Brian MacDonald and Jewel Beth Davis

Untitled
By Brian MacDonald
Made using Jewel Beth Davis’s story (below) as inspiration

Super Woman
By Jewel Beth Davis

The red light on the answering machine flashes on and off in an alarming manner. Listen. To me. Answer. Me. Don’t. Walk by. You’d better. Listen.

It’s New Year’s Eve, 1:30 PM. I’ve just arrived home. My lids are drooping and small kernels of unknown disturbances in my eyes seem to have magnified into glass shards. I walk through my office on my way to bed and glance at my answering machine. It’s blinking with four messages.

Four! I never get four messages. The machine is like a loud, insistent relative that I’m obligated to interact with but would rather not. If blinking had a decibel level, this would be a nine or ten. This is intriguing. It had better not be bad news. But why would anyone call on New Year’s unless something terrible happened?

I think about leaving it blinking until the morning. I mean, whoever is dead or hurt will still be similarly situated in the morning. I can’t do it. I don’t have the self-discipline. I reach my hand, the finger pointing like the Ghost of Christmas Future, toward the message button hoping they’re all wrong numbers. Gingerly I depress the button.

“Professor Jewel? You know who this is? Yeah, you do… Do you? It’s Turk.”

Good Lord. Turk? Sam Turcinski, better known as Turk, is one of my college students at _________ College. He’s a rugged blonde boy who makes me laugh. He has taken two Communication classes with me and has signed up to take a third. He’d earned Ds in his first class until halfway through the semester. Then I told him it wasn’t good enough; he’d have to do better. That was the only impetus he needed to get his work done, attend every class, and isolate his drinking to the weekends. His final grade was a B. Someone to care. That was all it took.

“Professor Jewel. I need help. You’re the only one I could turn to.”

My eyes are glued to the machine. All my energy is focused on it.

Why me? Oh God, is he hurt? Is he in jail? I live an hour away, too far to get there quickly. I am immobile. Listening.

“You see,” Turk continues, “I’m at a New Year’s party at my best friend’s house.”

“I know that, Turk,” I say to the machine.

“Anyhoo, I won’t say I haven’t been drinking. I have. I mean, it’s New Year’s for Chrissakes, Jewel.”

“Get to the point.” “I say aloud to the inanimate object.

“Well, my best friend’s mother is here at the party. ”

Oh good Lord.

“Jewel, this mom is a hottie. She’s a MILF and she said she wants to do it with me tonight. You know, do IT.”  He emphasizes the words as if I might not understand.  “I really want to, but I don’t know if it’s the right thing.”

For those not familiar with the vernacular, MILF is an acronym for Mothers I’d Like to F__k. I didn’t create it and I wouldn’t admit it if I had.

“So what do you think Jewel? Should I do it with her? I trust your judgment. You always know the right thing to do.”

Turk doesn’t know me if he can say that. Often, I don’t know the right thing to do. And besides, is there always one right thing to do? I don’t think so.

“Call me back, Professor,” Turk says. “Please. I’m dying to go to bed with her but I’ll wait for your phone call.” Click.

He’ll wait for my phone call?  Try to picture that.

Since when have I become God or the arbitrator of right and wrong? I teach Communication, not Ethics. I’m Jewish. We don’t have a right or wrong that’s black and white. We argue about everything.

The answering machine gives a high-pitched bleep and Turk’s voice comes back on. “Jewel, where are you? You haven’t called back yet. Should I sleep with my best friend’s mother, or not? I really, really want to but what would happen if I did? Would my friend be mad at me? Come on, the clock’s ticking and I need an answer.”

I am not calling him back. Is he cuckoo? It’s 1:30 AM and clearly my teacherly obligations do not extend to early morning phone calls about morality.

“You know what?” I say to the machine. “I think you already know the right thing to do because otherwise, you wouldn’t be questioning yourself to the point of calling your professor. In the middle of the night. On a holiday.”

Turk, I think these calls are your way of weighing the pros and cons before you act. It tells me a lot about you.

I think these thoughts but do not say them aloud to the machine. At this moment, I’m struck by how much power teachers have with their students. And I feel to my depths how much it means that he has elected to call me at this moment. That I’ve chosen the right life path.

The third message is my brother Mike. The fourth is more of the same from Turk. Now, the machine stops blinking red and shouting. No one has died and for that I’m grateful. I move up the stairs to put my fears and myself to bed.

As I climb up to my attic bedroom, I realize that I shouldn’t like it when my students call me about personal issues. They should only seek me out to ask academic advice. During the day. Secretly, I feel warm and loved because my students trust me enough to need me. Okay, Turk is over the top tonight. But still…

Three weeks later, I return to work. Turk is in my Interpersonal Communication class where I teach students to listen and talk more effectively in their various relationships. I greet him warmly and then tease him about his New Year’s Eve calls to me. He takes it with excellent humor.

“Turk, I couldn’t call you back. It’s not appropriate for me to tell you what to do in situations like that. You have to decide what’s best for you.”

“I know that,” he says. “I had a bit to drink. And this woman was really tempting.”

I can feel the thought skittering around in my mind like a confused bat crashing into walls. What had he decided to do?

“But,” Turk continues, “I thought about what you’d do in a circumstance like that, Jewel. I want you to know, I did the right thing.”

I never thought teaching would allow me to feel so powerful. When Turk says this, my mind flashes to an image of when I was a girl. I used to dream every night that I was Superwoman soaring in the sky. I yearned to fly. Now I am.

——————————————————-

Untitled
By Brian MacDonald
Inspiration Piece provided to Jewel Beth Davis

Widow’s Peak
By Jewel Beth Davis
Response to Brian MacDonald’s photograph (above)

I stroll by the plate glass window, slowly, trying not to stare, trying to look nonchalant but it’s tough. There he is behind the counter in his black chef’s outfit with the collar folded down and a red handkerchief in his front pocket. He has a red pen sticking out of his pocket. I’m beginning to sense a theme here. His shiny black pelt of hair is chopped very short and I can see the widow’s peak pointing like an arrow to his third eye. Now, I’ve walked past the restaurant, an Italian bistro. It’s the kind where you can see the kitchen staff preparing all the food. I turn around and start walking back, pulling my collar up. He doesn’t notice me as I take my second pass. He’s pointing out the window. He’s using his left hand because he’s a leftie. I know that but not many would. They wouldn’t know it was tough for him to find left-handed utensils. He’s speaking to a couple that are clearly tourists, maybe giving directions to the two, who are just finishing up his fantastic linguini carbinara.

Are those red plastic breadbaskets? How déclassé. And those wooden ladder-back chairs are killer on the tush. No cushions. The lacy diaphanous half curtains cannot hide the severity of the wooden chairs and tables. This place must be fairly “get em in, get em out.” Was that a tip jar near the register? No, impossible. Must be for finished orders.

It’s about 4:30 or 5. I’m not sure because my watch has stopped and I can’t afford a new battery. I can tell the approximate hour because I’m watching the last remnants of a reverse sunset in the plate glass window. I see the faintest oranges, golds, and pinks reflected in the window but the sky is deepening into twilight. I turn to see what he’s pointing at, but all I can see are the downtown buildings of a small New England town. Whatever it is, it’s past this reality and into the future and beyond. The sous chef behind him near the grill has skin the color of chocolate. His eyes seem to be following the direction Jonathan is pointing but wait. No. Is he looking at me? Shit.

The street lamps have just blinked on. I shift from foot to foot as the evening chill settles into my bones. I clench my hands under my jacket cuff because I hadn’t stopped to grab gloves. Jonathan looks the same as he did four years ago in culinary school. No, better. More manly. More in command.  I haven’t seen him since graduation and I can’t believe I’m here, right now. That I’ve come all this way to stare at him through a plate glass window. I’m afraid to walk in. I’m terrified he won’t be happy to see me. The way things were left. That he’ll yell at me, or worse, ignore me. I can see the small cleft in his chin, the solidity of his stance. I feel a yearning in me so deep to push my finger into that cleft once more. I walk out of sight again, my heart thumping, trying to steady my breath. How many times can I walk by before he spots me? Don’t I want him to?

I haven’t thought about exactly what I will say if he sees me. I went all helter-skelter and ran to the train station without a plan. One minute I was in Pittsburgh chopping onions and the next, standing on a street two blocks from a pier overlooking the water. I hate that I can be so impetuous. It messes up my life. But I missed him and every night when my shift was over, I had too much time to think. Four years ago, I left without saying goodbye. He was too serious, too settled. He scared the shit out of me. His passions, his need for me boiled over. He was so authentic and raw. Always authentic. And I, I was faux. Faux happy, faux in love, faux confident, faux together. Finally, the faux split at the seams and I started seeping out. So I ran.  And now I stand here shivering and trying to form what I can say to him that isn’t faux.

I begin one more pass and notice there’s a help wanted sign in the window. No. Don’t think about it. It’s too crazy. He doesn’t see me and if he did, he wouldn’t want to.  I feel like we are stuck in time with him pointing, his widow’s peak pointing, his eyes pointing, everything pointing at me, accusing me, and me staring at this newer version of Jonathan that I don’t know anymore.  Then his sous chef leans forward and whispers something in his ear, never taking his eyes off me. Shit! And I take off running, flying away, because I can’t stay here. I’m running as if someone is chasing me but no one is, of course, except for me. I hear the words, “Stop! Wait!” And I obey. Then I realize the words were in my head and not from someone else.  It doesn’t matter because I have to stop. I have to turn around. And there in the doorway of the Bistro is Jonathan, his body ready to fly, his left hand raised, his energy traveling down the street towards me, his dark widow’s peak pointing straight at me, like a neon sign for him to follow.