Messalina: Devourer of Men (4 page)

A strand of hair escapes the confines of my French roll and tickles the base of my neck, as if scolding me for making it behave so primly. I tuck it in and return my attention to the classroom.

            I take off my glasses, close my eyes, and repress a moan. The hum of the electric clock on the wall behind me and street sounds seeping in between the window panes are the only things breaking the silence. Putting my glasses back on, I look straight ahead and out of the windows at the back of the classroom. It offers me a picturesque view of the green lawns of Bellingham College. Outside, the tree branches bloom and dangle above the heads of my students, but the branches aren’t the only things that appear to be above their heads. I sigh.

            “Let’s try a simpler approach. Those of you who’ve never seen
I Love Lucy
, hands up.”

            Six out of ten hands go up.

            “I will repeat the question. Hands up for those of you who have not seen
I Love Lucy
—ever.”         

Three out of six.

            “In your entire life.”

            All hands stay down.

            “That’s what I thought. See how important it is for you to think before you answer? Let alone listen.”

            Silence, except for the birds in the trees chirping like the nagging mothers these kids thought they left behind.

            “Anyway, since you all love, or at least like, Lucy, you may or may not know that Lucille Ball was older than Desi Arnaz and slightly younger than Vivian Vance—that’s Ethel Mertz.”

            I back up against the blackboard chalk tray and sit on my hands to prevent chalk from dusting my rump. Crossing my legs at the ankles, I get a sharp pinch at the top of my thigh telling me my garter strap is twisted.

            “Since the A/V Department messed up my request to have a TV and DVD player set up, we’re going to do this next exercise the old fashioned way. I want you all to close your eyes and visualize scenes with Lucy and Ethel together.”

            A few students look around anxiously, but most of them comply. Ah! The blind faith students place in their teachers. I wait a moment or two before proceeding.

            “Now that you have images of Lucy and Ethel burning your frontal lobes, compare the two women while keeping in mind what I said about their real ages. What do you see?”

            Several of them breathe deeply. If they mistook this exercise for naptime, they’ll be sorry, but I can’t help smiling. That’s when I notice how all of my students wear retro 1970s fashion. I got my first pair of bell-bottoms from childhood hidden in a drawer, and if I ever have a daughter, one day they’ll be hers—and probably back in style again.

            When I see faces starting to twitch and eyebrows rise in wonder at their new perspective of the comedic duo, I know I have their attention.

            “Note their clothing and how much makeup these women have on. Lucy is more stylish, isn’t she?”

            With their eyes closed, I take the opportunity to walk around the classroom. The slow heel-toe-heel-toe clap of my high heels on the tile floor is evocative of a Gestapo officer stalking while interrogating a prisoner and I enjoy the sense of power.

            “Now compare images of Lucy from earlier episodes to those of her toward the end of the series. I don’t care if it was shot in black and white, there’s a definite increase in the amount of powder and make up on Lucy’s face.”

            This prompts a few snorts of laughter and nodding heads. I’m now at the other end of the classroom. My teaching assistant, Neil Hollister, is sitting at a desk in the corner with a smirk on his face. He did this exercise last year. I smile at him before turning to look at the backs of my students.

            “Don’t get me wrong. Lucille Ball was one of the best comediennes in the world, in my opinion, but why the elaborate need to suspend the audience’s disbelief? Had they bit off more than they could chew? Remember, not only do we have an interracial couple, but a wife who is older than her husband.”

            One student puts her head on her desk.

            “It’s the 1950s, people!” My sudden increase in volume makes Miss Sleepyhead sit up. “What they did took balls . . . Hey! I made a funny!”

            Nothing—except a polite chuckle from Neil. He heard me say that last year too. Oh well. I give him a shrug and turn towards the head of the class. “You may open your eyes.”

            After navigating my way through an aisle of carelessly deposited backpacks, I reach my post at the front of the room.

            “Now, before you ask, I don’t teach entire courses about
I Love Lucy
like some people. These are simply observations I’ve made. I can’t say for a fact that they did this on purpose, but what could Lucy and Desi do to draw attention away from their interracial marriage? To what lengths will people go to create an image acceptable for human consumption?” I search my students’ faces for signs of life. “They can change their ages, of course, on the outside at least. In this case, present Lucy as a younger woman. The Ricardos are a young married couple in contrast to the Mertzes. But what also becomes an issue in conjunction with age?”

            I scan the room again to see if I’m striking a chord with anyone. 

            “Hint, hint! In case you’ve forgotten, today’s topic is
Aesthetic Manipulation
. What do people associate with age?”

            Finally, a henna-painted hand slowly rises. The palm is covered in a paisley design so elaborate it could be mistaken for a Magic Eye 3-D image.

            “Yes, Paula?”

            She shrugs. “Maturity?”

            “Yes! Thank you! What else?” I gesture with my hands urging gimme more, more, more.

            “Image,” says Henry McGuinness, one of the three boys in my class. He’s the Harris Tweed type and would bring that up. The third boy is absent, again.

            I nod. “Okay, Henry, but can you be more specific? What aspects of image do you mean?”

            “Well . . . I dunno. Clothes?”

            “Excellent. Many articles have been written about clothes and prejudice. If you saw me for the first time, what would you think?”

            I model for them. Today I wear a grey lightweight skirt suit. The skirt is short, just barely above the knee, but professional. Little do they know that when I get home, I take off these monkey clothes and slip into my favorite batik sarong, put bracelets on my arms, anklets that create music when I walk, and change the scent of my body from magnolia to musk. 

            But Henry’s shoulders slump. “I dunno. I guess you’re a pro?”

            “Henry, where I come from, ‘pro’ could mean ‘prostitute.’”

            “No! I mean you are a professional,” he says, smoothing his shirtfront nervously.

            “What? And prostitutes aren’t?” Neil adds from the back of the room. Some of the girls turn in his direction and giggle.

            “Thank you, Mr. Hollister. OK, so I’m a professional. That means I must be . . . ?”

            Stereotypical answers, eventually, come forth: mature, responsible.

            “Boring. Dull,” quips Hollister to the delight of the class.

            “D’you think?” I challenge, giving him a pointed look. He returns it with a mischievous gleam in his eyes. Chancellor’s nephew or not, I’m going to have to have words with my esteemed TA after class.  “Anything else?”

            Nothing. Their euphoria is gone quicker than an acid flashback. An impatient hand goes up as if yanked by a puppeteer’s string.

            “Put your hand down, Thompson, I’m coming to my point.” I rub my hands together. “When you write your next paper on either Morrison’s
The Bluest Eye
or Woolf’s
Three Guineas
, think of Lucy, think of Pecola, and think of Woolf.” I smile. “Playing the race card is an option, but it’s a no-trump. I want you to connect society’s perception of feminine beauty and propriety and how it affects people’s judgment. More specifically, how it affects your opinion, if at all.”

            I move behind the desk and grasp the sides of the podium. “This will end our section on the first half of the last century. Have feelings changed since then? Convince me, whatever you do.”

            A hand goes up again. I sigh.

            “Yes, Thompson?”

            “How long does it have to be?”

            “Class?”

“Five to seven pages, one-inch margins, double spaced, three outside sources. Annotated bib for extra credit,” they reply in unison and with less energy than a bulimic after a purge.

            “Thank you, class.” I grin. “See what happens, Mr. Thompson, when you choose to participate through borrowed notes alone?” I want to say, How do you like them apples, smart ass? but take a look at my watch instead. Only an hour and thirty minutes left. Resting my chin in my palm, I look at the sea . . . the puddle . . . of less-than-eager faces.

            I have looked into the future—and was unimpressed. Trying to get these kids, these young adults, to understand the importance of digging beyond the surface, because that’s where the gold lies, is hard to do when they’re bombarded with airbrushed images of so-called perfection. Why should they waste time in here when they could be the next mega-idol and see themselves splashed over the tabloids? If the students of Bellingham College are dissatisfied with something, they can simply charge it on their—or their parent’s—credit card. This is what I am up against. Time to give these kids a little incentive to get to work.

            “You guys, I’ve never missed a day of teaching, but I’m not above dismissing class early once in a while.”

            Happy smiley faces brighten the room. Some of the really happy students have their books packed and ready to go.

“You have until the start of class on Tuesday to turn in this assignment. Any earlier, put it in my office mailbox. Any later—”

            “And live to regret your GPA,” they finish.

            “You are so good! I
am
breaking through. Get out.”

            They bolt for the door.

Taking off my blazer, I reveal a shell blouse and my skin breathes a sigh of relief. I swear that steam rises off me. It is over eighty degrees outside and this Victorian building is resistant to 21st century cooling systems. Rummaging through my purse, I look for my eyeglass case. Talk about aesthetic manipulation. I don’t need glasses. They just make me look more studious and professional while separating me from the students.

After meeting Jared, I’m in heat so frequently it threatens to soak through my clothes. The late June temperature doesn’t help. It’s making me cranky and making my sexual dry spell even more noticeable.

God, I need to get laid.

I rub my eyes. Damn. Jared Delaney will not get out of my mind. Not his face, his voice, his cock—none of it. It’s probably for the best. But I Googled him out of curiosity, along with the words “Denver” and “artist,” and got almost 1,700 matches. Apparently he is known for his work on several national ad campaigns, independent films, and book covers. He’s had art shows at a few local galleries and in New York. One critic’s review said his studio work “focused on abstracting the human form but is very intimate.”

Unfortunately, I need to get more memory for my computer and faster Internet connection. I couldn’t open or download any images of him or his work. But some of Denver’s cultural elite who own or have commissioned his work. Apart from general praise, his official biography is a single line: Mr. Delaney currently resides in Denver.

            “Excuse me, Dr. Cavell?”

I jump because I forgot I wasn’t alone. Turning around, I find Neil Hollister standing inches behind me. Any closer and we’d risk breaking some archaic decency laws. He smiles as his eyes linger on the V-neck of my blouse. His claim to fame as the chancellor’s favorite nephew makes him bold, but it didn’t save him from getting a D in my Women in Fiction seminar last year. That was one elective course he should have taken more seriously.

Before he became my student assistant, I thought he had more nerve than a bad tooth, but he’s changed and his other instructors have thanked me for it. Apparently, his grades have improved, justifying everyone’s opinion that Hollister is very smart, but lazy. I may have played to his ego by introducing him as my personal “aide-de-camp” and my “right arm” after he braved me for two semesters. This made him smile and he’s been indispensable helping me with my freshman survey courses.

Maybe that was too much because, more often than not, when students file out at the end of class, Neil gets more than a few inviting glances. I see him wink at the girls every so often. One time he looked up, saw me smiling, and grinned. Standing just over six feet tall with an athletic hard-body—in training—short curly hair the color of corn silk, and puppy-brown eyes, Neil Hollister is a cutie. But he’s a frat brat with a gab so gifted, he’ll end up as the perfect wife in prison while serving a sentence for  bank fraud  or something, until his family bails him out.

            “Yes, Neil?”