Teaching Night Class: Southwestern College, 1993

53 Kjersti Reed Teaching Night Class Southwestern College, 1993 Ben Gomez reads his essay out loud, tells how his friend, Lynda, wore Levi's in August's worst heat, shirt sleeves down to wrists; she'd hide mysterious shadows on her cheeks beneath full-length bangs. She'd always deny it when Ben asked if Kenny mistreated her. But once at 2:00 am, the phone woke him. At her bungalow across town, even soft porch light couldn't hide this beating, four-year-old Adele, shivering in her arms. As Ben reads on, we all lean toward him from our circle of chairs. He'd promised Lynda he'd see her through all of it, the move to the women's shelter; he'd attend every seminar, lecture with her if she'd only leave now. She did. Listening, I'm surprised how easily I keep my composure, grateful for that, especially when students' eyes shift to me, then back to Ben, in the rough parts. I'm giving them nothing to go on, hoping they'll forget that onesentence slip-of-the-tongue about how I'd lived in a violent marriage. After class, I walk back to Ben's desk on impulse; he's shuffling notes, books into a backpack. "I just want to say how much I admire how you helped your friend when she..." as words lock in a gulp. Ben studies me, 54 the minnesota review knowingly, from his height, eyes framed by wire-rimmed glasses like Victor wore that night we'd met in a college library over thirty years before. Ben, tall, narrow of torso like Victor was, age the same mid-twenties; both with olive skin, Hispanic sur names. I jerk my legs away from that spot, unable to recover, escape to the blackboard, grapple for an eraser, wave it in wide swipes over chalked script, as if waving good-bye to a lover. Heading home on 805, I don't fan the dial for old rock tunes, for the perfect beat to celebrate a night's work done. And I don't drive my usual 75 mph. Instead, headlights swerve around me as they pass, drivers probably swearing out loud like I'd do, as I grip the steering wheel with both hands. I can't stop tears grazing my arm, peppering my black skirt. Ifs hard to see my exit. ...