The Accidental Native (23 page)

“What's going to happen to him?”

Foley reared back and laughed.

“Absolutely nothing. In fact, he's getting a sort of promotion. They'll transfer him to the main campus, where they are above following institutional policy and regulations. And for now, to avoid the obvious embarrassment, he gets a paid leave.”

“That's ridiculous.”

“Well, it's their problem now. If someone sues for any reason based on his lack of credentials—a student he fails, a colleague he recommends not to renew—they'll have a case on their hands. You get my drift?”

“Yes, I do,” I responded, grateful for the information, but feeling slimy at having it and knowing how it emerged. “And you say Micco's involved?”

“He finally played his trump card.”

“Why did he feel a need for one?”

“I'm sure you've heard the stories about Micco's student love interests and how he allegedly treats these women.”

“I heard they were rumors.”

“I don't know, Rennie, really. But we know the remarks were coming from our now departed colleague. His divorce turned him so bitter it showed on his face every day. He was becoming rigid and intolerably self-serving. He had to go.”

“So, it comes down to revenge.”

“Oh, come on, it's always more than that, isn't it?”

“From what you tell me that's what it sounds like.”

He stood up to leave, but stared at me with a face that flashed a combination of amusement and pity for my naiveté.

“Micco is more ambitious than he lets on. Everyone has an agenda.”

“What's yours?” I asked.

He stared at me for what seemed an eternity. “Well, now, what fun would it be if I told you? I think it's more productive if you asked yourself the same question.”

With that he walked out and in the hallway shouted, “Seven p.m., Friday.”

Since I set foot on the campus, Foley had said no more than a few friendly words to me, mostly cursory stuff, and now he was inviting me to his house for drinks and dinner. It didn't make sense, but he had been instrumental, I know, in helping me retain my job. Minimal gratitude compelled me to attend. But, what did this man want?

My gaze landed where he had been sitting so regally, Micco's previous chair, now vacated along with the desk. All the stuff on his work area had been transported to the chair's office, where Roque once dwelled and terrified everyone, especially me. I now found his arrogant self-righteousness and hypocrisy unbearable. Colleagues had often told me how hard he was on instructors who didn't meet his demanding standards and how he played a strong hand in getting them dismissed. He had once said his happiest days were working as a Peace Corps volunteer. He should have
gone into social service instead of academics and saved many people hassles and aggravation.

Now, Micco was the new department chair. Everyone was shocked; no one thought he was the type to want an administrative position, the chairmanship of a department, much less of the English Department, widely reputed to be the worst, with the most argumentative and rebellious professors. From Foley's comments, it seemed as if he had been positioning himself all along. Kind of bittersweet not having Micco around. No one had claimed the desk, so I had the office all to myself, but it sometimes made me feel lonelier and more alienated than ever. In a strange way, I missed his obnoxious comments and off-putting innuendos, his corny jokes delivered in that terrible British accent. It's like a ragged pair of smelly sneakers you know you should throw out but still keep, only because they are there and keep you in a comfort zone.

Reminiscing made me realize that I hadn't congratulated Micco on his new position. At the office I signaled if the new chair was in and Nitza waved me in as she typed away. Nitza was fond of Roque, one of his few admirers and supporters. Ever since his departure, she seemed more ornery and smiled even less.

I rapped on the open door to his office to get his attention. He seemed earnestly at work, shuffling papers—a rarity, that he appeared at work, that is.

“Hey, Junior, nice to see you. What can I do you for?”

I sat down on one of the hard seats, one of Roque's legacies.

“You need to get rid of these seats, my man.”

“I'll take it under advisement. How you doing?”

“I'm great. Just dawned on me I haven't congratulated you on your new job. So congratulations.”

He bowed his head and gestured taking off an imaginary hat.

“Didn't think you had it in you,” I said, looking at him in what most have seemed like bewilderment and repulsion. He glanced my way, not certain how to take my words.

He pointed for me to close the door so I kicked it shut with my foot. He threw himself back on the new leather chair, considerably more comfortable than the Spartan one preferred by Roque. Micco's face turned sullen, even nasty, his lively eyes narrowing on me.

“Don't judge me. You don't know how long I've dealt with that troglodyte. I know Foley told you, I can tell.” He bent over the desk and moved toward me. “So fucking shoot me,” he whispered. “Pedro was getting out of control, abusive. Your case was the proverbial last straw.”

“So you did it for me, that's sweet.”

“You can joke. But some of us actually did think an injustice was being committed in your case.” His seriousness and indignant sneer shut me up.

“He had promised your position to a friend, and when he was blocked, he took it out on you.”

He tapped a pencil on the desk, the only sound in the room for a few seconds. “But this,” he said, pointing to the desk emphatically, “was also an opportunity, and I took it.”

Shrugging his shoulders, he added, “I'm a shitty teacher, Rennie, I know it. The students and I are better served with me in administration, the only place to make decent money in this racket, anyway.”

I stood up and extended my hand. “I'm glad for you, then, that you found your true calling.”

He shook my hand and then, in his irritating fake Brit accent, told me, “Now, get the blazes out of my office and don't let the door hit your bum.”

I was about to turn and leave when Micco reminded me about Rita's funeral, which was tomorrow. In the midst of Roque's disappearance, my renewal and Micco's promotion, we had received the inevitable news of Rita's passing. Micco had been at the hospital, in the unit's waiting area, as her most immediate family gathered to say their last farewell.

The funeral was in Fajardo, Rita's hometown, where she also had lived in a gated community. She used to have special schedules, and drove from Fajardo to Baná, a considerable distance, but she always told us she didn't mind because her hometown was so beautiful it was worth it.

Julia called me and surprised me by telling me she would attend the funeral. Rita's family and mine had had dealings with each other, business and friendly, for decades. One of Julia's partners
owned an apartment in one of the many exclusive condos in that coastal town and offered it to her for the weekend. It was a roomy apartment, so she invited me to stay there and, shockingly, asked me to invite Marisol, which I did.

I didn't think Marisol would accept, but I think we were all devastated with losing a colleague. Most of us had rescheduled classes to take a few days off. We all needed rest, time to reflect. Being by the ocean would help the healing process, for me, anyway. Marisol felt the same way, and I think she sensed we needed to open up again and talk. At least, that was my hope.

We drove in separate cars to Fajardo on a cloudy day to commemorate Rita's life and lay her remains to rest. The parking lot at the Sabadell Funeral Home was full, and we had to park on a side street. We walked single-file like strangers on the narrow sidewalk leading to Sabadell.

The funeral home had three capillas, or small parlors. All three were full, so that the respectful in attendance would spill into the lobby to congregate and talk, cry or munch on the snacks and beverages offered by the establishment. We entered Rita's capilla to a standing-room crowd. Almost everyone in the English Department was in attendance. Glaringly absent was Roque, who apparently was too embarrassed to make any public appearance, even to pay respects to a colleague. According to Micco, Roque had voted against Rita's tenure due to her “badly accented English and weak academic background.”

Dutifully, we approached the casket to pay our respects. It's always amazing how funeral cosmetology can turn a pallid, drawn-out face into one with color and a placid and peaceful appearance. Rita, I thought, we'll never dance again. I touched her cold hand, in which they had wrapped a rosary, and said my last farewell to the body that had once contained the essence of Rita María Gómez, a woman who seemed to love life so much and was given so little of it. We gave our condolences, the “pésame” in Spanish, to her parents and other family members who received them in that vacuous, tired way, after hearing it so many times.

Marisol and I moved to the little room in the back to listen to a reverend give a homily. Rita, I knew, was not a very religious person,
but she was not one to take any particular stand against it. She attended church with her parents, who were very religious, more for them than anything else. She believed in a higher being. But the preacher surely was the parents' doing. He spoke in that gentle fashion so common among preachers and so soothing to the grieving. Rita's parents sat up front in cushioned armchairs set out especially for the most immediate members of the grieving family. It struck me so odd, and sad, to see older folks mourning the loss of a child, even if like Rita, she was approaching forty. The rest of those congregated sat and fidgeted in rigid, blue velvet chairs.

These ceremonies are always drawn out; people stand to speak, to reminisce, eulogize, and maybe they take too long because they don't want to let go. Micco spoke on the department's behalf. His words were curt and centered on how devoted Rita was to her students—I couldn't help sneering. Rita had no such notions about being an unselfish, martyred teacher; she worked hard at being the best teacher possible, but like most of us had no qualms about complaining about student laziness and the hopelessness we all felt at times in a thankless profession that paid badly.

The preacher led everyone in prayer, and I turned and saw Foley seated by a corner, eyes closed, deep in prayer. I don't know why that shocked me, but it did. Even Julia, who I finally found in the second row, impeccably dressed in a black pantsuit, had eyes shut and was mumbling something. While everyone bent heads in prayer, or pretended reflection, I glimpsed at Marisol and thought how lovely she looked in black, how her bronzed calves looked spectacular in her high heels.

I had thought the prayers would bring an end to the ceremony, but a young woman stood up in front of an upright mike. The resemblance to Rita was striking: the same almond eyes, the evenly shaped slender nose, the shiny black hair. She mentioned how “Titi” had always loved this song she was going to sing for us, how whenever it played on the radio she'd raise the volume and sing out loud. “Although not very well,” she added, drawing nervous laughter from us.

Then music played, and she sang Lee Ann Womack's “I Hope You Dance.” She sang it beautifully, and later we learned that she
was studying voice at the Conservatory in San Juan. The prayers had not moved me, the scene itself had not. But that young woman, looking so much like her aunt, singing that song so powerfully, while we listened enraptured to the lyrics as if they were our friend and colleague's parting words to us—it moved me to tears. Over in the corner, Foley bowed his head and, when he looked up, his eyes were red and two tears trickled down his cheeks. Quickly, he wiped them away with one hand.

As she sang the refrain, I saw Rita dancing, twirling in her graceful way, her head back in laughter, tossing her hair.

Then, when she reached the part about not settling for the path of least resistance, I had to exit the room, wiping with a palm the tears, choking on my outrage and anger. So wrong, so wrong, I kept thinking.

I straightened up as Foley walked out of the door. He looked at me, smiled and grabbed me by the shoulder.

“Come on, have a drink with me,” he said.

“We have to go to the cemetery.”

“Not for about half an hour, they said.” He stared at me, head lifted, his arm resting on my shoulder.

“Humor me, I'm Irish. There's no wake unless there's drinking.”

We headed to a little corner bar, signaling to Micco, who, afraid of crowded rooms, surely had walked out before the stirring rendition of the song. He tagged along, and the three of us were soon plopped on stools, sipping scotch—the only drink fit for mourning the dead, according to Foley.

Into the silence, we scattered reminisces of Rita, the usual funny stories, the lasting memories that would keep her alive for us. Literally a hole-in-the-wall, this was the type of bar where men came to pick up a beer on their way home. We held three of the five stools. A small TV had a daytime soap on, an odd choice, given the virile clientele, but then what else could the bartender put on when he did not have satellite access to sports? The bartender was a short guy, who was insulted when we expressed surprise he had Glenlivet; he served our shots as if he were a bartender at the Hilton. In the background, merengue and bachata music was thumping. We hunkered over our drinks in silence,
feeling, with unequal intensity, the buzz of the scotch mingling with our sadness.

And then out of nowhere, Foley recited something, in some guttural language. Micco and I stared at him, like he was possessed, and maybe he was. He chuckled.

“How that time has passed away, dark under the cover of night, as if it had never been!”

“Okay, buddy, time to leave,” Micco patted him on the back.

“Alas for the bright cup!” he responded, raising his shot glass, laughing. “Alas for the mailed warrior!”