had formed close ties with many of her coaches over the years. During high school she had grown particularly close to her basketball coach, a strapping man in his early 30s named John Gibson. Jane knew little about Coach Gibson, other than that he was handsome and her daughter always spoke of him with an air of reverence. Mark groused that he felt somewhat pushed aside by Dana’s idolization of her basketball guru.
Initially, Jane had been impressed by Coach Gibson’s effect on her daughter. Under his tutelage Dana seemed to have become much more focused and disciplined, studying harder and pushing herself physically to achieve her athletic goals. But the growing level of this adoration increasingly bothered Jane. Throughout the endless university committee discussions that led to No Fraternization, her mind had been drawn more to Dana than to Jessica Hampton. Would I even know if my daughter was involved with a teacher?
Although there had never been any indication that Dana had a sexual relationship with Coach, Jane could not help wondering if their closeness was healthy. Was it a dangerous attachment that could lead to something inappropriate? Was Coach grooming Dana for himself? Whenever such thoughts passed through her mind, Jane would shake them off, convincing herself that she was transferring too much campus analysis onto her child. Still, such worries had influenced her eventual support of No Fraternization.
These concerns came back to her on the evening of that first day of fall classes. After dinner, Jane sat at her computer, trying to work on a journal article, but could not concentrate. Her thoughts kept jumping back and forth between various images and ideas.
Lewis Burns. I never would have thought. What was the girl’s name? Mandy Taylor. Research assistant. How could this have happened?
Coach Gibson. Highly respected. Dana worships him. Why isn’t she more interested in boys her own age?
Horndog Harry. Not one formal complaint in 40 years. “ Never go into his office with the door shut.”
Jessica Hampton. “At least he won’t be able to give it to someone else.” Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow!
Unable to shake her mind free from such unpleasantness, Jane left the computer and poured herself another glass of wine. As the refreshing liquid ran down the back of her throat, she closed her eyes and listened to the familiar sounds of her daughter repeatedly shooting baskets. Whoosh. Pow. . . Whoosh. Pow. . . Whoosh. Pow. . . Whoosh. Pow. . . Whoosh. Pow.
Chapter Four
Changing Seasons
One day after hiring Mandy, Lewis spotted Sheila Stevens checking her in-box in the faculty lounge near Isobel’s office. The poised Ph.D. with milk chocolate skin and the bearing of an ancient Egyptian queen looked slightly thinner and her usually long braids a bit shorter than when he had last seen her in May. Today must have been a good day, as she was using her cane instead of a walker. Dr. Stevens was such a private person that the only way colleagues could tell how she was doing was through personal observation. If anyone ever asked about her health, she just politely thanked them and replied that she was “Fine.” When others had first noticed signs of unusual changes in her physical movements, rumors swiftly circulated of a substance abuse problem. Had Isobel not peeked at the professor’s health insurance forms, no one in the department would have known that Dr. Stevens had multiple sclerosis. Her resignation as director of the Center for African American Studies had been a shocking admission of her deteriorating condition.
Standing before Lewis, the proud professor awkwardly leaned on her cane with one appendage while trying to retrieve her mail from its slot with the other. “Need a hand?” Lewis offered.
Dr. Stevens shot a look that went right through him. “No, thank you,” came the terse reply. Lewis gulped. The frail woman could intimidate anyone with just her eyes and voice. He struggled to
Initially, Jane had been impressed by Coach Gibson’s effect on her daughter. Under his tutelage Dana seemed to have become much more focused and disciplined, studying harder and pushing herself physically to achieve her athletic goals. But the growing level of this adoration increasingly bothered Jane. Throughout the endless university committee discussions that led to No Fraternization, her mind had been drawn more to Dana than to Jessica Hampton. Would I even know if my daughter was involved with a teacher?
Although there had never been any indication that Dana had a sexual relationship with Coach, Jane could not help wondering if their closeness was healthy. Was it a dangerous attachment that could lead to something inappropriate? Was Coach grooming Dana for himself? Whenever such thoughts passed through her mind, Jane would shake them off, convincing herself that she was transferring too much campus analysis onto her child. Still, such worries had influenced her eventual support of No Fraternization.
These concerns came back to her on the evening of that first day of fall classes. After dinner, Jane sat at her computer, trying to work on a journal article, but could not concentrate. Her thoughts kept jumping back and forth between various images and ideas.
Lewis Burns. I never would have thought. What was the girl’s name? Mandy Taylor. Research assistant. How could this have happened?
Coach Gibson. Highly respected. Dana worships him. Why isn’t she more interested in boys her own age?
Horndog Harry. Not one formal complaint in 40 years. “ Never go into his office with the door shut.”
Jessica Hampton. “At least he won’t be able to give it to someone else.” Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow!
Unable to shake her mind free from such unpleasantness, Jane left the computer and poured herself another glass of wine. As the refreshing liquid ran down the back of her throat, she closed her eyes and listened to the familiar sounds of her daughter repeatedly shooting baskets. Whoosh. Pow. . . Whoosh. Pow. . . Whoosh. Pow. . . Whoosh. Pow. . . Whoosh. Pow.
Chapter Four
Changing Seasons
One day after hiring Mandy, Lewis spotted Sheila Stevens checking her in-box in the faculty lounge near Isobel’s office. The poised Ph.D. with milk chocolate skin and the bearing of an ancient Egyptian queen looked slightly thinner and her usually long braids a bit shorter than when he had last seen her in May. Today must have been a good day, as she was using her cane instead of a walker. Dr. Stevens was such a private person that the only way colleagues could tell how she was doing was through personal observation. If anyone ever asked about her health, she just politely thanked them and replied that she was “Fine.” When others had first noticed signs of unusual changes in her physical movements, rumors swiftly circulated of a substance abuse problem. Had Isobel not peeked at the professor’s health insurance forms, no one in the department would have known that Dr. Stevens had multiple sclerosis. Her resignation as director of the Center for African American Studies had been a shocking admission of her deteriorating condition.
Standing before Lewis, the proud professor awkwardly leaned on her cane with one appendage while trying to retrieve her mail from its slot with the other. “Need a hand?” Lewis offered.
Dr. Stevens shot a look that went right through him. “No, thank you,” came the terse reply. Lewis gulped. The frail woman could intimidate anyone with just her eyes and voice. He struggled to
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