The Professor Day 01: The Request

The Professor

Day 1: Introduction - the Request

Stephen picked up the stack of term papers from his course on Contemporary Social Issues and looked at the first one. "Poverty and Prisons: a Revolving Door." With a sigh he flipped through the meager pages. This student had managed to compete a 20-page term paper in only seven pages, including a title page and a bibliography page bare but for a single web address. At least that one was properly formatted, with the access date the day before the paper was turned in. He began to read. "Many Black youths today face a bleak future in prison. Their fathers are in prison. Their brothers are in prison. They have little to look forward to. Growing up in poverty. I am going to argue they go to jail because they have no opportunities." Stephen cringed. The only good thing is that the essay was obviously not plagiarized. Before he reached the second paragraph he was interrupted by a knock on the door. Thank goodness. He called loudly, "The door's open."

The door moved tentatively and a pretty brunette peeked around the edge.

"Molly! What a surprise. Please come in." Molly had been his favorite pupil last year. She was bright, articulate, curious, mature - and disturbingly attractive. She had green eyes, wavy brown hair down her back, and a body perfectly to his taste. Her breasts were prominent but not large; her hips emphasized a narrow waist, and her legs were long and shapely. Shy by nature, she had a ready smile, blushed easily, and her feelings were always transparent. She dressed tastefully in clothes that showed her figure, but not her skin. The truth was, she excited him more than any woman he had ever known. Her very presence and every expression on her face twisted his emotions. She was several years older than traditional students and never seemed to mix with them very well. Molly had taken his classes for three consecutive semesters. The way she sat in the front row and hung on his every word made him hope she was equally drawn to him. Then she disappeared. Stephen was disappointed not to see her in his classroom this year, but was also relieved not to have the temptation of a forbidden relationship with a student. Yet here she was again at the threshold of his office at the end of the year.

"Professor, I hope I am not disturbing you."

"Not at all. Please take a seat." He hastily removed a stack of ungraded final exams from the nearest chair and waved her into it. "How have you been, Molly?"

"Fine . . ."

"What have you been doing with yourself?"

"Well, I'm graduating . . ."

"Congratulations."

". . . and I thought I would take a year off. I have a job in town. Not much of one. Working in an office pushing paper. It starts in a month. But it will give me time to prepare for the LSATs and apply to law schools in the fall."

"I'm glad to know your talents won't go to waste."

"I have a favor to ask of you. A couple, perhaps. While I'm studying . . . could you perhaps coach me? I mean write me letters of recommendation, and so forth?" She blushed.

"Of course. I would be delighted to. And anything else I can do."

She dodged his gaze and fumbled with her purse. "And there is something else. Everyone has family coming in for graduation. Someone to wave to in the stands and pat them on the back. I won't have anyone there. Would it be terrible for me to ask you to be my family?"

"In loco parentis?"

"Something like that. I mean I'm feeling alone right now and it would be great to know you were thinking of me."

I think of you way too much. "Where are your parents?"

"My mother died eight years ago. Cancer. My father hasn't paid much attention to me. I put myself through school. He's not going to come." She reached for a tissue on his desk.

"Of course, I would be happy to be your family next week. It's also traditional for families to take their graduates to dinner. May I?"

She smiled. "Oh, I couldn't." She put the tissue down.

"It would be my pleasure."

"Thank you."

"Give me your phone number and I will set something up."

She reached over to his desk and grabbed a loose sheet paper from under an unsorted stack. She penciled her cell phone number and address on it. Then she looked at the paper. "What a coincidence. I wrote this." She showed it to him. It was a thank you note from the end of the first course she had taken with him. He had spent extra time helping her shape a paper on the Stockholm Syndrome and she had wanted to acknowledge it. "Do you save all your fan mail?"

"Only from my favorite fans."

"By the way, did you see my essay in The Filibuster?"

The Filibuster was the student literary publication. Usually it lived up to its name and Stephen never picked it up. "I'm afraid I overlooked it."

"I don't think anyone ever reads those." She pulled an issue from last January out of her backpack. "So, I brought you one. It only has my initials, so I marked it with a sticky. I wrote it for you. Of course, I couldn't put your name it there either." She was blushing again.

"Thanks. I'm sure it will be much more interesting than these." He gestured at the unread term papers.

"I can hope. I wrote a couple more, but I didn't submit them. I would love for you to read them."

"I'm not a literary critic."

"These aren't literature. I know that." She handed him a folder of printed pages and rose to leave. "But I would like to know what you think. Or maybe, I would love for you to know what I think. Thank you." She blushed and disappeared before he could reply.

The next day Stephen made reservations for after commencement at his favorite restaurant. It was in the next town over - far enough from campus to avoid the crowds or run into students. He didn't see Molly during the next couple of days and buried himself in his grading and putting his office in order. He assumed she was busy moving out of campus housing.

On Friday night he remembered the papers she had left with him. He knew he needed to read them, so he settled down with a glass of wine and picked up The Filibuster and began with the essay that she had tagged.

Hostage

I awake for the last time and look around my bare chamber. There is the bed on which I lie and a small stand bearing a water pitcher and a teacup. There are no windows. The door is across the room, but the chain that tethers my ankle to the bed will not reach that far. This has been the limit of my world for these past six months.

My captors talk to me occasionally, but I have not understood a word. How foolish I was to think that I could teach them! With what arrogance I brought my English language and Christianity here to Iraq to turn these people into the folks back home in Texas! They don't want to change. They only want to be free to live their lives uncorrupted by us. I understand that now. I respect it. I respect them for it.

When my car was pushed off the road, masked men shot my driver, put a bag over my head, and pushed me into their truck. I was frightened then. I tried to resist, but it did no good. They knew what they wanted; they were in their own city; and they were strong. I didn't belong here and I was weak.

One of them took a picture of me standing before a blank wall. He showed it to me later. My hair is disheveled; my expression bewildered and frightened. That was when I first arrived. He showed me a calendar and pointed to the date, March 5, when I was kidnapped. Then he pointed to September 6 and made the motion of a finger across his throat. The meaning was clear regardless of the language they were speaking. They didn't capture me only to kill me, so six months must be the deadline for the ransom. I knew no one would ever pay it - my government has a strict policy about such things. It would be better if they had a policy about not letting our citizens meddle where they do not belong.

My captors placed me in this room and have left me alone except for one meal a day. Each time it comes, I dip my finger in the rice or hummus and place a stained fingerprint over another day on the calendar. That way I have counted down my time here. Yesterday I left my fingerprint on September 5.

They gave me a book in Arabic - undoubtedly a Koran - which I cannot read. It reminds me constantly of my ignorance. Of the chasm that separates us. These men are strong in their faith. Mine was a good faith, but it means no more to them than the squiggles and dots of my book. These men are righteous; they must defend their world against people like me.

The door opens. Two men enter. One carries a large sword and stands by the doorway. The other comes to my bed. I have gotten so weak that I stand unsteadily. He binds my wrists behind me and replaces the chain on my foot with a rusting set of shackles.

When he straightens up beside me, he is not quite as tall as I am. He smells faintly of perfume. I lean into him and he catches my fall, thinking I am fainting. No, I am not faint. Nor am I afraid. I just want a human touch. It has been so long and this will be my last. As they lead me to the courtyard I understand this has always my fate. When I am kneeling before them my story will come to its only proper ending. I lived at home among Americans. I died when I volunteered to come to Iraq. I was dead when I tried to be a part of what I cannot understand. These men are living. They are vibrant. I want them to go on living. If my death will help them live, then I offer myself as a sacrifice for them.

In the courtyard, there is a video camera set on a tripod. The man with the sword points to a place on the ground in front of the camera. I stand there and face the photographer. He places his hand on my neck and pushes down. I kneel obediently. His hand gathers my hair to one side, draping it over my left shoulder to expose the back of my neck. His touch is surprisingly gentle. From somewhere in my past I remember they cut off the hair of Anne Boleyn before her execution so as not weaken the blow of the axe. Where did that thought come from? I am glad they left me my hair.

The man with the sword is speaking to me and waiting for an answer. He is probably asking whether I have any last words. Yes, I do. "I love you."

Stephen puzzled over this. Why did she say she wrote this for me? And how did this get published, even in the Filibuster? At least it was better than the last student paper he had graded on terrorism. Then he remembered her paper for his class on the Stockholm syndrome in which kidnap victims eventually identify with their captors. Why did that mean so much to her? What is she trying to say to me? He turned to the other story in the envelope with the hope that it might be better written.

Penance

On Tuesday, Michael arrived home from work at his usual time, parked the car in the garage next to his wife's Volvo, and opened the kitchen door. "Martha?" There was no response. He put down his briefcase and went upstairs. She wasn't there. He checked the laundry room in the basement. She must be out on an errand. He retrieved the evening paper from the porch, opened a beer and sat down to wait.

At 6:30 she still hadn't arrived. He checked the answering machine for a message. Nothing. He looked at her appointment calendar. 10:00 a.m. hair salon. 12:00 tennis lesson. That was all.

At 8:00 he called her best friend. Anne had not heard from her all day. No, she couldn't think where she might be. He went back to the garage. Yes, her car was there. Wherever she went, someone else gave her a ride. Unless she went for a walk and something happened. He found the address book and began calling other friends of hers. Nothing. He knew some of the common places she would walk. He got in his car and traced likely routes. It was getting dark, but he didn't see her or anything unusual.

Now Michael was getting worried. At 10:00 he called the police. "My wife is missing. Can you tell me if she has been in an accident or something?" The officer on duty searched the records for the day. Nothing. "Then should I fill out a missing persons report?"

"People go off by themselves all the time for all sorts of reasons. She probably is out with a friend and lost track of the time. Maybe a friend of hers is sick. Maybe she ran off with the plumber. Unless you have some reason to suspect foul play, it's too early to involve us. If she is not back by Thursday, give us a call."

Michael was outraged, but what could he do? Ran off with the plumber, indeed. He went upstairs and looked in her closet. Her clothes were there. Wait a minute. He looked more carefully. There didn't seem to be as many. He checked for her favorite dresses. Some were missing. So was her jewelry box on the dresser. Her dresser was half empty. Michael went up the attic. Two of their suitcases were missing.

Where the hell did she go? He tried to quell the fear rising in his gut. He went back downstairs and looked for a note. Not on the kitchen counter or the table -- the most obvious places. Let's think logically. Where would she sit to write a note? The desk. He went to the den where the desk was. No note. But in the wastebasket next to it were three wadded pieces of paper. He smoothed them out. Each was a letter barely started before it was discarded.

Dearest Michael, I really don't know how to tell you this . . .

Dearest Michael, I've been so unhap . . .

Dear Michael, I love you, but . . .

Michael stared at the notes, stunned. He got himself another beer and took stock. He and Martha had been married for twelve years, since college. It wasn't a sparkling life, but it was a comfortable routine. He earned a decent living. She had never wanted for anything. He even took her to Italy a couple years ago and they had a great time, almost a second honeymoon. When was that? Was that six years ago now? Seven -- for our fifth anniversary. Hadn't he bought her a diamond necklace Christmas before last? She didn't complain. They had never had a major fight. She appeared a little moody lately, but nothing that would suggest she would run off.

He finished a third beer, stuck a frozen pizza in the oven and turned on the TV. At 11:30 he turned off the television, dropped six empty bottles in the trash and went to bed.

The next morning he awoke in bed alone. He felt sick - partly the beer and partly the realization that Martha was gone. What would he tell his friends? What would he tell her friends?

He got to work late and couldn't focus all day long. At 3:00 he told the office manager he was not feeling well and went home. The empty house was almost unbearable. He called a friend. "Martha's out of town. Are you free for dinner? . . . Great. How about the Open Tap? . . . Six o'clock? Fine."

He stayed out until ten. His friend had gone home by eight, but he stuck around to watch a ball game and drink a few more beers. At home, he went straight to bed.

At 11:00 the phone rang. "Hello?"

"Michael?" Her voice sounded small and fearful.

"Martha? Where are you? Are you all right? I was so afraid . . ."

"Oh, Michael, can you ever forgive me?"

"Where are you?"

"I want to come home? Can you ever take me back?"

"Are you OK?"

"I've missed you so much. Can I come home?"

"Martha, what are you saying? What happened?"

"I've really messed up? Will you let me come back?"

"Of course. Where are you?"

"I'm in Denver. I will come home as soon as I can."

"Martha . . ."

All he could hear was crying on the other end until the line was disconnected.

She's coming back. Thank God. She must have a good explanation. He fell asleep trying to imagine what that was. The next day he got a call in his office about 2:00. It was a man's voice. "Is this Michael Havekos?"

The fear returned. "Speaking."

"Martha asked me to call you and tell you her flight will get in about eight tonight."

"Who is this?"

"I'm just a friend sending her back to you safely."

"Who is this?" But line went dead.

Michael stayed home waiting for her call. Instead the doorbell rang about 9:00. He answered it. Martha was standing on the porch, two suitcases sat on the ground beside her. A taxi pulled away from the curb.

"Martha! I've been so worried." He opened the screen door.

"Oh, Michael." She didn't move.

"Come in." He reached for her bags.

"May I?"

"May . . .? Of course."

She stepped inside. He gave her a hug, but she didn't return it. Instead, she burst into tears. Very slowly he pried her story out of her.

Every Tuesday she had been taking tennis lessons at their club, as he was aware. She and the instructor had hit it off and got into the habit of having a few drinks now and then. No, she didn't have an affair, but last week she was really down. Lance told her he had just accepted a new job in California. He was leaving Tuesday and asked her to come with him. She agonized about it all week. Her life was so boring. There was never any romance, they hadn't been able to have kids. She felt smothered. Suddenly the idea of running away, doing something impetuous sounded so attractive. On Monday afternoon she called him at the club. He told her to pack her bags and he would pick her up on the way out of town.

By dinnertime she was having doubts. They stopped somewhere in Oklahoma to eat and then later at a motel. She put him off by saying she was having her period, but she couldn't sleep all night. The next day she cried most of the time in the car. He kept reassuring her and telling her of how much fun they would have, but by afternoon she knew she had made a mistake. Lance had been a gentleman and drove her to the airport where she called Michael. She couldn't get a flight that night, but he took her to a motel and let her sleep alone. So here she was.

By then she had cried herself to exhaustion. Michael asked her to come to bed.

"I can't. I feel dirty."

"Take a shower. You'll feel better."

"You don't deserve me. I'll never be able to sleep in our bed again."

He couldn't change her mind. She slept on the sofa that night.

She got up in the morning and they pretended as if nothing had happened. She fixed him a nice breakfast and packed a lunch. He went to work relieved, thinking everything would return to normal.

In the afternoon, he came home and found the breakfast dishes still on the table, still dirty. Martha was on the bed upstairs crying. Michael tried to reason with her.

"Martha, it's OK."

"No, it's not. I'm a horrible person."

"I forgive you."

"I failed as a wife."

"It's all over. Let's start again. I am so glad to have you back." She cried some more. "Have you eaten anything today?" She shook her head. "Are you sick?" She shook her head and refused to get up.

He finally gave up. "Tomorrow we'll call the doctor."

She slept next to him in the bed that night, but refused to let him touch her. In the middle of the night he awoke and found she was gone. He hoped she was getting something to eat and didn't want to disturb her.

In the morning she was sitting in the living room in her bathrobe when he came down. She looked as though she had not slept at all. She didn't answer his greeting or respond when he offered her coffee.

"Martha, you have to eat something." No answer. "Will you call the doctor?" No response. "Shall I stay home with you?"

She shook her head. "Give me a penance."

"What?"

"I need a penance. I sinned. I can't be forgiven until I have done a penance. For you. You know, like in the church. You confess your sins and the priest gives you a penance."

"That's ridiculous. I forgive you. That's all you need."

"No. Punish me."