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?"
