The Pot Thief Who Studied the Woman at Otowi Crossing Page 3

  “You have to go even though you’re just an adjunct?”

  I shrugged. “The dean asked me to.”

  “The dean calls department meetings?”

  “Normally it’s the department head, but …”

  When I didn’t finish my sentence, she waited a moment and said softy, “He’s dead.” After another pause, she added, “Sorry. I guess the less said about that the better.”

  His name was Milton Shorter. He was shot to death in his office after the end of the fall semester. I was in the office when it happened.

  I put my fork down and took a sip of coffee. Jessica Fletcher. Susannah tells me it’s more cozy than noir, though I don’t know how murder can be cozy. Maybe I should watch an episode. We don’t have a television, but evidently you can watch television on a computer these days, and Sharice has one of those.

  “Coincidence,” she said, reading my mind. Then she leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. “And a lucky one for me. If he hadn’t been shot, you’d be dead.”

  “I try not to think about it.”

  “You could stay home,” she suggested, “and avoid the memories.” She smiled and added, “And the weird faculty.”

  “Some of the faculty are nice. And the weird ones make the meetings interesting.”

  “That’s the spirit. Got to run.” She kissed me again, rubbed Geronimo’s head and Benz’ ears and headed out.

  I took the boys for a walk and washed the dishes when we got back. I cleaned the windows which took a couple of hours because my goal is to make it appear there is no glass in them so that I can enjoy the view of the snow-capped Sandia Mountains to the east.

  I left the condo and walked west on Central. Those of you who know Albuquerque realize the university is east of downtown, but the meeting was at three, so I had enough time to go to Treasure House Books in Old Town. I figured the owner, John Hoffsis, would have a copy of The House at Otowi Bridge. He specializes in books about The Land of Enchantment.

  Since the round-trip walk to Old Town met my daily exercise target, I drove to the university in my old Bronco and actually found a place to park, maybe because the semester hadn’t started.

  I took the book with me, thinking I might read during the long debates regarding Robert’s Rules of Order.

  When I arrived at the meeting room adjacent to the dean’s office, no one was there. I don’t know anything about deans, but artists are not known for punctuality, so I took a seat and started reading the forward of The House at Otowi Bridge:

  I have been sitting in my garden this morning thinking of Edith Warner, how many years it has been since she died and how fast the world we knew has gone on changing. She lies in an Indian grave near the Pueblo of San Ildefonso, nothing over her but the earth hard as a bare heel, and the fragments of the clay pots that were broken over the grave according to the ancient custom of the Pueblo. The little house she lived in beside the bridge was already falling to pieces when I saw it last. The new bridge of towering rigid steel, with two lanes for the traffic that now speeds back and forth to Los Alamos, crosses the Rio Grande close to the wellhouse. The vines that used to hang there, their leaves so glossy and cool in the quivery summer heat, are a mass of clotted dry stems and tendrils. I suppose hardly anyone stops to listen to the river any more.

  But I still see Edith standing in the doorway, her thin figure straight as an aspen in a mountain forest, her eyes lifted to the long dark rim of the mesa east of the river. She watches the sky for the northward flight of the wild geese, “that long silver V endlessly circling and reforming,” to tell us of spring’s sure return.

  Spring does surely return, bringing new life and—I hoped—helping to put the fall semester out of mind.

  Just as the visit of a friend from long ago kindles feelings sweeter than mere memory, so too does the rereading of a good book.

  I am disappointed when Dean Gangji enters from a side door because I have to close the book.

  I stand.

  He smiles and extends his right hand. “Hello, Hubert. Thanks for coming.” His bright smile softens a stern countenance dominated by a dark full beard and penetrating eyes.

  “My pleasure,” I reply fatuously. Attending an academic meeting is not a pleasure. Nor is being alone in a room with a person whose rank and demeanor are both intimidating.

  “The meeting will begin at 4:00. I asked you to be here at 3:00 so that we could talk before the others arrive.”

  I wipe a bit of sweat off my upper lip. Talk about what? I wonder. The unapproved field trip I took my students on in the fall? The way I screwed up the budget by not using the clay that had been ordered? The death of one of my students? The sexual harassment complaint? The racial discrimination complaint? The protest my students staged—at my suggestion—that disrupted the student/faculty art show? The department head being shot dead while I was in his office?

  Or had Dean Gangji checked the records and wanted now to discuss the fact that I had been expelled from the graduate program in archaeology decades ago for digging up and selling ancient pottery? Running over that list brings to mind seven words: What the hell am I doing here?

  He asks me to sit down. He turns a chair to face me and sits in it.

  “Your first semester as an adjunct was remarkable,” he says.

  Here comes the list, I think to myself.

  He pulls a paper from inside his suit jacket and looks it over. “This is the summary of the numerical portion of the student evaluations of your class in the fall.”

  I think, Get this over with.

  “Every one of your students gave you a five in every category. A perfect score.”

  “That’s nice,” I mutter.

  He reaches into his coat and brings out another paper. “This is the list of comments they made. Because it is optional, most students don’t complete the comments portion of the evaluation. The professors who get comments are the worst and the best. I’m sure you can see why that is the case. The very best professors get positive comments from maybe half their students. But all nine of your students wrote comments. Not just the usual ‘Loved this class’ or ‘Great teacher’. Each one of your students wrote a thoughtful short essay on the positive impact you had on them.” He looks up at me and smiles again. “I’ve been the dean of the college for over a decade. This is the best set of student evaluations I’ve seen.”

  I open my mouth. I don’t know why; I have nothing to say. Maybe it’s my body’s reaction to surprise. I finally realize he expects me to comment. I have no idea what to say. The only thing that comes to mind is an explanation—more of an excuse really.

  “In the interest of full disclosure, I need to tell you, Dean Gangji, that those positive results may not be an accurate appraisal of me as a teacher. They were achieved under a bizarre set of circumstances that will likely never recur.”

  “Please elaborate.”

  “As I’m sure you know, one of my students was murdered. As often happens in tragic circumstances, that brought us all together. We spent most of the semester making ceramics with the idea of selling them and using the proceeds to name a scholarship for the deceased student. So the rave reviews are more about that circumstance than about me.”

  “I admire your modesty, but it is misplaced. I read every word the students wrote. It is clear that they see you as the person who united them in that shared cause. I would show you what they wrote, but the comments on evaluations are confidential.”

  “Well, the evaluations are nice. But a class can be evaluated by more than just student opinion.” And I recited the litany to him. “What about the unapproved field trip? The way I screwed up the budget by not using the clay that had been ordered? The sexual harassment complaint? The racial discrimination complaint? The protest my students staged—at my suggestion—that disrupted the student/faculty art show? Surely those are not indications
of a successful class.”

  “I appreciate your candor. But in fact, those are all positives. The unapproved field trip was a rousing success according to the students. And the fact that it was unapproved is not your fault. It is ours for not properly orienting you as a new adjunct. The clay was also the department’s mistake. You should have been consulted before any supplies were ordered. The two complaints were groundless and both were withdrawn by the students who made them. And in their student evaluation comments, they apologized for filing the complaints in the first place. Frankly, I bear more responsibility than you do because had we made better administrative decisions, none of those things would have happened.”

  I begin to feel like the guy who is pardoned, given an apology for being unjustly charged and presented with a large check and a cheap suit by way of recompense.

  Then I remember the demonstration and disruption my students and I caused at the annual student/faculty art show and mention it to the Dean.

  “My favorite part of the story,” he says. “That show has been a farce for years. Works get accepted based on petty department politics rather than artistic merit. Your salon des refusés was the perfect response. It is time to redo that show and revamp the selection process, and you are the man to do it.”

  “I don’t think the department would let me do that. I’m just an adjunct.”

  He looks me squarely in the eye. “I am not planning to offer you an adjunct position for the spring semester.”

  I stare at him. All that praise was just padding for a soft landing after he fires me?

  He pulls another paper from his suit jacket; it’s like a miniature file system in there. “This is a contract for you as a full-time temp lecturer for the spring semester.”

  “What’s a full-time temp lecturer?”

  “It’s like an adjunct but full-time. A lecturer is a faculty member who is not eligible for tenure and is usually hired for only one semester. We need someone for the spring semester because, as you know all too well, Junior Prather was dismissed for cause, so we are short one ceramicist.”

  The “cause” in this case was Junior assaulting me at the aforementioned student/faculty show.

  Before proceeding, I feel the need to say a few words about my alma mater lest you get the impression from the foregoing that the crime rate on campus rivals Detroit. For the most part it is an excellent public university with many prestigious faculty members and distinguished graduates. Junior Prather is not one of the former, and I am not one of the latter.

  Gangji hands me the contract and says, “You will note that the salary is $24,000. You will teach 4 courses unless you are granted release time for other duties. You will also receive the usual benefit package—health insurance the cost of which is shared between employee and university, and a modest payment into the retirement system. I hope you will agree to the contract.”

  I do a quick mental calculation. My one course as an adjunct in the fall paid me $2,100. Four courses for $24,000 is $6,000 per course, almost three times the rate per course. My last salaried job was twenty-five years ago. The idea of getting a check every month is irresistible. I sign the contract and hand it back to him.

  Chapter 6

  After Gangji left, the first faculty member to join me in the dean’s conference room was Helga Ólafsdóttir who arrived ten minutes early. Maybe arriving early is important in her native Iceland. Gives you time to warm up before the meeting starts. Helga teaches life drawing and a 3-D studio course where her specialty is weavings.

  I suppose Helga belongs to the group of faculty members Sharice described as weird. Depends on whether you think it’s weird to pose nude in a class you yourself are teaching so that students can learn figure drawing.

  Harte Hockley joined us at 4:00 on the dot. He’s a bit conceited, but I don’t think conceit is on the weird spectrum. And his high opinion of himself as an artist is justified.

  Jollo Bakkie never struck me as the punctual sort, but she was next, perhaps because she is the parliamentarian. I’m told her name is common in Estonia. What is weird is that she is not Estonian. She took some students there on a study-abroad trip and had her name changed after she returned. What didn’t change was her aggressive behavior. Jollo teaches water color painting. Except now it is called aqueous media. She longs to teach the real painting course—oil. But Hockley is much better at it. His paintings are displayed at galleries in places like Santa Fe and New York and sell for $10,000. Jollo’s paintings are most often seen at Goodwill and priced below five bucks.

  Jack Wiezga is a bit eccentric, but the strangest thing about him is he retains a studio in the department even though he has been retired for years. And he has some sort of power over the department. When people in the art department say they wonder which way the wind is blowing, that’s code for wondering what Wiezga is thinking.

  Next in was Fe Solís who claims to be Native American. I suspect he’s a phony. He teaches ‘small metals’—formerly known as jewelry making—but the stuff he makes, while showing excellent craftsmanship and design, has no connection to any Native American traditions. And he never mentions any pueblo or tribe. When asked where he grew up, his only remark is, “On a reservation.”

  Fe was followed closely by an Hispanic woman named Ana Abeyta, a charming person who teaches crafts such as wood carving and Mexican punched tin folk art.

  Hal Olley came in with sawdust on his vest. He teaches three sculpting classes—one using metal, one using stone, and one using wood. I assumed he was doing the wood class this semester and had been getting the studio ready. Or maybe the sawdust was left over from a previous course; Hal is habitually messy.

  When a tall bespectacled young fellow strolled in, I assumed it was Paul Ethan, the guy who teaches digital art. I never met him in the fall because his classes were all in the evening and he didn’t attend departmental meetings, which I took to be a mark in his favor. I’d been told he had a full-time day job doing something with computers.

  Melvin Armstrong, the one remaining potter, arrived looking like a man of substance in a well-tailored suit, his beard neatly trimmed, a sheen on his impressive forehead. Because light travels faster than sound, he appears intelligent when he enters a room while speaking. It is only when the sound waves arrive that you realize he is a dunce. He and Junior Prather were so upset by my appointment as an adjunct that they refused to speak to me.

  The last person in was Wally Pence, the coordinator of student teaching. He doesn’t teach art. He doesn’t teach at all. His job is to make the rounds of the public schools where the art education students are doing their practice teaching. He evaluates their progress. If he is weird in some way, I suppose it would be that in his travels around the state, he collects barbed wire and claims to have over a thousand pieces of it taken off of derelict fences. Much of the collection is in his office, which looks like a cactus thicket but less inviting because some of the barbs are eight inches long. And most of the wire is rusted. At least you can’t get tetanus from a cactus.

  Jollo Bakkie stood up and announced, “In the absence of a department head, it is my job as parliamentarian to call this meeting to order and to chair it until an interim department head is selected. That will be the second item on the agenda. The first is approving the minutes of the last meeting”

  “What about tea?” asked Ann Abeyta.

  “Please indicate you want be recognized before speaking,” Bakkie scolded.

  Ann shook her head and raised her hand.

  Bakkie said, “The chair recognizes Professor Abeyta.”

  “What about tea?” asked Abeyta again.

  “Organizing tea for the meetings is one of the duties of the department head,” Bakkie replied.

  “Freddie came up with the idea, and he is now in prison,” said Hockley, “and Milton continued it, and he is now dead. Maybe we should abolish the tea serving.”
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  Bakke ruled his comment out of order, adding, “Tea is not on the agenda. I need a motion to approve the minutes from the last meeting.”

  “We don’t have any minutes to approve,” said Helga. “Milton was killed before he had a chance to compile the minutes.”

  “What about the departmental secretary?” asked Bakkie

  “She resigned,” said Ann.

  “Who could blame her?” Helga said to no one in particular

  Bakke glared at her for speaking before being recognized and said, “Under the circumstances, we will follow rule 5.1 C which states that ‘At the option of the person chairing a departmental meeting, oral minutes may be approved in lieu of written minutes’. Will someone volunteer to give an oral summary of the last meeting?”

  Not surprisingly, no one did.

  Finally, Helga raised her hand.

  Bakkie said, “Thank you professor Ólafsdóttir. Please give your summary.”

  Helga said, “The last department meeting was in the fall semester the week before final exams began. There was lengthy discussion on several topics. No decisions were reached.”

  Some people laughed, Bakke and Armstrong expressed scorn, and everyone started talking at once.

  Luckily, I was seated at the back of the room. I opened my book and read Peggy Pond Church’s memory of Tilano, Edith Warner’s companion and perhaps lover:

  Old Tilano, who was nearly sixty when he came across the bridge from the pueblo to live with Edith at “the place where the river makes a noise,” comes in from the well and smiles as he sets the bucket of water beside the kitchen door. I shall never forget the gentleness and dignity of his face, brown as a weathered rock, the two black braids of his hair wound with yarn as blue as the sky at midday. I have a picture of him which has stood for a long time on my desk. Dressed in jeans, a sun-faded shirt, a wrinkled cowboy hat, he is stooping to pour clean water over the bare feet of my small son, muddy with play at the edge of the muddy river. The little boy has grown to manhood and has children of his own. Tilano has lived out his life and gone, like Edith, to be part of the timeless spirit of the land. On the high Pajarito Plateau west of the river, where as a child I used to hunt for arrowheads among the pueblo ruins, the city of Los Alamos now sprawls with its fierce and guarded laboratories, its rows of modern houses, its theaters and flashy supermarkets. The paved road that runs from north to south across the plateau parallels the remnants of an old trail worn ankle-deep in places by the moccasined feet of Indians. On one side of the road is a tightly woven metal fence bearing in enormous red letters the warning DANGER! PELIGROSO! On the other, a “sacred area” has been set aside where the Indians of San Ildefonso still tend traditional shrines and place prayer plumes when their hearts are right.