Free Sing It to Her Bones by Marcia Talley Page A

there’s something wrong with my mother?”
    Paul stood and began to pace back and forth on the slate slabs that formed the patio. “No, it’s not your mother.” Then, seeing the look of alarm in my eyes, he quickly added, “Or Emily.” He ran a hand through his hair and looked at me. “God, Hannah, I don’t know how to tell you this.”
    “What?” I grabbed his upper arms and shook him. “What? For Christ’s sake, Paul! Tell me, what?” The knot in my stomach had grown so huge that I thought I would throw up.
    Paul took me gently by the shoulders and eased me back into my chair. He sat down, too, and pulled his chair up to mine until our knees touched. I remember thinking that the last time he’d done this was at the doctor’s office, the Friday before my mastectomy, a few moments after Dr. Wilkins had told us the results of the biopsy and reported that the fast-growing tumor was already six centimeters long. The doctor had scheduled my surgery for the following Monday, and I was in shock, hardly feeling the molded plastic chair underneath my legs or the warmth of Paul’s hands as they cradled both of mine.
    Now I sat in my own backyard, rigid again with fear, feeling the gentle pressure of Paul’s hands andwaiting for him to say something, thinking, Three . My mother always said that bad luck comes in threes.
    “I’m in trouble, Hannah.” Paul cleared his throat. “It could be big trouble. One of my students has accused me of sexual harassment.”
    I felt the world shift on its axis. Sexual harassment! After the Tailhook fiasco sexual harassment was one of the few things that could get a tenured professor at the Naval Academy booted out on his ear.
    Paul studied my face, as if searching it for understanding. “It’s not true, of course.”
    I sat frozen, momentarily unable to speak. My breath came in rapid gasps, and I felt light-headed. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this!”
    “It may be all right, Hannah. Simon Westlake’s this year’s division head, and I’ve been meeting with him. He says he doesn’t believe a word of it, but he has to treat her complaint seriously.”
    “Her?” I repeated numbly. It crossed my mind to be relieved that at least it wasn’t a he. “Her who?”
    “Jennifer Goodall, a firstie. She told her company officer that we were”—he took a ragged breath—“she says we were intimate and that I promised her a higher grade in Probability Theory if she would—oh, God, Hannah.” He covered his eyes with his left hand. “She’s failing the course. She claims I’m flunking her in retaliation for her decision to break off our so-called affair.”
    I didn’t know Jennifer Goodall, but I could imagine her: a “firstie,” a senior, and, like all midshipmen, aperfect physical specimen. I pictured lustrous blond hair done up in an intricate braid and impossibly blue eyes, a crisp white uniform fitting smoothly and snugly around firm, young breasts. Big tears began to slide down my cheeks and drip, unchecked, onto my T-shirt, a T-shirt I had chosen because it was loose and tended not to emphasis what little there was in the way of breasts underneath.
    “Hannah. Hannah.” He reached for me. “You know it’s not true! Not a word of it! She’s desperate, Hannah. As a poly sci major she needs my course to graduate.”
    I took two deep breaths and tried to think reasonably. This was serious. If Midshipman Goodall were to flunk out at this late date, the navy could send her to the fleet as a lowly enlisted person for two years.
    I recalled Paul’s grueling teaching schedule, the days at work giving extra instruction, the long hours he spent each night at home grading papers and found the girl’s accusation hard to believe. “When is all this supposed to have happened?”
    “At the Army-Navy game. At the Sheraton Hotel near the Meadowlands, where a bunch of us were staying.”
    “But that was last December, Paul! This is May! Even if her story was true, why did