Free Joanne Dobson - Karen Pelletier 05 - The Maltese Manuscript by Joanne Dobson Page B

to the cops, testifying at the trial. I was so angry. I missed Megan so damn much, and…what was worse, I was terrified I’d go down the same road myself one day. So I…I got some help. Then I decided to become a social worker. Things haven’t been easy, but I got through Greenfield Community College, and I’m going to make it here at Enfield.”
    “Of course you are.” At that moment I identified so strongly with my student that I had her already graduated—with an M.S.W. to boot.
    “It’s just that, you know, the bit about missing class…I was never in one of your courses before, and I don’t want you to think I…well…have a problem with it or anything. Especially after I…well, you know.” Yes, it made sense now: the hysteria during Sunnye Hardcastle’s visit, the strange eruption of anger in seminar. All were Peggy’s response to what she must perceive as trivialization of tragedy. What had she said in class? Something about murder in real life not being entertaining or amusing, but “brutal and sordid.”
    She sighed, looked down at her intertwined fingers. “I’m tired, is all. I carry a full load of courses. I have custody of Megan’s daughter, Triste. I have a work-study job fifteen hours a week in the library. On weekends I tend bar at Moccio’s. To top it all off, we live with my mother in Durham Mills. In her house. With her husband.” She tightened her lips. Something wasn’t being said. “It’s not easy, Professor, but I’m going to make it. For Megan’s sake—and for Triste.”
    She rose from the chair and hefted her bulging backpack. A small stuffed animal was attached to one strap, a grungy old Pink Panther. It had been a while since I’d seen one of those. She caught me looking at it. “It was Megan’s,” she said.
    “Oh,” I replied. Here was someone who faced serious life challenges, not simply a department chairman’s absent-minded admonitions. Sexual harassment guidelines prohibit us from touching students, but I gave her a squeeze on the arm. “Don’t worry about missing the class, Peggy. And try to get some rest.”
    ***
    When I realized that I’d read patriarchal power structure twice in contiguous sentences without deleting either, I knew I had to pay closer attention to my revision. But I couldn’t help brooding about Peggy Briggs and her quest for a better life. I’d have to find some way to let my student know she could count on me. But for what? To give her advice? To cut her some slack? To listen when she needed a sympathetic ear?
    Soon I had the talk in decent shape, except for one publication date about which I was uncertain. I trudged over to Special Collections to check it at the source. Bob Tooey was at his usual place in a baby-blue sweater that seemed to have shrunk in the wash, pulling tight across his shoulders and upper arms. As Nellie placed the requested book in front of me, with a sidelong glance at the little researcher, my eyes adjusted. It wasn’t that Tooey’s sweater had shrunk, it was that the little man was really built. I hadn’t noticed that before: a short, plain-looking guy, but with the upper-body definition of an Olympic gymnast. Surprisingly powerful looking. I stared at him for a few seconds, then caught myself. I checked the date I was looking for, and went back to the office.
    ***
    “I told you I’d be seeing you.” I glanced up from the computer monitor, startled. Dennis O’Hanlon stood in my office doorway. He was wearing an olive drab trench coat of some fashionable crinkly fabric, and looked just as out of place in the Enfield English Department as he had at the Lowell High reunion.
    “Dennis? What the hell are you doing here?”
    “Don’t get up,” he ordered, closing the door quietly. He pulled over one of the captain’s chairs and sat down, practically knee-to-knee with me. He looked me in the eye, straight on. In the light coming from the tall window I could see what the dim illumination of the Lowell