Northland U. campus in the fall. Marian thought there was no place in the world quite like it.
She’d moved up that past summer from Nevada, where she’d completed her undergraduate work (a full Bachelor’s in just two years—who said you needed sleep to be productive?), and so had been used to the Nevada “sandbox” terrain—the desert scrub, the scorpions, the occasional, honest-to-God tumbleweeds.
Northland U. was something else entirely. Situated in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, along the coast of the vast Lake Superior, the campus and surrounding town were like a forest Eden: all pine trees, quaint shops, and quiet streets lined with big Victorian houses. There’d been money here, once—mining money, shipping money, logging money—and there was money here again, courtesy of retirees from the south and from the tourists drawn by the area’s natural charm and beauty.
As summer had given way to autumn, the leaves of the region’s many maples and oaks had begun to turn, and the whole area now blazed with rich reds, oranges, and yellows. The autumn wind blew the leaves scritch-scratchedy across campus sidewalks, and carried with it the robust smell of a summer season’s spent energy—all that dead-and-dying plant life smelling dry-ripe, almost spicy. It put one in mind of carved pumpkins, of mulled cider heating on the stove, of short days and pleasant evenings spent on the couch, lazing cozily beneath a warm blanket.
It was with such autumnal thoughts in mind that Marian crossed the campus, her head down, watching her feet. She stepped carefully over the cracks—thus ensuring the continued well-being of her mother’s spinal column—and went out of her way to step on the largest, driest-looking leaves, which crunched deliciously beneath her sneakers. By the time she had reached the “Henderson” building—her on-campus apartment complex—she was smiling to herself, her annoying interaction with Andy forgotten.
She checked her mailbox. Invitation to a campus mixer (junk). Coupon for a free pizza (treasure).
At the bottom of the mail stack was a paycheck from one Dr. Luana Anderson, professor of sociology at Southern Arizona University. Dr. Anderson was one of three clients in Marian’s fledgling “editing” business. Marian proofread her work and formatted it in the LaTex typesetting style preferred by academic journals. For this, Dr. Anderson and Marian’s two other clients sent her monthly checks, often totaling in excess of $2000. A nice boost to her meager teaching stipend, and Marian didn’t really mind the work. She did it every night from 2 A.M to 4 A.M., when she would otherwise be tossing and turning.
The money was just one more sign that she had her life pretty much “squared away.” She had her apartment (provided free as part of her grad student comp). She had her car. She had a growing bank balance at the Northland Faculty Credit Union, along with a growing number of investments. She had no real bills and no bad habits.
And if you ignored the occasional loneliness, or the distressing fact that (arguments with Andy aside), she could barely have a conversation without turning red and avoiding eye contact, you would say that here was a young woman who had it all figured out.
All in all, Marian felt pretty lucky.
“I’m pretty lucky,” she said aloud as she headed into her tidy little apartment. “Nothing is really wrong in my life. I’ve got it pretty dang good.”
As Marian’s sister back in Nevada would have said: famous last words.
