Tenure Track (29 page)

“
No,” Dana insisted, looking out the car window.

Mother and daughter sat in silence until reaching home. Dennis confessed nary a word to Mark, though Jane doubted her husband really pushed as much as he thought he did. After consulting together, the parents decided to ground both children for one week, just to reinforce their rules about deception.

“
I don’t know why you bother lying,” Jane chastised in meting out the punishments. “You know we always find out the truth eventually.”

Jane knew she was being dishonest with her children. Sometimes the truth never came out. The human mind was capable of burying some pains so deep that even the participants could not accurately recall the events. She knew from reading myriad articles on the subject that memory is fluid. Some can be successfully repressed for life or until some traumatic event triggers their reemergence. Others are merely forgotten, slipping gently out of the crevices of nerve endings. Still others change over time, or as new experiences add layers of understanding to them.

Jane had successfully hidden some of her most painful truths from those she loved, partly to protect them, but mainly to hide her own shame. Recent events brought them crashing back to the surface, so that once again, Jane found herself on the couch in the dark, trying to suppress the visions that refused to stay buried.

Visions of how a lapse in judgment changed her own life.

Burning from the sting of her new reputation among a certain sleazy cohort of undergraduate males, Jane had ended the semester of her affair eagerly counting the days until summer break. She planned to visit her parents for two weeks, then head to London for two months of research and relaxation. She hoped that by fall all the rumors would have subsided. Perry assured her that he was taking care of the campus hotline, though he never explained exactly how.

Then her summer plans took a slight detour. On a day in early May, she was standing in front of her modern British history class, lecturing about social changes brought on by the post-war housing crisis, when she started feeling very queasy. She barely made it through class before rushing to the ladies’ room to vomit. Gripping the white porcelain goddess with shaky hands, she tried to think of what she had eaten the previous night that could have caused this feeling. By afternoon she felt better and tried to discount the nausea as the result of skipping breakfast that morning.

When the same symptoms continued for several days, the dreaded realization hit that she had missed her last period. An appointment with a gynecologist confirmed the worst—approximately seven weeks gestation. Over the next few days she tried to go about her usual business, but her mind was clouded with fog.

Of course, there was no way she was having the baby. It would create a lifetime connection between her and her ex-lover, who was hardly good parenting material. She felt ill-equipped to raise a child alone and was not emotionally strong enough to give it up for adoption. Any scenario that exposed the pregnancy would only lead to more gossip and humiliation, which she could not handle. No, she knew exactly what had to be done.

As a political matter, she had always been pro-choice, but until that moment her position had been just an abstract philosophy. Although she suspected one or two acquaintances of having had the procedure, she could not say for sure that she had personally known anyone who had ever done it. It was not something discussed in polite company.

She had already purchased a plane ticket to New York City with a rental car reserved to drive upstate; so she scheduled a slight detour, telling her parents that she would be staying in the city for a couple of days to visit an old college girlfriend. That was partially true. She did contact her old acquaintance, but it was for a medical appointment. The fellow alumnae, now a respected ob-gyn, could be trusted to protect her patient’s privacy. Jane felt more comfortable using a doctor she knew, plus she did not really want to have the procedure done near her home, lest anyone associated with the university find out.

Jane completed the semester by fighting off her constant nausea with a steady ration of crackers and herbal tea, but nothing could settle her mind. She did not sleep well at night and during the day was a mass of confusion and nerves, far different from her normally calm disposition. She talked very little to other people, for fear the combination of hormones and stress would cause her to suddenly burst into tears. She even succeeded in avoiding Mark and Perry most of the time.

The New York trip went just as planned. Her doctor and everyone on the clinic staff treated her with kindness rather than judgment. Still, she could not hide her shame at needing to be there at all. Although there was little physical pain, she cried silently throughout the procedure. As the doctor began her work, a middle-aged nurse dabbed Jane’s eyes and gentle squeezed her hand. Through her tears, Jane caught the surprising sight of an unusual cross dangling from the nurse’s neck with a flame emanating from it. Jane thought she had seen such a symbol before, but at that moment could not place it. The shiny cross became a form of salvation, giving Jane a focal point to detract from the procedure taking place on the lower part of her body.

After it was all over, the nurse wheeled the patient into a recovery room to rest. Jane stared at the ceiling while more tears ran down her face. As the kindly nurse checked her patient’s pulse, Jane spoke up. “What kind of cross is that?”

“
This? It’s a cross and flame, symbol of Methodism,” the nurse replied with a gentle smile.

Ahh, the Methodists. Of course.
That’s where I’ve seen that.
I think the flame has something to do with Pentecost.
Jane complimented the nurse on its beauty and asked bluntly, “So, the Methodists haven’t kicked you out for working here?”

“
No,” assured the nurse, without elaborating. There was no condemnation in this woman’s eyes, only compassion as she gently took care of her patient. For a split second, it was as if Jane was looking into the eyes of Christ himself.

Jane took a taxi back to her hotel, where she remained holed up for days, just sleeping, watching television, ordering room service and occasionally thumbing through the standard-issue Gideon Bible. As a devout young Episcopalian, Jane had once loved reading the Bible. In a different era, she might even have become a priest. Like many young people, she had stopped going to church when she went to college; too many late Saturday nights to make it to Sunday morning services, as well as the general questioning of all authoritative institutions that comes with academic life. Yet despite her distance from the church, she never stopped believing.

But with belief came guilt. Never in her life had she felt like such a complete sinner. Lying in the hotel room recovering from what some would consider a mortal sin, she found herself praying for the first time in years. She prayed for forgiveness, for comfort, and for mercy. One night, an answer seemed to come. Lying in the darkness, she recalled a Biblical story in which Jesus dealt with an adulterous woman. Flipping through the New Testament, she found the passage: “Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.”
There is
hope for forgiveness.

Those thoughts remained with her as she visited her unsuspecting family and traveled to Britain. In her spare time from research, she read more of the Bible, as well as current works on feminist theology. Inspired by the kind nurse with the cross, she also started reading about Methodism, which historically was closely related to her own Episcopal faith. She visited Methodist founder John Wesley’s London church and stood on the spot where he had his Aldersgate experience, a spiritual awakening that led him to seek a different method for converting souls to the Anglican Church.

After returning home that summer, she settled into a liberal Methodist congregation populated largely by members of the university community. There she found the comforting aspects of her traditional church upbringing, combined with a modern and open-minded perspective focused on constantly improving oneself to become closer to God.

She found through her faith journey that improvement did not come easily. Despite years of striving, she could never feel completely forgiven for getting rid of that unborn child. As she and Mark struggled with infertility, she often wondered if their difficulties were somehow part of God’s punishment for what she had done. She resisted adopting a baby, partly because of her desire to make up for the sacrificed child and partly because she did not want a constant reminder of the path not chosen. For many years Jane quietly prayed for God to give her one more chance at motherhood. When the ultrasound revealed twins, it felt like an answer:
God will give me two children to atone for the one I sacrificed.
The day the twins were born, Jane finally felt washed of her secret sin.

But forgiveness did not entirely wipe out the painful memories. There were moments, like this one sitting in the dark, when the grief overcame her. Gripping her child’s blanket, she cried to herself once more over the path not chosen.

That very same night, halfway across the country, Lewis Burns was facing his own buried history. Ten months had passed since the heated telephone conversation that led Lewis to become a permanent cell-phone user. He knew, given their common profession, that he probably could not avoid Laura forever, but he was hoping for a reprieve of at least a year or two before they crossed paths. Yet there she was, listed as a panelist at a San Diego conference where Lewis was also presenting. He had seriously debated canceling his appearance after seeing her name in the program, but he needed the presentation on his vitae.
We should be civil enough to attend the same gathering,
he reassured himself.
With hundreds of people there, we might not even run into one another.

He should have known better.

It was bad enough when three different acquaintances greeted him with sympathies about the divorce, followed by intrusive inquiries as to whether he had seen her yet. Then, while trying to simply collect free giveaways in the crowded exhibit hall, he felt a tap on the shoulder, followed by a familiar voice.

“
Hey, stranger.”

He spun around to see his ex-wife, looking typically professional and alluring at once; her hair longer, but worn up, a slightly more auburn shade than in January. Other than that, she had hardly changed at all since that moment when she had unceremoniously broken his heart.

Before he had a chance to respond, Laura leaned forward to give him a tight hug, a public gesture that would have been unusual even during their marriage and seemed doubly odd now that they were divorced. He just stood there, accepting the embrace without really reciprocating.

“’
Good to see you, Lewis.” His mind was racing, looking for an appropriate greeting under such circumstances. “Well, aren’t you going to say ‘Hello’?” she entreated.

“
Uh, I’m sorry,” he said, shaking out of his stupor. “Hello, Laura. How are you?” he replied stiffly.

“
I’m good. I see you’re giving a paper on Indian Affairs,” she said flatly.

Always the professional.
“Yeah, and you’re doing something on France, I presume?” She responded to his sarcasm with an equally smug look.

“
An analysis of the Vichy government as a reflection of French culture and history,” she explained. “That’s the topic of my forthcoming book. It’s already generating great controversy in Europe. Can you believe I’m presenting it next month in Paris? I expect to be stoned!” She sounded positively giddy at the thought that her scholarly treatise might make her the target of death threats.

“
I’m sure you can handle it,” he said plainly. “At least it’s a trip to Paris. You should enjoy that.” Despite the awkward conversation, he was soon accepting an invitation to meet her that evening for drinks before a dinner appointment with her publisher. As she bounded off through the crowd, he immediately regretted accepting the offer.
That had better be a strong drink.

Despite the stress of worrying about his planned encounter, his presentation went well, with positive audience reaction and some helpful suggestions. He did not bother to change clothes before stepping into the dimly lit bar a few moments past six, but it was obvious that she had. Laura was wearing a slinky black dress more fitting for a romantic date than a business meeting. He wondered if the attire was for his benefit or her publisher’s. For so many years seeing her dressed like that would have taken his breath away, but he was pleased to find himself completely unmoved. He could now sense the calculations behind her grooming.

As he approached, she rose and gave him a peck on the cheek, another odd move given their status, he thought. He noticed that she had already consumed a martini while waiting. The thought flashed through his mind that perhaps she was hoping for a post-divorce tryst. He had no desire to scratch that itch.

Sensing he might have the upper hand for once, he ordered a refill for her and straight tequila for himself. “So, how’s your family?” he asked, groping for subjects of small talk.

“
Good. And yours?”

“
Great,” he answered honestly. “I spent some time with Ben’s family this summer and I’ll be spending Christmas with Donnie.”

“
Humph,” she chortled, taking a drink. “Bennett still with the same wife?”