The Dead Don't Dance

by Charles Martin

  She was quiet for a moment, then stuck her point-making finger in the air. “Professor, you didn’t ask, but I’m going to tell you . . . at least this is what I’m banking on. If God is who He says He is, then He’s big enough to handle my ranting and raving.” She paused again. “And all my questions.”

  I held Maggie’s hand and kept my mouth shut.

  Amanda patted Maggs’s foot again, turned, and walked to the door. “Professor?” she said.

  “Yes?” I looked up at her.

  “I probably talk more than I should, but you asked.” She smiled again, placing one hand on the door and resting one leg, bending it at the knee. “What I really want to say is this: I’m just talking about me. I know other people have had tough times, too, but you asked, and I told you.”

  I heard a shuffle, and when I looked up, she was gone. Blue licked my knee, and the plate of steaming eggs, sausage, and toast began to smell real good. Maggie’s feeding bag was half-empty, so we ate in silence.

  At a few minutes before nine, I kissed her forehead, checked to make sure her socks were pulled up, folded Blue’s blanket, and left for school. Walking down the hall, I realized how thickly Amanda had wrapped my arm. It looked like a billy club. Judging by the size and thickness of the bandage, it’d take thirty minutes just to cut it off.

  chapter twenty

  THANKSGIVING WEEKEND I WAS ALONE, PARKED ON the front porch and sniffing the air for the smell of turkey. There was none, only a lone fireplace somewhere south of my rocker. In my lap sat my students’ research papers, which they had placed in my box by 5:00 P.M. the day before. My hope was to grade them over the four-day break and return them the next week, allowing the students the remaining three weeks of the semester to rewrite and make corrections.

  In teaching my previous seven classes, I had developed a method for reading papers. I thought it helped bring fairness to the whole process. When starting a paper, I didn’t look at the name until after I’d given it a grade. Also, I read each one twice. The process helped keep me honest. Sometimes, if I’m familiar with a student’s topic, then I know whose I’m reading, but most times I have no idea.

  Rocking with the rhythm of the corn, my eyes were focused on four particular research papers. They stuck out not because of their poor quality, but because they were good, real good. Even excellent.

  After the second read, I was still impressed, but I had some suspicions. Then I looked at the names. No way. Not this year, not these guys, not anytime soon. I finished reading the rest of the papers a second time and spent Sunday and Monday thinking it over.

  The answer was simple, but that was just the problem. Do I question four students about their papers, accuse them of plagiarism, and hope I get a confession? I’m the teacher, that’s my job. I think they’re guilty. No, I know they’re guilty. It’s a nonissue. They’re gone. It’s out of my hands. School policy.

  It’s not that easy.

  Some students think that the teacher is paid by their tuition and consequently owes them something—as if showing up to class is admirable and completing assignments is optional. They’re not all like that. I do have real students, the kind you hope you discover. Because that’s what teachers do. We discover, or uncover, kids.

  I spent the weekend thinking about my fibbing four. They weren’t even discreet about it. A voice inside my head told me that it is not uncommon for a student to sue a teacher for such an accusation. It happens.

  To be honest, there were two voices inside of me. One said, Just give ’em back. Forget it. You really don’t care. They’re only cheating themselves. It’s their future. You’ve got enough on your plate. The other said, Wait a minute, what are you doing?

  That second voice was the tough one. I fought it. Hey, I’m just an adjunct. These kids will never see me again. All they want is a grade, and all I want is to get out of there and pay my bills. But I knew that wasn’t really true.

  I sat on the porch, rocking, reading, and making absolutely certain. It wasn’t too hard. In sum, I had four papers and four lives handed to me on a silver platter.

  MY STUDENTS FILED INTO CLASS, AND I HANDED OUT THE papers, all except the four. I looked at those students and said, “Your papers were really good. Actually, they were great. You four hang out after class. I’d like to talk to you.”

  That was enough to quiet them for the remainder of class. Not one uttered a single peep. Marvin chewed on his lip, Russell looked out the window, and Eugene and Alan shifted their minds into high gear.

  Class ended, the rest filed out, and my fib-four sat mumbling and tongue-tied in front and around me. They tried to pass over the uneasiness.

  I said, “Guys, your papers were great, which is why you’re sitting here. I want you to tell me about them.”

  Marvin spoke up. “Well, ain’t you gonna give ’em back?”

  “No, not yet. I want to ask you some questions first.” I had the papers in my hand and was nervously but slowly shuffling them like a deck of cards.

  “We’ll get to that,” I said. “Eugene, let’s start with you.”

  Eugene was intelligent. He had a good sense of humor but was also curious and usually made a good contribution to my class. I liked him. It was evident that people respected him, because they listened to what he had to say.

  Eugene tossed his head, slipped down in his chair, and gave me his best attitude-look, which said, All right, but I ain’t done nothing wrong.

  “Eugene, tell me about your paper. I’m impressed. It’s really good. Just tell me about it.”

  “It’s been a long time since I wrote it. I don’ remembuh much. Whatchoo wanna know?”

  He threw the slang in to get over his uneasiness, I knew, because he could pretend to speak like a Rhodes scholar when the urge hit him.

  “Well, just tell me where you got the idea.”

  “I don’t remember, but I asked you a few weeks ago if I could write about these two poems, and you said I could.”

  “I remember. All right, how about this: explain your thesis.”

  Silence.

  “Well . . . explain your conclusions?”

  “I don’t know. It’s been a long time since I wrote it.” Whenever Eugene’s mouth moved, his hands followed. His hands were starting to come alive as I asked him more questions.

  The others began to get uncomfortable as they wrestled with how they might answer these same questions.

  “Well . . . tell me what poems you used. What are the titles?”

  “I can’t remember, but one is about a ship and the other is about. . . .”

  “Who is the author?”

  “Dickinson, um . . . Emily.”

  “Good. Now, why these poems?”

  Silence.

  “Okay, you hold on to that. I’ll come back to you.”

  Eugene breathed, but it was not an easy breath. His head was turning, and I could see that entrepreneurial side kick in. He was thinking about how he could make a deal.

  I turned to Marvin. “Marvin . . . ”

  I had learned a few things about Marvin. He was the most highly recruited freshman Digs had ever signed. He’d probably enter the draft at the end of his sophomore year. If he stayed healthy, he could go all the way. Aside from football, he had a great sense of humor, always made me laugh, and I enjoyed having him in class.

  About six weeks ago, I was in midlecture, and Marvin was gabbing away with anybody who would listen. I stopped in the middle of a sentence, looked him square in the face, and said in a tone he had not heard before, “Marvin, what’s the one thing all great cornerbacks have to have to play in the NFL?”

  Real quick, it got pin-drop quiet. Marvin laughed, cocked his head back, and said, “Quick feet, they all gotta have quick feet.” He looked around the class, proud and looking for support for what he knew was the right answer. Eugene gave him a high-five. He leaned back in his chair.

  I said, “No, there are a lot of guys who can run a 4.3 but aren’t in the NFL. It’s not
quick feet.”

  Marvin sat up.

  I turned back to the class and said, “Can anybody help Marvin? What is the one thing that all great defensive backs have to have in order to play in the NFL?”

  It was quiet in my classroom. Then slowly students chipped in, “Good hands,” “Size,” “Like to hit,” “Good eyes.”

  “Nope,” I said, “that’s not the one thing.” I looked back at Marvin.

  He looked up, slouched a little, and said kind of quietly, “They gotta listen.”

  “That’s right, Marvin. Dion Sanders was one of the greatest to play the game not because he ran a 4.2, but because he knew how to listen. Marvin, I want you to learn to listen in my classroom. You with me?”

  Since then, Marvin has listened more than he has talked. He’s even asked a few questions. Now I looked at him, but he never gave me the chance to ask the question.

  He pointed at his paper. “Professuh Styles, I wrote my papuh.”

  “Okay, then tell me about it. What’s your thesis?”

  “I don’ remembuh, but I wro’ my papuh.” Like Eugene, he was using slang to cover up what he couldn’t hide.

  “Okay, here, on page one.” I opened his paper and pointed to the first paragraph. “You talk about necromantic lust. What is necromantic lust?”

  “Necromani’ whut?”

  “Ne-cro-man-tic lust. You use it right here in this sentence, which, I think, is your thesis.”

  Marvin squirmed, kind of flung his head, half-grunted, and slouched.

  “Okay, here.” I pointed again. “You talk about Aristotelian philosophy. That’s a pretty broad topic, so let’s just talk about his metaphysics.”

  “His meta-what?” Marvin’s voice got high-pitched.

  “His me-ta-phy-sics.”

  Silence. The other three were motionless. The heaters in the room were really working. On top of that, I noticed that my heart was pounding at a pretty good pace. Any louder and they’d be able to hear it. Somebody’s foot shuffled on the dusty floor.

  “Professuh Styles, I wro’ my papuh, I jus’ can’ remembuh ri’ now. But I wro’ dit.”

  “Okay, then let’s start over. What’s your thesis?”

  Silence.

  “What’s your conclusion?”

  Silence.

  “What’s your title?”

  Deathly silence.

  “Okay, you think, and I’ll go on to Alan.”

  Alan was always early to class. Always did his homework. Never caused a problem. Asked some pretty good questions and never talked out of turn. Even raised his hand. He braided his hair into about ten braids and wanted to go to work with his brother when he got out of school. I liked him. He looked like he came up tough but also looked like he came up honest.

  Alan’s paper was the only one of the four that struck me as slightly different. There was no way he had written it—the language was too clean—but I did believe that he had typed it.

  “Alan, tell me about your paper.”

  He launched into some of the specifics of his paper, relaying to me the highlights. Three minutes later, he finished speaking and rested his hands on the tabletop. His eyes told me he wasn’t guilty, but they didn’t necessarily say he was innocent either.

  “Okay, what does this word mean?” It was a scientific term, and I can’t begin to remember how to spell it. I had no idea what it meant. Neither did he.

  “Okay, how did you organize your ideas?”

  Silence.

  “Okay, where did you get this information?”

  “In a book.”

  “Well, you don’t cite it, so how am I to know where it comes from? It’s obvious that you’ve done some good research here. Your language is clean, but I just don’t know where you got your ideas.”

  Alan must have had a poor grammar-school experience, because his written use of the English language was horrendous. Judging by his prior two essays, I know there was no way on God’s green earth that he had written a single word of this, other than his name.

  When I first read his paper, I saw quickly that he had given me what he thought I wanted. What he didn’t realize, what none of them realized, was that I would work with each person from his starting point, not mine. They didn’t know that. And they sure didn’t want to believe it. Maybe that was my fault. Maybe that was the reason the five of us weren’t down in the department chair’s office right then.

  “Okay, what does this sentence mean?” I read the sentence and then looked at him.

  “Well, it mean dat de thing dey talkin’ ’bout der is only foun’ in space, and when it mix wit d’other elemen’s, then it have dis effect.” Alan was no dummy. He had a good head on his shoulders, and he knew his topic. He understood what was said; he just could never say it the way it was written.

  “Then why not tell me like that rather than the way it is written here?”

  Alan’s eyes got real big, and he pointed at the paper. “Dat souns bettuh. And you’da graded me lowuh lik’ you dun on de utter papuhs.”

  “Well, if that’s the case, then who said it? I don’t know, because you don’t give anyone credit for saying it.”

  “I say it.”

  “Well, the way you just explained it and the way you wrote it here are two very different things.”

  Alan was quiet, and his forehead wrinkled.

  “Okay, you hold on to that, and I’ll go on to Russell.”

  At this point in the year, Russell had become my favorite. I know I’m not supposed to have favorites, or at least I shouldn’t admit it. But Russell was a leader. Had it written all over his body. He was soft-spoken, kind, funny, curious, he cared about my class, and until now, I think he liked me.

  “Russell, tell me about your essay.” By this time, Russell knew the drill.

  “Well, it’s ’bout television and its impac’ on kids.”

  “Great, tell me more.”

  Russell thought, and then he said, “Well, my sistuh helped me do som’ research.”

  “That’s fine. I told you to get help if you needed it. Now tell me more about your paper.”

  Silence. Eugene and Marvin had had just about enough of this, and their attitudes were feeding off each other. Eugene piped in, “I wrote my paper a long time ago, but I wrote it.”

  “Okay, while Russell is thinking, we’ll start over. Eugene, tell me about your paper.” I went through the whole thing again. And yes, I was more worried and more scared. I was losing, or at least getting nowhere, which was losing. I was also getting somewhat mad.

  Finally I put the papers down. “Guys, does anyone in this room have anything he wants to tell me? Anything at all?”

  The silence was thick. I started over.

  “Eugene. Tell me about these two poems. What kind of analysis do you perform?”

  Silence. But their nonverbal communication spoke volumes, and a consensus was beginning to develop. I could tell they had realized that if they all ganged up on me, they’d have a better chance of getting out of this than if they just covered themselves.

  Eugene sneered at me. “Professuh Styles, it’s been a while, so I can’t remember it right now, but I wrote my paper.” He pointed his finger in my face. “I wrote my paper.” He laughed uncomfortably, sat back, and slouched as if he had had the last word.

  I turned again to Marvin. “Marvin, let’s talk about your paper. Where’d you get your ideas?”

  Marvin slumped, threw his head in a show of disgust, grunted again, and looked out the window.

  “Alan, can you give me a good reason why the language and organization in this paper are so different from your first two papers?”

  Silence.

  “Russell?”

  I put the papers down on my desk, and their eyes followed. I looked out the window, then at them, and I asked one more time, “Does anyone in this room have anything at all he wants to tell me?”

  They knew. I knew that they knew. And they knew that I knew that they knew.

&n
bsp; Stalemate.

  I looked at each one, not knowing what to say. Finally I picked up the papers and said, “Guys, you know what I call this.” No one allowed his eyes to meet mine.

  “You know what the university calls this.”

  Still quiet.

  “Eugene, what do you call this?”

  Eugene sat up. “Professuh Styles, I don’t know, but I wro’ my paper. I need this class to graduate. And I know I wro’ my paper.” Eugene was reaching. He wanted to deal.

  I looked at Marvin. “Marvin, what do you call this?”

  “I wro’ my papuh.”

  “Alan, how about you?”

  “I . . . I typed my paper.”

  Then I turned to Russell. “Russell, what do you call this?”

  No movement. No talking. No breathing. They had consensus, and I had nothing. They could win, and they knew it or at least thought it possible. If everyone kept quiet, they had me.

  I put the papers back down on my desk, looked back at Russell, wondered if I should play the only card I had. Very quietly I said, “Russell . . . what would your dad call this?”

  Russell shook his head, closed his eyes, and said, “Aw, man, why’d you have to go there?” He wiped his big hand over his face, closed his eyes again, and looked down in his lap. His massive shoulders slumped, he took a deep breath, his chest expanded and contracted, and he looked me straight in the eye. “He’d call it cheating.”

  Checkmate.

  Marvin and Eugene deflated like balloons. Alan sat quietly.

  I nodded. “Thank you. That’s what I call it too.”

  I sat on my desk, my legs dangling off, and they sat slumped in their chairs, looking at me. Long seconds ticked slowly by.

  I turned back to Russell. “You need to know before I go any farther that you just showed more honesty and more integrity than I’ve seen in a long time. I have no respect for what you gave me, but for what you just said, well . . . I thank you.”