Cold Rain

by Craig Smith

  Theory number two had only one tiny glitch. It wasn’t going to work. As a piece of sabotage the thing had no teeth. I put myself in Buddy Elder’s place.

  Johnna Masterson had been handled nicely. She had been stirred gently and brought to a simmer. At that point I was sure Buddy had introduced her to his girlfriend, letting the two of them compare notes. It was probably even Johnna Masterson’s idea to march on Affirmative Action.

  Denise, however, could have brought charges of real substance. Private conversations between the two of us could have taken any form. Why hadn’t I offered, in her complaint, an A in exchange for sexual favours?

  Pressure, manipulation, insinuation, all the elements that make up a genuine case of sexual harassment, just weren’t there!

  There was no intelligent explanation for this failure.

  Buddy knew his way around campus. He was hobnobbing with professors who had experienced the inner workings of Affirmative Action as few ever experience it. Why hadn’t he exploited his opportunity? There was no answer, and so I was led back to theory number one, a simple misunderstanding. I didn’t like it, but it was the only logical explanation for the charges.

  I WAS MILDLY SURPRISED to see Buddy in my class that night, actually amazed to see Johnna Masterson.

  Johnna had filed charges before our last class, but at the time I had not known that. I tried to remember how she had behaved, what looks she had given me, but it was impossible. The week before, I had not been under siege. I had been at work. I watched my students only to know if they were tuned in to the business at hand. This time, I hardly noticed anyone other than Johnna Masterson and Buddy Elder. Buddy made a great show of it. He quietly complimented both writers presenting their work that night. His observations were legitimate, though not particularly insightful. Johnna Masterson put on another sort of face. She had come to class because she did not want to let some pig ruin her academic year. Knowing I might have my revenge on her at my leisure and yet refusing to cower, she sat bravely before me with only a tremor in her voice to betray her.

  At the break, I saw her talking animatedly with Buddy. Buddy was consoling her. I could almost imagine his speech. She had to hang on. Tonight and maybe next week and then I would be gone!

  Or something like that. They imagined their position to be stronger than it actually was. Part of the climate of the university was a bold rhetoric that rejected even the nuances of sexism. Truth was another matter. Because students never got to experience the process directly, they didn’t know. The truth was tenured professors remained, even in these modern times, virtually untouchable. One heard about those rare cases of dismissal precisely because they were rare.

  Though Johnna Masterson could hardly imagine it, the deepest wound for me was observing what this had done to her. Catching the gossip, as I was sure she had, she imagined some kind of salacious joking about her figure that turned her talent into TALENT!

  I wanted desperately to sit her down and explain it all to her, but I knew I couldn’t. Even if I were allowed to talk to her about the case, I could not persuade her.

  I could only say Walt Beery had said it. Walt had turned her into a joke. Me? Well, I was just sitting there.

  Going along with it.

  I decided at some point during the second half of class that maybe I was wrong about Buddy Elder on a lot of counts. Maybe my discussion with Walt about the new talent had made its way through the grapevine, and Buddy Elder, actually believing I was coming on to Denise, had brought her together with Johnna Masterson because he believed I was misbehaving. Call it theory number three: all complaints legitimate. I had quarrelled with Buddy because I was jealous. I had crossed some kind of line with Denise, taking liberties that if not overtly sexual were nonetheless intrusive and unprofessional. Denise had talked to me about her job, but it wasn’t my business where she worked or who paid the rent. And Johnna? Well, she was pretty.

  Maybe I liked to mention the title of her story because ‘Sexual Positions’ prompted certain satisfying fantasies involving the two of us. Maybe I had enjoyed my talk with Walt without understanding the dehumanizing dimension of it.

  Such is the nature of accusation: first we are surprised, then we are angry. Finally, we believe what our enemies tell us.

  I was still coming to terms with my guilt when I talked to Molly that night. I was tired and so I admitted to being partially at fault for some of it. A misunderstanding, I told her. Two misunderstandings, Molly said. Knowing how it must sound I waited for the inevitable questions. Was I having an affair with one or both of them? Thankfully, these did not come. Molly listened with the impatience she reserved for all matters relating to the university and when it was finished she simply asked if she could read the complaints.

  I passed them across the table to Molly. She studied each sheet as if to memorize the actions or reconcile them with what I had just told her. I ran through the complaints in my mind again. In that dark silence I did not invest Buddy Elder with fabulous powers. He was just a young man who did not like someone like Johnna Masterson being turned into a joke. If I was capable of that, certainly my intentions with Denise Conway were less than honourable. I was Walt Beery’s friend after all.

  ‘This is bullshit!’ Molly said.

  I looked up from my masochistic reveries greatly encouraged.

  ‘Gail Etheridge says nothing is going to come of it,’ I offered.

  ‘What about your promotion?’ I shook my head.

  Molly threw the papers across the table. ‘I hate that place! I think you should quit. Tell those bastards to go to hell, David.’

  ‘That’s just what they want!’

  ‘Who cares what they want? You’re better than this!

  You don’t need their money. We don’t need it!’

  I tried to explain that I had spent over half my life trying to get where I was. It was insane to throw it away because other people had a political agenda.

  These charges, I said, would come and go. I could apply for promotion next year or the year after. The important thing was to keep a sense of proportion.

  We had been here before. Molly listened, but she did not understand why I was so desperate to keep a job I did not especially enjoy. Before she had gone independent, buying and selling houses, she had run rooftops for various contractors. Hard and dangerous work, but the air was clean and complaints were straightforward, delivered to your face. At Johnna Masterson’s age, Molly had joined a new crew. This was right after we were married. One fellow on the crew gave her a rough time because she was a woman and because she was beautiful. She answered him straight on. ‘You either stop or I’m going to hurt you.’

  He was a perfect fool and just laughed at her. She let it go, thinking he would back off with the comments.

  The next day, though, as she was climbing the ladder, he whistled and whooped, ‘Look at that ass, boys. Is that good enough to eat, or what?’

  Molly had climbed back down the ladder and walked up to this giant. He got bigger every time she told the story. By the way she came at him he figured he was in for a speech, and he was all set for an amusing, girlish temper tantrum, exactly what he wanted in the first place. Molly’s boot caught him behind the knee, and he went down flat on his back. Then she broke three of his ribs.

  That was how Molly McBride filed a complaint.

  WE DECIDED, FOOLISHLY, to keep Lucy out of it.

  I don’t know what she imagined in those first weeks.

  There was tension in the house. Molly was angry. I was depressed, looking by turns either guilty or distracted. Because she was seventeen, Lucy probably thought it was something she had done.

  My colleagues had the story almost at once of course.

  I heard the echoes of the jokes I hadn’t quite told.

  Monkey. Bodacious. Talent. I saw Randy Winston talking to two women from the Department of History.

  They might have been discussing Caesar’s assassination, but I felt reasonably sure by their
sudden silence the topic was mine.

  I saw Denise Conway with Buddy Elder only a few minutes before my night class was scheduled to begin.

  She had to know I would be there, but she looked frightened and surprised when I walked toward them.

  Before I could speak, she walked away. Buddy approached me while I was still watching the sway of her hips. I felt my gut tighten, my fists clench.

  ‘Johnna asked me to tell you she couldn’t make it to class tonight. She had to go to the infirmary.’

  I blinked in confusion. ‘Is she all right?’

  Buddy Elder met my gaze without ever losing that slight, cynical smile of his. ‘I think she’s got bleeding ulcers, Dave.’

  Wednesday night I included Johnna Masterson’s health in my litany of moral failings. Thursday I went online to browse for psychologists. Most of them listed among their specialties depression and work-related stress. I had not slept for a couple of weeks. For the past several days I had been nursing a sharp pain in my chest. I found three good candidates, and decided if I did not feel better Friday I would start making some calls. I was not sure they could really do any good. It seemed to me I was beyond treatment. This was not the usual helplessness of depression, seeing no way out of my troubles. I could not decide what my trouble was. Was I the victim or the one who had victimized others? The true penitent confesses the sin and so begins a journey back to faith and wholeness.

  In a medical sense, this was supposed to happen between psychologist and patient. But what exactly should I tell a doctor? I might have made a mistake?

  I believe this could be a conspiracy? Perhaps we could cut right to the essentials. I could talk about Tubs: the last honest man.

  I had a better idea on the way home. I stopped for a beer. After three the pressure in my chest eased. After another, I could almost laugh. I got in my truck and headed home. I was cured, at least as long as the buzz lasted.

  I called Molly along the way, but there was no answer.

  A wind had kicked up late in the day. The first chill of winter came as the sun dropped under the horizon.

  Molly’s truck was parked close to the house, but Lucy’s Toyota was gone. The horses were in the barn. The dogs were in the kennel for the evening. Like the old drinking days. If I didn’t show up, they got taken care of anyway.

  There were no lights on inside the house. The back screen door was swinging free when I got to it. I figured Molly was inside, but I did not understand why the lights were off. I was sorry now for the beers that had tasted so good. Two years of sobriety pissed away. I snapped on the porch and kitchen lights and called out Molly’s name.

  I walked into the main hallway. ‘Molly!’ I heard branches crackling against the windowpanes. There was no answer, but I knew she was there.

  I found her sitting in the dark in the downstairs living room. She was wearing jeans and work boots as if she had just finished working upstairs. I snapped on the lights, laughing at her. ‘What are you doing sitting in the dark?’

  Molly’s face was swollen and red. She had been crying. In her hand she held a .22 Magnum revolver.

  It was pointed vaguely in my direction. I staggered slightly. I tried to put the various elements together, but nothing made sense. Molly never cried. I could not think of a single occasion when I had seen tears.

  And the gun. Molly had had the thing for years, had it when I first met her, in fact, but she never got it out anymore. I couldn’t recall seeing it since we had moved to the farm. Had someone come out to the farm that afternoon? Had something happened to – ?

  ‘Where’s Lucy?’ I asked, finally putting it together.

  ‘Lucy’s all right. She’s out for the evening.’

  ‘What happened?’

  She fired the gun in my direction. She didn’t really aim. The gun was pointing at me, and then it discharged.

  I jumped and swore angrily. Fresh tears rolled from her eyes, and I knew the gun had not gone off accidentally. I screamed my next question. What in the hell was the matter?

  ‘You are.’ She fired the gun a second time.

  I swore again. I danced, though it was a bit late to be dodging bullets. I demanded an explanation. I expect it sounded more like pleading.

  She reached for some kind of small notebook and threw it across the room. It landed at my feet. ‘Read it!’ she hissed. ‘Go ahead you piece of – pick it up and read it!’

  ‘No more shots.’

  She fired the gun again. I felt the heat of the bullet pass across my face. I stooped down to pick the thing up. It was the kind of notebook Lucy might have used a couple of years ago, if she had kept a diary. I opened it to the first page. Two tiny rings kept the pink sheets of papers together. The handwriting was neat and round. Circles dotted every i. The ink was purple, nearly impossible to make out against the pink background in the poorly illuminated room. I adjusted my position for better light. I held the thing at arm’s length because I did not have my reading glasses. I saw the words , Well, this is it! I’m really in college. Me, Denise Conway! It’s not so bad really. Scary, but all the freshmen feel the same way, I think.

  I looked up at Molly. She was studying my face with a bitterness I’d never seen directed toward me. ‘Read it, David.’

  I skimmed down the page and saw my name. David came into class today looking very chic and professional. It’s hard to think of him as my professor after everything he’s done to me in the bed of his pickup!

  ‘Molly,’ I said, ‘where did you get this?’

  ‘Read it.’

  ‘Did Buddy Elder give this to you?’

  ‘Read it, David.’

  I turned the page. I snatched lines out of context, but the context was clear. When his fingers slipped into me I almost came...

  Next page. It’s different with David. He needs me.

  He says Molly doesn’t satisfy him the way she used to.

  Two pages later. We made love in his office after class. People were walking by in the halls outside, and we were making love!

  Next page. David wants me to quit dancing. He says he can’t stand it that other men touch me or even look at me. He says if I leave he’ll support me. What about Molly? He gets funny when I say her name. I don’t think he loves her, but she has some kind of hold on him.

  Next page. In his office today David told me he wanted me to suck him off. It was like I was his whore!

  I told him NO! I meant it too. He said if I didn’t he was going to flunk me. It was like a joke but I could tell he liked the power he had over me. I told him to go to hell and walked out. But then I got scared and went back in and I got on my knees for him. It was so degrading, the things he said while I did it.

  Sometimes I think he loves me, but then sometimes I think he’s just using me for easy sex.

  On the next page. A bouquet of roses. Buddy was furious. I said it was from someone from the club, and he wants to know who. I think it would kill Buddy if he knew about David and me. He looks up to David.

  He says David is the best teacher he’s ever had. It’s like we know a different person. I threw the roses away to show him they didn’t mean anything to me.

  Maybe they don’t. After class, David cornered me. He wants me to get a job on campus and leave Buddy.

  What am I going to do?

  ‘Did Buddy Elder give this to you?’

  ‘I swear to you, David, if you say another word I’ll shoot you in the heart.’

  Molly stood up. Taking her revolver in both hands she walked toward me. At least the tears had stopped.

  ‘I trusted you. I thought of all the guys in the world – how could you do this to me? How could you sleep with me while you were screwing that whore, David?’

  The barrel of the gun was pointed at my face, and I really thought she would pull the trigger if I tried to answer her.

  ‘I want you to leave. I want you out of the house tonight.’

  ‘Molly—’

  She fired the gun. I don’t know ho
w she missed me.

  The barrel of the gun was pointed right into my face.

  ‘Don’t you dare even say goodbye.’

  Chapter 8

  I SAT IN MY TRUCK outside the house for several minutes. I was not sure what to do. I knew that if I found Buddy Elder I would very likely kill him. As pleasant as that prospect was I still had a bit of sanity nudging me toward self-restraint. This thing, this lie, could be straightened out given time. But not tonight.

  Tonight, I just needed to get somewhere and let Molly cool down.

  I had forty dollars in my wallet and two credit cards.

  It was enough to get some food and a twelve-pack of beer and checked into a motel. Once in town, I stopped at a liquor store and at a McDonald’s. Fully supplied for the evening, I drove down to the Super 8. That was when I found out my credit card didn’t work. I tried my second card, and it too had been cancelled.

  The girl cut both cards apologetically.

  I ate my sandwich in the parking lot and washed it down with a cold beer. I didn’t have a worry in the world. I still had friends. Running through the list, though, I discovered something I had not appreciated until that moment: middle age places invisible limits on friendship. There are the friendships of couples. There are friendships at work that survive only there. There are old friends one sees every year or two and there are the friendships one makes in taverns. When I had finished the list of people I could call and reasonably expect an enthusiastic response, I was down to the ghost-writer of my present travails.

  To my chagrin, I didn’t even know how to get in touch with him. Barbara Beery’s voice changed the moment she recognized me. David, both syllables ugly.

  ‘I hate to bother you like this,’ I said.

  ‘Then why are you? Walt doesn’t live here anymore.’

  ‘The thing is I need to get in touch with Walt this evening. About a thing.’

  ‘What kind of thing?’