A Private Little Affair
By Russ Durbin
Copyright © 2012 by Russell L. Durbin, RLD Publishing
Cover Design: Charlene Lavinia
A Private Little Affair
Betsy was in love.
From the tips of her toes to the top of her pixie-like brown hair, every fiber of her being seemed to vibrate with a special kind of joy. She felt like singing, or whistling, or turning somersaults tomboy-style as she sat quietly in her seat, doodling little hearts in the margins of her notebook.
Of course, she didn’t—sing, and whistle, and turn somersaults—because other students wouldn’t have understood. Indeed, they probably would have thought her a bit odd had she done so, to say nothing of what the young, bespectacled professor standing nervously in the front of the classroom would have thought.
He cleared his throat. “Now, uh…considering the love of Romeo and Juliet….”
Betsy didn’t look up from her doodling, but she heard every word.
“Yes, let’s,” she thought. And already she had her own cast of characters with herself, naturally, in the starring role. And Romeo?
Betsy had never thought much about boys before she came to college. While other girls had been thinking about how to get mother’s approval to wear lipstick, rouge and eye shadow, Betsy had been climbing trees. When other young ladies, flutteringly feminine in their ruffles and laces, had been “to tea” with neatly dressed and painfully brushed (but uncomfortable-looking) young gentlemen, she had been out playing baseball and basketball with the neighborhood gang.
To Betsy, boys had been, in order, pests, buddies, friends, occasionally interesting dates, and pests. This is not to imply Betsy was naïve; she simply was unconcerned. Nor was she unaware that she was most attractive to boys. She just had never thought the opposite sex important in her life—until now, that is.
A whole new secret world of delight opened for her when she met him for the first time. Of course, all he had said to her was, “And you must be Miss Jones?” but that was enough for Betsy. She was scarcely able to stutter out a reply, but after the first few words, suddenly it became as easy as sipping hot chocolate with marshmallows to talk to him. That she did at every opportunity that presented itself. If there was no convenient opportunity, Betsy would arrange one. This was a private little affair Betsy was having.
That was the trouble. It was a little too private as far as Betsy was concerned. He didn’t know she existed. “He doesn’t know I exist as a woman,” she sighed, despite her best efforts to bring this little fact to his attention.
* * *
“Now, if we examine the play carefully, we will see that much of what happens to our ‘star-crossed’ lovers occurs through unforeseeable circumstances. To use a simpler word, fate.”
As he made this point to the class, Marc Bradley unconsciously removed his black, thick-framed glasses, and then replaced them in a habit he had developed when his mind wasn’t on the subject at hand.
He continued with his next point, but his eyes wandered over the faces of the students, picking out one in particular.
That irritated Marc, although he wasn’t sure why. He had never done that in a class before—single out one over the rest. She was no different than other students he had had. No…Yes, she was different! She was fresh, alive, intelligent, and full of utter disregard for the title of Doctor of Philosophy which he wore somewhat stiffly, like the celluloid collar his great-grandfather had worn.
“Let’s compare and contrast Juliet with Beatrice in Much Ado about Nothing,” he said. There was a sudden rustle of pages as students turned to the other play.
While he talked, Marc couldn’t help but compare and contrast this happy little sprite in his classroom with tall, cool Elaine. He suddenly smiled at the incongruity of the two, and throughout the room there was a smattering of forced laughter from puzzled students, who wondered if they had missed some subtle joke their professor had just made.
After that mental lapse, Marc tried to force himself to concentrate on what he was saying. It was no use.
Marc had never thought much about girls growing up. He had never had the time. From the time he entered Madame Harris’ Pre-School for the Liberal Arts at five until he had graduated from Harvard magna cum laude he had been hard pressed to bring himself up to and maintain the academic averages of his father, his grandfather, and his great-grandfather before him. All graduates of that hallowed institution. Once, he had rebelled but his father had quickly set him straight.
“No grades, no school, no allowance for you young man,” his father had declared firmly.
Marc couldn’t face the thought of a world without money, so he went quietly back to school. There was a bit of the martyr’s pride in him when he received his doctorate in English literature along with some of the highest honors that staid university could bestow. Newly minted Dr. Marcus Thaddeus Bradley had been one of the few Harvard graduates who had been offered a teaching position on the faculty. It had made his father and his grandfather proud of their roles in raising Marc. And, had his great-grandfather been living, he, too, would have been proud.
But Marc had turned down the job to take a somewhat less attractive offer in a small Midwestern college.
“In God’s name, why? Why?” his father had raged. “What could have possessed you to do such a thing?”
But Marc had been adamant, and had refused to reconsider his decision. Nor did he regret it now, as he stood in front of his class. He had been happy here, and his book was going wonderfully well, he thought.
A waving hand at the front of the room distracted him and, with an effort, he curbed his wandering thoughts.
“Ah, yes, Miss…uh, Dodson?
“Dr. Bradley, would you repeat what you just said. I didn’t get that last point.”
“Good grief,” he thought in panic, “What was I talking about?” And think of it, he could not. “Now, let’s see (he stalled as he tried to recall his last words). The last point?” The girl nodded.
Just then the bell ending the period rescued him from his embarrassing position.
“Ah, I’ll just leave it at that today, and Monday I’ll review for the entire class what I’ve just covered to make sure you all understand the significance of the relationships in the plays. You are dismissed.” Half of the students already were at the door.
Marc breathed a faint sigh of relief. He mopped his brow with his coat pocket handkerchief, closed his textbook and notebook and picked up his briefcase. Then he noticed her standing behind the podium on the desk. She had to stretch to see over it.
“Hi!”
“Hel…er, ah Hi,” he said, starting with a frown and ending with a grin on his face. There was something communicable about Betsy’s vitality. There was even a lift in Marc’s voice when he said, “What may I do for you, Miss Jones?” He had almost said “Betsy” but had caught himself in time. It would never do for a professor to get too familiar with his students.
“You were thinking about something else a minute ago, weren’t you?” she asked softly. Her green eyes were fixed on him with a knowing look that made her question a statement. Somehow, she didn’t seen quite as young to Marc as she had moments before.
* * *
Betsy was determined. Somehow, she was going to find a way to make him notice her as a woman, even if she had to chase him down the hall. The podium between them was an imposing barrier so she moved to the side of the desk where she could clearly see his eyes. Sparkling blue, like a deep lake, she thought. As she leaned closer, she hoped that he would catch a whiff of her Laura Ashley perfume that she had liberally applied. Of course, that was early this morning before her first class. Maybe it had worn off, she worried.
“You seem distracted,” she said as she watched his fumbling attempts to put his notes and his books hurriedly into his battered briefcase. For one brief moment, their eyes locked and Betsy felt her heart turn over. He smelled good. Polo perhaps? No, maybe Burberrys. That would be more like him, she thought.
* * *
Marc was disconcerted. It was amazing how this wisp of a girl could put her finger on the truth, particularly where he was concerned. He shook his head, thinking to ignore her question as one not worthy of a reply. But he found himself walking down the hall beside her, explaining.
At the door of Cranston Hall, he paused briefly, nodded and said, “Goodbye, Miss Jones. Have a pleasant weekend at home.” He turned and started toward the Campus Lounge. That wasn’t his usual Friday afternoon custom, he knew, but he felt sorely in need of a cup of tea.
Betsy bounced up beside him.
“Oh, I’m not going home for the weekend. I guess I’ll stay here…and study,” she finished as she walked along, her little hands thrust deep in her jacket pockets.
“Ah, very commendable, Miss Jones,” Marc said. He silently cursed, thinking “What a damned stuffy comment.” He wished she would turn on the path toward the dorms. She didn’t.
“Oh, are you going to the Lounge?” she asked. “What a coincidence; so am I.” Inside, she fumed at herself. “Oh, I am pushing it,” she thought, “but I don’t care. This is my chance to be alone with him. Maybe he’ll realize that I’m in love with him.”
“Oh?” Marc tried to smile, but it didn’t come off as genuine. He felt uncomfortable and his collar seemed too tight. But he didn’t know how to avoid the encounter. Somewhere in his mind, he knew he was enjoying her companionship as they crunched through the leaves covering the walk.
So they went to the Lounge, the professor and the student. It was nearly deserted in the late Friday afternoon as most students had taken off to enjoy the dazzling October weekend. But neither Marc nor Betsy noticed.
They sat in a booth and talked—of literature, of people, of world events, of the school’s football team, and the weather—but never about themselves. Yet, somehow, Marc and Betsy felt they knew each other well.
Marc was fascinated with the little twists and turns of Betsy’s mind, and she with his lack of “stuffiness and pomposity” she had always associated with college professors.
The sun was beginning to spread long, golden fingers etched in purple across the sky when Marc looked at this watch.
“Good grief,” he exclaimed, jumping up from the table and grabbing his briefcase. “Sorry Bets…er, Miss Jones. I have to run. I have a prior engagement. Please excuse my abruptness.” He hurried outside, leaving Betsy looking forlorn.
Betsy watched a white Porsche convertible piloted by a chic blond pull along side of him as he hurried along. He tossed his briefcase behind the seat, got in, kissed the woman behind the wheel, and the car dwindled rapidly in the distance and the shadows.
Betsy sank down in the booth, staring at the closed textbook in front of her.
“I wonder what they talk about?” she thought. And her private little affair was over.
* * *