The Witch of the Wood (15 page)

“If we outlaw short skirts, why on earth do we supply field hockey kilts and cheerleader uniforms that break the original code? We absolutely sexualize our children, cheering them at pep rallies where the ‘fliers’ are taught to hold up one of their outstretched legs, exposing the private area beneath the skirt in moves like ‘The Scorpion’ and ‘The Heel Stretch,’ and then cast blame when a male instructor notices that all his female students wear short shorts on a February morning. First, you must prove he wasn’t inspecting his class, in spite of the contradiction I just mentioned, in reference to a dress code he is advised by administration to enforce. Secondly, cell phones are not allowed in class, and it is Mr. Sullivan’s job to confiscate them. Third, there is no law that I know of that claims ‘looking’ is illegal, or even inappropriate.”

The camera cut back to the newsroom anchor, who clicked a thin stack of papers before him, and set up the dramatic “cap-off” to the report.

“The case is under review at this time with the superintendant’s office. For those just tuning in, a student who will not be named admitted to school administration at Franklin Heights High School today that he engineered a demonstration to prove the lecherous nature of Health and Phys. Ed. teacher William Sullivan, by convincing female students to wear revealing clothing in their 3rd block health class and put cell phones in their laps, recording Mr. Sullivan’s alleged ogling. Whether Sullivan’s behavior reflected the responsibility of enforcing a dress code and confiscating cell phones or some gross invasion of student privacy is to be determined soon by school officials.”

Then came the thunder, and Rudy’s mouth dropped open. They showed the recording(s). Clearly, Wolfie somehow got the cell phones to the newsroom, whose editors did a fine job of splicing together the images.

The establishing shot was a rough pan of the classroom. It was one of those “amphitheater” set-ups, where one white desktop curved across an entire given row, therefore leaving exposed the legs and waist areas of the students. There was someone in the background throwing a balled-up piece of paper at a trash can and someone behind him looking out the window. The next image came from a different phone held low and aimed at the first two rows of students, many of them female, most of them crossing their bare legs. In the background a man’s voice said, “Come to order, ya knuckleheads, let’s go.”

There was then a cut to a sightline from low and far to the side. At the periphery of the shot you could see the edge of a thigh and a knee, and in the center of the screen was Bill Sullivan, standing at the board. He had short hair, thick twelve-o’clock shadow, a black-collared shirt, and black sweat pants. He was thin-waisted and topheavy; clearly a man who lifted weights, and as a girl wearing a tight white top, pink shorts, and sandals entered late, he looked over, eyes falling north to south and then sliding back on up again, strike one. Next was a camera change, now on the side of the room by the door, this particular cell phone so tilted it almost gave a view as if you were lying sideways. Sullivan was talking about a pre-class paragraph on the subject of STDs, and right after assigning it he told them they were “on the clock . . . write until you feel like your hands are falling off.” Then he scanned the room, slowly, carefully.

“Strike two,” Rudy said softly. Sullivan clearly occupied them with the writing assignment, all their heads down, and he was checking them out, girl by girl, row by row, you could see it.

Then was the last camera cut, a last cell phone more in the center of the room, first row, slightly stage left, positioned in the operator’s lap so perfectly the image was straight up and down. Sullivan was sweating, it was sheened up on his forehead like glass, and he was darting his glance side to side.

“Hey,” he was saying. “Put those cell phones away. Hey!”

Back to the newscaster.

It was strike three, slam dunk, end of game, end of story. As usual, the media had formed a dramatic line, and whether or not the individual shots were telling, the combination was absolutely damning. Of course, the context trashed the teacher—it best sold the story. And he was probably guilty. Of looking and enjoying it. So were the cops who beat Rodney King, guilty of beating Rodney King. But the first minute and a half was never shown to the general public. Was there footage that could have saved Sullivan here?

They’d never know.

And Sullivan was going down. No doubt about it.

The newscaster ended with:

“More news from Franklin Heights High School, shop teacher Frank Bond has been missing for a day now. He signed in for work yesterday and never showed up for his classes. Authorities are investigating, but do not expect any foul play.”

Rudy clicked off the set.

It was staggering, what Wolfie had managed to churn up in a single twenty-four hour period. Absolute division, confusion, cultural antinomy. Rudy wouldn’t have been surprised to see this on the national news at 6:30.

Sullivan was guilty, but stained with a crime he shared with many of those who would condemn him. And everyone was forced now to undergo some real soul-searching, possibly making Sullivan a victim of the larger societal contradiction, therefore erasing cheerleading and gymnastics and track and field hockey, not to mention lacrosse, ballet, ice skating, and all the water sports. And if you took the other side, claiming it was O.K. to watch those things in certain contexts, how did you rationalize harsh judgment on a man who very well could have been looking because he was paid to look, to enforce dress code, to confiscate electronic devices? Was he looking at the cell phones, or were they looking at him?

Then back to square one, everyone saw it in vivid Technicolor. The bastard was looking at the girls, not playing cop. What was expected in the pep rally was a crime in the classroom, at least in the court of public opinion. And if you did slam-dunk Sullivan on the platform of context, you had to live with the contradiction that these latter events (and outfits and uniforms) were designed for male audiences, manufactured for the specific practice of “studying girls.”

It was the perfect vicious circle. If you backed him, even in the policing scenario, you admitted you supported “looking.” If you condemned him, you were a hypocrite the minute you went to a football game. If you played middle ground and claimed context, your motives would be under the microscope now, and even in this new light, coming in hard from the side so to speak, there would be a strong majority, of women mostly, cheerleader moms just as fanatical as the Little League dads, who would wonder what was fair about telling their daughters to just cover up and dilute the leg stretching, especially considering all the camps, practices, pulled muscles, and turned ankles they’d endured since the age of nine in the name of the sport(s) that they loved.

Division? This was nuclear. And perfect in the chaos it caused, pristine in that there was never a good answer and it made everyone’s blood boil, like those essay questions we leaned on so heavily, making the students argue for something impossible to solve like the death penalty or abortion.

Oh, he’d divide them all right. And Pat had been the perfect pawn to set up camp on one side of the fissure.

Rudy snatched the phone out of its holder and dialed Pat’s cell. She let it ring almost the full five times.

“Yes?” she finally said.

“Where is he?”

“Oh. Hello, Rudy.”

His teeth were grinding together and he spoke through them.

“Where is my son?”

There was a pause, then a blurting that had tears and righteous defiance in it.

“He’s here in the car, and we’re going to the house for some chicken soup. My precious sweetheart has been through hell today, and he needs a mother’s comfort.”

“You turn that car around and bring him home. Now.”

“Rudy . . .”

“You are not his mother.”

“I’m the only mother he’s got!”

Rudy stood.

“Patricia! It’s a legal issue. He may be eighteen, but he’s still in high school. I don’t care what it says on some random set of registration papers, I am his guardian and I want him home. Don’t make me call the authorities!”

“You go ahead and try!”

“Mum,” Wolfie said in the background. “It’s all right, please.”

“No, it’s
not
all right,” she said.

“Mum, you’ll have to take me home right away. Turn the car around, yes. I’m so sorr—”

The connection broke and there was silence. Rudy tried the number three times, but got voicemail. He was seething;
God,
she infuriated him! Patricia was the epitome of melodramatic emotionality, weak excuses, painting the picture rosy, and winning because the opposition felt sorry for her. She was all the things in life that made Rudy cringe, and though there was no concrete harm in Wolfie being coddled, it filled Rudy with a nearly uncontrollable rage. How
dare
she!

He stalked around the apartment, opening the fridge, not really looking, turning on Comcast, not really watching. Minutes ticked away, hours, years, centuries. Finally, the door opened and Wolfie came through, unaccompanied by the coward, of course. Rudy was in his boy’s face immediately.

“I told you, no contact with that woman.”

Wolfie backed away and waved his hand in front of his face.

“Whoa, breathe, Dad, yo.”

“Not funny.”

“Not laughing.” He walked around the sofa and plopped himself down. Rudy followed and stood over him.

“Stay away from her.”

“Why?”

“She’s an influence.”

Wolfie looked up.

“On me? A bad influence? Really? Did you just say that out loud?”

Rudy ran his palm across his mouth, trying to calm himself. He moved across the room and sat on the footrest. He sighed and turned toward the window.

“My biography?” he finally said softly. “You got this from me?”

“Yes, Dad.”

“I’m not like him.”

“Yes, but you look at them too.”

“Well, there’s looking and then there’s looking, Wolfie.”

“Potato, potaaato.”

“No!” Rudy said. “It’s not the same thing!”

“Really?” Wolfie stood up. He looked as if he were about to say something harsh, but he shut his mouth, reconsidering. He put his hands in his pockets, looked down, and said softly,

“Dad. I know two girls from Franklin Heights who would each be a perfect sexual match for you.”

“No!”

“But they are.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Isn’t it? One is eighteen.”

“Wolfie . . .”

“And the other turns eighteen next week. Would it be O.K. for you then? I could arrange a threesome, I’m sure of it.”

“Stop it.”

“Why? Does the week really make a difference? Really? They are both beautiful, one a redhead with a sour apple pout and freckled cleavage the way that you like it, and the other is a blonde with long, athletic legs. Both have a daddy complex and neither is a virgin.”

Rudy’s fists had tightened and his neck strained with it.

“No!” he shouted. “I won’t! Not with a minor, and not with a student, even if she’s twenty-two! I don’t care what the law would let me get away with the moment a girl sees her eighteenth summer, and I’m not interested in the way you can twist things! I notice a young woman’s sexuality because I’m a man, but I choose my lovers as a human being with a conscience. There are certain things that are off-limits, even in your new world order!”

The room rang with it, and the silence afterwards felt thick and unhealthy. Wolfie shook his head and walked off to the bedroom.

“So sad, what you deny yourself, Dad.”

Rudy followed, speaking at his son’s back.

“But it’s my sadness. I’m happier living with it, Wolfie, and it’s not going to change. Ever.”

“So sad,” Wolfie repeated.

He sat on the bed and opened the laptop.

“What are you doing?” Rudy said. Wolfie looked up.

“You want to come in and see?”

“No. I’m happy here in the doorway, Wolfie.”

The boy shrugged and looked back at the screen.

“It starts with the Facebook war, Dad. Duffey will be looking for me on here, gathering friends and supporters, and I’ve got to address him. Sullivan was the most popular teacher in the school, always voicing ‘cool’ things on the inside track, like ‘I don’t understand this book either,’ or calling money ‘serious coin,’ or joking about farts and telling stories during class time. He was a bit transparent, but an easy A and a hearty laugh. And then there was Duffey, the poor little rough kid that got signed up at age ten for football by his parents because he’d lit a fire in a field behind the paper branch after a long summer of rock throwing, shoplifting, and shooting out windows with a .22. He needed a focus. Since the first Pop Warner game that this frustrated, warped child played years ago out on the grass-worn field at the Dermond complex, Coach Sullivan has been a close friend of that family. He took a disadvantaged kid who could rush the quarterback and built dreams inside of him, of a D1 school, a full ride, and the NFL from there. I’ve destroyed Duffey’s savior. He’ll want to kill me.”

“And you’re going to fight him.”

Wolfie closed the laptop gently.

“It won’t be much of a fight, Dad. I am going to try to reason with him at first, apologize. He will shove me around pretty good, and there on the asphalt, possibly down on my knees by that point, showered by his taunts, I’m going to stand up for the downtrodden, the abused, the violated, and the weak. I am going to . . .”

He stopped thoughtfully.

“It’s best not said aloud.” He looked at his father. “But the violence will be so profound and extreme, it will erect a sort of religion.”

“So you can be worshipped in prison.”

“By some. Division. Remember?”

Rudy ducked out and closed the door gently. He tried to eat and didn’t have the stomach for it. He tried to sleep on the sofa and couldn’t.