Lies of Love

by Hannovah

  Whatever.

  A week later found me awaiting my evaluation, sitting in the administrative lobby and making light conversation with Vickie about how we spent our Spring Break. Suddenly, Dr. Joseph’s office door opened and Jennifer Alvarez, our Speech professor, marched out, brushing by Vickie and me like we were invisible. When she got to the glass exit doors, she stopped to blot water from her eyes. Vickie and I traded glances of concern.

  I hurried over to Jennifer and placed an affectionate hand on her shoulder. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  Facing me, she said, “I can’t do it. I can’t put out.” Then she frowned at me, and asked, “How could you – married and all? You should be ashamed of yourself.” Gulping down some air, she announced, “I’ll not be coming back after this semester. I just can’t.”

  As she walked to the elevator, I just stood there blinking slow and long, confused at her comments. What was that all about?

  Turning for my seat, I saw Vickie’s eyes quickly drop to her computer and her fingers begin toying uneasily with her braids, and I figured that she had been listening to all that Jennifer had just said to me.

  I took a seat again with my briefcase on my lap. What was Jennifer accusing me of? To my knowledge, she and all of DSU were ignorant of my personal business, unless the dean had said something, and I was sure he would not. I barely knew Dr. Alvarez; I had only spoken to her on a few occasions. Suddenly, I remembered our conversation outside the library when I had used the words answer yes to everything. I had really meant for her to hold workshops and serve on committees and such like: not lie on her back and spread her legs. A cold chill raced from my feet up to my head, as I concluded that the dean may have propositioned her too. Oh boy!

  A buzzer on Vickie’s desk made her raise her eyes from her computer.

  “Dr. Joseph will see you now,” she said, eyeing me questionably.

  Inhaling deeply in an attempt to remove my anxiety, I left the safety of the lobby and stepped into the dipshit’s arena. And as I set foot in there, his cologne began to upset me. Not wanting to be further nauseated, I avoided his ugly eyes which I was sure were going to be merciless and antagonistic. I walked two steps further and stood without saying hi or anything, and neither did he.

  He sat on a thickly padded, black luxury office chair behind his long, shiny, posh desk, and coughed, “Close the door,” sounding like an angry football coach.

  After following the command, I waited for an invitation to be seated, but from the artic atmosphere, I anticipated that such a gesture was not forthcoming. I just went ahead and bold-facedly sat on a little wooden chair on the other side of his desk, facing him. Placing my briefcase on the floor, I dodged any eye contact, and I almost fanned away his scent. But not wanting to be overly rude, I simply rubbed my nose instead.

  He tossed a white form on the desk, in front of me, like if he was feeding slop to hogs in a pen. I recognized it to be DSU’s Evaluation Form where my name and current semester were written at the top. I glanced over it and saw the usual Exemplary or Outstanding written next to all categories, including Teaching.

  “Just as you expected?” he asked, sarcastic like.

  I nodded and automatically searched for a pen. His dark blue coffee mug with the gold engraving of a tomahawk sat on his desk, inches from my hand. All deans and administrators had this mug and most used theirs for drinking coffee, but his housed a variety of writing implements. I was about to reach for a pen to sign when he snatched away the document and shoved it aside.

  “Not so fast,” he barked.

  He replaced it with another one that also bore my name and current semester written at the top. But on this one, I had received Unsatisfactory or Improvement-Needed in each category. I lost oxygen for a second and my bottom jaw dropped like if a ten-pound weight was hanging from it. Then my head felt like it was growing warmer and larger.

  “Not reaching for a pen now, are you?” he chuckled.

  I looked up at his demon eyes and asked, “What is this? Some type of frigging game?”

  “Game?” His lips curled happily. “I like games. Let’s play. You can have any evaluation that you want.” He gently tapped on both forms with his large fingers. “It’s your move.”

  I knew that running with his ball was the dumbest move to make, but I was curious to see how this thing would play out. Holding down my infuriation, I pointed to the good evaluation and said, “That one.”

  “Okay,” he said, sliding it back in front of me. “It’s yours.”

  I reached for a pen in his coffee cup, and in a flash, his big ugly hand grabbed mine. “My move,” he declared. Releasing his grip, he said, “I have a four-day conference to attend in Texas, and I’d like you to accompany me.”

  You must be out of your goddamn mind. Cuss words were jumping around in my head and threatening to fall out of my mouth, but I contained them. “Sure, okay,” I said. “But on one condition.”

  His eyes sparkled. “I’m listening.”

  “My husband must come along too.”

  The good evaluation form was pulled out from underneath my fingers and the other was slid across the desk fast; so fast, I dropped my hand on it to stop it from falling off the edge.

  “Sign!” he snapped.

  I froze in my seat.

  Clumsily, he pulled a pen from his mug and shoved it at me, repeating louder, “Sign it!”

  Standing up, I gawked, “I’m not signing that.”

  “Suit yourself. It will be filed under Incomplete, and there will be no future raises for you.”

  My hands found my hips and I began to tremble. I wanted to knock him to the floor.

  He leaned back into his oversized leather chair and rocked with his hands clasped behind his head. “By the way,” he said acting all calm, “Vickie will email you your Summer Term schedule tomorrow.”

  Summer schedule. All the trembling stopped. “I don’t work Summer,” I said, trying to remind him.

  “You do now.” He stood up, looking as intimidating as a gladiator.

  “I never work Summer. That’s why I arranged to do my twelve classes as six in the Fall and six in the Spring,” I tried explaining with six fingers held out.

  He walked around his long desk and came to me, and held out four big fingers right in front my eyes. “From now on you will do four in the Summer, four in the Fall, and four in the Spring.”

  My head was getting hotter and I was feeling like I would explode. What a manipulative son of a bitch!

  Calmly inspecting his fingernails for God knows what, he continued, “Students are signing up for Chemistry this Summer Term, and someone needs to teach them.” He jabbed his index finger into my chest. “You.”

  I lost it. I don’t know how it happened, but my right fist suddenly collided with his hard chin. My knuckles hurt, but this colossus of a man didn’t even budge.

  I threw another punch but he grabbed it with his left hand, and clamped his other hand on my butt and pulled me in. “You’re so sexy,” he whispered, and before I knew it, he pressed his slimy lips onto my clean ones.

  I jerked backwards and yelled, “You’re pathetic!” I wiped my lips and I tried to push him off of me, but the maniac was too strong. I brought my knee up forcefully into his groin, but it hit something weird up there. He was wearing a protective cup.

  He smiled. He was prepared.

  What was he not prepared for? Angrily, I stomped a heel of my pumps onto his sasquatch-like foot.

  He released me instantly. Got you, you pervert. Wear some steel-toe shoes next time.

  Picking up my briefcase, I stormed toward the door.

  “Dr. Rayburn.” His voice was deep and frisky.

  I stopped.

  “When I play, I win. Always.”

  As I blew past Vickie she stopped her typing, and I did not have to look back to know that she was staring at me. I ran up the stairs to my floor, and maybe it was the exercise, but by the time I hit the hallway, I had begun to calm
down emotionally. Trevor was there cleaning the door of an office next to mine, and suddenly I had a question for him.

  “Hey Doc,” he said to me as I approached.

  “Hi Trevor.”

  I unlocked my door and left it open as I took a seat and found something to do. And soon, I felt his presence, and I looked over at him as he held his spray bottle and rag in hand. He was ready for gossip.

  “Keeping busy?” I asked.

  “Yeah, you know how it is. It’s never ending.” Wiping the bottle with the rag, he stated, “Odd, but me haven’t seen JJ Greeneyes come by here in weeks.”

  This was just the topic that I wanted, and I marveled at how easily it came up. “True,” I replied. “I have noticed that.”

  “Yeah, what’s up with that?”

  After a moment of non-talk, I asked nonchalantly, “Has anyone here in DSU ever accused him of sexual harassment?”

  One of Trevor’s eyebrows jumped, and he leaned on the doorway to ponder.

  “Well?” I prodded, while massaging my painful knuckles.

  “Yeah, one or two. But nothing came out of it and them don’t work here no-more.” Then he came closer. “He said something out of the way to you?”

  “Oh no.”

  I knew that Yvette’s brother was the unofficial news anchor for DSU, so there was no way I was telling him anything. But I had my answer now. I began to gather my books and papers together, and said, “You have to excuse me Trevor, but I have to prepare for my next class.”

  “Okay, Doc.”

  As I went my way, I tried to understand why a man who could have almost any woman he wanted would try to bully some into sleeping with him. I reasoned that it was probably not the sleeping with them that was thrilling, but the bullying of them. Dean Joseph was a thug, I realized, and a thug who knew how to keep from being caught.

  I filled my lungs with some fresh air and used my teaching as a distraction from my woes. The pain in my right hand subsided by the end of my workday, and I was thankful that it was not swollen. Then, in the privacy of my office, I called my cousin, Cynthia, and told her what happened to me today.

  She commiserated, “All because you won’t go away with him? Edna, that’s the height of sexual harassment.”

  “Well, he’s been reported in the past, and nothing ever came of those complaints. My hands are tied. I don’t want to look like a fool.”

  “What has Brandon said?”

  I was silent. Poor, innocent Cynthia. How could I tell Brandon? That would mean sharing my degrading behavior too.

  “Edna? Edna, are you there?”

  “Yes,” I dragged, “I’m here.”

  “You haven’t told him?”

  I sighed wearily.

  “You need to tell him. You need his support.”

  “I can’t.” And before she had the chance to ask me why, I whimpered, “Listen, I can’t talk anymore. I’ll call you later.”

  I blinked rapidly, holding in the tears that were threatening to take me over. I was no better than Ashley. Hopefully I could keep my secrets longer than Ashley kept hers. Forever, if possible.

  I sat at my desk brushing away the moisture from my eyes and feeling sorry for myself until, eventually, I got up and went home.

  I attempted to be a happy Edna Bergail when I got there, but Brandon knew something was wrong.

  “You okay, Eddie?” he asked at dinner.

  “Yes, just tired.”

  “You’re not yourself these days,” he said as he studied me.

  I did not respond, but I did give him a smile.

  I went to bed early and rose early, before him, and sat at our kitchen table venting on my computer, and that was a very therapeutic session. I could face the day now.

  That morning at work, I received an email from Vickie timetabling my Summer classes and as I read it, sweat began pouring from my head and my armpits. It read that on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, I would teach a class at 10:00 in the morning and another quite at 7:00 in the night; on Tuesdays and Thursdays, I would have one class at 11:00 a.m. and another at 6:00 p.m. Oh God. I never worked nights, nor did I ever work Fridays.

  I was livid. I was effing livid. I printed out the unreasonable schedule and my first instinct was to march down to the dean’s pit, rip up the stupid document and throw it to his revolting face. But he might like that. And I was sure that he was expecting me. Maybe I should get a lawyer. But what would be my complaint? The deans can schedule us as they see fit. My only other option: resign and find another job or change career. But how would I explain it to Brandon? The vision of my future was growing dim.

  Okay Edna, get it together.

  I took several long, deep breaths and an aspirin, and along with all former issues, I swept this one under the rug – for now.

  While reading my other emails, I came across one about Exchange Students. I sucked my teeth in anticipation of having to meet with Satan again, but fortunately, it was a general email from the university president to all faculty and staff. It invited us to a Welcome Breakfast on the first Saturday in May, and it solicited host families for the foreign students. There were eleven South African students interested in spending the summer at our institution, and our four deans and campus presidents had each agreed to host one. This left four students still in need of accommodation.

  I sat like a dope in front of the computer, angry at myself, reminiscing about the first time that I had heard about the Exchange Students. I was such a fool. In retrospect, I should’ve walked out of that restaurant as soon as I realized that I was duped into a lunch date. Ah well; no point crying over spilt milk. It is what it is.

  When I got home that evening, I shared my Summer Term schedule with Brandon while we prepared dinner.

  “Oh boy,” he said as he started opening up a can that I had placed on the counter, but stopped to say, “I don’t understand those people at North; they asked you to pick a schedule even before you started . . . and now they treat you like crap. This doesn’t make any sense.”

  “That’s how they do business there,” I remarked.

  His eyes found mine. “You were probably better off at the other campus.”

  I did not respond to that statement, but my eyes drifted to the floor.

  “Eddie, tell me the truth,” he said.

  My heart fell into my stomach at the mention of the word truth.

  “What do you prefer? A longer commute and a good schedule, or a shorter commute and a messed up schedule?”

  I was relieved at the question. Exhaling, I answered, “I don’t know Ray. I really don’t know.”

  “Well, I guess no vacation this year. No California . . . no Canada . . . nothing.”

  I looked up at him, and I could see the disappointment in his face although he tried to be okay with this new development. “You can still go,” I said, leaning against the counter.

  “Without you? Nah. It won’t be the same.”

  “Sorry Ray.” A salty tear tracked its way down into my mouth and I wiped its path.

  “Eddie,” he walked over and laid a loving hand on mine, “we enjoyed the privilege of Fridays and summers for a long time. We’ll just have to endure and, hopefully, one day you’ll get back a good schedule.” He leaned in and kissed my cheek. Then he said, “Since we won’t be going anywhere this summer, I’ll try to do a little renovation to the house . . . modernize the kitchen and the bathrooms.”

  I smiled like when I received my first Barbie doll and I hoped Brandon was not yanking my chain to make me feel better. Because I did feel better. Our house was badly in need of a facelift. But my smile quickly dissipated as my work-related issues resurfaced.

  Brandon, still wanting to cheer me up, wrapped me in his arms and added, “Don’t worry; we could still take little weekend trips to Orlando and Clearwater.”

  “I guess.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The Brownings were mostly quiet lately.

  A few days after the Secrets revel
ation, Ashley took her act back to partially nude clubs. Although the couple was less noisy than before, their whirlwind relationship continued, and it was becoming stale news for us, and to our surprise, it was becoming old for Joshua as well.

  On Easter Sunday afternoon while his wife was at work, he came over to watch basketball on TV with Brandon. I was in the den also, but going through a stack of test papers.

  “You might think that I’m confused,” Joshua began when a game concluded. “And maybe I am, but I have to confess something.”

  “Go ahead,” Brandon said.

  Joshua cleared his throat, “I’m still in love with Jo.”

  “Joanne? Your ex-wife?” my mouth blurted out with a life of its own. I pushed my stack of test papers aside. “That person who had a restraining order out on you? And who made you take Anger Management classes and other stuff?”

  He waited for me to recover before he continued, “I know, but I’ve been thinking of her a lot these days.” He looked in the distance at nothing and began playing with his dreads.

  Brandon remained quiet, but he turned down the volume on the TV as Joshua continued.

  “I can’t help but notice how nice and cool Joanne was compared to crazy Ashley. I made a big mistake. After I got divorced, I was so desperate to get a wife who was good in bed, and who would help me to finish school that I hooked up with Ashley.”

  Brandon nodded.

  “Be careful what you ask for?” I said.

  “Umm-hmm.” Joshua sighed, shaking his head. “I got it all and then some.”

  “So, what now?” Brandon asked finally.

  “I don’t know, but I have another confession.” He leaned back into his chair and smiled. “I called Jo on Friday, and it was a good Friday.”