by Lev Raphael
“Opium?” I asked.
“Alfred Sung, darling.” With a moue she said, “Opium’s hopelessly outdated. You should spend some more time around the right sort of woman.”
The room was packed, and crackled with grumbling and hostility, as if Coral’s summons had pulled everyone away from work on stunning, life-changing manuscripts. The words drifting my way were “waste of time” and “What crisis?” Juno and I found seats close to the back and by the door, where she somehow crossed her elegant legs and managed to look comfortable in her confining seat.
I’d chatted with Stefan during the day, briefly, and he was skipping the meeting. As the writer-in-residence he got away with doing that, and I was envious. He was mildly hungover, and headed home for a nap before dinner. A nap struck me as a wonderful idea.
“Isn’t this thrilling?” Juno said spitefully, rolling her r.
People around us glanced sidelong at her as if she were talking in a movie theater and they wanted to shush her but felt intimidated.
“That’s all you do here is have one ridiculous meeting after another. What a bunch of wankers.”
Whether she meant EAR or SUM as a whole, I couldn’t help but agree, though I tried not to smile. We seemed addicted to meetings at SUM, addicted to the appearance of “meaningful deliberation” about something. And it had reached monstrous proportions in the college housing EAR. Our sullen Dean Bullerschmidt was fond of breakfast meetings and had imposed this tyranny on his staff. I couldn’t imagine anything drearier than haggling over administrative policy at seven in the morning—at Denny’s! At least Coral Greathouse had set a decent time for us to meet, and we didn’t have to cope with half-cooked home fries.
Coral swept in just then, her expressionless face even blanker than usual, as if she were fighting to extirpate even the smallest hint of emotion. After her came a tall, thin man and a small woman so round that, standing side by side off behind Coral, they made a number 10. In contrast to her impassiveness, they were beaming so heartily they seemed clownish.
The faculty members settled into a hostile silence before Coral even cleared her throat. Backed by the mystery couple, she nodded her appreciation.
“Thank you for being here. We’ve all been shocked by the death of one of our students. Because Jesse Benevento was an English major, I know that what happened to him is affecting students and faculty alike. That’s why I’ve invited Douglas and Anka Nelson from the Counseling Center to talk to us today about grief and loss.”
There was an unpleasant stirring in the room, like when the sand ripples in a horror movie just before some creature lunges up and attacks the hero. I didn’t have much faith in anyone at the Counseling Center, whose budget had been cut year after year, sending the better staffers into private practice, or so the gossip went.
Coral sat in a chair at the front, and the Nelsons took center stage with what I thought was an incongruous delight, as if they were amateur lounge singers finally getting their chance to show us their stuff. But I guess any expression of theirs would be strange, since they were so badly matched even though they both seemed in their late fifties: hulking Douglas over six feet, stoop-shouldered, and crepe-faced, Anka round and red and tiny-eyed.
He began. “I’m Douglas—this is Anka, and we are so genuinely pleased to be here.”
His wife beamed and nodded. “That’s so very true. We can’t commend your chair enough for her foresight.” Together they faced Coral and quietly clapped their hands in a smarmy little ovation.
“Christ almighty,” Juno sighed. Lucille Mochtar slipped into the room just then and took a spot standing at the back. She nodded at me.
“Because—” Douglas said, his voice rising, “because as professionals we know all about grief and loss after a trauma—”
“How about the grief of listening to a turd?” Juno rumbled, making no attempt at all to keep her voice down.
“—and understand that you all may feel utterly out of your depth faced with such a situation, since none of you would be professionally equipped to handle it.”
“I wish I were equipped with a fucking Uzi,” Juno rumbled, and I think the Nelsons may have heard her, because their expression changed just briefly before settling back into inanity. Around us, people were stretching and shifting in their miserable little chair-desks, or trying to.
“And before we get under way, we both want to assure you that we will come to any class of yours or any office whenever we’re needed, day or night.”
“Great,” Juno grumbled. “Counselors on Wheels.”
Then, as if they were circus jugglers tossing pins back and forth, they went through several provisos, each starting up at the exact moment when the other stopped.
“So, before we begin, some words of wisdom. Remember,” Douglas said. “Be right here every moment.”
“—and listen with your heart,” Anka picked up.
“Don’t blast people with blame—”
“—and be open to change—”
“What you say here is just about you, so keep other people’s stories confidential.”
“No consequences!” Anka cried out, with her hands locked in sincerity. “No getting even for what someone says!”
Douglas smiled. “Forgive, and give love.”
They both sighed together at that, obviously pleased with the sentiment and with their timing. I would not have been surprised if they’d launched into “Getting to Know You.”
“Now, studies show—” Anka began, and I confess I tuned out, since nothing makes me sleepier than quotations from social science research—for me it’s the intellectual equivalent of curling. I did hear her talking about copycat suicides on university campuses, but I don’t know why she brought it up. Jesse’s death was a murder—was she saying people would kill themselves in grief?
“What is he on about?” Juno muttered, when Douglas took over and started juggling “signs of stress and depression.” He looked her way, but clearly wasn’t ready to quell or question her. Perhaps he hadn’t quite heard what she said.
But Lucille was closer, and from behind us she interrupted: “Juno, could you be quiet, please?” And in the now-silent room, everyone turned. Lucille was looking right at Juno with no hostility on her face, just neutral inquiry. “You’re very distracting, and I’d like to hear what the experts have to say about all this so that I can help my students.”
I’m not sure what people expected. Maybe for Juno to get livid, leap from her chair-desk, and attack Lucille, but she did none of those. Sweetly, she said, “Coddle them, you mean.”
Anka spoke up. “I see there are some very strong feelings in the room.”
Juno rolled her eyes, and with all that extravagant hair, it was as dramatic as some colorful bird’s mating ritual.
Lucille moved forward. “I don’t think we’re taking this seriously enough.”
Coral Greathouse sighed, clearly relieved to be publicly supported.
“It’s an emergency,” Lucille pressed. “And we should do everything possible. Why not expand our office hours to make ourselves more available to students to help them through their anxiety?”
That produced moderate pandemonium. Les Peterman, the rangy Americanist who seemed more interested in hoops than teaching, said, “Nonsense! Waste of time!” Martin Wardell shouted, “Not in a million years!” I knew that he never returned student papers promptly, so more office hours would expose him to added student hassling.
Little Iris Bell banged her fist down. “Absolutely not!” she cried. “What about us? We’re overworked and stressed out, who’s concerned with our needs?” Around the room, she was seconded by moaned complaints-—like whiny middle schoolers shocked by a pop quiz.
“More office hours?” Carter Savery shot. “Nobody comes to my office as it is.”
“Good, good,” Douglas said, nodded enthusiastically, as if this was group therapy. “Feel your feelings.” But our chair didn’t look at all pleased—in fact, she was tur
ning red.
Juno extricated herself from her chair, thrust her chin and bosom up, and said, “Life is tough, life can be horrible. But I for one refuse to become a touchy-feely bleeding heart. I’m a professor, not Oprah Winfrey, and I don’t intend to counsel any student, expand my office hours, or go on a departmental retreat, bang drums, and cry about my childhood so that everyone else will think they know me! I’m not interested in making friends and being close. That’s not what I was hired to do!”
Calls of “Bravo” filled the air amid outraged questions: “What retreat? Who’s going on a retreat? Where?”
Juno stalked from the room, heels tattooing the linoleum floor. Of course, she could say whatever was on her mind without fear of consequences. She was only a visiting professor and leaving at the semester’s end. But her remarks had kindled the easily ignitable spirit of EAR, and her exit was like a cannon shot signaling a rebellion. With almost everyone up and jabbering and the Nelsons vainly trying to hold the floor and promote mutual understanding and tolerance, Coral suddenly shouted, “Okay—enough—this meeting is over!” She hustled the Nelsons from the room as if she were a Secret Service agent protecting her president.
I half expected dancing and a rousing chorus of “Ding dong, the witch is dead!” Instead, my suddenly deflated colleagues drained out of the room, while I wondered how this contretemps would play in the campus newspaper. EAR had a bad enough reputation for contentiousness as it was—this would make us even more of a joke. And would Coral Greathouse blame me somehow for sitting next to Juno and not keeping her quiet? Could she possibly believe that anyone could silence Juno?
But hadn’t she been right to call in counselors? Wasn’t the simmering hostility a form of denial? One of our students had been killed, and here we were bitching and moaning instead of facing what it could mean to us as professors, and maybe more intimately, as human beings.
Lost in all this dismal speculation, I didn’t notice Iris Bell and Carter Savery creep up on me, but there they were, as large as life—in Oscar Wilde’s pungent phrase—and not half as natural. “What did you think of the meeting?” Iris asked, eyes pinning me to my seat.
Like Mad about You’s Paul facing Jamie, I knew my answer wouldn’t even come close, but I popped out with, “It was short?”
Iris and Carter exchanged a look I couldn’t interpret, then nodded and left me alone there. If the question was a test, it seemed clear that I’d failed it. Just as I realized—now that the tumult was over—that I’d failed Lucille. I should have said something to defend her, even though I wasn’t convinced adding office hours was necessary. The meeting had quickly turned into a sort of referendum on her, or at least it felt that way—and what had I done?
I hurried up to our office to apologize to Lucille, passing through empty halls and empty stairs. Like schoolchildren let out at the end of the day, the professors of E, of A, and of R had scattered as quickly as possible.
I was disappointed in myself. After only a few years in this department, I’d already been ground down by the cynicism and smoldering rage usually masked as boredom. My first year, if Lucille were my friend, I’d have been conscious of the need to support her from the very beginning, not hashing out afterward what I should have done.
But some of that was also due to the rushing events of the last few days, which had left me much less capable of focusing—and hell, after teaching all day, what I needed most was a chance to unwind, not a barrel plunge over the falls of academic discord.
She was gone when I got there. Of course. Embarrassed, attacked, who would stay around? I closed the door and sat at my battered old desk feeling drained, even beginning to wonder if I’d been too cocky taking on the Norton Critical Edition. Well, once that bleak question tumbled out into the open, others followed, and I sat there giving myself the third degree. Who’d I think I was, imagining I could pick up a project originally given to a senior Wharton scholar? And even if I could do it, I’d probably miss the due date on the contract, and the whole thing would be a waste of time—I’d never get tenure based on it anyway.
I had not only checked into Heartbreak Hotel, I’d taken the Misery Suite. I was soon musing over Stefan’s disastrous news and worrying again about Sharon’s dizzy spells, and even poor Angie. What had happened to her? Should I find out if anyone had filed a missing persons report on her?
Hell, even my office seemed proof of what a pathetic trap my life had become. No amount of well-framed Matisse posters could camouflage the grotesquely high ceiling, flaking gray-green paint, and ominous exposed pipes. It was a cold, decrepit, abandoned kind of room—evidence of how little SUM cared about our department.
When someone knocked on the door, I recalled Dorothy Parker’s bleak question at such times: “What fresh hell is this?” But I didn’t say it.
“Professor Hoffman? It’s Bill Malatesta?”
“Door’s open,” I called, and Bill entered, looking unusually irate, though stylish as ever in black.
“Can I sit down?” he said, halfway into the comfortable chair I have for my students. I nodded. Lanky, handsome, athletic, Bill was generally cool and communicative, so I was startled to see that he actually seemed to be struggling with himself to frame whatever it is he had to say to me. When he’d knocked, I’d felt aggrieved to be interrupted, but now I felt sorry for him, and thankful, as always, that I was no longer that young, whatever the problem. So what if he was big and lean and had a fairly promising future as EAR’s star grad student? He was still only a grad student, a degree-driven serf.
“I’m really pissed off,” Bill said, face uncharacteristically taut, and that’s when I remembered he’d mentioned wanting to talk to me about another graduate student. God—how long ago was that? “It’s Delaney Kildare.” He said the name venomously, the way you’d pronounce a curse, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d bitten his thumb or performed some other small ritual of disgust.
“Delaney’s been nominated for a Distinguished Teacher Award in the college.”
“What’s wrong with that?” I asked, though the news surprised me.
“How’d that happen if he just got into the department?”
I shrugged and suggested that maybe Delaney was a good teacher—wasn’t that the obvious reason faculty and graduate assistants got nominated for the university-wide honor?
“No way. There are rumors he has pull—everybody says so. He’s tight with the dean.”
I didn’t say that Stefan had told me the yearly award, which went to one professor and one graduate student in every college, was highly political and the subject of endless intrigue. Delaney had practically bragged about being able to get Dean Bullerschmidt to do what he wanted, so I figured the rumors about the award had been started by Delaney, whether there was anything to them or not. But if it was more than just braggadocio, and if the dean became provost, then Delaney would have an extremely powerful friend at SUM.
“Bill—what’s the problem? So Delaney’s nominated—and so he even gets the award, though that’s not likely, given that he’s a first-year TA for us. The competition from other departments in the college is bound to be more experienced. And why do you care? You’ve already won Best Teacher. And you’re finishing up your degree this year.” I knew that Bill had garnered seven interviews at MLA and was currently working through a set of callbacks, which made his job prospects look very good.
“Because he’s a fraud,” Bill blurted out “He’s a plagiarist!”
Like a gunshot, that word seemed to impose a profound silence on the room and both of us. Despite all the problems and blind spots, the rampant grade inflation and lack of real concern for students’ educational and personal welfare, EAR and the university took plagiarism as seriously as a charge of witchcraft in old Salem, and if proven, it was almost as damning. Undergraduates would automatically flunk the course in which they’d plagiarized, with no hope of appeal, and graduates were kicked out of their degree programs.
I wai
ted for Bill to present his evidence, and somewhat belligerently, he dished out some farrago about Delaney stealing an idea for part of a paper in their critical theory seminar. The longer and more angrily he spoke, the more he convinced me that he didn’t have any real proof, and I began to speculate whether this series of grievances and charges had some personal core.
Bill’s tirade wound down, and suddenly shamefaced, spent, he said, “I don’t like the way Delaney acts with my wife. The way he looks at Betty, and talks to her. It’s too intimate.”
It sounded oddly childish—“Mom, make Suzie stop staring at me!”—and I didn’t have the faintest idea how to respond. Besides, I knew from experience that Bill and Betty didn’t always get along, and that Bill himself wasn’t exactly the most truthful person. I thought of asking him if he’d seen Chasing Amy, where the lead tried to work out a conflict by proposing he, his bisexual girlfriend, and his best friend sleep together.
“It’s not just her,” Bill muttered. “We share an office downstairs.” TAs were jammed five, six, or more to an office in the hot, airless, stinking basement that was definitely steerage class in our departmental Titanic. “And I see what he does with the girls in his classes.”
“Are you saying he’s sexually harassing his students? With witnesses?”
“Gimme a break. He’s not that stupid. He just sits there and grins, his legs spread out like he’s some fucking Antonio Sabato advertising Calvin Klein.” He was right about that. I’d certainly seen Delaney spread his legs as if laying out a buffet; but then Bill was not averse to showing off his body either. Bill had been sounding peevish. But there was no mistaking his outrage when he growled, “He better not try anything, or he’s dead meat.”
“Bill, come on—” I tried to think of something calming to say but felt utterly out of my depth.
He shook his head and shoulders like someone in a bar furiously twisting away from friends who were trying to hold him back from a fight. Then he rose without saying anything and strode out of my office, leaving the door open as if afraid that he might slam it so hard it’d crack.