One More Time (17 page)

“In past years, the mark has been derived from a general sense on my part of which students were familiar to me—because I had seen them in lecture all semester and/or they had come to me to discuss their essays—and observation of the answers on the final exam. Although it is generally clear when marking the final exam who has attended my lectures and who has not—from which one can extrapolate attendance and consciousness, if not participation—that is not a direct justification for granting all or part of this participation mark. It has been brought to my attention that this is not an entirely fair assessment.”

They didn’t need to know what Dinkelmann had really said.

The students who sat in the front row were leaning forward, intent upon not missing a single word, and even the jokesters in the back were quiet.

“As a result, this year, I have changed the requirements for the participation mark. The bulk of this mark will be assigned in our lecture next Tuesday, based upon your individual participation in a discussion. In that two hour lecture period, we will discuss the evolution of the concept of the individual in the medieval context.”

A ripple of panic rolled through the ranks, but Leslie kept talking. “This is a broad and meaty topic and one that has been subjected to increasing scrutiny among medieval social historians, of which I am one. If you have access to notes from this course in a previous year, I must remind you that my own lecture has a particularly narrow focus and reference to it alone will not suffice. I would suggest that you refer to the list of secondary reference materials supplied in the syllabus—” the rustle of papers was louder now “—and spend some time in the library familiarizing yourself with current scholarship on this subject in preparation for this discussion.

“Those of you who have other obligations scheduled during Tuesday’s lecture or who simply do not appear will receive a zero for the participation grade. I remind you that that’s 15% of your grade. Next week, a roll call will be taken, though I cannot guarantee whether it will be done at the beginning or the end of the class. You may find it prudent to attend the entire discussion. Those of you who have misplaced your syllabus can pick up another copy from the secretary in the History Department—I will ensure that she has an original from which you can make copies, at your own expense, by five o’clock today.”

This
was
fun.

“Now, about your essays.” All of Leslie’s students were listening now, even if they would have preferred to not do so. “It has been brought to my attention that grades in my courses have been found to be lower than the department average. In plain language, I fail more students than other professors and I give fewer excellent marks. Certainly, there are those who would argue that I am being unfair, but generally those are the people who would prefer to not do any work.”

It could have been a funeral, they were so serious.

“This is a third year course,” Leslie said sternly. “In order to register in this course, you must have completed two prerequisites, one being the medieval history survey course offered in second year and the other being any other history course of your choice. This means that you must have a grounding in the basic concerns facing any student of medieval history, and also that you know how to perform certain tasks, such as writing a history essay. Because of this, the grading standards—or perhaps more accurately, my expectations—are higher than they would be for a first year course. A superficial consideration of the variables will not get you far. Using only general sources will not get you far. Failing to develop any argument or forming any conclusion will not get you far.”

She held up a finger as they began to fidget. “Yet, in all fairness, I understand that some sources will not be available to those of you who do not plan to continue with medieval studies. I recognize that students no longer learn Latin and that, as a result, vast quantities of source materials remain indecipherable to such students. In fact, in what is an appalling failure of the education system or our expectations of it, very few students at this university, regardless of their discipline, will master a second language, let alone the four which used to be considered a minimum for scholarship in the medieval era. This is not your fault, and I do not hold it against you, although those of you who do read other languages and do consult source materials in those languages can expect to be compensated accordingly.”

Leslie turned, paused, then patted the stack of essays. At this point, she didn’t think she needed to bother to gild the lily. “You have the collective distinction of creating the worst suite of first essays I have ever marked.” Consternation passed openly through the assembly. “Mercifully, for those of you who care about your marks, this essay is only 30% of your grade. Even with a zero on this paper, you can still achieve a good mark in this class.”

“Are you going to bell curve the grades?” demanded one student who was familiar for consistently asking such questions.

“There is always the opportunity to improve your own grade and to receive an excellent mark on any assignment, Mr. Carmichael, but I will not be adjusting these grades. I do not believe in bell curves, as each class is unique. I do not mark to a quota: I give each paper the mark it deserves in my opinion, and if that meant every student got an A, I assure you that I would be delighted. Sadly, it usually means that the vast majority of students receive a C or an F.” She gave them a heartbeat to worry about that.

“But...”

“I am interested in the pursuit of academic excellence,” Leslie said, interrupting Mr. Carmichael crisply. “And the future of scholarship. It would be irresponsible on my part to mark over-generously. If none of you prepare an excellent essay or write an outstanding exam, it is my duty to give you a commensurate grade.”

“But...”

“I have tenure, Mr. Carmichael. They can only fire me for a few things, and telling the truth isn’t one of them.”

And Leslie could see, from one glance over the lecture hall, that she finally had their attention.

She hoped, a bit belatedly, that she was right about the tenure bit.

“Any questions? No? Fine, then I will leave your essays here for you to claim—surnames A through M in this pile, surnames N onward in this pile—and I look forward to our discussion on Tuesday. I remind you that the last date to drop any half course this semester without any mark of its presence remaining on your student record is tomorrow.”

Leslie left the lecture hall just as pandemonium erupted.

Wait until Dinkelmann heard about this.

The best part was that Leslie didn’t care. She had embarked on Naomi’s course of taking the high road and the only question she had was why she hadn’t done it sooner.

With those boxes gone, their burdens cast into the abyss to burn, she felt lighter on her feet. She felt like dancing, with a rose clenched in her teeth.

Maybe she should take tango lessons.

Except she’d want to take them with Matt and only with Matt, and that wasn’t likely to happen anytime soon. There was a thought to bring her back to earth.

Mercifully, there was one last Jersey Milk in the vending machine below the history department offices.

* * *

The phone was ringing in Leslie’s office and she was pretty sure it was Dinkelmann, calling to chew her out for failing to play by the new rules of the game. The man had a sixth sense for knowing when things in his kingdom were diverging from his edict of the day. She bit off another piece of chocolate once she got the door unlocked, crossed the office in one step and picked up the phone.

“I don’t care what you think, Dr. Dinkelmann,” she said with defiance. “It was the right thing to do and I’m glad I did it. Go ahead. Do your worst.”

There was a beat of silence, then a different male voice echoed in her ear. “What did you do that Dinkelmann won’t like?” Matt asked, his tone wary.

Ooops.

Leslie sat down at her desk, reminding herself to breathe. The chocolate bar was less interesting than it had been.

For the moment at least.

“I didn’t expect you to call,” she said, instead of answering him. “Since you didn’t call last night.”

“I was too drunk to punch in the number,” he said with a rueful laugh. Leslie silently gave herself ten bonus points for not asking if he had been too drunk to do the horizontal boogie with Sharan.

There was an awkward pause, one that Leslie was reluctant to fill with chatter about Zach or even Sharan. She waited instead, not wanting to hang up the phone either.

What did she want? She wanted a sign from Matt—a portent, like the ones Gregory of Tours recorded so diligently—that he still cared, at least a little.

An eclipse or a shooting star would do. She checked out the window, only to find thin winter sunlight on dirty snow.

“You never answered my question,” Matt said irritably. “Why do you hate your job? You never said anything before.”

“You never said you were going to lose the court case.”

“I thought you knew.”

“Maybe I thought you knew about my job, or would guess.”

“I had no idea,” he confessed. “So, we have that in common. Is this new?”

Leslie straightened, not feeling inclined to bare her thoughts when she was so uncertain of his intentions. “I don’t think it really matters...”

“Well, I do.” Matt interrupted her, that new tinge of impatience in his tone. “The thing is that I expected everything to be right between us again once that case was over and it isn’t and I want to know why.”

Leslie liked the sound of his determination, but she wasn’t going to cave in too easily. “I thought you were leaving instead.”

“Well, maybe I am.”

“No maybe about it. You
did
.”

“All right, I did.” Matt exhaled and lowered his voice. “But you surprised me, Leslie. I was sure that you loved your job. Look, if I’d known otherwise, maybe I would have done something different in court.”

Leslie toyed with a paperclip, well aware that she was hearing what she most wanted to hear yet afraid to trust it. “It didn’t sound like compromising your principles was an option.”

“Is that it, then? Do you feel you’ve compromised yours?”

“Does it matter? We need my paycheck—or I guess now I should say that I need it.”

Matt ignored that opportunity to pledge his return. “Yet you did something today that you knew Dinkelmann wouldn’t approve of. It’s not like you to be inconsistent. What aren’t you telling me?”

What wasn’t she telling
him
?

Leslie thought of the Christmas letter from Sharan, that Sharan knew about his intent to lose the case and about his novel, neither of which Leslie had known. She recalled that he was at Sharan’s home, maybe sitting at her kitchen table, using her phone, which maybe had a smear of her lipstick on it (maybe there was a smear on him to match) and yet none of that seemed to be worthy of conversation.

What wasn’t she telling him?

She probably should have guessed that she’d lose it. “What aren’t I telling you? Hello, aren’t you my husband who is several thousand miles away, staying at the home of his former girlfriend, and noncommittal about returning to the family domicile here? I think you’ve got a few confessions of your own to make, Mr. Coxwell.”

He wasn’t daunted at all. In fact, he came back hard and fast, as if he was still in court facing his brother. “Fair enough. We haven’t talked enough lately. How does your not telling me that you hated your job fit into fixing that? How does refusing to discuss it now change anything?”

Leslie paused and swallowed, hearing the truth in his words. Every journey began with a small step, just one.

Maybe it was time she took that step.

Maybe she should take it first.

“Okay,” she agreed, twining the telephone coil around her fingers. “You’re right. I should have talked to you about it. But I haven’t felt as if I even knew you lately, Matt, and this whole situation isn’t helping.” She wished she could see his eyes, wished she had evidence beyond the tone of his voice to measure his sincerity.

New Orleans might as well have been the moon.

“Fair enough,” he said tightly. She heard a chair being dragged across the floor. “So, talk to me now, Leslie. Tell me what’s wrong with your job.”

“Why should I bother?”

“What have you got to lose? And I’m asking.”

She thought about that for three seconds, then straightened and pushed her door with her fingertips. The door didn’t quite close, so she lowered her voice, sure that no one was around anyway. “It’s Dinkelmann.”

“The department head?”

Leslie found herself nodding. “Yesterday, he insisted that we have to give higher grades.”

“You’re whispering.”

“This isn’t the best place to express doubts about the emperor’s choice of wardrobe.”

Matt chuckled and Leslie was inordinately pleased that she had made him laugh, even a little. “I’ve missed your humor,” he said, his voice warm. “Why did you stop making jokes?”

Leslie felt herself blushing. “I don’t know.”

“When you became disenchanted with your job, I’ll bet,” he mused. “I’ve really got to become more observant.”

“I didn’t even notice,” Leslie admitted and there was a warm moment of understanding between them.

Matt cleared his throat. “So, presumably these higher grades are for the same work or lack thereof.” His disgust made Leslie feel better, as if she wasn’t fighting this battle alone.

She turned the paperclip over and over. “He wants me to just add the 15% participation grade to every student’s marks...”

“15% for free?” Matt was so incredulous that Leslie smiled. “Not even for showing up? The participation marks are already gimmes!”

“I know. And more students have to get A’s under the new policy. They’re going to calculate percentages.”

“I thought they did that already.”

“It was a request last time, not a formal policy.”

“So, why the change?”

“Apparently, the university is unable to compete for new students because of its reputation as a tough school. And people paying tuition want something great to show for it.”