“You should take a ticket and get in line.”
“Why?”
“Toes got the tenure spot.”
“Oh, God, baby. I’m sorry.” She gave him a supportive hug, but with the news she was about to share, it was hardly a shock.
“Okay, go ahead. Throw another log on the bonfire of my discontent.”
“So, I can hear what happens in Milton’s office, right? I usually tune it out, but I heard Milton say your name. He was talking to Martika. The second hearing is just for show. They’ve already made up their minds.”
“I should have known as much. I’m such an idiot.”
“I am going to hurt that woman.” D’Arcy explained that the meeting was to paper things over in case Eph sued later. “After Milton left, I went onto his university email account, which I have access to. I did a search for your name. Dozens of emails came up, mostly from Martika and counsel. From what I could gather, universities are sued on Title IX decisions all the time and frequently settle, but those settlements are peanuts—‘small beer’ was how Milton put it—compared to how much they receive in federal funding every year, so all in all they view it as a reasonable trade-off. But they still try to minimize the damage.”
“D’Arcy, I love you, but you have to stop.”
“The point is, they think you’d win a case against them.”
“Sweetheart, you’re going to get fired.”
“I’m not sure I care.”
“I do.”
* * *
Was this his last time on campus? He wasn’t sure why he was even going to the hearing. Did he need to play along with their star chamber? He also didn’t know why Lulu Harris still had it in for him, but he was strictly forbidden from contacting her. Title IX, he was told, again. He sighed, knowing it was in his DNA to follow the rules, even when rules were rigged. On some level, too, he still felt love for this place. He couldn’t just turn it off with a switch.
Those feelings did not apply to Martika Malik-Adams.
A secretary led Eph back to the same conference room as before and told him to wait. He could still hear the thumping beat in the plaza outside with someone occasionally saying, “Check, check.”
A full half an hour later Martika, Stephanie Coughlin, and the stenographer came through the door and took their seats. “This is the second session of Professor Ephraim Russell’s Title IX hearing, called to order,” Martika began, wasting no time. “Hello, Professor, how are you today?” She flashed some feral teeth. Eph assumed it was an attempt to smile.
“Under the circumstances, I don’t know how to answer that question.”
“I feel like we got off on the wrong foot last time, and I apologize for that. We’re not on anyone’s side, we’re only trying to establish the facts.”
“That strikes me as a difficult task when it’s one person’s word against another’s,” said Eph.
“We all do the best we can, don’t we? I should say we are very appreciative of your help in understanding what happened.” Martika waited for a response from Eph, but it wasn’t forthcoming. “Anyway, I’d like to put aside the day in question for the moment. If you would, tell us a little bit about yourself.”
“I don’t understand.”
“We’d like to know you better. Indulge us. We want to understand Ephraim Russell, the person, so we can make this process as fair as possible.”
Martika was taking a different tack today, and despite everything D’Arcy had told him, a small part of him wanted to believe. This was Devon, a place where the highest ideals were supposed to be upheld. A place of beauty and truth. But, no. His naïveté could only be pushed so far. She, and by extension the university, was lying to his face. This was a game he didn’t need to play.
“Well, Martika, I like riding my bike and eating pizza, especially with clam sauce. I’m not really a morning person and I’m partial to long walks in the rain.”
Malik-Adams stared blankly. “I see. And do you walk in the rain often?”
“Oh, yes. I monitor the forecasts for bad weather.”
Martika took some notes. Is she really writing that down? His stenographer friend was clicking away.
Martika forced another smile. “Oh, you’re making a joke.” She tried her best to chuckle. “But seriously, tell us what makes Ephraim Russell, the man. I believe you have roots in the South somewhere?”
“I thought we covered that at the last rodeo.”
“We’d hate to overlook anything, especially something that might help. Wouldn’t you say that’s a good thing?”
“Okey-dokey. But I don’t see what it has to do with whether I laid a hand on Lulu Harris. Which I didn’t, by the way. Did I mention that?”
“Professor Russell, it is within our purview to ask any questions we like.”
“Then I take the Fifth.”
“About where you’re from?”
Stephanie Coughlin leaned in. “I’m afraid that the Fifth Amendment is a legal construct that doesn’t apply here, Professor.”
“Okay, I plead the Fourth.”
“Professor, there’s no such thing, and again, you are confusing this with a legal procedure. This is not a court of law. Please answer the question, if you would.”
“Fine. I’m Southern.”
“Whereabouts?” Martika continued,
“Here and there. Does it matter?”
“I’m having trouble understanding your defensiveness, Professor. I believe you told the Bias Response Team that you were from Florida, is that not right?”
“That’s where I spent a number of years, yes.”
“But not where you were actually raised…” Martika shuffled through some papers until she found the one she wanted. “If I were to look at a copy of your background file from HR, is that what it would say? That you’re from Florida?”
“Excuse me, but once again, what does this have to do with Lulu Harris?”
“It gets to character and veracity, Professor. How about your spare time? Are there organizations you get involved with?”
“Scrabble.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I am a member in good standing of the National Scrabble Association. Great game, Scrabble. Did you know I once scored one hundred and eight points on a single word? Gherkin. It’s a small pickle.”
“I see.” Martika wasn’t sure if her chain was being yanked, which it most definitely was. “What about political inclinations? Could you share your thoughts there?”
“Absolutely. I am stridently opposed to inclinations.”
“Professor—”
Stephanie Coughlin leaned over and whispered something in Martika’s ear.
“I withdraw the question.” Continuing, Martika said, “You wanted to talk about Ms. Harris. Let’s do that. Would you say she seems like a troubled girl?”
“Well, you’ve seen her crawling around campus just like I have. I’d say she’s flat-out nuts.”
“But what about before?”
“Before what?”
“Before this recent behavior.”
“I have no idea. But the girl hit on a professor and then lied about it, so yeah, maybe.” Lied came out laah’d.
“Would you say she’s attractive?”
“What?”
“She’s a very pretty girl, wouldn’t you say?”
“I don’t know.”
“I think anyone would agree she is. She’s also quite young, isn’t she?”
“Relative to what?”
Martika ignored the question. “So here we have this young, pretty girl, one that is also troubled, all alone with you when you’d been drinking. The situation must have seemed all too easy.”
“Easy for what?”
“Easy to take advantage of. Tell me, Professor, do you like young girls? Do they turn you on?”
Eph had been clenching and unclenching his fists so hard that his nails had drawn flecks of blood. His head throbbed. How did I get here? He looked across at Martika, sitti
ng there like a ravenous vulture. What gave her the right? What?
A feeling of pure clarity came over Eph for the first time since this all began. It came as if a voice, and that voice said, Screw it. He sat up bolt straight and said, “Lady, I am from Ashley fucking Alabama. I like country music, I hate kombucha, and I think dressing up as a vagina is idiotic. Furthermore, as we say in Ashley, Lulu Harris is some serious sugar, but I never laid a hand on her. I think both you and this hearing are a complete joke, and just to be clear, for about five minutes I considered voting for Donald Trump.” Eph leaned back and put his feet up on the conference table. “Now what else would you like to fucking know?”
The two women stared in shocked silence. Martika turned the shade of a ripe eggplant and her mouth twitched. “Professor Russell! You were warned for the last time to take this proceeding seriously. I will be forced to report you did not!”
Eph gave Martika the most serious, forehead-furrowed look he could muster.
Then he winked.
“Mr. Russell!” She was screaming now. “You are—”
“Dean, perhaps this is a good time for us to take a break,” said Stephanie Coughlin.
“No!” Martika yelled. She turned the full focus of her fury back to Eph. “Look at me, Professor. Look very carefully. You want to treat this as a joke, be my guest. It makes my job easier. But you should take me very seriously. You will take me seriously!” Waves of heat radiated off her and bits of spittle flew from her mouth. Suffused with the rage of someone whose obvious importance was not properly recognized by those around her, she then rose out of her chair to say something else. It was at that very moment, Martika Malik-Adams, Devon dean of diversity and inclusion, farted. Not a small, sneak-it-out kind of fart, but an emphatic, clarion one, finding its full voice through a thin barrier of straining spandex.
Eph’s eyes went wide, and for the first time in weeks, he laughed. As Martika stormed out of the room, he laughed and laughed until tears came to his eyes.
America’s Sweetheart
D’ARCY POKED HER head into Milton’s office. “Sir, there’s someone here to see you.”
“Not now, D’Arcy.” He was about to call the Steering Committee to share the latest developments. The ship had been righted, as it were. The Crawl was coming to an end, women’s groups had been mollified (albeit with some generous funding), and the historical scourge of fraternities would soon be over. All in the last week. It felt good to lead.
“Sir, it’s Camille Thornton,” said D’Arcy in an exaggerated whisper.
“Camille Thornton? Here?” He’d always hoped they might meet, but she’d never come back to campus. Until now.
“Yes, sir. She’d like a moment of your time. I’m supposed to remind you she went to the drama school.”
“Yes, of course. Send her in!”
“Right away.”
“Oh, and, D’Arcy, please reschedule the call with the Steering Committee.”
“Of course, sir.” Milton tried to compose himself, but when Camille swept into Milton’s office, his heart fluttered. That smile!
“Ms. Thornton. I am honored,” he said, beaming.
“Thank you, President Strauss. The honor is mine.” She flashed her trademark smile again. It was broad and elfin and had melted the hearts of a generation of moviegoers. If it had lost any of its luster, Milton wasn’t noticing.
“Please, call me Milton.”
“Milton. Thank you for seeing me without an appointment. And call me Camille. Please.” She touched him lightly on the forearm.
“My pleasure, Camille. It’s always good to welcome back one of our lost lambs.”
“Lost no more!”
For a few moments, Milton just stared, grinning foolishly.
“Do you think I could sit?”
“Oh! Yes, of course.” Milton led her to the sitting area. “What can I get you? Some coffee? A glass of wine, perhaps?”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
“So tell me, how can Devon help one of her favorite daughters?”
“I’ve flown across the country to speak with you. It concerns Lulu Harris.”
“Ah, our crawler. Very impressive girl. May I ask your interest?”
“You certainly may. I’m making a film, and it would be helpful if I could talk to her. For research.”
“A new film. Wonderful! Are you allowed to tell me what it’s about?”
“Of course. It’s called Gender Games. I play a woman named Molly Fletcher, the mother of a college-age girl—”
Milton waved a hand dismissively. “College age? Impossible!”
Camille laughed. “Flattery will get you everywhere, good sir, particularly where I’m from. Is this how you raise all that money?”
“Merely stating the obvious.” A goofy smile was still plastered to Milton’s face.
“Anyway, the girl is off at college, and as it happens, she suffers an assault at the hands of several boys. When the girl publicly accuses them, they set about destroying her reputation. This leads tragically to her suicide. The mother, my character, comes to campus to seek revenge.”
“Sort of a feminist Death Wish? You’re the distaff Charles Bronson?”
“You know your film history! Yes, but perhaps a bit more topical and definitely edgier. My character exacts her revenge in fitting ways, if you know what I mean.”
“Oh, dear.” Milton crossed his legs reflexively. “It sounds like a hit!”
“That’s so nice of you. Perhaps we could put you in a cameo. Much of the film is set on a college campus…”
Milton’s face lit up. “You know, I used to be somewhat of a thespian myself! I played the Stage Manager in Our Town my freshman year.” Milton held up a theatrical hand and looked into the distance. “‘So this is the way we were in the provinces of New York … the way we were in our growing up and our marrying and our living … and in our dying.’”
“Bravo!” Camille clapped. “I’m sure we can arrange something.”
Milton visibly blushed. “It’s amazing how easily it comes back.”
“Yes, I’m sure. Anyway, I always like to research my roles thoroughly, and I’m sure you can see the parallels here, so I was hoping I might meet Miss Harris.”
“Have you tried reaching out to her?”
“Well, from everything I’ve read, she’s quite private and hasn’t been talking to the media or anyone else.”
“That’s true. She’s been quite the cipher.” Needless to say, he wasn’t sharing Lulu’s recanting of her story with anyone, not even Camille Thornton. Poor girl was confused. “You know, tomorrow is her last Crawl, which means there’s one tonight as well. It might help your research. In fact, you could watch from here if you wanted…”
“That’s very gracious of you. I think I’d like to talk to Lulu before I do anything.”
“Certainly, if she’s willing. I can’t imagine she’d say no to Camille Thornton!” Milton walked to the door and stuck his head out. “D’Arcy, a moment?” D’Arcy entered with pen and notepad. “Ms. Thornton would like to meet Lulu Harris. Would you mind arranging it straightaway?”
“Certainly, sir, although she apparently never responds to calls or emails. I can walk Ms. Thornton over to Duffy…”
Milton turned back to Camille. “It’s a beautiful day. Why don’t I take you over to Duffy Hall myself and we’ll see if we can find the enigmatic Ms. Harris together?”
“That would be lovely. Thank you so much.”
Milton imagined people seeing him squiring Camille Thornton about. Just another day as president of an elite university. Perhaps @FakeUncleMiltie would have something to say …
* * *
Camille Thornton wondered how Milton might react if he knew the truth.
At one time she had been the top-grossing actress in Hollywood, starring in a string of massively successful romantic comedies, famous for her girl-next-door persona. As is the way of Hollywood, though, younger actresses asserted themselves a
nd offers gradually dried up. In an effort to stay youthful, Camille embarked on a series of ill-advised plastic surgeries, the combined effect changing her trademark fresh-faced look into something faintly alien. Her lips were puffy from collagen and her skin unnaturally shiny from a face-lift and Botox injections; not the Camille Thornton her fans knew. It also didn’t help that in real life she wasn’t the bubbly sprite she was on-screen. She had a well-earned reputation in the industry for being “difficult” on set. Now forty-five, she hadn’t had a real role in over three years.
Publicists, agents, studio execs … they all fed her the same crap. We love you, Camille. The next great role is right around the corner, Camille.
She was tired of getting smoke blown up her ass.
Walking down Mathers, Milton and Camille got plenty of shout-outs and wide-eyed stares. No one actually stopped her for an autograph, which disappointed Milton, but Devon students imagined themselves too sophisticated. So much cooler to just shout famous lines from her movies.
“It’s so cute!”
That was Camille Thornton’s signature line from That One Weekend, her equivalent of “I’ll be back.” It was her character’s response to this creep who thought dropping his pants on a first date was the path to her affections. She heard it most places she went, and invariably people thought they were being clever. Bill Murray once told her that “It’s in the hole!” was his own particular cross to bear.
It’s so cute. A career, distilled to three words. There had to be more, a role that meant something, a role that changed people’s lives. She believed with every fiber of her being that Molly Fletcher was that role. Gender Games was topical and it was dark. Total Oscar bait. Molly Fletcher was the role of a lifetime, the kind of strong woman audiences were demanding these days. Camille Thornton, girl next door, was about to be buried. Camille Thornton, avenging badass, would be born.
But she needed to take matters into her own hands or nothing would get done.
Just like Molly Fletcher would do.
“All this graffiti, it’s for her?” she asked Milton.
Campusland: A Novel Page 28