Craig Smith - Cold Rain

‘These people are morons, David.’

I whispered back, ‘Welcome to my world.’

For nearly an hour, no one doubted the veracity of any of the charges or the credibility of any of the evidence. The chief concern was if such behaviour constituted sexual harassment. A private conversation with another professor, a professor helping a student leave the sex industry and take a Work Study job so she could continue school… it was not exactly time to bring in the feds. Dr Blackwell pointed out a passage in the diary of Denise Conway in which I threatened to fail Denise if she did not perform fellatio. A joke, Gail answered. Was it? Denise had admitted as much in the same passage. ‘Perhaps,’ Blackwell retorted, ‘Denise was trying to convince herself Mr Albo was joking.’

‘It’s Doctor Albo,’ Gail answered with a gratifying touch of outrage. Gail then went on to explain the difference between a complaint and the evidence supporting a complaint. ‘The committee is not free to rewrite the complaint of a student, much as certain non-voting members might desire it.’

Blackwell responded as Gail expected, introducing the concept of a hostile atmosphere. Having anticipated her opponent Gail now attempted to cross-examine Dr Blackwell as to the definition of atmos phere. She got as far as asking if a single remark in a private conversation with another professor constituted atmosphere when the vice president reminded her that this was not a trial. People could decide for themselves what constituted hostility toward women.

We all knew what a hostile atmosphere was when we saw it, didn’t we?

Shortly after this my moment arrived. I held up my statement and then placed it on the desk before me.

Dean Lintz, who sat on the committee, had to play fetch. He actually stopped on the way back to the table where the VP’s committee sat. Turning toward me with a look of astonishment, he said, ‘This is your statement?’

Dean Lintz had not seen such a compact statement since the days his high school English teacher made him read a haiku. I stayed seated and told him that I also wanted to say something. As I had not made copies, my single sentence made its way down the line of the committee members, gathering a look of reproach at every stop. They were quite certain no man is completely innocent, and concluded therefore I must be mocking them.

The vice president told me to proceed, cautioning me to be brief. Dean Lintz could not resist. He said verbal statements, according to the handbook, were supposed to be summations of the written statements.

If that was the case, he expected a very brief statement. There were a couple of smiles among the committee members, but most of them maintained the grim demeanour of the Salem patriarchs in their heyday.

I remained seated behind a little table, if only to conceal the accused. ‘It seems to me,’ I said in a conversational tone, ‘no one, least of all Dr Blackwell, has bothered to investigate the veracity of the diary of Denise Conway. The sole concern of this investigation has been whether the behaviour itself warrants disciplinary action. My position, however, is that I am innocent of all wrongdoing. Denise Conway’s diary is a fabrication first to last.’ I gave them a moment to consider this assertion. ‘If you believe me, then her complaints lose all credibility. Had the committee allowed us to call Ms Conway as a witness or to cross-examine her about her statements to Dr Blackwell, I believe we could have exposed her diary for what it is: an absolute lie. Since the committee chooses to turn this into a case of he said / she said, I can only tell you it is not true.

‘As this leaves you at something of an impasse on what turns out to be the critical issue of this investigation and as this is potentially a very serious matter, the possible dismissal of a tenured professor on the basis of an unsubstantiated accusation, I believe the solution is for Dr Blackwell to arrange a follow-up interview in which she asks a single question of Ms Conway: am I circumcised or not?’

‘I think,’ the vice president announced officiously,

‘that will be enough, Dr Albo.’

‘I’m not quite finished, sir.’

‘I believe you are.’

‘It’s a fair question,’ I said as calmly as I could.

‘According to her diary, Ms Conway got a close enough look. If anyone can answer the question besides my wife, she can!’

‘If you are determined to make a mockery of this proceeding-’

‘If you have no interest in the truth, you’re the one making a mockery of it!’ I shouted.

Having no gavel, the vice president slapped the table with the palm of his hand. ‘This meeting is adjourned!’

I stood up at this and pointed my finger at the man.

‘The evidence against me is a lie,’ I roared. ‘And I don’t care if you put a gun in my face, I’ll still tell you it’s a lie!’

Feeling as though the ghost of Tubs Albo had stepped into my shoes, I turned and walked directly to the nearest door. I never once looked back.

Gail Etheridge met me outside several minutes later and treated me to a grudging smile. ‘You’re beautiful, David. You really are.’

‘You think they’ll ask her?’

Gail shook her head and lit a cigarette. ‘Not a snow-ball’s chance in hell, but I guarantee you this, you’ll be the talk of campus by sunset.’

‘Is he or isn’t he?’ Walt shouted when he came back to the apartment that night. He was tuned up. I was already roasted. We turned it into a hell of a night.

On Saturday Walt invited a select crew of debauched professors from across campus, male and female, to join us. Foregoing the usual stages, Walt’s Go to Hell Party, thrown in my honour, was a raunchy affair from the start. Before the night was out, I believe everyone tried to take me into the bathroom for a little look-see, strictly in the cause of truth, of course. I’m not sure how I answered the various inquiries and solicitations, but I had the feeling, shortly before I passed out, I might well face fresh charges come Monday morning.

Barbara came by the apartment at nine o’clock the following morning interrupting a particularly nasty hangover. Walt, so inured to the feeling he hardly noticed, blushed like a schoolboy and started trying to pick the place up. As it turned out I was the reason Barbara was there. Neither Walt nor I had his cell phone turned on, and Molly had asked Barbara if she could drive by and tell me to call Molly’s cell phone.

At my look she explained. ‘Something happened to the dogs.’

I found my phone under a pile of pizza boxes and called Molly a few seconds later. ‘What’s the matter?

What happened?’

‘Someone poisoned the dogs, David.’

By the time I got to the farm the animal control unit had packed all seven carcasses into the back of its panelled truck, and Molly was signing something so they could take off. ‘You’ve got the animals?’ I asked. The driver could see I was as upset as Molly.

He answered apologetically. The sheriff’s people wanted them to examine the animals. They wanted to know what kind of poison was used.

I shook my head. I said I wanted to bury the animals on the farm. ‘It’s our business,’ I said. ‘They’re just dogs. We’ll take care of it. I don’t care what kind of poison it was, and neither does she.’ The man looked at Molly, then spoke to the deputy investigating the case. Finally, he got the bodies out.

They were stiff with rigor and came out of the panelled truck like so many logs. Only the eyes and the fur and the remnant animal smell of them recalled anything of their sad lives. I carried all seven, one at a time, off the hill and down to an area in the pasture where we had buried different animals over the years.