Gail Bowen - Burying Ariel

As I peered into the crowd, trying to see who was in charge, Ann Vogel, who had been a student in my Populist Politics class the year before, broke away from the group she was with and headed towards us. I felt my stomach knot. Ann was a sharp-featured brunette in her late thirties who had returned to school to find answers to the Big Questions. Judging from what I had seen of her, the answers she was finding were not to her liking. She was a sour and perpetually aggrieved woman who had involved herself deeply in the life of our department at a time when we had already far exceeded our quota of the sour and aggrieved. Midway through Populist Politics, she had changed her name from Ann to Naama. Assuming the name of the goddess who gave birth to Eve and Adam without the help of any male, even the serpent, may have connected Ann to the source of female power, but it hadn’t improved her analytical abilities, and she barely scraped through my class. The other class Ann did poorly in that semester had been Kevin Coyle’s International Law. She’d ferreted out the support of two other women whose grades in Kevin’s class failed to meet their expectations and set attitudinal-harassment charges in motion.

Had Kevin shown himself to be attuned to the realities of life at a contemporary university, the charges would have sunk without a trace, but he was a crank and an anachronism who still believed academics were put on earth to point out the shortcomings of lesser beings. He had made enough bone-headed public remarks about both sexes to muddy the waters and, bottom-feeder that she was, Ann Vogel had snapped up a veritable feast of comments he had made that could be construed as sexist. Kevin had responded to the charges with his usual pit-bull intransigence, but his defenders had argued that Kevin was a misanthrope, not a misogynist, and the case was about to sputter out from lack of oxygen when a far more serious incident erupted and fanned the flames.

A fourth-year student named Maryse Bergman accused Kevin Coyle of rape. Her tale was unsettling, in part, because the exposition was a familiar one to many who had dealt with people in positions of power. Maryse said that when she had approached Kevin with a request for a letter of recommendation to graduate school, he had suggested a quid pro quo: a glowing reference in return for sexual favours. Here the narrative took an ugly twist. According to Maryse, when she turned Kevin down, he attempted to rape her.

The alleged assault took place late on a Friday afternoon, when most of us had started our weekends, but there had been witnesses – not to the attack, but to its aftermath. Maryse, obviously distraught, had run down the hall until she found someone in our department ready to believe and, more significantly, verify her tale. Oddly, Maryse had insisted the police not be called. Later that evening, when Ben Jesse called all of us to alert us to the incident, that behaviour alone had made me suspicious. So had the fact that Maryse travelled in the same circles as Ann Vogel.

By Monday morning, the whispering campaign was spreading and Kevin was seething. According to him, Maryse Bergman had appeared in his office without an appointment. They had talked in general terms about graduate school, then, inexplicably, she had screamed and run from his office. When I asked if he had done anything that could be construed as a sexual overture, he erupted. “As if I would need her,” he said. “As if I would need any woman. Or any man for that matter. I don’t need anybody. Sex is of no interest to me. I have my work.” I had been convinced. Unfortunately for Kevin, I was in the minority.

My public explanation for supporting Kevin was that I believed in due process, but like most justifications, mine concealed as much as it revealed. My motivations were far from altruistic. As someone who had taught university for years, I had watched the chill of political correctness freeze spontaneity, creativity, and intellectual daring. A single lapse of caution could ensnare a teacher in a morass of charges that, even if unjust and unproven, could tar her reputation forever. The possibility that one day it would be my turn to be accused was real. This time I had dodged the bullet, but every time I looked at Kevin Coyle, I knew that there, but for the grace of a missing Y chromosome, went I.

The denouement of the Maryse Bergman case was surprising, at least to me. The week after her accusation against Kevin, she left town. There didn’t appear to be anything sinister about her departure. I saw her in the halls a couple of times, returning books or saying goodbye to friends, then she moved on. The day after she left, a deputation headed by Ann Vogel confronted Ben Jesse accusing him of a cover-up. It was Ben’s final battle. After his death, there was a rush to choose an interim department head and make the new appointments. Maryse was forgotten – forgotten, that is, by everyone except Ann Vogel, who kept the rumours on the boil, and by Kevin Coyle, who had to live under the cloud of unproven accusations.

The night of the vigil Ann Vogel wasted no time on pleasantries. “You’re supposed to go inside,” she said. “The plan is for everyone who is part of the program to come out of the library together.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. “Why would I be part of the program? There are a lot of people who were closer to Ariel than I was.”

“For once, I agree with you,” Ann Vogel said. “I don’t think you should be included either, but Ariel’s mother wants you. Dr. Warren says that since you knew Ariel as a child and as a colleague, you could bring a special perspective. It’s not a perspective I personally want, but Dr. Warren does, so you’d better get in there.”

I turned to Ed. “Could you and Taylor watch out for each other till I’m done?”

Ann Vogel didn’t give him a chance to answer. “You’ll have to find alternative child care, Joanne. This observance is for women only.”

Taylor regarded Ann with interest. “I noticed that.”

A glance around the crowd revealed that Taylor was right. Mao Zedong once said that women hold up half the sky, but at Ariel Warren’s vigil it appeared that the sky and everything under it was in female hands. With the exception of Ed, there wasn’t a male in sight.

Having discharged her venom, Ann started off. I grabbed her arm. My intent was simply to ask her a question, but my gesture was unintentionally rough, and she peeled off my hand with a look of disdain.

“No need for goon tactics,” she said.

“My point exactly,” I said. “Who made the decision to exclude men?”

“Some of us feel we can’t speak freely if men are present.”

“I thought this was supposed to be about Ariel.”

“She’s emblematic of a larger issue.”

“For God’s sake, Ann,” I said, “listen to yourself.”

“Naama,” she hissed. “My name is Naama.”

“All right, Naama. Now shut up and pay attention. Ariel Warren is not a symbol. She was a warm, gifted young woman, and a lot of us still can’t believe she’s gone.”

Ann took a step towards me. She was so close I could feel her breath on my face.

“Believe it, Joanne. Ariel is dead, and she died for the same reasons a lot of other women die. She lived in a patriarchal society that kills women and children.” She laughed shortly. “Why am I wasting my time trying to raise your consciousness? Stick around. You just might learn something.”

“I don’t think I will stick around,” I said.

Ann shrugged. “Suit yourself.” She wagged her finger at me. “Now, I’m going to walk away, and this time I don’t want to be stopped.”

I turned to Ed. “Let’s get out of here.”

Taylor looked up at me. “What about Ariel?”

Ed and I exchanged glances.