Copyright © 2000

published by Awe-Struck E-Books

     There she is, the slut. Dressed like a whore in a skimpy top and shorts. Probably leaving that darling child again. Working I might be able to understand, though if she was a decent woman she'd be married with a husband to take care of her. But school? Leave that precious baby for classes? And not even classes that'll help her get a respectable job, but English classes, for God's sakes, something that'll lead nowhere! She abandons that beautiful child for school, on top of all the hours she works. I can remember when being a mother was enough for a woman. Now it's a distraction, an inconvenience, something that gets in the way of "fulfilling yourself" in a god-almighty career. If that child were mine I'd never leave her. I'd spend all my time taking care of her and enjoying her while I could. God knows childhood is short enough. Once they grow up there's no pleasure. You can't control them, they don't care about your feelings—they're just strangers, adult strangers. These are the best years, the sweetest time. But what would that woman know about it? She doesn't deserve that child. She doesn't even deserve to be a mother...

     It's the kiss of death for me to take a one o'clock class. I always doze off, no matter how hard I try to stay awake. I've tried pinching myself, bending over to tie my shoe laces (even when I'm wearing sandals)—I've even tried jabbing myself with the point of my pen. I'd like to avoid this time slot, because no matter what I do, sooner or later I feel the numbing drowsiness creep over me—my eyes droop, my head starts to dip just so far till I pull it up with a jerk. It's awfully embarrassing. But when you're trying to juggle work, school and raising a child, you take your classes when you can schedule them. And for me, that always seems to be one o'clock in the afternoon.

     This particular day I was in the front row, in the last seat left by the time I got to class. I felt much too conspicuous. It was an unusually warm day for autumn in Portland. I knew the heat would make it even tougher to stay alert. I wondered if the Pope had ever noticed how sleepy I got in his class.

     "Miss Steele, is it? Frances, I believe?" Oh no, he was staring right at me. "Do you have an assignment to hand in?"

     Assignment? A dim memory stirred in my brain. Something about analyzing a piece of Elizabethan literature, or if you felt really daring, writing something in that style. I had thought about it the day before, when I was filing forms on my job in the loan office. I was going to work on it this morning, but after being up with Savannah and her cold half the night I slept in a little instead. Not by choice, either. My body just refused to wake up. I barely made it to my morning French class.

     Samuel Pope was looking at me accusingly. Though he was a new instructor, he managed to be more intimidating than the professors who had been around forever. The rumor about around campus was that he was some sort of whiz kid, getting his Ph.D. and a job at university in record time.

     He appeared thirtyish—young for an instructor. He was easy to look at, too, with his blue eyes and reddish-blond hair, if you could get past his foreboding demeanor. He was not the sort of teacher who held classes out on the lawn on sunny days, or who would go out for a latté with his students after class. There was something remote, and private, about him. I couldn't imagine myself trying to explain about Savannah's cold and getting a sympathetic response from him.

     I took a deep breath, clutching absentmindedly at my green dice earrings. They gave a reassuring rattle.

     "I don't have it, Professor Pope." I had to stifle a nervous giggle. 'Professor Pope' sounded silly, like 'Mr. God.' But none of us in the class could bring ourselves to call him 'Sam.' "I'm afraid I just haven't gotten around to it yet."

     "You haven't gotten around to it yet?" He raised both eyebrows. "One would think, Miss Steele, that after resting in my class in the afternoon you would be quite refreshed for work in the evening." The class laughed, and I felt my cheeks redden. "I'd like to see you in my office after class."

     "But—"

     "Directly after class, Miss Steele. Now, let's see if someone else has something for us today. All right, Mr. Bennet, let's see what you have."

     Mr. Bennet, whose name was Joe, stood up confidently with a piece of paper in his hand. He's prepared, I thought morosely. Probably doesn't have a four-year-old and two jobs to deal with, either.

     "I've written a poem, Professor Pope. An Elizabethan poem." He handed it to the him.

     The Pope scanned it briefly with those icy blue eyes of his. He looked up with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes and said, "Why don't you read it to us?"

     That startled Joe. "You mean, read it now...in front of everybody?"

     The Pope walked around to the front of his desk, and folded his arms across his chest. "Yes, in front of everybody. I'm sure we'd all be delighted to hear it."

     "Uh, sure, okay." Joe cleared his throat.

     I thought it sounded pretty good. Why couldn't I write like that? The Pope was impressed, too. I could tell. He was just standing up there, leaning against the desk with his eyes closed, a sort of half-smile on his lips. Probably drinking in the glory of having such a talented student as Joe—unlike me, who was late with assignments and a chronic classroom dozer.

     Joe sat down. I had to admit, I was overwhelmed. So was the rest of the class. A scattering of applause erupted. I joined in. But the Pope waited it out, looking at Joe, who appeared surprisingly uncomfortable.

     "Very good, Mr. Bennet."

     Very good? What sort of lukewarm praise was that? "That was terrific!" I burst out. "The language was so authentic. How ever did you do it?"

     "Yes," echoed the Pope. "How ever did you do it? Was it, by any chance, at the library?"

     The library? My hands froze in mid-clap.

     "Well, uh, " Joe stumbled.

     "Sit down, Mr. Bennet. You will soon know how truly a wretched thing a man can be, in ways even Sir John Davies might not have imagined. If this was a research project, perhaps I could give you a good grade. As it is, I'm afraid I'll have to fail you on this assignment. In fact, you would do well to look for another department, even another school, to continue your college career. You're finished here. I loathe plagiarism, Mr. Bennet; in literature it is an unforgivable sin."

     Joe looked like he wanted to cry. He gathered his books and left. The Pope looked implacable, his arms folded across his chest. We all sat stunned. No doubt about it, the Pope is a hard man. And this is the guy I'm supposed to appeal to for some tolerance and understanding? I didn't stand a chance.

     I ducked out of the classroom at the end of the period and found a rest room to comb my tangled hair and calm my nerves. What was I going to tell the Pope? I didn't know much about him, even though I had heard lots of stories about him. I had spoken with him briefly once, when he had come into the English department office while I was there talking to the department secretary. I certainly didn't tell him my life story then, and I didn't really want to now.

     What was he going to think of me? I tried to avoid looking in the mirror over the sink; I knew the heat and humidity made my long hair look rather like a brown tumbleweed, and that there were dark shadows under my green eyes (algae-green, a boy in school had teased me once, the color of a polluted river), eyes which themselves had a distinctly reddish cast.

     I hadn't time to put on any make-up this morning, and I realized now that my yellow tank top and denim shorts, a concession to the weather, did make me look rather juvenile. Despite the fact I was older than the average undergraduate, I looked like a student, and a rather flighty one at that.

     Should I tell him about Savannah? Why not, I'm not ashamed of her. But would he think I'm not as committed to my studies as the other students, less capable of completing the curriculum?

     A group of chattering women, probably lower classmen, swarmed in and took over the mirrors. As far as I could tell, they were talking about going to the library to study tonight, then going to Kip's afterwards to meet some guys for a hamburger.

     A wave of pure envy hit me so strongly I had to clutch the edge of the sink. What luxury to be so carefree, to have a midterm grade or a date be the biggest concerns in your life! I wasn't that much older than these girls, but I felt like their grandmother.

     Someone else was in the office the Pope shared with the other teaching assistants when I got there. I glanced at my watch, then sat in the hallway outside and waited. This had better not take too long. I was supposed to pick Savannah up at the sitter's in half an hour.

     I wasn't trying to eavesdrop, but I couldn't help hearing voices coming from the other side of the door.

     "Samuel, you can't keep driving students out of the department. You haven't the authority."

     "But Richard, he plagiarized a poem." I recognized the Pope's voice.

     "That's regrettable, certainly,—"

     "Regrettable! It's unforgivable! Surely we're not going to overlook students who plagiarize in an insane effort to keep our enrollment levels high!"

     "It's enrollment that keeps this institution solvent, Samuel. Pays your salary and mine. And lately you've apparently been hell-bent on reducing the enrollment, at least in the English department, by any means available."

     "I beg your pardon." The Pope's tone made me quail. But the other voice carried on undeterred.

     "Melissa Peters. You failed her for not turning in an assignment." My heart just about stopped. "And Jason Anderson left on his own accord, after being humiliated by you in class. Last I heard, he was selling Amway products."

     "There were reasons—"

     "And I don't want to hear them. Now there's Joe Bennet, another of your casualties. Mark me well, Samuel. If you want any sort of future at this institution you'll be more careful from now on. You lose us another student and you just might find yourself looking for a new job and a new school to call home."

     The door opened. Quickly I opened a book and pretended to read. It was Dean Willows who walked out, head of the English Department. I stood, and tentatively peeked in at the door.

     "Professor Pope?"

     He was standing at the window, hands clasped behind his back. A shaft of afternoon sunlight created a golden halo on his blond hair—an effect which probably would have pleased him had he been aware of it. But he appeared to be deep in thought. I was struck with how straight he stood. He turned towards me.

     "Yes? Oh, Miss Steele. Do come in and sit down."

     His office was sparsely furnished. There were no philodendrons or ferns, or anything green and growing. There was the requisite bookcase packed with books, a metal desk with a swing-arm lamp and two plain wooden chairs, of the sort you're likely to find in any university anywhere in the world. The only things that separated his space from thousands like it were a beautiful pewter chess set with Civil War soldier figures on the bookcase, a model airplane hanging from the ceiling, and an intricately carved beer stein doing duty as a pencil holder on his desk.

     "Now, Miss Steele," he said, sitting down and moving a very tidy pile of papers to one side of his tidy desk. "About your assignment."

     I squirmed in my seat, feeling like I was in grammar school and was called in to see the principal. "I can explain that, you see—"

     "It's not just this assignment, Miss Steele,"

     "Please, call me Francie—everyone does. I hate 'Frances' and 'Miss Steele'. They sound so, so cold and hard, I guess, You know, like steel." I was babbling in my nervousness. I gave what I hoped was an endearing grin. He didn't crack a smile.

     "As I was saying, it's not just this assignment. You're behind in the class. And I've checked and found you're also behind in your other classes. This can't go on."

     "But—"

     "There are plenty of students who would like to take your place at this university. And if you fail to keep up with your course work, perhaps in all fairness we should allow one of them to have that opportunity."

     I had felt a lot of emotions during his short speech—shame, fear, and finally, thank God, a clean-burning anger. Anger always gave me strength when I needed it. It had helped me when Savannah's father abandoned me, and my own family treated me like I had a scarlet letter on my chest. The anger I felt now was easy, uncomplicated, directed at the man who sat opposite me, his eyes cool and detached, telling me I wasn't good enough for his school. Who did he think he was, anyway?

     I squared my shoulders and raised my chin just a fraction.

     "Perhaps I am falling behind, but it's nothing I can't rectify. As for having a place at this university, I think I deserve it as much as anyone else. I'm working two jobs to go here, plus raising a child. I need this degree for her, and our future, Professor Pope. And I intend to get it, if I have to give up sleeping altogether, just to get the assignments done!"

     To my chagrin, I saw I was shaking. I stilled my hands by clasping them in my lap. The Pope had dropped his slightly bored air and was regarding me intently. It was amazing what a penetrating blue his eyes were. I had to look away.

     "How many hours a week do you work, Miss, er, Francie?"

     "About 30."

     "And this child of yours, he's how old?"

     "She. She's four and a half."

     "Her father is...?"

     "Gone. Not that it's any of your business."

     "I see. Have you applied for any financial aid?"

     I gave a mirthless chuckle. "The financial aid office is still fondly hoping my parents will support me. They told me I am ineligible for any grants, but they are willing, however, to offer me massive loans. I prefer to work."

     "Have you considered welfare?"

     This time I looked him steadily in the eye. "I told you, I prefer to work."

     "Hmm. Admirable, Francie. Pig-headed and a tad unrealistic, but admirable. You're older than the average undergraduate, aren't you?"

     "I'm 24." I tried not to sound defensive.

     "Then surely you must realize this degree you're seeking will qualify you for very little out in what academics call 'the real world'."

     "I don't believe that. I love studying English literature."

     "Dental hygiene would get you a job sooner." His cynicism was palpable.

     I felt an angry flush rising again. "Are you trying to talk me out of staying here?"

     "Well, no, not exactly, though I have been accused of similar crimes." He tapped his finger meditatively on his desk. "You want to stay in school. Your story is not an unmoving one. I'll see what I can do to help."

     "Oh, thank you," I sprang up from my chair, spilling my books and dumping my purse, open of course, upside down on the floor.

     "Now, wait a minute." He looked faintly alarmed. "The fact is, you are perilously close to flunking out. Your assignments must be completed. When are you going to work on them?"

     I stooped down to collect my things. "Well, tonight I guess, if Savannah gets to bed early. She's had a cold lately, and it's hard for her to sleep. Tomorrow morning I'm free till ten, but if she's still sick I really can't take her to the sitter. She almost wouldn't take her today. Oh, that reminds me, I better call the sitter—please, can I use your phone?"

     "Certainly, but—"

     I was already dialing. "Hello, Rachel? Listen, sorry I'm late, I'll be by in a few minutes to pick up Savannah. What? What do you mean she's not there? Where is she? At the park, you think? Don't you know?"

     I swiveled towards the window, the phone cradled in the curve between my neck and ear, and was aware of the Pope's eyes again, bright with interest, studying me. I turned back towards the door.

     "Look, I'm coming right over. Find her, understand? If you haven't got her by the time I get there, I'm calling the police."

     I dropped the receiver onto the hook. Don't overreact, I told myself. It's probably nothing. It's absolutely unnecessary, and premature, to panic.

     I felt sick.

     "What's wrong?"

     "It's Savannah. She seems to be missing. I'm sure it's just a mistake of some kind, no big deal really, but I'd better get over there."

     The Pope was rising from his chair. "You seem quite upset. Perhaps I should come with you."

     I was trying to gather my purse, books, folders, but everything was spilling from my arms. Truth is, I was having a hard time thinking clearly. I accidentally grabbed a hank of my hair with my book when I bent down to get the book off the floor; a wincing pain I ruthlessly ignored.

     "No need, no need." I tried to sound light. "I'm sure everything's fine. But I'd better get over there." I made a final effort to collect my belongings and rushed out the door.

     "Miss Steele, er, Francie, wait!" The Pope's voice floated down the hallway after me, bouncing off the shiny linoleum floors, reverberating along the dark wooden doors and cluttered bulletin boards. I didn't even turn around.