(2008) Down Where My Love Lives (22 page)

"Thank you, Russell." I tried to sound reserved. "I haven't made up my mind what I'm going to do yet."

"Yessuh, well ... I just wanted you to know I was sorry."

"I'll see you Thursday."

"Yessuh."

I hung up the phone. I knew that Russell lived in the athletic dorm, and that meant that Marvin couldn't live too far from him. I wondered how long it'd be before I heard from him. The phone rang two minutes later.

"Hello?"

"Um, uh-uh ... is dis Professuh Styles?"

"Speaking. "

"Professuh Styles, this is Marvin."

"Hello, Marvin."

"Yeah ... um, I just wanted to call and apologize fuh dizre- spekin' you and treating you the way I did." Marvin was scared. He was also sincere. I had not heard this in his voice before.

"I appreciate it, Marvin." I left it at that. I wanted him to sweat, and I wanted him to worry. I wanted them all to worry. To feel the weight of it, right down to the last minute. Is that wrong? What's worse? Causing them to feel the full weight of it, or no weight at all?

"I'll see you Thursday."

"Yessuh."

To be honest, I had hoped that those two would call. Eugene and Alan were good guys, but Marvin and Russell had heart-at least a different heart. Their calling said they knew that they had really screwed up. I needed to know that. It also said they were worried. I needed to know that too.

Thursday came, and my foursome walked in early, more or less together. Each one placed a neatly handwritten note on my desk. I didn't read them but placed them in the cover of my roll book and waited quietly for class to begin.

Judging from their four faces, two days of uncertainty had worked.

Class ended uneventfully, the other students left, and I shut the door. The four of them sat uncomfortably upright in front of me-eager, attentive, and scared. Hands folded in front of them, they looked like the pocket-protector club. I picked up the notes, read each one slowly, and put them next to me when I finished.

"Okay, here's the deal. School policy is that I take this evidence before the dean, at which time he will immediately expel you."

The guys tensed up, and their faces blanched.

"But I'm not going to do that."

Each face relaxed.

"And because I'm not going to do that, here is your option. Each of you is going to write a new essay. The question is simple: What is plagiarism, what is integrity, and can you have the second and do the first? The highest grade you can expect to receive is a C." I raised my eyebrows. "So, if you write an A paper, you get a C. Write a C paper, and you get an F. That's the deal. Take it or leave it."

Eugene was the first to speak up. He nodded and looked to the others. "We made our bed, now we gonna have to lie in it. That's fair."

Marvin said, "Well, I can't write no A paper, so I might as well quit now."

I said, "Marvin, you do what you want to do. But there's one more part to the deal: all of you have to accept. If one says no, then I go to the chair."

Everybody looked at Marvin. Especially Russell.

He ducked his head. "I'll write the essay."

"Alan?" I asked.

"Sounds fair."

"Russell?"

"Yessuh, soun's good to me. Real good."

Marvin spoke up. "How long you want it?"

"Whatever it takes."

"Ooh, dat's the worst kind." He threw up his hands. "When you want it?"

"Well, I know you guys are playing a big game down in Florida this weekend, so I don't imagine you'll have much time between now and Monday." I looked at the calendar on my desk. "Today is Thursday. I want it in a week. If that's not enough time, then bring what you've written, and we'll work on an extension. Believe it or not, I remember what it's like to play football and study."

Russell spoke up. "You played football, Professuh?"

"I did."

"What position?"

"Tailback and"-I looked at Marvin-"corner."

He laughed.

"Marvin, I've seen you play. You've got speed. Good speed. Maybe even good enough speed. But I had one thing you have yet to develop."

"Yeah, I know," he said, holding out his hands. "Thinking. I got to think bettuh."

Russell wasn't done with me. "What happened?"

"Injury."

"Bad?"

"Bad enough," I said. "If I wanted to keep walking, I had to quit playing. That was my choice."

"That's a raw deal," Marvin chimed in.

"That's life, Marvin. It is what it is." I collected the papers. "Guys, you've got a week. And I don't want you getting any help on this one. I want independent thinking."

They grabbed their books and stood, not knowing what to say.

Marvin was the first. He stuck out his hand. "Thanks, Professuh Styles." His hand said thank you twice as hard as his mouth.

"You guys need to know something." I looked at Marvin and Russell. "You two have something I never got. You've got a full ride to do what you do well-play football. I walked on and never made it. You have. If I ever hear of you doing anything like this again, I'll pull this file, walk into the dean's office, and you're gone. And you two, Eugene and Alan, same goes for you. If I ever hear of the two of you getting in any trouble ... ever ... this'll be on the dean's desk first thing. It'll be kind of like a criminal record that only I know about, and it'll follow you until you leave this place. You game?"

They all nodded.

Marvin looked toward the door and then shook his head. "That means I got to clean my stuff up."

Eugene stepped up, stuck out his hand, and said, "Thanks, Professuh Styles."

Marvin was next. He stuck out his hand again and smiled earlobe to earlobe. He would never admit it, but he hated conflict. "Appreciate it, Professuh Styles."

"Thursday, Marvin."

Then Alan. "Yeah, thanks, Professuh Styles."

"Thursday, Alan, and ... you're welcome."

Finally Russell. He was breathing a lot easier, and his shoulders had relaxed. The thought of not having to tell his mom why he had lost his scholarship and been kicked out of school had hit him square in the chest. His eyes were watery. He looked down on me and said, "Thanks, Professuh Styles. I really appreciate it. Thanks a lot." His big paw wrapped twice around my hand; he could have crushed it if he wanted.

"You're welcome, Russell."

Russell turned to leave.

"And Russell, I meant what I said."

He nodded and left before the tear trickled out of the corner of his eye.

From the hallway, Marvin turned around. "Yo, Professuh Styles. Can I still pass yo' class?"

"That's up to you, Marvin. Mathematically, it's possible. But if I were you, I'd do some thinking on this essay. Think of it this way: you've just picked off a pass, but there's ninety yards between you and the goal line."

"Yessuh." Marvin smiled, performed his best Heisman pose, and skipped down the hall.

They left the building while the faint echo of my different drum resonated off my classroom walls. I had played my best, and Maggie would be proud, but I felt empty, not full. I guess that's because playing your drum only has meaning when you share it with someone else.

It was late when I got home. I walked into our bedroom, slipped off my boots, and left them in the middle of the floor where they didn't belong. Blue hopped up on the bed and shoved his nose under Maggs's pillow while I brushed my teeth.

Turning out the light, I noticed the glisten of Maggs's perfume bottle tucked behind my shaving cream on the sill of the bathroom mirror. I lifted the bottle off the sill as if it were holy water, turned out the light, and walked to my bed. I set the bottle on the bedside table, slipped off the cap, put my head on the pillow, closed my eyes, and breathed.

TUESDAY MORNING THE SUN WOKE ME, AND FOR some reason I did something I had not done since the delivery. I walked into the nursery. I don't know why. Prior to that day, I had no reason, but that morning was different. I walked in and grabbed the baseball glove and football out of the crib. I tucked them both under my arm and walked outside into the field.

The corn was now very much dead, and the weeds had pretty much taken over. It was a couple of weeks to Christmas, and my crop was a long way past hopeless. Midway through the field, I spooked a deer that snorted at me and crashed out through the other side. I made it to the graveside and stood there quietly. A wisteria vine had crept over from Nanny's grave and started growing across my son's granite marker. I have no memory of my dad, but that didn't stop me from wanting to play catch with him most every day of my life. Sometimes, after Maggs would go to sleep, I'd slip out into the stillness of the night with my glove and play by myself.

My favorite movie is The Natural. I can't tell you why, there's just something about it. And yes, I've seen it a few times. Maggie makes-or made-fun of me when I'd plug in the VCR and sit down for the umpteenth time to watch the last scene of fireworks, the shower of sparks, and my favorite scene, the last two seconds. Robert Redford and son stand in a wheat field and throw a baseball back and forth while Glenn Close stands stoically to one side. I like that scene because maybe baseball is more than a game. Maybe football is too. Maybe each is a tether that links father to son before puberty and rebellion pry them apart.

Looking down at the grave, I set the football inside the baseball glove and laid them on top of my son. The thermometer at the house had said it was cold, but I never felt it.

LATER THAT AFTERNOON, I DISMISSED CLASS, AND EVERYONE filed out. I turned around, and Koy still sat in her seat. Her glasses covered her eyes and hid her face. She hadn't been in class for two weeks-since the football game-and she knew she owed me some sort of readmit. No readmit and five absences. That's bad. The school requires me to fail anyone who is absent three or more times without a valid readmit. The look on her face said Koy was either scheming or didn't know what to say or where to begin. Probably both.

I broke the silence. "Hello, Koy. You were quiet today."

"Professuh," she started, "I don't have a readmit for missing the last two weeks."

"Koy," I said, coming around my desk and leaning against the front of it, "you know policy." I crossed my arms. "Why not?"

"'Cause they don't give readmits for where I been."

"Why not?"

"'Cause they don't." She looked out the window.

"Koy, that doesn't help me." I leaned forward. "Can you tell me where you've been?"

"Yes."

"Well?" I said quietly.

Koy stood. She was unusually dressed: a long, loose-fitting denim jumper, turtleneck, and boots. She usually wore tight, flashy clothing that revealed more than it concealed. Not hussy stuff, but attractive, revealing clothing, which said maybe more than she intended. She walked to the front of the class and hung her head. That was unlike her too. She stood directly in front of me, her face about a foot from mine. Taking off her glasses with her left hand, she stretched out her right hand and opened it. She uncurled her fingers, and resting in her palm was a crumpled and sweaty piece of paper.

I opened it and read the name of the business silently. Hillcrest Women's Clinic. Across the bottom, written in pen, was $265.00. Paid in Cash.

I fell back against the desk. The paper was heavy, and I wanted to lay it down. My hand grew hot, and I looked at Koy. Her eyes were red, borderline bloodshot. For a few minutes we stood in the quiet. She offered no excuses; I asked no questions.

After several minutes of silence, I whispered, "Are you okay?"

She nodded, smeared the tears across her cheeks, covered her eyes with her glasses, and walked out of my class. The only sound was the smack and slide of her heels on the old wooden floor.

I walked to the window and watched her open her car door and start the engine. She puttered off, and I sat down next to the window, wrestling with the weight of that receipt.

I WEAR COWBOY BOOTS MOST ALL THE TIME. THEY'RE me. No, they're not the most comfortable shoes ever made, but there's something about them. If you ever start, you'll understand. I grew up watching John Wayne with Papa, so my first pair of shoes was a pair of Dingo boots. Once I outgrew them, Papa had them bronzed and used them for bookends for Nanny's cookbooks. They're in the kitchen now.