Читать книгу Where Drowned Things Live - Susan Thistlethwaite - Страница 6

All these things, Socrates, my dear friend, so many and so great, which they say about virtue and vice, and how both gods and men respect them—how do they think they will work on the souls of young people when they hear them?

Plato, The Republic, Book II

She was terrified.

From the top of her smooth cap of black hair to the tips of her shiny little black pumps with their fixed bows, her body was rigid. I’d heard the expression “scared stiff” many times. I’d never given any thought to the fact that it could be taken literally. She was practically catatonic and I was pretty sure the cause was fear.

Well, she should be afraid. Because above the rim of her prim, white, Peter Pan collared blouse was a purpling ring of bruises clearly made by someone’s fingers. Her name was Kim, Ah-seong, Kim being what Westerners would call her last name. She was a sophomore at the University of Chicago. Ay-seong was probably fulfilling her Korean parents’ dream of an expensive American education. I’d bet they were not aware that someone at this famous university was putting bruises on their daughter, or worse. And I had been asked to find out who and why.

This was Monday afternoon. On Saturday night, Ah-seong’s roommate had noticed that she had returned to their dorm room bruised and upset. She had refused to talk about it to the pleading roommate, to the concerned dorm resident, to the Dean of Students, Margaret Lester, and now she was refusing to talk about it to me. Apparently this was not the first time Ah-seong had come back to her dorm room with some bruises and the roommate was guessing it was somebody she was dating who was making these bruises on her. Date battering. Great.

“Just talk to her, Kristin,” Margaret had pleaded.

She had more confidence than I did that because I’d been a cop before I became a university instructor I’d be able to figure out who was beating on this kid. Well, I’d seen my share of domestic violence calls, one reason, among many, that I was no longer a cop.

“Ah-seong.”

Her head moved stiffly, slowly to look up. But she didn’t look directly at me. Her dark eyes were flattened and her gaze glassy. She directed that unseeing gaze at the ersatz medieval turrets outside the window. The main quadrangle of the university was built of grey stone in a gothic style—it had its own grim beauty, unlike the spread of disconcerting and disjointed modern that now made up the majority of the rest of the campus. Yes, I might be a lowly instructor, but I did rate a window that gave on to ivy-covered buildings in faux medieval style. But she was not admiring the view.

I decided not to come at her directly about the events of Saturday night, or even about the bruises. I thought I’d start with something safer, her friendships at school.

“Ah-seong, Dean Lester tells me you belong to a student group. Right? In fact, you spend a lot of time with them.”

The face in profile nodded, the cap of ebony hair falling forward.

“Well, that’s good. Have you many friends in the group?”

A nod.

Well, this wasn’t moving swiftly along, that’s for sure. Especially when you’ve been hurt, trusting anyone often came very slowly.

“What student group is it?”

I already knew. I had her student profile in front of me. But anything to get her talking.

“Students—Korean Students. Korean Students Christian Association.”

Her voice was faint, whispery. Her head was down again and she spoke directly to her hands gripping her backpack on her lap. She hadn’t even trusted me enough to put her books down when she had reluctantly sat in my one office chair.

I wondered how much pressure those fingers on her neck had applied. Whether she had actual damage to her larynx. Margaret had told me she had refused to be seen at student health. Typical.

I decided to go with the Christian affiliation.

“That’s good. Really good, Ah-seong. And as a Christian, I know you know it’s not right for one person to hurt another person. “

I went in for the kill.

“That’s not what Jesus would want, is it?”

For the first time, eye contact. Her head in its little Peter Pan collar with the circle of bruises right above it lifted and sad, drowned eyes met mine. I almost hated myself for pushing that button, especially when I saw the hurt and what seemed to be confusion in her eyes.

“No . . . Professor Ginelli.”

Barely a whisper.

“But someone did hurt you. I can see the bruises, there, around your neck.”

She lifted a hand to her neck to re-adjust the scarf that I guess she had arranged to try to hide the neck bruises, but it had slipped. As she raised her hand, her sleeve dropped back, revealing a bracelet of bruises to match her necklace. She followed my eyes and made a tiny sound of distress. Her head dropped down again and her hair swung forward, nearly hiding her face.

She was ashamed. Ashamed that someone would hurt her and ashamed that someone else would see it.

My stomach clenched with rage, and, God help me, some of my own remembered fear. I had to put all that aside for Ah-seong’s sake.

“Someone put their hands on you too hard and left bruises on you. It must have hurt. Why don’t you tell me about it?”

Nothing. Just another glance out the window.

Okay, so back to manipulating her about her Christian faith. I knew a lot about the Christian faith as I taught in the Philosophy and Religion department here at the U. of C., though I supposed by Ah-seong’s standards I was an atheist. By my standards, maybe not an atheist. More like an agnostic. I made a religion out of doubt.

Long ago I had rejected my parents’ brand of white, upper class, self-congratulatory Lutheranism, though their god was not technically the God of Martin Luther. They were really idol worshippers; they worshipped money and greed was their daily ritual.

Their worship of their own wealth and their conviction it made them superior human beings whose judgment was correct in all things, and certainly correct for my life, had gradually alienated me. I’d rebelled and left home after high school. My Great-Aunt, who lived part of the time in Denmark and part of the time in the U.S., was equally alienated from the family and their single-minded devotion to the acquisition of money. She’d set up a trust fund for me so I could be independent. I adored her. She was the only person in my family I knew who was remotely like me. I’d used the money for college and then I’d decided to become a cop, frankly just to continue to annoy my parents. But I’d liked it.

At first.

When I was a newbie cop I’d adopted the functional belief system all cops seem to have. ‘Somebody upstairs’ is watching over me. It’s a blend of faith and fatalism. But after my policeman husband was killed in the line of duty, killed because his backup had not gotten out of the car, I’d become a dedicated doubter, but a reformed variety. I worshipped ideas.

But Christianity wasn’t an idea to Ah-seong. Her faith was obviously personal and important to her. I felt like a rat using her faith to manipulate her.

I’d be a rat, though, if being a rat could save her life. Choking is often a signal that a future attack will be fatal, and the bruises on her wrist, bruises that seemed a little more faded than the livid marks on her throat, meant she’d likely been bruised more than once. Really dangerous pattern.

“Alright, Ah-seong, you know that Christians believe hurting another person is wrong and that Jesus would not like that. So the person who is doing this to you is doing something wrong. You need to tell me who that is so we can help him. Help him stop sinning in this way.”

I tried out the pronoun; pretty sure it was the right one.

Women who get hit by boyfriends or husbands many times won’t get help for themselves, because at some level they think they deserve the abuse, but they’ll respond to a plea to get help for their batterer.

Ah-seong was no different. She sat up, straightened her narrow shoulders and turned directly toward me.

“He does not mean it to hurt me. He is sad if he hurts me. He has much affection for me—it is only if he is frustrated for his grades and to be on team at the same time.”

She trailed off, perhaps aware that she had just revealed that the boyfriend who was making bruises on her was on a college team and had to keep his grades up—to keep a scholarship?

The University of Chicago long ago gave up its powerhouse football team, the original “Monsters of the Midway,” the midway being the large grassy mall that bisected the campus. The Chicago Bears became the “Monsters of the Midway.” But even the rigid, scholarly President Edward Hastings, who dismantled the university’s athletic program because he deemed too much concentration on sports was incompatible with true dedication to intellectual pursuits, had been unable to take all the scholarship money from football. A few named scholarships had remained. The best Hastings had been able to do was tie them to high grade point averages, a 3.5 or even 3.8 I thought.

“Does he play football, Ah-seong?” I asked.

Her hair swung across her face, as she vigorously shook her head no.

I wasn’t buying it.

“I think he does play football, if he has a scholarship and hopes to keep it. I’d like to help him.”

I knew exactly how I’d like to help him.

“I pray for him. They pray for him.”

Barely a whisper escaped her rigid lips.

“Who prays for him, Ah-seong?”

“We all do.” Her eyes met mine. She felt on solid ground here.

“All the Koreans in your group?”

“Yes.” Almost inaudible.

So the student group knows this is going on? Not good.

“Ah-seong, prayer is good, but we must help him in other ways too. He must get counseling. You need counseling too.”

“No!” She rose slightly out of the chair and fear coursed into her eyes, driving out the brief look of trust. Her knuckles grabbing the backpack were white. She lowered jerkily back down but her thin frame was vibrating with anxiety. What was going on here?

“No, I do not wish counseling. I do not wish to talk to anyone about this. No one.”

She let the backpack slide to the floor unnoticed and she wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. She was self-comforting and trying to make herself even smaller at the same time. I felt a wave of pity.

Yet, I literally had no idea what was going on in her mind at that moment. One thing was clear though, whomever this guy was he needed to be identified and stopped. But first I needed to reduce her terror.

“Okay, okay. Nobody will force you into counseling. Take a few breaths. We’ll figure this out.”

I thought for a minute and then decided to try something. Maybe this guy who was hurting her was a member of the prayer group. I decided to try it out.

“Ah-seong, you know Jesus does not think anyone should hurt another person, but especially Christians should not hurt each other. Is he in the prayer group with you all when you are praying for him?”

“We pray for him.”

Not clear.

“Yes, okay, praying for him is good, but perhaps you should try not to see him, you know, give him some time to repent and change.”

Wow, was I blowing this. I knew that wouldn’t happen. I opened my mouth to retract what I had just said, but Ah-seong spoke first.

“It is not right I do not see him. Our prayers will help him.”

So what? Had the prayer group convinced her she could convert this battering boyfriend if she sticks with prayer? That is the kind of ‘hit me again’ idea of Jesus and sacrifice that is responsible for so much pain and suffering among conservative Christian women.

I hoped Ah-seong could not see the steam coming out of my ears. I was really furious. But I needed to control my own anger and focus on this hurting person in front of me. I took a breath. Jesus help me. Literally.

“Ah-seong, it is never right for someone to hurt another person. You are God’s child and Jesus loves you. You must get some help for yourself, for him, so that he stops doing this.”

She shook her head from side to side again, but so slowly, so sadly I felt a prickle behind my eyes. I’m not a prayer person myself but I did send an urgent message out into the universe, ‘Let this person seek help.’

“I will pray about what you say.”

She bent and picked up her backpack and then neatly gathered her coat and disappeared around the divider that made one office into two cubicles.

She left so quietly I barely heard the door open and shut.

I hoped if she wouldn’t talk to me she’d seek professional help elsewhere in the university and not just go running to the prayer group. So far they seemed to be enabling more than helping.

Christ Almighty, what a mess. So to speak.

Well, now it was Margaret Lester’s problem. I picked up the phone and called her, expecting to speak to her secretary, or even more likely a recorded voice telling me to leave a message. Well, I wouldn’t leave a detailed message, that’s for sure.

I was surprised that Margaret herself answered.

“Kristin,” she said.

I was startled for a minute and then realized our names displayed on the phone in the campus system. Margaret must have been waiting for my call.

“Margaret. I talked to Ah-seong Kim. She just left. I think you’d better look into this student group she belongs to.”

“The Korean Students Christian Association?” Margaret sounded surprised.

“Yes. My best guess is that she’s got a boyfriend who is knocking her around, or worse, and the student group is encouraging her to keep dating him so that her turn-the-other-cheek Christianity will convert his rotten little heart.”

“Wait a minute.” Margaret’s disbelief come through loud and clear. “Run that by me again. You’re saying a student group knows she’s being hit and is encouraging it?”

“No, not exactly, and look, she really didn’t tell me all that much. I’m guessing here, but my best guess is that a guy she is dating, probably not a member of the group, is being rough with her. Date battering is not uncommon you know, Margaret. Another guess is that he’s a scholarship student on the football team, at least she admitted that he has one of the few sports scholarships, and I think he’s hitting her to let off steam, feel manly, who knows? Maybe she got the most recent bruises because she was trying to break it off. Anyway, the student group is praying for him and I think that adds up to a lot of secondary gain for them. Do they think he’s a guy in need of salvation? I really don’t know, but I don’t like the sound of what I think I heard.”

“Slow down, slow down. How do you know whosever hitting her is a football player?”

Margaret’s voice was sharp. How administrators hate to go after the athletes, even here.

“Ah-seong told me whoever made the bruises on her is frustrated by keeping his grades up so he can stay on the team. I think that sounds like someone who needs to keep his scholarship, and practically no sport here has scholarship money for players except football.”

“Well, perhaps.”

Margaret’s voice was toneless. Bad sign. She was going to fob me off. It was so damned irritating. I hadn’t asked to talk to this student. She’d begged me to do it.

“Now, what’s this about the KSCA being involved? I find that very hard to believe. I know Professor Lee, their advisor, and I can’t believe he’d condone something like this.”

I could almost understand why Margaret was so anxious to play down these unpleasant facts. Almost. Sports were always politically important because the alums liked them and that caused them to open their pockets and donate. And the Korean student group was another politically hot item. The University needed intelligent students whose families could afford the more than $50,000 in yearly tuition (not counting room and board). Parents could spend more than a quarter of a million dollars sending one child to college for four years. Yes, a lot went into debt and there were scholarships, but the university needed the cash flow of tuition. There was active recruitment around the world in fast-growing economies, including Asian economies. And wealthy graduates became wealthy donors.

I tried for patience.

“Listen, Margaret, Lee might not necessarily know about these special prayers. Or, he could know they were praying for someone without knowing the specifics of what was going on.”

But my patience goes only so far.

“This student group, though. Isn’t it a little, well, narrow for a university group?”

Margaret sighed.

“Kristin, come off it. There are nearly 400 student groups and many of them are racially, ethnically and religiously specific. That’s what students want.”

“Yeah, it’s what students want, Margaret, but didn’t I just see a idiotic memo about the fact that we don’t do ‘safe spaces’ here any more?”

She paused.

I waited. That memo was a bunch of legal malarkey and Margaret knew it and I knew it too.

“I think you probably misunderstood Ah-seong, that’s all. You said she spoke very little. I think it’s likely there’s no connection here with the student group and that she’s having some trouble with someone she’s dating.”

Okay. Patience gone, waiting over. I sharpened my voice.

“Look, Margaret. What is going on here is dangerous. Very dangerous. What I know for sure is that it is best to assume the worst. I have seen the bruises around her neck, so has the roommate and the RA. Are you really going to brush this aside as ‘boyfriend troubles’? She has certainly been physically assaulted. That we can see with our own eyes. Keep that in mind. I think there’s a good chance she’s been sexually assaulted as well. Remember what the roommate said about the torn clothing.”

There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the phone, but Margaret didn’t speak.

My voice rose.

“You twisted my arm to look into this thing. I didn’t volunteer. And now when I tell you what I think is going on, you’re trying to minimize it.”

I gripped the phone hard.

“Assume the worst, Margaret. You must assume the worst and you have to do that even if it pisses off some alumni or faculty or students or recruiters or coaches or whatever.

“It will accelerate, you know. If there’s no intervention the odds are she’ll be assaulted again. Probably hurt even worse. That’s the normal trajectory of these things. They. Get. Worse.”

I waited. When she didn’t respond, I changed tactics. If a frightened and abused woman student didn’t move her, investigations and lawsuits might. And no memo about the purity of intellectual freedom would protect us from that.

“Margaret, don’t you realize there are now nearly 100 pending Title IX investigations of colleges for mishandling sexual assault and sexual misconduct pending? Our university is currently not on that list. Do you want it to be? Anti-rape activism is on the rise on college campuses. Remember earlier this year when that guy, you know the one who was after Clinton for so long, Starr, got fired at Baylor? He and the football coach were axed because they failed to help victims of sexual assault. And don’t count on a misogynist climate in Washington D.C. to slow down the campus protests. Women’s activism is increasing, not decreasing.

“Just get off the dime and start the administrative wheels rolling. We have enough for an initial complaint. I’ll make it, for Christ’s sake. I talked to her. I saw the bruises. I heard enough to alarm me as to her safety and well being.

“In fact, consider this phone call the initial complaint. I’ll follow up in writing and have it to you by tomorrow.”

I was breathing heavily. There was silence on the other end of the phone. This time I would wait.

Margaret finally spoke.

“Thanks for talking to her, Kristin. I’ll talk to her again myself.”

And she hung up.

Great. The full administrative brush-off. Well, Margaret would soon realize that not only would I summarize my conversation with Ah-seong Kim in the complaint, I would summarize this conversation as well. If she didn’t shape up and do her job right, she could end up needing legal counsel.

But I realized I couldn’t write a complaint feeling like this. I had to get a grip first. I was vibrating with anger. This was far too close to what police work had been like for me. The kind of work I thought I’d left behind when I quit the force. Well, not all that close since now I was bringing up Jesus every second sentence, but I felt an all too familiar cold knot of frustration in my stomach, the frustration at all the kinds of violence that are covered up, pushed away, and that I was powerless to do anything about.

I turned my chair and gazed for a moment out the window at the same view that Ah-seong had focused on such a short while ago. Grey stone. Lots of very depressing grey stone. Bad choice for buildings in a metropolis nicknamed “The Grey City” for its constant leaden skies. Here it was October and what we had was pale yellow leaves and overcast skies instead of the brilliant hues of the trees and the blue skies of my native New England. Why did I stay in this walk-in refrigerator of a city with all its bad weather and bad memories?

I gave myself a little shake and turned to my computer. I opened a file and started summarizing the conversations I’d had that afternoon.

Then I stopped. It was no good. I needed more distance. I saved the few sentences I’d written and sent it to myself to work on later at home.

Besides distance, I realized, I would need to write this up using whatever was the university’s recommended format. I logged on to the section on University Policies and Procedures. I started to read about the published procedures for filing a complaint on sexual misconduct. There was an additional link for faculty, but when I clicked on it, I realized I needed an additional password.

I also needed more time to process my emotions before I wrote anything that would become part of an official complaint.

I looked out the window again, not seeing the grey this time, but other experiences with administrative duck and cover on Chicago’s police force and their endless, deliberate refusal to deal justly with police misconduct that only sent a clear signal to cops that they could continue to do what they wanted to whomever they wanted, whenever they wanted.

Until some lawsuit caught up with a few. No wonder Chicago was so broke, having to pay out millions and millions of dollars to victims of cops who should have been kicked off the force years before—shooting unarmed civilians, making false arrests, torturing suspects, raping and battering women, and persecuting whistleblowers on the bad cops.

Law and order. That’s what I’d wanted when I’d chosen the police academy. Law and order that would stand for the victims of injustice. Right out of the academy at twenty-four, I’d married a detective, Marco Ginelli, who believed the same as I did. Marco was as Italian as his name with thick, full dark hair always in need of a haircut, framing a face with deep brown eyes, a face full of passion and mischief and intelligence. A face that was fortunately reproduced in our twin boys, Sam and Mike, now aged six.

All that warmth and passion had entered my cold Scandinavian bloodstream and thawed my ice-queen defenses erected against the lovelessness of my childhood and the isolation from peers that my height had caused. When I’d been nearly six feet tall at age fourteen, my parents had actually taken me to a doctor to see if ‘something could be done about it’. Unconditional acceptance was not my parents’ strong suit. Besides, it was their families’ genes that made me so tall. But they’d made me feel like the ugly duckling come to life.

A huge bear of a man, Marco had enveloped my height and my defenses and I had started to melt into a human being. And yes, I was still in love with Marco, only he had been dead five years now, killed when he’d stopped a car containing suspected drug dealers on this same south side of Chicago, shot in the line of duty because his partner hadn’t gotten out of the car to give him back-up. Nobody really investigated. The failure of police procedure, if that was all it was, was brushed under the carpet with the old administrative two-step. Marco’s death only gave me the final excuse for leaving the force.

My own disillusionment with so-called law enforcement had begun much earlier, when I was still a rookie. Getting along, going along, doing what it took to get by and being punished, not even too subtly, by colleagues threatened by anyone who cared too much, who tried too hard or who wouldn’t look the other way when a few bucks changed hands, and most of all by men who were threatened by a blond Viking.

It was not whether I’d been sexually harassed by my fellow officers, it had only been how much and how often. It isn’t the sex. It’s about controlling women. It’s about power. It’s about letting women know you don’t belong here.

But the unwritten rule about police work was never, ever complain about another officer. I had finally complained—about the guy who was assigned to be Marco’s temporary partner the day he’d been killed.

Was it deliberate, a set up to send a message to both Marco and me? A set up that had gone lethally wrong, or was it meant to be lethal all along? I’d always believed the latter, but even the lawyer I’d hired hadn’t been able to make a case that stuck. My grief at Marco’s death and my leaden despair over my inability to do anything about it pushed me nearly to the brink. If I hadn’t had my baby boys to think about, I don’t honestly know what I would have done.

Put up. Shut up. No law and order here.

And now I was finding that my attempt to find refuge in academics was a joke. This was no refuge at all. It was the same human violence met with the same inadequate, even corrupt, tools of bureaucracy.

The grey stone came back into focus. I had to shake this off and do right by Ah-seong Kim. And, I realized with a jolt, actually do my academic job.

I was late for a faculty meeting. I didn’t exactly jump up and rush to the meeting, however.

You’d think at $50,000 per student for tuition that there would be enough money to hire faculty. Wasn’t that the point of a university, teaching students?

If you thought so you were decades out of date.

Universities and colleges are engaged in an orgy of budget cutting. But only in faculty positions and faculty salaries. Administrator’s salaries and huge outlays for new and fancier buildings just keep growing like some hideous cancer.

Humanities departments, like my own, were especially vulnerable. We had no huge grants like the sciences. We had no wealthy alumni like the economics department and business school. We were, in short, budget canon-fodder.

I shut down my computer and rose. There was no need to rush to a meeting where so little would be said so slowly and repeated so often.

I grabbed my coat. I’d leave right after the faculty meeting. I passed the divider that separated my part of this shared office from my officemate, Henry Haruchi.

Henry was Japanese on his father’s side and Welch on his mother’s side. He taught Buddhism, though also comparative religion and he had an interest in religion and science. He was a terrifically interesting guy and when we were in the office together we often talked to the detriment of actually getting work done, though as I thought about it he’d been gone from the office a lot this fall quarter. I wished he were around. I assumed he was at the meeting. I’d have loved to run my conversation with Ah-seong by him.

I had to just shelve this onslaught of feelings and get on with it. Just get on with it. I opened the door to my office.

Directly across the hall, Mary Frost, the departmental secretary, was rooting around in her desk. I wondered why. She should have been taking notes at the meeting.

She glanced up and frowned deeply at me. The students called that ‘being Frosted.’ Too bad. I asked her for the password to the faculty link to Policies and Procedures.

She just continued to glare at me without responding.

Just perfect.