Tenure Track

by Victoria Bradley

  Most experts who endlessly analyzed the incident concluded that Jessica was not a true mass murderer in that she had probably only intended to castrate Pfeiser and kill herself in front of him. The shooting of the two wrestlers was likely just a defensive reaction to seeing two large men coming at her. In her mind, the theory went, they had been potential rapists, too. Despite this conclusion, Jessica Hampton would forever be known in the public consciousness as the first female campus mass murderer. And the university would forever be known as the site of Bloody Valentine’s Day.

  Hampton’s parents and those of the two wrestlers sued the university, arguing that it had failed to protect a mentally unstable young woman from a known sexual predator, thus indirectly contributing to her violent breakdown and the deaths of two innocent young men. After months of scrutiny, the veteran nurse was pressured into retiring; the R.A. transferred to another school; and the university reached an undisclosed monetary settlement with the families. As part of the agreement, the administration agreed to beef up campus security and take action to discourage sexual relationships between faculty and students. Out of months of debate grew the No Fraternization Policy.

  Despite Internet rumors started by some either ignorant or snarky students, this regulation had nothing to do with abolishing the Greek system. In an effort to show the world that they were serious about protecting students, the Board of Regents implemented one of the most stringent sexual harassment policies among major colleges. Jane had served on the committee that initially devised the rule, though the final wording went far beyond the committee’s original intent.

  Noting that Dr. Pfeiser seemed to have had a strong psychological hold over Hampton, the debate had moved from sexual harassment into the realm of how much implied power professors had over students just by virtue of being faculty. In the aftermath of the shooting, many people, especially several vocal female faculty members, supported this argument.

  By the time the No Fraternization Policy worked its way through various levels of committees, administrators, and the Board of Regents, it had become a rule that forbid all sexual relationships between students and faculty members, unless it could be proven that a previous relationship existed prior to the two parties becoming student and faculty (such as if a faculty member’s spouse or significant other decided to take some courses). State law already held a similar policy for public high schools.

  The final committee vote on No Fraternization had been very close, falling mainly along gender lines. The Chancellor and the Board of Regents unanimously favored it, largely because several key state lawmakers were threatening to pass similar legislation if the university proved unable to regulate itself. As much as the liberal arts faculty liked to think of the campus as an independent island within the state capital, as a public university it was often at the mercy of politicians who worked across town. Many in the Republican-led legislature despised the perceived liberalism of the flagship U. Some lamented the shooting as an inevitable result of the faculty’s lack of morality. Many voters agreed, as public support for the new policy ran high.

  Jane had been torn over the final wording of the rule. On the one hand, she understood the ethical need to discourage faculty-student relationships. Her department housed its own version of “Don the Juan” in the form of Henry Gould, a.k.a. “Horndog Harry.” Although there had never been a single formal complaint lodged against him in 40 years, Gould’s nickname and reputation were well-known subjects of campus gossip. Married three times, his last two wives had been undergrads, one of whom was pregnant while he was still married to another.

  Jane often wondered if the secret to Horndog’s success in avoiding complaints was his ability to pick weak-minded targets whom he could easily control. His first wife had been very timid; the second committed suicide; and the third had been confined to a mental institution for several years. For Jane, Horndog was exactly the type of professor the new policy was designed to ferret out. If a clear prohibition against sexual relations with students did not change his behavior, perhaps his conquests might at least be more willing to speak out.

  On the other hand, from a practical standpoint, Jane thought the new policy was far too broad, and to be honest, except for the occasional child prodigy, they were talking about consensual activities between legal adults. Yet she agreed there was a big difference between an impressionable 18 year-old frosh and a 40 year-old grad student. She worried about her daughter becoming susceptible to seduction by someone like Horndog or Don the Juan. Catching herself being somewhat sexist, Jane realized that she did not have such concerns about her son, partly because he was male and partly because she just could not envision her nerdy boy as the object of an older woman’s desires.

  Despite objections voiced only in private meetings, Jane publicly stood behind the policy, which had been supported upon legal challenge by the state Supreme Court. Behind closed doors, administrators and leaders of the faculty senate agreed that enforcement would only be initiated by student complaint. They had no intention of closely scrutinizing the sex lives of teachers or students, but hoped the new policy would give them more leverage to purge tenured predators like Don the Juan. It was the school’s version of “don’t ask, don’t tell,” in place for a year but yet to be tested in a real case.

  Now, on the first day of classes, instead of the notorious old goat of the History Department, it was mild-mannered young Lewis Burns being accused of violating the policy. Jane secretly hoped this would turn out to be a false accusation. This was not how she intended to start her tenure as Chair.

  Upon reaching the second floor of Hyde Tower, Jane motioned to Gary’s secretary, who waved her into a spacious, well-lit room carpeted in familiar, trademark school hues, walls covered by framed newspaper clippings quoting renowned psychologist Gary Jones. Gary’s famous studies on adolescent impulse control had influenced his hiring by the U. following Bloody Valentine’s Day. As Dean, Gary had worked very hard to rebuild a sense of trust on the campus, proving himself that rare academic capable of top-notch administration and research while still connecting well with students. No one could question his dedication to duty, though Jane often worried that Gary’s career success came at the expense of his own well-being. He had never married, weighed about 300 pounds, and breathed heavily through his nose. Jane fully expected him to keel over from a heart attack one day while sitting behind his desk, just where he was perched when she entered the office.

  Right then, Dean Piglet was too engrossed in his computer screen to keel over or even to wring his hands. Jane noticed that he had strategically placed the monitor at a slight angle, so that she could not see what he was viewing. Gary had taken off his jacket, loosened his tie, and rolled up his sleeves. Looking more serious than usual, he took one last squint at the monitor through his brown-rimmed glasses before turning to face her.

  “How are you, Jane?” he asked, somewhat wearily. Good old Gary. He could always be counted on to open even a difficult conversation with a friendly gesture.

  “I’m good, and you?” she said, trying to hide her concern.

  He shrugged his shoulders slightly and gave her a sad, gentle smile, more reminiscent of Eeyore than Piglet.

  “What’s going on, Gary?” she asked bluntly.

  He clasped his hands together on the desktop. “Well, like I said before, I got a call from the mother of a female undergrad this morning. She was very upset. It seems she just discovered that her daughter’s been romantically involved with Lewis Burns. The girl is starting her junior year. Apparently, she worked as Lewis’s research assistant last year and at some point they began a sexual relationship. I didn’t ask for details. Anyway, the mom’s a lawyer with political connections, so there was a lot of talk about sexual harassment, accusations of Lewis serving the girl alcohol, trouble for the school at the capitol, yadda, yadda. Anyway, it’s a mess. We need to fix it.” By now he was propping one elbow on his desk, rubbing his right temple with a thumb.

  �
�Does she have any proof of this relationship?” Jane asked.

  “Unfortunately, yes,” Gary replied. “She and the whole wide world. That’s what I was just looking at.”

  Uh-oh. This does not sound good.

  He motioned for Jane to come over to his side of the desk. “This is from the girl’s Web page.”

  Jane stood dumbfounded as her eyes beheld a photograph of Dr. Lewis Burns, lying in a well-lit bed, with obviously little or no clothes on, one eye starting to open, as if just waking up. His bare chest was exposed, as well as most of one leg. While a thin sheet covered his private parts, the drapery could not mask evidence that Lewis clearly had an erection that lifted up a triangle of fabric like a small tent. Jane could feel her face flush in a combination of embarrassment and arousal. She had to admit that Lewis had one fine body underneath his scholarly attire.

  Rather than express her admiration, she responded more appropriately, “Hmm. You’re right. That does not look good.”

  “Yeah,” said Gary. “According to my student spies, the kids are already calling him ‘Puptent.’”

  “Oh, definitely not good.” Jane then read the photo caption: “’YOUR TAX DOLLARS AT WORK. Guess how this Prof at the cap. U spent his summer? Screwing his student, then dumping her by text message! MOFO! Avoid this prick!’”

  Jane hated revealing her ignorance, but had to ask, “MOFO?”

  “Shorthand for one having a sexual relationship with a maternal type,” Gary translated diplomatically.

  Following was a list of posted responses suggesting various punishments for the offending professor, ranging from “pulling a Hampton” to filing charges, as if some criminal offense had taken place. Jane spent several minutes reading through the very explicit commentaries. “Lovely language there,” she whispered sarcastically. “Does the lawyer mother know about this?”

  “’Not sure,” Gary replied. “I looked it up myself.”

  She gave him a puzzled look.

  “It’s really the best way to find out about anybody, Jane. You should check it out regularly. I’m up to 5,000 friends on my page. If you do Twitter, I can also keep you updated immediately on everything that happens in the Administration building.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” she replied distractedly, scanning other information on the page whose author identified herself as “Yellow Rose.” When she read the pseudonym out loud, Gary explained, “Her full name is Amanda Rose Taylor.”

  Jane read on, learning that Amanda Rose Taylor “likes any music you can dance to, romantic comedies that aren’t lame, vodka martinis, cute older guys and hangin’ with my BFFs.”

  Sitting back down on her side of the desk, Jane gave Gary a skeptical look. “Have you talked to Lewis about this? It may not even be a real photo, the way students can alter digital images these days. Maybe all this is just a joke or an unhappy student trying to get revenge for a bad grade. We should really get his side of the story.”

  Gary turned away from the computer. “Uh, no, I haven’t. That’s why I called you. You’re his Chair and you know him better than I do. I thought you should approach him first.”

  Jane felt slightly defensive towards her junior colleague. “I have to tell you, this really seems out of character for Lewis. I know he’s had a rough time since his divorce, but I can’t believe he be so stupid as to get involved with an undergrad.”

  “That may be,” Gary responded. “But the mom sounds pretty mad and we can’t afford more bad publicity about professors and students, especially a student connected to the legislature. That’s the worst of it. Her stepfather is none other than Rick Benedict, remember him?”

  Jane knew full-well who Rick Benedict was: majority leader of the state senate; conservative, family-values Republican; one of the university’s most vocal critics and a major backer of No Fraternization. Surely the gods could not be so cruel as to have his stepdaughter serve as the first test case for the policy.

  “Is it possible this is some political trick he’s orchestrated?” she said, hopefully. Stranger things had been known to happen at the capitol. “This wasn’t the type of teacher I thought we would wind up going after.”

  Gary removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes wearily. “At least Burns doesn’t have tenure, so that makes it a little easier.”

  “Well, he’s up for final approval this semester. He passed the preliminary phase last spring,” Jane revealed.

  “Oooh,” Gary whistled. “Bad timing. Look, I think I can pacify the mother into not doing anything publicly until we’ve talked to her. She lives in the Metroplex but wants to come down in a couple of weeks for a face-to-face. I don’t think she’ll do anything until then. In the meantime, I want you to talk to Dr. Burns and get his version of the story. Right now, as far as I know, the two of us are the only people who know about the complaint. After I find out what the mom wants, I’ll consult with the President and Legal.”

  They discussed a few more details before she left his office. Stepping back out into the sunlight, she shook her head in disbelief.

  Lewis, how could you be so stupid?

  Chapter Two

  Past: Lewis and Laura

  Jane could never have imagined this scenario just months earlier, when American West scholar Lewis Burns was still seemingly happily married to the rising star of the History Department, French specialist Laura Hennig. Ironically, Lewis’s attempts to impress his wife had led Amanda Rose Taylor into his universe.

  Exactly one year prior to that fateful call from Gary, Lewis had posted a job notice on the department message board, hoping that some enterprising senior History major would be interested in serving as his research assistant. Instead, sophomore Government major Mandy Taylor became the first and only applicant for the job.

  Usually during the first week of school Lewis’s office hours were very busy, but tediously routine—meeting with his graduate advisees and T.A.s, signing add/drop slips, and listening to various sad pleas about why he should let someone into one of his already-closed courses. He was expecting more of the same when he spotted Mandy sitting on the hallway floor as he opened the office door. She looked young, wearing very little makeup, with the little bit there mostly sweated off from walking across campus in the oppressive heat. She wore jean shorts, a tank top with a sports bra underneath, light cotton shirt tied around her waist and white running shoes with short tennis socks.

  Mandy was naturally pretty but not what anyone would call glamorous. She had long, straight, dark brown hair, currently pulled back into a ponytail, brown eyes and fair, clear skin. Her friendly disposition, always ready with bright eyes and a warm smile, made her seem more beautiful to those who knew her. She wasn’t skinny, but not what one would call overweight, either. Mandy had a healthy, well-endowed build that, in an earlier era, some might have called voluptuous.

  She had been examining a syllabus for one of her courses, but quickly hopped up when Lewis opened the door.

  “Hi!” she said, flashing the warm, friendly smile. “I’m next.”

  He waved her in, barely noticing the grin. “Is that my syllabus?”

  “Naw, it’s for Philosophy,” she replied.

  “So which of my classes are you taking?” he queried distractedly.

  “None, actually. I finished my History requirements last year with Dr. Stevens. My roommate’s helpin’ her out. That’s how I heard about this job,” she explained in the unmistakable rural drawl that even four years at an elite Metroplex prep school had not been able to erase.

  Suddenly Lewis’s mind shook out of its rote focus on signing add/drop slips and started paying attention to the conversation at hand. “Oh, you’re interested in the research assistant job?”

  “Yessir, I am.” She stuck out her hand and offered a firm grip for a teenaged girl. “Mandy Taylor.” She reached into her backpack and produced a neatly typed sheet of paper. “Here’s my résumé.”

  “Very professional,” he commented, sitting down behind his desk.
She remained standing until he motioned for her to take the seat across from him. As Lewis’s eyes quietly scanned the document, hers scanned the room. Like most other professors' offices she had seen, it was rather small, surrounded by shelves of books and stacks of papers. Hammond Hall was one of the oldest buildings on campus, well-reflected by the poor condition of its rooms. Lewis’s office had no windows, paint was peeling off the walls, chunks of tile missing from the floor, and a large leak-stained crack peering from the ceiling. At least the university had renovated the building to add central air conditioning, which worked at least 90 percent of the time. Fortunately, this was one of those days.

  After being at the university only one year, Mandy had already noticed that the conditions of professors’ offices seemed to reflect the prestige of their fields. The hard sciences and school of business, fields that funneled lots of grant and alumni money into the university, occupied the nicest buildings. Liberal arts and social sciences, largely dependent upon welfare handout from other disciplines, were relegated to the older, more rundown buildings. Of course, the Athletics Department had the nicest facilities, which few non-athletes ever saw.

  Mandy continued to scan the paltry conditions of Lewis’s office, but did note that at least he kept it neater than many she had seen. She observed that it seemed to be a mark of academic pride to have a chaotic-looking office. During one recent conference with an English Lit professor, Mandy had fretted throughout the entire conversation that the huge, disheveled batch of papers on the professor’s desk was going to topple over in mid-sentence and crush one of them to death. Lewis had not yet fallen into such slovenly habits. In fact, everything about him looked neat and well-manicured. He was dressed in crisp khaki Dockers, with a long-sleeve, buttoned-down, pale blue Oxford shirt. She couldn’t believe that he was wearing a crew-neck T-shirt underneath and wasn’t even sweating! His only concession to the heat was rolling up his sleeves slightly and turning on a small rotating fan above his desk. As he absorbed her résumé, she noticed that he wore an usual-looking turquoise ring on the third finger of his left hand.