Craig Smith - Cold Rain

Is it in the literature?’

‘All over the place.’

‘And you called someone on campus about getting her some work?’

‘She asked. She said she wanted to quit dancing at The Slipper.’

Gail blinked. ‘She’s an exotic dancer and she’s complaining that you complimented her hair?’

‘She asked me what I thought of it.’

Gail shook her head. ‘This isn’t a complaint, David.

This is a piece of paper.’

‘These things are supposed to be confidential, but everyone on campus knows I’m being investigated.’

‘You’ve been harmed by that?’

‘I was going to apply for promotion this year.’

Gail thought about this. She shook her head. ‘Take the hit. Apply next year. It’s not worth the ill-will you’ll garner by filing suit.’

I said nothing, but Gail could see I was upset.

‘How is Molly handling this?’

‘I haven’t told her about it. Actually, I wasn’t planning on bringing it up.’

‘Afraid she’ll think there has to be something to this, a little hanky-panky?’

‘Molly knows better. Look, we don’t talk about what goes on at school because she thinks the whole place is a loony bin and the only reason most of us are working there is it’s cheaper for the state to pay us a salary than keep us locked up in an asylum. She doesn’t want to hear it.’

‘Well, it’s your business, but I’d say it’d be a good idea to at least fill her in on the complaints. Just to be on the safe side.’

‘I’ll talk to her tonight.’

‘Good. Now, when Blackwell interviewed you, were you relatively honest? Hell of a thing if they drop the charges and bring you up for obstructing an investigation.’

‘I was perversely honest, Gail.’

‘Enlighten me. What is perversely honest?’

‘I answered the questions without attempting to discuss the setting or context of my words.’

‘You didn’t try to explain anything?’

‘She didn’t ask. I didn’t offer. What the hell? I didn’t do anything wrong.’

‘Did she record the conversation?’

‘No. She took notes.’

‘Let’s hope she knows what she’s doing and she’s honest. Otherwise, she’ll have you confessing to anything she wants you to.’

Gail looked at her watch. We had been at it for close to thirty minutes. ‘Okay. You’re in to me for a little over three hundred bucks. Let’s leave it at that for now. If they want to talk again, tell them to contact me. Say nothing. Write nothing down for them. If they attempt any kind of disciplinary action, do whatever they say and contact me immediately. I’ll have charges filed against them so fast it will make their collective head spin. And don’t talk to anyone about this, except Molly. Are we clear on that?’

‘Tell me I don’t have anything to worry about, Gail.’

‘I make it a policy never to lie to my clients, David.’

‘But it’s bullshit. You think the complaints are bullshit?’

‘You’re the man with the farm. You know what it’s like when you step in that stuff.’

I went to a tavern after I left Gail Etheridge. It had been a favourite in my drinking days, and I convinced myself they had a good menu. In fact, it was a bar for the locals, safe territory. I knew the people there. It had been two years since I had crossed the threshold, but some of them hadn’t even changed seats.

The waitress asked me where I had been. ‘Been sober,’ I said and ordered a tenderloin sandwich, fries and a non-alcoholic beer.

‘We don’t serve that crap, Dave. It’s the real thing or nothing at all.’

‘Possible to have a Coke?’

She gave me a smile. ‘For you I’ll see what I can do. But this sobriety has to go. You’re setting a bad example for the people who keep this place in business.’

While I waited for my order, I found myself reviewing my various conversations with Denise Conway. This was hardly the first time. In fact, less than a week into it, I discovered Denise Conway was becoming one of the most important people in my life.

It seemed to me there were two distinct possibilities. The first involved a series of misunderstandings.

Eager and insecure, Denise had sought me out as a familiar face. She wanted assurances that she could handle college. Having received those assurances, her insecurities began twisting legitimate praise into something sinister. The complaint she had filed supported this theory. She wasn’t quite sure what I had done wrong! Her only real problems with me she had expressed as evidence rather than a complaint.

My second theory involved Buddy Elder. I much preferred this theory, because there was not much I was unwilling to credit to Mr Elder. In this theory Buddy manipulated Denise Conway into filing a complaint. Johnna Masterson’s complaint made more sense as well. Buddy had fed his fellow graduate student choice titbits of gossip and then coordinated a double-assault on the source of all evil, David Albo.

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.