Panther Hollow
DEAD MAN WALKING. Vincent waited for the elevator in Posvar Hall. Four years was coming down to a single meeting. If the trajectory of his day so far had been any indication of how it would go, he was fucked.
The elevator door opened with a ding. Empty. His chest pounded and hands shook, but he forced himself to step inside and press the button for the third floor. The stainless-steel door closed him in, and he stared at his blurred reflection in the metal. Another ding rang out as he was dragged past the second floor and again when the door opened on the third. They sounded like the beating drums of a funeral march, and he did his best to ignore them.
Just outside the elevator, a woman spoke with an older man about some foreign conflict. They were both dressed in business casual attire. History professors, which didn’t come as much of a surprise in the history department.
“Excuse us,” the woman said, and only then did Vincent realize he was standing in the elevator doorway.
“Sorry.” He slipped past them, his cheeks blazing. The hallway was empty and silent beyond a little chatter leaking from the office doors that lined the walls. Professor Cowart’s office was down the hall on the right. Vincent had figured that out the last time he’d attempted to visit him, but he wasn’t going to turn back again. He was going to face him and explain the situation.
Each step made his heart beat faster and hands shake with more fervor. Sweat crawled down his back, and he knew it had little to do with the winter coat he wore or the backpack slung over his shoulders. So much was riding on this meeting. If today was going so badly, then maybe that was a warning sign from some higher power to turn around and come back another day.
Shit.
He stopped, and before he chickened out, he called James. “I don’t think I can do this.”
“What’s going on? What did he say?” Concern dripped from James’s words like butter on movie theater popcorn.
“Didn’t get there yet.”
“I thought you got off work at four?”
“We got slammed right before my shift ended. Didn’t get out of there until a quarter after. Then, someone stopped me to ask about Damien Wright. He’s the guy I had that thing with freshman year, and apparently, no one has heard from him for like a week. He’s in Myths with me. So, I—”
“Okay, that’s a lot, and we can talk about it later, but just breathe for a hot second because you sound like an old man in an anti-smoking ad.”
He might’ve laughed at that, under better circumstances. He sucked air into his starved lungs, filling his nostrils with the stench of his own sweat. He hadn’t smoked since he started dating James, but a cigarette sounded pretty good right about now.
“Babe, something is always going to happen. You can’t keep putting it off.”
Vincent exhaled. “I know. I’m just…I don’t know.”
“Today isn’t going as planned, but he has office hours until five, right? So technically, you aren’t late.”
“Right.”
Someone called out to James, and he said something Vincent couldn’t quite make out in response before he got back on the phone. “Sorry. Look, I gotta get back to the lab to help clean up for the day. Just don’t leave until you come to an understanding. Most of undergrad is proving that you care enough to work for it.”
With that, he was gone. Vincent took another breath and let his boyfriend’s words wash over him. James was right. He couldn’t keep putting off the meeting, but James’s ideal outcome was a little harder to swallow.
James spoke from the perspective of a student who’d graduated with honors and breezed through his first year of med school at the University of Pittsburgh. Meanwhile, Vincent had barely survived his first three years of undergrad. To make matters worse, he’d only started caring about Professor Cowart’s Myths, Legends, and Folktales class after he got back the rough draft of his final and realized he risked failing out during his last semester.
While he seriously doubted the meeting would end as favorably as James assured him, that didn’t mean it would be as disastrous as he presumed. He repeated James’s words to himself, screamed them in his mind over every second thought that sprung to life until he reached his destination. By that point, he almost believed them.
The office door was shut. A small wooden plaque was fixed to the opaque glass with “Dr. Charles Cowart” printed on it, and a poster was taped to the door below it:
I’ve always preferred mythology to history. History is truth that becomes an illusion. Mythology is an illusion that becomes reality. —Jean Cocteau
White text on a galaxy background. Laminated. Vincent wasn’t surprised to see the poster. He’d heard Professor Cowart babble on about the quote at least a hundred times in class. Beyond the plaque and poster, he could make out the faint silhouette of someone at a desk through the opaque glass. He brought his ear to the door. Silence broken up by the occasional clacking of a keyboard.
Just don’t leave until you come to an understanding.
Vincent knocked on the door.
The silhouette rose and walked over to him. The door swung open. Professor Cowart stood in the doorway. He was dressed in a beige suit with a crimson tie. His salt-and-pepper hair was shaped into a tight Afro that seemed at odds with the unkempt soul patch jutting from his chin.
“Hello.” He said it as a statement, but his furrowed eyebrows made it a question.
“Hi, Professor Cowart. I was wondering—”
“Dr. Cowart.” He motioned his head toward the plaque.
Vincent wiped the sweat from his forehead and pushed back his hair to keep it from sticking to his damp flesh. “Sorry. Dr. Cowart. I was wondering if I could speak with you.”
“And you are?”
“Oh, I’m, ah, Vincent Vicar. I’m in your Myths class.” He offered his hand, but Dr. Cowart walked back into his office.
“Take a seat. I’ll be with you momentarily.”
The office was colored yellow in the afternoon light pouring through the three floor-to-ceiling windows opposite the door. Dr. Cowart took a seat at his desk and resumed typing something on his laptop. Vincent set his backpack on the ground. He sat down in one of the two wooden chairs in front of the desk. The musky smell of tobacco and old books filled the room. The warm light and the smell had a dizzying effect. He felt like he was in a preheating oven.
He took off his jacket and laid it on his lap. Thankfully, he hadn’t sweated through his T-shirt. His phone buzzed in his pocket. James knew he was busy, so it was probably some telemarketer. He ignored it. He didn’t want to give Dr. Cowart any more reason to dislike him. Trying to sit quietly, Vincent waited for his professor to finish whatever he was doing.
Dr. Cowart typed in no apparent rush.
Vincent focused his attention on the bookshelf behind Dr. Cowart to keep his mind from spiraling down a rabbit hole of what-ifs. Worrying about having to retake the class in the fall as opposed to graduating in a little under two months would only make him a bigger ball of stress. On the stuffed bookshelves were small copper figurines of various characters and creatures from stories they’d studied in class. Vincent could make out a wolf stalking a young, hooded girl just behind Dr. Cowart’s head. There was also a Grecian warrior wielding a taut bow, whose name he should know at this point in the semester. The hero’s cape was molded to look as if it were blowing in the wind. Like the warrior could come alive at any second and land an arrow between his eyes.
Dr. Cowart shut his laptop. “Without telling me something I shouldn’t know, you wouldn’t happen to be aware of any reason why Damien Wright has missed my last two classes?”
“No, I’m not.”
“Hmmm. It’s difficult to keep track of all of you in such a large class, but some students, like Damien, make themselves known.”
“Oh?” was all Vincent could think to say. He wasn’t sure if the comment was directed at him or Damien. While missing a week’s worth of classes didn’t seem like something overachieving Damien would do, Vincent hadn’t known him all that well, and he had bigger problems to deal with at that moment.
“You’re a senior, correct?”
“Yeah. I mean, yes, I am.”
“Not a history major, though, are you?” He rubbed his soul patch thoughtfully like some wise old sage.
“No. I’m general studies.” He waited for a lecture concerning the pitfalls of such a degree when just another semester or two could enable him to obtain a more specific and substantial degree.
“Hmmm,” Dr. Cowart said, as if that decided something. “Anyway, what was it you wanted?”
“I was wondering if I could talk to you about the grade I received on the rough draft of my final.” He took his paper out of his backpack. Dr. Cowart made them print out their essays and submit them in person so that he could write out his feedback, which, in Vincent’s case, was little more than a red “D” written on the top of the page with the phrase “off topic” written below it. “I just wasn’t sure how my paper was off topic.”
Dr. Cowart took the paper and leafed through it. “What was the assignment?”
“To look at a story we discussed in class.”
“And for what purpose?”
“To research the historical context and analyze it to understand its legacy.” That was all the assignment guidelines had said.
Dr. Cowart glanced up at him, his eyes narrowing. “And what did you do?”
Vincent wasn’t sure what Dr. Cowart was getting at, but he had a sinking feeling he was walking into a trap. “I traced Grimm’s Hansel and Gretel to the 1635 story, Nennillo and Nennella, and then I examined how it was rooted in oral stories dating back to the Great Famine of 1315-1317.”
“That’s right.” He set the paper down on his desk. “And why did you examine this context?”
Vincent resisted the urge to point to his thesis statement on the first page. “I guess to indicate how this absurd story was inspired by real history, which resonated with readers.”
“I wanted you to examine the historical context. However, as I discussed in class, realism is of little concern to me beyond understanding why these stories continue to affect those who read them centuries later. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I seriously doubt that modern readers are captivated by how the story captures accounts from the Great Famine of 1315-1317. I want to know why this tale has survived the test of time.”
Vincent couldn’t remember whether he had attended the class where Dr. Cowart explained the assignment. If he had, he must not have been paying attention. He wished that archer on the shelf would put him out of his misery, but when Dr. Cowart continued to stare at him, he realized his question wasn’t rhetorical. “I don’t know.”
“Which is why you earned such a low grade on this assignment.” Dr. Cowart slid the paper back to him. His lips tightened like he was fending off a smirk.
Vincent swallowed in an attempt to push down the anger bubbling up inside him. “Because of this grade, I risk failing the class.”
“I don’t believe this grade would have been so devastating if you had a higher grade going into the assignment. That being said, I assign the draft of your final at midterms to ensure there is plenty of time for revisions. I suggest you use the next two months wisely.”
Vincent wanted to interject. Flip his desk. Do whatever he had to do for Dr. Cowart to understand that it was virtually impossible for him to pass the class unless he got a perfect grade on every assignment, including the final draft. Tell him he was already drowning in loans he couldn’t pay off and he couldn’t afford to be there another semester. Explain that it was tough working two jobs and keeping up with all his course work. Demand a new grade.
But he didn’t.
Unlike James, he didn’t have the drive and hard work to back up his words. As much as Dr. Cowart wasn’t softening the blow, Vincent had gotten himself into this situation, and he would have to try, and undoubtedly fail, to get himself out of it.
He collected his things and stood up. “Thanks for taking the time to meet with me.”
“Of course.” Dr. Cowart opened his laptop. Vincent was at the door when Dr. Cowart added, “History isn’t about observation. You have to dig into it and see what’s between the dirt and worms.”
Vincent wondered what great historian had said that quote and whether Dr. Cowart had it printed, laminated, and hanging somewhere in his office. As soon as he got into the hall, his phone vibrated. Below a missed call from an unknown number that surely belonged to a telemarketer was a text from James, asking how it was going. Vincent called him.
“So, what happened?”
The eagerness in his voice made Vincent feel sick. “Can we go for a jog?”
“What? It’s cold out, it’s supposed to like rain or slush tonight, and it’ll be dark in another hour or so. What happened?”
“Sun’s still out. It’s not that cold. The rain isn’t supposed to hit us until later. We have time. Please?” Vincent needed to get away from campus and pump his arms and legs until he forgot about everything except filling his lungs with air.
“Was it that bad?”
Vincent didn’t think he could explain just how poorly it’d gone without crying in the hall. “I’ll explain everything later. Can you bring my sweats and meet me at Schenley Park? We can park on Overlook Drive.”
“If you insist, cutie.”
“Thanks.”
“Just hurry. It’ll be dark soon.”
VINCENT COULD TELL James was pissed from the second he parked his sputtering and kicking 1995 Ford Escort behind him. James leaned against the trunk of his car, back straight and arms crossed like a parent who’d caught his child sneaking into the house after curfew. His blond hair was askew from presumably running his hands through it in frustration, and his heart-shaped lips were pursed. More adorable than threatening, but Vincent kept the thought to himself.
Vincent got out of his car and hurried over to him.
“Twenty minutes for one mile?” James asked.
“Sorry. I got stuck behind this fucking fender bender in front of Phipps, and I couldn’t get around him.”
James’s expression remained unchanged. “Why didn’t you answer any of my calls?”
“Phone died, and I lost my cigarette lighter adapter, remember?”
“You’re a hot mess.”
“Love you too!”
James pulled him into a hug. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
Vincent nuzzled into his chest for a moment before remembering what had brought them there. Pulling away, he asked, “Did you bring my clothes?”
“Back seat, but I think it might be too late for a jog tonight.”
While bursts of pink and orange shot through the trees, the night sky was starting to form. “We still have time. A mile and a half in and a mile and a half back out. We’ll be done long before six.”
“How about we forget about the run and just go home and open a bottle of wine and talk about what happened? I want details.”
His skin was crawling, and wine would do little to stop that. The entrance of the trail was just across the street, promising fresh air and a little distance from the university. He needed a good run. Otherwise, he’d be restless all night. “Please?”
James raised one of his pale eyebrows. “Okay, but let’s make it quick.”
Vincent kissed him and got in the car to change.
James walked around to the window facing the road to prevent passersby from seeing him. “What exactly did he tell you?”
Vincent pretended not to hear him. He didn’t know how to tell James, who’d talked him down from the ledge all night and again right before the meeting, that he’d completely folded. He kicked off his khakis and pulled on his sweatpants. They were an older pair from freshman year that fit a little tight. His faded Pitt hoodie was also snug. Where had James found these old things? He normally jogged in gym shorts and a sweatshirt. He also preferred to jog with his pocketknife, but he wasn’t exactly in a position to complain.
“Did you hear me?” James asked when he got out of the car.
“No. Did you say something?”
“How’d it go? With Dr. Cowart?”
Vincent looked toward the start of the trail. “It’ll be dark soon.”
James sighed. “Let’s go, then.”
They jogged across the street and down the trail. At the fork separating Panther Hollow into the upper and lower trails, Vincent took them right, down the lower trails, which were a little less treacherous. He immediately felt better. Like he was back in Butler, his hometown, jogging through the woods near his house. The distant sound of cars zooming past on the surrounding streets was the only discernible difference.
He moved quickly down the winding dirt path and used the speed to propel himself forward across a stone bridge at the bottom. His breath rang in his ears as he blew small plumes of smoke in the cold spring air. For a moment, he forgot about everything. He wasn’t worrying about his class or how James would inevitably pity him for being incapable of getting anything right. He was just running.
“Hold on.” James slowed to a stop. He rested his hands on his knees and cocked his head to one side. “Did you hear that?”
Vincent hadn’t been paying much attention. “Hear what?”
James shushed him. His red face was screwed up in concentration.
A rustling of leaves in the distance followed by a snapping twig made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He surveyed the woods around them, but he didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.
James laughed. “Just fucking with you. I needed a second to catch my breath.”
“Asshole.” Vincent pushed him. “I think I heard something.”
“Yeah, me trying to catch my breath.”
“No, I’m serious.”
“I mean, take your time, but we better get going soon if you plan to get in three miles.”
Vincent didn’t know why he was acting so paranoid in a public park. Anything from another jogger to a deer could have broken that twig, and the more time they spent discussing it, the less time he could run. Vincent started again, but he kept an ear out this time. He couldn’t shake the sinking feeling that they were being watched.
There wasn’t much he could hear over the sound of their shoes crunching on frosted ground and James’s heavy breaths. James forced in air harder and harder until he requested that they walk for a little while. They were over a mile in, and Panther Hollow Bridge loomed overhead through the bare trees. By that point, Vincent was ready for a break himself.
“I don’t know—how you—do this every day,” James said between breaths.
Vincent didn’t know how James ate whatever he wanted, only worked out occasionally, and still weighed fifteen pounds less than him despite being nearly a foot taller. “Your body eventually adjusts to the torture.”
They continued in silence. The conversation Vincent was avoiding gave weight to the crisp air. He searched their surroundings for another topic of discussion. The sun was starting to set, and the swirled sherbet sky brought the dead woods to life. “It’s beautiful out.”
James kicked a rock on the path. “So, I’m assuming Professor Cowart didn’t change your grade?”
Vincent swallowed. He couldn’t think of any way around that one. “No, he didn’t.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“Not really.” Vincent looked down at the trail to avoid making eye contact.
James stepped in front of him, placed a cold hand under his chin, and lifted his head until they were face-to-face. There it was, written all over his sad eyes and frowning lips. Pity. He kissed Vincent. “I’m sure we can figure something out.”
Vincent pulled away. He wished James would yell at him or tell him how disappointed he felt. Anything other than pity. “We should get going. Right after we pass through this tunnel, we’ll end up at the visitors’ center. We can turn around and jog back from there.”
“Wait. Did you hear that?” James cocked his head to one side again, but he wasn’t nearly as convincing.
“You don’t honestly think I’m stupid enough to fall for—”
James covered Vincent’s mouth. This time he heard it. Someone was making kissing noises and laughing. The sound echoed in the empty woods in a way that made it impossible to pinpoint where it was coming from. Heart pounding in his ears, Vincent pivoted, searching the trees for a source, but in the setting sun, there were too many shadows to make out anything for sure. The person could be standing a foot from them, and he’d be none the wiser.
He tore his gaze from the trees to look at James. His eyes were wide with fear, and his body was tense. A sprinter waiting for the shot of a starting gun. The second they made eye contact, James let out a nervous laugh. “Probably just some kids messing around. We should get going. You said there’s a visitors’ center up ahead?”
The voice didn’t sound childlike to Vincent. It sounded deep and rough.
“Yeah. Leads out to the sidewalk. We can walk around to the cars.” Up where there were streetlights, busy roads, and other people.
They hurried down the path. More of a fast walk than a jog. Vincent didn’t like the idea of running now. He didn’t want whoever had mocked them to think they were scared, and it wasn’t like they were being chased. It was just some kids messing around like James had said.
The sun had disappeared below the horizon when they reached the tunnel formed by one of the massive stone arches that supported Panther Hollow Bridge. There was still enough light to make out their surroundings, but not for long. The stone walls of the tunnel shrouded the path in darkness, convincing Vincent that a long walk back to their cars through the woods would be a much safer option.
He turned to James, who seemed to have come to a similar conclusion. “So, you still want to get in those three miles?”
“Absolutely,” James said. They started back the way they’d come.
They hadn’t taken more than a few steps in that direction when a man yelled, “Where you goin’?”
A scream escaped Vincent’s throat. Just ahead of them, a stocky man stepped out from behind a tree, crushing dead leaves and frosted earth under his heavy step. A smile stretched across his face, and in one hand, he held a crowbar.