Stories

 Not Suzanne

The Teacher

      She sat toward the back of the room the first day, so I didn’t notice her at first. After I made a seating chart she was near the front. I was struck by her. Not beautiful, but very attractive, at least to me. About average size, light and almost translucent skin, an almost angelic face. Small breasts but big enough to know that they were there. Slender legs. Quiet. Never raised her hand. Small voice, too, when I called on her and pushed her to speak. Shy, like me, which was a nice contrast to some of the loud girls in the class and in the hallways. When I saw her in the hallways she always seemed alone.

      Perhaps it was because I did look at her so frequently that I noticed the bruising. She had worn something long sleeved on a day that was very warm so that every other girl wore short sleeves. Then when she reached out I saw the bruise. Coincidentally, I had just been watching a TV program parental abuse of children, a topic close to my own heart. The psychologist assigned to me last year explained the way that abusive treatment of different kinds can leave scars, as it had with me. Understanding leads to forgiveness and to better ways of acting.  Stay cool, stay cool.

      Anyway, I saw what looked like bruising on her arm when she reached for something and her sleeve pulled up. Was it an accident? Perhaps she fell. Or was it abuse, a  possibility that was hard to feel cool about.

       I made a point of observing her over the next few weeks and saw bruising on two more occasions. Then one day in town I saw her with an older man whom I took to be her father. Small, kind of a stern expression, didn’t see any resemblance to her. Maybe a stepfather, which would make the abuse more easy to imagine. Sexual abuse? Didn’t want to go there – – but impossible not to contemplate. I had the urge to hurt that man, imagining him hurting that frail and beautiful young girl.

      Her name is Susan but I think of her as Suzanne; she said Sue. For some reason I think of her a lot. I think of rescuing her from that abusive father and protecting her. She seems so shy and delicate. I suppose that she is 16 or 17, not more than a dozen years younger than I am.

Sue

      The teacher in my General Science class seems to look at me a lot. I think that he might have noticed the bruises on my arm that day when I wore long sleeves to cover them. I told myself that I was imagining things, but I am sure that he looks at me more than at other kids, and that he saw the bruises that day and maybe now he’s looking for more. 

      His class is not popular. Maybe it’s partly the topic, but it’s him too. He tries to make jokes, but they aren’t really funny. He’s one of those teachers who wants to be liked and acts real friendly, but then he is the teacher and has to act like a teacher and that doesn’t work real well. The kids have trouble figuring out how they should act with him, sort of. It’s okay for me because I’m just very quiet in my classes. He’s not bad looking. Big and strong, but definitely a nerd. Like me.

      I am self-conscious about the bruises, to say the least. My skin is really thin so the slightest blow or bump seems to leave a mark. He saw me with Dad when we were out shopping one day and I think that he wanted to talk to us, maybe meet Dad, I don’t know. Anyway, I acted like I hadn’t seen him and we didn’t meet. Why did I feel that way? I don’t know. I suppose that I should have waved or spoken and maybe he would meet Dad. That probably would be good. Getting to know the teachers is something my folks have encouraged, but I feel shy. Maybe later.

Sue

      About three or four weeks later, I was bruised again and I’m sure that he noticed. He seemed to want to talk with me but I hurried away after class. What would I say? I’m afraid that he might report this to someone, like a school nurse or the principal. And then what?

      My parents have always used alcohol. Their friends too. They had parties and went out quite a lot. But now it’s gone over the line. I’m very worried about Mom. She seems very depressed. People change when they’ve been drinking, and some people become mean and can’t control their anger. I have read about how hard it is to get over alcoholism, so this may get worse and worse. But maybe I’m just extra depressed right now. Got to think better thoughts.

The Teacher

      Suzanne was bruised again today and I won’t put up with this. I can’t stand seeing this lovely girl mistreated by that ugly monster and not do anything. I brought the topic of abuse up in the lounge. What to do if you see evidence of abuse. One teacher asked if I had such evidence? I said that there was a student who had bruises. They weren’t helpful. Be cautious. Easy to get into trouble making accusations of that sort, especially with my status as a temporary teacher. I was sorry that I’d brought it up.

      The teachers n here just aren’t very friendly. They act as though I’m not really one of them, which I guess I’m not. I probably wouldn’t have gotten a social studies or an English job, but math and science was easier, and I’d had enough science to satisfy them.  But I am a teacher and the others should be helpful and treat me with respect instead of looking down on me.

      I began to imagine confronting her father, just having a conversation. Talking about the problem and what might be done. Resources. There would be the danger of a bad reaction, resentment, conflict. I’m a lot bigger and stronger than he is, so it isn’t likely that it would be dangerous for me. And if he did get angry and violent I would be okay. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d had to kick a guy’s ass. That happened to me once where a guy really asked for it. It felt good to give him what he deserved, even though I paid for it later. But be cool, be cool.

The Teacher

      Suzanne was not in class for the past two days and today she showed up with a bruised face. I debated talking to the Assistant Principal but I didn’t. I have more or less decided to do something myself. Talk to her father, as a concerned teacher. Teachers should be concerned.

      I have a plan. Tell him that I’ve noticed bruising on his daughter, and that I hoped that we could talk about this without involving the authorities, who might cause serious problems with the family. Something like that. Nonthreatening, but actually threatening. Suggest getting professional help to deal with the situation before it becomes a real problem for him and his family. Avoid using the word “abuse,” which might escalate things. If he and I can sit down and talk, maybe it would lead him to get help. I can’t sit by without at least trying.

Sue

      It happened on Saturday night. A black eye this time, sort of. My face looks terrible. I stayed at home then Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday. Wednesday morning it looked a lot better, and I went to school. I dread the Science class, and sure enough,, the teacher looked at me and I know that he saw the bruise, even though I kept my head down as much as I could. Dad and I talked about it and I know that it can’t go on. He’s such a coward.

The Teacher

      I really tried my best but it turned out worse than I could have imagined. I started to talk very calmly the way I’d planned, but he was defensive and belligerent and insulting. Mind your own business, he said, and get out of here. That really pissed me off. He said a couple of other insulting things and reached out toward me, sort of poking me in the chest, almost. I lost it. I hit him and hit him and then he fell and hit his head really hard and I think that he was unconscious. Very unlucky for me. I didn’t know what to do. He provoked it, but with my past I knew that it would be a problem if the police got involved. I left him lying there. It wasn’t really my fault, but . . .

Sue

      Something terrible happened yesterday. Someone came in and attacked my father and he hit his head and he’s in the hospital. I was up in my room listening to music and doing homework. Mom came home and found him there. She’s going crazy.

      I’m going a little crazy too. I can’t help thinking of what might if Dad died. There’s be no one to keep me safe from Mom’s drunken rages. He wasn’t very good at it but he did try.   

The Detective

      Strange case. Woman comes home and finds her husband lying unconscious inside the house. Face injured like he was hit by someone, probably more than once, then he falls and hits his head on the corner of a low table. No marks on his own knuckles, so not really a fight. We find that his wife has a record. Alcoholism, assault, battery. So naturally she’s our suspect. But she was stone cold sober when we arrived and very distraught, and somehow it didn’t seem right. Then a neighbor said she saw a guy go to the door and go in, so there’s another suspect.

      The guy seemed in bad shape when he was hospitalized yesterday but they say he’ll probably be okay. If so, let’s hope he can tell us what happened.

The Detective

      Took a few days, but we got him! A teacher, can you believe that?

The Teacher

      It was the mother, not the father, the cop said. I don’t know whether to believe that. I think about Suzanne – – Susan, I mean – – but not so much.

      I hate it in here with all these crazy people, but my lawyer says that this is my best chance of staying out of prison.

                                                Crime and Punishment

      I was hoping to get some more sleep, but the conversation intruded in a way that was irritating at first, then interesting. It was interesting because it was about such fundamental matters, matters that I had thought about, but always pushed aside because they seemed never to lead anywhere. But now these two guys were at it and I was a captive listener. I didn’t know either of them, but one reminded me of what I’d read about Socrates and the Socratic Method. So I’ll call him S. The only other Greek name that comes to mind is Kostas, because of a guy I’d known at one point, so I’ll call him K. It seemed that they had been discussing some news item about the conviction of some criminal. I had no good idea of what led to this or even exactly what the relationship was between S and K. Here’s how it went.

S: I agree that what the guy did was pretty bad. What punishment is called for?

K: Something pretty severe, wouldn’t you say?

S: Yeah. What is the most severe punishment, do you think?

K: Well, obviously the death penalty. Right?

S: Does that depend on your beliefs about death? You aren’t religious, are you?

K: No, not at all. We’re animals who are born and then die.

S: So is taking a life the worst thing you can do to someone, given that he’s gonna die anyway?

K: Good point. If someone is old it isn’t as bad as for someone young, I’d say.

S: As a non-religious person, I suppose that you think that death puts someone back to where   he was before he was born, eh? Nonexistent, right?

K: Yeah, exactly.

S: So not existing, a dead person cannot be thinking, Right.

K: Right, of course. I see where you’re going, here. If he can’t be thinking, he can’t be feeling

      remorse, right?

S: Or anything else.

K: Yeah, or anything else.

S: Like, for example, pain?

K: Yeah. So death gets rid of him, but it doesn’t really punish him I guess because he isn’t even

      aware that he’s being deprived of further life. Yeah.

S: In earlier times, death was often preceded by some kind of torture, I’ve read.

K: Yes, I think so, and that makes a lot of sense if you think that the crime warrants the perp

      really being punished. Okay, I see that a death sentence itself is not the worst punishment.

S: Let’s see, going a bit further, which would be greater punishment, a lengthy period of

      torture, or immediate death?

K: Torture, certainly. Worse to be whipped every day for a month, say, than just killed outright.

S: Or for something really unthinkably terrible, maybe permanent torture?

K: You mean whippings every day for a lifetime? Jeez.

S: Or disabling or disfiguring someone. That’s what we do to soldiers, don’t we?

K: Yeah, but I don’t want to open that can of worms.

S: It is said that the worst kind of torture is mental. What do you think?

K: That’s another good point. Feeling terrible about something is terrible. I know.

S: Well, in our system here, a death sentence often results in a long period before it is carried

      out. Sometimes during that period there are appeals, creating uncertainty about the end. Is

      that better than just carrying out the sentence right away?

K: I’d say it might be worse. Imagine getting hopes up only to have them crushed. It would

      be like getting a death sentence twice.

S: So if you wanted to inflict the worst possible punishment, you could torture, then

      occasionally give the prisoner hope, then always more punishment. Yes?

K: I guess so. That sounds unbelievably cruel.

S: Getting back to the death penalty, since that isn’t the worst that can be done, when should

      be used? For less serious crimes?

K: Well, that doesn’t make any sense at all. Death for doing something not all that bad?

S: Well, if death it given, there won’t be continuing remorse or punishment, right?

K: Yeah, so how should we view death?

S: Yes, how should we view death? Don’t people fear death and try almost anything to prevent             or at least postpone it?

K: That’s for sure.

S: What is gained by that?

K: Well, longer life, obviously. More time with friends and loved ones.

S: So when someone dies, do they have regrets over losing their friends and loved one?

K: Obviously not. When you’re dead you don’t have any regrets about anything, including

      being dead, including not being with loved ones.

S: So what’s the down side of being dead?

K: Yuk, yuk. But I admit that the price is paid by friends and family, not really by the deceased. I don’t want to cause unnecessary pain for my loved ones, right?

S: Although you will at some point, won’t you?

K: Maybe not. Maybe all of your loved ones will die first

S: Now who’s being silly? Would you agree that people are inclined to make too much

      of dying? Of death?

K: Yes, I’d have to agree with that.

S: And maybe we should torture more and kill less.

K: Jeez. Let’s get a beer.

      The guys got up. I closed my eyes. And my poor brain.

                                                    The Chameleon

      In February, Ted looked at his course evaluations for the fall semester. He was an eternal optimist when it came to teaching. He had worked hard on that course, intending to improve it, make it more popular. The first comment he saw said that “the professor was boring and didn’t seem to know the material very well.” Wow, that hurt. One or two comments like that shouldn’t hurt, but that’s not the way it works. A couple of zingers wiped out a dozen positive comments in his mind. He looked at the summaries. Not bad. In fact, the evaluations weren’t bad at all, and in a better mood he might have said “Good, better than last time I taught that course. And I know a thing or two that will improve it next time.” But that first comment stuck in his head.

      His mood had been dark that day from its beginning. He’d been seeing a less affectionate Annie, and that had worn on him and left him feeling down. And he knew that when he was depressed he was not the same man that Annie had fallen for. He had been a star to her, about to be promoted to full professor, well-known in his field, powerful, experienced in life and in love. Fun to be with. Taking her places she’d not been. Conferences in the Big Apple and in the French countryside. Now it was work, work, work, and work has made Ted a dull boy.

      He had a beer with Al, his closest friend in the department. Al had been concerned about Ted, noting that Ted hadn’t been dropping by to chat as much. Al and his wife were missing Ted and Annie. Al was doing fine, he said. But Ted? Ted told Al the story of his course evaluations. Al had seen them – – they were public – – and hadn’t noticed anything special. Seemed pretty good, in fact. Al always got very positive evaluations. Ted wished his were as good, but on the other hand, Ted’s academic standing was higher; Al just wasn’t getting anything published. Not a good thing to talk about, and they didn’t. New restaurants was a more enjoyable topic.

      In March the paper that Ted had submitted months earlier, the paper that would be admired, earn him respect and praise, make him feel like a first-rate academic, was not accepted. What?? He read and reread the editor’s letter and the reviewers’ evaluations. “Jesus, what a crock of shit,” he exclaimed, tossing the various sheets into the wastebasket next to his desk – – then retrieving them and beginning to read them again. One of the reviewers seemed to have missed the whole point. Another found some fault with his statistical analyses. There were only those two reviewers plus the editor, and the work was outside his area of competence. The editor did say that if he, Ted, strongly wanted more reviewers, the editor would send the paper to another person. “Goddamn right,” Ted thought, and decided to write the editor to that effect.

      So the paper wasn’t really rejected, he realized as he read the editor’s letter again. But he was pissed off anyway, and found himself unable to concentrate on the new paper he was beginning to write. He stopped in Al’s office and they chatted for a bit. But Al was busy with something so Ted returned and thought some more about his paper, then about his mistakes with his teaching, then about his mistakes with Annie. Not being a good partner, he thought.

      By the end of the month Ted had written a long and carefully constructed letter to the journal editor in which he addressed several criticisms and suggested further reviews by experts in the area. He didn’t name the experts, though, because the reviews are to be anonymous, and the editor might not send the paper to anyone he’d named. It would be at least another two months before he heard again, he figured. That’s just the way it was. Slow, slow

      Ted’s teaching assignment was reduced for this semester because he was serving as Acting Chair while Ruth, the Department Chair, was on leave because of a serious personal problem that she was attending to. Before she left they had a chat about his annual report regarding his work and his plans. This was a fairly routine event, and Ted had not been concerned. But their conversation had not been as pleasant as expected. There seemed to be an unfriendly edge to her voice, and she hadn’t been as sympathetic as he’d anticipated. It was brief, and his impression was that Ruth thought that he was not quite keeping up, not achieving as much as he should have been.

      The administrative work to fill in for Ruth was not onerous or time-consuming. But there was one thing that was a problem. A junior colleague was up for tenure, and the review committee had submitted a report that would result in denial. The guy would have to leave, find a new position elsewhere, which was not going to be easy the way the academic marketplace was at the moment. But the worst thing from Ted’s point of view was that it would be Ted to meet with the guy and talk about this unpleasant reality. The appointment was coming up the same afternoon that he’d gotten the editor’s letter.

      Very bad timing. An unpleasant task, made worse by Ted not fully understanding the Promotion Committee’s report. The young guy, Fred, had very good teaching evaluations. Exceptionally good for such an inexperienced teacher with a class of more than 200 students that most of the faculty didn’t want to teach. But Fred had not published anything the previous year and what he’d coauthored earlier was perhaps mainly due to the ideas of his Ph.D. advisor back three years ago. On the other hand, the kind of work that Fred did was notoriously slow to do, requiring unusual time and patience. The Promotion Committee didn’t seem to believe that Fred had made adequate progress. This kind of work was outside Ted’s area of expertise, so he was in no position to challenge the decision, but it seemed a bit harsh.

      At least he wouldn’t be the one breaking the bad news to Fred. No doubt a senior colleague who knew the score and who knew him better would have discussed all this with Fred. Ted would commiserate a bit and offer advise about the best way to carry on with his career. But that’s not how it went at all. Fred obviously had been expecting good news. The conversation was a disaster, and Fred ended up slamming the door closed on his way out. Ted sat there stunned, replaying what had happened and asking why.

      It took a few minutes to figure out what must have led to this situation. It must be that someone gave Fred misleading feedback. Someone who should have prepared him for the bad news had, instead, misled him to expect the opposite. Someone didn’t have the courage to be honest with Fred and had left the dirty work to Ted.  

      In late April Ted got bad news about his National Science Foundation grant. Huge cut in funds. Pretty negative comments about what Ted had accomplished and what he planned. Ted hadn’t seen that coming. He thought about phoning the guy in Washington who was overseeing those grants and trying to get a better idea of what was what and just what Ted might do to get some of the money reallocated and just what this guy was thinking. But right now he had a couple of other issues to deal with.

      May came and he’d done nothing about the grant. He closed his office door and thought about how he’d done nothing, really, about any of the issues that had worn him down. Bad, bad thoughts. The career that was at the core of his being was a failure. Mediocre scholar, mediocre teacher, less than mediocre husband. Into his forties with an expanding belly. Tears came to his eyes. He ignored a tapping on his door. Couldn’t see anyone in this condition.

      What is the rational step here, he asked himself as he lay in bed, Annie already asleep. When a person is failing at something the rational step is either to leave the playing field or find a new game. Pretty late to find a new game, he thought. “What could I be good at?” Nothing came to mind. Then something did. He be a great father. His father had been a fine father and he would too. Whoa, wait a moment, buddy. One thing that made it easier for him and Annie to launch into marriage after a brief fling was that they agreed, “No kids.”  But now Ted was feeling unexpectedly different about that and wasn’t sure why.

      They both wanted careers. His had been thriving. Annie was bright and energetic and had an academic career in mind when she began graduate school. That hadn’t worked out yet but there was time. Kids would send her – – them – – in a different direction. Anyway, what kind of a father would he really be? He thought of his father’s younger brother, Bob. He’s liked his Uncle Bob, but Bob had been hospitalized twice with depression when a young man, then died young in what might or might not have been an accident.  Now Ted seemed headed in that direction. He tried to push those troublesome thoughts aside. Sleep, finally.

      What a relief it was to have too busy a morning to think about all those troubles. But the thoughts were back in the afternoon when he’d finished teaching, and Al was nowhere to be found when he stopped by to propose a beer. So it was back to the office. The mail was in, the mail that seemed to bring nothing but bad news. Time now to open it as well as going through the emails that had piled up today. First call Annie, who had left a message while he was trying to find Al. Annie sounded odd it when she asked if he might come home a bit early and have dinner out. Oh, oh.

      It was only four. He opened the letter from D.C. Good news! Apparently Congress approved additional money for NSF and some of what was cut will be restored. He almost smiled.

      A tap at the door. Fred. Oh, shit, thinking of Fred’s reaction earlier to the bad news. But this was a different Fred. “Ted, I want to apologize for the way I acted the other day. I realize that I shot the messenger. You’ve always been nice to me and although we didn’t get to know each other very well I wish that we had and I want to apologize for how I acted. They chatted for a few minutes, then Ted turned to an email that had just arrived from Ruth, hoping that it wasn’t bad news of some sort. It wasn’t. In fact it was another apology. “Ted, I felt bad about our conversation. I’d just had gotten some bad news and it was affecting me when we talked. I respect you as a colleague and value your friendship, so please forgive me for not showing that.” Wow, another apology. Great.

      Ted looked at the email from Ruth, hoping that it wasn’t bad news of some sort. It wasn’t. In fact it was another apology. “Ted, I felt bad about our conversation. I’d just had gotten some bad news and it was affecting me when we talked. I respect you as a colleague and value your friendship, so please forgive me for not showing that.” Wow. Great.

      Ted  headed off to meet Annie, stuffing the rest of the mail into his briefcase and,  feeling much better now, had a humorous exchange with a secretary on his way out.

      Annie was on the phone. Sounded like her sister. Time to open the letter from the journal editor, which he’d been contemplating with some apprehension. The letter was brief. The editor had gotten a review from a highly regarded person in the field who praised the paper and urged that it be published with minimal changes. What a relief. Ted felt strong enough to deal with whatever Annie’s concern might be.

      She looked serious, and she was. “I have something upsetting to tell you,” she began. Ted thought, “Jesus, she’s leaving me.”

      But that wasn’t it. “I’m pregnant,” she said, and became tearful. It was my fault entirely. I’d always been very careful, as you know, but not that one time. The truth is that I’ve been having the mother thoughts that we talked about a long time ago and that I said I didn’t have. I think that unconsciously I wanted to be pregnant, as unfair as that is to you. And I do know that it’s very unfair and I don’t want anything to come between us. I’ll do whatever.”

      It was an enjoyable evening.