As he soaked and absorbed, as he swelled with verdant joy, he was overcome by a rapturous desire to share. He would pay a call on the neighbors.
CHAPTER SIX
Tamara looked out over the auditorium at the sea of young faces and the tops of a few heads that had drooped over their desks. She despised these meat market classes. But what did she expect?
After all, this was Psychology 101. It was designed so that even an athlete could make a solid “C” while saving the sweat for scholarship payback. All you had to know was that Jung wasn't spelled with a “Y” and you had it made.
Sure, there would be maybe five students out of the eighty who would put forth an effort, who would actually read the material and turn in four-page papers when she asked for a minimum of three.
Of those five, maybe two would go to graduate school and become psychologists.
But she knew that the line between an amateur and a professional psychologist was thin. That line was as wavy and elusive as the difference between sanity and madness. To teach or to be officially insane, all you had to do was get certified.
But that was part of the challenge, wasn't it? Being the one without becoming the other.
She flipped back her hair with one hand and gripped the lectern as if it were a dance partner. She drew in enough air to send her voice across the room.
"How does the mind work? Why does it work one way and not another?" she said firmly without shouting. "Is it really only billions of nerve cells reacting chemically and electrically with each other? Are our thoughts and reactions only scientific processes over which we have no control?
"If so, what differentiates one person's emotions from another’s? Social influence and outside stimuli? At what point does spirituality and ego step over into rational, measurable brain activity?"
She could tell she was losing them. She was even losing herself. Time for an icebreaker. "And what does it have to do with us, and why should we care?"
A few snickers rippled across the room. From somewhere in the back, a voice shouted, "Who says we care?"
The class erupted in laughter. That was good. At least they were momentarily awake. She fixed on the area from which the remark had come and saw a crew-cut teenager with one thick eyebrow across his forehead, smiling smugly.
"So, Mister-" Tamara said, meeting his small eyes.
"Watkins."
"Mister Watkins, since you know all about yourself already, why don't you tell us? Why are you the way you are? Why are you self-confident enough to blurt out in class what half a dozen others were thinking but didn't say?"
The lone eyebrow made a perplexed vee.
Tamara continued. "What makes you different from the young lady beside you, who keeps checking her wristwatch as if she's planted a time bomb somewhere?"
The lady in question blushed slightly.
"And why is Mister Watkins’s mouth at a no-doubt temporary loss for words when his mind is spilling them out by the hundreds?"
Whew. That was a lot of questions to start off a lecture. But she was supposed to be teaching psychology, wasn't she? The field had no answers, only more and crazier questions. And that was just the middle ground. When you branched out into clairvoyance and precognition and telepathic signals that said shu-shaaa -
Lone Eyebrow recovered his wits. "Because I'm the way I am, that's all.”
"You are the way you are. But what makes you that way?"
"Good drugs," somebody yelled, and the class laughed again.
Tamara laughed with them. The morning’s Gloomies were gone, maybe swept off on the magic carpet of dreams, maybe flushed down some subconscious toilet, or maybe just stuck in a mental desk drawer under the pages of her unwritten worries.
Or maybe just hanging around Windshake waiting for her return.
She glanced at the front row and noticed a male student ogling her figure. If she couldn’t keep their minds interested, at least she still managed to keep a few males awake. Robert didn't even seem to notice she was female anymore. Robert barely seemed to remember he had a wife.
She turned her attention back to the lecture and kept the discussion rolling. It was a good session, lots of class participation and fun besides. Not really anything she could test them on, but maybe it would get them thinking, and that was half the battle.
She was gathering her notes after class when a redheaded woman approached the lectern. Tamara flashed a smile, and the woman smiled back, clutching her books to her chest.
"Dr. Leon, I just wanted to say how much I'm enjoying your class," she said
"Well, thank you," Tamara said, cramming her papers into her scuffed portfolio. She wondered if this was a brown-noser or the real deal, someone who took learning beyond the classroom.
"I'm thinking of going into psychology, and I wondered if you could recommend some outside reading."
Tamara looked into the woman's clear blue eyes. She saw no hidden motives in them. She considered herself a good judge of character. That was one of the few fringe benefits of her profession.
“More psych books?” Tamara said. "That way lies madness.”
"Didn’t you say madness is a matter of opinion?" the woman asked, uncowed.
Now I'm turning into a cynic. This woman reminded her of herself a decade ago. Inquisitive and ambitious. Both handy qualities for a psychologist. She was pretty, though, which might be an academic liability.
Tamara said, "I tell you what, Ms. — "
"Blevins. Sarah Blevins."
"That name sounds familiar."
"My daddy's the preacher up at the Windshake Baptist church."
"And a preacher's daughter wants to be a psychologist?"
"I have to be something."
Tamara smiled. Psychology was just another belief system, and so was the Baptist faith. Neither was better nor worse, just different. And more truth was found in asking questions than in swallowing the company line, in either case.
"Tell you what," Tamara said. "I'll make a list of good books that you should be able to find in the university library. If you can't, maybe we can work it out so you can borrow some of mine."
Sarah's freckled cheeks dimpled as she showed her straight teeth. "Thank you, ma’am."
"Ms. Blevins, you can thank me by actually reading them and maybe someday writing better ones."
Sarah nodded seriously. "See you on Monday," she said brightly, then went out the door, her coppery hair swinging from side to side.
Tamara stopped by the office she shared with two other associates. She wedged herself into her cubbyhole and worked on her research project. When she looked up, hours later, she noticed through the tiny window that the sun was sinking low in the sky. She hurried out to her car and drove home, dreading the Gloomies that might be drawing ever closer to the windows of her soul. And the secret lights of Bear Claw that might pierce the darkness of her troubled heart.
Of course they weren’t real, but she was afraid she might see them again anyway.
Virginia Speerhorn looked across her cluttered desk at Chief Crosley. What a fat stereotype, a Buford Pusser Keystone Kop lardass. Just look at him, sitting there munching on a doughnut while the buttons are already straining to pop off his shirt. He's ten pounds of manure in a five-pound bag.
And that pathetic comb-over, it looks like a half-dozen greasy threads stretched across a red billiard ball. He may as well have a sign on his head that reads, "I'm just a heart attack waiting to happen, but I still think I'm a love machine." Doesn't he believe in bringing dignity to public office?
Still, he was an adequate law enforcement agent, and that was all she needed. Crime wasn't a problem in Windshake, and had never been a campaign issue. And a more ambitious person might have proved dangerous.