He always felt a little nervous answering the phone in the Paris apartment. He read French well, but spoke it badly. His wife's French was beautiful, but she was out buying groceries. He answered anyway.
"Bonjour."
A female voice said in English, "Is this Donald Kent? Professor Kent?" Her accent was American. He relaxed.
"This is Donald Kent."
"This is Laney Foster," said the caller. "I was in your Europe Between the Wars class. In the night school."
"Yes?" he said, trying to place her. Europe Between the Wars was one of those large upper division courses with an enrolment of perhaps sixty. He had taught it several times. Laney Foster. Which among the hundreds of students had she been?
"I'm applying to graduate school," she said, "and I'm calling to see if you would write me a letter of recommendation."
An emergency vehicle passed by in the street with the strange cadence of its siren reminding him, as if he needed to be reminded, that he was far from home.
"Oh, my," he said. "I'm on sabbatical. All my records for those classes are at home. And really, you should probably ask someone you had for a smaller class, who had a chance to work with you more closely."
"You don't remember me," she said.
And why should he? He was pretty good at learning names, but when the new roster of students arrived, their names replaced the previous ones. He remembered his graduate students, of course, and a few of the really outstanding undergraduates. "Which term was this?"
"Laney Foster," she said again. She named a semester three years gone. "I sat in the front. I asked good questions, you said. One night, I gave you a ride home. We sat in my car in front of your house for an hour, talking. You asked me if I didn't ever want to drive and just keep driving, all the way into another life."
Oh, her. He felt his heart pound. He was suddenly thirsty. Of course, he remembered her. But what he remembered of her, well, he couldn't possibly write a letter of recommendation based on that. He said, "I'm sorry. Not ringing any bells."
"You don't remember me. I find that very interesting."
"I'm sorry," he said. She was his age, nearly. Long dark hair. What had she said in that conversation? That no one would expect it of her, running away. Yes. Hadn't she, in fact, put her hand on the ignition? And she had looked at him expectantly. Say the word. Just say the word.
"I'm sorry I can't help you," he said. When he hung up the phone, his hand shook.
*
Dear Graduate Admissions Committee,
I am writing to support the candidacy of Laney Foster for admission. Ms. Foster was a student in one of my classes. I think she must have been smart, for I recall that I enjoyed speaking to her outside of class. She wore blue jeans well.
One night I sat with Ms. Foster in her car. Our breath fogged the windows. Across the lawn, inside my house, my wife was grieving for her brother. He died half a world away in Africa. I had never met him, but his absence moved in with us. His absence filled every room and would not leave.
I was weary. Ms. Foster's eyes were dark and alive in the moonlight. It took me longer to get out of her car than it should have, but I did at last say good night. I did at last walk up the steps and into my house.
I am sorry I did not know Ms. Foster better. I am relieved that I did not.
Sincerely,
Donald Kent, PhD
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