Of Rivers and Religion Ch. 01

"No, not really. My sense is that they've all come at that theme from pretty much the same perspective."

"Then, what are you worried about? That's pretty good company, isn't it?"

"Yes, but I guess I'm afraid that everyone else is going to write about the same book, and because it is a novel that everyone has read, I might be devaluing my essay by covering such a conventional topic."

"The spirituality of Huck's world, the God that he sees in the river itself, is not a particularly conventional topic, is it, Ms. Williams?"

"No, I don't think it is -- that's why I chose it -- but everyone's going to write about Huck Finn, aren't they?"

"I suspect that a lot of them will, but what difference does that make?"

"I guess that I'm afraid I'll get lost in the shuffle, so to speak, by writing about such a famous book, instead of a lesser known work."

"So... what you're saying is you're not sure that you can say anything that stands out about a work that is both a great novel, but also undoubtedly a very popular book? Is that about it?"

"Yes, I guess that is what I'm asking." He paused and thought for a moment.

"Now, I know that this is an odd example, but since this thesis that I'm reading has made a similar argument, this happens to be on my mind. So, let me offer something from popular culture to make my point. Are you familiar with The Beatles, Ms. Williams?" It seemed like such a bizarre question, even a stupid question, and, despite his explanation, it seemed to come from nowhere.

"The band? Well, it's not like I listen to them all that often, but sure, of course I am. I love them! I regard them as geniuses!"

"Did you know, Ms. Williams, that Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band was the first album to sell more than 10 million copies? Was that a bad record because so many people bought it?"

I knew he had just exposed part of the flaw in my question, but I answered anyway. "No, it's a great record."

"Yet, in its initial pressing, it didn't sell as many copies as one of Kenny G's albums."

"Really? That's kind of amazing, kind of depressing, actually." I laughed out loud, in part because I couldn't believe that we were really talking about Kenny G, for god's sakes!

"So, theoretically -- and, of course, this is not actually the case, but bear with me if you will while I pose a hypothetical question to clarify. If 49 percent of the population regarded The Beatles as sellouts because they sold so many records, and a different 49 percent of the population regarded Kenny G as a 'genius,' to use your word, because he sold so many, in which camp would you place yourself, Ms. Williams?"

I didn't wait to think about my answer. "Neither. Of course, I would fall into the two percent that thought they were both crazy."

"Then, I suspect you've answered your own question, Ms. Williams!" He stared at me, until his warm smile morphed into a more serious expression. "Excuse me for asking, but what is your first name, Ms. Williams?"

I was a little taken aback by the forwardness of the inquiry, but he seemed so open to talking with me, and so genuinely kind, that I figured that such intimacy couldn't possibly be problematic. Besides, I could tell he already knew the answer to his question. Half the time when he asked anybody anything, he already knew what they were going to say.

"It's Lily," I heard myself saying.

"Do you mind if I call you 'Lily' at least in private conversations, like this one? I promise I won't do so during class time."

"No, I guess not."

"Good, because then you can stop calling me 'Dr. Heard.' Believe it or not, I have a first name too, and I would prefer it if you would call me 'Dave,' at least privately." It seemed like this was something significant, maybe an entrée into a different sort of relationship, which worried me for just a second, but then he smiled again, and it was so natural and innocent that I was completely disarmed. With that business behind him, he got serious again.

"Lily, a work of art stands on its own merits, not its popularity or lack thereof, and the same is true of scholarly articles written by college students about such works of art."

"Okay, Dr.... I mean, Dave. I completely understand. I'm actually kind of relieved, because I've already finished the paper."

"Really?" He seemed really surprised by that. "What if I had told you not to write about Twain? Not that I would ever do that, but I'm curious why you came to see me at all, considering that you'd already done all of the work."

"It wouldn't have bothered me to have written another paper. I like writing and researching. I find it all fascinating."

He smiled and shook his head, denoting his understanding, and then he asked another question, "Do you by any chance have the paper with you, Lily?"

"Yes, I do, but it's not due until next week. You don't want me to give it to you now, do you?"

"That's entirely up to you, Lily, but I do look forward to reading it."

"Really? Why is that?"

"Well, believe it or not, college professors talk too, Lily. Dean Kurimay has mentioned you to me. He seems to be under the impression that you're some kind of prodigy. I guess I want to find out if he's right!" He sat back, smiling at me. I knew that Kurimay, who was the Dean of the School of Arts and Sciences, thought I was a good writer. He'd told me as much when I met with him last summer.

My high school AP Literature and Composition teacher and Guidance Counselor had sent him an essay I had written as an example of my potential in the hopes that the university would accept all of my AP classes for college credit -- which, in fact, it did. Kurimay had made that decision, but I didn't think that college administrators shared things like that with professors.

I started to blush. It wasn't so much out of embarrassment over what he'd said, as it was the fact that he actually knew something about me, and despite that, was still interested in me. I thought of myself as the consummate nerd, but Dr. Heard seemed to see someone else when he looked at me. I felt a little tingle between my legs.

"I'm not a 'prodigy.' I'm just serious, I guess. I want to do well in your course, in all my courses, Dr. Heard.... I'm sorry, Dave... I did it again!" I laughed nervously. "Anyway, I really enjoy your class, and I've learned so much already! It's made me think that someday I'd like to teach."

"Then, I suspect that someday you will, Lily. Now, if you think that your paper is complete, why don't you let me take a look at it? If you're not ready to let me see it, that's fine, too. As you said, it's not due until next week."

"No, I think it's ready. Are you sure you want it now?"

"Definitely! I am just about done with this thesis, and when I complete it, I'll read all about God and the river. It's a topic that's near and dear to my heart!"

"Why is that, Dave?" I was pleased with myself that I was now apparently comfortable enough with Dr. Heard that his first name trickled so effortlessly from my lips.

"Because, like Samuel Langhorne Clemens and Huckleberry Finn, I too grew up just a stone's throw away from the Mississippi -- quite a bit farther north than the two of them -- but I have always found that the river inspires unique thoughts in me, and some of them really are of a spiritual nature."

I figured that was a good sign, at least as far as my grade was concerned, but after that day, I decided that I didn't give a shit about grades. Learning, it seemed to me, was its own reward, and I had already learned so much from Dave Heard.

He took the paper, and I left, and when the rest of the students were shuffling out of the lecture hall at the end of class the next day, Dave called out to me, "Ms. Williams, do you have a moment?"

I paraded my way down the aisle, and when I reached his table in the front of the room, he handed my paper back to me. There were still a few students milling about, waiting to talk to him, but he continued in his most professional tone, "Ms. Williams, I think I'd like to suggest another recipient for your paper. I think this essay is worthy of the university's Literary Review. You've offered some stunningly original insights. It's worth noting that most of the articles submitted to the review are the products of graduate students and professors, so it is high praise indeed that I would recommend the work of an undergraduate, especially a first-year student like you. But I think it's that good! What do you say?"

"Wow! I wasn't ready for this, but sure, sure. I'm honored that you think it's good." I became aware that some of the other students that could overhear our conversation were practically seething, considering that even though no one else in the class had even turned in his or her paper yet, Dr. Heard had already earmarked mine for publication!

"I've written a lot in the margins of this copy, some things that I suggest you read and consider. And I think you'll want to make some changes, though incredibly, not very many. But after you've done that, if you could give me another hard copy and email the electronic version, I will pass it on to the editors. You should know, they've already agreed to publish it. Someone else thinks you're a prodigy, too, Ms. Williams! Congratulations!"

From that day forward, Dave and I had a special relationship. When the review's fall quarterly came out in late October, my essay "Of Rivers and Religion: The Spiritual Quest in Huckleberry Finn" was published. It would be the first of many. I had stolen the essay's title from an album of the same name by the folk guitarist John Fahey that my father had owned. It was a record that I really liked. Somehow the title seemed apropos.

A few days later, on a Saturday night a couple of days before Halloween, Dave invited me over to his house to celebrate the publication of my article. I enthusiastically agreed. I was already beginning to view him in a completely different light, and now my attraction to him was much more than "intellectual curiosity." I was starting to find him undeniably sexy. I think I sensed that he was also attracted to me on a level far beyond a typical student-professor relationship.

I was under the mistaken and absurdly naïve impression that Dave had invited some of the review's other published writers to come over to his house that evening for a dinner party. I don't know why I thought that -- Dr. Heard had never said anything to suggest that possibility -- so I was pleasantly surprised, just a little terrified, and really nervous when, after walking over from my dorm, I arrived at his modest, but charmingly updated Victorian home to find that I was his only dinner guest.

Perhaps subconsciously I already knew that we would be alone together that night, because I had dressed to please him. It was a relatively warm evening for the fall, but there was still an autumnal chill in the air, so it made little sense that I had worn a pretty, flowered blouse that bared my shoulders, along with a skimpy, denim skirt underneath my black leather jacket. Under my clothes, I had selected a pale, blue bra and boy panty set. Considering my attire, my intentions were probably as clear as the October night sky, but if they were, Dave seemed intent on politely ignoring them.

He met me at the ivy covered front entrance, wearing a pair of well-worn jeans, a rumpled dress shirt, and a disheveled head of hair. "Welcome, Lily. I am so glad that you could come. It is always an auspicious occasion to be able to celebrate the publication of a scholar's work, and it is especially satisfying when the scholar is so young and so pretty. Please come in, and make yourself at home." I blushed when I heard the word "pretty," and it was my first clue that maybe, just maybe, Dave Heard was interested in me for something other than my status as his next protégé.

I entered a tastefully decorated home, replete with beautiful oak bookshelves, cabinets, hutches, floors, baseboards, and crown molding. We entered a kind of den and study, filled with leather furniture and bookshelves stuffed with thousands of volumes, and Dave invited me to sit on a long couch that faced a stately fireplace in which a cozy fire roared its welcome.

"Can I get you something to drink, Lily? Some wine, a beer, or perhaps a cocktail? Or, if you prefer, just a soft drink, coffee, juice, or water?" He never acknowledged at that time, nor at any other point in the evening or afterwards, that I was in my late teens and wasn't legally old enough to consume alcohol. I knew that I would eventually partake -- I liked drinking wine -- but I didn't want to send the wrong message, as we were alone together for the first time since that meeting in his office, and this was clearly entirely different.

"For now, I'll just have some water," I said timidly.

"Wonderful! Excuse me while I get our drinks. In the meantime, I don't know whether you like music or not, but if you do, feel free to pick out something to listen to," he offered convivially, sweeping his arm toward the back of the room and the largest collection of recorded music I'd ever seen. "I'll be right back."

I stood up to look. I hadn't noticed the collection or his stereo system until he gestured toward it, but an entire wall of the room was occupied by massive stacks of vinyl records and CDs, and a vintage McIntosh receiver, VPI Classic turntable, Burmester CD changer, Rane Constant-Q graphic equalizer, and several other smaller components whose purposes I could only guess at, all connected to four six-foot tall Legacy Helix speakers that sat forebodingly in each of the four corners of the room like they'd somehow been absconded from Stonehenge. I approached the entire menagerie like a kid in a candy shop.

My own father owned a fairly impressive stereo system and a decent sized collection of vinyl music, so it wasn't that I was an uninitiated millennial who had never before seen an actual vinyl record or a true audiophile's component system, but quite frankly, what I found staring at me shocked me to my core.

If I had to wager a guess, I was confronted by what I think were at least 10,000 vinyl albums and probably another four or five thousand CDs. The stereo system alone was worth at least several hundred thousand dollars, and I couldn't even vaguely calculate the value of the music collection. Everything was in mint condition.

I stood in front of the stacks, and found all of the music had been meticulously catalogued alphabetically by the artists' names. I only spent a few seconds perusing through the As, Bs, and Cs of the vinyl stacks before I came upon a record that I really wanted to hear -- an imported copy of John Cale's Paris 1919, a beautiful collection of mostly mellow songs vaguely themed around a withering and disdainful perspective on the peace accord that ended World War I and, in its short-sightedness, ushered in World War II and 75 million more deaths. The whole thing was intended, as near as I could tell, as an abstract, but quiet and gentle condemnation of everything modern, tinged with resignation and regret.

My father had owned this album, and it was one of my mother's favorites, so I had fallen in love with it, too. Dave had given me permission -- which under the circumstances seemed a reckless thing to do, not knowing a damn thing about me and considering how expensive everything was. But from an early age, I had been methodically trained in how to properly handle vinyl records and how to use a turntable and stereo components, so I didn't hesitate.

I carefully removed the record sleeve from its jacket, the vinyl from its sleeve, found the side I was looking for, and, without ever touching the grooves, placed the record delicately atop the turntable, turned on the power to the turntable, receiver, and equalizer, and then raised the hydraulic tonearm and dropped the stylus onto the vinyl's first track.

Then, I returned to the couch. Just as the first bars of Lowell George's slide guitar that opened my favorite song on the album -- a tune eponymously referencing Dylan Thomas' prose poem, entitled "A Child's Christmas in Wales" -- warbled through the speakers, Dave returned with a bottle of water, a tumbler filled with ice cubes, and a glass of white wine for himself. He had a stunned look on his face.

"Lily! You know John Cale? How is it possible that someone your age is familiar with this record? It had to have been recorded more than 15 years before you were born!"

I smiled, strangely prideful that he approved of my selection. "My father owned this record. It's one of my favorites. But hold on, didn't you once allude to Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band? That record is at least five years older than this one, right? And you thought I would know it."

"You're right about the years, but I think that John Cale is quite a bit more obscure than The Beatles, don't you agree? Regardless, I am truly impressed! You have remarkably good taste, no matter your age!"

"Thank you. So do you! I thought my father owned a lot of music, but I could spend a year looking at your collection. I've never seen anything so thorough!"

"It represents a lifetime of collecting. I guess I'm something of a packrat! I do the same thing with books and movies." He placed the glass and water bottle on two coasters on the end table beside my end of the couch and, with his wine glass in hand, took a seat beside me. He wasn't so close that he was touching me, but I inferred much from his decision to sit in such close proximity. "So, Lily, are you a fan of the Velvet Underground, too? Is that how you came to know John Cale?" he asked, sipping his wine.

"Yes, one of the other records I spent a lot of time listening to when I was in high school was The Velvet Underground and Nico. It conjured up all sorts of images that I had about the New York arts scene in the 60s, you know -- Andy Warhol, the Factory, Edie Sedgewick, art films, the whole S/M thing, strobe lights, the multimedia and performance art phenomena -- it all just fascinated me. Besides, I think it's pretty great music, way ahead of its time. Who would have thought that you could have a viola player in a rock band? I'm not sure there would have been punk rock and alternative music without that album." I opened my bottle of water and poured it over the ice in the glass.

"I think you're absolutely correct. So is that the kind of music you usually listen to -- punk rock and alternative?"

"No, not really, at least not so much anymore. I'm not as angry, ironic, or snide as I was when I was 16!" I said with a self-deprecating laugh. "I listen to all sorts of things now. I see you do the same." I drank greedily. I was astounded at how quickly our conversation had put me at ease.

"Yes, I guess I do. If one word could describe my tastes in most anything artistic, I think it would be 'eclectic.'" I smiled. What he had said had made me feel good, like we were somehow simpatico, kindred spirits. The next song came on -- another really gentle, soft melody that was rich in texture and feeling. It was entitled "Hanky Panky Nohow."

"Let me check on dinner, Lily. I hope you're hungry, and I hope you like kabobs. I've got some grilled shrimp, chicken, vegetables, and fruit. I figured at least one of the four would probably appeal to you."

"I like them all," I said smiling, "though I don't think I've ever had grilled fruit. That sounds delicious! Thank you so much for having me over. This is really nice of you."

"No, Lily, it's my pleasure. I think we have a lot in common. I am finding this evening very enjoyable indeed. I hope you are as well."