(2008) Down Where My Love Lives Page 14

  "Somewhere about midnight on the second night, I fell down. I woke up in a bed next to Maggie. The nurse said some big, bald-headed deputy sheriff, who had been in the hall for two days, picked me up and put me in bed next to Maggie. The doctors said that Maggie lost about half her blood. My son's head was fourteen centimeters in diameter and his stomach was eighteen. He weighed eleven pounds four ounces. I guess you know the rest."

  We stood there for some time. I don't know how long, but it was long enough to get really cold.

  Finally, Amos held up his hand and stuck three fingers in the air. Chin high, lip quivering, he whispered, "These three remain."

  I nodded, and we walked out of the Salk.

  Amos and I drove home with his heater on "scorch." The digital thermometer on his rearview mirror read eighteen degrees, and the coffee in my thermos was lukewarm and tasted like aluminum.

  Pulling into the drive, Amos asked, "Do I need to worry about you?"

  I shook my head.

  "You sure?"

  I nodded again.

  "Hey." Amos put his hand on my shoulder. "Hug her for me."

  I pushed the door closed, walked up the steps, and listened as Amos's tires crunched the frost on my gravel drive.

  "PROFESSOR?"

  I raised my head, and the sunshine blinded me. An odor of urine, Pine Sol, and Maggie hit my nose pretty quickly, reminding me what my life smelled like. Through fuzzy, dry eyes, I recognized Amanda, who sat next to me unwrapping the bandage on my arm.

  "Good morning," she whispered. "Sorry to wake you, but class starts in an hour, research papers are due today, and I thought you might want to eat something." She pointed to the table behind me. Eggs, sausage, and toast sat steaming. "But not until I put a new wrapping on this."

  "Thanks. It feels better."

  Amanda pulled off the gauze and studied my arm. "Looks better, too, but"-she eyed me with suspicion-"I think we'll keep it wrapped another week. Just in case."

  I nodded.

  Amanda pointed her finger as if she was about to say something; her brow wrinkled as though she was thinking real hard. Then she pointed back to the food. "Blue already ate his. It's cafeteria food, so it's not great. But it's hot, and that's worth something."

  "Thanks," I said, turning away and wishing for a toothbrush.

  "Professor." She patted my arm. "This might scar-for life. You did a real number on it. I told the doctor about it, and he said you either need to leave it alone or get used to wearing long sleeves in public."

  "What else did the doctor say?" I said looking at the bandage and letting my nose filter the air of Betadine fumes.

  Amanda hesitated. "He said that you need to quit trying to rub the skin off your arm, and for me to tell him if you don't."

  I nodded and looked back at Maggie. Without looking at Amanda, I said, "Amos told me about you getting kidnapped." I paused. "I didn't know." I looked up at her. "I'm sorry."

  Without batting an eye, she said, "Me too." Then she laughed. "I'm sorry 'most every day."

  "Why?" I asked. "Because of the baby?"

  "No! Heavens, no." She tilted her head and patted her tummy, and her eyebrows drew close together. "It's not his fault, Professor. He didn't have anything to do with it. Two wrongs don't make one right." She tilted her head further, as though she couldn't understand the look on my face. "I'm sorry for those guys, whoever and wherever they are. They may not ever have to face me, or my dad, or even Big Amos, although I hope he catches them, but one way or another, this life or the next, their time will come. God knows. And to answer your next question, no, I don't hate them. And I certainly don't hate this little boy here."

  "But. . . " I didn't know how to ask it.

  "But what?" She smiled. "Yes, Professor, if you need to hear me say it. Remember, I'm training to be a nurse. They did what they could to make sure that I would not get pregnant, but my body didn't know I wasn't supposed to get pregnant. By the time they got me to the hospital, my body had already done what it was made to do."

  I wanted to ask the next question, but I didn't have to.

  "No, Professor. That was never an option. Not because of my dad, or his church, or anything like that. There was no pressure there. I made up my own mind. And no, I don't have some crazy wish to be one of the single mothers that I read about in the paper. I have no desire to become a statistic. At least, that one. I had hoped to do this the traditional way." She smiled again. "You know: a wedding, white gown, handsome man, and then the child thing. But. . . " She shrugged her shoulders. "I'll have to wait on that. He's out there. He's just got to find us."

  She walked up next to the bed and patted Maggie's feet.

  "Can I ask one more question?" I asked.

  "Sure. I've been doing all the talking."

  "You don't seem mad."

  "Professor, that's a statement, not a question."

  I smiled. "Okay, why then? Why aren't you standing out there on the front lawn, shaking your hand at the sky?"

  Amanda shook her head. "Professor, God knows how I feel. I tell Him all the time." She raised her eyebrows and smiled. "How do you think I made it this far?" She looked out the window.

  "I spent a few weeks pretty mad. We argued. I screamed a lot. But what good is it going to do? Yelling won't make me unpregnant, won't catch those two guys, and won't give me back what I lost. Maybe it's my daddy in me, but I think that if we could give God a choice, He'd prefer that we scream and argue rather than say nothing at all. And believe me, Professor, I've done my screaming." Amanda stood and put her hand on her hip. "Now, it's time to do my living. Although-" She batted her eyes and smiled slyly. "I keep the lines open."

  She was quiet for a moment, then stuck her point-making finger in the air. "Professor, you didn't ask, but I'm going to tell you ... at least this is what I'm banking on. If God is who He says He is, then He's big enough to handle my ranting and raving." She paused again. "And all my questions."

  I held Maggie's hand and kept my mouth shut.

  Amanda patted Maggs's foot again, turned, and walked to the door. "Professor?" she said.

  "Yes?" I looked up at her.

  "I probably talk more than I should, but you asked." She smiled again, placing one hand on the door and resting one leg, bending it at the knee. "What I really want to say is this: I' m just talking about me. I know other people have had tough times, too, but you asked, and I told you."

  I heard a shuffle, and when I looked up, she was gone. Blue licked my knee, and the plate of steaming eggs, sausage, and toast began to smell real good. Maggie's feeding bag was half-empty, so we ate in silence.

  At a few minutes before nine, I kissed her forehead, checked to make sure her socks were pulled up, folded Blue's blanket, and left for school. Walking down the hall, I realized how thickly Amanda had wrapped my arm. It looked like a billy club. Judging by the size and thickness of the bandage, it'd take thirty minutes just to cut it off.

  THANKSGIVING WEEKEND I WAS ALONE, PARKED ON the front porch and sniffing the air for the smell of turkey. There was none, only a lone fireplace somewhere south of my rocker. In my lap sat my students' research papers, which they had placed in my box by 5:00 PM the day before. My hope was to grade them over the four-day break and return them the next week, allowing the students the remaining three weeks of the semester to rewrite and make corrections.

  In teaching my previous seven classes, I had developed a method for reading papers. I thought it helped bring fairness to the whole process. When starting a paper, I didn't look at the name until after I'd given it a grade. Also, I read each one twice. The process helped keep me honest. Sometimes, if I'm familiar with a student's topic, then I know whose I'm reading, but most times I have no idea.

  Rocking with the rhythm of the corn, my eyes were focused on four particular research papers. They stuck out not because of their poor quality, but because they were good, real good. Even excellent.

  After the second read, I was still impressed, but I h
ad some suspicions. Then I looked at the names. No way. Not this year, not these guys, not anytime soon. I finished reading the rest of the papers a second time and spent Sunday and Monday thinking it over.

  The answer was simple, but that was just the problem. Do I question four students about their papers, accuse them of plagiarism, and hope I get a confession? I'm the teacher, that's my job. I think they're guilty. No, I know they're guilty. It's a nonissue. They're gone. It's out of my hands. School policy.

  It's not that easy.

  Some students think that the teacher is paid by their tuition and consequently owes them something-as if showing up to class is admirable and completing assignments is optional. They're not all like that. I do have real students, the kind you hope you discover. Because that's what teachers do. We discover, or uncover, kids.

  I spent the weekend thinking about my fibbing four. They weren't even discreet about it. Avoice inside my head told me that it is not uncommon for a student to sue a teacher for such an accusation. It happens.

  To be honest, there were two voices inside of me. One said, just give 'em back. Forget it. You really don't care. They re only cheating themselves. Its their future. You've got enough on your plate. The other said, Wait a minute, what are you doing?

  That second voice was the tough one. I fought it. Hey, I'm just an adjunct. These kids will never see me again. All they want is a grade, and all I want is to get out of there and pay my bills. But I knew that wasn't really true.

  I sat on the porch, rocking, reading, and making absolutely certain. It wasn't too hard. In sum, I had four papers and four lives handed to me on a silver platter.

  MY STUDENTS FILED INTO CLASS, AND I HANDED OUT THE papers, all except the four. I looked at those students and said, "Your papers were really good. Actually, they were great. You four hang out after class. I'd like to talk to you."

  That was enough to quiet them for the remainder of class. Not one uttered a single peep. Marvin chewed on his lip, Russell looked out the window, and Eugene and Alan shifted their minds into high gear.

  Class ended, the rest filed out, and my fib-four sat mumbling and tongue-tied in front and around me. They tried to pass over the uneasiness.

  I said, "Guys, your papers were great, which is why you're sitting here. I want you to tell me about them."

  Marvin spoke up. "Well, ain't you gonna give 'em back?"

  "No, not yet. I want to ask you some questions first." I had the papers in my hand and was nervously but slowly shuffling them like a deck of cards.

  "We'll get to that," I said. "Eugene, let's start with you."

  Eugene was intelligent. He had a good sense of humor but was also curious and usually made a good contribution to my class. I liked him. It was evident that people respected him, because they listened to what he had to say.

  Eugene tossed his head, slipped down in his chair, and gave me his best attitude-look, which said, All right, but I ain't done nothing wrong.

  "Eugene, tell me about your paper. I'm impressed. It's really good. Just tell me about it."

  "It's been a long time since I wrote it. I don' remembuh much. Whatchoo wanna know?"

  He threw the slang in to get over his uneasiness, I knew, because he could pretend to speak like a Rhodes scholar when the urge hit him.

  "Well, just tell me where you got the idea."

  "I don't remember, but I asked you a few weeks ago if I could write about these two poems, and you said I could."

  "I remember. All right, how about this: explain your thesis."

  Silence.

  "Well ... explain your conclusions?"

  "I don't know. It's been a long time since I wrote it." Whenever Eugene's mouth moved, his hands followed. His hands were starting to come alive as I asked him more questions.

  The others began to get uncomfortable as they wrestled with how they might answer these same questions.

  "Well ... tell me what poems you used. What are the titles?"

  "I can't remember, but one is about a ship and the other is about...."

  "Who is the author?"

  "Dickinson, um ... Emily."

  "Good. Now, why these poems?"

  Silence.

  "Okay, you hold on to that. I'll come back to you."

  Eugene breathed, but it was not an easy breath. His head was turning, and I could see that entrepreneurial side kick in. He was thinking about how he could make a deal.

  I turned to Marvin. "Marvin ... "

  I had learned a few things about Marvin. He was the most highly recruited freshman Digs had ever signed. He'd probably enter the draft at the end of his sophomore year. If he stayed healthy, he could go all the way. Aside from football, he had a great sense of humor, always made me laugh, and I enjoyed having him in class.

  About six weeks ago, I was in midlecture, and Marvin was gabbing away with anybody who would listen. I stopped in the middle of a sentence, looked him square in the face, and said in a tone he had not heard before, "Marvin, what's the one thing all great cornerbacks have to have to play in the NFL?"

  Real quick, it got pin-drop quiet. Marvin laughed, cocked his head back, and said, "Quick feet, they all gotta have quick feet." He looked around the class, proud and looking for support for what he knew was the right answer. Eugene gave him a high-five. He leaned back in his chair.

  I said, "No, there are a lot of guys who can run a 4.3 but aren't in the NFL. It's not quick feet."

  Marvin sat up.

  I turned back to the class and said, "Can anybody help Marvin? What is the one thing that all great defensive backs have to have in order to play in the NFL?"

  It was quiet in my classroom. Then slowly students chipped in, "Good hands," "Size," "Like to hit," "Good eyes."

  "Nope," I said, "that's not the one thing." I looked back at Marvin.

  He looked up, slouched a little, and said kind of quietly, "They gotta listen."

  "That's right, Marvin. Dion Sanders was one of the greatest to play the game not because he ran a 4.2, but because he knew how to listen. Marvin, I want you to learn to listen in my classroom. You with me?"

  Since then, Marvin has listened more than he has talked. He's even asked a few questions. Now I looked at him, but he never gave me the chance to ask the question.

  He pointed at his paper. "Professuh Styles, I wrote my papuh."

  "Okay, then tell me about it. What's your thesis?"

  "I don' remembuh, but I wro' my papuh." Like Eugene, he was using slang to cover up what he couldn't hide.

  "Okay, here, on page one." I opened his paper and pointed to the first paragraph. "You talk about necromantic lust. What is necromantic lust?"

  "Necromani' whut?"

  "Ne-cro-man-tic lust. You use it right here in this sentence, which, I think, is your thesis."

  Marvin squirmed, kind of flung his head, half-grunted, and slouched.

  "Okay, here." I pointed again. "You talk about Aristotelian philosophy. That's a pretty broad topic, so let's just talk about his metaphysics."

  "His meta-what?" Marvin's voice got high-pitched.

  "His me-ta-phy-sics."

  Silence. The other three were motionless. The heaters in the room were really working. On top of that, I noticed that my heart was pounding at a pretty good pace. Any louder and they'd be able to hear it. Somebody's foot shuffled on the dusty floor.

  "Professuh Styles, I wro' my papuh, I jus' can' rememhuh ri' now. But I wro' dit."

  "Okay, then let's start over. What's your thesis?"

  Silence.

  "What's your conclusion?"

  Silence.

  "What's your title?"

  Deathly silence.

  "Okay, you think, and I'll go on to Alan."

  Alan was always early to class. Always did his homework. Never caused a problem. Asked some pretty good questions and never talked out of turn. Even raised his hand. He braided his hair into about ten braids and wanted to go to work with his brother when he got out of school. I liked him.
He looked like he came up tough but also looked like he came up honest.

  Alan's paper was the only one of the four that struck me as slightly different. There was no way he had written itthe language was too clean-but I did believe that he had typed it.

  "Alan, tell me about your paper."

  He launched into some of the specifics of his paper, relaying to me the highlights. Three minutes later, he finished speaking and rested his hands on the tabletop. His eyes told me he wasn't guilty, but they didn't necessarily say he was innocent either.

  "Okay, what does this word mean?" It was a scientific term, and I can't begin to remember how to spell it. I had no idea what it meant. Neither did he.

  "Okay, how did you organize your ideas?"

  Silence.

  "Okay, where did you get this information?"

  "In a book."

  "Well, you don't cite it, so how am I to know where it comes from? It's obvious that you've done some good research here. Your language is clean, but I just don't know where you got your ideas."

  Alan must have had a poor grammar-school experience, because his written use of the English language was horrendous. Judging by his prior two essays, I know there was no way on God's green earth that he had written a single word of this, other than his name.

  When I first read his paper, I saw quickly that he had given me what he thought I wanted. What he didn't realize, what none of them realized, was that I would work with each person from his starting point, not mine. They didn't know that. And they sure didn't want to believe it. Maybe that was my fault. Maybe that was the reason the five of us weren't down in the department chair's office right then.

  "Okay, what does this sentence mean?" I read the sentence and then looked at him.

  "Well, it mean dat de thing dey talkie' 'bout der is only foun' in space, and when it mix wit d'other elemen's, then it have dis effect." Alan was no dummy. He had a good head on his shoulders, and he knew his topic. He understood what was said; he just could never say it the way it was written.

  "Then why not tell me like that rather than the way it is written here?"