Becca's Book



  Becca’s Book

  A Fictional Memoir

  by

  Jeffrey Anderson

  Copyright 2013 by Jeffrey Anderson

  This story is a work of fiction.

  Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Preface

  Zach Sandstrom handwrote the following on a clean sheet of 8½ x 11 paper:

  26 February 2012

  Dear Becca,

  I started writing these scenes after more than three decades not really knowing why I wrote—maybe to try to make sense of it all, maybe to try to unburden my heart, maybe to try to honor what we were granted so long ago. I didn’t know why; I still don’t.

  What I do know is that the scenes flowed forth easily and naturally, as if from some pure spring buried deep and balked but freed now with a spade-full of dirt tossed to one side, the right rock loosed and rolled away.

  Nor do I know why I’m sending them to you. Maybe they’re meant as gift, some chance at a smile or the warm glow of recollection. Or maybe I’m asking you to share part of the weight I’ve borne these thirty years, not that I doubt you’ve carried your own version of that weight, but maybe now I’m asking you to help carry mine.

  Or maybe I just desire renewed witness, from one not independent but not attached, to the extremes of light and darkness (mostly light) bestowed as both blessing and curse on an unwitting pair in the prime of God’s joy.

  Whatever their purpose, whatever their effect, I hope they find you healthy and happy. You deserve those rewards more than anyone I’ve ever known.

  Your friend from long ago—

  Zach

  He clipped the note to a neatly typed, crisply arranged sheaf of printed pages, slid the packet into a brown mailer, and addressed it to Rebecca Coles Newman in Greenville, South Carolina. Then he took the envelope to the post office and released it to the world, or at least to one precious part of it.

  Part I

  Sea Change

  Zach spotted her amidst the crowd soon as he rounded the corner to the quad where they were holding the Humanities Welcome. There were maybe thirty students and a handful of faculty advisors gathered under an open-sided tent trying unsuccessfully to escape the pounding sun and the oppressive humidity of the late-August late afternoon. The minute he saw her he realized that his rush home from a sweaty and exhausting day working in Barton’s yard, his quick shower, his sweaty drive up here in his truck with no air-conditioning (why’d he bother to shower, anyway? why’d anybody bother to shower in this heat and humidity?), and his half-jog across campus were worth the effort. Few things could’ve made it worthwhile, but she was one of those few.

  As he approached the tent a tall, athletic middle-aged man with curly blond hair and a dark tan that made him look younger than he was greeted him and shook his hand. The man identified himself as Morris Houston, Professor of Sociology, and Humanities Dean. He welcomed Zach to their gathering and to Avery University then advised him that this period of refreshments and socializing would be followed by a brief orientation session. He handed him a packet that included the names of all the humanities transfers and the college they were transferring from, invited him to pick-up his nametag from the table (it was the last one), and suggested he get himself something to drink. Zach thanked him for his hospitality and welcome. He walked to the table and picked up the nametag, peeled off the backing to expose the adhesive, then decided not to put the tag on for fear it wouldn’t stick to his damp shirt. He crumpled it and stuck it in the pocket of his tan pants.

  Then, with some considerable trepidation and reluctance, he tucked his chin and strode into the crowd of intimidating strangers (for Zach, all strangers were intimidating).

  At the bowl of lemonade, a short, dark-haired boy with a pale face and black rimmed glasses said to him without looking up, “Wonder which one’s the guy from Yale?”

  Zach donned an expression of curiosity. “Which one do you think?”

  “Well, it could be him.” He gestured toward a good-looking preppy guy dressed in top-sider shoes with no socks, khaki shorts, and a madras-cloth shirt.

  Zach had to admit that the guy looked like he was born cool. “Could be him,” Zach agreed. “But if so, it looks like he wished he’d stayed at Yale.”

  “Yeah. Who’d be crazy enough to leave there to come here?”

  “Good question,” Zach said.

  A few strides farther down the table, Zach ran into an attractive dark-haired girl named Lynn who was helping herself to some of the cheese that was melting on top of soggy crackers. She also was curious about the classmate from Yale. “I’m from Connecticut,” she said, “but Yale was never on my radar screen.”

  “Where’d you transfer from?”

  “Conn College.”

  “That’s a good school.”

  “I guess, but no Yale.”

  “Yale’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”

  “You know?”

  “Yes. I went there for two years.”

  Lynn looked at him in surprise.

  “Don’t look like the Yale type?” Zach asked.

  “Don’t act like the Yale type. And in my book, that’s a good thing.”

  “I’ll take it as a compliment, then,” Zach said. “And I couldn’t agree with you more. I wasn’t the Yale type. That probably had something to do with my unhappiness there.”

  “So why here?”

  Zach sighed. “That’s a long story,” he said. The story included withdrawing from Yale, marrying his high-school girlfriend, living two tumultuous years in Boston, separating from his wife, finding writing as an outlet to his pain and confusion, discovering Barton Cosgrove’s fiction, learning that Barton Cosgrove taught at Avery University, applying to transfer to Avery, being accepted as a transfer student to Avery, and moving to Shefford earlier that summer. It was a story that didn’t lend itself to discussion over melting cheese on soggy crackers. It was a story that maybe didn’t lend itself to discussion with anyone anywhere.

  “Maybe you could tell it to me one day,” Lynn said.

  He nodded. “I’d like that.”

  Zach moved a little further along the table to where he found a bowl of chips that wasn’t yet stale. He nibbled on a handful and sipped his lemonade.

  “Zachary Sandstrom.”

  He turned. There stood the girl he’d spotted from far off. She was even more lovely up close than from a distance—her blond hair radiant, her dark eyes gentle but captivating. She possessed a calm presence that stunned him, and her welcoming smile totally disarmed him. He’d never experienced such a combination of beauty and physical charm. He couldn’t speak and barely managed to extend his hand.

  She took that hand and shook it firmly. “Rebecca Coles, but everyone calls me Becca. I’m your guide.” She laughed. “But don’t ask me for much guidance. I’ve only been here a semester myself—still learning my way around.”

  Zach finally found his voice. “But willing to help us poor lost newbies?”

  “Or get lost along with you.”

  “Better than nothing.”

  “So why’d you come south, Zachary?”

  “Zach works best,” he said. “And I came south for this lovely weather.”

  Becca released again that marvelous smile. “Isn’t it great? I live for the summertime.”

  “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “You’re not?”

  Zach laughed and shook his head. “I’m dying in this heat—never been so uncomfortable in all my life.”

  “Well, you’ll like the winters. All my friends from the North say the mild winters are the best part of living here.”

  “I’ll look forward
to that, and try to learn your love of this heat.”

  “Might need to be born here.”

  “You were?”

  “Fifty miles west—in Greensboro.”

  “And transferred from?”

  “UNC-Greensboro.”

  “So you’ve spent your whole life in North Carolina?”

  “So far—daughter of the South.”

  “Good place to be.”

  “Except for the heat,” she said with a grin.

  “Except for the heat.”

  Just then Professor Houston walked by and asked Becca to join him and the other student and faculty advisors for the orientation program. Becca lagged just a second as the others moved to the head of the table. She touched Zach’s shoulder and said, “Duty calls. Nice to meet you, Zach. Welcome to the South.”

  All he could say was, “Thank you. It’s good to be here.” Only after she’d joined the others to stand dutifully nearby as Professor Houston explained the structure of the Humanities Division and listed the majors and their departmental chairs did Zach realize how relaxed and comfortable she’d made him feel.

  By the time Professor Houston had finished his monologue and the group had fielded a handful of inane questions from several anxious newcomers, the sun had set and the quad was immersed in a still hot but not stifling pink twilight. The thirty new humanities candidates were then divided among the three student advisors and invited to address particular concerns to those guides. Zach joined the other nine students gathered around Becca. She gave everyone her address and her phone number then patiently fielded each question or comment as if it were the most important question or most interesting comment she’d heard that day or maybe ever. Zach stood back and watched. He could see that everyone loved her, even if his northern compatriots didn’t always understand her accent or believe her genuine attention. The North had never produced this combination of grace and charm.

  Becca turned to Zach in the growing dusk after wishing the last of her charges good luck and telling her to keep in touch. “So how’d I do, Mr. Sandstrom?”

  “Best Humanities Guide the South has ever produced.”

  “You really think so?”

  He could tell her question was sincere. “Yes. You made everyone feel welcomed and cared about. That’s not easy to do.”

  “Thank you. How’d you learn to be so watchful?”

  Zach thought—Depends on whom I’m watching. But he said, “I hope to write fiction. Watchfulness is an important skill in that trade.”

  “A writer—I don’t guess I’ve ever known anyone who wrote fiction. Maybe you’ll let me read some of your writing one day.”

  “I will.”

  “Good. There’s a party over on Middle Campus. You want to come?”

  Zach shook his head. “Got other plans. But thanks for the invitation.”

  “Next time.”

  “Next time.”

  “Well, good luck with your first week of classes.” She offered her hand.

  He took her hand and shook it lightly, holding it for just a second longer than might’ve been expected. “Thank you. I’m sure I’ll do fine. I’ve got the South’s best ever Humanities Guide.”

  Becca laughed. “Give that guide a call if you need anything. Good night, Zachary Taylor Sandstrom.” She walked off in the direction opposite the way Zach was headed.

  Zach watched her leave, then turned and headed back into his life now permanently changed, though it took a while to grasp the size and scope of that change.