Chapter 38 – Carry that Weight

The dorms received Eppie back into the fold with the indifference of prefab architecture anywhere, but not so her dorm mother. Josefina gave her a big warm hug, helped her with her bags, accosted Zara with her heaving bosoms, and then carried every bag of Basque-themed cured goods all at once.

After the kerfuffle, Zara drove home, while Eppie slipped into bed with the weight of Mio’s burden buried in her gut. She dreamt of orange trees in the Tule fog, she dreamed of tamales, and she dreamt of bonny babies taking the breast.

Monday morning, she was up at six, dragging her roommates out of their beds for jogs and yoga. With her newfound fame, they were now pliable to her manipulation, meaning she needed less effort to whip the girls into shape.

8 AM began with English Honours, reviewing Titus Andronicus Act IV after the long break.

The cosy room was warmer than the outside now, making the cramped setting bearable for the students in their dancers’ tights and layered clothing. Half the class was running on fumes or still dazed from digesting Thanksgiving leftovers, creating unnecessary work for Kirby.

In a flashback to the prior week, Kirby reminded them that Lavinia had taken Ovid’s Metamorphoses in her arms and placed it at Titus’s feet. The book was opened at the Philomela section. The scene, the page, and the play all communicated what was done to her.

Dr Kirby told them she had marked their reports. She picked the best as a conversation starter. Naturally, it belonged to Eppie.

“Intertextuality,” Dr Kirby said, “is like a chain of custody, framed around the human experience. In our case, the case of dark passions inherent to our species. Through this chain of storytelling, Philomela wove her testimony into cloth. Lavinia wrote hers in sand. Shakespeare’s epoch was called the English Renaissance, because they had access to the Roman classics. He had access to Ovid; hence, he put Ovid between Lavinia’s stumps.”

The English Professor articulated herself by shrinking her hands inside her long jacket and picking up a Norton’s Anthology. The scene was comical, but no one laughed.

The lesson continued, but the analysis did not. A number of students were struggling with the notion of intertextuality, and Dr Kirby was dead set on beating the knowledge into their heads.

Class ended without Eppie taking more than a single page of notes.

With just under three weeks to go until the Fall Gala, the trend of zombified art-kids too tired to learn was very likely to continue.

Algebra and history came and went, then lunch, where she met up with Lucy and the rest to discuss their Thanksgiving weekend.

Eppie’s Arts block now spent more time at the Playhouse than the blackbox rooms. Costello and Cooper worked like ragged draft horses across the Senior, Junior and Sophomore productions, bolting now and then between the Whitman Theatre and the Sophomores’ residence and putting their cardio to the test.

The first week back, practice had fallen by the wayside, meaning Costello’s criticism grew correspondingly harsher.

“Eppie,” Costello stopped her mid-scene. “What happened? Why has your register changed? You’re not convincing Creon, remember? You are God’s Law. You’re the one in the right. You’re telling Creon how the world works. He is the one trying to convince you.”

“Sorry,” Eppie tried again. Her second run was better, but not by much. Mio’s rotund body haunted her still.

The others did not fare better. Tears were shed, and the practice continued.

In the late afternoon session, things did not improve.

“Eppie,” Cooper halted her. “Return to neutral. Check your voice box.”

Her acting instructor mulled over her performance. “Too… fatalistic,” he said. “Too much death. Antigone is the Bride of Death, but that doesn’t mean she wants to die. Nobody wants to die, least of all like that. The tragedy, if you recall, is about incongruency. It’s about the impossibility of both living and staying true to her belief. She wants to live but cannot find the light—that’s the girl the discerning audience wants to see.”

Eppie tried the scene again. The need to actually talk to Cooper was preventing her from doing what her instructor desired. After another failure from herself and the others, Cooper shook his head. “Take a break. I’ll see you all tomorrow.” The man ran off before Eppie could subtly pull him aside.

After dinner, she joined her peers in the Stray Cat Society and cleaned the place with the volunteers. Once they left, she sat in the dark, chilling with the cats until Lim arrived.

“Fresno went well?” Lim asked as he microwaved up some chicken noodles. “Mr Lee told me you would tell me yourself. You want one?”

“Sure.” Eppie figured she might as well, because the conversation was about to get heavy.

After a few minutes, they sat with Nissin noodles in fur-covered fold-out chairs, slurping MSG ramen topped with strands of cat hair.

In the tiny chair, Lim’s bulk appeared larger than usual. He was already tense. Fat Lim Wang was a smart man, and he knew that Eppie didn’t sit in the dark to wait because she liked the vibes.

Mr Chin took his place on Eppie’s shoulder, sniffing the noodles as she slurped. Knowing now that this marmalade cat was the beginning of Mio and Lim’s story, the cat weighed on her mind far more than it knew.

“So, we met Mio,” she said, her voice neutral.

Lim kept eating. Slowly, deliberately, measuredly.

“She’s with her family, in a loving community that looks after her like their own. She’s become a sort of communal daughter of the Parish. She’s safe, she’s healthy, she’s beloved.”

“I figured she’d make it anywhere,” Lim splurped with gladness. “She’s like a cat, in a way.”

“She’s singing in the choir,” Eppie smiled disarmingly, preparing herself mentally. “I left them a choral song. Sony BMG is going to pay the Parish and Mio a good amount of money for it. It’ll keep them going for some time.”

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.