My Oxford Year: A Novel

Let us hold the die uncast,

Free to come as free to go:

For I cannot know your past,

And of mine what can you know?

Christina Rossetti, “Promises Like Pie-Crust,” 1861

Jamie,” I whisper nervously, watching him scurrying around in the moonlight, “I’m pretty sure the terms of my visa preclude stealing a boat.”

“Well, it’s a good thing it’s a punt and that we’re merely borrowing it.” He assesses a group of upside-down wooden boats that look like a cross between a raft, a canoe, and a gondola. He moves toward one, bending over and grunting slightly as he picks up an end and walks along the riverbank, peeling it away from the pile. The wood scrapes loudly. I cringe and hurry to his side.

He flips the punt over and slides it into the water, dropping his foot on the edge before it floats away, clearly a punting expert. He looks up at me, pushes the hair out of his eyes, and gestures, bowing slightly.

I give him my hand and he helps me step aboard, supporting my arm as I find something resembling balance. He gestures to the two shallow benches set opposite each other in the center of the punt. Channeling my elementary school ballet training, I attempt a jeté, but go crashing into the bottom of the punt instead, about as graceful as a baby elephant falling into a mud pit. Abandoning all poise and dignity, I crawl to the far bench, right myself, and land unsteadily on the padded seat. I hear Jamie’s slight chuckle.

“Catch.” He tosses me his messenger bag then picks up a long pole lying on the side, thrusts it into the water, and pushes us out into the night.

We float under Magdalen Bridge, and he reaches up with the pole to touch the rough stone underside, pushing us along and out the other end. “Would you be a dear and open the bag?” he asks. “Take out the blanket and unroll it.” I do, and find that a plaid woolen blanket is wrapped around a silver thermos. I hold it up to him, questioning. Jamie smiles. “Were this a summer afternoon, we’d have a pitcher of Pimm’s. We seem to eschew the concept of normality.”

The night is actually quite mild; no rain, no breeze. Jamie slips the pole through the water and gently pushes us forward. He’s watching me, gauging my reaction. I love this. I love everything about this.

Holding his gaze, I stretch my legs out in front of me, scootching down until I’m almost flat on my back on the bottom of the punt, my head settled on the seat. I tilt my head to the side coquettishly and pat the floor of the punt, my intention clear.

A telltale heat brightens Jamie’s eyes. “Let me get us a bit farther out,” he murmurs. “Past the turns. I know a prime spot. Lie back.” He affects a sonorous tone, like the voice in a guided meditation video. “Listen to the water lapping the boat. Lose yourself in the stars.”

I flip over onto my stomach and look out in front of us. Our small river is heading toward a T, where a much larger river, the Isis, flows rapidly in front of Christ Church meadow. The moon shimmers off the wide expanse like a spotlight on a cymbal. I drift with the rhythm, the sloshing of the water, the faint creaking of the boards. Jamie’s dreamy voice cuts through the silence. “In late spring you’ll have to come back and punt properly. Before you go home.”

I notice he doesn’t include himself in this future outing. I don’t turn to look at him.

Just before the Isis, he steers us left down a shallow offshoot, gliding onto the soft, silty bottom of the river. Oak trees stretch their bare, late-autumn limbs over our heads. I flip over as Jamie sets the pole down and crawls in next to me, his warmth seeping into my side as we both gaze up at the crosshatch of branches and stars. Our chests rise and fall in unison, breathing synchronized by some unknown force.

There’s no need to talk, but I do. “Do you ever write poetry?”

“Oh God, no. I don’t create, I appreciate.”

I snort at his rhyme. Our hands find each other, our fingers entwining. My head lazily rolls in his direction. I gaze at his profile. That straight nose, those high cheekbones brushed by errant wisps of hair, that perfect jawline. “You certainly look the part.”

“Yes, well, judging a book by its cover and all that. Striking covers often hide blank pages.”

I playfully nudge his shoulder. “I bet you’d be a natural. Have you ever tried?”

He shakes his head. “The problem is I have standards. I have taste. That’s what a bloody DPhil has got me. I’d feel like a fraud, writing something.” He turns to me. “Do you know how hard it is? Writing good poetry? Condensing the wealth of human emotion into the sparsest of language? There’s an alchemy that eludes me, a distillation. Boiling the content down, down, down until you’re left with liquid gold. It’s what Picasso did with a pen. One perfect, curved line and you have a woman in profile.”

“Doesn’t mean you can’t try.”

He sighs. “That’s what being here does to people. Gods live among these spires. I spend my days with Tennyson, and he’s a decent ol’ chap and I learn quite a lot from him. We get on splendidly. But he still intimidates the hell out of me.”

“He’s dead.”

He shakes his head. “We will leave Oxford, we will die. But they remain. They always remain. They are immortal.”

“But, why not you?” He scoffs, turns away from me. “I’m serious. You don’t know until you try. You could be the next Tenny—”

Jamie suddenly reaches over and grabs me, hauling me on top of him. The punt rocks, almost tipping us over. I open my mouth to cry out, but he captures it with his. We lose ourselves in the kiss for a moment, before we both stop and pull back, as if we have something to say. But Jamie doesn’t speak. I stare at his bottom lip and touch it lightly, muttering, for lack of anything more important to say, “Well, I think you’d make a damn fine poet.”

He looks at me, his eyes old yet also innocent somehow. Then kisses me softly. Small kisses landing on different parts of my face like individual raindrops. Then he unceremoniously flips me to the side.

“Hey!” I yelp as the punt rocks.

He grins, sitting upright slightly and fumbling around in the bottom of the punt. He comes up with the thermos. “And now we must try this. My specialty.”

“What is it?” I ask, propping myself up on my elbows.

“Blast poetry, this may very well be what I’m remembered for. Liquid winter,” he says, unscrewing the cap. “I drink this from Bonfire Night bang on through Hilary Term. Try it,” he says, thrusting the thermos at me.

I take it and sniff. Instantly, Pavlovian, my throat tightens and my breathing halts. “What is this?”

“Guess.”

“Chocolate, hot chocolate,” I say quickly, breath still trapped, throat still closing.

“Yes, predominantly, but I’ve added—”

“I don’t want it.” I hold out the thermos.

He takes it quickly. “Oh no, are you allergic?”

“No.”

“Then you simply must.” He pushes it back toward me. “There’s a special twist, you see, which no one . . . Ella? What’s wrong?”

Even though I’ve turned away to look out over the water, I can sense Jamie peering at me. I force myself to breathe and turn back to him. “Nothing.”

Jamie just looks at me. “What is it?”

“It’s just my dad.” I barely get the words out. The second I do I want to take them back. I look out at the water. In my peripheral, I can see Jamie’s brow furrowing. “It’s not a big deal,” I assure him. “Really.”

He’s not buying it. “Tell me.”

“It’s not important.”

“At least assure me that he’s not on his way here to flatten me for taking advantage of his baby girl.”

He succeeds in lightening the moment. We share a gentle laugh and I say, “No, you’re safe, he’s dead.”

I can’t believe I said it like that. We’re both stunned into silence for a moment.

“Is that so?” Jamie asks quietly. All I can do is nod. He slides down onto his back, nestling in next to me. I join him, coming off my elbows and resting my head on the bench. Finally, Jamie speaks. “What was he like?”

I haven’t heard this tone from him before. It’s disconcerting; it’s not sexual, or playful, or arch. It’s comforting. It’s the wool blanket he wrapped around the thermos. It’s also different from anyone else who finds out my father died. The first question is always “How did he die?” Jamie wants to know how he lived. “He was the best,” I say simply. “I know every little girl thinks that about her dad, but mine really was. He was funny and handsome and he had this energy and I was his partner in crime.” The words come easily. Surprising. “He always said that waiting for me to learn how to talk was like waiting for his long-lost friend to arrive.”

“That’s wonderful. And as it should be. But . . .” Something resides in Jamie’s voice. Personal reflection. I believe its source is the fragments of interaction I’ve witnessed between him and his father.

“But not as it often is?” I prod. Jamie is silent. I proceed with caution. “Were you ever close?”

He sighs. “Getting close to my father, one risks getting gored.”

“I’m so sorry.” I pause. “Why is he—”

“Futile. Utterly. Wasted breath. But, this isn’t. What was your father’s vocation?”

Obviously, this conversation is meant for another time. I inhale. “Ran a bar. Worked nights mostly. A real Irishman, you know? But he was a cause fighter, very politically active. If the schools weren’t doing their job, he would show up at the school-board meeting. If there was a dangerous street corner, he got a traffic light installed. If the local PD had cops taking bribes—which it did—he exposed it. He was a badass. And I helped him. Got signatures, approached people in front of grocery stores. People who were sure I was going to ask them to buy Girl Scout cookies.”

Jamie turns onto his side and props his head on his hand. There’s a silence, just the creaking of the planks and the lapping of the river. “When did he die?”

“Almost twelve years ago.”

Jamie pauses. I can tell he’s treading carefully. “Illness?”

“Mine, not his.” Jamie’s look of confusion pushes me onward. “It was my thirteenth birthday party. Except there was no party. We had to cancel it. I’d been sick for over a week and I was climbing the walls. No dragon slaying with Dad, just bed.” I’ve never told this story before, but I don’t stop talking long enough to convince myself that I shouldn’t. “He felt bad that I wasn’t having a party, so we spent the day watching our favorite comedy duos. We’d recite the routines and never end up getting through them because we were laughing too hard.” Just saying this out loud has me grinning like an idiot. “Abbott and Costello, Laurel and Hardy, Martin and Lewis, Burns and—” I catch myself and shake my head. “These names don’t mean anything to you, but for us—”

“Allen?”

I stop. “You know Burns and Allen?”

“I prefer Abbott and Costello.”

That live-wire current between us charges again. That it’s happening in the middle of telling Jamie about my dad’s death is odd, to say the least.

“Sorry, please continue,” Jamie urges.

“We’re putting a pin in this discussion,” I murmur.

“Noted.”

I take a breath. “So, there was this place in town, this café that made my favorite thing in the entire world and my dad wanted me to have it for my birthday. After watching the videos, he only had about an hour before he had to be at the bar, but he was determined to get me my birthday treat. Eventually, I fell asleep on the couch. A knock on the door woke me up. Red-and-blue lights were flashing around our living room, coming in through the windows. My mom went to the door. And she started screaming. Just screaming her head off. I don’t remember standing up or walking to the door. Just my mother on the floor with a policeman on his knees trying to hold her up.” I pause for a moment, considering this, the genesis of the rift between my mother and me.

She just completely fell apart. Which I get, trust me, I get it, but she never got herself up off that floor. One of the policemen took her away, into the kitchen, and another one took me out into the freak, late-winter storm to my aunt’s house and I didn’t see my mother again for almost three weeks. I kept waiting for her to show up, to take me home. I went back to school, where I was suddenly the Girl Whose Father Died. I pulled away from everyone. I’d slip out through the gym at the end of the day so I wouldn’t have to face anyone and I’d walk back to my aunt’s house and I’d sit on the porch and wait for my mom to show up. I did this for two weeks. One day, to cheer me up I guess, my aunt bought me an issue of Seventeen magazine.

When my mother finally did show up, she got out of her car and I came to my feet, the chipped blue paint I’d been picking off the porch still under my fingernails. She walked up to me and I reached out my arms, but she stopped moving and started sobbing, bringing her hands up to her face. I went to her. I hugged her because I wanted—needed—to feel her arms around me. But her arms didn’t move. I held her as she held her face and sobbed, and when she could finally talk all she said was, “Help me, Eleanor,” over and over and over again, like a chant.

That was the last time I ever let myself need anything from anyone.

I realize I haven’t spoken in a while. Jamie has been quietly waiting. I remember where I left off in the story; cops at the door, mother crying, father dead. I clear my throat. “First thing I remember thinking was, ‘I’m never having my birthday hot chocolate.’” I had cried about that. I sobbed about it. I fixated on not having the hot chocolate so I wouldn’t think about what else I’d never have again.

Jamie inhales slowly, bracingly. I chance a look at him. He looks thoughtfully at me. I speak. “They said he was killed on impact. So it could have been worse.” Jamie just stares at me, looking for tears, I think. I stare back, trying to decipher what I see there. It’s not pity, exactly. It’s understanding. But it’s laced with a tentative regret. Like looking at an aging family pet that’s going to need to be put down soon.

“Anyway,” I breathe, and roll over on top of him. I push myself up and straddle him in one smooth move, barely rocking us. I lean down and kiss him, a kiss that says I have some good months left in me, don’t put me to sleep yet. I hastily undo his belt and lift my skirt up around my hips, reaching for the waistband of my wool tights.

“Ella . . .” he says, against my mouth.

“Yeah?” I pant.

He pushes me back slightly. Looks at me. “You don’t have to do this now. We don’t have to do this.”

“This is what we do.” I kiss him again, but he doesn’t join in.

His hands find my hips, gently stilling me. “Ella, excuse me, but . . . well, one ought to use protection for sex. Not the other way round.”

I flush with anger. Instantly. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I climb off Jamie and cross my arms over my chest.

Jamie comes up on his elbows, shaking his head. “You told me you’d never had your heart broken, and clearly—”

“Oh God, this is why I don’t talk about myself! ‘Poor Ella, lost her dad and locked her heart away, never to love again.’ Genius, Jamie. Really, very astute. You’ve got it all figured out. So tell me, why don’t you want a relationship? What’s your excuse, huh?”

Jamie’s eyes drill into mine, hands fanned out in supplication, voice low. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

I don’t know if he’s answering my question or if he’s just trying to stop the argument, but his gentle compassion takes some of the heat out of me. After a quiet moment, we both take a breath. Then we look at each other. He smiles tentatively and says, “Was that our first row?” I chuckle. He takes my hand and murmurs, “I have an idea. Let’s do something a bit daft. I’m going to lie back down and you’re going to lie down next to me. I’ll set the punt adrift. Go where the current takes us.”

“No talking?”

“No talking.”

Jamie pushes us off the shore as I slide back down into the bottom of the punt. After a moment of stargazing, I find my head turning in toward him, resting on his chest. My body turns as well, my front finding his side. Immediately, his arm folds around me like a protective wing. I let my arm cross his body, my hand finding the curve of his shoulder and resting there. “May I say one more thing?” Jamie’s chest rumbles with the richness of his voice. It vibrates through my head, almost making me dizzy.

“As long as I don’t have to say anything.”

“Just say yes, then.”

I pause. “That depends on what—”

“Say it.”

This makes me smile. I’ll bite. “Yes.”

“It’s settled. My house. Tomorrow. Seven.”

I lift my head to look at him. “Your house house?”

“You’re talking.”

“I’ll bring dessert,” I whisper.

His hand finds a perfect spot to rest on the curve of my ass as he murmurs, “You better.” His other hand cups the side of my head, smoothing back my hair. With gentle pressure, he guides my head back down to his chest. I close my eyes.

The sounds of water, wind, trees, and night insects swell around us. Under that, the sound of Jamie’s heartbeat in my ear, his breath lifting my head in an elemental cadence. There’s a fragrance in the air that I didn’t notice before, a constricting. Earth preparing for winter. I open my eyes slightly and can just glimpse the water over the side of the punt, the moonlight on the surface a study in light and dark. I gently rub the wool sweater at Jamie’s shoulder, absently fingering the burls.

It’s amazing how much you notice when you’re not having sex.