“Sure you didn’t partake of the magical mushroom yourself?” Greg asked, taking a bread stick from the basket and winking at me.
Jill frowned at him. She snitched a marinated scallop from my plate. “How did it change you?” She bit the scallop in half and shared it with Eloise. “Other than that you became a red-hot tomahawk-throwing mama?”
I hesitated—I’d had a second glass of wine—then answered. “There was that. But otherwise…” I felt my shoulders shrug of their own volition beneath my denim jacket. “Otherwise—well, I seem to have come to my senses. Being tenured at Enfield is no longer the most important thing in my life.”
Miles Jewell clapped his hands over his ears. “I didn’t hear that.”
“No?” Jill gaped at me with mock consternation.
“Yeah—can you believe it? If I don’t get tenure, then I don’t get tenure. Enfield’s loss.” I glanced over at Miles with faux bravado.
***
I truly meant what I said, but I was being somewhat meretricious in saying it. Midweek, Avery had come to visit, bringing a dozen white roses and a first edition of Sylvia Plath’s Ariel. “About tenure…” he said, biting into a ginger scone. At his request, Sophia and Mom had gone for a walk. He took a sip of tea. “Don’t fret about it. Cooler heads than Hilton’s are evaluating your extremely impressive case.”
“Oh?” What else was there to say?
“You understand me, I know,” he concluded, setting down his half-empty cup and rising from the couch. Everything the man did was graceful, including inserting his arms into the sleeves of his wool topcoat. “And,” he continued with a half-smile, pointing a finger at me, “remember, this conversation never happened.”
***
I could make a life for myself away from Enfield, I thought, if I’d had to. As long as I had Charlie and Amanda, I’d survive. I let my gaze light briefly on each face: my old colleagues—Earlene, Greg, Jill—and, Felicity, my new friend. I would have missed them if I’d had to leave. But Charlie was the one essential. From the Iraqi hinterlands he’d finally returned to Baghdad, and he’d called me, four times, listening quietly while I sobbed. But it had been three days since I’d heard from him, and I didn’t understand why.
Felicity, awkward among all these academics, shifted in her seat and checked her watch. She probably couldn’t wait to get away from the shop talk. I’d expected Lombardi to join us, but he hadn’t. I hoped he and Felicity weren’t still on the outs.
***
I lifted my glass of Cabernet and drank. Through the arched door to the main dining room, I could see the restaurant begin to fill with its usual Friday evening crowd. Ayesha entered the room along with a stylishly dressed older woman, whose dark hair was uncovered. The woman’s arm was around Ayesha’s shoulders, and she was smiling. Must be Ayesha’s mom. They sat at a large, round table, their heads together, laughing at some private joke.
I stood up; I couldn’t help it. Either I’m an incurable Nosey Nancy, or I care deeply about the lives of my students. Same thing, probably. “Back in a minute,” I said.
Ayesha, in a festive peppermint pink robe with a sequined bodice, saw me coming and whispered into her mother’s ear. Mrs. Ahmed glanced up, smiled, and then patted the seat next to her. I sat, with Ayesha on my other side. Both women smelled of jasmine.
“I’ve heard so much, Professor, about how you help Ayesha.” The older woman’s English was lilting and a bit formal. “You will be first one I tell. My daughter is to be married soon. We are here tonight to celebrate.”
“Is that so?” I looked at Ayesha with questioning eyes.
“Yes,” my student said, glancing modestly away from my direct gaze. “We’ll have the wedding during winter break. I hope you’ll be able to come.”
“Yes, of course,” I said, a million questions assaulting my mind.
Two dark-skinned young men entered the dining room, one in jeans and a leather jacket, the other wearing a beige linen tunic and an ornate medallion. Mrs. Ahmed raised her hand, and they headed in our direction. I glanced from one man to the other, hoping my scrutiny wasn’t too obvious. Which one was Ayesha’s husband-to-be? Both were handsome, and each carried himself with impressive confidence. Whichever one it was, this must be the father of her unborn child.
“Congratulations, Ayesha,” I said, squeezing her hand, fondly. I must admit, however, I felt cheated. When Ayesha became a married woman and a mother, I’d lose my pet student, and she only in her sophomore year.
Mrs. Ahmed went on, “These are my sons, Professor.”
I nodded at them. Her sons, I thought. It must be the custom in their culture to accept the groom completely into the family. But which one was he? The men sat together, across the table, the guy in the leather jacket reaching out to shake my hand. Neither sat next to Ayesha. Perhaps another custom? I was beginning to feel very provincial.
“And now my husband arrives, as you can see.” A tall, dark, older man, impeccably dressed in a gray pin-striped Western suit, walked toward us. He looked every inch the diplomat Ayesha had told me he was. And then it struck me why Ayesha had been so nonchalant about Lieutenant Boylan’s suspicions of her. She was a member of a diplomatic family; could it be that she had diplomatic immunity?
I leaned over in her direction, gesturing at the two young men, and asked, “Which one is the lucky man?”
She gazed first at one, then at the other, and her eyes sparkled. At first I thought it was a sparkle of joy, but a second glance convinced me that, for some reason, my student was deeply amused. But, why?
Now Hank Brody had somehow gotten into the mix, trailing Mr. Ahmed by a few feet. Hank must have a job at Rudolph’s now, I thought; probably as a part-time maitre d’. He looked surprisingly good, dressed in a sport jacket, shirt and tie. His jeans were ironed. And—could it be?—he’d even had a haircut; his dreads were now short and shiny; Hank must have really wanted the job. That boy worked entirely too hard. I’d have to speak to Earlene about him. But, nonetheless, Hank looked happy—if a little…what?…dazed?
Then Ayesha jumped up from her seat, threw her arms around Hank, and hugged him tight. “Behold,” she said, grinning at me, “the bridegroom cometh.”
***
“Joe Lone Wolf may have been a liar and an opportunist,” I said to my friends, as the server came around again with the coffee pot. “But, you know, it’s strange, I don’t think he was a total fraud. He seemed to have loved his work and cared deeply about what he taught his students. He couldn’t say a pleasant word to his colleagues, but he seems to have opened whole new worlds for those kids.” It was almost ten p.m., and I was waiting for my slice of chocolate espresso layer cake. Coffee and espresso cake: there’d be no sleep for me tonight. But, what the hell.
“How can you say that?” Greg asked, scowling. “He was completely bogus.”
I’d gotten to the mellow stage of the evening. “I’m not sure about that. I think it’s not so much that he was a fraud, but that he lived within…a self-constructed identity fantasy. I think that by the end, he must have felt his spirit being eaten away by falsity.”
Miles squinted at me. “You know, I’m afraid the department is somewhat to blame, here. We never really saw Lone Wolf—we simply imposed on him an image of what we thought he was supposed to be. We never even checked into his bona fides, as we would have with anyone else. We wanted an Indian, and he said he was an Indian, so we saw an Indian.”
“Indians?” My mother, who’d been drowsing throughout the evening, suddenly looked up at Miles, and spoke. But Miles continued before she could go on. “I believe that in so doing,” he said, carefully enunciating his words, “we were practicing an egregious form of racism.” He began to pour more wine, but Dolores pulled his glass away. The old academic warrior sat there a moment with the green bottle tilted. Then he set it back on the table.
Mom said, “It’s a different time now—we’re proud to be Indians.”
Everyone looked at her
uncomprehendingly.
“Indeed we are, Mom,” I said, smiling at her. Connie had finally called. She’d gotten the job as Lowell WalMart manager, would be flying home from Arkansas tomorrow, and would pick our mother up on the way back from Bradley Field. I told my sister that Mom had done well with me and asked her if I could take Mom again for the six-week break between semesters. That would ease her transition to the new job, I said, and help ease my loneliness with Charlie gone. And, by the way, would she like to bring her family for Christmas? Amanda would be home and she adored her cousin, Courtney, and I could make a real old-fashioned tortière for dinner. Connie said she’d think about it.
Earlene breached the awkward conversational gap. “And what about Ned?”
I turned to her. “What about him?”
“He seemed to bear the whole guilty history of white oppression on his narrow shoulders. He meant well—it’s just that he was so damn…reductive and sanctimonious.”
Fareed spoke up. “And when McCutcheon found out Hilton was mistakenly favoring a lily-white charlatan for the only tenured department position, he told Ned about Joe’s true identity.”
Miles grasped his head with both hands. “I didn’t know that. So—Hilton put his professional credibility on the line to support the minority tenure candidate, only to find out Lone Wolf was bogus? The poor sap.”
Greg jumped in. “Not bogus, Jewell.” He winked at me, again. “Joe lived within a self-constructed identity fantasy.”
“Humph,” Miles said, “no wonder Hilton freaked out. He’d taken Joe on as a holy cause. And then that blackjack dealer showing up with her story…Hilton was always a bit…tenuous of sanity. I wonder if he’ll be able to come back to work next semester?”
Nobody seemed to care much. The party was winding down, my mom was back in her daze, and Felicity was becoming increasingly restless, watching the clock, pacing, muttering into her cell phone. Poor thing, I thought, she must be uncomfortable—time for her to get home to that baby.
When I’d been out talking to Ayesha, someone had appropriated my seat, so I was now sitting with my back to the door. Belatedly, Sergeant Lombardi joined the party, taking the seat upon which Felicity had piled her coat and bag. She gave him a questioning look, and he nodded.
Taking a second bite of espresso cake, I felt what little was left of my energy evaporate. “I’m so looped,” I said, putting down my fork, “I don’t even know if I can drive home.”
There was some sort of mild commotion behind me, but I was too tired to turn around. Everyone was looking at me with big grins on their faces.
“What?” I asked. “None of you ever drank a little too much?”
Behind me, I heard a familiar deep, warm laugh, and I suddenly stopped breathing. Could it be? No, not possible. I jumped up and spun around. Oh. My. God. “Charlie!” I screeched, bursting into tears. The love of my life swept me up and held me tight in his strong embrace.
Emergency family leave. Somehow, Lieutenant Charles Piotrowski, United States National Guard, stationed in Iraq, had managed to get himself home for two weeks emergency family leave.
More from this Author
For other books, upcoming author events, or more information please go to:
www.poisonedpenpress.com/joanne-dobson
Contact Us
To receive a free catalog of Poisoned Pen Press titles, please contact us in one of the following ways:
Phone: 1-800-421-3976
Facsimile: 1-480-949-1707
Email: [email protected]
Website: www.poisonedpenpress.com
Poisoned Pen Press
6962 E. First Ave. Ste. 103
Scottsdale, AZ 85251
Joanne Dobson - Karen Pelletier 06 - Death without Tenure Page 23