The Guilty - Jason Pinter [37]
whose nameplate read Professor Agnes Trimble. And immediately my expectations were blown to hell.
Agnes Trimble was a small woman, sitting down I guessed
about five foot three and a hundred ten pounds. She looked
to be in her late fifties, with hair dyed so red I was surprised
a horde of bulls weren't stampeding around the office. Her
hair was done up in what I could best describe as a bird's nest,
pretty much clumped together and held there with a brown
scrunchy and a few terrorized bobby pins. On her ears rested
a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, which I suppose helped her
enjoy the two lava lamps in either corner. On her computer,
a felt monkey dangled from a small American flag, its Velcro
hands fastened to the top of the Stars and Stripes. Taped to
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one shelf looked to be an actual ticket stub from the original
Woodstock, complete with authentic-looking mud stain. Her
shelves were covered in books whose staid titles must have
been hideously embarrassed by the rest of the decor. I debated
relaying the information that the Partridge Family bus had left
the parking lot a long time ago.
And resting among these hipster-drenched relics were
dozens of toy guns. All makes and models. Rifles, cannons,
small arms and enough tanks to blow the hell out of the Indian
in the Cupboard.
And somehow I was not surprised to see pictures of various
male celebrities, many of them sans shirts or other commonly
worn articles of clothing, taped to a corkboard behind her
desk. I suppose reporting while staring at the nipples of
Orlando Bloom and George Clooney had to happen
sometime.
"Amanda, baby!" Agnes leapt up, leaned over the desk and
wrapped her arms around Amanda, who leaned in awkwardly
to reach the small woman. Agnes squeezed her eyes shut,
sucked in a breath, and for a moment I worried she might be
trying to inhale Amanda's soul.
When they separated, Amanda gestured to me and said,
"Professor Trimble, this is who I was telling you about, Henry
Parker. He's a reporter for the Gazette. " I held out my hand
to shake hers. She eyed me, squinted slightly.
"He your...boyfriend?" she asked, a sly smile on her lips.
"Uh..." I said.
"Actually, yes," Amanda said. "I didn't realize we were
wearing name tags."
Agnes sat back down, reached into her desk and pulled out
a candy cane. She unwrapped it and popped the whole thing
in her mouth. Through a mouthful of peppermint, she said,
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Jason Pinter
"You didn't need name tags. Eighty-thirty in the morning,
both of you dressed and showered, Henry wearing matching
socks and the whole nine. Henry here is a reporter...no guy
I've ever met under the age of thirty is dressed well and
showered this early unless they're going to work, going to a
funeral, or going somewhere with the person they sleep with.
Do you have a funeral this afternoon?"
My cheeks grew warm, and Amanda's looked like they
could catch fire at any moment. "Not that I know of," I said.
"Then you're boyfriend and girlfriend," Agnes said.
"That's lovely. Please, sit. Candy cane?"
"No, thanks," we echoed.
Agnes shrugged as if she couldn't believe how anyone
could say no to such a scrumptious treat at this time of day.
In the meantime, Agnes seemed to have noticed me staring
at the photos behind her desk. I'd also noticed that she wore
a wedding ring.
"You never had pictures taped to your locker?" she asked.
"I did," I said, "back in high school." I glanced at her
wedding ring. "How does your husband feel about them?"
"What are you, ten years old?" she asked. "He knows I'm
not sleeping with Brad Pitt, and as long as that stays the case
he could care less if I have pictures of him or Stephen
Hawking on my wall. If you have a problem with them, you
can leave any time."
There was a sharp pain in my side as Amanda elbowed me.
"Nope, no problem."
"So, Amanda, how are you? It's been, what, three years?"
"Four," Amanda corrected. "Junior year, U.S. Nineteenth
Century Intellectual and Cultural History."
"What'd I give you