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| Emily as we know her |
She is understandably misinterpreted, an eccentric who likes
her cocktails. This means she’s always at Maggie’s, the little bar we all go to
after the readings.
Maggie’s is small enough you can mill about the place the
way you would in someone’s house. There are always those, too—house parties. Jonas,
the summer program’s director, wants his teaching staff well-cared for,
especially since we all are garrisoned in the college dorms—‘suites’ the
college calls them: two bedrooms, a bath and a common room the size of a
postage stamp. But they’re air-conditioned, which is a blessing.
To compensate for the spartan housing, Jonas and his wife, Anna,
hold dinners to which all the visiting faculty writers are invited. Another
member of the English department, a medievalist named Heloise, also hosts a dinner
from time to time. So most nights we all eat together like some kind of quirky
family. After dinner, on weeknights, one of us gives a reading.
It won’t surprise you that Emily is a picky eater. She’ll
nibble on a single shrimp or leave the dinner table, her plate untouched. Little
wonder, then, that she’s rail-thin. And the severe way she wears her hair makes
her look drawn and plain.
But it is not true that she always wears white. She is, in
fact, a provocative dresser considering that she is no longer an ingénue. Somehow,
she pulls it off. Maybe it’s her air of innocence—estranged from beauty none can be/for beauty is infinity. She’s
always saying that kind of thing.
A further stereotype-busting fact is that each summer Emily
has a fling with someone. I’ve been her room-mate for nine years, so trust me, I
know. However pale her brow, her blood runs red. And if you read her poetry
closely, that should come as no surprise.
