Ray

by Harald Hagen The tune he whistled through the void of a missing front tooth matched the ballads of the winds surrounding him. He was alone. Amidst a symphony no one cared to hear, the traveler stood hunched over a stretch of Oklahoma desert by the side of a vanishing road, wiping away its brittle face with the sole of a careful foot. When nothing surfaced, he moved on. Professor? interrupted a faceless girl hiding in the back of the lecture hall. Ray threw his gaze up over the small rimless glasses sitting on the nook of his nose. Beg your pardon, sir, but what page are you reading from? Her husky voice sounded familiar. You ought to be paying attention, Ms. Sanders.
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A round boy next to her whispered the answer. She mumbled something back and they exchanged secretive looks as seeds of a new friendshipor maybe fruit from an ancient one. Ray continued to read the immaculate first edition of Sandswept To Sodom to his class: The traveler had been unable to smell his own sweat and decay for hours. Taste retreated into memory. Everywhere was the illusion of gold. As he counted out thirty-five paces east, he spent half the time with a dirt-caked finger in his eye squeezing out families of dust. Romance, he said to no one. He stopped and began kicking away the sand again. Sir? It was a boy this time. Yes, speak up. I understand most of the allusions here: migration, degradation Others chimed in. Perspiration. Starvation. Expiration. Admiration. A fluttery girl in ponytails put her hands over her heart and made a guttural exclamation. Every head in the half-empty auditorium bobbed up and down in agreement. Right, the boy with the question cut back in, But thirtyfive? The significance there seems a little ambiguous. Ray nodded. A wonderful essay question. Make a note of it and let's move on. As if by magnets, dozens of pens stood erect in a frantic flourish. A rattling truck spilled out from a fire-born mirage up ahead, Ray continued, while a small disagreement erupted between the workers who served as its passengers. They drew

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to a sudden halt near the traveler. But he did not budge from his task. Ray paused, then asked: Did everybody pick up on. . . Again, heads swayed in the affirmative. Good, Ray said as he flipped the page. The dirt-bathed workers each looked at him, then at each other, waving their hands and shrugging their shoulders and pointing fingers until finally the skinniest man among them, standing in the back, stepped forward. From the far reaches of the hall, Beth Sanders again called out. Yes? Ray asked. She paused for a few moments, then spoke in a foolish voice. I'm so sorry, professor. Ive forgotten my question. Ray awarded her a blank look and lingered, while several latecomers shuffled in to open desks here and there. After a quick glance around the room, he read on. "Excuse me, friend, said the skinny man, are you lost? The traveler answered: her grapes are peeled. Curling. Romance. The skinny man raised his voice: I said, are you lost there, friend? We could give you a ride. The traveler turned to look at the ground near the skinny man's feet and gave an answer: but the yeast won't gestate." Wow, Professor I have to say Dont interrupt me, he warned whoever had spoken. We've reached the last page. East? The skinny man glanced back at the other workers: says he wants to go east. Puzzled looks covered their brown faces. The skinny man took his hat into his hands and a graveness in his voice: friend, there aint a thing to be had back east.

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Ray kept his voice from quivering as best he could. The traveler stared at the man he did not know and said nothing more. He stared. And stared. And stared. Let's get out of here, said the man driving. The engine roared; the sky recoiled. And less than a minute later, there wasn't a trace of them anywhere to be found. * * * The last half of the lesson, steeped in discussions about the work's meaning, had been going on and on when the everwatchful Beth Sanders noted an imminent sunset. Ray preferred teaching night classes, but the lights in the old lecture hall hadn't worked for weeks. One could not teach in the dark. The room was filled by the end. Ray masked his delight well; in his lesson plan he only wrote and underlined: record attendance. While most students filed out of the creaking door, Beth approached Ray's desk. By then, she was no longer faceless to himfar from it. I hope you don't mind my saying so but I very much enjoyed the book. It spoke to me. He tidied his papers into a briefcase. Yes, well. Id also like to apologize. I know Im not terribly bright but I try, Professor, I try so hard. . . I know you do, Ms. Sanders. It was the only thing he could think to say. She smiled at him, crooked, sweet, pale-skinned, and ageless. Thank you. That's all right. No, I mean it. We appreciate so much what you've done. Being trapped here, we might never be able to repay you.

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Ray could barely remember how to smile. It was my pleasure. Do you have some time? Why do you ask? The distance between them waned. * * * When Ray left the lecture hall, Beth following behind, the last hinge tethering door to frame succumbed to destruction, sending its accomplice crashing onto the floor where uprisings of earth and grass broke through red square tiles. Endless rows of lockerssome hanging open, others rusted shutlined the peeling walls smeared with black mold. From every west-facing window ran solid blocks of dusk's light, so sharp that they carved out rooms in the air. The illusion of gold, Ray thought. He wondered why he only then noticed all the damage. Are you feeling all right? Beth asked. A bit tired, is all. Youll feel better soon. She reached out and touched his hand, her skin cold and electric. The book means a lot to you, doesnt it. The work of a disgraced academic doesnt mean anything to anyone. I wish we could do something. But Ray had been made a liar. He saw the rest of his students waiting for him near the exit. One after another they thanked him: the boy who discovered an essay question, the other who whispered to Ms. Sanders, the girl who exclaimed her love of the book with a guttural sound. They followed him toward the ancient doorway, ushering him, until. . . The day's dying light burned in Ray's eyes at first. A breeze slapped awake the pores of his skin while his lungs
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recalled the beauty of breath. He felt his legs and the weight of walking. A haze fast disappeared from his consciousness as his reason, memory, and body reconstructed themselves in the living, breathing realm of the outside. He turned around to see that the others had stopped at the broken doors in silent farewell. Beth Sanders stood among them. Even if the world will not, we will remember the book. And well remember you for as long as were here. After a moment, the others walked back inside and vanished into the distant beams of dark and twilight. Beth turned to follow them. You know, Ray said, I thought I could start a History course tomorrow. Medieval Europe. Thats all right. For us, minutes and hours and years have little to do with each other anyway. Well what about Calculus then? A basic course. Ive always been good with numbers. Beth shook her head. No use for it? Its not that. In fact, youll be surprised how mathematical it all becomes. Something else, then. No. Why not? Because here is an isle of sand," she said, "at the mercy of a starving sea. Ray could say no more. He studied her wool sweater, her long hair, her colorless eyes. There's nothing to be done. And its fine.

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Ray reached out. It was the only thing he could think to do. Good luck on your journey, Ms. Sanders. She shook her head. Good luck on yours, Ray. When the full measure of the truth hit him, he was standing beside his 39 Lincoln-Zephyr in the parking lot, which had endured the wrath of the Atlantic for weeks or month and emerged the victor against its elements. His revelation yielded only pain; he fell on his hands and knees while his insides tried to purge him of something that hadnt been there for ages. During his bodys ritual, he noticed how the growth that had overtaken most of the grounds like a tide of moss and murk stopped around the wheels of his car. Ray crawled inside the worn Zephyr. He took one last look at Southcott College, an institution so desperate to avoid its inevitable fate that it was willing to overlook anythingeven his reputation. If only it had been built closer to the city, he thought. Out here, the woods would reclaim more and more every day. Nothing could change that. He didn't understand what happened, or how, or what day it was, or why. He could only hold Sandswept To Sodom on his lap, remembering, imagining, thinking about how fiction was an ill-fitting term for what should have been and what could still be, thinking about the injustice of how reputations form from single incidents, thinking about how someone would always care to listen to a voice that cared to speak. Ray sat alone in his car. He tried the radio. For a long time, he didnt drive away.

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