by Frankie Bow
“I’m supposed to stay home and rest.”
“You two are on a committee together?” Pat asked.
“Committee on the Status of Women. We were supposed to have a meeting today. So who was there from College of Commerce?”
“You’ll love this,” Emma grimaced. “Rodge Cowper.”
“Oh, that’s an interesting choice,” I said.
“Isn’t it because of Rodge that everyone in your department has to keep your office doors open if you have a student in there?” Pat asked.
“Exactly. The Rodge Cowper Rule. So how did the meeting go?”
“Well,” Emma said, “Rodge came strutting in, you know how he is.”
“Covering his insecurity with a brittle shell of cartoonish machismo,” Pat said. “That poor guy is a midlife crisis on wheels. Did he lick his finger and smooth his eyebrows?”
“I don’t think Rodge actually does that,” I said.
“Finger guns?”
“He does do the finger guns.”
“So he walks into our meeting ten minutes late, right?” Emma said. “And we’re having a pretty serious conversation about campus safety and putting more call boxes in, stuff like that. So Rodge busts out with, ‘Hello ladies, I’m here to help you wage war on the nuclear family, the American male, and Christmas.’”
“Oh brother,” said Pat.
“So Betty Jackson says, ‘We love Christmas, Rodge. You should see our version of the Nutcracker.’”
“So Dan put you on leave and took you off your committees because you forgot to erase the whiteboard one time?” Pat asked.
“It wasn’t only that. The thing was, I’d left the class discussion notes up from when we went over The Goebbels Experiment.”
“Paid or unpaid leave?” Emma asked.
“I think it comes out of my sick leave,” I said.
“Not bad,” Emma mused. “Really? All you had to do was forget to erase the board?”
“There’s something else too,” I said. “I guess someone reported me for displaying unusual behavior at the last SRO session.”
“I don’t see why anyone would complain about that,” Emma said. “I thought it was the best faculty development session ever. Hey, can I move this stuff you have on the coffee table? What is this mess anyway?”
“Oh, these are the draft project proposals from the business planning class. I don’t trust Rodge to do a good job giving them feedback.”
“The writing, huh?” Pat asked. “Listen, I do what I can in intro comp, but I can’t spin straw into gold.”
“No, that’s not the problem,” I said. “The problem is, I’m looking at these plans, and I know some of my students are only doing this for the class credit, but there are some who are serious about trying to start these businesses. I’m seeing all of these shiny, naïve dream-bubbles that are about to get popped by the hatpin of reality.”
“The hatpin of reality?” Emma rolled her eyes. “Who says stuff like that?”
I gestured at the pile of papers. “One sports bar or restaurant or shoe store after another. They do the break-even analysis, they know there’s no way the business can survive, but they refuse to abandon the Dream. I don’t know why we even teach this class in an undergrad program. You’re not supposed to go out and start a business out of thin air. You’re supposed to work in the industry for a few years first. Build up your contact list, figure out what the customers want that they don’t already have. That’s what Donnie did.”
“Speaking of Donnie,” Pat said, “does he know what happened? How are you going to explain your unexpected vacation to him?”
“Don’t listen to Pat. Donnie doesn’t have to know about this. You don’t have to tell him anything. What’s wrong with wanting to start a restaurant, though? Why is that such a bad idea?”
“We have expensive inputs and an extremely price-conscious market on this side of the island. Add plenty of competition, fickle customers, and high fixed costs—”
Pat started to make exaggerated snoring noises. I ignored him.
“If you’re down near the hotels where all the tour—sorry, the visitors are, you might be able to make it on volume but otherwise, it’s tough. By the way, I think you’re not supposed to be looking at those. Unless you want to help me grade them?”
I got up to help myself to another glass of wine. I took Emma’s now-empty glass back for a refill too.
“Hey, Molly!” Emma was holding up one of the papers. “This is Sherry’s! Did you see it?”
“Emma, I don’t think you’re supposed to read those. I’m already in enough trouble. I don’t need a FERPA violation on my record too.” I returned with two brimming wine glasses and set them down on coasters.
Emma handed me Sherry’s paper.
“Read this.”
Sherry’s proposed product was a portable device that could detect and disrupt a wireless signal.
“Well, that’s a pleasant surprise. An original business idea. I’d actually buy this. Too bad it’s probably illegal.”
“I know! A wearable Wi-Fi jammer! I wonder if it can kill the Wi-Fi in the classroom. If it can, I want one.”
“Yeah, sounds pretty useful,” Pat said. “Sign me up!”
“I just busted one little princess in my class,” Emma said. “She claimed she needed her laptop to take notes, so I’ve been letting her use it. So after class, I saw she’d been posting messages, during my lecture if you can believe it. So hungover LOL, BIO 101 lecture so board, spelled B-O-A-R-D, Nakamura ruined my weekend, stuff like that. If I could block Wi-Fi in my classroom, I wouldn’t have to worry about any of that. Or about students who use cell phones to cheat on tests.”
“How did you know what your student posted?” I asked.
“She friended me at the beginning of the semester, and I guess she forgot. So, you want us to take these papers back up to your department?”
“I want to write some feedback on them first.”
“Didn’t Dan tell you not to?” Emma said. “You gonna disobey your dean?”
“I’m not sure I trust Rodge to—”
“That’s Dan’s decision,” Emma interrupted. “Not yours. Come on, let’s watch a movie.”
“Is it a comedy? I hope it’s a comedy.”
Emma’s movie was not a comedy. It was a depressing drama about a doting mother making one sacrifice after another for her self-centered, ungrateful child.
“Why doesn’t anyone call the daughter out on her self-destructive behavior?” I complained. “Everyone’s indulging her!”
“Hit a little close to home?” Pat asked.
“Maybe. I feel sorry for the mother. I have no sympathy for the daughter. And this movie is not lifting my spirits.”
“Molly, you have to watch it to the end,” Emma said.
“Yeah, maybe there’s a happy ending,” Pat said. “Maybe the ungrateful daughter dies.”
“That wouldn’t be a happy ending, because it’s still sad for the mother. There’s no good way out of this except maybe the daughter getting a personality transplant. Come on, if Davison made a bad decision and ended up dead because of it, Donnie would be devastated.”
“Well, I want to watch the movie,” Pat said.
“I guess I don’t understand the appeal of sad movies. Why should I pay to be depressed? I can feel depressed for free.”
“Just watch the rest of it,” Emma commanded. I did.
“Well, that was nice and depressing,” I said when it was all over. “Thanks. Now it’s too late to start grading.”
“You don’t have to do any grading,” Pat said. “Rodge is teaching your classes, and you’re not even supposed to go back onto campus.”
“Yeah, Molly. Dan told you to take a break.”
“You’re going to have a lot of free time now,” Pat added. “I know doing nothing while someone else teaches your students is probably a control freak’s worst nightmare, but you’ll have to get used to it.”
“I t
hink we have time for another movie,” Emma said.
“Wait. Are you saying I’m a control freak? Do you both think that?”
Emma concentrated on queuing up the next movie, and Pat acted like he hadn’t heard me.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
I HAULED MYSELF OUT of bed at sunrise to stroll down the hill and hang out at the Farmer’s Market. I hadn’t even been on leave for twenty-four hours, and I was already bored. The Farmer’s Market is one of Mahina’s few tourist attractions (or visitor attractions, if you like), and I live in convenient walking distance, but I hardly ever take advantage of it. I walked past Donnie’s Drive-Inn, but it wasn’t open yet.
I perused a display of papayas first. They were firm and smooth, and a day or two short of fully ripe. I had never liked papayas until I moved here and tried the Hawaiian varieties. They’re smaller and sweeter than the ones you buy on the mainland, with none of the bile taste. I bought a few and moved along to a display of jewelry and hair ornaments made of plant fibers and shells. I was about to pass by, when I heard,
“Hello, Professor!”
It was Hermina, my former student. The two other women at the table with her were busy, one doing something with the cash box, the other arranging the display. None of the three women wore makeup.
It wouldn’t even occur to me to leave the house without makeup, despite the many discussions I'd had back in grad school about the cosmetics industry and its perpetuation of ageist, Eurocentric beauty ideals. Pat needles me about my makeup dependence. Maybe Pat is right, and my aesthetic imagination has been colonized by unattainable patriarchally-enforced standards, causing me to buy and use cosmetics for which I have no need.
On the other hand, there was the one time I showed up to class barefaced—my car wouldn’t start, and I had barely enough time to walk to campus—and I apparently looked so pale and haggard my students got together after class and wrote me a get-well card.
“Hermina!” I exclaimed. “I thought you worked up at the clinic! Did you change jobs?”
She laughed. “No, Professor, this is my family business. I still work up there.”
“Oh. I might see you later then.”
“Going to pick up your prescription?” The two other women were still occupied with their respective tasks, and neither acknowledged me.
“Uh, yeah. They just sent me another reminder. So what’s the family business?”
Hermina explained that she and other women in her extended family made hair ornaments, earrings, and necklaces from scratch, working together for hours at a stretch. It was a time for socializing, as well as getting work done, she explained. I bought a woven ponytail holder and a necklace adorned with tiny shells. They were carefully worked, and ridiculously inexpensive. When I paid, Hermina’s two relatives finally looked up and smiled at me. I felt guilty getting change back from a twenty.
I dawdled at the Farmer’s Market as long as I could, and when I was done I still had the whole day in front of me. The mall didn’t open for another two hours. Pat and Emma were at work, and I wouldn’t be meeting Donnie for lunch until later that afternoon.
I considered violating the terms of my leave and sneaking onto campus to get the data for a paper I was working on, but I decided against it. The last thing I needed was to get into even more trouble. I could have Pat or Emma retrieve the files from my office computer. They seem to know how to get into my office when I’m not there.
I went back home, pinned back my hair with the new contraption I had just bought from Hermina, and headed back out to the clinic to pick up my prescription. It was something to do, and it got me out of the house and away from the stack of still- ungraded papers on my coffee table. The ones I wasn’t supposed to be grading. Emma was right. I should pack them up, send them to my department chair, and enjoy my mandatory holiday.
As I entered the clinic I saw the pharmacy window wouldn’t open for another few minutes. I heard something plop onto the carpet and looked down to see a piece of polished blonde wood, part of my new hair gizmo. I obviously hadn’t put it in correctly. On an impulse, I went over to Behavioral Health, to see if Hermina was working behind the desk. She was. There was only one other person in the waiting room, a gaunt woman in a cowboy hat who sat quietly with her sinewy hands folded in her lap, staring at the floor.
Hermina flashed me her golden smile as I approached the reception desk.
“Long time no see, Professor!” she grinned.
“Hi, Hermina! I know. Look, I’m wearing the new hair device, and it’s so pretty, but it keeps falling out. I was wondering if you could tell me what I’m doing wrong?” I glanced over at the lone patient, who hadn’t moved. “Sorry, I don’t mean to bother you at work.”
“No problem. It’s not busy right now. You gotta twist the hair. That makes it stay. No, do it the other way. Like this.” She unwound her bun—her hair was surprisingly long—and demonstrated the correct twisting technique. With her direction, I got the thing seated securely.
“Thanks for the help. Now it feels like it’ll stay put.” I patted my hair to make sure.
“You have another question for me, Professor?”
“You’re very observant. I do, actually. I, uh, I was wondering. You mentioned you worked at the library for a while.”
I felt a little uneasy bringing it up since I didn’t know whether she had left her job there voluntarily. But she seemed to have landed on her feet, employment wise, so maybe this wasn’t a huge faux pas.
“Those jobs pay quite well, from what I hear.”
Her smile disappeared. “I guess so, yeah.”
“Do you know, I saw the strangest thing. Down at the food bank? I thought I saw someone who works at the library, a former student, I won’t say who, standing in line! Have you ever heard of anyone doing that? It seems so...”
Hermina was looking down at the desk.
“Lot of us did that thing,” she said. “I couldn’t apply for assistance because my paycheck says my salary too high. So I go to the food bank too.”
I glanced up at the wall clock. Still a few minutes until the pharmacy window opened.
“But—”
“I’m not supposed to tell nobody. They tell me, don’t tell nobody.”
“You don’t work for them anymore. You can tell me. I won’t let anyone know I heard it from you.”
“We have to donate.” She looked miserable. “Almost our whole pay. More than ninety percent from the paycheck.”
“Who says you have to donate? Donate to whom?”
“They tell us we have to donate to the school. They tell us, they make it easy for us, they do an automatic deduction from our paycheck.”
“Couldn't you refuse?”
“Then they fire you. Then you get nothing. I’m lucky I find a job here. I can pay for everything now, and I can help support my family. I even send money home.”
“So they hire our graduates at high salaries, and they force you to turn around and donate most of it back to the university.”
Hermina nodded.
“So they can say they give us good jobs, but really they don’t pay us.”
“It’s for the rankings. They can claim our graduates’ starting salaries are high and our alumni donations are increasing. Meanwhile, we’re shifting our own money from payroll to the development office, and our graduates are lining up at the food bank. Well, Hermina, I’m glad you were able to get out of that situation.”
“Me too. Hey, Professor, pharmacy should be open now. Hope you feel better. Your hair looks pretty now.”
Peter, my former student, was the only one working at the pharmacy window. Two people were already in line. I took my place behind them and called Pat. He wasn’t answering his phone, so I left a message telling him what I had just learned from Hermina. As I hung up, I noticed the large sign posted on the wall: Please No Cell Phones.
I dropped my phone back into my purse. I'd done enough rule-breaking for now.
CHAPTER FORTY-NI
NE
“HEY, PROFESSOR!”
Peter was inches away from me, on the opposite side of the pharmacy window, but he spoke with the same clear, ringing tone that used to carry his off-topic observations to the far corners of my classroom. Certainly the people waiting in line behind me could hear every word.
“It’ll be just a minute. You’re here to pick up the contraceptive ring, right, Professor? Do you need instructions on how to insert it?”
“No, that’s not mine.”
“What? Sorry, I can’t hear you through the glass.”
“That’s funny, I can hear you loud and clear. My prescription is for—could you check my record again, please?”
I didn’t want to say it out loud: anxiety medication. For that matter, I couldn’t imagine any prescription I would want announced to the entire clinic. We have patient privacy laws for a reason.
Peter leaned over and peered at his computer screen. “Oh, sorry. The contraceptive ring was for Professor Jackson. You know her, yeah?”
I nodded. Poor Betty.
Peter stood and grinned. “She told me factory’s closed. She said she told Niall if he wants any more kids they’ll have to outsource to China. You seen her kids? Wow, they’re getting bigger!”
“They are.” I wondered why Peter seemed to find it remarkable that small children would grow larger. That’s what children do. Even I know that.
“You ever notice how they’re the same color from head to toe?” Peter persisted. Their hair and skin and eyes, everything? All golden brown. Like they’re made out of caramel. Professor, you don’t have any kids, do you?”
Peter hadn’t changed at all. I wondered if there might not be more fitting career choices for an extroverted blabbermouth than small-town pharmacist.
“Do you need my patient number?” I asked.
“Nah, thanks. I have it right here.”
Donnie and I had never talked about whether we wanted children (additional children, that is; Davison isn’t negotiable). We don’t have those Where Are We Going with This Relationship kinds of conversations. I’m in favor of children in a general sense, being necessary for the stability of our various social and economic systems, but I could never picture myself as a mother. I couldn’t begin to imagine having four, like Betty Jackson and her cheerful husband Niall.
