shuts the door, I start to worry that a colleague or a student might walk up the stairs and hear a female voice and wonder what's so private that I want to keep the door closed. Although I should have told her to reopen it, her frantic eyes aroused such pity in me that I sacrificed my principle, deciding her torment was so personal that she could talk about it only in strict secrecy.
"Sit down." I smiled and tried to make her feel at ease, although I myself was not at ease. "What seems to be the difficulty, Miss… I'm sorry, but I don't recall your name."
"Samantha Perry. I don't like 'Samantha,' though." She fidgeted. "I've shortened it to — "
"Yes? To what?"
"To 'Sam'. I'm in your nine-thirty Tuesday-Thursday class." She bit her lip. "You spoke to me."
I frowned, not understanding. "You mean what I taught seemed vivid to you?"
"Mr. Ingram, no. I mean you
spoke
to me. You stared at me while you were teaching. You ignored the other students. You directed what you said to
me
. When you talked about Hemingway, how Frederic Henry wants to go to bed with Catherine — " She swallowed. " — you were asking me to go to bed with you."
I gaped. To disguise my shock, I quickly lit a cigarette. "You're mistaken."
"But I
heard
you. You kept staring straight at
me
. I felt all the other students knew what you were doing."
"I was only lecturing. I often look at students' faces to make sure they pay attention. You received the wrong impression."
"You weren't asking me to go to bed with you?" Her voice sounded anguished.
"No. I don't trade sex for grades."
"But I don't care about a grade!"
"I'm married. Happily. I've got two children. Anyway, suppose I did intend to proposition you. Would I do it in the middle of a class? I'd be foolish."
"Then you never meant to…" She kept biting her lip.
"I'm sorry."
"But you speak to me! Outside class I hear your voice! When I'm in my room or walking down the street! You talk to me when I'm asleep! You say you want to go to bed with me!"
My skin prickled. I felt frozen. "You're mistaken. Your imagination's playing tricks."
"But I hear your voice so clearly! When I'm studying or — "
"How? If I'm not there."
"You send your thoughts! You concentrate and put your voice inside my mind!"
Adrenaline scalded my stomach. I frantically sought an argument to disillusion her. "Telepathy? I don't believe in it. I've never tried to send my thoughts to you."
" Unconsciously?"
I shook my head from side to side. I couldn't bring myself to tell her: of all the female students in her class, she looked so plain, even if I wasn't married I'd never have wanted sex with her.
"You're studying too hard," I said. "You want to do so well you're preoccupied with me. That's why you think you hear my voice when I'm not there. I try to make my lectures vivid. As a consequence, you think I'm speaking totally to you."
"Then you shouldn't teach that way!" she shouted. "It's not fair! It's cruel! It's teasing!" Tears streamed down her face. "You made a fool of me!"
"I didn't mean to."
"But you did! You tricked me! You misled me!"
"No."
She stood so quickly that I flinched, afraid she'd lunge at me or scream for help and claim I'd tried to rape her. That damned door. I cursed myself for not insisting she leave it open.
She rushed sobbing toward it. She pawed at the knob and stumbled out, hysterically retreating down the stairwell.
Shaken, I stubbed out my cigarette, grabbing another. My chest tightened as I heard the dwindling echo of her wracking sobs, the awkward scuffle of her dimming footsteps, then the low deep rumble of the outside door.
Silence settled over me.
***
An hour later, I found her waiting in class. She'd wiped her tears. The only signs of what had happened were her red, puffy eyes. She sat alertly, pen to paper. I carefully didn't face her as I spoke. She seldom glanced up from her notes.
After class, I asked my graduate assistant if he knew her.
"You
"Sit down." I smiled and tried to make her feel at ease, although I myself was not at ease. "What seems to be the difficulty, Miss… I'm sorry, but I don't recall your name."
"Samantha Perry. I don't like 'Samantha,' though." She fidgeted. "I've shortened it to — "
"Yes? To what?"
"To 'Sam'. I'm in your nine-thirty Tuesday-Thursday class." She bit her lip. "You spoke to me."
I frowned, not understanding. "You mean what I taught seemed vivid to you?"
"Mr. Ingram, no. I mean you
spoke
to me. You stared at me while you were teaching. You ignored the other students. You directed what you said to
me
. When you talked about Hemingway, how Frederic Henry wants to go to bed with Catherine — " She swallowed. " — you were asking me to go to bed with you."
I gaped. To disguise my shock, I quickly lit a cigarette. "You're mistaken."
"But I
heard
you. You kept staring straight at
me
. I felt all the other students knew what you were doing."
"I was only lecturing. I often look at students' faces to make sure they pay attention. You received the wrong impression."
"You weren't asking me to go to bed with you?" Her voice sounded anguished.
"No. I don't trade sex for grades."
"But I don't care about a grade!"
"I'm married. Happily. I've got two children. Anyway, suppose I did intend to proposition you. Would I do it in the middle of a class? I'd be foolish."
"Then you never meant to…" She kept biting her lip.
"I'm sorry."
"But you speak to me! Outside class I hear your voice! When I'm in my room or walking down the street! You talk to me when I'm asleep! You say you want to go to bed with me!"
My skin prickled. I felt frozen. "You're mistaken. Your imagination's playing tricks."
"But I hear your voice so clearly! When I'm studying or — "
"How? If I'm not there."
"You send your thoughts! You concentrate and put your voice inside my mind!"
Adrenaline scalded my stomach. I frantically sought an argument to disillusion her. "Telepathy? I don't believe in it. I've never tried to send my thoughts to you."
" Unconsciously?"
I shook my head from side to side. I couldn't bring myself to tell her: of all the female students in her class, she looked so plain, even if I wasn't married I'd never have wanted sex with her.
"You're studying too hard," I said. "You want to do so well you're preoccupied with me. That's why you think you hear my voice when I'm not there. I try to make my lectures vivid. As a consequence, you think I'm speaking totally to you."
"Then you shouldn't teach that way!" she shouted. "It's not fair! It's cruel! It's teasing!" Tears streamed down her face. "You made a fool of me!"
"I didn't mean to."
"But you did! You tricked me! You misled me!"
"No."
She stood so quickly that I flinched, afraid she'd lunge at me or scream for help and claim I'd tried to rape her. That damned door. I cursed myself for not insisting she leave it open.
She rushed sobbing toward it. She pawed at the knob and stumbled out, hysterically retreating down the stairwell.
Shaken, I stubbed out my cigarette, grabbing another. My chest tightened as I heard the dwindling echo of her wracking sobs, the awkward scuffle of her dimming footsteps, then the low deep rumble of the outside door.
Silence settled over me.
***
An hour later, I found her waiting in class. She'd wiped her tears. The only signs of what had happened were her red, puffy eyes. She sat alertly, pen to paper. I carefully didn't face her as I spoke. She seldom glanced up from her notes.
After class, I asked my graduate assistant if he knew her.
"You
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