Uncross My Heart

by Andrews

“I think honesty and sincerity are the two things women like, and a sense of humor. Just say, Mary, I really—”

  “Sally. Her name’s Sally.”

  Suddenly the image of my student came into my head. “Sally Jackson? Blond?”

  “Yeah, with curly hair and great build. So what do you think?”

  Images of Sally intercepting me on campus flashed before me. I carefully phrased my reply. “I think a girl would be crazy not to go out with you, Robbie. Give it another try, and if it doesn’t work out, there are plenty of other fish in the sea.”

  Suddenly Robbie spotted her up ahead and gave me a quick thanks as he ran to greet her. She stopped to talk to him but was looking over his left shoulder at me, and I felt she wanted to bolt and catch up with me. I headed in the opposite direction, pretending I hadn’t seen her.

  Robbie needed his shot at winning over his first draft pick, although somehow I felt Sally had already chosen her team.

  * * *

  I hurried to class on fire about life in general in a way I hadn’t been in ages. I literally beamed at my students as they came through the doorway, and I could see most of them were uncertain what my ebullience meant. Even Roger Thurgood, seated in the back row, didn’t concern me. I had tomorrow night with Viv to look forward to, and nothing could ruin my day.

  As the class took their seats, I explained that this was their lucky day because I was going to be lecturing on the cultural differences in sexuality and they would not be required to take notes—only listen and think.

  I held up a copy of Same-Sex Unions in Premodern Europe by Boswell as one of my references for the lecture and directed them to a reproduction of seventh-century art in which third-century Christian soldiers Saint Sergius and Saint Bacchus appear to be joined by Christ in holy matrimony. “They fought together, died together, and went to heaven together—or so the artwork tells us,” I said.

  The boys in the class made eye contact with each other and smirked, but I pressed on. “That’s hard to believe, isn’t it? Particularly in light of our own military stance about gays—they compromise security, they weaken morale, don’t ask, don’t tell. And yet, there were warrior societies more ferocious due to their homosexual liaisons.

  Centuries earlier Plutarch said that the most warlike men—Boeotians, Spartans, Cretans—were commonly homosexual and often the biggest heroes. We have copies of marriage ceremonies between men—saints, warriors. A man could form a marriage with another man by officially declaring him a brother.”

  Roger Thurgood was twisting like soap on a rope, knotting up and unwinding and most likely trying not to shout something.

  “By 1150 a.d. or thereabouts,” I continued, “Dante’s writing placed homosexuals or sodomites at the top of the purgatory ladder and certainly at the beachhead of hell. The topic was hot again. Same-sex couples were falling out of favor. What happened? How did same-sex love become taboo?”

  “The church stepped in.” A young man held up his hand as he spoke.

  “In some instances, and in others the church performed the unions and even printed the ceremonies in their religious texts,” I replied. “So what happened?”

  “People came to their senses and recognized it was wrong,” an older woman stated.

  “Some people took that stance, and others didn’t care. What happened?” I reiterated, and moved through the room looking into their eyes as each student struggled to come up with an answer. “Time,” I shouted. “Time is what happened. Remember, these warriors were fighting in the third century and Dante wrote in the twelfth century.

  Over centuries right becomes wrong and vice versa. In one century it’s illicit to show your ankle. In another it’s okay to wear a G-string on the beach. In one century you can have a hundred wives and in another only one. Which means right and wrong are subjective, cultural, and ever changing.”

  “The Bible is the source of right and wrong now and forever more.” The thundering words came from Roger Thurgood III, who had contained himself as long as was possible.

  “As Christians, we believe that. Muslims believe something else. Jews believe something else. Hindus believe something else. That makes many of us uncomfortable. Certainty is what we all seek.”

  “Would you hire a homosexual to teach your children?” Thurgood asked in a non sequitur he’d obviously been harboring for several minutes.

  “I wouldn’t hire anyone merely because of their sexual preference. I would hire them because of their skills, their integrity, and their trustworthiness.” The room took on a hum as if the wiring were shorting out and if I touched the desk I might be electrocuted.

  “Would you hire a homosexual teacher because you are one…of the sympathizers?”

  “My former answer covers that, I think.” I nodded my thanks as the bell rang and shouted over the hubbub that class would resume next week. They dispersed except for Sally, who hung back and waited for me. “This class is too cool,” she said.

  “Thank you.”

  “You mind if I ask if you’re seeing anyone. You know, dating?” she asked shyly.

  “Sorry, you’ve exceeded your question quota.” I smiled and exited, striding toward my office and counting how many more sessions were in this semester and what that might mean in the way of innuendo from Sally and harassment from Roger. I should have stuck him through with the damned letter opener, I thought.

  I swung the door open to my office and Dennis fell in behind me, asking if I wanted to have lunch. I flipped on the lights and saw the giant scrawled words on the wall: Rev. Dyke.

  Damn him, I thought, alarmed by the violation of my space and my psyche.

  “His grandfather is interim chancellor, you know, so reporting him won’t help,” Dennis said quietly.

  “I’m going to do more than that.”

  As Dennis complained and quizzed me, I locked my office and dialed the dean’s office on my cell phone, asking his secretary to pull up Roger Thurgood’s class schedule. According to the dean’s assistant, Roger was in study hall. I thanked her, hung up, and demanded that Dennis go get Roger and tell him his grandfather wanted to see him.

  “But he doesn’t.”

  “He will,” I said.

  Twenty minutes later I blew past Eleonor and grabbed the door handle to the chancellor’s office.

  “Excuse me, apparently I’ve gone invisible,” she exclaimed indignantly as I threw his door open and entered unannounced. His look of shock instantly changed to anger at my arrival without an appointment.

  I explained that his grandson had gotten no counseling and was still in my class harassing me, and that I’d just come from my office where a slur about my sexuality had been painted across my wall.

  “Do I need to call the police to feel this matter is being handled?” I shouted.

  “The police? Dr. Westbrooke, are you in the habit of calling police over graffiti whose origins you can’t trace? For all we know, the janitor could have done it. I’m sorry about the experience, and we’ll send maintenance over to eradicate it and repaint. If you’re feeling that unsafe, then perhaps you need a leave of absence. Anything else, Dr.

  Westbrooke?”

  I stared at him in disbelief. How could this man treat this issue so lightly and get away with it? Yes, Roger is a relative, but couldn’t he at least appear shocked? A little shock might be called for in this case. The thought must have been lurking in my subconscious, creating righteous indignation, because the words came out, startling even me.

  “I know about you and Hightower…and the panties.”

  Thurgood’s expression never changed. He didn’t flinch. But he did stop talking altogether.

  “You got Hightower off. Twice. Obviously in exchange for the school’s viewing your grandson’s behavior as youthful peccadilloes.

  Well, they’re not. He was caught peeping into girls’ dorms, he attacked me with a weapon, and he’s harassing me.”

  At that moment, Dennis escorted Roger into the room, looking unkempt
and out of breath.

  Thurgood seemed to freeze, his mind crunching on the grave granola I’d just fed him. Finally, seeming to have come to a position on the matter, he said sternly, “You vandalized Dr. Westbrooke’s office and you’ve been threatening her in class.” His fervor was a result of my threats rather than any real indignation, but Roger didn’t know that and he blinked, obviously unaccustomed to being spoken to in this tone by his grandfather. “You will report for counseling and you are suspended for an indefinite period. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

  When Roger didn’t answer, his grandfather waved him off. As the boy left the room, he turned to me. “Now, is that all, Dr. Westbrooke?”

  His voice sounded like a large metal door slamming shut.

  “That’s all,” I replied, and left.

  I should have been either incredibly vindicated or alternately concerned for my career, but I was unable to focus on either emotion because I was having dinner with Viv tomorrow. At the moment, despite everything else, that’s what I cared about.

  One last duty, I thought as I parked at the hospital clergy parking spaces and locked my car, then headed inside to see my father. I walked the long corridor to his private room with a box of his favorite chocolates in hand and an okay from the nurses’ station to share them with him.

  It was awkward. Nothing to say to each other, really. The things we needed to talk about were so incendiary that they could only contribute to his poor health or mine. And so we met to talk about nothing. He asked about the weather and the ball scores and when he could get out.

  I talked about class and students and Dennis. He seemed very lucid, and I was always surprised by the way he could slip in and out of reality like it was a pair of worn house slippers.

  Finally he asked what I had planned for this weekend and I hesitated, knowing I could make up a partial truth or simply start the weekend with Saturday, skipping Thursday night and Friday morning.

  But this might fall into Viv’s test to see if she could trust me, so I told him I had invited Viv out to the farm.

  “Why on God’s earth?” His voice rose but not too much, as he was weak.

  “Because…I’m a gay woman…and I’m attracted to her.”

  “I don’t want to hear that again.”

  “Not hearing it won’t change it. I can talk to you about my life or I can not talk to you about it, your choice.” I spoke quietly.

  “I prefer the latter. And by the way, the woman in question attacked your seminary.”

  “Perhaps our seminary deserved it.”

  “Rubbish. Hightower is—”

  “Gone. Fired. For driving around at night wearing nothing but women’s underwear.”

  “What? You’ve got that wrong. Why would he do something like that? Obviously, blatant character assassination. Because of some perverted lie about Hightower, you’re seeing her?”

  “I’m seeing Viv because…I really like her.”

  “Go like someone else. How in hell would you know anyway?”

  “Exactly. I’m so rusty at it, how the hell would I know? Best question of the day.”

  We both sat silently watching the ball game. Grown men in striped suits, chewing, spitting, and yanking at their crotches, then performing rituals with their hands before batting. One man tugged on his cap, slapped his thigh and face, jumped up and down three times and looked right and then left before he took the pitch. I realized genuflecting and crossing oneself might be sensible by comparison.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I awoke in a state of electrified bliss, singing and talking to the animals and treating the most mundane task as if it were heaven in the making. Tonight was Thursday and Viv’s visit. This time I was prepared. I had food, drink, a clean house, and an even cleaner dog. I’d laid out a nice outfit and left time to shower and change after work. No pressure, since this was a platonic, “prove-myself” evening.

  Actually, I was great at those. Giving platonic, charming evenings was my specialty.

  At eight a.m., the phone rang. Joyce in Vivienne’s office apologized, saying something had come up suddenly and Vivienne wanted me to know that she regretted having to break our dinner engagement. I gave the appropriate response—quite all right, hope it’s nothing to do with a family illness, and thank you for calling. Then I sank into a heap on the bed and put my face in my hands. I stayed in that position so long that Ketch came over and punched them with his nose to see if I was still behind the fingers.

  “Hi, Buddy.” I patted his soft fur. “She cancelled. Sometimes when things are too hard, well, they’re just not meant to be.” He climbed up on the bed beside me and I didn’t ask him to get down. We huddled together in the morning light, forlorn and forsaken.

  When I could force myself to get up, I thought about going to the hospital to see my father. I envisioned making an effort at small talk, moving his eyeglasses closer so he could reach them on the table, going down the hallway to find more ice for his water, helping him change the TV channel, and finally plopping down into a chair beside his bed, noting the time and how long I had before I could politely leave.

  I envisioned my father noticing that I was unhappy and inquiring into the problem and then determining it was my wanting to be with Vivienne and expressing his sympathy, but of course none of that would occur. This is like living it twice. Get over it and get on with it. Go see him after class.

  I jumped into the shower, dressed, and drove to campus. I pulled into the parking lot not realizing I had made the trip, only vaguely remembering weaving in and out of lanes. My mind was out of my body and I was shocked to be in a parking space.

  After gathering up my papers, I put the top up on the convertible, wanting to shroud myself from the world. I trudged across the commons and the wind picked up, blowing cold air around my shoulders and down my back.

  I was only vaguely aware of being in class or teaching from my lecture notes. When the bell rang, I left hurriedly, unable to conduct a conversation. I headed back to my office to check my mail and, visible down the long corridor on the floor in front of my office, sat a vase of orange roses. My mind did backflips as I reached for them, unlocked the door, and put them on my desk. The note was written neatly, perhaps even in her own handwriting.

  So sorry. I’ll make it up to you. Viv.

  Never had I experienced such incredible highs and lows. If my mind had been my heart, the spiking blood pressure would have blown my brains out. I read the note again and had no idea what it literally meant, but it made me happy. She might have stood me up but she was sorry. And she would do something with me, to me, for me that would make it up to me. What more could I ask?

  I was so happy that I headed for the hospital nearly euphoric. The puke green walls trailing down to the gray medical floor seemed almost cheery, enlivened by my own joyful state. I breezed past the reception desk and into room 811, where my father was propped up in bed sipping juice through a bent straw. He cut his eyes to observe my entrance but didn’t move his head or stop sucking.

  I inquired about his health and what the doctors had said. He replied they seemed uncertain about what had caused his attack.

  “Stress, perhaps,” he said in a tone that transmitted mental images of him falling off my porch after having shouted that hell was lined with the heads of gay priests, so incendiary a statement that my face flushed in anger at the remembrance. “Stress” was unmistakably my cue to apologize for having upset him, but I couldn’t. Apologizing about feelings I had for Vivienne seemed almost sacrilegious so I sat down and picked up the paper, pretending to read the sports page.

  “Did you water the plants?” he asked of my visits to his house for various items he needed.

  “I did.”

  ‘You cancelled my dental appointment?”

  “I did,” I said, and didn’t tell him he’d never had a dental appointment.

  “Tell the doctor I am leaving here on Monday regardless of whether he approves or not.”r />
  “I’ll tell him.” I smiled but he looked blankly ahead at the TV screen.

  My cell phone rang and I answered. Vivienne’s voice asked, “Did you get my message?”

  “The uh…message you left, among other things.”

  “Yes. I take it you can’t talk.”

  “No, I can. I’m just here in the hospital visiting my father.”

  “Oh, I’ll call you la—”

  “No, don’t hang up. The flowers are beautiful. I’m so glad you called and I can’t wait to see you. What happened that you had to cancel?”

  “My brother was in an auto accident—”

  “I’m so sorry. Is he okay?”

  “He’s fine. He lives out of state and we were trying to determine if I should fly there. But he’s going to be all right.”

  “I want to hear about your family and everything about you.”

  A pause and then her voice held a smile. “Could I come see you Saturday night? Am I still invited?”

  “Yes.” I glanced at my father and stepped out into the hallway.

  “You are so invited you have no idea how invited you are.”

  She chuckled. “Good. I may even come early.”

  “Ahh.” I let out a sigh. “I have all kinds of things I could say about that.”“Really? Well, you can tell me in person. See you then.” She hung up and I blinked to get the hallway back in focus before returning to my father’s bedside.

  “Who was that?” he asked.

  “A friend.”

  “It was her,” he accused with amazing clarity.

  “Yes, it was Vivienne.”

  “You love her.” He turned his head away and stared out the window. “I can hear it in your voice.”

  How could he hear it in my voice? He can’t hear me when I ask him the time of day. He’s tuned out half the time, so how has he tuned in to this? What do I say? There’s nothing to say.

  I kissed him on the top of his head. “I’m going to head on home, Father. I love you.” He didn’t respond. I’d made it almost out the door when he stopped me.

  “You can be court-martialed for this. The end of a brilliant career. Is that what you want?”