Beautiful Maids All in a Row (2 page)

Instead of sitting in my cramped office to grade as usual, I sat at my desk in the lecture hall where I held my classes. It was half the size of a normal college auditorium like the kind I'd had at the University of Pennsylvania, with a maximum capacity of a hundred, but it was the newest addition to the school and the biggest. Grafton College wasn't rich by any means, and was small even by liberal arts college standards. Since all my spring semester classes were over, the room was empty. It was so quiet in there, I almost screamed once or twice just to break the deafening silence. I didn't, though. People thought I was odd enough already.

I'd arrived at nine and had been grading for two hours. I was almost done. Well, two-thirds done. I deserved a massive pat on the back, but instead I broke the school rules and had a cigarette. Okay, so it was my sixth in two hours, but I'd just been so happy with my progress. Four classes a week, fifty students in each, was a lot. Nobody else handled that amount, but I was the most popular teacher in school. The celebrity aspect and all. Come see the FBI serial killer profiler, and if you wait long enough, you may be lucky and see her lose her fucking mind right in the middle of a lecture. It's happened before; might happen again. Hell, you might actually learn something about psychology, too. Most days I felt like a sideshow freak as they stared at me, waiting for me to burst. You have one panic attack in class and nobody ever lets you forget it. Oh well, it paid the bills. Barely.

“I'm not disturbing you, am I?”

I was so deep in thought I didn't notice one of my students enter. She cleared her throat, and I immediately looked up and hid the cigarette under the desk, stubbing it out. I recognized her from my forensic psychology class. She stood out because she always sat in the front and gazed at me in awe, as if I were a rare bird finally captured for her amusement. It was creepy.

I put my pen on top of the finished pile. “It's okay. What can I do for you?” I asked with a half-smile.

“I was just wondering if you finished my final,” she said as she walked down the aisle. She was tall, at least five eleven, with natural blond hair. She reminded me of a woman from Norway I'd met during one of my investigations. She hired a hit man over the Internet to kill her husband when she found out he was cheating on her. The girl noticed me examining her and smiled uncomfortably. I did that a lot, making people uncomfortable.

I turned my chair back to the tests and started looking. “Name?” I asked.

Her flawless mouth quickly turned to a frown. She was upset that I couldn't remember her name. “Madison Lass.” She smiled when I pulled out her exam and she saw the big “A” on it.

I decided to throw her a bone. “I was really impressed by the depth you put into the question about what causes deviant behavior. You covered all the bases, and I really have no idea where you got your examples. You put in examples I've never even heard of.”

“Really?” she asked, almost breathless from the compliment.

“Yes. You did a really good job.”

“Thank you!” I'd just made her month. She began to walk toward the door and I went back to my grading. I heard her flip-flops clap against the hardwood floor. Then she stopped and scurried back toward my desk. “I just have to say, I think you're so brilliant! You are totally my hero! You are so brave, and I can't believe I have you as my teacher.”

“Well, thank you.”

“Okay, I didn't really come to get my test,” she giggled. “I so just wanted to tell you how much I admire you. I have like millions of questions I want to ask you!”

I half-smiled back. “Ask away.”

“Okay, I was thinking of joining the FBI and being a profiler like you were.” Her expression became serious. “Though I'll never be as good as you,” she added quickly.

I saw all I needed to see about her in that instant. She was either the oldest or only child of parents who were never pleased. When she got a “B,” they asked why it wasn't an “A.” She tried to keep everyone happy all the time; otherwise she thought she'd be rejected, probably because her parents did that time and again. Her entire self-image was based on what others thought. Shitty way to live.

“And you want my opinion?”

“I would so
love
your opinion!” she said with a squeal.

“Don't.” Her expression morphed from elation into confusion. “You don't want to be an FBI agent, let alone a profiler. It is hard, thankless work with no end. And I'm sorry, but I can tell by looking at you that you don't have it in you. You have to get down in the gutter with the scum of the earth, and their slime rubs off on you. You see a side of human nature that no person should be exposed to. I've met a father who poured battery acid on his four-year-old daughter's vagina for punishment. I've met men who have had sex with dead bodies. And those aren't even the worst. I haven't had a good night's sleep in years. The images creep into my dreams and terrorize me every night. I barely survived that job; I very much doubt you could. So my advice to you is to forget about the FBI. The losses far outweigh the gains. I have the literal scars to prove it.”

Madison stared at me for a few moments in utter shock. I knew she wanted to cry but refused to do so in front of me. I'd crushed her dreams and spit on them. I didn't know what came over me, but I instantly regretted it.

“I'm sorry. I—”

“I have to go now,” she said in a small voice before running out of the room. As the door opened, I heard her let out a sob.
Wonderful, I made the sweet girl cry.

I felt pressure building behind my left eye. The beginnings of a migraine. Soon it would be full-fledged, with nausea. Just what I needed. I had to get out of there. I couldn't stand that room a second longer. I reached into my bag, pulled out my cache of pills, and popped a Vicodin as a preemptive strike.

After I gathered my papers, I stepped outside into the sunlight. It had been turned up a few notches. There wasn't a cloud in the sky, so no relief there. I walked quickly through the courtyard toward my office. The landscaping was minimal: a few limp trees placed in the middle of grass badly needing water. I was probably the only one who noticed it. I noticed almost everything.

In record time I reached the administrative building where all 150 professors had offices. What I needed was a black room with no noise. My eye throbbed as if it had its own heartbeat. Climbing the four flights of stairs to the Social Sciences department didn't help. The stairwell was brightly lit with fluorescent lights that buzzed more loudly than a hive of bees. I tried to phase the noise out to no avail. When I finally reached my floor, I felt on the verge of lunacy. Even more so than usual.

I quickly moved down the narrow hallway of closed doors. One was open. I happened to glance in as I walked by. Roger, the dean of my department, sat on his desk, listening as Madison told her story through her sobs. I prayed Roger didn't notice as I passed.

I'd seen jail cells bigger than my office, which barely had room for a desk and bookcase. The other professors had bigger ones with views. I had one tiny window that overlooked the dumpsters on the side of the building. Roger didn't want to show favoritism. Rivalry between professors was as bad as rivalry between FBI agents. Although in my opinion, I shouldn't have been penalized because I was once famous. Sorry, infamous.

I shut the door and pulled down the shade on my glass partition. If he didn't know I was there, I could delay the inevitable. I was good at that. I went over to my window, throwing it open. I could barely breathe, which won my attention over the ever-growing migraine. That child couldn't handle the truth, and I was going to get in trouble for it. I lit a cigarette and took the toxins in greedily. The noxious smoke filled my lungs, and boy, was I grateful for it. I exhaled out the window, watching the smoke billow into the fresh air, polluting it. For some reason this made me feel a little better. I took a few more puffs and felt myself relaxing. The Vicodin was kicking in. Not that I had time to enjoy it.

My door swung open a minute later, almost making me drop dead from fright. I quickly placed the cigarette on the ledge as Roger stormed into the office, his face beet red. He was an inch shorter than me, which he tried to correct with lifts. The height thing wouldn't be that big a problem if it weren't for the fact that his entire body was round, from his feet to his head. He reminded me of Santa Claus without the white beard and cheery disposition. His cheeks were always rosy, though, and right then they had never been rosier. The rest of his face had followed suit.

“Give me one reason I shouldn't fire your ass right now.”

I smiled unevenly. “My sparkling personality?” He stared at me, not finding this funny in the least. I dropped the smile.

“You just verbally abused a student,” he said, failing to contain his anger.

“No, I simply gave an honest opinion when asked. It's not my fault she just didn't like the answer.”

“That girl is the daughter of a state senator.”

“That explains a lot,” I said under my breath.

“And that senator is a huge contributor to the college.”

“So I should lie to that girl? Send her down the wrong path simply because her daddy has some money? Please!” I turned my back to him and stared out the window. I couldn't believe I was being chastised for helping a student.

“Iris, this isn't the first complaint I've had about you. It's actually the third. This month.”

I turned to face him again. “What?”

“I knew it was a gamble taking you on. You had no experience teaching, and unfortunately the students can tell.”

Even I could admit three complaints in a month was bad. “What exactly have they said?”

“It's not important.”

I straightened my spine, my rage growing. “Yes, it is. If I've been accused of something then I have a right to defend myself.”

Roger looked away from my steely gaze. He never could maintain eye contact, a symptom of low self-esteem. Served him right. “They say you don't care. You don't engage them in discussion, and when they have questions, you don't
really
answer them. You not caring makes them not care.” He paused for a second, deciding what to say next. “And let's not forget the, um, personal problems you bring into the classroom.”

“My
personal
problems?”

“You freaked out in the middle of a class!”

“I had a panic attack. Once! It's a medical condition, which I have no control over. You can't fault me for that. Legally.” I was practically screaming at him.

“I know, which is why I didn't mention it before. But it's things like that and today's latest outburst that make me think that…” He couldn't finish the sentence. My eyes shot daggers at him. I wished looks could kill. There was a moment of silence, letting that unfinished sentence fester in the air.

Finally, I said, “Go on, say it. Finish your sentence. Fire me.”

“I don't want to fire you. I just want you to take some time, pull yourself together. Take a vacation. Then come back in the fall rejuvenated and eager to teach.”

I breathed in deeply, trying to maintain my composure. “I can't teach this summer?”

“I don't think it would be wise.” He stepped over to me but stopped about four feet away. He was a little frightened of me, and he should have been. I was seriously considering wrapping my hands around his bulbous neck and squeezing. “Take a vacation, Iris. And if you need more time, through the fall, I'd completely understand. Your job will be here when you get back. Get better, Iris. I mean it.” With that he smiled and strode out of my office, not even bothering to close the door.

I didn't know what I felt. Anger was predominant. I wanted to punch a wall
so bad.
Fear, because my bank account was almost empty. But there was something else, something surprising. Sadness. But why? It wasn't as if I even liked the job, so what was bothering me? Then it hit me. Without teaching, all that was left was an empty house and sleepless nights. I had nothing. I
was
nothing.

I picked up my cigarette from the perch. It was burnt down close to the filter. I threw it down on the brown carpet and stubbed it out. I was sure it was burning a hole in the carpet, but what did I care? Something for the next occupant to worry about. I grabbed the pack and lit another. No calming effect that time. I turned and looked out the window again, up at the brilliant blue sky, feeling a little groggy, probably from the Vicodin. At least the migraine was gone. The highlight of my fucking day. I felt tears forming in my eyes. I tried to hold them back, but I knew I couldn't stop them.

“You will not do this. You will not let him get you to cry,” I whispered to myself. A tear fell down my face anyway, and I quickly wiped the offender away. I hated crying. I'd always thought it was a sign of weakness, but now I seemed to do it at the drop of a hat. Before, I could break my leg and not shed a tear, but since the attack I'd burn a TV dinner and sob for an hour. I took another drag of my cigarette, blowing the smoke out the open window, then watching it fade into the open air. Another tear fell down my cheek, but I let it fall. I was nothing.

A minute later there was a soft knock on the door. This small, trivial thing snapped me out of my misery. I didn't want to turn around and face Roger again. I might rip his face off. “Go away,” I commanded with little bravado. I had no more fight left in me.

“Iris,” a deep, familiar voice said.

My entire body stopped functioning with that one word. My heart seized. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think. I'd shut down.

“Iris?” he asked again.

I don't know how I managed to turn around, but I did. At first I thought I was imagining him. That I'd finally had a full psychotic break. It was a long time coming. Regardless,
he
was there. He was in my doorway, dressed in a dark blue three-piece suit that fit his large, muscular body perfectly. He was strikingly handsome, with broad shoulders ripe for resting your head on and a strong, square jaw, yet an almost feminine, youthful face. As always, he was the model of perfection with his pressed suit, immaculately groomed wavy red hair, and straight posture. He stood with his left foot behind so his right was leading. He did this because his gun was on his left side in the black holster I'd bought him for Christmas four years prior. His blue eyes, the color of the Caribbean, threw the whole tough-guy effect off, though. They looked nervous, jumping all over the place. That's how I knew he was real. I couldn't ever recall seeing him nervous.