Ghosts that Watch Us

The first day of classes was always a riot of activity, no matter the campus, private or public. While Ellory’s cottage may be on the calm and quiet banks of the river, the building where he taught most certainly was not, and with the athletic fields and pitches and courts just adjacent to Ellory’s building he often had to push through all of the athletes who meandered about this side of campus. Today he also had to weave around the first year students and their lingering parents, his briefcase clutched tightly in his hand as he made his way through the halls. He loved this place, especially after weeks spent in the unbearable heat of Venezuela. The tall and full trees of Providence, the squat red brick buildings with their tall white Doric and Ionic columns, the wide and crisp lawns of green grass and colorful flower beds. Hundreds of minds spinning away in academic research. Bulbous street lamps flickering on after sundown, the campus illuminated by hovering fireflies and a low shroud of mist. He missed the truly cool air that would return mid-September, the long and low calls from the men's rowing team striding on the slick waters of the river bordering campus, the steadily changing color of the leaves, the puffs of breaths in the early morning air, fires in the grate, hot chocolate before bed.  “Hey, Doctor Waylon!” Ellory turned by simple habit, even if he already recognized the elevated voice of one of his least favorite students. He stopped himself closing his eyes in exasperation as the boy approached. Chase Thompson was tall and solidly built, just like that damned coach of his, the one that always took his parking spot. Chase was golden and those heated blue eyes set Ellory on edge, as if he was always on the prowl for a scuffle or an argument. But when the boy wanted something, it was an entirely different story. “How’s it going, Professor? How was your summer?” Chase stopped just before him, one huge hand clasping the strap of his backpack. Ellory wasn’t a small man. He and the boy were the same height, but where Ellory was lean and thin, Chase’s muscle was no doubt the product of his time on the lacrosse field. Chase was something of a celebrity on campus, giving Brown athletics a name in a nation where rank among universities mattered. He cleared his throat and tossed the boy a tight smile. “Chase, yes. Summer was great. Yours?” The boy grinned. “It was great. Listen, I was wondering if I could talk to you about this semester’s work. I have a full schedule with lacrosse—.” Ellory sighed. “Look, Chase. It’s imperative you understand that no other athletes are given special treatment. This is exactly why you nearly failed last semester. You chose to add athletics on top of your academic load, and that’s a responsibility, not an excuse.You take my course, you’re expected to do the same work as everyone else.” The boy’s face closed off, a coldness appearing in his eyes, in the hard set of his jaw. There it was. The infamous temper. “Excuse me,” Ellory said promptly before Chase could say anything, turning on his heel and unlocking the door to his classroom. The boy was already halfway down the hall where he stopped in one of the doorways, speaking animatedly with someone. He pointed down the hall at Ellory, who paused, watching. The person clasped the boy on the shoulder and guided him into the room, but not before stepping out and looking straight at Ellory. It was with a sour, half-excited flip of his stomach that he saw it was Chase’s coach, Sean Vernon. The man wore a small smile on his face, glaring at Ellory from down the way. Taking a steadying breath, Ellory glared back and swiftly closed the door with a sharp click. The distinct sound of final separation didn’t keep Ellory from the noxious taste in his mouth. Sean Vernon, Ellory thought bitterly, setting his briefcase on his desk. Taller by a couple of inches and outweighing him by at least fifty muscled pounds, Sean managed to intimidate Ellory--but only a little bit. They’d had their share of run-ins over the last two years, ever since Sean had been hired on at Brown to coach the men’s lacrosse team.  He remembered one instance when, with the pretense of joining his friends, Sean had crowded in front of him in line for dinner. Tired and bleary-eyed, Ellory had stared at his back for a long moment, not quite believing the man had actually stepped in front of him, as if Ellory hadn’t been real at all. Battling an elementary impulse to tattle on him, Ellory breathed out through his nose and calmly said, “Excuse me.” But the man ignored him, piping into the conversation with his friends, who all turned to him like some kind of god, smiles wide and welcoming, more hard back pats. “Excuse me,” Ellory repeated a little louder. He tapped on his shoulder for good measure, hating the solid, responsive feel of it. The conversation ceased, and Ellory straightened, face coloring as the men all turned to him. Sean glared. Coldly, he said, “What is it, mate?” Ellory had bristled, not having expected the Southern accent to be quite as pronounced, or sharp. It was always rounder around the edges when he spoke with other people. “There’s a line here, if you hadn’t noticed. I and the people behind me have been waiting to eat and you can’t just come out of nowhere and cut in.” Sean had actually smiled, and Ellory was taken aback for a small moment at how nice that smile was, made Sean even more handsome than he already was. It would be even lovelier if it weren’t laced with sarcasm. “You can’t always get what you want, bud.” Ellory’s mind had flashed with the fear that the new coach knew that Ellory had stolen the quiet cottage right out from under his nose, but he had no proof either way. It was at that moment that Dean Ambrose had pushed in through the heavy wooden doors, flurries of cold air howling in with him. He zeroed in on Ellory almost immediately, and marched toward him, his soft hazel eyes squinting in a kind smile. Clapping him on the shoulder, he’d guided Ellory away from the others and toward the front of the line, falling into a conversation they’d started hours earlier in his office. Tossing a look over his shoulder, Ellory had smirked at Sean, whose heavy brows were bent low in fury.  Ever since that incident, Ellory had been on his guard around Sean. Wary glances in the hallways, Sean tossing him the occasional sneer from across the dining hall. And even though Ellory had trouble ridding himself of the hurt that came from receiving such obvious disdain, confused as he was by his slight attraction to the man, he was hardly perturbed at such base antics, only sighing and flipping to his lesson plans for the day, suddenly tired. That man had such exquisite eyes, even when narrowed in his direction. He’d prepare the final adjustments to his lecture course on the plane home, in spite of Delia’s warning to rest a moment, just one moment. But before every semester he taught this course, Ellory found himself questioning the words he put on the page, revising and re-revising the course he’d taught a thousand times. Spanish influence over the Americas was far-reaching and incredibly invasive, but the art and architecture of such colonialism still managed to steal his breath. The colors and the arches and the grand scale of it all, often muted by centuries of grime and wear.  How was he to explain how precious the topic was, how the art history course they planned on was so much more?  They would be forced to open their eyes to the marching sweep of bigger and stronger armies, hearts aching for those who could do nothing but stand by and watch their lives be destroyed, altered beyond recognition, immersion and conversion the only means to survive. How could he explain such a thing to his students, try and tell them that all they could do now was try to handle such delicate treasure with gentle hands, and be understanding and compassionate to the ones still living in history’s wake? He never knew how to begin.  The words on the page swam through his weary eyes, and his mind wandered.The door to his classroom opened and a student started down the sloped stairs. More of an auditorium, the room could hold over a hundred students, and there never failed to be an empty seat. Smiling at the girl, Ellory shook off the jet-lag and started writing on the whiteboard.