Maplecroft by Cherie Priest

him—and he tried to say that I had not been this way in the previous semester, when he’d taken the first round of my introductory biology course. Babbling, he said that everyone knew it, and no one understood it, but that he was taking his concerns to the top of the university’s administration if I did not resume my previous demeanor.
    “What
previous demeanor
?” I demanded to know. Nothing has changed in my classrooms, except that each season the boys are stupider and the classes feel longer; those are the only differences.
    Something insipid fell out of his mouth, some diatribe couched in terms of concern for my well-being, suggesting that in prior months (before the summer leave) I had been more patient, more perceptive, and more willing to assist the young men who were my charges. He then was so bold as to inquire after my health, and went on to make accusations about my pallor—for neither that, nor my demeanor, either, was satisfactory to this wretched snake of a character.
    I do not remember the precise words that moved me from where I stood, listening angrily, to up against him, with my hands on his throat.
    But his classmates intervened—treacherous idiots, the lot of them—and someone ran out into the hall, where the lumberjack-sized (and -brained) Dr. Greer was dragged into the altercation, effectively bringing it to a close.
    I was sent home like a naughty schoolboy, ostensibly to rest and recover, and to consider my actions.
    Fine, then. I consider them.
    While I consider them, and consider how grand it felt to squeeze the boy’s pulse in his throat, as he struggled against my grip, I consider what on earth could have prompted him to make his unfair, unfounded accusations. What have I ever done to him, prior to this afternoon? Nothing, and that’s another fact which has gone overlooked altogether by my superiors. I’ve never shown him anything but the fondest feelings of paternal kindness, in my efforts to instruct him.
    I too am an actor, and a good one in my own right.
    But. As I replay the events, today’s and those which remain alleged . . . I am forced to wonder. I struggle to recall. What
was
I doing on Monday afternoon? Where was I? What inane, ordinary set of tasks did I perform? They must have been ordinary indeed to have slipped so precipitously from my memory.
    I’m sure I was reading essays, or otherwise considering the grades of the same ungrateful slugs who watched me warily as I made my exit.
    The last thing I recall with any great certainty is mundane enough to imply that the rest of my day was equally so. I was at home, in the office I’ve made for myself on the second floor, where I keep my samples, my supplies, research volumes, my periodicals. I was reading, I believe.
    I was reading, and the window was open, and I fancied that I could smell the ocean.

Nance O’Neil
    L ETTER ADDRESSED TO L IZBETH A. B ORDEN , F ALL R IVER , M ASS ., M ARCH 29, 1894
    You’re wrong, you know: I don’t need your parties, your money, or even your smile—keep all that to yourself, and it makes no difference to me. I’ve never asked you to put on a show; if you’re unhappy, be unhappy and I’ll be right there with you, doing my best to change the situation. I lie for a living—I don’t need more lies cluttering up my leisure time. Even the gentle sort, offered with good intentions.
    Your insistence that I should stay away from Fall River “for my own good” is nonsense. I’d like to say we both know that, but perhaps it’s only me, after all. Perhaps you honestly feel you’re doing me some favor, by sending me away like a nervous child to a boarding school, for my own protection and well-being.
    Unfortunately for you (but of dear happiness to me!) I am
not
a child, and I cannot be dismissed so summarily. Therefore, let this letter serve as formal notice that I am coming to visit!
    Not in this next week or two, but surely by the end of April. You may expect that I’ll stay a few