notice you and Miss Giles seem to have had a falling out,” Ms. Dichter offered, probing gently around the emotional wound like an experienced surgeon. Flam wondered how on earth she could have known something had changed between Lucy and him, but then realized there would obviously have been signs that any astute observer could pick up on. “Have you two broken up?” she pursued further.
“No . . . I mean, we were never together, at least not like that.” It was an unexpected comfort to be able to talk to someone about the thing that had been weighing so heavily on him, practically tearing his tortured soul apart. Still somewhat embarrassed, but feeling relieved to have landed a friendly ear, he recounted the entire tragic tale.
Ms. Dichter listened attentively, saying nothing, her only visible reaction an occasional sucking of her upper lip. When he had finished, she sighed heavily.
“Flam . . . I don’t want to belittle in any way what you’re feeling because, Lord knows, I’ve had my heart broken enough times, and in my day, destroyed at least one life in the name of love, and I’ll carry that guilt to the grave. But I survived it, and you can too, you’re so young. You’ll get over it. How cliché is that? But trust me, it’s true.”
She studied him to see if her words were having any sort of impact before continuing. “You want another truism? Here’s a little poem you’ve probably heard: ‘If you want to be happy for the rest of your life, never make a pretty woman your wife.’ Believe me, wiser words were never spoken. I may be a traitor to my gender for saying this, but beware beautiful women. They are like great cats—powerful, striking, an exquisite joy to behold, be it stationary or in motion—but even the tame and well-trained variety can suddenly turn on a man and devour him whole. Unless you know what you’re doing, and are properly equipped, they are best appreciated from a distance.”
Flam sat motionless and crestfallen in his seat, a bent-over mirage of a man trying to digest Ms. Dichter’s meanderings. She seemed to realize she was being somewhat patronizing, or at least abstract, and smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry . . . I’m probably not being much help.” A long pause told her Flam was not going to join the conversation, so she leaned over and asked, “May I see it?”
Flam blinked once, twice, confused, until he realized she was asking to see the poem he had written for Lucy. He wondered why she believed he was still carrying a copy of it a week later. Why didn’t she think he’d followed through on the urge, which he had entertained every night, to rend the rhyme into pieces, as well as purge the stored bits from his computer, thereby removing forever from his tortured life all trace of his rhyming folly?
He knew he could simply tell Ms. Dichter he didn’t have a printout of the poem with him. He certainly hadn’t intended anyone other than Lucy to ever read it—except perhaps for their future children, to whom the poem would have become the mainstay of a family legend.
In fact, Flam had been carrying the poem with him ever since Black Monday. Suddenly, he very much wanted Ms. Dichter to read it, if only to reassure him that in writing it he had done nothing wrong. Or, he hardly wanted to admit to himself, perhaps to bestow on him some magical poetic incantation that might yet bewitch Lucy’s heart.
Flam unzipped his knapsack, fished through his notes, and handed Ms. Dichter the dog-eared copy of Lucy’s love poem. The teacher took the page and, deadpan, scanned through its contents. Then, Flam noted with interest, she read it again, this time mouthing the words and tapping a cadence on the floor with her penny loafer. It was as if, on some imaginary stage, she was reciting the poem out loud.
He waited, pale-faced, lips pressed together tighter than a miser’s fist, eyes afire within the sunken shadows of their sockets, acutely aware that a literature professor and respected poet was actually reading his painstakingly crafted words. Suddenly, he wanted desperately to know her honest, critical opinion, not as love’s labour lost, but as a piece of deliberately crafted art. He felt humbled, and a little bit scared, yet hopeful. More importantly, for the first time in days, he was motivated by an emotion other than self-pity.
Ms. Dichter looked up at him and smiled. “Oh, Flam, I’ve known a lot of girls who would have been putty in your hands if this were written for them. Mind you, it’s a little syrupy for my taste, and honestly, dear, no one writes in iambic pentameter anymore, but considering, from what you’ve told me, you’ve hardly put pen to paper at all, this is really quite a remarkable effort. Some of your symbolism is first rate, and you have an amazing gift for language.”
She shook her head sadly. “I can see you’re a real romantic of the old school, which is too bad, because I guess there’s no chance in convincing you to go out tonight and find another girl to wax poetic all over. Frankly, if I were forty years younger and hadn’t permanently locked my loins out of self-defense—not to mention it being frowned upon by the college—I’d drag you back to my place to get all Flamorous with you myself, just to get your chin off the floor and your head back into the game.”
Flam recoiled at the disturbing mental image of grappling in the throes of passion with a woman old enough to be his grandmother. He wanted to protest, but all he could manage was a weak “Lucy . . ..”
“I know, dear. Lucy’s special. It’s not like that with her. There’s no one but Lucy. She’s the real deal. Yada, yada, yada.” She stood up. “Flam, I don’t normally meddle in the personal affairs of my students, especially given the vast majority are a bunch of hormone-crazed, sex-obsessed ignorami. But in the ten years I’ve been teaching here in this vocational wasteland, I’ve never had a student with your breadth and depth of understanding for poetry, even as a critic, let alone—be still, my beating old heart—as a creator. You’re an absolute rarity and a very, very sensitive individual, Flam, although believe me, that’s more a curse than a blessing if you don’t have what it takes to deal with the fallout. I’m sorry love and life have dragged you down, but hang tough, dear.”
She returned the poem and got up to go, but then turned to face him again. “I’ve probably meddled quite enough for one day, but please do me a favour. I know a few words from a cynical, one-foot-in-the-grave lunatic like me won’t change the pain you’re experiencing, but go home and try to put down in words exactly what you’re feeling. Turn that concentration of emotion that’s eating you up inside into a poetic plus, instead of a melancholy minus that will destroy you if you let it.” She gave him one last encouraging smile, and left him to his thoughts.
Back in the solitary gloom of his apartment that night, and reasoning it was far better than lying around and waiting to be overtaken again by another bout of despair, which was already descending upon him like some mental storm front, Flam did indeed take Ms. Dichter’s advice. For the second weekend in a row, he wrote a poem dedicated to Lucy. This time, the words seemed to come much more easily, as if he were lancing an inner boil and letting the pus of emotion come spewing out onto the page. The real effort came afterwards, as he wrestled with the intricacies of wordsmithing, and struggled to lay a conscious stylistic framework and form over the substance of his thoughts.
The task had a therapeutic effect, as undoubtedly Ms. Dichter had foreseen. I guess poetry has the power to move the poet as well as the audience, Flam observed, and filed that knowledge away for future use. By Saturday afternoon, Flam had turned the page on his opus and started cleaning his apartment, tackling his homework backlog, and was contemplating sending something substantive down into his gurgling stomach. He fell asleep that evening in his armchair, fully clothed, with an unopened book on his stomach, and slept for fourteen hours straight, interrupted only by a change of venue to the bedroom, via the bathroom, circa 3 a.m.
On Sunday evening, as was his custom, Flam drove downtown to visit his mother and fulfill his weekly quota of filial obligation, having to wait first for Mary to deplete herself of the host of holy activities the day always bestowed upon her. On this occasion, he shook her somewhat, for instead of offering the monosyllabic reticence Mary normally encountered from her son’s side of the dinner table (forcing her therefore to hold up both ends of the conversation by recounting in excruciating detail every bit of church news and parish gossip), Flam was uncharacteristically vocal. He showed particular interest in the details of how she and his father had met and courted. It was Mary’s