d’Claire ‘n Evil 

 

            I remember Claire… Small in stature… Rotund in physique…  She always wore sensible, thick-soled shoes that squeaked as she navigated her way through the halls with her nose in a book.  Intelligent?  God, yes.  She excelled academically and through a fantasy world of books, she was an intimidating specimen.  Her vocabulary was of Oxford precision and delivered with an expert tongue.  Yet community was beyond her level of understanding, and she navigated through the sea of faces with a grimace.  She was the no-name figure who kept her face tucked inside a cover as she made her way down the halls as close to the lockers as she could without bumping into them.  She was never confronted about her demeanor, although misdirected hostility was thrown in glances towards her.  She was resented for being the epitome of a class know-it-all and was rejected for it.  I should know.  I acquainted with her. 

It makes me wonder if the sneers and laughter echoed in her ears as they bounced off slammed locker doors.  I wonder if the sharp, metallic sounds made her cringe.  If each one made an internal slice that could not be seen or felt by her callous peers.  Not that it would matter, now twenty-some years later.  She had already gone on with her life and yet I still wonder if she ever found the peace that radiated from her core in spite of her demeanor. 

             

The beautiful weather indicated that a pseudo-spring was on the horizon, coaxing early buds into blossoming before having its last laugh by sending in a cold breath from Canada.  Such was every March for as long as I could remember.  I stood at the window, hands clasped behind my back, and gazed out at the dripping piles of scant snow that had receded enough to reveal a soggy marsh of grass and earth.  It was the type of land every child dreamed of, where one could go on a stomping mission in his or her galoshes, and the gods be damned if the mud squelched out of boot tops while running down in streams along the rubber sides and soaking socks.   

            I smiled at the thought as I recalled a few memories of my own.  After my adventures, my socks would be black, drawing the ire of my caregivers.  The clucking of my grandmother’s tongue would match the rhythm of the washcloth scrubbing between my toes to rid them of grit in an effort to prevent a cold.  Afterward, she’d let me curl up beside her with a book, very much in the way of her daughter, and read to me.  She always ended the story with a strong hug, a kiss on the top of my head, and a gentle smile.  “What are we going to do with you, Dylan?” 

            Looking down at a week-old paper on the window seat, I let the headline catch my eye.  It’s about a college professor.  I want to smile, yet the corners of my mouth tug downwards.  I sigh before picking up the mug of tea sitting inconspicuously beside it.  The bitter liquid rolled over my tongue towards the back of my throat only to be confronted by a restricting esophagus.  I can feel it contract as I force the drink down and am blessed – Had I been eating; I would have choked.  I do not want to think about what is in the article for fear of a guilty conscience.  Or worse, pity, and I refuse to consider a speck of remorse.  Evil often comes wrapped in a bow of sweet-smelling intentions to ensnare an unsuspecting fool. 

            Dr. Philip Morris had been the head of the English department at Devonshire University in Cambridge, New Hampshire.  It is about three hours from my residence and I have no desire to return in spite of the letter I received the other day.  My memories of the man are not fond ones and as much as I am adamant about denying his existence, I see subtle yet prominent features that are in his when I look in the glass above my bathroom sink.  Not enough to incriminate him in regards to the naked eye, but enough to gain critical observation within close circles.  Sadly, my mother had witnessed this proximity and paid for it. 

            Look at me.  Talking in circles.  In truth, had the circumstances been different I’d smile and shake my head at the obscure absurdity in my approach to unfolding this story.  However, the paper on which to write is old.  Crumpled, and weak from being balled up in mentality and thrown into an empty trash bin where it is picked out, smoothed, and prepared to be written on.  The ink would flow from a vein, out the nib, and seep through the sheet in painful scarlet as each word cried out answering the question, “Who is Claire?”   As much as I believed I would have acquainted with her, I’d have rather been with her.  There is part of a child who clings to me and still aches for her in the stillness as the mother I have been denied.  Even though I’ll never feel her hand stroke the top of my head or her lips on my brow, I know her. 

            My mother was socially awkward and intelligent.  It made her easy prey for those looking for indiscretion.  Appearance-wise, she was homely and heavy.  Rarely was her head raised long enough to give a response unless it was from the seat of a tablet arm desk.  During discussions, she would slouch down in her chair and fold her arms tightly across her chest.  Her narrowed eyes penetrated many a teacher who was more than happy to glance over her presence but for one. 

            It was during Claire’s senior year that she had the misfortune of being placed in Dr. Morris’s class.  Because of his experience, he found the prefix Mr. insulting and insisted on being addressed by his college credentials.  According to him, he had taken the teaching position as a favor until he could be placed at Devonshire.  His wife had elected to remain behind at their residency until he was settled into the English department.  In truth, it was the perfect guise.  Very few knew of Dr. Morris’s illicit affairs and that his time securing placement in Devonshire was a period of separation and as straying men are wont to do, his gaze settled on the most inconspicuous target among his students. 

            What was unknown about Claire, was her vibrant inner world. She blossomed under his discreet advances which were kept under lock and key within her, for who would believe?  Claire knew that if she came forth, she would be called a liar and scorned.  Given Dr. Morris’s prestige and looks, why would he settle for what amounted to be a lame duck when he had his choice among the swans?  He used her and yet she tried to deny it in hopes that she meant more to him than her stigmata.  It makes me wonder if I would exist had she seen him as scum who was merely looking for a naïve, unattractive girl to satisfy his lust. 

            My mother gave birth to me six months after she graduated.  Ironically, the timing couldn’t have been more beautiful.  Dr. Morris left the high school and went on to Devonshire.  At twelve weeks, Claire’s actions were not visibly present so she walked down the aisle and received her diploma to appease her parents.  By the time they knew, she was well into her second trimester and over 18.  I was born on a cold day in early November.  My mother’s name went on the birth certificate.  My father’s did not.  And I went home with my grandparents who raised me.  When I graduated, I was bestowed upon a thin volume that began my story. 

I would like to think my parents’ courtship was of the romantic nature written in Claire’s diary; however, I’m inclined to believe Dr. Morris was jealous of her to some degree due to her grasp on the subject he taught.  When I learned of his relation, I sought to confront him.  He was still teaching after I was accepted at Devonshire, so I enrolled in his class. I remember sitting through his lectures and the times he would try to pass off examples of his written work, but I alone knew the hand that penned it.  It made me sad to think my mother never had the opportunity to expose his theft.  Yet when the time came, I was able to vindicate her.   

My mother’s diary had jaded me.  My eyes narrowed the first time he walked into my field of vision and I hated him.  I can still see the slight look of confusion that crossed his face and wondered what he saw.  By the third week, he pulled me aside and asked if I would consider a transfer.  After declining the invitation, he asked if I had a problem with him.  I was stunned, not realizing my blatant animosity was on full display.  I shook my head and tried to smile.  “I’m sorry, Dr. Morris.  You remind me a bit of my father.  We’re not close, but he’s in the hospital and I’m beginning to regret our alienation.” 

There was a pull at the corner of his mouth as his eyes narrowed in scrutiny.  “I see.”  I nodded before heading back to my spot to collect my things.  The echo of Dr. Morris’s hard soles followed me.  “Well then, keep the deranged looks to yourself because I will kick you out of my class if it continues.”  I didn’t realize I had been holding my breath as he brushed past me.  When the door closed behind him, I could breathe.   

I almost did transfer out of his class after that.  To make matters worse, I began to question my motives.  I wondered if it was worth it to try and cause him the same type of pain he had inflicted in my life or better yet, live with the guilt of his actions.  I doubted he had any sense of accountability, let alone a heart.  The man indulged in himself and what he considered his talents with the expectation of his class to treat his knowledge as gospel.  Yet every time he spoke, I would imagine the stains on my mother’s cheeks from the countless tears that must have flowed and that is what kept me in his class with a figurative pot on the back burner.   

            Less than a week later an idea struck me as I was going over Dr. Morris’s recent assignment.  My eyes lingered over my mother’s diary and I picked it up.  The burgundy cover was made of soft leather that was smooth to the touch.  I flipped to the first entry and chewed my lip.  With a few alterations, I could have a new paper to turn in.  I just had to rewrite part of her story.  The mere simplicity of such an evil made me smile.  I sat down at the table, opened my notebook, and began to write. 

            The F slashed across my paper did not surprise me when I got it back a few days later.  What did was the way Dr. Morris’s nostrils flared when I went up to his desk to get my assignment.  I feigned a surprised expression that bordered hurt as I picked it up and headed back to my desk where I tucked it neatly in a folder I had bought for this purpose.  In the corner, I wrote the date and time followed by the number: one.   

            After my fifth paper, Dr. Morris asked me to stay after class.  He was polite enough to wait until the door shut behind the last student before he lit into me.  “Your assignments are off-topic.  You are going to fail.” 

            I could almost hear the nervous thumping of his heart through his voice and felt my own longing to go into a similar state.  “Excuse me?’ 

            “What exactly are you trying to write about, Dylan?” 

            The hard edge he gave to my name threw me.  I stammered.  “Just… stuff…” 

            My voice trailed off.  Dr. Morris scoffed, but I could tell he was unnerved.  A small vein protruded at the side of his temple and his tightly drawn mouth grew white around the edges.  As much as I wanted to appear aloof, I found myself swallowing over a lump that crept up into the back of my throat.  I could almost feel small drops of sweat breaking out on the flesh above my lip, yet the look in his gaze strengthened me as he failed to appear menacing.  His eyes were paranoid in spite of his hiss.  “Who is Claire?” 

            I pressed my palms against my jeans and forced what I hoped was a bitter laugh.  “As if you didn’t know?” 

            Dr. Morris pivoted and went back to his desk to pack his briefcase.  My cheeks flared as I made a quick note in the corner of my current achievement.  I was furious and it took everything within me to not shake the door in its frame as I stormed out of the room all the more determined to expose him.  When I got to my dorm, I opened a can of some form of spaghetti, dumped it into a small pot, and put it on a hot plate to warm.  I then retrieved my mother’s diary and sat at a small table where I began to leaf through the well-worn volume. 

            I was going in order, writing out the plot of her inner struggle in dealing with a growing love for the man who used her.  The biggest challenge I faced was time.  Would there be enough days left before the fast-approaching winter break to complete my goal?  Yet, was time any concern since it was almost certain I was going to fail and could take it again in the spring?  Even if he passed me just to get me out of his class, it didn’t have to stop me from repeating it. 

            I got up to stir the mess that had begun to stick to the bottom of the pot.  Steam floated in small streams from the top of the sauce which was rapidly boiling.  I turned off the burner, grabbed a wooden spoon, and scraped what I could off of the bottom and sides.  After it was mixed well, I put the contents in a bowl and went back to the table.  Reading between bites, my attention homed in on the entry when she told my father she was pregnant.  I pushed the bowl aside and began to write.  When it was finished, I read over it and made some minor corrections wondering if he would confront me about the insinuation.  To drive a nail further into his side, I scrawled ‘DNA Test?’ across the text.  I sat back in my chair.  A small smile tugged at the corners of my lips.  Perhaps, I wouldn’t need to take the class again. 

            The following day I read through the paper in between classes and during my spare time.  As much as my internal self screamed for restitution, I was hesitant, wondering if I wanted to know what Dr. Morris’s response would be.  I remember how pale I felt when I took my seat that day.  My stomach churned and rebelled despite its lack of content.  My sick gaze drifted to the trashcan in the corner of the room and I was about to throw my assignment away when Dr. Morris entered the room. 

            He put his briefcase on his desk and opened it before giving the space beside it two sharp raps.  In unison, the students rose and made their way up the aisles to turn in their papers while I was glued to my seat.  “Is that for me,” Dr. Morris asked. 

            I gulped, wanting to shake my head no, but squeaked out, “Yes.” 

            Dr. Morris rapped the papers again.  It was as though I was pulled up by invisible strings.  Against my will, I walked to the front of the class and added my assignment to the top of the pile.  I could feel his eyes boring into the back of my skull as I hurried back to my seat.  The remainder of the class passed with excruciating slowness.  My attention was focused on the small pile of paper that had not disappeared into the clutches of his case.  Halfway through, I excused myself claiming an upset stomach.  I could almost see a sneer on Dr. Morris’s face when he nodded his permission for me to leave.  As quickly as I could, I gathered my belongings and hurried from his scathing look. 

            Once the cold atmosphere hit my face, I could breathe.  The sharp air stung my lungs and washed over my being, allowing me to relax.  Now it was final.  I could not take it back.  The most I could hope for was to get lucky and Dr. Morris would not read it.  I almost condemned myself for challenging him the way that I did as I walked back to my dorm accompanied by a sinister voice hinting at what lay in store.  But what did lie in store?  I had done more than hint at the possibility of him being my father.  I challenged him to prove my accusation wrong.  I had not anticipated answering what would be his obvious denial.  Suddenly, I felt sick again.  I went inside my room, lay down, and pulled the blanket over my head. 

            I was grateful for the following day.  My head had cleared and I had a free schedule to catch up on any due class work.  I finished my Algebra and biology assignments and then checked the clock.  It was after one, so I got dressed and headed out to get something to eat.  On my way to Dino’s Subs, which was favored by us living on campus, I stopped by Stally’s.  Stally’s was a small drugstore that was noted for its soda fountain.  It was also another popular spot frequented by those residing in Devonshire, especially for those not prone to drinking or who were looking for a casual place to have a date.   

            I walked through the aisle containing antihistamines to look for diphenhydramine.  I picked up a small bottle containing 30 pills.  The tablets were small and cheery pink, easy to swallow.  I smiled.  After all, a similar bottle was found next to Claire’s remains.  The foil on the hospital tray indicated it had been new when she had taken them and 17 were missing.  Afterward, a blood test confirmed the toxic cause of her death.   

            I then walked to the stationery section to pick out a black marker.  I wanted something with a fine point yet thick enough to be daring, if not accusatory.  I picked up a Sharpie and savored the feel of it in my grasp.  It was an instrument from which a sinister taunt would flow.  It was perfect.  Sun broke through the cloud of my thoughts.  I didn’t realize I had been standing with the marker long enough to draw the cashier’s attention.  “Do you need help with anything?” 

            I shook my head, walked to the counter, and set down the bottle and Sharpie.  “My allergies are getting to me.” 

            The woman nodded slightly.  She typed in the price for each.  “That’ll be $4.79 please.” 

            I gave her a five, collected my change, and thanked her.  Outside a breeze was picking up.  It stirred the remaining leaves on the soon-to-be bare branches of the trees planted along the street.  When the wind died down, I could hear the sound of falling acorns from the canopies as squirrels scampered along the bark.  It made me wonder if the little critters deliberately looked for targets to drop their stores on.  Possibly as a warning to keep intruders away from their stash?  At any rate, I had more important things to worry about other than a squirrel’s storage habits.  I ran across the street to Dino’s for a sandwich. 

            I woke up early Monday morning, despite not setting an alarm.  I had planned to skip my classes for the day, save one, and had hoped to sleep until it was almost time for it.  Unfortunately, it was not to be.  I swung my legs over the side of my bed since it was no use lying there any longer.  ‘If anything,’ I told myself, ‘I should be grateful.’  I had more time to plan for a confrontation with Dr. Morris over what I hoped would be my final paper.  While I anticipated being held after class, I debated on whether to address him as Philip or better yet, Dad.  Either one would shake his core, so I had to give it some thought.  If I called him Dad, he would deny it and of course, emphasize the absurdity of it.  At that point, I would read parts of my mother’s diary incriminating him.  If I called him Philip he would become indignant, yet once again I could flip through the pages for damning evidence stating him as my father. 

            Mulling over these thoughts, I gathered a robe, towel, and toiletries then went to the bathroom that was shared in my section of the dorm.  Between the hours of seven and nine in the morning and evening, hot water was a precious commodity, so I tried to shower during off times.  Now it was almost ten, so I hoped it would be empty. 

            The hot water felt good against my skin as I stood beneath the spray.  After I was relaxed, I squeezed some shampoo on my palm and washed my hair.  I rinsed out the suds then grabbed my bar of soap and lathered up my washcloth.  My mind became clearer, almost cleaner as I tried to scrub away the invisible dirt that had become a prominent shroud over my existence.  I turned off the tap, dried off, and secured my robe.  The last thing I did before leaving the bathroom was brush my teeth. 

            When I got back to my room, I saw I still had two hours before Dr. Morris’s class.  I got dressed and then moved the reading chair over by the window.  I grabbed my mother’s diary, sat down, and leafed through it.  This time, I used a highlighter to mark the passage and folded the page.  I wondered if it would work.  If he threatened me after today, I had proof along with a letter my grandparents had given me the day I graduated that confirmed what the doctors discovered on what must have been one of the most dreadful days for Claire. 

            Two minutes before class, I took my seat.  On the walk over I kept feeling my pocket to make sure I hadn’t forgotten the Benadryl.  Although there was enough of it to accomplish what I was about to instigate, I almost wished I looked for one that had more.  Then again, the bottle was perfect to show how little of it was needed.  Claire’s diary was tucked neatly in the pocket of the folder with my assignments and lying on my desk.  I glanced at my watch.  Dr. Morris was late. 

            Five minutes later, he burst through the door.  His hand was at the top of his tie, trying to adjust it as he hurried to his desk where he set down his briefcase and muttered an apology for being late.  I will grant him this, he was a stickler when it came to being on time.  I remember once when a student was tardy.  Dr. Morris had led him out and shut the door, locking it behind him.  I don’t remember anyone being late after that. 

            He put our corrected assignments beside his briefcase and rapped his knuckles.  There was scraping of metal against tile as we got up and made our way towards the front to gather our work.  When I found my usual F-slashed paper, I began to smile; however, froze when I saw the look on my teacher’s face.  He seemed to be searching as if he was trying to force his way into the thoughts clearly outlined in my latest achievement. His voice was low and searing like acid raining down on a cold day.  “After class.” 

            My hand clenched the written draft.  I could feel my eyes narrow into slits as I bit back, “Surely.” 

            The anticipation stretched.  Dr. Morris had chosen to read a work of his own to the class.  Given our impending meeting, I could hardly blame him.  I found his essay to be lackluster and void of creativity, but at least it was his.  He had a habit of explaining his storyline instead of telling it, giving no stretch of the imagination.  ‘A dog could have done better,’ I thought rolling my eyes.   

            When he was finished, he rested against his desk and started asking opinion-based questions to encourage what we thought about it.  I ignored the drivel of responses from around the room that fanned his pompous ego.  At one point, Dr. Morris’s laugh rang out like a dying accordion in response to a comment given by an awestruck freshman.  I didn’t know her name, but knew from the voice that she was a honey-colored blonde that doted on her appearance.  She reminded me of a rich Daddy’s girl.  The type Dr. Morris liked to undress behind masked eyes.  The pen I was clutching snapped, drawing his attention.  The smile on his mouth was tight and cruel as he gave us our next assignment.   

            Like combatants, we eyed each other as the class filed out.  When the door shut behind the last person, Dr. Morris lit into me.  “How dare you insinuate I am your father!” 

            I put my hands on my desk and rose to my feet.  “You tell me, Dad.” 

            My father backed away stunned like I had anticipated.  “I don’t have a son.” 

            Ice pulsed through my veins as my lips drew back into a sneer.  “Really?  Tell that to Claire Wilson.  The student you fucked 19 years ago, who was my mother.”  I held up her journal and shook it for emphasis.  “Let me read you some of her diary.” 

            My hands trembled with rage as I opened it to the marked page and began reading: 

            I knew I shouldn’t have given in to Dr. Morris’s advances.  That he doesn’t care.  His eyes are always empty when he approaches me after class, asking me to stay.  I hate how good it feels when he puts his hands inside my blouse.  As much as I want to talk to my guidance counselor, I know it won’t do any good.  They would believe him, not me.  And now I’m pregnant.  I told him after class today, when he was bending me over his desk so I barely caught his look of disbelief.  He demanded to know if I told anyone and then said it had to be someone else’s.  I told him he was the only one I had ever slept with and that a paternity test would prove it. 

            “Look at me,” I practically screamed.  “How can you not see some of yourself in me!” 

            The blood drained from Dr. Morris’s face as he backed away.  “Get out of my classroom.” 

            My rage carried me forward until I was close enough to smell the fear coming out of his pores.  His breath reeked of rancid coffee and two red splotches stood out in his pasty complexion.  My next words dripped with the venom of a striking snake.  “She committed suicide because of you, you bastard.” 

            Dr. Morris swallowed.  His voice was small and tinny.  “You have no proof.” 

            I slapped his chest with the letter my mother left in the hospital after she overdosed.  “Read it.”  I walked past him and pulled the bottle out of my pocket.  I turned it in my hands to read what I had written in bold, black letters:  I DARE YOU.  I blinked back the bitter tears that stung my eyes. My voice was gritty as I choked back my sobs.  “What I don’t get is how she could love a piece of shit like you.”

            “Dylan, I—“

            I whipped around to face him.  My glare was scathing as I looked him up and down.  I had accomplished what I set out to do.  He was diminished.  “You even stole her work.”

            Dr. Morris stepped back as if I had slapped him.  “You don’t understand.”

            “I don’t have to,” I said through gnashed teeth.  “She was seventeen, you took advantage of her, and stole her work, you sick fuck.”

            I walked behind his desk and held up the small bottle so he could get a good look at it.  Dr. Morris winced when I shook it a few times before slamming it down on the desktop.  “17 pills was all it took,” I sighed.  “Seventeen.  This bottle is new, just like Claire’s had been.”

            I stormed past him to collect my belongings.  At the door, I stopped with my hand resting on the handle.  “The letter you have is the original.  I made a copy to keep.”  This time, I slammed the door so hard the frame shook as I left, never to look back.