by Ann Birch
“Have you ever used your classroom as a platform for the discussion of paedophilia or kiddie porn?” A nicely loaded question.
“When I’m discussing Ovid’s story ‘Myrrha’ with my students, naturally I have to deal with the theme of a young girl’s sexual obsession with her father. But I think you mean, do I defend this theme as a lifestyle? Absolutely not.”
The young reporter looks a bit at a loss now. He’s still holding the recorder under her nose, but he frees one hand to take a peek at a notebook in the pocket of his windbreaker. “Perhaps you should know that one of the students here today says that if this book becomes a bestseller, it will deliver a devastating message to survivors of childhood abuse.”
“Look,” Roberta says to the boy, “I wrote the thing. I’m not defending my decision. The theme of incest is abhorrent to me, and especially the idea that incest may be instigated by a young woman. But I needed the money, not that that’s any excuse. My dirty little novel may well become a bestseller. Perhaps not. But if it does, it will prove what H. L. Mencken says: ‘No one ever went broke underestimating the taste of the American public.’”
“That’s a good one. Can you spell the guy’s name for me?”
Suddenly, Roberta finds herself in teacher mode again. She spells it twice, s-l-o-w-l-y. And then, she hears a shout from the front of the college. Turning, she sees Jason Grubben and just behind him, Muna Mehta, and yes, there’s Bryan Schmidt with them, the kid who plagiarized parts of his essay.
They come down through the crowd to her. “Let’s go, Professor,” Jason says. “Take my arm, will you?” Muna’s on her right side now, so close that the sleeves of their coats brush against each other. And Bryan places himself in front of them.
“What’s this about?” Roberta asks.
“We’re going to get you through the crowd and inside the building,” Jason says. “Just hang on.”
The students seem momentarily confounded. Perhaps they are hoping for some physical violence. They stop chanting, and in that brief pause, Roberta feels herself pulled forward by Jason and Muna. Bryan charges in front of them, spreading his arms wide and yelling, “Get the fuck out of our way!”
The front doors of the college have apparently been locked, but for now the Porter and a caretaker open them to let Roberta and her saviours inside. Thank God, Roberta thinks, that the Porter has always been friendly to me. Once inside the building, she is struck by the quiet. She turns to her protectors. “Thank you. You’ve been kind to me and I really appreciate it.”
“I think your Translations class is solidly behind you,” Jason says. “Most of them, anyway. And we do know the difference between erotica and porn, in spite of what those morons are shouting.”
“Yeah,” Bryan adds, “even me.” He reaches out to shake her hand. “I remember you let me off when you could have turned me in over that kidnapping stuff.” He blushes. “Sorry. I know I don’t remember the right word.”
“And I’m with you, too, Professor Greaves,” Muna says. “Even though I think that Ovid story is one of the sickest. But you’ve always been fair. Not like some profs I could mention.”
They stand there looking awkward, and Roberta says, “I felt a bit like one of the warriors inside the Trojan Horse back there. And I imagine you three were scared too. You showed courage. Thanks again.”
They laugh now, and Jason says, “I expect the war isn’t over yet. Lots of enemies out there still. Good luck, Professor.” Then, the three of them head out the back door into the quadrangle.
Doug Dunsmore and Geoff Teasdale emerge from the Porter’s Lodge. They are wearing their academic gowns and carrying metre sticks. “Our weaponry,” Doug says. “The Provost has stationed us here to keep an eye on things.”
“En garde,” Geoff says, lunging forward, his stick brandished at an imaginary foe.
“Oh dear, what havoc I have wreaked. I can only apologize.”
“Well, you have brought a hurricane down upon us,” Doug says. “But like all hurricanes, it will pass.”
“Probably not before some considerable destruction takes place though,” Geoff adds. He leans over his metre stick now and sighs. “Oh Roberta, we don’t really approve of what you’ve done. It was a shock to everyone, and the whole theme is abhorrent, especially to homosexuals like Doug and me who bear the brunt of people’s accusations about paedophilia.”
“But we’ve got to support you, even though what we most resent is the money you’re making on this,” Doug says, pulling a smile onto his face. “Your courage in writing that letter to the editor has been … well … I think inspiring is the word I want. Geoff and I have been trying to keep our relationship quiet, and now—”
“Now we’ve decided to come out of the closet.” Geoff puts a hand on Doug’s shoulder. “Doug’s right, you know. You gave us inspiration.”
“Inspiration?” Roberta asks. “After what you’ve said about the theme of the damn book?”
“Yes,” Doug says. “When you wrote that letter to the paper, well, we realized then that it’s time to show the same kind of courage.” He smiles at his mate, then turns back to Roberta. “Oh good heavens, we’ve been so busy talking about ourselves that I’ve forgotten to pass along a message from the Provost.”
“Oh dear.”
“Yes, it probably won’t be fun. He wants to see you in his office. He phoned down to the Porter a few minutes ago. Pronto was the word he used.”
But Roberta is not ready for pronto. In fact, she finds that her legs are suddenly so wobbly she can scarcely stand. She makes it up the stairs to her office though, where she locks the door and sinks into her comfortable desk chair. She spends a few minutes taking deep breaths. Then she exits her office and goes along the corridor.
Now, Roberta is sitting opposite Provost Witherspoon in his office. He moves two piles of books from his desk to the Persian rug on the polished wood floor, leaving a clear space so that they can see each other. He’s in his academic gown, probably in readiness for his Divinity seminar at eleven o’clock. The light pours in from the large windows overlooking the quadrangle.
“Better have a glass of sherry,” he says, taking a bottle of Bristol Cream from the bottom drawer of his desk, along with two small crystal glasses. Roberta notices how his hand trembles as he pours.
She accepts the sherry and takes a sip, trying not to down it in one gulp. “You’re going to tell me something unpleasant, I know. Not that I don’t deserve it.”
“Well, my dear, your record with Trinity has been exemplary. I know that you have never in any way … ah…” His voice trails off.
“Never in any way…?”
“Never in any way … ah … advocated incest in your classroom discussions. But the issue of your book becomes … well … a matter that casts a cloud over the college.”
“I’m sorry to cause this trouble.”
“There are always people who will lay charges. We have only to think of Socrates and…”
“And how a so-called democratic society accused history’s wisest man of corrupting youth. It’s scary. But I cannot compare myself in any way with Socrates. That would be the epitome of hubris.”
“Yes, well.” The Provost pauses, and a blush creeps into his round cheeks. “I’m afraid the Governing Council of the University has been down my neck this morning. In fact, I’ve had a half-hour conference call with six of them. They’ve been quoting Morris Shadwell. You remember him? That chap who got in trouble? What was his euphemism for paedophilia? Quite a … a … bizarre phrase.”
“‘Intergenerational sex’ was his term.”
“Well, the Council has pointed out to me that your book affirms Shadwell’s view that this … er … ‘intergenerational sex’ … can involve intense pleasure.” The Provost suddenly bangs his glass of sherry down on his desk, spilling some of it over the polished surface. “Dash it, Prof
essor Greaves, how could you? How could you?”
“Provost, I intend to take whatever comes without self-defence. So tell me the worst now.” Roberta drains the last of her sherry. “Please, let’s get it over with.”
“My dear. You are to be suspended from teaching in the college until the end of the year. Then, your case will be reviewed. By that time, this kerfuffle will probably have blown over. These things do pass, you know.”
“I guess I saw it coming. Starting when?”
“Now.” He stands up. “The retired professor who took over your classes when your husband passed away will have to be in your office until the exams are over. But in the interests of fairness to our students — I made this clear to the Governing Council — you will mark the final papers from home, of course. And you’ll receive payment of your usual salary, which goes without saying….” The Provost’s voice trails off, and for a moment, Roberta fears that he will break down and weep. Like most inarticulate men, he has deep emotions. She remembers his tears when Carl recited “Crossing the Bar” at James’s funeral. But he gives a huge sigh, looks at a pocket watch on a gold chain, and pulls his academic gown around him. “Well, my dear, my fans await me for my last seminar of the season: Deuteronomy, chapters five through twenty-six, in which the law of Moses is set down for the second time. Riveting … ha, ha.”
He rises and holds the door open for Roberta. In the corridor outside his office, he shakes her hand. “You’re a good person, Professor Greaves. I’m sorry to be the conduit of bad news. So sorry.”
“You did what you had to do, Provost.”
“You’ll be all right, my dear?”
“Yes, I’m just going to my office now. I’ll clear out my books and leave detailed information for my replacement.” She turns away afraid that if she says more, she will start blubbering. She moves down the corridor towards the solitude of her office.
But a few seconds later, a shrill voice coming from behind stops her in her tracks. “Roberta, what on earth are you doing here? You’re the last person I expected to meet. Though I did see you being pushed up the front walk by that little sycophant, Muna Mehta. Probably thinks she can con a few marks out of you.”
She turns to confront Joan Wishart, who’s holding her morning cup of chamomile tea in her tiny hand. The woman’s eyes are scrunched up, and her words come sputtering forth. “You’re a fine one to do such a thing, to write such filth. You, the head of the Ethics Committee. As if that disgusting Ovid story wasn’t enough, you had to go and rewrite it for the mindless mobs—”
“Please, Joan, I’ve had enough for one day. Just leave me alone.”
The woman moves in closer and takes a deep sniff. “And drinking sherry with the Provost, what’s more. Despicable. When I think about how this institution has declined in my lifetime, I—”
But Roberta turns away from the woman and rushes to her office. She opens the door and slams it in Joan’s face.
32.
AT LEAST, I’VE STILL GOT my poetry workshops, Roberta says to herself as she heads towards Major Street for her volunteer work. The kids still need me, though I may be deluding myself. At least they need Charlie’s food. And strange though it seems, I need them. She feels almost upbeat as the north wind pushes at her back and propels her forward.
Her cellphone rings. She hauls it from the depths of her shoulder bag. It’s Marianne, of course. For about the tenth time in three days.
“Seen the bestseller list in The New York Times?”
“I’m trying not to read any papers for a while.”
“Well, gotta tell you this: You’re in twelfth place. In less than two bloody weeks. You even beat out Nora Roberts!”
“You’re impressed, I can tell.”
“Nora Roberts! Lordy!”
“To think that six months ago, I had no idea who Nora Roberts was, and now she and I are neck and neck for the race towards ‘Worst Novel of the Decade.’”
“Cut the sarcasm, Roberta. I’m totally not responsible for bestseller lists or any of the crap you’ve got yourself into. And while you’re listening, I may as well say that I’m damn sick of my phone ringing all the time with some chump wanting your email or your phone number and then giving me grief when I won’t tell them.”
“Okay, okay, Marianne, apologies.”
“It’d be so much easier for me if you did the social networking that every other writer does.”
“I’ve told you I have no intention of twittering or blogging or doing any of that stuff. Why would I want to connect with some sicko who’s telling me it’s the best fucking book he’s ever read? I’m signing off now. I’ll phone you later.” Roberta stuffs the phone back in her bag.
She swallows the bile that’s risen in her throat. Stay calm, she tells herself. Think about the afternoon’s lesson. She’s planned to reinforce the concept of metaphor by asking the kids to write a poem that begins “Life is…” Maybe she can get them started by talking about clichéd metaphors. “Life is a bowl of cherries,” or better still, “Life is a crock of shit,” which would get a laugh from Big Chris. Then from there they might segue into something more original. She’ll have to supply some ideas. As she walks along, she comes up with “Life is stand-up comedy/ And sometimes the jokes aren’t funny/ But you’ve got to keep laughing….”
She is still mulling it over as she comes through the front door to the familiar smell of overcooked cabbage … and something else today … is it stale wieners? Vile, anyway.
The staff counsellor Annie is struggling to get a window open. She spots Roberta and says, “Our volunteer from the food bank just brought over some potatoes for tonight’s dinner. Well and good, but half of them were rotten. Phew. And now, I can’t get this damn window up. It’s been painted shut for years.”
“Let me help you.”
“No, I’ll cope.”
But Roberta puts herself alongside Annie, and, on a count of three, they manage to get it up. “I never thought that city air could be considered fresh,” Roberta says as she and Annie lean in and inhale.
“Oh goodness, Roberta, I forgot for a moment, I’ve got to talk to you. In my office, okay?” Annie gestures towards a squalid little glassed-in space in the corner.
She closes the door to the cubicle, shutting out the stench of the potatoes, but engulfing Roberta in a miasma of perspiration and stale tobacco, probably from Annie’s previous client. The Arborite table with a computer and printer leaves barely enough room for two small plastic chairs and a grey filing cabinet. Roberta seats herself in one of the chairs and sets her briefcase down on the cracked tile floor.
“I’ve been thinking about Hester,” Roberta says. “You were going to see if you could get her some place to stay and a job somewhere.”
“Done. I found her a bedsit in that hostel down the street. Pretty basic, but there’s a hot plate and a small fridge and a lock on the door. I had enough money in the kitty here for a month’s rent. After that, I think she may be able to manage it. She’s got a part-time job at Wendy’s. Trouble is, she hasn’t the faintest idea about shopping for food or cooking, but I’ll work on that.”
“What a relief.” Roberta pulls out some bills from her bag. “This is for anything extra she may need. Just don’t tell her where it came from, please. Which Wendy’s is it?”
Annie takes the bills — five twenties — and tucks them under the edge of her mouse pad. Then she takes them out again and hands them back. “Sorry, Roberta, I can’t take your money. And I can’t tell you where Hester’s working.”
“Why on earth not?”
“Because you can’t volunteer here anymore.” The words come out in a rush.
“Please explain.” But Roberta is beginning to realize what’s coming next.
“I don’t know anything about Ovid, but I’ve been reading all the flak in the papers about your new book, and well, we�
�re dealing with vulnerable people in this place and...”
“You think I’m going to endanger them in some way.” Roberta can feel the blood rushing into her cheeks. “You can’t be serious.”
Annie rubs her hands over her face. “I can’t take chances. I’ve talked this over with the chaplain and the major donors, and well, we all agree. I’m sorry. But take Hester, for example. She’s been assaulted by her mother’s boyfriend, I told you that. I shouldn’t have. It was confidential info. But I thought I could trust you. And now you’ve written this book, and I know, I know, I haven’t read it, but it seems to be the very sort of thing we’ve got to protect the kids from.” Her voice trails off.
“I’m teaching them poetry, for God’s sake.” The phrase is out; she’s taken the Lord’s name in vain. But what the hell. “I want them to write about themselves and through the creative process to come to terms with life’s complexities. Isn’t that one of the reasons you let me volunteer here in the first place? They’re making progress. They’re actually planning to hold a poetry slam in a month or so, and they’re going to get their friends lined up to attend. I’m just starting to get somewhere with them, and now you’re telling me I’m finished here. What’s going to happen to my program? Do I do today’s lesson or not?”
“Look, I’m trying to get a replacement. I should have phoned you. But I just can’t let you go down there today. No way. I’ll make an excuse. They don’t need to know why you’re not working here anymore. We’ll just say you’ve found yourself too busy to continue.”
“No.”
“No?”
Roberta stands up. “I’m not going to scuttle out of here like some kind of cockroach you found in a cupboard. If you want me to leave, I guess I’ll have to. But I’m going downstairs now and tell the kids the truth. They deserve that.”
Annie pushes her chair back. “I’ll have to go with you.”
They go down the stairs to the room where the kids are waiting. They are already devouring Charlie’s lunch. Today, it looks like club sandwiches on a big serving plate, and there is a square chocolate cake in the middle of the table. It’s a lot more solid-looking than the Roman Ruin.
