It was like a law of nature: every May academics, their teaching finished for the semester, begin to travel. It seemed to Ellen they were like lemmings, swarming out to pick up extra money instead of mosses and lichen and to fund vacation time with guest lectures. For her husband these people were orphans adrift in Europe, needing a nice home-cooked meal. Over the years she had developed a grudging patience, carefully avoiding involvement with people who would vanish when the summer session at home resumed. Meeting these strangers she would will her mind into polite curiosity. She imagined herself a pond of calm water, the conversation like fishing lines thrown in and pulled out again empty. Only rarely was her attention caught by some bit of strangeness: an illness, a famous ancestor, a particular fact, a peccadillo.
This night their guests are Richard, the professor, and Debra, a writer, unpublished as yet but hopeful. They are in their late forties. He is short but trim. She is very thin, wearing a long velvet skirt, interesting earrings, nice smile, pretty in a commonplace way. Ellen notices that Debra has a hand tremor. She can’t help wondering if it is early onset of a neurological illness or just nervousness. Debra is careful about it, supports the glass with both hands until it is safe on the table. Richard, very engaging, intensely charming, leaning forward to listen, gives the impression of wanting to make a good impression. He has a black belt in...
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