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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Drama / Human Interest
- Subject: Fate / Luck / Serendipity
- Published: 09/11/2022
The Yellow Springs Connection
Born 1947, M, from Oceanside, United StatesThe Yellow Springs Connection
When I saw the Yellow Springs, Ohio Library sticker on the back of the used book I ordered off the web, I couldn’t help but smile. It brought back a slew of memories of my trip to Antioch College, eight years earlier. I had gone there for a week-long writer’s conference, which for me, was going to be a big deal; I had never gone to any conference or seminar for longer than a day. Going to Yellow Springs meant I would have to fly all the way from my home in Connecticut to the college and live there for a week.
Actually, that wasn’t my first connection to Antioch College. Earlier in my writing career, I took an adult-education writing course given by an instructor who once taught for a semester at Antioch College. His course had been fun for me; I felt like I learned a lot.
Now, eight years later, one of my favorite Sci-Fi authors was offering a six-week course in speculative fiction to be held right here in my home town library. Even though I was already writing science fiction and fantasy stories, I raced to sign up.
Ron Gardner, who lived in a nearby town, wrote both humorous science fiction books and short stories, many of which were about robots that caused all kinds of havoc when they malfunctioned at the most inopportune times. Since a couple of my own short stories were about robots that had gone haywire, I was anxious to see what he thought of mine.
Unfortunately, that first night, he announced that he didn’t want to see any of our stories just yet. Instead, he wanted to gage what we could do on the fly. So, he gave the six of us attendees an assignment to write about something that happened at a college.
“Give me at the most about 300 words,” he said. “Make it funny or serious, about any subject. And see if you can somehow include a robot in your piece.”
That figures, I thought. So, I wrote a less than 200-word story about a robot that goes haywire in . . . of all places, you guessed it—Antioch College.
When Ron heard my piece being read aloud, I noticed his eyes kind of lit up. I found out later after everyone else had left the room, that his wife had once gone to a writing conference at Antioch College in Yellow Springs.
“Oh, yeah! When was that?” I asked, my interest peaked. When he told me the year, I almost fell over. “So, did I!” I told him. “I went there for a week-long writing conference.”
“So, did she.”
That’s when it hit me. “Wait a minute,” I said to him. “What’s your wife’s name?”
“This was before we met,” he said. “Her name back then was Mary Tillis.”
I stared at him, my eyes bugging out. “Did you say Mary Tillis?”
“Yeah, why?”
“There was a Mary Tillis in my group! We got very close during our week at Antioch.”
I felt my cheeks get warm as I coughed up memories of our time together. It turned out to be more than just two strangers with similar interests becoming friends. That last night, we slept together. Afterwards, we agreed not to contact each other; both of us were seeing other people at the time. I always wondered what had happened to her. I never saw her name on any books or stories.
“I’ll have to bring Mary to our next meeting,” he said.
For some reason, that stirred my stomach, but not in a good way. Of course, I wanted to see her again, but what if she somehow revealed what we had done? What would Ron think? Instead, I plastered a smile on my face and said, “I’ll be looking forward to seeing her.”
“Hi, Tom,” she said, blasting me with a huge smile.
“Mary,” I replied, also smiling. “You look the same.” And she did: a cascade of curly jet-black hair, eyes the color of dark chocolate, and a dancer’s body.
“So, do you.”
“Well, not really. I’ve put on a few pounds since you last saw me.”
“Yeah, but you still look good.”
“Well, now that you two have become acquainted again,” said Ron, “why don’t we go inside and start the class.”
After following them into the room, I sat down feeling only slightly uncomfortable as Mary deliberately took a seat at the table so close to me that we practically shared the same chair. Ron sat at the head of the long table.
All during the evening, I could feel heat coming off her body. It was a little distracting, but not as distracting as when she rubbed her calf against one of my legs underneath the table. Keeping a smile on my face, I tried to focus on Ron and the others as they read each of their short pieces aloud.
My own very short story was about a novice writer who interacts with a ghost. I had decided not to share one of my robot stories, at least not just yet. Everyone seemed to really like it. I was sure they would, especially since it had already been accepted by a literary magazine, but I didn’t tell them that.
After the class, Ron suggested the three of us go for coffee at a local diner. At the diner, I slid into a booth across from Mary, while Ron went to use the men’s room. Immediately, she reached across the table and clutched one of my hands in hers. Her hand felt small and delicate . . . and very warm.
“So, what have you been up to since Antioch?” she asked, her eyes never leaving mine.
“I now run the mailroom where I work.” I had been the new guy in the mailroom back when we met at Antioch.
“What about you?” I asked as I pulled my hand out of hers. I could tell she was disappointed.
“Mostly, I volunteer at a homeless shelter.”
“Wow!” I said, my eyebrows shooting up. Somehow, I couldn’t imagine her as the volunteer type. After a moment, I asked, “You still writing?”
“Right now, I’m putting together an anthology of stories that visitors to the shelter have told me over the years.”
“What’s it called?”
“Tent Tales.”
“Sounds interesting.”
“What does?” Ron asked, as he slid into the booth beside his wife.
“Mary was just telling me about her anthology.”
Ron beamed. “Yeah, that’s my little volunteer,” he said slipping a muscular arm around her shoulders and pressing her against his very athletic-looking body. I had been surprised by how tone he appeared; he must have been working out like a demon, I thought.
Although his gesture was one of affection, what he didn’t see, but I did, was his wife’s grimace. Obvious, she wasn’t pleased.
Letting go of his wife, Ron asked me, “So, are you married yet or what?”
“Three years,” I told him. Once again, I saw Mary grimace.
That’s when the waitress showed up and asked what we wanted. All three of us ordered coffee, with Ron asking for a dish of vanilla ice cream, and Mary ordering whole-wheat toast. I stayed with just my coffee. Then Ron asked me about what I had been writing. That’s when I told him about my robot stories.
Smiling, he said, “You’ll have to bring one of them to our next class.”
The rest of our conversation was mostly about what Ron had been doing and the book tour on which he was about to embark. All during his talk, I noticed Mary seemed to be more interested in her toast than what her husband was saying.
Before we broke up for the evening, I suggested Mary come again to the next meeting. “And bring one of your Tent stories.”
“I will,” she said, then leaned over and gave me a slight peck on the cheek. Once again, I felt my face grow warm.
Glancing at Ron, I wondered what he might be thinking? Since he didn’t seem to mind, I said, “See you both next-week,” but it didn’t take a week for Mary to make contact.
A couple of days later, I got a call from the receptionist where I worked. She told me I had a visitor. When I went out front and saw Mary standing there, wearing a green midriff-bearing tee-shirt and a tiny pair of cutoff jeans, I almost turned around and went back inside. Something told me she hadn’t come just to see where I worked.
“Follow me,” I said, as I escorted her into our lunchroom, which was empty at that moment.
Even before the door could close all the way, she blurted out, “We’re getting a divorce!”
Seeing the longing in her eyes, I said, “It won’t work.”
“What won’t?”
“Us; I’m married, and I love my wife. I would never think of cheating on her.” Mary’s expression fell. After a moment, I asked her, “Why did you come here? What did you expect to happen?”
She shrugged, “I’m not sure.”
The both of us remained silent for a moment, then she announced, “I won’t be coming to the next meeting.” I should have been surprised, but I wasn’t. She continued, “I’m going to spend the next couple of weeks with my sister in Manhattan.”
“What about Ron?”
“He has to start his book tour.”
Feeling a sense of finality, I said, “I guess I won’t be seeing you anymore.”
Again, she shrugged. “Maybe . . . You never know.”
Then as I watched, she turned and walked out of the lunchroom.
I waited until I was sure she had left, then returned to the mailroom. For the rest of the afternoon, I found myself haunted by a deep sense of loss.
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