FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN : NEWS

                Jessica did try to put the incident behind her, though with each passing day her
                shoulders looked more rounded; her demeanor stiffened, as if her stomach now
                carried a secret that must be held in check and not give her away. She had lost
                some of her sureness of things, and to her classmates she seemed less "arrogant",
                though she was still considered the senior student "most likely to succeed".

                And for awhile everything was fine, until weeks before graduation exercises when
                a chance remark, that had nothing to do with her, stirred memories of the fire
                drill incident. She was suffused again with feelings of shame and violation, and
                the troubling thought that by now everyone in the building knew what had
                happened; and in that cruel high school way everyone was sniggering behind her
                back.

                In her heart seeds of trepidation took root. When she pictured herself up on the
                stage about to deliver the valedictorian speech before parents and school
                officials, she trembled. She knew she'd freeze.

                She'd hear a snigger; she'd see hand-muffled giggles; she'd look out at the frozen
                grins of those upturned faces, the Class of '92, so subdued and different in their
                haircuts and formal dress. Worse than the fondling of her buttocks would be
                failure before their knowing eyes. Her humiliation would be complete. She could
                not got through with it.

                Could not go through with it? What on earth was she talking about? Her mother
                demanded an explanation. Jessica could not explain.

                Her mother, for whom the valedictory moment would be the crown in her
                daughter's achievement, would hear nothing of it. Nerves could be overcome,
                Jessica must go through with it.

                Jessica swore she could not. Her mother worked herself into such commanding
                frenzy, Jessica eventually broke down and disclosed what had happened many
                months ago during the fire drill.

                Her mother was stunned.  Why hadn't Jessica mentioned it before? Did she speak
                to anyone at the school about it? Had she raised her daughter to bite her lips and
                say nothing when something like this happened?

                Outraged that "something like this" had indeed happened to her daughter,
                Jessica's mother stormed into the school the following day. She demanded to
                speak to the principal. She was directed to Bob Darling's office.

                He listened with sympathy and astonishment; he shared her distress over the vile
                attack on her daughter; he directed her to the Dean of Discipline.

                The Dean sought more information about the incident from Jessica. He explained
                that since the whole thing happened so long ago, his hands were tied; at this 
                stage there was little he could do. Jessica's mother fumed and raged. Jessica sat
                with bowed head, mortified that her mother was making such a scene in the
                office.

                Her mother threatened to take the whole matter to the Board of Education, even
                if it meant taking another day off from work and traveling to Brooklyn.

                This she apparently did for word came back through the grapevine that the Board
                of Education had received a complaint about "an incident". While not calling
                names or blaming anyone in particular, they were very concerned. A parent had
                confirmed their worst fears about the number of "incidents" at John Wayne Cotter
                H.S. that had gone either unreported or uninvestigated.

                Phil Quackenbush, who had been fighting a rear guard battle through the union to
                stop the Board from closing down and redesignating the school, confided to his 
                membership his belief that this incident  ̶  or, as he put it, "this non-incident"  ̶
                was the final nail in the coffin.

                "This is like the Titanic," he said, half-seriously. "We're headed straight for
                disaster. The big iceberg is right in front of us, and there's not a whole lot we can
                do."

                 (from "Ah Mikhail O Fidel!", a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)

                    Wherever she is now, away and flourishing, Jessica Montserrat probably carries
                    the shudders of that day, for it was during this drill that she lost her innocence.
                    At least this was how her English teacher put it, adding that Jessica was a
                    strong, resilient girl and would no doubt rise "like the phoenix" and do
                    exceptionally well at college.

                          She was in truth one of the brightest prospects to come through John Wayne
                    Cotter's system of encouragement and discouragement. She had been a
                    survivor of the Program office's mishandling of freshman programs; a sopho-
                    more who did not drop out, did not get pregnant; a junior who passed all
                    her Regents exams; President of the Student Council in her senior year; and
                    from early indications destined to be valedictorian for the Class of '92

                         "An exceptional student, truly outstanding results," Pete Plimpler declared. He
                    reminded his colleagues at the department meeting that their efforts at
                    teaching literature were not entirely futile. Jessica was a fine example of what
                    could be achieved. "She's from the West Indies," he pointed out. "They've got
                    the British system of education down there."

                          Jessica Montserrat knew she was "exceptional" from the first day she stepped 
                    into a classroom. Perhaps she wore her dreams too closely stitched to her
                    pride. Something was bound to happen to someone like her, so nice, so focused
                    and shamelessly ambitious.

                          On the morning of the fire drill she was on her way to the third floor, on an
                    errand for the college office. The warning bells caught her on the second floor;
                    she blithely ignored them; she ignored everyone and everything. She was
                    on her way to deliver an important message.

                    By the time she got to the third floor the classrooms were spilling out. Still 
                    thinking drill procedures didn't apply to her, she walked on until a security
                    officer, unimpressed with her mission "from the college office", insisted she
                    turn around, take the nearest exit to the streets. She had to join a mass of 
                    rowdy freshmen, shouting needlessly, and moving like a herd down the
                    stairs.

                    On the first floor she was trapped in the stairwell; there was congestion near
                    the main entrance as classes converged from several directions. She held her
                    breath and waited, her body packed in among other bodies on the stairs. There
                    was a lull in the talk and the laughter, a moment when it seemed everyone had
                    stopped talking at the same time. She distinctly remembered that moment for
                    seconds after she felt a hand grab and squeeze the right cheek of her buttocks.

                         And before she could turn her face to catch the buttock squeezer, the bodies
                    massed in front of her moved, sucking her forward in sudden release. Fearing
                    she'd be crushed or trampled in the stairwell by the students behind her,
                   Jessica moved too.

                         Out in the hallway, angry and embarrassed, she turned to catch her violator;
                   she listened for someone's boastful laughter; but the students streamed past
                   her and the security officers were yelling and directing everyone to the doors.

                   She wanted to make a detour back up to the college office. They won't let her.
                   She found herself herded out onto the sidewalk, alone among students she didn't
                   recognize; her face burning with the knowledge of what had happened.

                        Jessica Montserrat had been grabbed by the buttock. Jessica Montserrat, who
                    had walked with confidence (and a little contempt) through the school's
                    hallways, had been violated. In the school building. In broad daylight.

                    And somewhere in that mass of students huddled on the sidewalks stood the 
                    violator, who at that very moment  ̶  the animal! the beast!  ̶  must be studying
                    her face, laughing at her anguish, maybe confiding to a friend what he had
                    done. She stood there dying slowly with embarrassment. She wished the earth
                    would open beneath her and swallow her in. She needed someone to talk to.

                    The teachers streaming back inside at the all-clear, faces strained and raw 
                    from the cold, seemed too beleaguered to listen. All except Mrs. Boneskosky
                    who had an undisturbed neat look about her, as if she hadn't been outside at
                    all.

                          "I was hurrying to my next class. I had to stop and help her," she said later.
                    "The poor girl was so upset."

                          Walking slowly, stopping at the point of Jessica's horrible disclosure, Mrs.
                    Boneskosky had just enough time to pass on morsels of advice.

                          Jessica should try to put the whole episode behind her. It was a truly painful
                    degrading thing, to be violated like that; but Jessica must try to come to terms
                    with what happened, and  ̶  Mrs. Boneskosky glanced at her watch  ̶  she should
                    come and talk to her again at the end of the day, Rm 206, okay?  Remember
                    the poems we read last semester  ̶  remember?  ̶  about courage and
                    resilience, the passing of life's cruelest season, the human spirit beaten but
                    unbowed, remember, Jessica?"

         
                           (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!" a novel by N.D. Williams, 2001)

                   The only person not impressed, not harried, truly not caring about the fire drill 
                   procedures was Pete Plimpler (A.P. English). His secretary, Felicity Rudder,
                   shared with the department his cryptic response to announcements about
                   clearing the building. "Pete says, it would take something close to Dante's
                   inferno to get him to vacate the building."

                         If he was lucky to be tipped off about the drill he placed himself, as the hour
                   approached, inside his glass cubicle. Felicity Rudder would grab her bag and her
                   coat, push her head in the door, and say, "I think this one is real. I'm leaving."
                   And Pete would respond wearily, "If it gets out of hand tell the fire people not
                   to bother with the ladders. I'll go down with the building in flames." This slice of
                   humour she also shared with the department which gobbled up every treat of
                   gossip about its enigmatic supervisor.

                         Pete Plimpler had his own procedures when these drills started. Once Felicity
                   had left he waited two minutes, listening to the din of classrooms emptying out.
                   When it seemed his third floor was clear he'd step outside his door ostensibly to 
                   move along any stragglers. Then he'd return to his cubicle, pour himself a fresh 
                   cup of coffee, turn up the volume of his radio (tuned into the classical music 
                   station).

                   He'd stand at the window, steam from the coffee cup swirling round his lips and
                   up his nostrils; and he'd look out on a somber grey world  ̶  the bareheaded
                   shuffling confusion below, the grimy sodden brick and grilled structures of Bronx
                   dwellings; aging trees, overused roadways. And for as long as the fire drill
                   lasted he'd experience a strange desire to be transported.

                   It raised goose bumps on his skin. He waited for something to happen, for some
                   force to take his soul out of its suitcase of weary flesh; lift it up and away.

                        Felicity Rudder would return to find him at the window still staring out, his
                  head at a limp angle. When she spoke to him  ̶  "I thought I'd freeze to death out
                  there!"  ̶   she noticed he didn't respond right away. Which prompted her to
                  remark once to Mrs. Boneskosky,  "You know, sometimes I wonder if Pete is all
                  there."

                       For his part Bob Meier was unusually sanguine about these drills. Depending on
                  when the bells rang he was happy to take a break, any break from the classroom.

                       On the day Principal Wamp kept everyone freezing on the sidewalk, the alarm
                  went off just as he was settling down in the cafeteria to lunch. Not the cafeteria
                  lunch of fries and oily chicken and over steamed broccoli, which he paid three
                  bucks for and shoveled in like coal in his stomach boilers. This time he'd brought
                  something from home in a Tupperware container.

                       His department's microwave was broken, so he had to travel to the first floor to
                  use the Special Ed. department's microwave. The secretary and a teacher in the
                  office who didn't know him gave him a long cold look and told him he could go
                  ahead.

                  He had to borrow (he couldn't find his) a plastic fork from the cafeteria; they
                  didn't approve of anyone using their cutlery and their paper napkins and not
                  buying anything. Finally he was able to settle down, shaking his head, 
                  wondering what the world was coming to.

                  He'd just taken his second mouthful when Bob Darling instructed everyone to
                  leave the building. Everyone in the cafeteria looked up at each other, wondering
                  if those instructions applied to teachers on their forty-minute lunch break, who
                  had taken just two or more sips of their coffee. They decided they weren't
                  leaving; and Bob Meier was opening the pages of his New York Times when this
                  burly security officer came in and shouted, "Everybody out of the building";
                  startling the teachers who were accustomed to shouting, not being shouted at.

                  They froze and stared at him and seemed to resent his manner of speaking. The
                  officer looked and sounded intimidating, with his bald head and smooth black
                  youthful face; and a football player's impassable bulk. He held his ground, but
                  amended his message: "I'm sorry, ladies and gentlemen, you have to leave the
                  building." And he stood waiting, thumbs in his belt, for the teachers to do
                  precisely what he'd said.

                  The shock of being addressed in that manner lingered in the air. The alarm bells
                  rang, the strobe lights flickered; and Bob Darling's voice now gave stern
                  warning  ̶  this drill was not to be taken lightly. The teachers got up, gathered
                  their belongings, and headed for the nearest exits; not happy, grumbling to each
                  other, food trays abandoned.

                  Bob Meier was the last to leave. The burly security officer had looked straight at
                  him when he spoke the second time, as if detecting a potential trouble-maker.
                  There was no mistaking the frustration and anger on Meier's face. He got up
                  slowly; he wasn't sure whether to pack away his wife's Tupperware with its 
                  barely touched contents; he decided to leave it on the table. If the drill was over
                  quickly he might have time to get back to it. As he sauntered off he heard the
                  footsteps of the security officer marching behind him.

                  Outside, since he had no class of students to supervise, he hung about near the
                  entrance. He was rousted again by another security officer and told to move on,
                  over to the sidewalk across the streets. Enraged, he shuffled off, mumbling an
                  apology if he stepped on the heels of a student. And during the long wait he
                  focused his stare back at the doors where the first security officer, his short
                  sleeves rolled up to reveal impressive biceps, his job done, stood with legs apart
                  sharing a joke with his pals.

                  Students standing near Bob Meier tried to engage him in banter but he wasn't in
                  the mood. His lips were clenched in a strange self-absorption. His eyes were a
                  beam of controlled fury directed at the burly security officer.

                  He wanted to catch the man's eye. The man had taken something from him when
                  he stormed in like a drill sergeant rousting everyone. Bob Meier wanted it back.

                  For the rest of the term whenever he passed that security fellow he tried to lock
                  into his eyes. The man did not engage him in the hallway, doing his job of yelling
                  and directing students; carrying on as if nothing had happened.

                         
                    (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!" a novel by N.D. Williams, 2001)

                   For all his acknowledged charm and sense of fair play Bob Darling held fast 
                        to the belief that teachers should be held accountable for their actions.
                        Consequently there was not too much to argue about once an issue was
                        brought to his attention. Still, to show he wasn't exactly the cold bureaucrat
                        in long sleeves and tie, he made small but important gestures; like, for
                        instance, leaking information there would be a fire drill during a specific 
                        period of the day.                           

                        No such warning went out when Principal Wamp entered the building one
                        morning. She didn't inform anyone until twenty minutes before it was
                        scheduled to begin. 
                                
                        She explained she'd been unhappy with the response to the last fire drill.
                        Most teachers were slow and nonchalant about vacating the building. Once
                        they got outside they tended to cluster on the sidewalk near the entrances.
                        This created a dangerous, congested situation with students still pouring
                        out the exits. Things like that left her very unhappy.

                             This time only the school's security officers were told about the fire drill. 
                        This drill, she emphasized, would be as close to the real thing as she could
                        contrive. They were to make sure everyone  ̶  students, teachers, everyone  ̶
                        vacated the building, using the designated exits and following the
                        procedures she had gone over with the staff so many times.

                        The bells went off during the fifth period. A few teachers poked their heads
                        out of classroom doors, looked at each other, asked, Is it real this time? Bob
                        Darling's voice on the school address system cast all doubt aside.

                               
                        They stood on the sidewalks hugging themselves, chattering and complain-
                        ning, while the wind whipped around them and gnawed its way through to
                        the bone. They stamped their feet, talking with fervor, as if spoken words
                        could help keep them warm.

                        Everyone assumed the drill would be over quickly. It made no sense holding
                        the entire school out on the sidewalks in this cold weather. 
                               
                        Five minutes, ten minutes. Still no signal to return inside. What had started
                        as a simple exercise now took on the proportion of something fiendish and
                        uncaring. Inside shivering hearts a strong desire raged to be gone from this
                        place, to drive or walk away from this building, never to return.    
                             
                        All eyes looked toward the doors where the security officers, their task of
                        clearing the building complete, stood around in shirt sleeves, joking,
                        enjoying what seemed a rare pleasure of officering at the gates of cold
                        duty.

                        A flurry of activity. A hint that perhaps it was over. And then Principal 
                        Wamp  stepped outside.

                        She was escorted by Head of Security, Mr. Mc Nulty. He walked with a limp 
                        from an old Vietnam war wound, and seemed to heave his bulky body
                        forward in an effort to keep pace with Principal Wamp's quick steps. She'd
                        told him she wanted to have a look, to determine how well everyone had
                        followed instructions.

                        Rarely if ever had anyone seen the school's principal walking down a Bronx
                        sidewalk. They were slightly awed and attentive. She looked radiant in a
                        black blouse, set off by a red outfit, the shoulders square; and she seemed
                        undaunted by the chilly weather, appearing coatless, as if to set an example
                        of responsibility and fortitude.

                               Since everyone had assembled on the sidewalk across the street, her walk
                        took on the appearance of a celebrity tour of the school. She walked briskly
                        half way up the block, pointing across the street, making observations; while
                        Mr. Mc Nulty, staying close, gestured and offered his evaluations. She
                        paused and nodded; she seemed satisfied with what she saw; she turned
                        back.

                                Near the entrance she gave the first sign of being aware how cold it was.
                        She rubbed her arms and gave a mock shudder. She smiled as if now she
                        understood the terrible discomfort everyone must be feeling, all in the
                        interest of fire safety. Everyone thought she was about to wave them in. 
                        Instead she seemed to be making a new puzzled appraisal of her students 
                        and staff massed on the sidewalks.

                               Then she saw Phil Quackenbush, the chapter chairman, crossing the road,
                        hurrying toward her, no doubt to lodge some union grievance and protest.
                        She turned and went inside. And at that point the security officers waved
                        the all clear.

                                           (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!" a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)

               Over dinner, pointing his fork for emphasis, Chrystel offered his opinions on every-
               thing  ̶  people and politics, exotic places ravaged by civil war, the Mayor of the
               city, "your average American". His words gleamed with exciting good humor.

                
               For the most part, he told her, human existence was determined by men who sat 
               in conference rooms and board rooms; men who drank fine Scotch, smoked hand-
               rolled cigars and wore boxer shorts. As for the rest of the sweaty world one only
               need fear men who go long periods without sex, and people who were afflicted
               with those two incurable diseases: the common flu and human stupidity. He
               assured her that, with the decline of the Soviet  Union, the making and spending
               of money were the twin engines that would drive the pleasures of the guzzling
               world.

                 When he suggested she put her money to work in the stock market she withdrew
               her life savings  ̶  ignoring a nagging voice urging her to call her daddy first  ̶  and
               handed it over. Not once did she fear he'd vanish for good from the earth. The
               investment proved sound; it paid big dividends. She bought property in
               Westchester with some of the profit. And when the moment arrived when he
               would sleep with her, she responded like a virgin for whom trust was more 
               important than passion.

               In recent years she'd grown soft and round at the hips and legs. At social events
               where men sipped alcohol, spoke with harmless humor, then seemed to steer the
               conversation toward the possibility of sleeping with her, her body stiffened; she'd
               smile and move away.

               With Chrystel there were no preambling moments, no rough manly haste either to
               reach that summit. Each night after dinner she waited for signs, for desire like
               smoke alarms to go off in the living room.

               One night he took a sip of his coffee; his long fingers carefully rested the cup and
               saucer on the table; then he turned and looked at her. She smiled, a little
               uneasily. He got up, outstretched his arm, and said, "Come, let's go inside." Just
               like that. As if he were taking her on one of his trips overseas, their destination
               not yet clear.

               For weeks her bedroom had been in a state of readiness for just this moment. Still
               fully clothed he insisted on undressing her. He explored her soft round contours,
               until at last it seemed he approved and wanted every part of her, bulges and fat
               and bone. It was a ritual he would repeat each time they slept, full of sighs and
               vague mutterings; his hands restless and probing, over her breasts, between her
               thighs; his hands squeezing the globes of her buttocks, his lips on her navel.

               Throughout all this she kept her eyes closed, happy to surrender to his
               examination, happy to be found satisfactory.

               She wished they were young again, with all the time in the world to be reckless
               with their passion. Then she thought: thank goodness this is happening right now,
               our bodies still healthy and mature, good and strong, our intimacy an intelligent
               thing, thank goodness.

               "Are you okay?" he would ask, breathless beside her; and her quick response, "Yes,
               I'm fine", seem to calm his heaving chest. "What are you thinking of?" he'd ask,
               staring up at the ceiling; and she'd answer, "Nothing. It's good to have you here."

               She felt no need to talk about him to anyone. In a city of marriages made and
               unmade, a city of love and betrayal, alimony and anger, orders of protection from
               a stalking spouse, in a world so fractured and violent and ripe for television news,
               wasn't she better off this way, half-knowing who he was? Hadn't she come this far
               on her own, trusting her own instincts?

               One evening, late summer, before the start of the Fall term at John Wayne
               Cotter, she hinted that perhaps she could accompany him on one of his trips to
               Europe. She would, of course, pay her way, and not interfere. She could stroll
               around, visit museums, take mini excursions while he was off doing whatever he
               did. Chrystel listened patiently; he said he didn't think it was a good idea. His
               silence, the chilly way he stared up at the ceiling worried her.

               It was a mistake, she realized, to broach the idea while they were still in bed.
               Wrong time, wrong place.

               She had dared to suggest they redraw the lines that defined their relationship. He
               might interpret it as a craving in her for some new cloying alliance. What more
               need they ask of each other?  After all they were friends, they were lovers;  
               approaching middle age. Why not just leave things as they were?

                         (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!", a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)