Scudding

By Leonard Gray

Grant Sheffield gets into the adult world with a series of screw-ups and narrow escapes. He graduates from college (barely). He drives through the West in a second-hand VW camper with two girls he meets while getting his car fixed. He drops them off and gives a ride to two other girls, and finally finds the one he really wants, in California.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Leonard Gray
• Release date: Jun 13, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301869077

Leonard Gray

Leonard Gray was born in Cincinnati, Ohio, graduated from Miami University, and lives outside Manassas, Virgiinia. The author of three non-fiction books on navigation and a number of magazine articles, he now writes fiction. This is his first published novel.

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Scudding

Leonard Gray

Copyright 2013 Leonard Gray

Smashwords Edition

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Chapter 1

Grant went to the small office at the end of the hall on the ground floor. The professor leaned back to look out, making her chair squeak.

Hello, Professor Helmer. I’m Grant Sheffield.

Yes—I recognized you. Come in.

The visitor’s chair was heavy oak, possibly a relic from a nineteenth-century bank, but hers was a secretary’s chair, on wheels, with the edge of its foam pad showing through an open seam. Her nameplate had been pushed cock-eyed by a stack of file folders and paperback books, and Grant straightened it. Maybe he shouldn’t have done that, but it was almost falling off the desk.

Professor Helmer swiveled to reach a pot on the hot plate behind her. Grant registered her age as forty, or—to make it exactly twice his—forty-two. She was a good performer in overcrowded classes in a lecture hall, and here she seemed informal and friendly, from the way she smiled and gestured for him to take a seat.

I don’t have coffee. How about Red Zinger?

Yes—thanks.

She got two cups from a stack on the window sill. She was slender, in a knit shirt, and her moderate-sized breasts looked nicely shaped and non-aggressive.

What sort of advice are you looking for?

I’m close to flunking a course, and I need it to graduate.

But not mine, fortunately.

No. I like your class.

And you’re getting a B.

I know you’re not a guidance counselor, but I was hoping you could . . .

That’s all right. I’ll be glad to help if I can. He squeezed the juice out of his tea bag and stood up to throw it into her already loaded wastebasket. It hit a wad of paper and bounced out, and she rolled her chair back and tossed it in for him.

The problem is Industrial Management. It’s a really dull course, and I’ve never done much studying for it.

You’re a business major?

That may have been a mistake. Now I can’t imagine anything I’d want to do in business.

"So you have two problems. Well, of course there are all kinds of business jobs—some boring, others fairly interesting. Let’s see . . . give me an idea. Suppose you could do anything you wanted. Never mind whether you could get such a job, or what it might pay. What would it be?"

Grant leaned back and crossed his legs. Professor Helmer pushed aside some papers so he could set his cup on her desk. He thought of soaring in a glider (which he’d always wanted to try), sailing, and skiing—and when he tried to think of the most pleasant occupation imaginable, what came to his mind was the ridiculous notion of being a paid lover to an attractive older woman like Gertrude Helmer. He managed to avoid a silly smile.

All I can think of is something like sailing, but I know that’s not practical.

"Right—but let’s talk about that. If there aren’t any good jobs in sailing, there might be something related, in manufacturing or merchandising. You can play this game by yourself. Think of other things you like, and move on from that to what’s available in the real world. Then write imaginative letters to managers telling them what you can do for them—don’t tell them what you want until later—and try to get in to see people. But I guess you’ve heard this before."

No—but it makes sense.

On the other problem: how are your grades in general?

Mostly A’s and B’s, except for Industrial Management.

"Too bad you didn’t ask me about that IM course before you registered. I know I couldn’t sit through it." She pulled the cord on the venetian blind, and they both glanced out when they heard a shout outside. Some students were chasing around on the lawn, throwing a stick to a dog, and she and Grant watched them absent-mindedly for a few seconds. Every spring, it was a campus ritual for gangs of male dogs to chase bitches in heat and for students to cheer them on. Sometimes snapshots of mating dogs appeared briefly on bulletin boards, captioned with faculty names.

The professor turned to him. Should I assume you have a girl friend? Grant nodded. She’s graduating, too?

From Mount Holyoke.

And your families are affluent enough, but not super-rich? He nodded again. And what does your father do?

Electronics engineer. My mother doesn’t have a paid job.

So maybe you’re under some subtle pressure—from your girl friend, your parents, and society to choose a career and start producing. There’s more coercion here than people admit. And the worst thing is that there’s very little for you to base a decision on. That’s why students make bad career choices.

I think they’ve all decided, except me.

"The ones who are eager to get rich know what they want—they just need to find out where it is. You’re in the minority."

No ambition. He was pleased that she recognized this as a joke.

I’d advise you to try out some jobs, maybe in different parts of the country, before you pick a career. This is a serious matter—what you decide now can affect your whole life—so don’t rush the choice. While you’re getting your head together, be looking and thinking. She turned toward him.

I should have thought of that myself. Actually, I did, sort-of.

She smiled and leaned back, making her chair creak again. Now, about the immediate matter. Who do you have for Industrial Management?

Professor Farella.

Farella . . . hmmm. I have a suggestion. Have you thought what you might do about the flunking problem?

I could drop the course and plan to go another semester to get enough credits.

That’s a little drastic. Here’s another idea. Farella’s new, eager to get tenure, and he’s leery of having a lot of his students fail. Go see him. Tell him you’re concerned about your grade in IM, and ask him what parts of his course he considers the most important. I’m guessing that he’ll half-subconsciously reveal what he’s including on the final. Take a lot of notes while you’re talking to him. Then cram, do a lot of memorizing, and aim for an A on the exam and a C for the course.

That sounds good—if I can do it.

If it works, you’ll have your degree while you’re considering what you’d like to do. She played with a pencil, idly poking a hole in her empty cup, and Grant told himself there was probably nothing Freudian about that. Then, if you find you need more in certain subjects to get the job you want, you can take a few evening courses while you’re making some money. She reached back, stretching her knit shirt, and dropped the cup into the wastebasket. And there’s no law against having fun while you’re working things out. Get some low-level jobs for a month or so each, to see what different occupations are like. When you find out, quit and move on to another one. What if it takes a year? It’ll be time well invested. Grant shifted in his chair, preliminary to standing up. While you’re at it, you can think about where you want to live. It’s a big country.

I really appreciate your help, Professor Helmer. She stood and shook his hand. Maybe I should get your advice about my girlfriend, too.

She uttered a ladylike snort, and put her hand lightly on his shoulder. Good luck—academically and otherwise.

Thanks.

Grant felt energized and in better control of his life when he walked out of her office. He hadn’t realized what a burden the worry had been—the drifting, seeing himself failing.

Back in his dorm, he paused to listen outside a doorway where someone had a news broadcast on—something about Gorbachev—but then he turned around and went to the pay phone in the hall and dialed Diana’s number. He was relieved that she didn’t answer. Now he could say he’d tried to call her.

# # #

When Diana called him the next evening, he told her about how he intended to cram for the IM exam and get an A. He’d seen his instructor, Farella, and gotten the hints he needed, as Professor Helmer had predicted. He was eagerly studying, using memory tricks he’d developed in high school.

You know that doesn’t work, Diana said. "You won’t retain any of that."

I don’t give a shit if I forget it in a week. I just want to graduate.

"At least get busy and study now, so you can spend some time with me on the week end."

I think we’d better hold off on that.

Don’t do this to me! I’ve already arranged to use Mother’s car.

I have to study from now until the exam, on Thursday. That’s the whole point. She gave him an exasperated sigh.

# # #

Two days later, Grant pushed away from his desk and threw down his pencil. He stared out the window for a minute, then walked outside. He was nowhere near finished cramming, but he was overdosed on line v. staff v. cluster organizations and the advantages and disadvantages of each. Without thinking, he’d brought with him the Spiral notebook he was making notes in. He had an urge to toss it into a garbage can.

He took a path across the campus, feeling temporarily free, breathing new spring air, and headed for Jake’s Place. He got a Coke from the counter and went to the back room, where the plywood booths and the dim lights were.

Grant!

Hi, Amy. She was jammed into a booth with five other people, who were drinking beer and carrying on several loud conversations.

Where’re you sitting? She craned her neck to see if someone was with him. See you later, she said to the group. She drained her glass and followed him to an empty booth.

I’m taking a break to avoid mental nausea—then back to my disgusting books. Or I could say to hell with it, and flunk my IM course and not graduate.

Marvelous idea. . . . Oh, don’t worry. I’ll let you go in a minute. I’ll even insist on it. She opened his notebook, read for a few seconds, and pushed it away.

"You don’t seem to be worried about exams," he said.

Because I’m such a brain—but you already knew that.

"I don’t even know what I want to do if I do graduate—what kind of job."

Isn’t this weird? Here you are, a decisive, mature male, unable to make up your mind, and I’m just a freshman and a girl, and I know exactly what I want to do.

What—something in biology?

Go to med school, practice awhile, then get into cancer research. I may have to go to a school offshore, or work a few years first and save some money.

"I don’t even have one career planned, and you’ve got two."

Grant stood up, and they went outside. Amy didn’t make a move to leave him, and they walked slowly across the campus.

How many times will I see you again? she said. Once or twice, by accident—then good bye forever. She picked a spot and sat on the grass. She played with a twig for a few seconds, and looked up at him.

He sat next to her. Five more minutes, then back to the treadmill.

She turned to him and moved closer. The subtle flavor of beer on her breath made him rue his need to study. This is my good bye. She moved her lips to his, then slowly away. My lost friend. Good bye, good bye.

He knew she was sober, and her lack of inhibitions surprised him. He put his arms around her and gave her a long, tender kiss. Good bye, he said, and leaned back with his arms behind his head.

In a couple of weeks you’ll go home to the Goddess of the Chase. She lay next to him and looked up. One vapor trail was curving into another, produced by two barely visible specks in the sky. All I’ve got is brains and looks and charm and a sexy body. What’s Diana like, aside from being rich?

Virginal . . . no sense of humor . . . bitchy, sometimes. Smokes a pack a day. He turned to watch her smile. "And what are you like . . . really?"

"How much do you care? Do you care? She looked at him. Don’t answer."

At least I never led you on, he said.

"Never, no matter how much I wanted you to. Is this a stupid thing to do, telling you the truth? I might as well, since I’ll never see you again."

He raised up on his elbow and kissed her. She helped him roll around so more of him was on her, and his free hand landed on her breast, outside her blouse. Then some people walked past on the path, and they slowly separated. He sat up and held her hand, lightly, while she lay with her head in his lap. They’d never done these things before.

You could have had everything, she said. He looked down at her. I don’t mean just casual screwing in the dorm or in a car. We could have been close. We might have fallen in love.

Now it’s too late, he said. It was exciting to be saying these things—more so (oddly) because nothing was likely to come of it.

"Are you asking me or telling me? I guess it is too late." Her eyes filled with tears, and he took out his handkerchief and gently blotted them.

You’ll be here next year, won’t you? he asked.

"I will, but you won’t."

I might take some graduate courses. And Springfield’s only a hundred miles away. There’s nothing to stop me from coming here now and then.

Nothing but Diana. . . . and by then I’ll be with somebody, don’t you suppose? She stood up, and so did Grant.

At least give me your home address and phone number, so I can keep in touch, he said. He handed her his ball-point pen, and she wrote the information on the last page of his notebook. She stared at it, then scribbled over it what she’d written (but leaving it readable). He took her hand, and they walked to her dorm, talking about nothing important—just campus sports and studying for exams.

She kissed him quickly, said good bye, and left him on the sidewalk, staring after her.

Chapter 2

Claire? This is Annette. Are you busy?

Oh, hi. I’ve been doing last-minute things for the garden party, but I needed a break. She did a couple of knee bends, hanging onto the kitchen counter.

Thanks for the invitation. We’re looking forward to it.

I’ve been on the phone all morning. This is how I relax—with another phone call. Grant said he’d help when he gets here, but there are some things you just can’t delegate . . . like arranging for musicians.

That’ll be pleasant. What a nice idea.

Maybe, Claire said. Do you know Monica Brody?

Mary and Elmer’s daughter . . . that tall, gawky kid. Diana knows her.

She’s grown up now. She’s playing her cello. It was supposed to be a string trio, but she might have to be a soloist. The other two both canceled, and I’m looking for replacements.

How do you find them?

I’m calling people her teacher recommended. No luck yet, except two possibles. It’s ridiculous, trying to do this. How do I know whether the guitar is compatible with the cello and the viola? Musically, I mean; never mind personally.

If you find good ones, we could use them for an engagement party—if we’re ever going to have one. I can’t get a word out of Diana.

Grant hasn’t said anything . . .

We shouldn’t rush them. I guess he’s in the clouds over graduating.

"More likely in shock. He thought he was failing a course, but he worked hard and passed the exam and graduated. Now he has a real problem—making a decision about a job."

Edmund might be able to help—unless Grant wants to take a vacation first.

Has Diana found something?

I meant to tell you—she’s starting at the art museum a week from Monday, as a curator’s assistant.

That’s nice, that she found a job in her field.

Oh—I just thought of something. She has a friend who plays the violin. I’ll get her to look up the number. Well, listen, don’t let me keep you. I know you have a lot to do. We’ll see you Saturday.

We can talk then. Bye.

When Grant pulled in with his things in the station wagon, Lowell made water arcs in the air, as a greeting. He shut off the hose and came over. "You did it."

Hi, Dad.

We knew you’d make it. He slapped Grant on the back.

"You did? What gave you that