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Thin Walls
Rumors were flying around the department about Nora's "him." Faculty members said he was an ex-con, out on early parole.
Some had seen him with her at Pete's Restaurant. I met him when I moved my office next door to Nora's and he offered to
help me unload my book boxes from the freight elevator.
Nora followed and introduced him as her friend. Otherwise, I would have tried to get rid of him.
Although his frame was small and wiry, he frightened me. His limp blonde hair framed a series of
blue tattooed tears that drooped from the outer corner of his left eye.
Early the year before Nora volunteered to teach basic courses to prisoners at St. Lucie Penitentiary.
She told me that at last she was doing something meaningful-helping people who needed her-unlike the
privileged university students who had everything they needed.
Nora dressed differently now than three years ago when she joined the faculty. Everyday, back
then she wore the same style shirtwaist dress printed with designs on a white background.
As quickly as your eyes scanned the pattern, the details erased from memory. Below the dress hemline her naked
calves were thick, straight, and strong as oak posts. Her white canvas Keds and neatly folded-over white socks
formed a heavy platform, reminding me of large feet of ancient Egyptians in friezes. Her attire was as practical
as the Iowa corn farm where she was raised.
By the time I moved my office upstairs next to hers, she was dressing in unadorned, straight-legged blue jeans.
She alternately wore either a navy blue or red, white, and blue striped T-shirt that had suffered too much heat
in the dryer. In winter, she put on a plaid flannel shirt that kept her warm enough in southern Mississippi.
Instead of canvas, she now wore white leather Adidas with her folded-down white socks.
Tall and lanky, Nora had gained a slight roundness below her waist. Her hair was cut so that
her ears attracted your attention. The slightly wavy hair had turned from dark brown to salt
and pepper gray. She wore no makeup. Her unwrinkled, unblemished skin had Nordic blue undertones,
and her purplish lips were full. Nora's eyes were an open sympathetic blue behind wide-framed glasses
that she wiped sparkling clean.
Occasionally she talked about her family. She told me about her last visit to Iowa before her father died.
The nursing home had allowed him a special holiday to be with his wife, Nora's two brothers and their families,
and Nora.
She had changed her father's diaper. "What else could I do," she said. "My brothers wouldn't do it.
He was so grateful he cried and thanked me over and over."
She told me her mother didn't finish high school. "She was a very intelligent woman but my grandfather
demanded she stay home and work so my uncles could attend school."
"Your mother must have been proud of you for earning a Ph.D. and becoming a professor."
"Oh yeah. She was." The way Nora said it, I concluded her mother was more likely embarrassed.
When the black eyes and bruises started appearing, she began skipping work. By the time she returned,
the bruises were a sickly yellowish-green, and she rarely left her windowless small office except to teach classes.
I learned more about Nora's life through her phone conversations. Nora had either forgotten that the thin wall
between our offices was not soundproof or her state-of-mind had deteriorated so she no longer considered such
precautions. I guessed a call to her cell would not identify her location.
The first shrill rings were at 8 a.m., as Nora was arriving, and at every break between classes. Nora would
speak cheerfully at first. "Yes, Honey, and I miss you, too. Can you get some breakfast for yourself?
I left the coffee on for you. I have to get ready for class, now. I'll talk to you later."
But, she could never get away that easily. "No, I didn't stop along the way. I came directly to my office.
No, I didn't take any longer than usual."
Then always something about money, "No, don't write anymore checks. Our checking account is too low.
Just take the grocery money out of the drawer. That should be enough."
Nora was absent for days at a time now. She said she had sinus infections, but judging from the bruises,
she was beaten with regularity. She avoided me and her other colleagues as much as possible. She left
as soon as her classes ended for the day.
I was alarmed by the phone conversations, but felt powerless to intervene. Her voice shook when she
talked to him. He wanted her complete attention, to cut her off from everyone and everything in her
life but himself. Students were beginning to complain about her absences. Her deteriorating physical
appearance and confusion had become increasingly apparent.
I could hardly believe the final conversation I overheard between them. "I know you need the money.
Robbing Pete's is a great idea. They should be loaded with cash on Friday nights," I heard Nora
saying in an unusually steady, confident voice.
I couldn't believe my ears. Nora had become a thief. Her man now controlled her completely.
How could an intelligent woman be taken in by such an abusive man?
During the storm Friday night I was alone in the building writing a final examination when
I heard Nora unlock her office door. Through the walls I heard her say, "I'd like to report
that Pete's Restaurant is going to be robbed at 8 p.m. tonight. Never mind how I know. Just be there at 8 o'clock."
Then, I heard her make another call: "Hello, this is Nora. Remember me from the prison? … No, I'm not
living with him anymore. …What are you doing tonight? ... No, let's not go to Pete's. … How about dinner at my house, instead?"
Victoria I. Sullivan, PhD, is retired university professor of biology,
4th generation native of Florida, and has published numerous in scientific papers,
nonfiction for magazines and newsletters, and poetry. She is a resident of Sewanee,
Tennessee, and winters in New Iberia, Louisiana.
Email: Victoria I. Sullivan
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