Student and Teacher

Iris had another friend—someone she had known ever since she had begun teaching at Westminster College four years ago.

Marla Roberts was an elderly professor of history who had been instrumental in hiring Iris in the first place, recognizing that this graduate of Villanova and Bryn Mawr was far too good a prospect not to snap up. In fact, she had worried that Iris would scorn a tiny and relatively unheralded college like Westminster; she couldn't have known that Iris was in fact longing to return to her hometown. So Iris had eagerly accepted the offer of an assistant professorship, and Marla became both a friend and a mentor. Her own expertise, in colonial and antebellum American history, meshed well with Iris's, and they collaborated on some papers while also spending a fair amount of time in each other's company.

But, only a year after Iris arrived, Marla had to take a leave of absence, at the age of fifty-nine, to tend to her ailing husband of more than thirty years. Sadly, he lasted only a year, succumbing to a particularly virulent form of cancer. Marla decided not to return to work, although the department offered to restore her full professorship. She had spent the last two years on a long-range project that she wondered if she would ever finish, but which kept her busy and occupied. Iris continued to see her occasionally, wondering if her friend was really as contented living alone as she claimed to be.

And so, one evening a week or so after Damon had moved into Iris's house, Iris found herself at Marla's place, sipping tea. It had been some weeks since Marla had seen her friend, and she noticed immediately that something had changed.

"My oh my, Iris, you're really looking well!" she said admiringly.

Iris, always quick to blush, felt herself turning crimson. "Oh, I guess I've been doing pretty well."

Marla knew—and lamented—that Iris had largely kept to herself during her years at Westminster; in fact, she couldn't recall her ever going on a single date in all that time. Maybe she had and just not mentioned it to Marla; there was no reason why Iris should confide any intimate details to her, and Marla recognized Iris as a basically private person. So, even though she discounted the possibility, she did want to do some probing.

"Anything new in your life?" she said with a twinkle in her eye.

Iris's response struck her as curious. She became stiff, the teacup abruptly halting its progress up to Iris's mouth. She put the cup down carefully, but looked as if she had seen a ghost.

"Iris, what's the matter?" Marla cried in alarm.

"Nothing," Iris muttered, but she had risen up and begun walking about the little room. After her husband's death, seeing no need for a big house, Marla had discarded a lot of her belongings and moved into a small apartment on the edge of campus, which she maintained had everything she really needed.

Marla knew better than to press Iris harshly. Her friend would tell her when she was ready.

Iris gazed down at her friend, then sat back down on her seat on the sofa.

"Well," she began uneasily, "I guess I've gotten myself into a kind of situation." At Marla's look of apprehension she rushed on: "It's a

good

situation, Marla, really it is! It's just a bit—unusual."

"Do you want to tell me?" Marla said quietly.

Iris let out an enormous sigh. "Well, you see, I've met someone."

Marla gasped.

Well, you could have knocked me over with a feather!

She knew little of any past involvements on Iris's part; Iris had simply not told her about such things, and there was no reason why she should have. But this admission still struck her as a bolt from the blue.

"I don't know what to say," Marla said in a shaky voice. "Who's the lucky guy?"

Iris seemed suddenly energized, her face lighting up and her eyes shining. "Oh, Marla, he's just the most wonderful man! His name is Damon. He's strong and muscular, but also tender and kind-hearted and caring and, um, very affectionate."

"He sounds like a dream," Marla said a tad enviously.

"He is." But a cloud passed over Iris's face. "There's only one problem." She refused to go on.

Marla's heart sank.

I knew it was too good to be true.

"What is it, dear? You can tell me."

Iris abruptly got up from the sofa, unable to look her friend in the face. "Well, you see, he's"—her voice descended to a whisper—"an undergraduate."

Marla closed her eyes, and she suddenly felt light-headed. She thought she might faint.

"Omigod, Iris, what have you done?" she said quietly but tensely. "How could you be so . . .?" Now it was Marla who couldn't say anything more.

Iris whirled around to gaze at the older woman. "It's not what you think!"

"What do I think?" Marla said in the same quiet voice.

"You think—you think it's just—just s-s-s—physical. It isn't that at all!"

"Isn't it?"

"No, it's so much more! He's—"

Marla now exploded. She herself rose precipitously from her seated position, seeming to tower over her former mentee, even though she was in fact an inch or two shorter. "Oh, Iris, you silly girl! How can you risk everything you've worked so hard to accomplish—your career, your standing in the academic world and in this community—for this infatuation? I just didn't expect this of you!"

"It's not an infatuation!"

Iris all but shouted. "Not for him, and not for me."

Marla looked at her with pity on her face. "Look, dear, I know what it is to be lonely. I've been pretty damn lonely these past two years. But my career is over, and frankly my life is pretty much over."

"Oh, Marla, don't say that!"

"Well, it is. And that's fine. I've accomplished a lot of what I wanted to do in life. But you—you have everything to look forward to. You're on the way to being a great historian and a great teacher. I've seen you in class, and there's no one better. But you can't throw it all away over a silly boy. He's not worth it. You know how conservative this little town is. We may have one of the great liberal arts universities here"—she was referring, of course, to the University of Virginia, not to Westminster—"but the townspeople are still mired in the past and would not look well upon a—a relationship of this sort. I don't know

anyplace

that would look favorably upon such a thing."

Iris was seething more and more as she heard each sentence of Marla's speech. The insult she felt—directed both at herself and at her lover—was getting too much to bear. But she was not one to lash out viciously, especially at a friend and colleague who meant so much to her.

"If only you could get to know him," she muttered, more to herself than to Marla, "you wouldn't think the way you do." Then, as if suddenly seized with inspiration: "Why

don't

you meet him? I'm sure that would change your mind. He could come over here—"

"Here?"

Marla said. "You mean—by himself?"

That hadn't actually been what Iris had intended, but she snatched at the idea. "Well, sure! Believe me, he's one hell of a guy. I'm sure you've never met anyone like him."

"And what exactly," Marla said in a tone of scientific inquiry, "am I to

do

with him?"

"Just talk to him," Iris said. Then, with a glint in her eye: "You could do anything you like. Anything."

Marla flushed at the

double entendre,

so unexpected from her friend. Then she seemed to go pale.

"Iris, you're being silly. There's no way a boy—"

"He's not a boy! He's a fine, strapping young man."

"—a

boy

will have the slightest interest in an old woman like me."

"You're

not

old! And I get the feeling Damon can find an interest in women of all ages."

Marla was forced to sit back down on the couch. She held a hand to her heart, breathing heavily. "I—I don't think so."

"Oh, Marla, please! I

know

you'll like him! He's a real treasure—very kind and courteous and gallant. Like an old-time Southerner."

"You think so?" Marla said, looking up at Iris skeptically. "How long did it take for you to fall under his spell?"

It was Iris's turn to turn crimson. "That's none of your business. He—he can be very persuasive."

That's all the response Marla required. She wasn't born yesterday.

So you let him into your arms—and your bed—just like that? I had no idea you were so full of submerged passion.

"And you want me to do what with him?" Marla asked, her own tone of voice making clear the implications of her remark.

Iris was unable to look Marla in the face. "Just talk to him. He's a good listener. Whatever else you want to do with him—well, that's your choice, and his."

"And you really won't mind?"

"I'm telling you, you can do anything you want."

Marla fell silent.

There's no way this—this

boy—

is going to want to do anything like that to someone who could be his grandmother. I mean, bedding down with Iris, a beautiful and still relatively young woman, is one thing; but I'm almost twice her age, and

three

times Damon's age. It's just too ridiculous even to think about. Still .

.

.

"Okay, if you say so," she said huskily. "Send him over anytime."

Iris turned on her heel and left the apartment without a word.

*

A slow smile came over Damon's face as Iris, cuddling with her lover that night, explained his mission, without going into any unseemly details.

"She was your boss, eh?" he said.

"She was not my boss," Iris said scornfully. "She was—er, is—an older professor who took me under her wing. I learned a lot from her. She's probably my best friend around here."

"It's kinda funny," he mused.

"What's funny?"

"Well, you've hammered it into my head that I'm not supposed to tell anyone about us, and here

you

are blabbing it to your friend!"

"Oh, Damon," Iris said a little desperately, "I had to tell someone! It's been really hard to keep this to myself."

"I know what you mean." He wanted to shout his union with Iris to the skies, and to hell with those who didn't approve.

"Anyway, I'm hoping you can win her over. She—she thinks I've made a horrible mistake getting involved with you."

"Do

you

think that?"

"No, of course not."

"Then why do you care what she thinks?"

"Damon, it's not as simple as that. Practically

everyone

is going to think this is a mistake. People just don't do things like this. But we have to have some allies on our side—it'll just make things that much easier."

"And what am I supposed to do with her?"

"Just talk to her, and tell her about yourself, and let her tell you about herself. She's led a pretty interesting life."

"She's a widow, eh?"

"Yes. Her husband died two years ago. I think they were married for, like, thirty-four years."

A bit longer than I've been alive—and a

lot

longer than

you've

been alive.

"That's a long time."

"Yes, it is."

"How old is she now?"

"Sixty-two, I believe."

Damon digested this fact. "I've seen some pretty nice-looking women in their sixties."

A little shudder passed through Iris.

Could he really be thinking .

.

.

?

"Damon, really—"

"You got a picture of her?"

"Why?"

"Just wanna know what she looks like."

Iris sighed. "I guess I do."

She went to fetch her phone, where there were probably some pictures of a trip that she and Marla had taken to the Endless Caverns near New Market a year or so ago. She flipped through the file of pictures, trying to find one that made both women look their best. Slipping back into bed, she showed him one.

"Say," Damon said admiringly, "she

is

pretty!"

"Damon," Iris said severely, "you should be ashamed of yourself. I didn't think you were one of those guys who judged a woman only on her appearance."

He looked a little wounded. "Hey, don't talk that way about me. I was just curious, that's all. I mean, I know she's smart: how could she not be, having been a professor for so long? And if she's your friend, she must be kind and sweet and all sorts of other good things. I'm really looking forward to meeting her."

Iris was mollified somewhat. "Okay. Just be nice to her."

Another grin from the side of his mouth. "What else can I do with her?" He said this while holding Iris close to his chest and nuzzling her neck.

"Whatever you want," Iris said as she felt his hand slip toward her bottom.

"Really? Anything?"

"Yes, anything."

"Okay, ma'am," Damon said, pulling up the hem of Iris's nightgown. "You said it."

*

Marla gasped when she saw the young man standing in front of her door. A little shiver went through her.

"You—you're Damon?" she said, her voice trembling.

"Yes, ma'am. Iris's—friend."

"Come on in."

She let him in while continuing to gaze at him.

My goodness, he's one fine specimen of young manhood.

She couldn't even remember the last time she had been alone with a man of his age. Just having a conference with a student in her office didn't seem to count.

As Damon wandered casually through the living room of Marla's apartment, he took stock of both the surroundings—the neatly kept rooms, impeccably decorated with choice objets d'art as well as items of personal significance to their owner—and, as he turned back around, his hostess.

He liked what he saw. Marla Roberts was sixty-two and looked it; but Damon didn't mind that at all. As with other elderly women he had seen, there was a

precision

in her appearance that elicited his admiration. Her face was clear-featured, with superbly styled, close-cropped hair—entirely white now, as Marla had given up the charade of coloring it—framing placid blue eyes, a slender nose, smallish red lips (subtly dabbed with lipstick), and a gentle curve of the jawline that somehow simultaneously signified femininity and strength. An intense intelligence radiated from her, but in no way did that trait diminish the quiet beauty of her face and figure.

But it was clear that Marla was far more nervous than her guest.

Almost as soon as Damon entered, she made a beeline for a small cabinet that had an array of alcoholic beverages. With her back to him, she said:

"Would you like something to drink?"

Damon wasn't sure how to respond. Finally he said: "I really don't drink, ma'am. I guess I shouldn't."

He let that sentence hang in the air, knowing that Marla would pick up on its implication.

Oh, yes, Damon, you're not quite old enough to drink legally, are you?

This pointed reminder of their immense difference in age seemed to rattle her. Trembling a little, she said: "Why don't you try some of this liqueur? It's kind of like candy."

She poured out a portion of chocolate mint liqueur into a tiny glass, then walked over and handed it to him. He accepted it with good grace; and, taking a sip of it, found that it was quite nice.

Marla poured herself a stiff shot of bourbon.

She directed him to sit down on the smallish couch that took up the bulk of the living room. Somehow his mere presence in the apartment made her realize how cramped the space was—certainly in comparison to the big house she had shared with her husband for decades. As she peered hesitantly at Damon over the edge of her glass, she said:

"So, um, what would you like to do?"

She colored immediately upon saying those words.

That's not quite what I meant to say!

But Damon promptly replied, "Why don't you tell me about yourself? I'm sure you've led an interesting life. Iris seems to think so."

Marla doubted very much whether Damon really wanted to hear her life story—which, to her mind, wasn't all that compelling—but she sensed that this man, for all his youth, might have shrewdly come to the conclusion that letting her talk might be a way of making her relax.

And so she launched in on a pretty detailed account of her life. Growing up not far away, in Fredericksburg, she went off to college at the University of Richmond and then to graduate school at George Mason University, where she got her Ph.D. It was at her first teaching stint—at a tiny college for women named Sweet Briar, in Lynchburg—that she had met her husband. He wasn't an academic; in fact, he was an electrician, and Marla had had to summon him to fix some wiring in the ramshackle house she was occupying. But there was something about his rough-hewn masculinity—combined with a surprising and endearing gentleness, courtesy, and deference where the "fair sex" was concerned—that had won her heart. She had married him at twenty-six (he was seven years older), and they had had two daughters, now grown and with young families of their own.

As she was telling this tale, which she was convinced was boring Damon to death, Marla was struck by how intently he was listening to her.

Maybe he's a good listener after all, as Iris said.

He made few comments or queries, but what he did say made it evident that he was seeking to draw Marla out, not just on what had happened to her at various points in her life, but how she felt at those moments.

And then, as she seemed to be winding down her narrative, he said: "Why don't you sit on my lap?"

Another shudder went through her. Her initial instinct was to speak sharply to him.

Damon, don't be silly. I'm forty-two years older than you, and I am

not

going to sit on your lap like a little girl.

But his expression was so honest and ingenuous—and so lacking in anything that could be considered lascivious or insulting—that, almost in spite of herself, she shuffled over to him and took her position on his lap.

She felt his arm encircling her waist and holding her firmly in place. She, in turn, was all but forced to drape an arm over his shoulder, if only to steady herself. Some deep feminine instinct made her welcome the contact, even though she chided herself by thinking:

Good Lord, I'm not a silly teenager who can be so easily impressed by the strong shoulders of this muscle-bound athlete!

But she knew that was a mischaracterization of this sensitive young man.

She had lapsed into silence when climbing onto his lap, but once she was situated he said: "Go on, ma'am, tell me more."

She resumed her story, although she felt her voice shaking from a confusing mix of emotions. When she had got to the point of telling how her daughters had flown the nest and left the house empty except for herself and her husband, Damon did something that she was vaguely expecting, but that she still found startling and a bit alarming.

He began quietly unbuttoning her blouse.

She seized his wrist and said: "Wh-what are you doing?"

"Never mind, ma'am," he said in a perplexingly soft voice. "You just seem a little warm."

That's a really old line!

In fact, she did feel a sheen of sweat on her brow; but she was sure it wasn't because the heat was turned up too high. She peered deeply into his eyes, and they gazed back at her with an ingenuous expression. With a kind of weary resignation she released his wrist, and he continued to undo the buttons on her blouse; then he pulled it off her back, leaving her topless except for her bra.

Somehow she found the wherewithal to proceed with her story. She couldn't help noticing how Damon was gazing raptly at her breasts as they rose and fell from her agitated breathing; they seemed to fill up like balloons with each intake of breath, only to deflate as she exhaled. And so it didn't surprise her in the least when, after some moments, he reached behind her back to unclasp the bra.

She was past the point of protesting. As the bra fell to the floor, she unconsciously sat up straight on his lap to enhance the firmness of her uncovered breasts.

Damon's mouth fell slightly open at the sight. They were a magnificent pair: quite a bit smaller than Iris's (but then, hers were in a class by themselves), but nothing in the least to be ashamed of. A thirty-year-old woman would be proud to have breasts like that: round, shapely, and elegant. Like Iris's, they were so close together that they created a natural cleavage without the need of a push-up bra; and the thick nubs of her nipples, becoming erect even as he looked at them, were so tempting that Damon reached up and gently took one of them between two fingers and twirled them. The act caused Marla to shiver violently and give out a little cry.