Blue Angel

by Francine Prose

  “I see,” says Bentham, chastened. “Yes, I suppose that’s a wise idea.”

  “And besides,” adds Carlos, “half the stuff that college chicks write is about having a crush on their teacher. They’ve never been anywhere, done anything. What else can they write about?”

  All right, Carlos. That’s enough. Meg Ferguson, wherever she is, will revoke your authority to speak for her and the others.

  “And Carlos…,” says Lauren, “did you and the others have any reason to suspect that Professor Swenson was involved with Miss Argo?”

  “No,” says Carlos. “But we do now. And you know what? I can’t see what the big deal is. Shit happens. People get attracted to other people. It’s not that big a deal.”

  Carlos’s moral authority is slipping here. The committee’s not about to be convinced that their ethical standards—the principles they’re putting in all this time and energy to uphold—can be challenged by Carlos’s goony common sense.

  “And I assume that the class also knows by now,” presses Bentham, “that Professor Swenson may have talked Miss Argo into having sex in exchange for certain favors.”

  “What favors?” asks Carlos.

  “He promised to show her novel to his editor in New York. To get her novel published.”

  No, sir. The class did not know this. No way. Carlos doesn’t need to answer. The truth is all over his face.

  This is Swenson’s payback for having enforced a sadistic system in which students are required to keep silent while their hearts and souls are ritually dismembered. The committee should have offered Swenson the option, the kindness, of a gag, to prevent him from shouting out: Carlos, don’t listen to them! That’s not what happened. And what should he say? What did happen? I showed her work to my editor because it’s so much better than yours, Carlos. In any case, it’s no longer clear that he has an editor in New York, besides which he would never have suggested trading a professional introduction for sex. Not only because of his own moral scruples, values, vanity, and pride, but also because, as it turned out, he couldn’t be sure that he could collect on the sexual part of the bargain.

  “No,” says Carlos. “We didn’t know. Gee. Let me get this straight. Sorry. I didn’t mean to…” Everyone watches Carlos’s perception of unfairness—Angela’s gotten a special break denied the rest of the class—warring against his belief in loyalty and in not betraying his captain. Swenson wants to tell him that the real unfairness involves the distribution of talent and has nothing to do with whatever happened between him and Angela Argo. But that would hardly endear him to the committee, or to Carlos.

  “That’s all right, Carlos,” says Bentham. “Take a minute. Tell us, are you a writer too?”

  “I hope so,” says Carlos.

  “Well, it’s been my impression,” says Bentham, “that writers generally have excellent memories. It’s one of the tools of their trade.”

  “I guess so,” Carlos says.

  “Then search your memory,” says Bentham, “and tell us if anything happened in class this semester that seemed even slightly…odd or…out of the ordinary.”

  Every ounce of Carlos’s training and life experience is pressuring him to stand tall and not disclose anything except his name, rank, and serial number. But nothing has prepared him to resist the seduction of having the dean of his college calling him a writer and a half-dozen faculty members hanging on his every word. How can he disappoint them? How can he not offer up any scrap of information he can recall?

  “There was a joke going around the class. I mean, we were getting a lot of stories about people…” Carlos shakes his head. He can’t believe this. Not even in the navy did he encounter anything this wiggy. “Um, there were a lot of stories about people having sex with, you know, um, animals.”

  Yes, and Carlos started it with his piece about the young voyeur, his tattletale neighbor, and the German shepherd. Let’s enter that into the record.

  “With animals?” repeats Bentham, in honeyed tones of ironic Brit disbelief.

  At this, Bill the anthropologist comes—just perceptibly—to life. What interspecies intercourse is part of the secret rituals of this creative writing tribe?

  “What animals?” Bill says.

  Carlos shakes his head again. “Actually, sir, a chicken.”

  Bentham is having fun with this. “Are you telling me, Carlos, that a student in Professor Swenson’s class submitted a story in which a character—a human—had sex with a chicken?”

  “A dead chicken.” Carlos can’t help himself. Everyone chuckles, appalled. Bentham looks at Swenson, who shakes his head. Damned if he gets it, either. First phone sex, now animal sex. Obviously, he’s been having an interesting semester.

  “I see,” says Lauren. “A theme seems to be emerging.”

  “What’s that?” says Carlos cagily.

  “Didn’t you say Miss Argo’s novel was about eggs?” Lauren’s been trained by years of graduate school to look for patterns of metaphor. “And now chickens…?”

  “No one was having sex with the eggs in Angela’s novel,” says Carlos.

  Not in the part you read, Swenson thinks. Another sign of how lost he is that he’s proud to have read more of Angela’s book than anyone else in the class or on the panel.

  “You said animals…plural,” says Bill, the statistically conscious, quantifying voice of the social sciences. “So there were…other animals.”

  “A cow,” Carlos says. “And a dog.”

  “In the same story or in separate stories?” says Amelia.

  “Separate stories,” says Carlos.

  “From different students?” Carl asks.

  “Yep,” Carlos concurs. “The dog was in my story, actually.” Finally, the truth.

  “All this in one semester?” says Bentham.

  “This semester. Yeah.”

  “And you’re telling the committee that, in one semester, students in Professor Swenson’s class wrote fiction in which humans have sexual relations with cows and chickens and dogs.”

  “A cow,” says Carlos. “A chicken. A dog.”

  “That’s remarkable,” Bentham says.

  “I guess so,” says Carlos. “We used to say we’d finally figured out what got Professor Swenson’s attention.”

  That’s what they thought got his attention? There’s been a gigantic misunderstanding about those swamps of boredom Swenson slogged through reading their wretched stories, spiced by the dread of having to figure out how to teach them without getting charged with sexual harassment, which he is getting charged with, so he was right to worry. What got his attention was Angela Argo’s novel.

  No one can speak for several minutes as they consider Carlos’s latest disclosure. Lauren makes relentless eye contact with her colleagues until she’s sure they have no more questions.

  “Thank you, Carlos,” Lauren says. “We appreciate your coming here today and being so straightforward and honest.”

  “Look,” says Carlos, “Let’s get something straight. I personally don’t think there’s anything wrong with writing stories about having sex with animals. I think students should be allowed to write any stories they want!”

  But it’s a little late for Carlos’s impassioned First Amendment defense.

  “We agree,” says Bentham. “Of course. Thank you for your help.”

  How many more of Swenson’s loyal student defenders are going to be paraded before the committee? All of them, perhaps. The hearing isn’t over. Carlos jogs back up the aisle, avoiding Swenson’s gaze.

  After a pause, the door flies open. Claris Williams glides down the stairs, transforming the chilly lecture hall into a fashion runway along which the gorgeous Claris skims, hardly touching the ground, turning her giraffe’s neck toward, and away from, imaginary flashbulbs. Swenson thinks he can hear the committee catch its collective breath as they wonder why students like that don’t sign up for their classes.

  “Thank you for coming in, Miss Williams.” Even Bent
ham is awed by Claris’s beauty

  “You’re welcome.” Claris gives away nothing. No regrets. No gloating.

  “I know this may be difficult for you,” says Lauren, “so we’ll try to make it as quick and easy as we can. In your dealings, in class and out of class, with Professor Swenson, did his actions toward you ever seem…inappropriate?”

  “No.” Claris shakes her lovely head. She’s sticking up for Swenson and at the same time discrediting her own testimony, because no one in the room can believe that a normal, healthy male would hit on Angela Argo when there was a woman like Claris around. Clearly, she is lying, or else Swenson is insane. Shouldn’t an insanity defense be permitted in sexual harassment cases?

  Swenson and Claris know it’s true. Swenson thinks, How pathetic. What is wrong with him? He never even entertained a sexual thought about Claris and spent months mooning over Angela Argo? How abject, how ridiculous. He isn’t a normal male.

  Bentham closes in for the kill. “And did Professor Swenson ever do anything to cause you to suspect that he was behaving inappropriately with another student?”

  “What do you mean?” asks Claris.

  Bentham says, “Did you ever see Professor Swenson with Miss Argo in a…venue that surprised you?”

  “Once,” Claris whispers, and they all lean forward, except Swenson, who leans backward. “I ran into Professor Swenson leaving Angela’s room in the dorm.”

  “Leaving Miss Argo’s room?” repeats the incredulous dean.

  Even now, Swenson expects the truthful Claris to amend her statement to say that she didn’t actually see him leaving Angela’s room. She only saw him on the stairs and assumed he’d been in Angela’s room. Circumstantial evidence!

  “Yes,” says Claris. Hasn’t Swenson taught Claris how crucially details matter?

  “Do you remember when that was?”

  “Actually, I do. It was just before Thanksgiving, because for a second I thought Professor Swenson was somebody’s dad, helping load the car, bring stuff home for the holiday. So I was really shocked when I saw that it was Professor Swenson.”

  He is, by the way, someone’s dad. Just not Angela Argo’s.

  “Did you and Professor Swenson exchange words,” says Lauren.

  “Just hello,” says Claris.

  “Did he see you?” Bill asks.

  “Yes, he did,” says Claris.

  “And did you tell anyone about this?” says Lauren.

  “No,” says Claris. “Why would I?”

  Why would she? Oh, why would she indeed? The question’s a bit much, really. No one but a saint could keep that kind of gossip secret. So how did Bentham know enough to ask Claris? And then it occurs to Swenson that Claris must have told them, that she volunteered when she heard that the committee was soliciting information. Now he knows how bad it is, and that things will deteriorate from here, a rapid descent from Carlos’s unwilling betrayal to the spectacle of students lining up to kick him when he’s down.

  “And how would you describe Professor Swenson on the occasion when you saw him leaving Miss Argo’s residence hall?”

  “I’d say…uncomfortable,” replies Claris.

  “Would you say…guilty?” presses Bentham.

  “I’d say uncomfortable,” repeats Claris.

  “Thank you, Miss Williams,” Bentham says frostily. He’s not used to being corrected by the likes of Claris. “The committee appreciates your help.”

  And now the swell of tormentors and accusers can no longer be contained by the tidy protocol that has so far determined the order and the pace of their appearance. Claris is nearly knocked down the stairs by Courtney Alcott, barreling in. Like Angela and Carlos, Courtney’s changed her look, lost the homegirl lipstick and earrings, the big pants and baggy sweater. She’s wearing the sort of navy blue suit that her mother must put on when she consents to leave Beacon Hill for a ladies’ lunch at the Ritz.

  Courtney flings herself into a chair. She doesn’t want to be thanked for coming, nor does she wait for a question. A spray of words explodes from her like champagne foam from a bottle.

  “Nobody’s going to say this,” she begins. “I know nobody’s going to come out and say this, so I just thought that somebody should. We all knew something was going on. Because we all got trashed in the class. Either Professor Swenson would trash our stuff or he would encourage the others to dump all over it. Especially Angela—he would get her to say all the mean stuff he really wanted to say himself. But when her story came up, her novel chapter or whatever, nobody was allowed to say anything bad, and when we tried to talk, he just told us how retarded we were and how Angela was a genius. So we all figured he had to be sleeping with her or something—”

  “Excuse me,” Swenson says. “Surely the committee realizes that there might be other reasons for admiring a student’s work.”

  It’s Courtney who’s gotten through to him, the ultimate torture of being judged and accused by this dim, ungenerous girl. Surely the committee sees that listening to this silly young woman discuss his professional conduct has driven him over the edge. Yet Swenson’s outburst so startles Bentham that for an instant he seems uncertain of who Swenson is.

  “We understand that,” he says. “But Ted…if you could just hold your comments till we’re through—”

  “Sorry,” says Swenson. “But this was just too much.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” says Courtney, forgivingly. “That’s all I had to say. I just wanted to say that because I knew nobody else would have the nerve.”

  “We appreciate that,” Lauren says. “Thank you, Courtney, for your courage.”

  Passing Swenson, Courtney gives him a dazzling smile of righteousness and triumph. Why shouldn’t she be happy? The truth has set her free. She can go on writing her sensitive meditations on ghetto life, and no one will tell her not to. Swenson’s learned his lesson. He’ll never criticize another student. Not that he’ll get a chance.

  Silence. Next witness. Could it be that Courtney’s subnormal outburst will be the final voice they’ll hear—the prosecution’s summation? The committee checks its folders, its lists. Angela, too, has lists. Everyone does, except Swenson. Bentham checks his Rolex. Swenson looks at his Casio. An hour has gone by. Lauren drums her fingers. Everyone mimes impatience. Swenson wishes something would happen. Any lag in the drama creates a gap in which he can confront the disturbing question of what will become of him after this hearing is over. No wife, no job, no home. He cranes his neck and sees only the back of Angela’s head.

  Bentham says, “According to my list, the next person who wants to talk with us is a…Matthew McIlwaine. Perhaps he’s forgotten or changed his mind….”

  Matt McIlwaine? What does Matt have to say? He ran into Swenson and Angela outside the video store. Swenson supposes the committee needs to hear from anyone who ever saw them in the same place at the same time. Matt could say he ran into them on North Street, where they passionately kissed hello and strolled off arm in arm. Matt has a million reasons for wanting to see Swenson get screwed.

  “I’ll go see if he’s out there,” Bill Grissom says in his ringing Boy Scout tenor. He stands before anyone else can offer and takes the stairs two at a time. Bill’s gone for quite a long while. The lucky guy’s taking a piss.

  He comes back not with Matt, but with Arlene Shurley, whom he’s holding by the arm, partly as if he’s supporting her, partly like a cop making a collar. Suited up in her shiny uniform, Arlene’s cringing and shivering. What’s she doing here? This is getting too close to Sherrie.

  Bill practically has to stuff Arlene into her seat. She’s way beyond eye contact with anyone as Francis Bentham shakes her hand. The ritual thanks for coming in are lost on Arlene, who scowls guiltily at her knuckles.

  Bentham knows not to go near this. This one belongs to Lauren.

  “Arlene,” says Lauren, “could you please tell us if Ms. Angela Argo ever visited the clinic?”

  “Several times,” says Arlene.
>
  “On what complaint?”

  “She…had medical problems.”

  “What sort of medical problems?” Lauren will take all day if she has to.

  Only now does Arlene look questioningly at Francis Bentham, seeking out the alpha male to see if this is permitted. What about nurse-patient confidentiality?

  “Betty…,” Bentham says gently.

  “I’m Arlene,” Arlene says.

  “Betty was the librarian,” says Lauren. She doesn’t like Francis Bentham, either. But she likes Swenson less.

  “Arlene, then,” concedes Bentham “Our students’ medical charts are a matter of college record….”

  Is that true? What would the lawyers say? Arlene’s not going to ask, nor is she going to challenge the dean.

  “Well, for one thing, she had epilepsy. Mild epilepsy, but still…It was controlled pretty well with medication. But one side effect was depression. This one time she came in, Sherrie Swenson and I were on duty—”

  The mention of Sherrie’s name stops Arlene dead in her tracks. In fact, it’s a real showstopper. The committee knows who Sherrie is. The tension and the intensity in the room ratchet up several notches. Swenson suddenly notices that he’s quit breathing for a few moments.

  “And the patient said…”—Arlene’s tremolo intensifies—“and she said she’d been having suicidal thoughts. It scared me, I’ll tell you. I called Sherrie in. Sherrie got us all Coca-Colas. I remember Angela talking about how worried she was that she would never meet a man she could love, and she would never have kids, and that her being epileptic would make everything worse.”

  That doesn’t sound like Angela. Swenson cannot imagine the tough, self-determined young woman he knew being—or pretending to be—so mired in adolescent girl bullshit. But the teenager in her novel was. Was Angela just doing research? Was Swenson research for the character of the music teacher? Hasn’t he learned his own lesson about maintaining the distinction between fiction and autobiography?

  “And what did you tell her?” Lauren says.

  “It’s a funny thing,” says Arlene. “I actually remember Sherrie and me talking about how we met our husbands. Trying to comfort her. You know.”