Until the day of the faculty farewell, Mavis Trout was a beautiful woman. Even that day, mid-May of her 65th year, heads turned as she strode out of the auditorium and crossed the campus to the Composition Center. Her silver hair swung in a sleek pageboy and her hips swiveled like a girl’s. With the help of two plastic surgeons, both of whom had propositioned her, she had retained the crazed kitten’s face she’d been born with: small, sharply boned and freckled, with a bip of a nose and round, slightly crossed blue eyes that popped with intelligence and hostility. Her waist had thickened, her voice had thinned, and her mind had started to wander, but her mind had always wandered, that was its job, that was what made her such a good teacher. Who wanted a mind that stayed at home? Who wanted anything that stayed at home?
“Not I,” said Mavis Trout, stalking up the stairs to her office. She ignored the girl waiting outside in the hall, plunged her key into the lock, kicked the door open, sank into the revolving chair behind her desk and turned toward the window, exposing a length of milky crinkled thigh beneath her slit black skirt.
The girl, Jenny Sanchez, hesitated. She had been to the farewell and had seen Dr. Trout drop the plaque at the Dean’s feet. But her paper was finished, and it was late, and she needed it to get a grade. She took a deep breath, hunched her backpack off her 2. shoulders, and entered.
“Welcome,” Mavis said without turning around. “You have the great honor of being the last student I will ever see.”
Jenny eased her backpack onto the weird fur couch Dr. Trout kept in the corner and unzipped it to look for her paper. “Thank you,” she said. She shuffled through folders and textbooks, panicked. Where was her paper? What if she’d forgotten it this morning in her rush to get out of the apartment? What if it was still on the kitchen table? Or on the bus?
“Forced retirement,” Mavis continued. “What a concept. Perfectly legal. Perfectly evil. Goodbye. Goodluck. And now get the hell out of here.”
Jenny looked up, but Dr. Trout was not talking to her and when she looked down she saw her paper. It was stained where she’d spilled her coffee and wrinkled where the baby had grabbed it. She’d had trouble with the printer at the computer lab and some of the sentences were spaced on a slant. She smoothed the paper flat between both hands, the way her grandmother patted out tortillas. She was worried because Dr. Trout often gave students grades she’d made up: M for Messy or IBS for Illiterate Bull Shit. You had to petition Administration to get those grades changed before you could pass.
“So now what?” Mavis asked. “What should I do now with the rest of my life?”
Jenny shook her head, relieved, and offered the paper.
“I’m talking to you, dear. What should I do?”
Jenny dropped her eyes. Her paper was titled ESSAY NUMBER FOUR. The assignment had been to write an oral history from people you knew. She had interviewed Emilio and two of his brothers about being laid off at the garage. “Spend time with your family?” she suggested. Her voice came out squeaky. It was not the low calm voice she planned to use when she graduated and found work as a drug and alcohol counselor. “You will have time to be with your family,” she said more firmly.
“I have no family.”
“You have a husband,” Jenny said, confused. “I saw him at the faculty farewell.”
“Oh,” Mavis slid her silver bracelets up and down her thin arms. “Sloane.”
“The writer.”
“The literary biographer,” Mavis corrected her. “The gossip. The spy. The ancient betrayer.”
Jenny frowned, uncertain. The old man had sat erect staring eagerly at Dr. Trout throughout the ceremony as if he was a deaf mute and she was his signer. Maybe he really was a deaf mute. One of Jenny’s sister’s boys had been born that way. But no, Dr. Trout had been the silent one. She had sat on the podium like a queen, her eyes the exact blue of the ribbon the Dean had draped over her neck and she had not said a word, not even when she dropped the plaque and walked out. Only the old man had broken the silence. “Isn’t she wonderful?” he had cried, to no one, his voice high as a bird’s. “Isn’t she marvelous?”
“It looked like he loved you a lot,” Jenny said boldly. “How would you like to be stuck with someone who ‘loved you a lot’?” Mavis asked. “Day in and day out.”
Jenny, thinking of the baby left at daycare, shrugged and fixed her eyes on the photographs on the wall. They showed Dr. Trout in a low cut black dress standing with a series of strange looking men: a short curly headed man in sunglasses, a tall hunch-shouldered man in a tweed jacket, a fat dark eyed boy in fur. The men looked the same in every picture, proud and wet-lipped, and Dr. Trout looked the same too, sort of sexy and mad as hell. Jenny shivered.
Mavis followed her eyes. “Poet. Novelist. Playwright. Sloane’s famous subjects. Of course half of them are dead now. Most of them were dead before. This one,” she tapped the man in the sunglasses, “couldn’t keep it up and this one never came. Sloane loved hearing things like that. Of course Sloane has been impotent for years. Thank God.”
Jenny nodded and held her paper out
“So without this career,” Mavis said, “if that’s what it is, if teaching composition to incompetents for thirty years can be called a career, I am without resource. There is nothing else I can do. All I’ve ever known is the difference between lie and lay and lying and getting laid .” She laughed, then her voice rose. “So you see my predicament. I’ll be forced to look at Sloane, listen to Sloane, live with Sloane. Which is exactly what he’s always wanted. Last night he said, and he didn’t even care when I screamed, ‘This is going to be like a second honeymoon.’ Christ. Wasn’t the first one bad enough? Do you know how long we’ve been married?”
Jenny opened her mouth, closed it.
“Forty-two years,” Mavis said. “Do you know why we got married? Because I thought he could help me. Do you know why we stayed married? Because he could not. You of course do not understand that.”
“No,” Jenny agreed.
“Nor should you have to. It goes beyond the complexities of Comp 102.”
Jenny nodded and glanced at her wristwatch. She had to catch the bus, get the baby, and meet Emilio at the courthouse in an hour. She looked up, startled to see Dr. Trout’s popped eyes fixed on her navel. She reached to tug her tee shirt down.
“Where did you get that tattoo,” Mavis asked. “What is it? A spider?”
“Sunflower,” Jenny said.
“Well give me your stupid little paper.” Mavis took it, scrawled a huge A on top and handed it back.
“You’re not even going to read it?”
“You were the only student who came to the faculty farewell,” Mavis explained.
“I thought we had to.”
“You did? Well. That was a waste of your day wasn’t it? Tell me,” Mavis swiveled away toward the window again. “Have I taught you anything?”
“No,” Jenny said, furious.
Mavis laughed. “I didn’t think so. Well. Goodbye, dear. Good luck. Now get out.”
Jenny grabbed her backpack and slammed out the door. Mavis heard her army boots drum down the hallway. Then, feeling like an actress, the way she had felt all her life in fact, she began to pack her books as she imagined an actress playing a professor packing her books for the last time would pack them. Showily, one by one, she picked up Sloane’s biographies, put on her reading glasses, and read the titles out loud in a mocking singsong: MIDDLE YEARS OF A MIDDLEWEIGHT, NAKED NARCISSUS, FIRST PERSON SINGULAR. She did not need to open the books to read the dedications: “To My Girl, Without Whom” etcetera. Pimp, she thought, as she’d always thought, the word plump and easy in her mind.
She turned and walked to the window. She could jump. She could throw the chair, the photos, and all the books out. But what good would that do. They were all replaceable. She herself was replaceable. No, she’d do what she’d meant to do. She’d give F’s to everyone but the Sanchez girl and then she’d do what she’d never thought of before: she’d go to a tattoo parlor and get herself covered in spiders and come home and walk into Sloane’s bedroom as recklessly and wearily as she’d ever walked into the rooms of the others he’d sent her to, and she’d take off her clothes and pivot naked in front of him until he wept. Then she’d pack her suitcase and leave. It was time to retire.
“Not I,” said Mavis Trout, stalking up the stairs to her office. She ignored the girl waiting outside in the hall, plunged her key into the lock, kicked the door open, sank into the revolving chair behind her desk and turned toward the window, exposing a length of milky crinkled thigh beneath her slit black skirt.
The girl, Jenny Sanchez, hesitated. She had been to the farewell and had seen Dr. Trout drop the plaque at the Dean’s feet. But her paper was finished, and it was late, and she needed it to get a grade. She took a deep breath, hunched her backpack off her 2. shoulders, and entered.
“Welcome,” Mavis said without turning around. “You have the great honor of being the last student I will ever see.”
Jenny eased her backpack onto the weird fur couch Dr. Trout kept in the corner and unzipped it to look for her paper. “Thank you,” she said. She shuffled through folders and textbooks, panicked. Where was her paper? What if she’d forgotten it this morning in her rush to get out of the apartment? What if it was still on the kitchen table? Or on the bus?
“Forced retirement,” Mavis continued. “What a concept. Perfectly legal. Perfectly evil. Goodbye. Goodluck. And now get the hell out of here.”
Jenny looked up, but Dr. Trout was not talking to her and when she looked down she saw her paper. It was stained where she’d spilled her coffee and wrinkled where the baby had grabbed it. She’d had trouble with the printer at the computer lab and some of the sentences were spaced on a slant. She smoothed the paper flat between both hands, the way her grandmother patted out tortillas. She was worried because Dr. Trout often gave students grades she’d made up: M for Messy or IBS for Illiterate Bull Shit. You had to petition Administration to get those grades changed before you could pass.
“So now what?” Mavis asked. “What should I do now with the rest of my life?”
Jenny shook her head, relieved, and offered the paper.
“I’m talking to you, dear. What should I do?”
Jenny dropped her eyes. Her paper was titled ESSAY NUMBER FOUR. The assignment had been to write an oral history from people you knew. She had interviewed Emilio and two of his brothers about being laid off at the garage. “Spend time with your family?” she suggested. Her voice came out squeaky. It was not the low calm voice she planned to use when she graduated and found work as a drug and alcohol counselor. “You will have time to be with your family,” she said more firmly.
“I have no family.”
“You have a husband,” Jenny said, confused. “I saw him at the faculty farewell.”
“Oh,” Mavis slid her silver bracelets up and down her thin arms. “Sloane.”
“The writer.”
“The literary biographer,” Mavis corrected her. “The gossip. The spy. The ancient betrayer.”
Jenny frowned, uncertain. The old man had sat erect staring eagerly at Dr. Trout throughout the ceremony as if he was a deaf mute and she was his signer. Maybe he really was a deaf mute. One of Jenny’s sister’s boys had been born that way. But no, Dr. Trout had been the silent one. She had sat on the podium like a queen, her eyes the exact blue of the ribbon the Dean had draped over her neck and she had not said a word, not even when she dropped the plaque and walked out. Only the old man had broken the silence. “Isn’t she wonderful?” he had cried, to no one, his voice high as a bird’s. “Isn’t she marvelous?”
“It looked like he loved you a lot,” Jenny said boldly. “How would you like to be stuck with someone who ‘loved you a lot’?” Mavis asked. “Day in and day out.”
Jenny, thinking of the baby left at daycare, shrugged and fixed her eyes on the photographs on the wall. They showed Dr. Trout in a low cut black dress standing with a series of strange looking men: a short curly headed man in sunglasses, a tall hunch-shouldered man in a tweed jacket, a fat dark eyed boy in fur. The men looked the same in every picture, proud and wet-lipped, and Dr. Trout looked the same too, sort of sexy and mad as hell. Jenny shivered.
Mavis followed her eyes. “Poet. Novelist. Playwright. Sloane’s famous subjects. Of course half of them are dead now. Most of them were dead before. This one,” she tapped the man in the sunglasses, “couldn’t keep it up and this one never came. Sloane loved hearing things like that. Of course Sloane has been impotent for years. Thank God.”
Jenny nodded and held her paper out
“So without this career,” Mavis said, “if that’s what it is, if teaching composition to incompetents for thirty years can be called a career, I am without resource. There is nothing else I can do. All I’ve ever known is the difference between lie and lay and lying and getting laid .” She laughed, then her voice rose. “So you see my predicament. I’ll be forced to look at Sloane, listen to Sloane, live with Sloane. Which is exactly what he’s always wanted. Last night he said, and he didn’t even care when I screamed, ‘This is going to be like a second honeymoon.’ Christ. Wasn’t the first one bad enough? Do you know how long we’ve been married?”
Jenny opened her mouth, closed it.
“Forty-two years,” Mavis said. “Do you know why we got married? Because I thought he could help me. Do you know why we stayed married? Because he could not. You of course do not understand that.”
“No,” Jenny agreed.
“Nor should you have to. It goes beyond the complexities of Comp 102.”
Jenny nodded and glanced at her wristwatch. She had to catch the bus, get the baby, and meet Emilio at the courthouse in an hour. She looked up, startled to see Dr. Trout’s popped eyes fixed on her navel. She reached to tug her tee shirt down.
“Where did you get that tattoo,” Mavis asked. “What is it? A spider?”
“Sunflower,” Jenny said.
“Well give me your stupid little paper.” Mavis took it, scrawled a huge A on top and handed it back.
“You’re not even going to read it?”
“You were the only student who came to the faculty farewell,” Mavis explained.
“I thought we had to.”
“You did? Well. That was a waste of your day wasn’t it? Tell me,” Mavis swiveled away toward the window again. “Have I taught you anything?”
“No,” Jenny said, furious.
Mavis laughed. “I didn’t think so. Well. Goodbye, dear. Good luck. Now get out.”
Jenny grabbed her backpack and slammed out the door. Mavis heard her army boots drum down the hallway. Then, feeling like an actress, the way she had felt all her life in fact, she began to pack her books as she imagined an actress playing a professor packing her books for the last time would pack them. Showily, one by one, she picked up Sloane’s biographies, put on her reading glasses, and read the titles out loud in a mocking singsong: MIDDLE YEARS OF A MIDDLEWEIGHT, NAKED NARCISSUS, FIRST PERSON SINGULAR. She did not need to open the books to read the dedications: “To My Girl, Without Whom” etcetera. Pimp, she thought, as she’d always thought, the word plump and easy in her mind.
She turned and walked to the window. She could jump. She could throw the chair, the photos, and all the books out. But what good would that do. They were all replaceable. She herself was replaceable. No, she’d do what she’d meant to do. She’d give F’s to everyone but the Sanchez girl and then she’d do what she’d never thought of before: she’d go to a tattoo parlor and get herself covered in spiders and come home and walk into Sloane’s bedroom as recklessly and wearily as she’d ever walked into the rooms of the others he’d sent her to, and she’d take off her clothes and pivot naked in front of him until he wept. Then she’d pack her suitcase and leave. It was time to retire.
