Two Rivers by T. Greenwood

Author:T. Greenwood [Greenwood, T.]
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2009-06-13T16:00:00+00:00

F OUR

Inside the House of Me

W ithout Betsy, I became a sleepwalker: my feet moving me from one place to the next while my mind was always elsewhere. ( Back in Two Rivers. Back inside that barn, lightning illuminating her in erratic and beautiful flashes.) For the first month at Middlebury, I wandered the green expanse of campus, somnambulant. Oblivious. I had enrolled in five classes that fall: Ancient Philosophy, English Literature, Calculus, European History and French. In my “free” time, I audited an Art History seminar and a Poetry writing class. I figured that I might be able to fill my brain so that there wasn’t any room left for Betsy Parker. But no matter how hard I tried, she occupied every corner, every crevice. I was dreaming her still, even when I was wide awake.

My roommate at Middlebury chain-smoked Chesterfield cigarettes and spoke fluent Latin. His name was Alfred (“Freddy”) Van Horn III; he came from a long line of Van Horns who had made their money in the publishing industry. Magazines . His grandfather, Freddy the First, was the publisher of a certain gentleman’s magazine that I recognized as the ones Betsy had introduced me to all those years ago. “Titties,” Freddy explained over our first pint of beer at a pub on the outskirts of campus. “Titties and ass. Ad nauseum .” Freddy knew that I was only biding my time at college, that despite my apparent academic zeal, school was really just a distraction from the real obsession of my life. He’d seen the photos I kept tucked into the corners of my mirror, between the pages of my books, and in most of my drawers. Betsy Parker was everywhere. Freddy’s attempts at diversion were tireless and admirable. He knew a lot of girls, and he was always bringing them by in the hopes that one of them might cause me to relinquish my devotion to Betsy Parker. There were short girls, tall girls, happy girls and melancholy girls. Good girls and bad girls. But the one thing they all shared was a fascination with Freddy Van Horn. He was like Brooder with a private school education. He had the charisma of a politician without any of the political aspirations. But he was also an academic savant, managing always to get good grades despite his lax study habits. There was something easy about Freddy Van Horn. Something I suppose that came with affluence and good fortune. He never had to work very hard for anything, and so he never perceived the world to be a difficult place. While I felt tortured by it, he saw the world at Middlebury as something created to serve him and his desires.

“What are her stats?” Freddy asked, peering over my shoulder at a photo of Betsy’s face, which was marking my place in Othello . I could barely concentrate. It was almost Homecoming weekend, and Betsy was coming to stay for three whole days.

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