Two

“Interpersonal communication, in its most comprehensive meaning, is an ever-developing process in which individuals relate to each other.”

W. Wilke, Person to Person: Interpersonal Communication Today, 3rd Edition, Chapter One

When my kids ask me what is this Interpersonal Communication thing that I’m now teaching, I give them the brief answer.

“It’s about how people talk to each other,” I tell them.

“You need to take a college course to do that?” my son Danny asked with a slight laugh. Of course Interpersonal Communication is much more than talking. There are a lot of technical terms and theories but it all comes down to how people speak to each other and, consequently, relate to each other. My class is not some touchy-feely sensitivity session but often we get into exploring relationships and cover such delicate issues as family dynamics, sexuality, and the work and school environment. Teaching Public Speaking allows me (sometimes) to make the students better speakers; teaching Interpersonal Communication can (sometimes) lead to better human beings. I guess I am one of those foolishly dedicated teachers who likes the job but I do wish it paid better.

Going back and refreshing my understanding of Interpersonal Communication has helped me cope with various people and deal with sticky situations. I am far from a very organized, well-balanced, emotionally stable person. But who is? I am a divorced woman pushing fifty years and doing the Single Mom runaround. A few years ago my doctor informed me that I was no longer “obese” but merely “overweight.” In my book, that was great news. I am comfortable with how I look but I do dress like a mature woman and not a skinny teen cheerleader. I try to come off like a professional, self-sufficient Wonder Woman but in reality I know I am a struggling Mom.

This chit-chatting about Interpersonal Communication and revealing my personality profile is related to my second encounter with murder which started in March on a Wednesday, one of my busiest days. After driving the thirty-five miles from my house in East Alton to Brighton and teaching two morning classes, I then drove another thirty miles to Chester for an afternoon Public Speaking class. I repeat this marathon dance every Monday as well. (My other class at CCCC was on Tuesday and Thursday morning.) Then there was the twenty-mile trip home. It was a ridiculous schedule that cost more in gas than I wanted to think about but it allowed me to get in four courses and pay the bills. Mostly.

When I got to my office in Chester on that Wednesday, the door was locked and my office mate Jerry Butler was not there. Nothing surprising in that. It was only two weeks until Hedda Gabler opened and he practically lived in the theatre. When I went down the hall to say hello to Grant, he was gone as well. I knew I’d find them both on the stage or in the scene shop so, with twenty minutes to spare before my class, I followed the smell of paint to the auditorium.

Two students were on stage painting the set white as loud music blasted away from somewhere. Probably from one of their smart phones. I found Grant and Jerry in the shop looking over some color renderings of the scenery as if they were the plans for D-Day. “You said blond furniture was very Scandinavian,” Jerry argued. “And these clean lines are very Scandinavian as well. Beige with white trim.”

“But this is supposed to be Norway in the Victorian age,” Grant said wearily. “Jerry, it looks like mid-century modern. It reminds me of some kind of Bergman film.” “The only Bergman movies I know are in black and white,” Jerry said irritably. “Hedda is trapped in a suffocating Victorian world,” Grant said. “The house Tesman bought her is old-fashioned, out of date even. They live in a dark curio cabinet.”

“Grant, it’s rather late in the day to be talking metaphors. Just tell me what color you want.”

“Brown. Dark brown.”

“Chocolate?”

“Darker.”

The two of them finally noticed me.

“Carmel!” Grant was always glad to see me. I liked that a lot.

“Hey, Carmel, what do you think of this?” Jerry held up one of the renderings for me to see. “What does it say to you?”

“A hospital waiting room?” “Exactly!” Grant said victoriously.

“Sorry, Jerry,” I said. “I think it’s too modern for Ibsen.”

“Dark chocolate,” Grant decreed. An awkward pause while Jerry thought it over. “I hate to tell you this,” I cautioned them, “but those two out on stage are painting the set white.”

“That’s just the primer,” Jerry said impatiently. “But this afternoon the tech class is going to start on the final color so I need to know.”

“Dark chocolate,” Grant repeated. “Not milk chocolate. More like a Mounds bar.” “Okay,” Jerry sighed. “A Mounds bar. I’ll start mixing the paint.” He then went into the room which contained all the paints and brushes.

“Poor Jerry,” Grant sighed as well. “I hate when I do this to him.”

“Poor Grant,” I said. “You look like you haven’t slept since forever.”

“I was up last night with my restless leg.”

“I thought you were going to see some kind of leg doctor about that.” I sounded like a mother and that is not the relationship I wanted with Grant.

“They don’t know what causes Restless Leg Syndrome so they don’t have a cure.” He really did look and sound weary and my heart went out to him. “I looked it up on the internet. No cause, no cure. Reading about it was all so depressing.”

“Grant, I still think you ought to see a doctor.” More of a mothering tone. I have to stop doing this!

“You’re probably right,” he said sheepishly. “I read about some meds that help. Maybe after Hedda is over.”

“That’s not for three more weeks,” I argued. “You need your sleep, Grant.” More mothering! I felt like I was talking to my teenage son Danny. Ridiculous!

“Gra-ant!”

That bellowing sound could only issue from Marley Donovan. Only she could turn a onesyllable word into a two-syllable caterwaul. There she stood, all five feet of her, dressed like she was going dancing rather than teaching. I didn’t mind the frilly dress, the gaudy pearls, or the puffed-up hair with (no kidding!) a yellow bow. What I did mind was the fact that she was probably my age but was thin and youthful enough to mix in with the students. “Gra-ant,” she repeated. “I’ve been looking for you,” she said sweetly but with a domineering tone.

“Oh … Hi there, Marley.” It was clear Grant was embarrassed. Who wouldn’t be? It was all overdone, from the outfit to the baby talk. “I’m … here,” he mumbled. “So I see.” Then she looked at me and lost her smile. “And Carmel as well.” I think she disliked me as much as I disliked her.

“Hello, Carmel,” she said begrudgingly.

“Hi … Marley,” I forced myself to say. “Nice dress. Going dancing?” I regretted it the second I said it. Her forced smile got even bigger.

“No,” she said. “Just the English poets. My Nineteenth-century lit class.”

“I’d dress up for the poets, I suppose” I said carefully. “But no reason to for Public Speaking.”

“Obviously not,” she said happily as she looked me up and down. I was wearing black pants and a blue and red blouse that I felt was attractive enough and more than appropriate. Considering some of my students came to class in sleepwear, I felt very presentable. Except for my weight.

“Gra-ant!,” Marley bellowed and practically turned her back to me. “What is that awful smell?”

“Jerry is mixing paint with the adhesive,” he answered, relieved that the subject had been changed.

“Uh - gh!”

Marley is the only person I know who actually says “Ugh.” In two syllables.

“It smells like … some kind of animal fat.”

Grant finally managed a smile. “It is animal fat,” he said. “It’s an old technique Jerry likes to use. It stiffens the flats.”

“Well, it is disss - gusting!”

At this point, Jerry came out of the paint room. The predominant color of paint speckled on his face and hand was chocolate. Dark chocolate.

“Hi there … Marley,” he said nervously. He actually turned shy in front of Marley. I noticed this of late. Did he have some kind of crush on her?

“Jerry,” Grant announced, “Marley doesn’t like your cooking.” His smile grew.

“Oh …” Jerry said. An awkward pause followed. Then he added, “Kinda smells, doesn’t it?”

“Kinda!” She then cut off Jerry as she had me and turned to Grant. “I really must get out of here before my clothes start to smell. Are we all set for dinner tonight, dear?”

That “dear” wiped away Grant’s smile.

“I have rehearsal,” he said weakly.

“Then we’ll have to make it early, won’t we?” Marley couldn’t take a hint. Grant was busy and tired and the last thing he needed was a long, talky meal with her. “Pick me up at five,” she ordered.

Despite the frilly dress, it was clear who wore the pants in this relationship.

“Okay,” he murmured.

“Sorry about the smell, Marley.” Jerry actually looked crestfallen. And jealous. “I...