Barking at Butterflies and other stories

To Break the Wall

The door to Room 206 was locked when Richard Dadier reached it for his fifth period English class. He tried the knob several times, peered in through the glass panel, and motioned for Serubi to open the door. Serubi, sitting in the seat closest the door, shrugged his shoulders innocently and grinned. Richard felt again the mixed revulsion and fear he felt before every class.

Easy, he told himself. Easy does it.

He reached into his pocket and slipped the large key into the keyhole. Swinging the door open, he slapped it fast against the prongs that jutted out from the wall, and then walked briskly to his desk.

A falsetto voice somewhere in the back of the room rapidly squeaked, “Daddy-oh!” Richard busied himself with his Delaney book, not looking up at the class. He still remembered that first day, when he had told them his name.

“Mr. Dadier,” he had said, and he’d pronounced it carefully. One of the boys had yelled, “Daddy-oh,” and the class had roared approval. The name had stuck since then.

Quickly, he glanced around the room, flipping cards over as he took the attendance. Half were absent as usual. He was secretly glad. They were easier to handle in small groups.

He turned over the last card, and waited for them to quiet down. They never would, he knew, never.

Reaching down, he pulled a heavy book from his briefcase and rested it on the palm of his hand. Without warning, he slammed it onto the desk.

“Shut up!” he bellowed.

The class groaned into silence, startled by the outburst.

Now, he thought. Now, I’ll press it home. Surprise plus advantage plus seize your advantage. Just like waging war. All day long I wage war. Some fun.

“Assignment for tomorrow,” Richard said flatly.

A moan escaped from the group. Gregory Miller, a large boy of seventeen, dark-haired, with a lazy sneer and hard, bright eyes said, “You work too hard, Mr. Daddy-oh.”

The name twisted deep inside Richard, and he felt the tiny needles of apprehension start at the base of his spine.

“Quiet, Mueller,” Richard said, feeling pleasure at mispronouncing the boy’s name. “Assignment for tomorrow. In New Horizons...”

“In what?” Ganigan asked.

I should have known better, Richard reminded himself. We’ve only been using the book two months now. I can’t expect them to remember the title. No.

“In New Horizons,” he repeated impatiently, “the blue book, the one we’ve been using, all term.” He paused, gaining control of himself. “In the blue book,” he continued softly, “read the first ten pages of Army Ants in the Jungle.”

“Here in class?” Hennesy asked.

“No. At home.”

“Christ,” Hennesy mumbled.

“It’s on page two seventy-five,” Richard said.

“What page?” Antoro called out.

“Two seventy-five.”

“What page?” Levy asked.

“Two seventy-five,” Richard said. “My God, what’s the matter with you?” He turned rapidly and wrote the figures on the board in a large hand, repeating the numerals slowly. “Two, seventy-five.” He heard a chuckle spread maliciously behind him, and he whirled quickly. Every boy in the class wore a deadpan.

“There will be a short test on the homework tomorrow,” he announced grimly.

“Another one?” Miller asked lazily.

“Yes, Mailler,” Richard said, “another one.” He glared at the boy heatedly, but Miller only grinned in return.

“And now,” Richard said, “the test I promised you yesterday.”

A hush fell over the class.

Quick, Richard thought. Press the advantage. Strike again and again. Don’t wait for them. Keep one step ahead always. Move fast and they won’t know what’s going on. Keep them too busy to get into mischief.

Richard began chalking the test on the board. He turned his head and barked over his shoulder, “All books away. Finley, hand out the paper.”

This is the way to do it, he realized. I’ve figured it out. The way to control these monsters is to give them a test every day of the week. Write their fingers off.

“Begin immediately,” Richard said in a businesslike voice. “Don’t forget your heading.”

“What’s that, that heading?” Busco asked.

“Name, official class, subject class, subject teacher,” Richard said wearily.

Seventy-two, he thought. I’ve said it seventy-two times since I started teaching here two months ago. Seventy-two times.

“Who’s our subject teacher?” Busco asked. His face expressed complete bewilderment.

“Mr. Daddy-oh,” Vota said quite plainly. Vota was big and rawboned, a muscular, rangy, seventeen-year-old. Stringy blond hair hung over his pimply forehead. There was something mannishly sinister about his eyes, something boyishly innocent about his smile. And he was Miller’s friend. Richard never forgot that for a moment.

“Mr. Dadier is the subject teacher,” Richard said to Busco. “And incidentally, Vito,” he glared at Vota, “anyone misspelling my name in the heading will lose ten points.”

“What!” Vota complained, outraged.

“You heard me, Vota,” Richard snapped.

“Well, how do you spell Daddy-oh?” Vota asked, the innocent smile curling his lips again.

“You figure it out, Vota. I don’t need the ten points.”

Richard bitterly pressed the chalk into the board. It snapped in two, and he picked up another piece from the runner. With the chalk squeaking wildly, he wrote out the rest of the test.

“No talking,” he ordered. He sat down behind the desk and eyed the class suspiciously.

A puzzled frown crossed Miller’s face. “I don’t understand the first question, teach’,” he called out.

Richard leaned back in his chair and looked at the board. “It’s very simple, Miltzer,” he said. “There are ten words on the board. Some are spelled correctly, and some are wrong. If they’re wrong, you correct them. If they’re right, spell them just the way they’re written.”

“Mmmmm,” Miller said thoughtfully, his eyes glowing. “How do you spell the second word?”

Richard leaned back again, looked at the second word, and began, “D-I-S...” He caught himself and faced Miller squarely. “Just the way you want to. You’re taking the test, not me.”

Miller grinned widely. “Oh. I didn’t know that, teach’.”

“You’ll know when you see your mark, Miller.”

Richard cursed himself for having pronounced the boy’s name correctly. He made himself comfortable at the desk and looked out over the class.

Di Pasco will cheat, he thought. He will cheat and I won’t catch him. He’s uncanny that way. God, how I wish I could catch him. How does he? On his cuff? Where? He probably has it stuffed in his ear. Should I search him? No, what’s the use? He’d cheat his own mother. An inborn crook. A louse.

Louse, Richard mused. Even I call them that now. All louses. I must tell Helen that I’ve succumbed. Or should I wait until after the baby is born? Perhaps it would be best not to disillusion her yet. Perhaps I should let her think I’m still trying to reach them, still trying. What was it Solly Klein had said?

“This is the garbage can of the educational system.”

He had stood in the teachers’ lunchroom, near the bulletin, pointing his stubby forefinger at Richard.

“And it’s our job to sit on the lid and make sure none of this garbage spills over into the street.”

Richard had smiled then. He was new, and he still thought he could teach them something, still felt he could mold the clay.

Lou Savoldi, an electrical wiring teacher, had smiled too and said, “Solly’s a great philosopher.”

“Yeah, yeah, philosopher.” Solly smiled. “All I know is I’ve been teaching machine shop here for twelve years now, and only once did I find anything valuable in the garbage.” He had nodded his head emphatically then. “Nobody knowingly throws anything valuable in with the garbage.”

Then why should I bother? Richard wondered now. Why should I teach? Why should I get ulcers?

“Keep your eyes on your own paper, Busco,” he cautioned.

Everyone is a cheat, a potential thief. Solly was right. We have to keep them off the streets. They should really hire a policeman. It would be funny, he thought, if it weren’t so damned serious. How long can you handle garbage without beginning to stink yourself? Already, I stink.

“All right, Busco, bring your paper up. I’m subtracting five points from it,” Richard suddenly said.

“Why? What the hell did I do?”

“Bring me your paper.”

Busco reluctantly slouched to the front of the room and tossed his paper onto the desk. He stood with his thumbs looped in the tops of his dungarees as Richard marked a large -5 on the paper in bright red.

“What’s that for?” Busco asked.

“For having loose eyes.”

Busco snatched the paper from the desk and examined it with disgust. He wrinkled his face into a grimace and slowly started back to his seat.

As he passed Miller, Miller looked to the front of the room. His eyes met Richard’s, and he sneered, “Chicken!”

“What?” Richard asked.

Miller looked surprised. “You talking to me, teach’?”

“Yes, Miller. What did you just say?”

“I didn’t say nothing, teach’.” Miller smiled.

“Bring me your paper, Miller.”

“What for?”

“Bring it up!”

“What for, I said.”

“I heard what you said, Miller. And I said bring me your paper. Now. Right this minute.”

“I don’t see why,” Miller persisted, the smile beginning to vanish from his face.

“Because I say so, that’s why.”

Miller’s answer came slowly, pointedly. “And supposing I don’t feel like?” A frown was twisting his forehead.

The other boys in the room were suddenly interested. Heads that were bent over papers snapped upright. Richard felt every eye in the class focus on him.

They were rooting for Miller, of course. They wanted Miller to win. They wanted Miller to defy him. He couldn’t let that happen.

He walked crisply up the aisle and stood beside Miller. The boy looked up.

“Get up.” Richard said, trying to control the modulation of his voice.

My voice is shaking, he told himself. I can feel it shaking. He knows it, too. He’s mocking me with those little, hard eyes of his. I must control my voice. This is really funny. My voice is shaking.

“Get up, Miller.”

“I don’t see, Mr. Daddy-oh, just why I should,” Miller answered. He pronounced the name with great care.

“Get up, Miller. Get up and say my name correctly.”

“Don’t you know your own name, Mr. Daddy-oh?”

Richard’s hand snapped out and grasped Miller by the collar of his shirt. He pulled him to his feet, almost tearing the collar. Miller stood a scant two inches shorter than Richard, squirming to release himself. Richard’s hand crushed tighter on the collar. He heard the slight rasp of material ripping. He peered into the hateful eyes and spoke quietly. “Pronounce my name correctly, Miller.”

The class had grown terribly quiet. There was no sound in the room now. Richard heard only the grate of his own shallow breathing. I should let him loose, he thought. What can come of this? How far can I go? Let him loose!

“You want me to pronounce your name, sir?” Miller asked.

“You heard me.”

“Go to hell, Mr. Daddy...”

Richard’s fist lashed out, catching the boy squarely across the mouth. He felt his knuckles scrape against hard teeth, saw the blood leap across the upper lip in a thin crimson slash, saw the eyes widen with surprise and then narrow immediately with deep, dark hatred. And then the knife snapped into view, sudden and terrifying. Long and shining, it caught the pale sunlight that slanted through the long schoolroom windows. Richard backed away involuntarily, eyeing the sharp blade with respect.

Now what, he thought? Now the garbage can turns into a coffin. Xow the garbage overflows. Now I lie dead and bleeding on a schoolroom floor while a moron slashes me to ribbons. Now.

“What do you intend doing with that, Miller?”

My voice is exceptionally calm, he mused. I think I’m frightened, but my voice is calm. Exceptionally.

“Just come a little closer and you’ll see,” Miller snarled, the blood in his mouth staining his teeth.

“Give me that knife, Miller.”

I’m kidding, a voice persisted in Richard’s mind. I must be kidding. This is all a big, hilarious joke. I’ll die laughing in the morning. I’ll die...

“Come and get it, Daddy-oh!”

Richard took a step closer to Miller and watched his arm swing back and forth in a threatening arc. Miller’s eyes were hard and unforgiving.

And suddenly, Richard caught a flash of color out of the corner of his eye. Someone was behind him! He whirled instinctively, his fist smashing into a boy’s stomach. As the boy fell to the floor Richard realized it was Miller’s friend Vota. Vota cramped into a tight little ball that writhed and moaned on the floor, and Richard knew that any danger he might have presented was past. He turned quickly to Miller, a satisfied smile clinging to his lips.

“Give me that knife, Miller, and give it to me now.”

He stared into the boy’s eyes. Miller looked big and dangerous. Perspiration stood out on his forehead. His breath was coming in hurried gasps. “Give it to me now, Miller, or I’m going to take it from you and beat you black and blue.”

He was advancing slowly on the boy.

“Give it to me, Miller. Hand it over,” his voice rolled on hypnotically, charged with an undercurrent of threat.

The class seemed to catch its breath together. No one moved to help Vota who lay in a heap on the floor, his arms hugging his waist. He moaned occasionally, squirming violently. But no one moved to help him.

I’ve got to keep one eye on Vota, Richard figured. He may be playing possum. I have to be careful.

“Hand it over, Miller. Hand it over.”

Miller stopped retreating, realizing that he was the one who held the weapon. He stuck the spring-action knife out in front of him, probing the air with it. His back curved into a large C as he crouched over, head low, the knife always moving in front of him as he advanced. Richard held his ground and waited. Miller advanced cautiously, his eyes fastened on Richard’s throat, the knife hand moving constantly, murderously, in a swinging arc. He grinned terribly, a red-stained, white smile on his face.

The chair, Richard suddenly remembered. There’s a chair. I’ll take the chair and swing. Under the chin. No. Across the chest. Fast though. It’ll have to be fast, one movement. Wait. Not yet, wait. Come on, Miller. Come on. Come on!

Miller paused and searched Richard’s face. He grinned again and began speaking softly as he advanced, almost in a whisper, almost as if he were thinking aloud.

“See the knife, Mr. Daddy-oh? See the pretty knife? I’m gonna slash you up real good, Mr. Daddy-oh. I’m gonna slash you, and then I’m gonna slash you some more. I’m gonna cut you up real fine. I’m gonna cut you up so nobody’ll know you any more, Mr. Daddy-oh.”

All the while moving closer, closer, swinging the knife.

“Ever get cut, Mr. Daddy-oh? Ever get sliced with a sharp knife? This one is sharp, Mr. Daddy-oh, and you’re gonna get cut with it. I’m gonna cut you now, and you’re never gonna bother us no more. No more.”

Richard backed away down the aisle.

Thoughts tumbled into his mind with blinding rapidity. I’ll make him think I’m retreating. I’ll give him confidence. The empty seat in the third now. Next to Ganigan. I’ll lead him there. I hope it’s empty. Empty when I checked the roll. I can’t look, I’ll tip my hand. Keep a poker face. Come on, Miller, follow me. Follow me so I can crack your ugly skull in two. Come on, you louse. One of us goes, Miller. And it’s not going to be me.

“Nossir, Mr. Daddy-oh, we ain’t gonna bother with you no more. No more tests, and no more of your noise. Just your face, Mr. Daddy-oh. Just gonna fix your face so nobody’ll wanna look at you no more.”

One more row, Richard calculated. Back up one more row. Reach. Swing. One. More. Row.

The class followed the two figures with fascination. Miller stalked Richard down the long aisle, stepping forward on the balls of his feet, pace by pace, waiting for Richard to back into the blackboard. Vota rolled over on the floor and groaned again.

And Richard counted the steps. A few more. A... few... more...

“Shouldn’t have hit me, Mr. Daddy-oh,” Miller mock. “Ain’t nice for teachers to hit students like that, Mr. Daddy-oh. Nossir, it ain’t nice at...”

The chair crashed into Miller’s chest, knocking the breath out of him. It came quickly and forcefully, with the impact of a striking snake. Richard had turned, as if to run, and then the chair was gripped in his hands tightly. It sliced the air in a clean, powerful arc, and Miller covered his face instinctively. The chair crashed into his chest, knocking him backwards. He screamed in surprise and pain as Richard leaped over the chair to land heavily on his chest. Richard pinned Miller’s alders to the floor with his knees and slapped him ruthlessly across: he race.

“Here, Miller, here, here, here,” he squeezed through clenched teeth. Miller twisted his head from side to si trying to escape the cascade of blows that fell in rapid onslaught on his cheeks.

The knife, Richard suddenly remembered! Where’s the knife? What did he do with the...

Sunlight caught the cold glint of metal, and Richard glanced up instant!;, stood over him, the knife clenched tightly in his fist. He grinned boyishly, his rotten teeth flashing across his blotchy, thin face. He spat vehemently at Richard, and then there was a blur of color: blue steel, and the yellow of Vota’s hair, and the blood on Miller’s lip, and the brown wooden floor, and the gray tweed of Richard’s suit. A shout came up from the class, and a hiss seemed to escape Miller’s lips.

Richard kicked at Vota, feeling the heavy leather of his shoes crack against the boy’s shins. Miller was up and fumbling for Richard’s arms. A sudden slice of pain started at Richard’s shoulder, careened down the length of his arm. Cloth gave way with a rasping scratch, and blood flashed bright against the gray tweed.

From the floor, Richard saw the knife flash back again, poised in Vota’s hand ready to strike. He saw Miller’s fists doubled and hard, saw the animal look on Vota’s face and again the knife threatening and sharp, drenched now with blood, dripping on the brown, cold, wooden floor.

The noise grew louder and Richard grasped in his mind for a picture of the Roman arena, tried to rise, felt pain sear through his right arm as he put pressure on it. He’s cut me, he thought with panic. Vota has cut me. And the screaming reached a wild crescendo, hands moved with terrible swiftness, eyes gleamed with molten fury, bodies squirmed, and hate smothered everything in a sweaty, confused, embarrassed embrace.

This is it, Richard thought, this is it.

“Leave him alone, you crazy jerk,” Serubi was shouting.

Leave who alone, Richard wondered. Who? I wasn’t...

“Lousy sneak,” Levy shouted. “Lousy, dirty sneak.”

Please, Richard thought. Please.

Levy seized Miller firmly and pushed him backward against a desk. Richard watched him dazedly, his right arm burning with pain. He saw Busco through a maze of moving, struggling bodies, Busco who was caught cheating, saw Busco smash a book against Vota’s knife hand. The knife clattered to the floor with a curious sound. Vota’s hand reached out and Di Pasco stepped on it with the heel of his foot. The knife disappeared in a shuffle of hands, but Vota no longer had it. Richard stared at the bare, brown spot on the floor where the knife had been.

Whose chance is it now, he wondered? Whose turn to slice the teacher?

Miller tried to struggle off the desk where Levy had him pinned. Brown, a Negro boy, brought his fist down heavily on Miller’s nose. He wrenched the larger boy’s head back with one hand, and again brought his fist down fiercely.

A slow recognition trickled into Richard’s confused thoughts. Through dazzled eyes, he watched.

Vota scrambled to his feet and lunged at him. A solid wall seemed to rise before him as Serubi and Gomez flung themselves against the onrushing form and threw it back. They tumbled onto Vota, holding his arms, lashing out with excited fists.

They’re fighting for me! No, Richard reasoned, no. But yes, they’re fighting for me! Against Miller. Against Vota. For me. For me, oh my God, for me.

His eyes blinked nervously as he struggled to his feet.

“Let’s... let’s take them down to the principal,” he said, his voice low.

Antoro moved closer to him, his eyes widening as they took in the livid slash that ran the length of Richard’s arm.

“Man, that’s some cut,” he said.

Richard touched his arm lightly with his left hand. It was soggy and wet, the shirt and jacket stained a dull brownish-red.

“My brother got cut like that once,” Ganigan offered.

The boys were still holding Miller and Vota, but they no longer seemed terribly interested in the troublemakers.

For an instant, Richard felt a twinge of panic. For that brief, terrible instant he imagined that the boys hadn’t really come to his aid at all, that they had simply seen an opportunity for a good fight and had seized upon it. He shoved the thought aside, began fumbling for words.

“I... I think I’d better take them down to Mr. Stemplar,” he said. He stared at the boys, trying to read their faces, searching for something in their eyes that would tell him he had at last reached them, had at last broken through the wall. He could tell nothing. Their faces were blank, their eyes emotionless.

He wondered if he should thank them. If only he knew. If he could only hit upon the right thing to say, the thing to cement it all.

“I’ll... I’ll take them down. Suppose... you... you all go to lunch now.”

“That sure is a mean cut,” Julian said.

“Yeah,” Ganigan agreed.

“You can all go to lunch,” Richard said. “I want to take Miller and Vota...”

The boys didn’t move. They stood there with serious faces, solemnly watching Richard.

“... to... the... principal,” Richard finished.

“A hell of a mean cut,” Gomez said.

Busco chose his words carefully, and he spoke slowly. “Maybe we better just forget about the principal, huh? Maybe we oughta just go to lunch?”

Richard saw the smile appear on Miller’s face, and a new weary sadness lumped into his throat.

He did not pretend to understand. He knew only that they had fought for him and that now, through some unfathomable code of their own, had turned on him again. But he knew what had to be and he could only hope that eventually they would understand why he had to do it.

“All right,” he said firmly, “let’s break it up. I’m taking these two downstairs.”

He shoved Miller and Vota ahead of him, fully expecting to meet the resistance of another wall, a wall of unyielding bodies. Instead, the boys parted to let him through, and Richard walked past them with his head high. A few minutes ago, he would have taken this as a sign that the wall had broken. That was a few minutes ago.

Now, he was not at all surprised to hear a high falsetto pipe up behind him, “Oh, Daddy-oh! You’re a hee-ro!”