Читать книгу The Prisoner’s Cross - Peter B. Unger - Страница 9

Don’s mother knew he had something of an anger problem after middle school. She had taught him to count to ten, when angry, before reacting and if that didn’t help to pray as well. Don had discovered this didn’t work for him, particularly if he felt bullied. His anger rose within him too quickly. He had to be prepared for those occasions that provoked his anger. Don resolved to come up with his own strategies. When around anyone who might potentially give him a hard time, he had taught himself to look serious and detached from his feelings. A certain intensity he naturally projected at school and in new social situations also helped to keep anyone from getting too close to him that he didn’t want to get to know. The only thing that had worried him was that the image he projected at such times came too easily, and too closely reminded him of his father’s behavior with everyone, including the family. His father lived by what he considered to be the manly maxim of “don’t complain, don’t explain.” It had worked for him in situations where complaining was not constructive. Don’s father, however, had conflated it to mean don’t share feelings and you won’t feel vulnerable. Don had grown more generally reserved with people since the accident. He knew, though, that it could impede healthy relationships with those he chose to develop or maintain close ties with.

Don resolved to never act that way around those he let into his inner circle. Nor would he ever let alcohol become an additional coping mechanism. Although a negative motivation for him, Don did not want to become the abusive alcoholic his father had been. He would use emotional detachment as long as it worked for him, and had assumed as a teenager that he would naturally outgrow this behavior as an adult. Don came to realize later that such behavior can be modified over time, but once it had become habituated behavior it was hard to shed entirely. During high school, and even into college, it had worked well in defusing loud obnoxious wise asses. Less nobly he had used such behavior to end relationships with girls with whom he had only been semiserious. He was just waking up to the realization that such past behavior while not patronizing or elitist had been every bit as disingenuous, and could be cruel as well.

The last girl he had dated back in Kentucky, a girl named Jill, had been taken with Don enough to continue pursuing him despite his melancholy, a behavior that after the accident had compounded his chilling out behavior. Don knew there was much of the lost little boy about him, and suspected Jill had been drawn to him by a desire to save him. The problem was Don did not want to be saved. Unwilling to share his deeper personal feelings, their time together, usually spent at Jill’s house watching TV on the couch in the family room, inevitably ended the same way. After Jill had made repeated attempts to get Don to open up, and told him how good a listener she was, Don would find an excuse to leave. Eventually he just stopped taking Jill’s phone calls. Don had not consciously been cruel. It would take a long time before Don realized that while keeping people at a distance lessoned the chance of an angry confrontation, it also prevented anyone who might cause him to expose feelings he was not ready to deal with from getting too close.

But Don was in a very different environment and set of circumstances now. He had come to the seminary seeking answers, albeit rational ones, for the questions he had stemming from the accident about injustice and suffering. He now sensed that the kind of callousness he had shown toward former friends and girlfriends would only worsen his precarious status here at the seminary. Somehow despite his tendency to keep people at a distance emotionally Don knew he would have to open himself up enough to make some friends, or at least a friend, and possibly a girlfriend if he was to survive psychologically in this place. Even if it consisted of only a few individuals Don knew he needed emotional support to survive in an environment where he felt like such a misfit. Considering this prospect scared him, and went against what felt natural to him, but for the first time, in some small way, it felt alluring too.

The next morning Don headed out to his church history class. He was determined to keep a low profile and his nose to the academic grindstone. Still smoldering from the dean’s dressing down, he had become even more determined not to let him win by forcing him out of the seminary. Don entered the classroom, which was on the ground floor of the same building where he had his unfortunate exchange, on the second floor, with Wilson. As Don walked into the classroom, students were milling around looking for seats. Don quickly found his seat toward the middle of the room. He leaned over sideways to take his textbook and notebook out of his backpack. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Wendy sitting a couple rows over. He paused just long enough to stare at her. Sensing that someone was looking at her, she turned her head sideways briefly and smiled shyly in Don’s direction. Don suddenly felt his face flush red. He smiled back and averted his gaze as he sat back up. For the rest of the class Don kept glancing over at Wendy, only to have Wendy sense this each time and return a friendly, but fleeting smile. Don was sure this was a sign she was interested in him and would not be doing this if she was trying to discourage his attention. Wouldn’t she then just ignore him? Neither, Don suspected, was she going to get caught up in some in ongoing class flirtation. Her looks and smiles were friendly but discreet.

Sensing this, Don tried hard to return his focus to the lecture, but try as he might he kept finding himself distracted by Wendy. It didn’t help that Canfield had a monotone delivery that rivaled that of Ben Stein. A tall, thin man, he had the peculiar habit of grasping the sides of the lectern with his hands, then with elbows turned out he would lurch forward as he lectured, pushing his head and neck out to the edge of the podium. This had earned him the nickname of “the vulture.” About an hour into the lecture another sight began to distract Don. At the very front of the class a student named Fred had fallen asleep in the center front row of the classroom just below the lecture podium. He looked like a kill the vulture had just dropped. Fred had fallen asleep so soundly that he had planted his forehead on the desk, with his arms hanging by his sides. This was not the first time Fred had fallen asleep in class. Fred was almost always one of the last to enter class. The seats up front were usually the last seats filled, and this helped set up the worst possible scenario with somnolent Fred having to listen to the school’s most monotonous lecturer in the worst possible location. It had been apparent to most of the class that this is what had led to Fred’s semicomatose state. Over the last few classes Don had seen a few students snicker when five minutes into the lecture Fred could be seen getting the nods. His head doing a good imitation of a pigeon feeding. In Fred’s defense Don had noticed numerous students at the front of the class also getting the nods, which then resembled a group of pigeons feeding, but Fred was the only one who ended up looking like his forehead was glued to his desk.

Meanwhile the vulture, oblivious to the impact his lecture was having on poor Fred, had just kept droning on. Don glanced sideways at Wendy again and sensing his look she turned toward him and smiled. Don smiled back and nodded in Fred’s direction. At first Wendy gave Don a puzzled look, but when Don nodded, and motioned his head in Fred’s direction again, Wendy looked and seeing Fred in uninhibited deep sleep glanced back at Don with an acknowledging smile. After what seemed like an interminable period of time the bell rang, signaling the end of the class. Don gathered his textbooks and notebooks and began to walk slowly toward the door. He saw Wendy ahead of him and hoped to catch up to her in the hallway or on the steps. Once in the hallway Don saw Wendy starting down the stairs, and he quickened his walk to catch up to her. About halfway down the stairs and trying to appear like he was passing her and had just noticed her, Don turned toward Wendy and said, “That guy sure was sound sleep.” “I can’t believe the professor never noticed him,” Wendy replied, shaking her head and smiling. Don, continuing the small talk, said, “I am amazed more people don’t fall asleep in his class.” But then, not wanting to sound too critical, he added, “He obviously knows his stuff, it’s just the way he delivers his lectures.” Wendy smiled in agreement but said nothing. Don, not wanting to waste the opportunity, said, “I don’t know if you remember me, we met at the bookstore the first week, my name is Don Campbell.” “I remember,” Wendy said, adding, “I can’t believe we’re nearly a month into the semester already.” As they reached the bottom of the building’s front steps, Don, knowing many were headed to the cafeteria for lunch, turned to face Wendy and asked, “Are you headed to the cafeteria?” “Oh,” Wendy replied, “I am sorry, I am headed over to the library to catch up on some reading for my 1:30 class.” Don felt his heart sink, this seemed to be a clear signal that Wendy was not interested in getting to know him better. An impulsive part of him wanted to agree that getting in some extra study time was a good idea, and then offer to walk with her to the library. After a moment’s reflection, he knew this would come off forced and too needy, and if she wasn’t interested in him at all, clueless. “Of course, I understand, see you around,” Don responded. While she probably wasn’t interested in any kind of relationship, Don knew there would be other informal opportunities where he would run into her, where he could be more certain of this. He was just too attracted to her to not leave the door open to the possibility she might still show an interest.

Don had applied weeks earlier for a work-study position. He had just received a letter in his mailbox directing him to talk to the manager of the seminary cafeteria. At dinner that night, instead of going through the cafeteria line, he walked directly into the kitchen located on the side of the large dinning area. The kitchen was bustling with activity. One student was pushing a tall cart full of trays with large pans of food toward the serving line. In one corner of the kitchen was what appeared to be an Asian international seminary student up to his armpits in a sink full of pots and pans. There were a number of students from Taiwan at the seminary, and Don thought it likely he was Taiwanese. A mix of students and staff, all with aprons on, were milling about while performing various duties. Don stopped and asked one older lady, stirring a large pot of soup, if the kitchen manager was there. “He’s not here right now, but you can talk to the assistant manager. His name is Tom,” the woman responded, pointing toward a young man in a white chef’s coat and hat.

Don walked over to what appeared to be a young man roughly the same age as him. Tom was about five foot nine, and like him had sandy blond hair. “Hi, are you Tom?” Don asked. Tom took a break from chopping carrots, which Don had noted he had been doing with amazing speed and dexterity. “Whose asking?” Tom said with a big friendly smile as he wiped his brow. “I am Don Campbell, I just got a letter that there might be a work-study position available in the kitchen.” “Well, Don, today is your lucky day. As you can see, John Hu over there is washing pots and I think he’s losing the battle. How would you like to work with him three nights a week?” “No problem,” Don responded. “There are two sets of sinks over there and you can work alongside each other,” Tom continued. “I had a restaurant job awhile back washing pots and didn’t mind it,” Don shared. “When can I start?” He then asked? “Actually, I think John could use some help right now,” Tom said, as one pot atop the growing pile next to the sink came crashing down. “I am free right now,” Don replied, nodding in agreement as he watched a second pan come tumbling down. “Great,” Tom responded, “let me show you where the aprons are,” leading Don over to a large metal drawer. Don instinctively liked and felt a kinship with Tom. Here finally, although it was a seminary employee and not a student, was somebody who seemed open and friendly in a down-to-earth way. Don was later to learn that Tom had started working at the seminary right out of high school. With an intelligent, quick mind and a real interest in learning to cook he had worked his up way to assistant manager of the kitchen.

“By the way Don,” Tom said in the same friendly voice and manner, “the kitchen crew only eats after their shift is done.” “No problem,” Don said as he put the apron on and walked over toward John Hu. John, seeing him coming, wiped his brow, and with a thick accent but in a friendly way said, “Oh, good, I could use the help.” After exchanging introductions, Don filled up his sink with soap and water and started grabbing pans and washing them. Within a week Don had settled into a routine. Once done with his shift Don would grab his tray of food and sit down to eat at the staff table in one corner of the dining room next to the cafeteria. Within a short time Tom would join him, and the two, discovering they had common interests, struck up an easy friendship. It wasn’t just their working-class backgrounds and sensibilities, but also the innate intelligence and the broader interests they shared. Where Don loved philosophy and theology, Tom loved literature and poetry. Most would never guess that either one, upon first meeting them, had such varied interests. Philosophy and theology helped Don to question and grapple with the big questions of life, and particularly those related to suffering and injustice. For Tom it was, first and foremost, poetry that gave his rich inner emotional life an outlet. He had a special fondness for the American poet Robert Frost and the Scottish poet Robert Burns. Soon Tom had invited Don over to his apartment for dinner, where he was introduced to Tom’s fiancée, Sarah. Tom had cooked a wonderful Italian meal, chicken marsala, for the three, and with wine flowing conversation went on well into the night.

Don still had hopes that he might build a relationship with Wendy. What Don could not have known of course was that the reason Wendy was only open and friendly to a certain point, was that she had romantic ties with another man on campus. As Don would find out, the seriousness, however off and on again of that relationship, and the comfort level Wendy felt with someone from her own regional upper middle-class background, would in the end make any relationship between them difficult if not impossible. Meanwhile, deep down Don knew it was only a matter of time before some other incident might tap into the reservoir of anger flowing just beneath the surface of the defenses he had worked so hard to maintain. Events of the last year and a half had taught Don that just when he thought he had begun to feel more centered and was gaining a more positive outlook, certain chords, if struck, could arouse an anger within him that he had a hard time controlling; an anger he now felt toward the unfairness of life itself. Feeling bullied or condescended to seemed to top the list of catalysts.