the faucet and
faced him, her
graying but still
luminous auburn
hair flowing wildly
around her shoulders.
“Better,”
she repeated blankly.
“What does
that word even
mean?”
So for the past
several weeks,
the only time
he spent with
Tracy was in the
presence of another
man, a shrink
who showcased
all his framed
diplomas like
trophies on the
walls of his Scandinavian-furnished
office. Woody
and Tracy sat
on the same hard
leather couch,
the length of
a sports car separating
their bodies.
Dr. Helbert sat
before them in
his designer chair,
a slim, silver
laptop poised
and ready to receive
notes on the state
of the deteriorating
couple.
Woody had grown
angry that the
only time he was
allowed to see
his wife was in
these previously
scheduled allotments
of time, these
“sessions”
where a stranger
with a half a
million dollar
education was
supposed to know
how to fix them.
A couple weeks
ago, after one
of their doctor
visits, Woody
casually asked
Tracy if she wanted
to grab a cup
of coffee.
“I don’t
think I’m
ready for that
yet,” she
said. “Let’s
just stick to
our therapy for
now.”
Woody couldn’t
contain his frustration.
“How the
fuck is anything
going to change
if the only time
we spend together
is in a goddamned
fish bowl?”
Tracy barely flinched.
“It’s
going to take
time.”
Time, Woody thought.
What does that
word even mean?
He snapped back
to the present
to see Jenny,
one of the class’s
best writers save
for the unfortunately
large chip on
her shoulder,
shoot her hand
into the air.
Even before she
spoke, Woody could
tell she meant
to do some damage.
“Yes Jenny?”
She lowered her
arm, took her
time folding her
hands on her desk.
“Well, since
no one else is
gonna say it…”
Her voice was
clipped, and she
paused dramatically.
“This story
is just a bunch
of made-up words
strung together!
I mean, ‘figgish’?
‘Barnification’?
‘MAGALANT’?!”
She flipped rapidly
through the pages,
her voice growing
shriller with
each word she
spoke.
The students collectively
squirmed and Woody
stole a glance
at Tasmina, who
was the only one
sitting perfectly
still, eyes forward
on her manuscript,
pen held steady
between her fingers.
Woody could swear
he saw the smallest
smile curling
at the edges of
her mouth.
“I mean,
what the fuck
is this?!”
Jenny shrieked.
“Does she
think we’re
stupid or something?”
Well, at least
she refrained
from addressing
the author directly,
Woody reasoned.
“I have
to agree with
Jenny,”
Clint, the quiet
country boy, chimed
in. “I didn’t
feel insulted,
exactly, but the,
uh, made-up words
were a little
distracting.”
*
* *
“Okay, Clint.
Could you say
more about that?”
Woody had to make
at least one student
back up his criticism
with concrete
evidence, before
the whole class
got whipped into
a frenzy.
Clint sat thoughtfully
for a moment.
“Well, the
made-up words,
like the ones
Jenny mentioned,
when I came across
them in the story,
I got sort of
stuck. I would
have to stop reading
for a second and
think, ‘Hey,
that’s not
a real word.’
I guess it just
didn’t make
sense to me. Why
not use words
we all know and
understand?”
The classroom
was deflated.
Clint had voiced
everyone’s
disapproval without
a hint of venom.
If anyone carried
on, drew out the
matter to the
point of redundancy,
it would be useless
if not cruel.
“All right,”
Woody stepped
in. “Does
anyone else have
comments for Tasmina’s
story?”
*
* *
The week before
Tracy left, a
couple of mourning
doves had claimed
one of the light
fixtures on their
porch, setting
to work building
a nest. The male
dove retrieved
all the supplies:
twigs, dry leaves,
downy moss, and
brought them back
to the female
who piled them
together, slowly
turning her small,
round body, making
a spot for her
eggs to fall.
Woody would never
have noticed the
birds’ activities
had it not been
for Tracy’s
attention to such
things. She was
shocked by his
obliviousness.
“How could
you not notice?”
she asked. “Haven’t
you heard them
singing to each
other?”
Woody was embarrassed,
and reminded himself
to try and be
more observant,
but only a few
days later he
had forgotten
again, and as
he went to flip
on the porch light
before they went
to bed one night,
Tracy screamed.
“You’re
going to scare
them away!”
It took him a
few moments to
realize what she
was talking about.
After Tracy left,
Woody taped the
porch’s
light switch into
the OFF position
and covered it
with a neon yellow
Post-It note reading:
LEAVE OFF DOVES.
This way, even
if he forgot again,
he would be reminded
before he could
do any damage.
*
* *
The students who
had yet to speak
avoided Woody’s
eyes.
“Okay,”
he said after
a few moments.
“Tasmina?
Would you like
to say anything?”
Woody always dreaded
this part of the
workshop. He felt
terrible for the
student whose
work had been
ripped to shreds
by his classmates,
whose face always
registered a kind
of shell-shock,
who would rather
melt into a puddle
and slide under
the door than
have to address
the room, thank
his classmates
for their “helpful
suggestions”
and tell them
he “had
a feeling”
the story’s
ending was crap.
Or there was the
student whose
story had been
praised and fawned
over, the only
criticism being
that there was
hardly anything
to criticize.
Woody would find
himself loathing
this student once
he was allowed
to talk, addressing
his classmates
like a visiting
professional,
a pimply-faced
teenager regarding
the “craft”
of writing, the
skillful execution
of foreshadowing
and complex metaphors.
But as Tasmina
put down her pen
and made eye contact
with him for the
first time, Woody
hoped she would
be as unpredictable
as her story and
fall into neither
category.
“I
appreciate everyone
taking the time
to read my story,”
she said, her
voice plain, her
face unreadable.
“I didn’t
expect everyone
to like it.”
The students waited,
hanging, expecting
Tasmina to offer
explanation, more
effusive gratitude,
or some kind of
apology. But instead,
she began to quietly
pack her things.
Slowly, the students
followed her lead,
some of them grumbling
under their breath,
others scurrying
out of the room
before Woody could
ask them about
missing assignments.
Tasmina was the
last student left,
leisurely reaching
down to tie the
laces on her left
sneaker.
Woody didn’t
understand the
meaning of the
word depressed.
If he thought
about it, he would
picture ceaseless
crying, a carpeted
floor strewn with
crumpled tissues,
late night infomercials,
a ratty bathrobe
and slippers,
Chinese takeout
boxes filled with
spoiling food,
unreturned phone
calls, a trash
can full of empty
wine bottles.
If he thought
about it, he would
never picture
a monotonous life
with a decent
salary, benefits
and a summer vacation,
too many leftovers
in the fridge
because the cook
only knows how
to prepare meals
for two, a friendly
relationship with
the campus security
night guard, a
weekend spent
repainting the
guest bedroom
a unisex color
of Celery Green,
a preoccupation
with researching
the mating habits
and life span
of mourning doves
on the internet
late at night,
the persistent
habit of washing
the left-side
pillowcase with
the rest of the
bedding even though
it had gone unused
for weeks.
If he thought
about it, Woody
would realize
he didn’t
understand the
meaning of a lot
of words anymore,
if he ever really
did. Better. Time.
Love. Husband.
Wife. Teacher.
Student.
Tasmina slung
her backpack over
her shoulder and
headed for the
door.
“Tasmina,
may I speak to
you for a moment?”
She turned and
approached Woody
at his desk. He
wanted to tell
her something,
and he wracked
his brain, once
again finding
himself blocked,
stripped. He thought
if only he could
find the right
words, the perfect
symbols, he could
tell this girl
something good,
something she
deserved to hear.
“I’m
sorry about my
story,”
she said, giving
him the apology
she had reserved
from her classmates.
“I understand
if you’re
upset. It’s
just, I hear people
use the same words
over and over
again, and I start
to forget what
any of them mean,
what any of them
should mean. So,
yeah, I made up
some words, and
maybe that’s
cheating, but
at least I know
what they mean.”
She blinked, her
eyes pointing
squarely at Woody’s
face.
“You
don’t need
to apologize,”
he said. “It’s
not cheating.
I just have a
suggestion for
you. For your
next story.”
Tasmina waited
patiently for
him to continue.
“Use
deraveled in a
sentence,”
he said finally.
She looked at
him strangely.
It wasn’t
exactly a made-up
word, but it was
the only thing
he could come
up with. She nodded,
gave a small smile,
and left the room.
*
* *
The next week,
Tasmina was not
in Woody’s
class. He thought
perhaps she was
sick, but she
was absent again
the week after
that and the week
after that. Woody
went to the administration
office and was
told that Tasmina,
or Rachel Smith
as the school
records knew her,
had withdrawn
from school, giving
no forwarding
address.
For weeks thereafter,
Woody worried
that he was somehow
to blame for her
decision. He wondered
what he could
have done differently,
how he could have
been a better
teacher, mentor,
friend.
Better. What does
that word even
mean?
One day late in
the spring, Woody
returned to his
office after class
to find a manila
envelope inscribed
with his name
sitting atop his
desk. There was
no postage; the
envelope must
have been hand-delivered.
Woody opened it
and pulled out
a manuscript,
a short story
entitled “Daffodil
Speaks.”
The author’s
name was nowhere
to be found.
Woody took a seat
behind his desk
and started to
read. He knew
immediately that
it was Tasmina’s
story.
The first sentence
read, “The
green and gold
lights from the
city deraveled
over the hills,
a trail of purpulascence
setting every
blade of grass
oblase.”
©
2008 by Sarah
Long
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