A Page Too Late

A Page Too Late

by Spartacus Lawrence

“Oh, I can’t believe how poor the writing of college students is,” I say to myself, as I sit to review essays from the English Lit 201 seminar. Sophomore students should be able to accurately navigate the workings of the English language by this point in their lives. Aside from spelling and grammar errors, the logic behind the arguments is nonsensical. “I pity them when they enter the real world.”

“Forgive my dilly-dallying — I should introduce myself,” I say. “You see, my name is Hugh Collingsworth, III. I am, by no means, important. I am destined to remain in this small cozy office for the remainder of my career. My responsibilities, you see, lie in assisting Carlton Wainwright, the renowned Carlton Wainwright, Pulitzer Prize winner. I am his assistant.”

“In my many tasks, I grade papers for Professor Wainwright. I run student study sessions and take on one-on-one tutorship. I simply exist to make life better, dare I say easier, for the professor. He’s the one with clout, the notoriety, the infamy. Not I. I simply exist behind the scenes. You will not see my face in framed photographs, or newspaper clippings. No, no. That’s reserved for him.” I smile as I speak, knowing his fame is built on my contributions.

A slight rasp, gentle against the door, grabs my attention. “Yes,” I say. “Who is it?”

The door opens only a crack, a woman’s voice comes through, meandering into the small opening. “The dean wants to know if Professor Wainwright will be joining him tonight at the founder’s dinner.”

“Oh, my,” I say. “I’d need to check the professor’s appointment calendar. May I call you back in an hour with an answer?”

“Yes, that would be delightful,” she says and quietly eases the door shut.

Before I return to my essays, I ring the professor to ask him about the dinner myself. It rings, and rings, and no one answers. Unusual — he ignores people, never his telephone. I set it down. Perhaps I ought to walk over.

Only then do I notice that the daylight has turned into dusk, the evening hour approaches, and the professor will soon be leaving for home. I take in a breath, holding it, then sigh. I pull myself up into a standing position, straightening my sweater, and smoothing my slacks. I push my glasses back into place. I grab my notebook, and forge towards the professor’s sanctum, noting his office is much grander than mine. I’d surmise the cost of his desk to be equal to my annual stipend from the university.

I make my way down the cobblestone walkway. Pedestrians amble by in private discussion; a gaslight burns dimly above. Tonight the wind is restless, the tree limbs astir, and the nip in the air sends a shiver through me.

I reach the door to the great hall of literature, where the lectures are held — where the learned dispense their wisdom to the young. The handle is simple in design, but heavy with expectation. I take it, pull it open, and march down the corridor, passing the open doors of professors at various stages of preparing for their lectures. I offer a nod to those who notice as I pass.

I stop as I near his office. The door is open. This, I note, is highly uncharacteristic of the professor — his character is not known for openness. It stirs an unease within my innards, and I slow my step.

I stand before the door. Light seeps gently through it into the corridor. I am stalled — I grab the door frame to steady myself. An eerie sight appears. For, you see, he is slumped, his head upon his desk, his arms splayed across it. Dare I step closer? I do not — not yet.

My hesitation shames me. What I see cannot be undone. I shakily confirm my surroundings: no one is near, no sound echoes in these halls. Adjusting my posture, with as much confidence as I can muster under such circumstances, I enter and close the door softly behind me, letting as little sound escape as possible. I step to the side, removing my shadow from the window, and pull the curtains shut, the night resting on the other side of the glass.

Dinner tonight with the dean? I shall reply with a “No,” and explain that he regrettably has another engagement — for he is in no condition to attend so formal an occasion. I am careful as I move about the confines of this office. His office. I walk around his slumped frame until I can see his face. His eyes are open, the blue of his irises deeper than I had ever before noticed. I hold my hand before his nose and mouth; no breath warms my fingers. With the other I feel for a pulse — not knowing whether I am doing it correctly, I press my fingers where I believe the spot to be. No pulse, I conclude.

My conviction tells me he is gone. I continue my examination of the desk. An open pill bottle, its contents spilled across the surface. Small white tablets scattered at random. I know this prescription. You see, I am the one tasked with collecting it from the pharmacy. I know not what to do. I collect the bottle and gather the tablets back into it, checking twice to ensure none has fallen to the floor. I fasten the cap and slip the bottle into my trouser pocket. We would not want this discovered during any investigation.

A tumbler with melting cubes of ice and a faint smell of scotch sits just out of reach of his left hand. A decanter stands on a nearby shelf, its stopper off. I am careful not to touch it bare-handed.

From the scene, I deduce that his passing was recent. I am no expert, but the ice is a sign I can rely on. Its presence, you see, creates an urgency that I do not intend to act upon. Is there a possibility he might yet be alive? I assure you, the answer is a resounding No. That just cannot be, and I will not accept it as so.

I stand before the desk and look down upon his slumped body. I stand from habit, from experience, from prior instruction. The professor felt that sitting in his presence was unacceptable, a sign of disrespect. Today, I obey those instincts still, even in his demise.

At this point, I should tell you — no, I must warn you — that Professor Carlton Wainwright was not a pleasant man. Indeed, he was not. What has befallen him today, however accidental it may appear, was a long time coming. His pleasantness ended the moment he entered a room, or the moment his voice spoke from the other end of a call.

Oh yes, you could say that women loved him. He oft took a lover for his own convenience. Discarded, then shamed. That was his approach. If a colleague got unruly, he had best brace for Wainwright’s wrath — and guard his own wife, for to the professor she was fair game. His dalliances were fodder for gossip. And what gossip it was — I’d hear it from all over campus: snickering behind his back, a joke among friends. But never, I mean never, would anyone dare utter a foul word to the professor’s face.

I step forward, only a single step. I frown. You see, one of my many tasks for the professor is to help with his literary endeavors. He’s known for his lavish, award-worthy novels. As I mentioned, he has a Pulitzer, and its certificate hangs on the wall in an ornate frame. Of course, the professor would want every guest to see it — and to lament their own inadequacies. The professor was many things, but modesty was not among them.

I return my gaze to the body before me. His right arm is curled carefully over a folder — its contents I know well. It’s the folder I sent the professor only yesterday. His editor, on a deadline, has requested that the current manuscript be tightened and ready in short order. That task, and the original text itself, lie in my hands — mine to write, mine to edit. That Pulitzer Prize — he did not write the book that won it. I did. Without the credit, without the accolades.

Oh, dear professor — I feel no grief at this. My aim in this moment — this exact instant — is one that some might think selfish of me. Had I known of your predicament before I left my desk, I would have taken deliberate care to build my brief with evidence. What evidence, you ask? Oh yes — the evidence that the work is mine, and mine alone. The editor would never believe that I, a mere assistant, was capable of such a grand achievement. That I had written these works of my own accord.

Proof, you see, is what would make this all easy. Dare I leave, to retrieve my records? The risk is too great. So great that I cannot chance the consequences — the kind that would not end in my favor. The room has grown warm. Perspiration forms at my temples. The walls feel closer. The room smaller. I must think. What shall I do?

Ah. A thought appears before me. It’s so brilliant I wish I had thought of it sooner. My notes, the handwritten ones. I included them in the supporting documents. And a letter, one I drafted to lay out the ideas — my thoughts, my creativity, set down in detail. The letter is a summation of the work — the one born of my fingers, my pen, my paper.

All I need to do is see what lies inside the folder — the one tucked beneath his bent arm. I must say, this task at hand is far too vexing. I have no wish to disturb the professor in his eternal slumber. Oh dear. I step aside, then around to the professor’s right. I lean forward and observe, taking in every detail. I know that if I move anything, I must reclaim the space on its return.

My hands are unsteady, shaky even. I know I must do this. I regain my composure, counting my breaths — one, two, three. I do this again and again, until my steadiness returns. My hands no longer shake. The smell of the unfinished scotch lifts from the tumbler, the ice fully gone now.

I take one final breath and lean forward. Gripping the cuff of his sleeve — I will not touch the body itself — I lift the arm, only slightly, just enough to slide the folder free. The one from yesterday. The one I hope has not been altered. The one that says, yes, I am the author.

The folder is firm in my grip; my other hand still holds the cloth of his sleeve. I am careful to return the arm exactly as it was. I let out a breath of relief. I step away from the body slumped at the desk.

I cross to the far side of the room, where no chairs stand for guests and there is space enough to review the folder and its contents. I pull the folder to my chest. I allow myself to envision moments of pomp and circumstance in my honor. But perhaps this is premature. You see, I have yet to confirm the contents within the folder. Yes, it looks to be the same as the one I delivered only yesterday. But without opening it, I cannot be certain. And in that uncertainty, the brief glimpse of success quickly fades.

Before I can act, there is a tap at the door. A woman’s voice comes through: “Professor Wainwright, it’s Lois.”

Startled and uncertain, I freeze. The door I came in through remains unlocked. I cannot allow another guest into these quarters, not at this time. I simply cannot.

I cross quickly to the door. I take a final breath — the folder still at my chest — and open it only a crack.

“Yes,” I say. “How may I help you?”

I let only my face appear in the crack. I see Lois, and her eagerness.

“Oh, yes,” she says. “I’m checking whether the professor will be staying late.”

“That is most certainly a yes,” I say. “He’s working on revisions for his editor — the deadline approaches. At this moment, he’s stepped away.”

“Well, in that case, would you please ask the professor to lock up before he leaves tonight?”

“Why yes, I will convey your message and its urgency to him. Have a good evening.”

Once Lois steps away, I open the door again and lean my head into the hallway, looking both ways to be sure it is empty.

I ease the door shut and turn the lock I had ignored on my way in. I check it twice. The folder still against my chest. I step back from the door and return to where I stood before.

“Relief,” I whisper. “Relief.”

My eyes slide down to the folder gripped against my chest. Slowly, I relax and allow myself to proceed. I unclench my arms, my fingers no longer dimpling the folder, and I pause. I pause because I am hopeful that the contents within are enough to confirm my claim — that I am proven, without a doubt, to be the creator, the author, and that the rewards will fall to my name, not to our dear departed professor’s.

With a confident finger, I trace the outline of the folder to its corner. Slowly, effortlessly, I slide the cover open. The contents lie between my open palms.

I fix my glasses, then I look down, and for a moment my stomach drops. The professor’s notes are here, blue ink crowding the margins — but my own pages, my draft, my letter, are not where I left them. Has he pulled them? Burned them? Erased every trace of my hand? I turn through the sheets too quickly, fingers clumsy — and there they are. My draft, in my own writing. The letter, folded as I left it. Only shuffled beneath his notes. Nothing taken, nothing altered. The breath I did not know I held leaves me.

And the notes themselves are not the notes of a man who wrote this. Fix the ending. More tension here — I don’t care how. Handle it, you know what I mean. The demands of a master to his hand. No author scrawls handle it across his own pages. My winning grin grows.

I steady myself and go through each page, one at a time, the dread lightening with every turn — no claim upon his name, only mine beneath. A sound, then — a breath, perhaps, or the old building settling. I do not turn to look. I have made my conclusion, and I would prefer not to unmake it. Page after page, the same curt blue demands, the same quiet proof of whose hand did the work. My smile grows wider; a soft laugh even escapes my lips.

“Yes,” I almost shout. “Yes,” I say, softer.

I close the folder and hold it close. I look up; the professor’s frame is still slumped over the desktop. The smile remains.

I straighten my sweater and smooth my slacks. This time I take notice of what is in my pocket — the pill bottle from earlier. It must be discarded, but not in this room. You see, I procured these pills for the professor, on the pharmacy trip I mentioned. But the pills inside are not the ones the pharmacist provided. I changed them — as I have for many months — to ensure that a situation such as today’s would present itself and open an avenue for my own progress.

I walk over to the professor, lean toward his ear, and whisper, “Lois says to lock up before you leave.”

I step away a final time, grabbing my notebook from the desktop corner, and survey the room. I cross to the door, unlock it, and put my head out to be sure the hallway is empty — and empty it is. I step into the hallway and close the door quietly. A soft click confirms it’s fully shut.

As I leave the building, I notice a waste bin. That is where the pill bottle will go.

There is still the founder’s dinner to decline. The professor sends his regrets — I shall convey them to the dean’s assistant, as I see to everything. Then back to my desk, where the essays wait. The writing, I expect, will be no better than when I left it.