My Oxford Year

I’m about to go with her, but something inside me—for a reason I now understand—whispers back, “You go.”

She looks disappointed, but wipes her eyes, takes a breath, and turns away, stepping through the archway and to her left, into the wine cellar. “Ah, splendid!” she cries, sounding chipper. “You haven’t killed each other.”

They laugh. They speak easily. They tease, they prod, they poke.

I find I can’t take a step. I find I have to lean against the wall for a moment. Just a moment and then I’ll leave. I promise. I just want to appreciate this.

The three of them, on the other side of the wall, are a single unit now. Unseeable, unknowable, by me. I got what I wanted. I’m free to leave now.

So why don’t I want to?

I take a breath. I force my foot onto the next stair, and then the next, and the next. Leaving them behind.

“SO, PROFESSOR DAVENPORT,” Charlie says, holding his champagne flute up by his face and leaning across the table toward Jamie. “I should like to know your intentions.”

“Charlie, please,” Jamie replies. “My parents don’t know about us yet.”

Everyone chuckles, including Charlie, who huffs, “They’d have to be blind not to see the way you look at me.” We’re sitting in the grand dining room, the seven of us spread out around a table meant for twenty, Antonia and William at each head, Jamie and me on one side, Charlie, Maggie, and Tom on the other. We’ve gone through two bottles of bubbly and three bottles of wine. And that’s just since the start of dinner. Smithy’s delicious quintessential English roast dinner, of which she took only one considering bite from Jamie’s plate before declaring it edible, wished me happy birthday, slipped into her coat, and excused herself for the night.

Charlie has rested his elbows on the table, something he would never do sober. The avidity in his eyes makes me nervous. That, and the fact that he’s pouring himself more champagne.

“Seriously now,” Charlie continues. “Tell us your plans.”

Jamie is less comfortable with this question. “Don’t have any, really.” He holds his empty glass up to William, who wordlessly refills it.

“Sorry, but you’ll be teaching?” Maggie prods.

“Well, that remains to be seen—”

“Cease this prevaricating!” Charlie bangs his fist on the table for effect. “What’s to become of Ella from Ohio, our dear Yankee orphan?”

I slide my glass to the right. “William?”

He turns with the bottle. “Pleasure.”

Charlie wobbles a hand at Jamie. “Will you move to Washington? Surely they need skinny-bejeaned, schoolgirl-fantasy liabilities in America as well.”

“Actually”—I jump in—“I’ll probably be traveling with the campaign, so there’s no point in Jamie moving—”

“You’re not breaking up!” Charlie shouts, this possibility just occurring to him. Jamie just drinks his wine. My eyes flash to his parents, whom I don’t really want to discuss this in front of and who are pretending they’ve gone deaf. “Take him with you! He can revise his sodding thesis from anywhere!”

Maggie taps his forearm. “Charlie—”

He’s unmoved. “What’s a year or two in America?” He turns glassy eyes on Jamie. “Go explore the colonies, then come home and take your rightful place as lord and heir of . . .” Unable to remember the name of the house he’s sitting in, he swirls his hand, “this, and then marry Fanny Brice over there”—he means Fanny Price—“and promulgate”—he means “propagate”—“the line as befits a man of your exalted birth!”

“Charlie’s a bit of a monarchist,” Maggie murmurs.

“I’m only saying—”

That’s it. I’m done. “This isn’t just a job, Charlie. It’s my life. If she gets elected, I hopefully get a position in the administration, where I can have some impact. Best case, she gets two terms. Then we get our next guy in and the cycle starts over. I can’t put in for a transfer. There’s no London office in American politics.” Why am I so defensive? Why am I justifying this? Why do I sound bitter when I say, “Decade after decade after decade, keeping my country going in the right direction, that’s my life.”

Charlie, impervious to fact, just looks bewildered. “Surely, someone else can do that!” I open my mouth, but he keeps going. “What, you think you’re alone on this mythical hill with your magical education sword raised against the advancing illiterate hordes? That the issue of education in America can only be fixed by you and your merry band of arts teachers—”

“I care, Charlie, I care about what happens to my country—”

He rolls his eyes. “For someone who loves her country so much, you seem rather keen to change it. Now listen, you silly tart. I love you, I do, but you are a class-A idiot if you think that’s life. This . . .” He gestures between Jamie and me. “What you two have, that’s life.”

The table goes silent. I open my mouth to try, once again, to explain this (or at the very least end it), but he stands. He winks at Jamie and looks back at me. “You have a think.” Then adds, inspired, “While I have a tink!” He staggers out, laughing to himself.

I open my mouth, but Tom—good, ol’ reliable Tom—steps right into the fray. “Might you devise a suitable travel schedule? Whereby an equal amount of time is spent at key intervals traveling to see one another? I could help you devise the algorithm—”

“I’m not disposed to travel, I’m afraid,” Jamie pipes up, finally setting his glass down. He gazes steadily at Tom. “I’m ill.”

Tom looks down at his plate, scrutinizing his food. “I feel fine.”

I lean in to Jamie. “You don’t have to do this.”

He just keeps looking at Tom. “I’ve terminal blood cancer.”

Maggie’s fork drops to her plate with a clatter, her hand finding her mouth. Tom cocks his head like a puppy. “Is it serious?”

“He said ‘terminal,’” Maggie whispers, looking to me for confirmation. I try to nod, but can’t meet her eye.

“I’ve been in treatment for quite some time—” Jamie begins to explain, but Maggie’s sob interrupts him. Her loud, gasping wreck of a sob.

We all stare at her.

She cries harder, gasping for breath. Tom, little boy lost, drops his head to his chest. Jamie glances at me and sardonically lifts his glass.

Charlie, of course, reenters the room at this moment, staggers back to his seat, takes one look at Maggie and Tom, and mutters, “Jesus, who died?”

William abruptly stands, barking, “A toast!” He turns to me and raises his glass. Everyone follows suit, even Maggie, who covers her mouth with one hand while holding her trembling glass aloft with the other. William grimaces at her. “No need to cry about it, my dear, I’ll be brief.” This elicits a relieved chuckle from everyone. Except for Maggie, who sniffles. And Charlie, who peers at her, flummoxed.

“What the hell is going—”

“Eleanor . . .” William’s tone stops even Charlie from continuing. He regards me and his eyes soften. “Ella,” he revises. “I wish to thank you. For being . . .” He pauses, seems to change tack. “Happy birthday. May we all celebrate many more around this table.”