Short Story: Professor Hargraves' Cupid

Short Story: Professor Hargraves' Cupid

The classroom at three o’clock p.m. was stuffy, despite the open windows. He looked up from grading the student essay’s on the many bards who wrote of love, including Burns and Shakespeare. He thought: Did my parents love each other? His mind went to their behavior which now, after this quarter spent examining, with his students, the real and varied treatises about love, was odd. His parents, he suddenly decided were just good friends, so how in the world had they conceived him? He was not naive, he new how it was done, but they’d had separate bedrooms with bath and were never seen in either room together, except in times of illness. . . always fully clothed, with never an indication of sexual attraction.

He and Addie had separate rooms too; they had not been caught up in lust — He shook his head and looked around the room. At the desks nearest the window his students gazed out at the lawn where sprinklers had suddenly popped up and were wetting even the side of the building. A mist wafted inside, and a ‘dude’ named Bob wiped his face using his shirt-tail. Janet Castillo gasped and moved across the aisle out of the moisture.

Professor Hargrave hurried to pull the casements closed as the force of the water hit the glass. Back to the twenty-first century, out of the depths of poets, playwrights, and love, he grinned at the class.

The spell was broken and the class laughed. "Way to go, Janet," Bob said. "Want my comb? No. Okay. Just offering, seeing your wet hair and all."

Blonde and angular with sharp facial features, Sam Hargrave, having returned to his desk, said, "That’s it for today, Ladies and Gentlemen. We’ve spent an entire semester studying the many writings on the subject of love, at your request. This essay is your final assignment, but before Summer Break, I want your short stories on my desk, ready to grade — and no plagiarizing from Shakespeare, or Burns, or the Browning’s or anyone. I want your own take on his ‘winged cupid painted blind’ — no later than Tuesday. You did well with Burns, all of you. So, I remind you —I will be leaving to lecture next year at the University in Buenos Aires. If you fail to meet these deadlines, you’ll have to work it on your own."

There was a groan; with the window closed, the air in College Literature 201 grew heavy with the scent of perfume, male sweat, and female Musk. He smiled, recognizing it because of an unusual female student (in her late thirties) who had sat in this classroom two years ago, wearing something called Musk. Having completed her studies that year, she had accepted his proposal and married him at the end of six months, wearing lighter scented perfume.

Sam felt the shock to his toes. Was he becoming romantic about his own wife, Addie? Ridiculous thought, he said under his breath. His gaze went up to the blackboard, to his quote written there for the assignment from Shakespeare: Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, and therefore is winged cupid painted blind . . . there was no reference to scent having attracted Demetrius to Hermia that he could recall. He and Addie had not really touched on the subject of love. Like his parents, they were the best of friends.

Addie had done well during the semester on Robert Burns, seemed to linger on A Red, Red Rose, but that was as far as she went. She calmly pursued the Browning’s, and Shakespeare then returned to Burns and managed to draw red hearts on her assignments that year.

Sam had been practical. His mind had been made up the first year that Addie had been in the class: he would be wise to marry her. He found her mind attractive, on a level with his own. She was a classic beauty, slender and graceful with beautiful hands that he had envisioned working over illustrations for her books. As well, she dressed conservatively and she wore no jewelry. He was pleased that she was shorter than he, it made him feel so protective. His mind had reasoned that she was his contemporary in age and education. So after graduation they had begun dating; they were both delighted at the many things they had in common, and had married as friends. Therefore Addie was now at home writing children’s books, having completed her MA.

He recalled how she had succumbed to his proposal: "We should marry, Addie, because we are interested in the same things and that is mostly Literature. It is a vast field; we should never run out of things to discuss." They would surely work out the sexual needs in time, he decided, failing completely to realize how pompous he seemed to her at times.

His confidence in the matter, he took from the life he had lived with his own parents. He would emulate them and have no problems to contend with, as he saw the situation.

"Having things in common is important," Addie had agreed. "You are generous, Sam and understanding. And should you desire children, we can adopt a child, if you wish." She was certain he had not gotten the drift. She was not young enough to have children.

"Not at present, Addie. We will do very well together. You see, we can travel to many places since my schedule will take me to many countries . . . but then, of course when you are busy writing and illustrating to meet publishing deadlines, we may have to spend some time apart. Will you mind that? I will not be settling in to writing books very soon."

She had pursed her lips, tucked a brown lock of hair behind her ear and shaken her head,

"Not in the least, Sam. I have spent many years on my own. It will be great to spend time together, but neither will I require you to give up your plans for mine." She had looked straight at him with dark brown eyes, honest, sincere, "However, I do intend to commit myself to our marriage and will ask only that you do the same. If you are a man who has affairs, best to end it before we begin. Disease, you know."

Sam had gazed back, "I will honor you with my fidelity, Addie. For all the years we will spend together. I promise that."

"Hey Prof!" someone yelled, and Sam looked up to see the students sitting in the hot room, waiting for dismissal.

"Yo!" he exclaimed, "begone. All of you. See you Monday."

As they filed out, Sam gathered up his papers, tapped them into place and put them in the briefcase. He was about to leave when The Dean stepped in saying breathlessly, "Sam, I’ll only hold you for a moment . . . What about Addie? Is she going with you? Or perhaps she’ll join you later? I can perhaps requisition some funds to cover her, too." Doctor Barton gave perhaps to everything.

"I – I don’t think so Del. She’s in the middle of a deadline and under pressure. I’ve not really had a chance to discuss it with her."

The Dean looked askance at Sam, "If I may say so, Sam, you have more of a friendship than a marriage. My wife would be packing the minute she found out I was going to travel to foreign places." He ran a hand over his thinning white hair, "From the beginning we have been blessed with the greatest love of one another. We enjoy the love poetry of the past. But, we don’t like being separated at all. I say, you and Addie seem to have a different interpretation of love."

"Doctor," Sam smiled, "I have just spent a semester teaching about what the different poets who wrote of love had to say on that subject, including Burns, the Browning’s, and Shakespeare to name a few . . ."

"Ah, Midsummer Night’s Dream," Del interrupted. "I seem to remember something about a blind cupid? Been awhile, but perhaps your cupid is blind, Sam. I know that one does not love with the mind or eyes. One follows the heart in matters of love, you know — the red rose poem of Burns?" He turned for the door, "So, let me know if you should perhaps need funds. Good evening, Sam."

"Good evening," murmured Sam to the departing figure of The Dean. He thought of Helena’s quote in the play, ‘love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind’ and agreed with her author explicitly. No hearts and arrows for him, or cupids.

Leaving for home, he took the usual Friday detour to the nursing home. Today, he was delighted to find his father awake and very much aware. They embraced.

"Dad. What a joy to see you up and feeling so well!"

"Had to get up, Sam. Something I need to tell you. Was wondering how to do it . . ."

"Something important you want done?" Sam interrupted.

"No, no, my boy." He looked deep into Sam’s eyes for a few seconds, "Don’t want to hurt you, but you have to know, now your mother and I will be gone – no, don’t interrupt again."

Sam sat back and crossed his arms. What on earth would he have to tell at this late date?

"I have to tell you, so here it is: "You are not my son, you are my nephew." He did not pause; he ignored Sam’s surprised grunt. "Your mother was very much in love with a young man in the service. She was pregnant when he left; they never saw or heard each other again. Alice and I decided to raise you as a family for her sake as well as yours. The stigma would have been bad for both of you, in those days. Sam, I am not sorry we did it. You are a fine man. You look like your father, your mother said. We were glad. If there is forgiveness in your heart soon, I will die loving you all the more for it."

Sam sat, trying to swallow what he had heard, questioning his father’s mentality. Sam recognized the depth of alertness as his father went on about the papers in the bank vault, the information he would need someday, maybe. His biological father was named on the birth certificate which Sam had never seen. That explains everything, Sam realized. And what tremendous sacrifice those two had made for him. "There’s nothing to forgive," Sam murmured, and saw his father – his uncle – relax as if he were staying alive only for those words. "It doesn’t change things."

Rising from the chair, Sam went to the window, but turned back and said, "I love you, Dad. That is who you have always been. It’s nice to know I have an uncle, too. How fortunate I have been in my family. I know now how much you love mom." He shook his head, "Your sister. Amazing. I really know what love is now, and here I have been teaching love for months, pulling it apart, looking at ages of writers who have expounded upon it at length."

"Did you have it mixed up with sex? Sam, lots of people do. And sex has its place in the scheme of love between two special people. I never loved but one woman, and she did not return my feelings. Never again did I look for that love, once I committed to you and Alice. I have been truly happy, and content. Alice loved deeply, once more, when you were small, but he was not the man for her; he believed we lived in incest, wouldn’t stand by for any proof we offered. I said good riddance. She never got involved again. Always said she was happy the way things were."

This is as tragic as the studies we have just finished, Sam thought. Nothing changes.

Suddenly Sam wanted to see Addie. He didn’t recognize his feelings; they were not familiar. He was forty years old now. He simply knew he had to go home to his wife.

"Dad, I have to go now. Got to get home to Addie. I’ll be back in to get you for the weekend if you are up to it and we will have a good chin-wag at home. Okay?"

"That’ll be fine, Sam. I’d like that. It’ll save her having to come here all the time. Tell her hello for me."

Sam frowned, "Addie has been coming to see you?"

"Every Wednesday. Didn’t she tell you? Stays for lunch with me, and a walk outside."

"I’m pleased with that, Dad. I’ll see you Saturday," Sam gripped his father’s shoulder and left him there, his weathered face now serene.

In a euphoric state Sam left by the shortest route, only to encounter a flower vendor on the street corner. The vendor was a frazzled looking woman of forty or so, plump, with chapped hands. She was selling bunches of violets, not roses, which she watched Sam examine —white, violet, pink and deep purple. Searching, Sam’s gaze went to the lower shelf of her cart. A clay pot held a massive violet of unusual color. It was such a deep purple as to be almost black. Without thinking he said, "I’ll have that one." Not roses for Addie, yet.

"It aint for sale." She grumbled. "I can cut it for you, though." She lifted it up to the top shelf and started to get her clippers out, but he stopped her with his hand.

"No. How much for the pot, too? It’s for my – for my wife. I want it to last" He felt a great joy suddenly, a longing to hold his wife and make love to her.

"Well, it’s gonna cost you. That’s my supply. Got to have enough to start another one. That’s a rare color."

"It must certainly be, since you don’ have any cut. How much?"

"Fifty dollars," she said emphatically. "Delivery to the lady will be extra."

"Sold!" Sam said, digging out his wallet, peeling out the money and placing it in her hands. "But I will deliver this to my darling, myself."

He laughed. He had never referred to anyone using that endearment in his life. Would it scare Addie away? He was almost sure she was going to like the gift very much. Somehow he knew that Addie was in love with him, Addie loved him. He had been so absorbed in the subject in class that he had failed to see until just a moment ago, that it was his heart that was involved. " I am in love with my wife!" he murmured reverently.

Twenty minutes later Sam left the car on the drive, raced into the house carrying the lovely plant and shouted, "Addie, where are you? Come here, I have something to tell you and something to give you. Hurry! I just came from Dad. . ."

To his astonishment, Sam heard, "Sam! Darling! I’m coming." Then silence. He waited, holding his breath.

Abbie came hesitantly down the stairs from her studio, in her paint-spattered smock, her hair tucked behind her ear. She looked expectant, had he caught the slip-up?

Spying the plant, she quickly said, "Oh, what a beautiful color. Why did you— ?"

Sam said, "What did you call me?" He said on an expelled breath..

"Oh. Oh," she stammered, and shrugged, " It was just, it was just — I don’t know. Anyway, what did you want to tell me? You said —"

"First," said Sam, " my darling, we are going to spend the next year in Buenos Aires, together. Second, I have brought violets to you — because I love you. Can you handle that? A red, red rose will come next, if you feel the same about me. "

"Oh, yes, Sam, I do. I can handle all that. Perhaps we could make it our honeymoon? Do honeymoons last a year? Ours could . . . Could we go to Burns country?"

Sam gathered her into his arms and silenced her with a kiss. And another, and another.

Unseen, Cupid sat on the stairs observing with a smile and a twinkle in its eyes, definitely not blind.