Twenty-One
In the late afternoon, after a long day of classes and with hours left of grading, Gilda knocks on Esther’s office door. The heavy oak groans as it swings from the impact. “Dr. Voigt, come to my office.”
“Why can’t you talk to her here, Dr. Frederick?” I ask sarcastically. “Why does she need to come to your office and sit in your short-ass, uncomfortable chairs?”
Esther covers her snicker with a cough before replying, “Of course, Dr. Frederick. I’ll be there in a moment.
” She takes out the sound amplifier and sets it on the charger.
While she’s been wearing it constantly, she rarely replies when we’re not at home.
Still, it’s nice to be heard, and she seems to appreciate hearing my commentary.
Not that I have a lot of it, not until we get home and she can respond.
While I’m pretty sure I’ve spoken more in the months since my death than I did in the entirety of my life, I am still me.
More often than not, I simply make a ghostly observation.
Esther’s been dutifully compiling my facts in a document, in tidy bullet points labelled with the date and separated into themes.
One observation, which I haven’t shared with her yet, is that Esther has gotten better about figuring out where I am in the room.
Perhaps it’s based on the sound of my voice, or maybe the tie between us feels more physical for her than it does for me?
I’m not sure how she can tell where I am if she can only hear me through the sound amplifier, but Esther has given a few deadpan stares in my general direction when someone says something particularly infuriating or funny.
Her aim isn’t perfect, but it’s probably as close to eye contact as I can get without physical form.
I take the seat next to her in front of Gilda’s desk.
Gilda’s office is designed to intimidate.
Cash warned me before I interviewed for the adjunct position that eventually went to Esther.
Her ornate desk is solid oak, and she sits in a wingback executive chair with built-in bookshelves packed full on the wall behind her.
Meanwhile, she has two club chairs for visitors to sit in; they sink so low, her visitors have to look up at her, no matter how tall they are.
For me, being quite tall and prepared for it, it seemed comical at the time.
Now that I know Gilda better, I find it more frustrating than funny.
Especially when it’s someone as diminutive as Esther sinking into the chair.
This powerhouse of a woman doesn’t need to rely on semiotics to have the upper hand.
She fought so hard early in her career for respect, that she doesn’t realize her pendulum has swung too far in the other direction.
She’s become a caricature of herself, an unintentional satire of her values.
“Dr. Voigt, we’ve had a few complaints from students,” Gilda says as she sits, her leather chair creaking. “The quality of your teaching seems to be declining.”
“What? Seriously? That’s how you start that conversation?
” I ask, annoyed on behalf of Esther. “You give her double the classes to teach—most of which have been intro classes—and no additional support. Your idea of going easier on her this semester has been three extra classes, instead of four! She’s been handling it better than anyone else in this department could! ”
Esther’s jaw works back and forth as she tilts her head. “I’m sorry to hear that. Could you please elaborate on the feedback you’ve received?”
When Esther is upset, her voice becomes unusually decisive.
As if anger turns her usual soft butch energy into the most stubborn masc.
Even the way she sits in the chair—leaning back and spreading her legs with an intentionally casual air—hints at the inner steel she rarely shows.
Like her polite decline of Angel’s advances, her “sorry” wasn’t a true apology this time.
Her shoulders are set, gaze determined as she looks up at Gilda from across the desk.
Her subtle fierceness is so admirable.
Gilda waves her hand. “I can’t give specifics.
The Dean wouldn’t give me names. Just generally that you’ve been late in getting grades to students, more classes have been virtual than the standards the college expects now that you’re back in person, and you don’t seem knowledgeable about the course content.
Of course, the asshole wouldn’t tell me which courses, so I can’t tell you who said it. ”
“That’s all right. I don’t need to know who said what.” Esther replies carefully, her hands folding in her lap. “Did the Dean suggest anything that could help me improve my performance?”
“Seriously, East? You’re just going to take that?
” I ask incredulously. “Stand up for yourself! You just survived a literal plague, you have an overwhelming amount of work, and she rejected your request for a TA. You teach classes six days a week! And she has you teaching Philosophy of Death again—she should have canceled that shit!”
Gilda shrugs. “He seems to be under the impression that you don’t have enough support and your workload is too high. I reassured him that you have it under control. But really, you should come to me if you can’t handle the work. I hate being on the Dean’s shit list.”
“Her workload is too high!” I yell at Gilda.
“She did come to you for support, and you repeatedly told her to figure it out on her own! You would never put this much work on a male colleague, especially not one who almost died a month ago! Why are you holding her to a higher standard? You hate it when they do that to you!”
Esther tugs on her ear. “With all due respect, Dr. Frederick, I did request a TA on multiple occasions to assist with grading the intro coursework. Since I’m teaching Dr. Monae’s courses on top of my own again this semester, that leaves me teaching six days a week and not enough time to grade a hundred essays a week. ”
Gilda waves her hand. “That’s because I trust you to actually grade the work. We only had one TA available, and Allan needs her because he can’t grade an essay to save his life.”
“Allan is perfectly capable of grading a damn essay!” I snap.
“He just acts like he can’t, so he can get a TA to do his job for him.
You’re rewarding Esther’s competence with more work!
That’s bullshit! She may not be contagious anymore, but Esther is still recovering from the Pox, and you hold her to impossible expectations? ”
“I appreciate the vote of confidence,” Esther says, carefully. Her eyes flick toward me, then back to Gilda. “However, if students are complaining about the speed at which I provide feedback on their essays, then wouldn’t that suggest I do need additional support?”
“And what, have all of the chauvinist relics in the department snark about how women shouldn’t be professors?” Gilda leans forward on her desk. “I wouldn’t dare to give them the satisfaction. They’d be after me to step down in a heartbeat.”
“Couldn’t Allan share what he learned at the Diversity in Philosophy conference? Surely, he learned something there,” I mutter, the sarcasm dripping hot. I’m still bitter on Esther’s behalf that Allan took her place at the conference, that she and Cash worked so hard to get funding for.
“If that does happen, I’m sure Allan could share what he learned at the Diversity in Philosophy conference?
” The question sounds a lot more innocent in Esther’s soft voice, but the shock of her repeating what I said nearly word for word leaves me sputtering.
She left the amplifier in her office, didn’t she?
“I thought that was one of the reasons he attended?”
Gilda lets out a bitter laugh. “You mean the conference he was kicked out of after two hours?” She sighs and covers her face. “Forget you heard that. Legal says that’s confidential.”
Esther leans forward, forcing her to look up even higher to meet Gilda’s eyes.
“Look, Dr. Frederick, I cannot keep up with the work of two people. That’s not a reflection on me or any aspect of who I am; no one in this department could.
I’m willing to do it if that’s what we need—especially since I get paid by the course—but I do need more support.
Could we request additional funds for TAs and frame it as a way to mentor older students?
Like how Dr. Berger mentored Dr. Monae when she was his TA. ”
Gilda makes a noncommittal hum. “You would look more like a leader that way. And it would get the Dean off my back. Maybe we could have a mentor program for upperclassmen who want to pursue academics.”
“Great idea, Dr. Frederick.” Esther sits back in her chair with that irresistibly masc attitude she so rarely shows, a smug glint in her eyes. “I think that’s a wonderful plan, especially if it focuses on underrepresented demographics in academics.”
“East, that was all your idea.” I suck my teeth as I settle back down into the chair. “Don’t give her credit for any of that.”
Esther gives one of her deadpan stares in my general direction briefly, before turning back to Gilda. “I’d be happy to pilot your new mentee program. I could accommodate two or three mentees with my current workload. And perhaps next semester, we could expand it further?”
Gilda is furiously writing notes for herself. “Oh, the Dean is going to eat this shit up.”
I turn to Esther, who is looking in my direction again; her bottom lip is firmly between her teeth to keep from smiling.
I’m beaming with newfound appreciation for her soft voice and deceptive lack of self-confidence that hides the sheer stubborn will underneath.
“You played her at her own damn game. Genius.”
With a smug smile, Esther raises an eyebrow, tugging on her ear.
Her ear without the sound amplifier.
“Oh shit, you can hear me?” A laugh bubbles out of me at the ridiculous suggestion.
But is it so ridiculous? I’m still giddy that she can hear me in the first place.
If she could hear me, hear my voice, that would mean…
I’d be real. Maybe not tangible, but more real than a voice in a speaker or a draft through a feather.
With a subtle nod that lands like a blow to the chest, Esther tugs on her ear again, and another laugh escapes me through my shallow breaths. “Was there anything else you wanted to discuss, Dr. Frederick? My office hours start in a few minutes.”
“What’s what?” Gilda looks up. “Oh, no, I’ll be in touch when I post for the mentor program. Be sure to send it to students you think would be a good fit for it.”
“Of course. Thank you for the feedback, Dr. Frederick. Always looking for ways I can learn and grow.” Esther smiles sweetly as she leaves Gilda’s office.
I follow her eagerly, not even needing to be pulled with her because my long not-legs are float-striding ahead to her office to discuss this newest development: she can hear me!