HER AMENDMENTS by Jessica Breheny

Our union president, Ronald, milquetoastedly knocks his gavel on the conference table. “Okay We have a quorum. We are just missing … okay … missing … Yolanda.”

“She’s on her way,” Ngoc says.

“On her way. Okay. We have a quorum. I will, now, officially, call the Bay Valley College Faculty Association December meeting to order at 9:02.” 

Ronald is a Math instructor whose Ratemyprofessor reviews describe him as an “easy A” who goes “off on tangents” and “tries to make jokes.” He looks wrung out this morning. Three buttons in the middle of his button-down are undone, leaving a pucker of Santas and sleighs on his Christmas-themed shirt. 

Our office assistant, Phoebe, sits next to Ronald, ready to take the minutes. Her laptop casts a bluish glow on her face. Before she came to work for the union, she was a student in my Intro to Literature class where she wrote a run-on-festooned, but heartfelt, paper about Emily Dickinson’s insects. 

I am seated between Mia, the Librarian, and Ngoc, the Theater instructor, who just finished the fall student production of a one act play about a gambler, a housewife, and a social media influencer who realize they are living inside a board game based on a Russian fairy tale. The three of us are slouched with our heads angled towards each other in the helpless body language of a box of orphaned kittens. I attempt to make eye contact with Phoebe to impart the message that everything will be okay. She’s not alone. I’m right here, her English teacher, and Mia and Ngoc and Yolanda – who’s on her way, who will arrive any minute -- we’re all behind her. We’ll get through this meeting. But I am having trouble seeing Phoebe’s eyes through the computer-screen light on her face.   

Bradford, Leo, Dorid, Gerrard, and Matt are seated across from us at the table. Bradford stares at me. His gaze presses like a thumb between my collar bone and my neck. I don’t dare look directly at him. In September, the men across the conference table declared war on us for supporting Phoebe’s gender discrimination complaint against Bradford, a septuagenarian History instructor whose Ratemyprofessors complain is overly obsessed with President Garfield’s assassin, Charles Guiteau. After months of commenting on Phoebe’s clothes and makeup and speculating loudly about her menstrual cycles, Bradford accused Phoebe of embezzlement when the union bought her a laptop to bring to meetings. Later, he cornered her in the union office, accused her of stealing petty cash to pay for child care, and told her he wouldn’t let her leave the office until she agreed that a typo she’d made on the date in some meeting minutes was a deliberate attempt to hide her embezzling of union funds. Ngoc walked into the office a few days later and witnessed him waving an eye liner pencil in Phoebe’s face like a shiv and demanding, “How much of our money did you spend on this?” And he has only gotten worse since Phoebe filed a complaint.

I read the agenda and scan my face to make sure it is neutral, professional. I will myself to stop clenching my jaw, unfurrow the furrow in my brow. I refuse to show any fear. There is nothing to be afraid of, anyway. We vetted the agenda with Ronald over the weekend: Approval of the Agenda; Approval of the November Minutes; Part Time Faculty Class Assignments; Negotiations Updates; Trustee Elections. The meeting – our last before the winter break -- will pass as a series of bland discussions.

My phone buzzes. I have it balanced on my lap. Mia and Ngoc are typing on their phones under the table. 

Yolanda? You coming?

Traffic.

OK.

  Stuck behind an accident. Rain.

Yeah.

Through the window I can see the faculty lot four floors below. A group of Medical Assisting students in blue scrubs mingle in a parking space someone is trying to park in. The remnants of last night’s storm drizzle over the cars. I will Yolanda’s earnestly bumper-stickered Subaru to appear while I sip boxed coffee. I should stop --  I have to pee already, and we’re just four minutes in. But moving the paper cup to my lips gives me something to do with my nervous hands. 

Ronald puts on his glasses. His fingers rumple the edge of the agenda. His hand is shaking. “Next is approval of the agenda. Does anyone want to make a motion to approve it? To approve the agenda?”

“I move to approve the agenda,” Ngoc’s voice is so steady that I wonder if my nerves are overreacting. She is chicly dressed today, in a black turtle neck and silver pendent.

“Second,” Mia wisps. 

Dorid, the Archery Coach, who wears ironed jeans and always smells like potato chips, pipes up. “I would like to make a motion to add ‘review gender harassment investigation irregularities’ to item three, Action Items.”  

Ngoc, Mia, and I tap at our phones. Our group text flashes under the table. Ronald promised not to accept amendments to the agenda, but he’s not very reliable.

Oh no.

Not happening.

Just vote no.

Delay!

Yolanda jumps in, Almost there. 

Without Yolanda, we won’t have the votes to block any motions. 

I deliberately knock my cup over. 

“Sorry!” I say. Very slowly, I open my tote and pretend to look for a tissue to wipe the coffee off the table. “Sorry about that.” 

Leo hands me a napkin. “Here.”

Good thinking, Sophie.

“Shall we continue?” Bradford asks.

It’s now 9:07. I managed to kill three minutes. 

I raise my hand. “I would like to amend the motion by striking the words ‘review gender harassment investigation irregularities.’”

I look over at Phoebe. She is bent towards her screen. Her straight black hair hangs like a blanket over her head and shoulders. Greeney laptop light wavers and pulses on her face. I feel nauseous when I look at it. She must be using some setting for her screen, maybe one of the ones that prevents headaches. Poor thing. She has been so stressed. She probably has headaches all the time. She turns her face in my direction. I think I see her smiling gratefully at me for a moment through the strange light. 

My phone buzzes. My husband Jan. Everything okay?

No, I write back. Not okay.

Since the investigation started, Bradford hired someone to follow Phoebe around for a week, apparently convinced he could clear his name by proving she went to work, and to the grocery store, and the daycare center to pick up her two little girls. And then Gerrard sent an email accusing me and Ngoc of attempting to murder him by tampering with his brakes, or the brakes on his wife’s car, or his daughter’s rental car – the email was confusingly written. 

“Point of order.” Bradford’s voice has the rough edge of a cough. “You can’t amend before a second. Furthermore, you can’t amend by striking the substance of the amendment. I have said for a long time now that we need training in parliamentary procedure.” 

Alina Szapocznikow, Sculpture - Lampe VIll, 1970

Coloured polyester resin, electrical wiring and metal 21 × 23 x 16 cm Courtesy The Estate of Alina Szapocznikow / Piotr Stanislawski / Galerie Loevenbruck, Paris < © ADAGP, Paris Photo Fabrice Gousset

Oh no, Jan buzzes. What’s happening?

Can’t right now.

He sends back an emoji of a yellow face grinding its teeth.

“Okay,” Ronald says. “We need a second. Do we have a second?” Ronald glances down at a picture of his newborn granddaughter on his phone. Her marvelous and newly minted existence on the planet is distracting him from the current crisis. Good for him, but not good for us or Phoebe. 

“Second,” Bradford burbles.

Something weird is definitely happening with Phoebe’s computer. The light from it makes her face look twisted, like when someone holds a flashlight up to their chin in a dark room.  

Damn.

Do something.

Yeah. It’ll pass without Yolanda’s vote.

She says she’ll be here soon.

“I would like to amend the motion by moving the item to section two, Information Item,” I try. 

“You can’t do that,” Bradford says. “We are discussing Dorid’s original motion. Unless, of course, Dorid, you would accept a friendly amendment?”

Dorid shakes his head. 

We look to Ronald. He can’t withstand men bullying him. Phoebe is typing the minutes as the motion gets worked through. It looks like she is wearing a mask made of the shifting vertical lines of an old TV.   

Is Phoebe okay? 

I can’t imagine.

Poor thing.

I glance at Ngoc’s phone. She is frantically scrolling through Robert’s Rules for Dummies. 

“Okay, the original motion to amend the agenda is on the table. Any discussion?” 

“I am the maker of the motion,” Dorid says. “And I would like the privilege of speaking first. We have a problem as a board that we need to address out in the open. There is obviously a lack of transparency. There is manipulation of the process. I never thought I would have to say this about our own union, but –” his voice catches for a moment as he chokes up, “There have been lies.” He begins to weep. “There is a lack of basic civility that we are encountering. Now we have an incompetent investigator. An outsider. Who doesn’t understand our union or our college culture.”

“I agree with my fellow board member,” Bradford says. “This is an issue of accountability. I would like to offer a friendly amendment to the motion to add that we discuss replacing the investigator with and old associate of mine, a retired law enforcement officer. He conducts investigations for the DA’s office. We’re spending an awful lot of money on this so-called ‘workplace investigation attorney.’ We could pay this other investigator half the amount.”

Leo, a Political Science instructor who is known for “trick questions,” and Matt – Chemistry department -- nod. Matt leans his keratosis-dappled scalp towards Leo and whispers something.

Shit.

I recall a part in Ngoc’s student play where the characters had to walk through a forest of knives. My anxiety is an army of ants marching in a track from my stomach to my heart and down again. 

“I’d like to further amend the motion,” Leo says. “To expand the investigation to include criminal conspiracy among some of our board members to abuse the complaint process to enact a personal agenda.”

“I concur. Our union will finally begin to heal from this ….” Dorid wipes away a non-existent tear with his sleeve. 

We need to get control of this. Now. 

“First we need a second,” Bradford corrects. “Before there are any amendments.”

“Second,” Matt says. 

“Okay, we have one amendment,” Ronald says. It’s been seconded. Any discussion?” 

“Two amendments,” Bradford says. “We have an amendment to an amendment.”

“We have two amendments. Any discussion on the amended motion as amended?”

Do something.

Yolanda texts us, Traffic is bad. Injury accident. What’s happening?

“Ronald!” Mia says. You didn’t accept Sophie’s earlier amendments. Why are you accepting these?” 

“These are friendly amendments,” Ronald says. “I’m accepting friendly ones.” He is scrolling through photos of his granddaughter with her head surrounded by a crown of purple tulle. 

Through a knot in the base of my throat, I manage to say, “This is retaliation. It’s an attempt to intimidate a complainant and witnesses in a sexual harassment investigation.” 

I glance at Phoebe. It looks like her mouth is one of those toy holographs shimmering between images. 

“Ronald,” Ngoc says. “You need to get control of this.”

“Point of order,” Bradford says. “Discussion is limited to the motion.”

“Point of order,” Mia says. “You are out of line!”

Bradford laughs and mumbles to Leo. “I told you we needed training for the board members.”

Dorid says, “I object to these accusations. These continued attacks on our characters. We have lost civility on our board, and I, for one, am deeply, truly, and profoundly troubled. Sophie’s statement is offensive. That we would comport ourselves with anything but professionalism. That we would be impugned while performing our jobs as union representatives. There is the need for respect on our board that has been lost due to baseless accusations. I would like my points noted in the minutes.” He points at Phoebe. “I insist our minute-taker record my objections, even if she doesn’t like it. Even if she is …”

Matt quotes from Phoebe’s complaint, “’unsafe.’” 

Phoebe’s nose is distorted, as though it were in the process of being swallowed by her cheeks.

My phone vibrates on my thigh. Mia, Ngoc, and I look down at our laps.

Please help.

It is Phoebe. I forgot she was on our group text.

I look over at her, but her face is just a blur. An imploring blur.

Hang in their sweetie

We will get through this

We are with you (heart emoji)

Am close. Delay. 

Yolanda sends “The Scream” emoji with its freaked out oval mouth and its tiny yellow hands cradling its head.

“Can we take a break?” I ask.

Gerrard chuckles. 

Bradford says, “We are in the middle of approving the agenda. The meeting just started.”

I look at my phone. 9:17. It has been only fifteen minutes since Ronald called the meeting to order. We have a new text from Phoebe that just says, Please.

“I need to pee,” I say.

Ronald lowers his embarrassed eyes to the picture of his granddaughter on his phone.

“Oh, I see. A break? This is a tactic,” Bradford says. “It’s the same game-playing as always. This underscores my point that we need to investigate the motivations behind this so called ‘harassment’ complaint. Between clear incompetence and misuse of resources, there is ample cause to suspect an ulterior motive of a personal nature.” 

Jan sends a link to a ginger-chocolate-molasses cookie recipe. I decided to make cookies! Hang in there!

Lately Jan and I have been trying to calm our nerves about the union by watching The Great British Baking Show. 

Bradford’s hands are folded in front of him on the conference table. They are large and misshapen, liver-spotted with branches of red veins, and make me think “spleen,” though I don’t know what a spleen looks like. His organy fingers are cupped around something.

Phoebe has the posture of a disconnected wire, with her head dangled down towards the computer. I can’t see her face through the curtain of her hair. 

Phoebe, sweetie, you okay?

After this is over, we are going out for lunch. All us ladies in? My treat!

We just need to get through this.

Yolanda?

She said she’d be here any minute.

It’s her! She’s here!

I look out the window. Yolanda’s old silver Subaru swings into a parking spot. Bradford sees me see Yolanda. He raises his hand. He is holding something that wriggles like a panicked minnow.

Bradford says, “We are taking quite a bit of time on approving the agenda, and Sophie has some biological needs that ought to be addressed.” Matt and Dorid titter. “I call the question. It is time to end discussion and bring this to a vote.”

Yolanda slams her car door behind her. She hunches her head forward and pumps her arms as she marches towards the building. Between her and the conference room are the automatic wheelchair accessible doors that open slowly, the long hallway that will likely be packed with students on their way to their morning classes, and then the door to the conference wing, another hallway, an elevator ride up four flights, a right turn, and then, finally, room C409A. 

“Yolanda is here,” Mia says. “Let’s just wait a second.”

“Sophie needs to urinate as she so politely told us all a moment ago.” Bradford rests his gaze on Phoebe. “We need to finish this vote. I am sure we could all use a break.” 

Bradford is moving something small and round between his fingers. It looks like a polished piece of beach glass.

“Okay,” Ronald says. “Let’s wait for Yolanda.”

Matt says, “The question has been called.”

“The question, okay, the question was called. I take a vote on --? On the question?”

“On ending debate,” Bradford corrects.

“Okay, we vote on that. So, all in favor of –”

“Ronald!” Ngoc says.

“—of ending debate, please indicate by saying ‘aye.’”

The five ayes tumble from the men across the table, swallowing our outvoted nays.

“Now the amendment,” Bradford says. 

“Ronald! Wait!” Ngoc says.

“We’ve ended debate,” Bradford says. “Ronald? Proceed with the meeting.”

“Okay, next … I need to ask … to say… all in favor of the amended motion as amended say, aye.”

“State the motion, please,” Mia says. “I lost track.” 

A delay of maybe a minute. Good thinking on Mia’s part.

“Phoebe?” Ronald says. “Can you state the motion?” Phoebe doesn’t move. It looks like her forehead is stretching away from her face. Ronald rests his gaze on her for a moment, his eyebrows a crumple of concern. He leans next to her and reads over her shoulder, “Add to the agenda, Action Item number three to discuss expanding the investigation to include criminal conspiracy allegations. All in favor of the motion?”

“Aye!”

In Bradford’s voting hand I see an eye, a pretty, green eye. Its pupil flits desperately side to side.

“Opposed, nay,” Ronald says.

“Nay!” we yell.

“Motion passes,” Ronald says. “Okay, the amendment to the motion to amend the agenda to add a discussion of replacing the investigator with Bradford’s acquaintance. All in favor, signify by saying, aye.”

“Aye!”

“Nay!”

“Motion passes. Now …the original amendment to the agenda, to review gender harassment investigation irregularities. All in favor.”

The men’s ayes gurgle out like sputum.

“The agenda is amended as moved.”

Yolanda swings open the conference room door, a round tumble of pink and green flowered fabric and white hair. She is breathless. “Sorry – traffic.”

Where Phoebe’s face should be is just the flickering blizzard of static. She looks like a broken TV attached to a head. She is not taking down the minutes anymore. Absurdly, I think, at least none of this will make it into the official record. 

“Break called,” Ronald says.

“Great timing,” Ngoc spits.

Bradford stands up. He holds out his hands to his friends. In his gray palms are two eyes, a nose, and a mouth. The mouth’s pink lipsticked lips form shapes as though they were trying to say something. Dorid pats Bradford’s shoulder. Leo shakes his head with surprised appreciation. Matt and Gerrard blow kisses at the mouth. 

I kneel down next to Phoebe’s chair. 

“Phoebe, honey, you okay?”

She shakes her faceless head. 

I hold her by the arm and lead her to the women’s restroom. Yolanda, Mia, and Ngoc are there, leaning against the sinks. Yolanda keeps shaking her head and saying, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” I wet some paper towels and dampen Phoebe’s missing face with them, willing her pretty features back through hydration. We tell her, you are going to get through this. It’s going to be okay. That monster won’t win. But he has her face in his hands. It is hard to see how he loses.

Jessica Breheny

Jessica Breheny’s work has been published in Chicago Quarterly Review, Catamaran Literary Reader, Eleven Eleven, Fugue, LIT, Otoliths, Other Voices, Santa Monica Review, Santa Cruz Noir Anthology (Akashic Noir Series), and Wild Roof, among other publications. Her stories have also been produced as audio books by Audible. She is the author of the chapbooks Some Mythology (Naissance Press), and Ephemerides (Dusie Kollektiv). Her collection, Broken City, was selected as a finalist for the Flannery O’Connor Award for Short Fiction. She lives in Santa Cruz and teaches writing and literature at San Jose City College and serves as the Vice President of the faculty union.