Fields of Exile

by Nora Gold

  They enter FRANK, Judith noticing with relief and gratification that the atrium is now just an atrium again, and no longer a photo exhibit. Moshe, she thinks, would also be pleased about this. Though she realizes now that lately, with everything she’s had going on, she hasn’t been fantasizing about him anymore.

  Entering Corinne’s class, Judith selects seats for her and Cindy where, as she looks straight ahead at Corinne, neither Kerry’s nor Lola’s gangs are in her line of vision, so she can pretend they’re not even there. She has built for herself a little island of safety. Coincidentally, today’s topic is “Women and Violence,” and Corinne is lecturing about the vulnerability of women in a man’s world, especially women of colour, who are doubly vulnerable, and how important it is for all women to find safe spaces for themselves. A student named Minnell says that as a black woman at this school she doesn’t feel safe, and in many classes she feels marginalized and silenced. Judith thinks: I, too, feel “unsafe, marginalized, and silenced” here, but you have to feel reasonably safe to say you feel unsafe, and I no longer do. So she stays silent.

  * * *

  In her next class, Hetty begins by reviewing everything she has covered so far, and this is a big help to Judith. Then Hetty lectures on the relationship between qualitative and quantitative research. The example she offers comes from the study of rape. A quantitative researcher, she says, might investigate the characteristics of women who have been raped. For instance: Does rape in Canada happen more often to poor women than to rich ones? Women living in the country versus the city? Women of colour versus white women? And so on. On the other hand, a qualitative researcher might examine the emotional and psychological impact of being raped, and how this has affected the lives of these women and girls at the deepest levels.

  “These are both important questions,” says Hetty, “and contrary to what you may have been hearing from some professors, both research methodologies are completely valid. But they each have their proponents and opponents, because they come from different philosophical traditions. Putting it crudely, quantitative research deals with what might be termed ‘objective reality,’ and qualitative research with ‘subjective reality.’ But please don’t approach this as if it’s one versus the other. Both methodologies are valuable and they can complement each other very well. In fact, I often recommend that students use both in the same study. Are there any questions?”

  There are. Mike, in his whiney yet belligerent voice, says he doesn’t believe in quantitative research because, according to postmodernism, there is no such thing as ‘objective reality.’ Kiki pipes up in agreement. Fuck, thinks Judith. Here we go again. There is no objective reality. This chair I am sitting on is not actually a chair. I can’t stand this crazy world of theirs. If you don’t believe the Holocaust happened, then it didn’t — everything is just subjective perception. The class discussion drags on, and to stay sane, she doodles a half-woman-half-chicken and a half-chicken-half-man. Finally Hetty, looking as irritated as Judith feels, terminates the conversation and gives the class an exercise to do. In pairs, they have to come up with a research question, define it as precisely as possible, decide which methodology they would use to explore it, and generate a list of the key questions they would ask the people in their study. Judith pairs up with Cindy — who shrugs apologetically to Darra, sitting on her other side — and they work on this exercise until the break. After the break each pair presents its work to the class, and Hetty draws on all these examples to teach them how crucial, and complex, it is to define one’s research question well.

  “My father always said that,” Judith whispers to Cindy. “That the most important thing isn’t finding the right answer; it’s finding the right question.”

  Cindy nods vaguely, frowning and twisting her hair. She is worried about Mikey, Judith guesses, and five minutes later she is proven right. The second the bell rings, Cindy has already speed-dialled Mikey’s babysitter to see how he is.

  “One more thing,” Hetty calls out above the chaos, and the din subsides. “Remember that next week there are no classes. But two weeks from today, please bring in the outline for your final research project. This should be on a topic of personal relevance.”

  Judith sighs. There is so much work due in the next couple of weeks. But at least, for some reason, they have next week off, which she hadn’t realized till now. A topic of personal relevance. She begins playing with some possibilities: She could study “Women in Their Thirties Who Sacrifice Marriage with a Man They Love for a Higher Ideal.” Or maybe “The Impact of a Recent Parental Death on Students Doing Graduate Studies Far from Home.” She could even do “Cowardice, Hypocrisy, and Moral Bankruptcy in a Canadian School of Social Work.” Hmm. That could be fun.

  Cindy snaps her cellphone shut and says, “I’m going home. He’s got a fever of 102.5.” Judith wishes her luck, and she rushes off.

  The room has almost totally emptied. Hetty is still at the front of the class, gathering her notes. Judith, passing her on the way out, says, “That was very interesting.”

  Hetty looks up from her papers. “Thanks. And how are you, Judith? Feeling well, I hope?”

  “Yes, thanks. I’m fine.”

  “Great.” Then, walking away, Judith hears “Judith,” and turns around. Hetty glances all around her and says sotto voce, “The final decision hasn’t been made yet, but …”

  Judith, following Hetty’s cloak-and-dagger manner, also looks around, and sees the last of the students leaving the room. Hetty continues in the same low voice, “You’ve made the shortlist for the B.P. Dunhill.”

  The B.P. Dunhill. She remembers now the essay competition she entered last term, at Hetty’s invitation. Hetty submitted the paper she wrote for Weick. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously,” Hetty smiles. With something like a real smile for once, not her usual slightly pained grimace.

  “Wow! Thank you for telling me, Hetty! And thanks for submitting my paper.”

  “My pleasure, Judith — it was first-rate work. Not only an incisive critique of Systems Theory, but a passionate attack on the lack of intellectual rigour and critical thinking that sometimes plagues our profession. You said everything there was to say about this in a mere ten pages, and eloquently, too. I’m looking forward to something of the same calibre for your final paper in my course.”

  Oy. Judith feels a thump of guilt. She hasn’t even picked her topic yet. “I may do something quantitative,” she says. “Unlike some people here, I think objective reality has an important place in research.”

  “Obviously I agree. Though perhaps this makes us both a little out of step these days, or anyway at this school. I believe I am seen here as quite old-fashioned.”

  “Not by me,” says Judith. “I see you as a voice of sanity here. Don’t pay attention to those people.”

  “Thank you, Judith.”

  “No, thank you. I don’t think I ever thanked you properly for your support at SWAC.”

  “Ah,” says Hetty. “SWAC. I hear you resigned from the committee.”

  News travels fast. Probably everybody knows. She feels slightly humiliated. She says, “Suzy suggested it.”

  Hetty’s eyebrows rise. “Ah,” she says again. “I see. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.” After a pause, she adds, “For what it’s worth, Judith, I think you spoke very well at that meeting.”

  “Thanks, but it didn’t have any effect,” she says bitterly. “They’re still bringing in Brier next week, and he’s still going to spray his poison all over this campus.”

  Hetty sighs. “I know. They don’t understand, Judith. I’ve been watching this develop here for quite some time now, and it’s getting worse every year. Just between the two of us, I must say I’m not sorry about my upcoming retirement. I’m keeping a hand in, of course. I may teach a class or two each year as an emerita, but basically I’m gone from here, and not a minute too soon.”

  “What will you do now, Hetty?”

  “I’ll final
ly have time to write a book, and I’ll work in my garden.”

  “Like Pangloss,” says Judith, and they smile at each other. Pang loss, she thinks. I feel a pang of loss that Hetty is leaving.

  “You know, Judith,” Hetty says, “the main difference between people like us and people like them is that we know history, and they don’t. They simply don’t know history.” These last three words she says with intensity and emphasis, and in the silence that follows, Judith hears them echoing in her mind: They don’t know history. She feels Hetty’s steady gaze upon her. “You’re right,” she says.

  Hetty continues gazing at her. “And if they don’t know history …?”

  “They are doomed to repeat it,” Judith finishes, feeling like an obedient student.

  “Exactly. To my very great regret.” There is a look on Hetty’s face of enormous grief, of unspeakable tragedy, as if she once witnessed the whole world being destroyed, and is now watching it happen again. “Be careful, Judith,” she says urgently. “Be very, very careful.”

  Judith looks back at her. Hetty’s eyes are burning into hers as if, in this wordless way, she can somehow pour her meaning into her. Like pouring molten lava from an ancient, corroded black cauldron into a smaller, newer, shinier container. But what exactly is she trying to tell me? she asks herself. What does she mean, “Be very, very careful”? Careful of what? She’s already been outvoted, kicked off SWAC, marginalized, and deprived of her RA’ship. What else could happen to her? And the way Hetty is staring at her is starting to give her the creeps. She looks like the Oracle at Delphi or one of the prophets in the Bible, burning with divine passion and secret knowledge. But that’s nonsense, she thinks. The days of prophecy are over. She wonders if maybe Hetty is slightly mad.

  “Thanks,” she says to her. “But I’d better be going.”

  “Yes, of course,” says Hetty, and follows her with her eyes as she leaves.

  * * *

  Entering her last class of the day, Judith quietly places her two assignments on Suzy’s desk and sits down. Suzy begins her class with announcements. First, the Students’ Union’s fundraiser film night is this Friday at 7:30, and they’ll be showing Serpico. This movie frightened Judith when she saw it and depressed her for days afterward, with its inescapable message that Evil Triumphs Over Good. Then Suzy reminds everyone that next Monday, February 17, is Anti-oppression Day. An event of such importance, she says, that all classes that day will be cancelled so everyone can attend. That’s why there are no classes. Judith controls her face as Suzy plugs Anti-oppression Day, running through the whole schedule of events, including who all the speakers will be, and even tells them about the lunch options and free parking vouchers. Meanwhile Judith gets the distinct impression that Suzy is avoiding eye contact with her. She’s ashamed, she thinks. She knows as well as I do it’s all a big sham. Just an excuse to dump on Israel. That’s why she can’t even look me in the face. Never mind. This ignoring me will stop as soon as she’s finished with Anti-oppression Day.

  But it doesn’t. Suzy starts her lecture, which is on nonverbal communication, yet still she won’t look at her. It’s astounding, Judith thinks, and ironic: Here she is going on and on about the importance of nonverbal communication, and she can’t manage a little eye contact. Though who knows if she even knows what she’s doing. Probably not. Even if her favourite mantra is “Know thyself.”

  The class continues, and Judith starts to have an eerie, invisible feeling. She has felt this way only once before: in her father’s shul when she was a teenager. Back then it wasn’t egalitarian as it is now; it was a shul full of old men where women were not counted in the minyan, and she was there that day just to keep her father company on Bubba’s yartzeit. She recalls, even though this happened twenty years ago, how the rabbi, shortly before the service began, counted the men to make sure there were at least ten present. Counting, he pointed at her father, then skipped her, ignoring her as if she wasn’t there, and pointed at the man sitting past her at the end of the row. She felt completely invisible. But still, that was different from what is happening here. That was terrible, hurtful, and sexist, but ultimately impersonal. She didn’t count because she had a vagina instead of a penis. In contrast, what Suzy is doing is as personal as it gets. Highlighting this is the fact that Suzy, except for ignoring Judith, is exactly the same as usual. She doesn’t appear distracted or troubled. She is the same warm, friendly teacher as always, quick to laugh at students’ jokes and interested in their responses and ideas. Today she wears a mauve silk blouse, dangly earrings, and navy blue slacks, looking pretty and feminine. Everything about her is perfectly normal, except that when she does her scan of the room every minute or two — a scan that sweeps everyone in, in a big warm embrace — Judith, and only Judith, is excluded. In the sunlit circle of Suzy’s class, she alone sits outside it in a cold pool of shadow.

  This goes on for a half-hour. Forty-five minutes. She tries not to care. She tells herself it’s no big deal. But she can’t help it: the effect of this increases in intensity with time, like the gradual cumulativeness of Chinese water torture. She starts feeling like she does not actually exist. She even feels a bit panicky: If Suzy doesn’t look at her soon, she will disappear. It’s as if she is looking into a mirror and seeing nothing there. Dazed, longing, she gazes at Suzy: You can’t do that to someone. You can’t cut someone off like this. Someone with whom you’ve had a bond. She looks away from Suzy — she can’t stand seeing that face anymore — picks up her pencil and fiercely begins to draw. She draws a bull devouring a deer it has just killed. The face of the bull is invisible, buried inside the deer’s entrails. Like the face of a man buried inside a woman’s pubic hair, as absorbed as a mute animal in inhaling the intimate powerful scent, and hungrily nuzzling, sucking, licking, tasting, and eating her. The Lord giveth, thinks Judith, and the Lord taketh away. Taketh away her mother and father, and grandparents, and aunt and uncle, and her relationship with Suzy. Soon Bobby will be taken away, too. What’s the point, then? What’s the point if everyone gets taken away?

  Now she draws the bull again, this time after it’s finished eating, its head lifted from inside the deer’s entrails. Its face is covered in dripping blood. Blood that’s the bright red of the freshly killed — so freshly killed it’s almost still living. She hears noise: people around her are standing. “Ten-minute break,” someone says, but Judith only half-understands. She is still submerged in her drawing — gaping, mesmerized, at the blood around the bull’s mouth. Knowing that when it bares its lips, there will also be blood all over its teeth, staining them a dull red. She stands, still disoriented, in the almost-deserted classroom; then, with her purse and schoolbag, she leaves. She doesn’t “flounce” out. She walks at a normal pace, and no one notices her stunned, absent expression — she is still seeing the bull’s mouth dripping blood — or that she is walking mechanically, like a robot, with her coat wide open, out into the winter cold. Sitting in her father’s freezing car, shivering, she doesn’t understand how she got there, or what she should do now. For a while she just stares blankly. Then she drives back to Toronto in the falling snow.

  — 11 —

  At home, she slips off her coat and riffles through the mail. It’s almost all junk, but three-quarters of the way through there’s an orange card saying Second Reminder, telling her she now has only forty-eight hours left to pay her heating bill. I’ll call them tomorrow, she decides, throwing the card, with the other mail, onto the little table near the front door, and sits in the living room. She remembers how this room, in the final stages of her father’s illness — when he was already too weak to climb stairs — became his bedroom. Then it turned into the room he died in. It became a dying-room, not a living room. But whatever room it is now, she sits awhile on its couch. She calls Bobby to tell him about today, but he can’t talk. He’s going into a meeting. They arrange that tonight she’ll go to his place around nine and sleep over. He has a late start tomorrow, so they will be able
to have breakfast together. After hanging up, she doesn’t know what to do with herself. She doesn’t want to study or fret anymore about Suzy. She turns on the TV and then turns it off. On her computer she googles Toronto Oil and Gas. The website reads:

  During the winter months, between November and March inclusive, failure to pay one’s gas bill in a timely fashion will not result in the discontinuation of one’s heating. However, it will result in the immediate withdrawal of all other services, including furnace repairs, until such time as the bill is paid.

  She laughs with relief. Everything will be okay. She’ll have heating throughout the winter, until it is no longer cold. As for the withdrawal of services such as repairs, this does not worry her. Her father’s furnace has never, to her knowledge, broken down, so why would it do so now? She’ll be fine until the end of March, and then, before leaving for Israel on April 7, she will work something out with the company.

  She checks her email and browses Ha’aretz. Everything is all right in Israel today. And one delightful thing about Israel her friends and Ha’aretz remind her of: Although here in Canada everything is in the deep freeze of winter, in Israel everything is green and blooming. Tu B’shvat was almost a month ago, and as the Tu B’shvat holiday song goes, “The almond tree is in blossom.” She pictures Israel now: the sap flowing in the tree trunks, the pink buds sprouting, the air softening, and the earth warm. And she feels warmed and comforted.

  Bobby’s meeting goes very late, so they meet at his house just in time for bed. Judith hardly sleeps all night. She wakes up frequently, upset about Suzy. How could she have done this to her? She flipped sides, like a spatula flipping an omelette — first it’s on one side, then the other. How could she have betrayed her like this? At 5:45 she gives up trying to fall back asleep, and turning toward Bobby, observes his face. In sleep, it is uncharacteristically calm and at rest. Then he begins to awaken and it returns to its usual expression: vigilant, tense. He sees her, reaches out for her, they make love, and then they go downstairs. They sit at the kitchen table, he in his old blue bathrobe, and she in one of his T-shirts reaching down to her knees. Soon there are the smells of brewing coffee and toasting raisin bagels — pungent bitter mixed with sweet — and for several minutes they sit leafing through the morning papers, waiting for the coffee and toasted bagels. Then she says, “She hates me.”