Free The Stud Book by Monica Drake Page B

one-handed, while she held Bella against her chest. She typed, “Thank you!” She couldn’t say it enough. Then she added, respectfully, “One detail. If I don’t know my assignment in advance, how will I have time to research and write the introductions? I’d love time to think about it.” She wanted to put her writing skills to use. Her mind hadn’t gone with motherhood; she was still part of the discourse, the academic dream. The blaring classical music, that Academic Overture, was the sound track to Georgie’s life.
    And as soon as she hit “send” again, she saw her mistake: “I’d love time to think about tit.”
    Tit.
    Crap! This was the problem with typing with a baby in her arms, a nursing baby, a baby high on tit.
    An e-mail came back: “Well write it. You get a copy the day of.”
    That was confusing. Well write it? She was missing a crucial piece.
    Georgie e-mailed, “Sounds good. I’ll write it, once I know who I’m introducing. Okay?” She tried to put a smile in her words without sinking to emoticons.
    For a while, her in-box stayed quiet. There was an ad from Sears, and another from Doctor Sears. Much later another conference e-mail came back. “We’ll write it,” this one said, more clearly. “All you have to do is show up and read it onstage.” Signed with a smiley face.
    Less exciting, but fine, and still a way to keep her hand in.
    She wondered who she’d be assigned: a writer, an editor, a theorist, a filmmaker? Somebody smart. Johnny Depp?
    Ha. She pictured introducing him in his Willy Wonka glasses, or his Jack Sparrow makeup. More likely he’d be in a good suit. Somebody at the top would snag that assignment. Al Gore was a keynote speaker, too. Michael Pollan would be there, and all the superstars would be far out of reach. Georgie would likely be assigned an obscure academic on a back stage.
    One of her exes, a professor named Brian Watson, hit up all the lit conferences. He usually sat on a few panels, ran a seminar ortwo, and chaired a hiring committee. She’d seen him at more than one hotel lobby cocktail party. Brian Watson had been a tenured full-time professor since he finished grad school two decades back.
    When Georgie went back to teaching in the spring her goal was to become full-time faculty. Her department chair, Dan, was on every committee. His vote would be key. Maybe she’d introduce him at the conference. That’d be okay. Not thrilling, but still an opportunity. Georgie hitched up her shirt and let her baby nurse again, turning over her body while she herself lived in her mind, the idea-driven world of plans.

    That evening when Humble came home, Georgie and Bella rested in the indentation of their collapsing couch. Georgie said, “Guess what?”
    Humble jumped. He said, “Jesus, it’s dark in here. Thought you’d gone to bed.”
    The sun set early in the winter. Georgie, in her cave with her thoughts, hadn’t bothered to turn a light on. She and Bella were fine moving around in the soft glow of the computer.
    Humble poured a drink from a bottle of bourbon they kept on a low shelf in the dining room. He dropped down onto the couch beside her and put his bourbon on a side table. His body was warm. He was a big man, with solid shoulders. He pulled the blanket down, away from the baby’s face. “How’s our girl?”
    He smelled like a bar.
    They used to go out for drinks together, sit in a bar midafternoon sometimes. Back then it felt like vacation. When she got pregnant, at first she’d still go along—have a soda and bitters and chew on a maraschino cherry to calm her stomach.
    He put his finger in the girl’s palm. Bella closed her hand. He said, “You fill out the life insurance papers?” His words knocked into one another.
    “Oh, jeez,” she said. He’d been asking Georgie to fill those out.
If you died today.…
It was a threat, there on the front of the glossy brochure. The threat that came with bringing a child into the world: abandonment.