The Jinx

“Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked again as I stared at him, openmouthed.

“Y-yes,” I stuttered. “I’m fine, thank you. And I apologize. I was in such a rush that I wasn’t watching where I was going.” Think of something witty to say, I implored myself. Please, please think of something witty to say.

“Don’t worry about it.” He smiled—how I remembered that smile! “Here, let me help you.” He began gathering my spilled belongings and putting them back in my bag. He handed me my Blackberry and gave me a quizzical look. “I think I know you from somewhere. From college, maybe? Across the river. An English course, right?”

I nodded, speechless, as he extended a hand to help me to my feet. What would Ali MacGraw do in a situation like this?

“I thought I’d seen you before. It’s been a long time. I’m Jonathan. Jonathan Beasley.”

“I’m Rachel Benjamin.” I covertly looked him over, taking in the blue shirt that set off his eyes and dark blond hair and the slightly battered tweed jacket that stretched over his shoulders. He’d been beautiful a decade ago, and the years since had treated him well. My knees were shaky, and while I could blame their condition on my fall, the warmth I felt in my cheeks could only be blamed on simple, old-fashioned lust. He seemed to be having even more of an impact on me now than he had when I was eighteen.

He leaned against the wall. The elevator had long since come and gone. “So, what are you doing here? Are you a student at the business school?”

“No, at least not now. I graduated years ago. I work in New York. At Winslow, Brown. And you’re a professor?” Now I knew why Professor Beasley’s name had sounded familiar, but somehow the title of professor had managed to blot out the less-than-professorial associations I had with the name Beasley. This Professor Beasley was a far cry from the bow-tied, lockjawed curmudgeon I’d imagined.

“Believe it or not. Organizational behavior. Incentive systems, things like that. I put in some time on Wall Street and then went to Columbia for a Ph.D. I’ve been teaching here for three years now.”

I remembered, with great difficulty, why I was there. “You know, it’s funny, running into you like this. I was actually on my way to see you. Only I didn’t realize it would be you, specifically. I didn’t realize that you were Professor Beasley.”

“Really? Why?”

“It’s about Sara Grenthaler.”

His expression changed from friendly to somber, but it was equally enthralling. “How do you know Sara?”

“Well, she’s sort of my client. I mean, Grenthaler Media is. And she worked with me last summer at Winslow, Brown.”

“So you’ve heard what happened to her.” His voice was laced with concern.

I nodded. “In fact, I just came from UHS. I was talking to her roommate, Edie Michaels, and she explained about the letters Sara was getting. I told her I’d come talk to you. She’s anxious that the police know about them, just in case there’s a connection of any sort with the attack.”

“Let’s go up to my office,” Jonathan suggested. “I can fill you in there.” I willingly let him escort me up to the third floor and lead me down a corridor, nodding to various colleagues and staff along the way. He ushered me into his office and took my coat, hanging it next to his own on a peg on the back of the office door. I looked around while he cleared a stack of papers from one of his guest chairs. The walls were lined with bookshelves, and I scanned his collection. It was extensive and varied, ranging from the usual business texts to history and biography. I even saw the familiar double volume of Norton’s Anthology of English Literature, its bindings worn and tattered.

“English 10,” he said, following my gaze.

“I know. I’ve got the same set.” I sat down in the now-empty chair, relieved to no longer have to trust my shaky knees, and he settled himself across from me at his desk.

“I was an Economics major, but I took that course senior year. I loved it. It made me wish I’d taken more English courses, but it was too late.”

“It would be great to go back and take all of the courses that I missed. Well, except for the exams and papers.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” he replied with a rueful smile. “So, now that I think about it, it’s all coming back to me. You know, my roommate had such a crush on you.”

“He did?” I didn’t remember his roommate. I’d had eyes only for Jonathan.

“It was almost pathetic. Clark Gibson. Do you remember him? He would spend every class staring at you and then make me rehash everything you said for the rest of the day. He was obsessed.”

“Oh.” I thought back and dredged up a hazy image of Clark Gibson. He had seemed to stare a lot, but I’d assumed he was staring at Luisa. Most men did. “Why did he never ask me out?”

“Well, you were always with your boyfriend. What was his name? The guy with the dark hair and little round glasses?”

“Who? Oh—you mean Jamie. He wasn’t my boyfriend. He just lived in our dorm room. Because he hated his roommates. You know how that is.” Jamie would invariably sit on one side of me while Luisa sat on the other, each silently rolling their eyes at me when I passed them notes commenting on something Jonathan had said, or what he was wearing that day, or any of the other trivialities that are so important when you have a massive, hopeless crush on somebody who doesn’t know you exist.

“You’re kidding. I’ll have to tell Clark. He’ll kick himself, especially now that he’s married and has three kids.”

“And just think, they could have been mine.” Jonathan chuckled. Little did he know how much time I’d spent dreaming of him and our three kids.

“So, the letters,” I said, once again having to remind myself why I was there.

“Yes, the letters,” he repeated. He used a key to open a desk drawer and pulled out a stack of folded papers held together by a rubber band. “Take a look,” he invited, handing the stack across the desk.

“What about fingerprints?” I asked.

“So many people have handled these—Sara, Edie, me—I doubt that there will be any useful prints. And I suspect that whoever wrote these was pretty careful. They could have been typed on any computer and printed on any standard laser printer.”

I freed the folded pages from the rubber band and opened the one on top, scanning it quickly. Jonathan was right—it was entirely typewritten on regulation letter-size paper.

Darling Sara,

I saw you today, at a distance, your raven hair bent over your studies, a pen grasped in your graceful hand, and my heart overflowed. I wanted to rush to your side and take you in my arms.

I see you and hear the words of the poet:

“She walks in beauty like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies”

You are my night, you are my starry skies. But how can I confess my forbidden love? I cannot. One day, perhaps, but not today.

I didn’t blame whoever had written it for leaving it unsigned—it was awful.

“Yeesh,” I said. “Are they all like this?”

“What do you mean?”

“Nauseating?”

“You think it’s nauseating?”

“Well…” I cast about, trying to find a more appropriate word, but came up empty. “Yes. Nauseating. So gushy and gross.”

“Which one are you looking at?” he asked me.

I handed it to him, and he skimmed it. “Oh. I thought this one was sweet. Romantic, with the Keats and everything.”

“Are you sure it’s not Byron?”