The blackboard jungle

6

The first snowfall came on Monday, October 19th, a little more than a month after Rick and Josh were attacked.

It started in the early hours of the morning, while the city slept. The snowflakes filtered down from a cast-iron sky, lazily at first, large wet flakes that melted the instant they touched the pavement. The darkened, empty streets took on a glistening, wet, polished look, black asphalt slickly shining in the wan light of the street lamps. And then the snow began in earnest. The big, sloppy, wet flakes fled before an onslaught of smaller, sharper white. The wind swept the snow over the pavements and gutters, and the snow clung and whirled and clung again. The street lamps stood like sentries at attention, their yellow-capped heads erect, the snow lashing at them, swirling about them. The snow covered. Slowly, patiently, it devoured black patches of asphalt, smothered the gray concrete, lodged in the brown earth of open lots, caked on the chipped paint of window sills, heaped against the curbs and the bases of the lamp posts, dropped a clinging downy-wet blanket on the metal-beetle tops of the parked automobiles.

And still it fell, silently, covering, muting, hushing the world and disguising the filth of a city, thick underfoot, a fleecy cold robe of crowded white flakes.

He sat at his desk and waited for the boys in 55-206 to arrive. The classroom felt warm, and he watched the falling snow outside the wide windows, and he felt peculiarly cozy, even though he was waiting for 55-206. The world outside was very white and very quiet. He studied it from the warmth of his wood and glass and concrete cocoon, watching the flurry of snow, seeing the white flakes lap soundlessly at the windowpanes, cling there for a moment, and then fall away.

His face bore no marks now. The wounds had healed very rapidly. They were nothing serious to begin with, if you like your face looking like hamburger, and time has a wonderful way of clotting blood and forming scabs, and then dropping the scabs to leave a fresh new layer of epidermis. Time was nice that way, and a month is a long time. The torn cheek had taken longest, of course, but even that had healed after the flap of skin had peeled and withered. He had looked like hell in the beginning, and all during that Saturday and Sunday after the beating, he had winced every time he looked into the mirror.

He had taken beatings before. He had taken a lot of beatings in his day. He had taken beatings when he’d lived in a tenement on 120th Street between First and Second avenues. He’d taken plenty of beatings there, all right, because his mother had insisted on dressing him neatly in a neighborhood that was all filth. And later, when they’d moved up to the Bronx, he’d taken beatings again, but only in the beginning, only when he was the newest kid in the neighborhood and every other kid felt it was his duty to test the boxing skill of the newcomer. And in the Navy, there had been beatings, but by that time fist-fighting was habit to him and he had given as much as he’d taken.

So he had seen cuts on his face before, cuts far more serious than those he studied in the mirror that week end. He still bore a scar under his chin where he’d been clobbered with the wooden orange-crate handle of a rubber-band gun when he was twelve. That had been a cut, all right, and they’d taken three stitches in his chin before that episode was over. No, it wasn’t the appearance of his face that made him wince. It was the knowledge that he’d have to present that face to the assembled multitude of North Manual Trades High School on Monday.

He was not afraid of facing the boys again. That did not enter his mind at all. He had, after all, taken the beating already. He hoped that would be the end of it. If it wasn’t, he wouldn’t be drunk next time, and next time there’d be a few broken heads to account for his bruises.

But there was something shameful about the appearance of his face, and whereas he couldn’t pinpoint the origin of the shamed feeling, he was guiltily aware of it. He felt like a pregnant woman wearing the badge of a bulging belly, the badge that proclaims to the world at large, “I’ve been layed.” His face shouted, “I’ve been beaten,” and he didn’t want his face to advertise that slogan because it wasn’t a true one. He had not really been beaten. He’d been ambushed and kicked around, but he hadn’t been beaten, and there was a vast difference between getting beat up and being beaten. And so he was ashamed of this face which told such flagrant lies, this face that said, “Look at me, I am a beaten man.” He studied it in the mirror, and he thought I am not a beaten man.

He was surprised, on Sunday night, when Anne asked, “Are you going back, Rick?”

He looked at her curiously, as if he did not quite understand what she’d said. “Of course,” he said, his voice incredulous. “Why, of course I’m going back.” He had cursed his face again in that moment because it had lied even to Anne, had led her to believe he was beaten, too. Anne had stared at him silently, and then simply nodded, and he knew she’d been pleased over his decision.

He tried to forget about his lying face on that Monday after the beating. And when Stanley asked what happened, and of course Stanley knew damn well what had happened. Rick had made some inane remark about having run into a belligerent doorknob. And when Small asked what happened, and of course Small knew damn well what had happened because he saw what Josh Edwards looked like on that Monday morning and he knew two belligerent doorknobs in the same week end was stretching coincidence just a bit too far. Rick had simply answered, “A little trouble,” and that had been the end of that.

Except for the kids.

The kids knew what had happened, too. The kids knew it better than anyone else in the school. The kids got the story straight from the horse’s mouth, all seven horses in fact, and the kids knew that Daddy-oh and Edwards had been worked over but good on Friday night. The kids knew it, and they liked it. This sort of evened the score. If Daddy-oh wanted to go around messing up some guy’s life, okay, fine. But there were other guys who could go around messing up Daddy-oh’s life just as well. And they’d done just that. They’d beat the living hell out of him, and damn if his face didn’t look nice with all that plaster on it. The score, as far as they were concerned, had been evened. Daddy-oh had been paid in full.

And so the silent treatment, which had begun abruptly on the day after Small’s delightful little speech, ended just as abruptly on the Monday after Rick’s beating. Rick was surprised by the sudden change, and he spent a good part of his day trying to figure out the reason for it. He did not once mention the chopped-meat appearance of his face. He knew the kids knew what had happened, and he also knew that any show of leniency on his part would lead them to believe he’d been cowed into it. He did not show any leniency. Instead, he reversed the silent treatment. He played it hard as nails. Silent Sam himself, trying to show the kids that his face was a liar. The kids settled down to normal, for a vocational school, behavior. They called out, and they shouted, and they laughed, and they cursed, and they were disobedient and disorderly and plain goddamn ornery. And Rick settled down to trying to teach them in this normal, for a vocational school, atmosphere. There was no silence to cope with now, nothing like that, and Rick surmised that the street fight had miraculously removed that bloc.

He played it hard for a week, practically ignoring his classes, treating them with cold disdain. His attitude plainly told them what he thought of ambushes. He loaded them with written exercises and tests, and he was severely strict in his grading of papers and answers in the classroom. The kids remained unfazed. This was normal. The Douglas Murray score had been settled, and now they could relax and be just plain bastards rather than super grade-A bastards. The distinction, to them, was a fine one.

The second week after the attack, Rick changed his tactics. He realized he’d get nowhere with his sullen, unapproachable attitude. He also sensed that the kids knew exactly how he felt by this time, despite the appearance of his face. He was here to teach these kids, and he sure as hell couldn’t teach them if he pretended they didn’t exist. So he put the attack out of his mind. He stacked it in a dark corner under what he considered Finished Business, and he started with a clean slate, not realizing that almost every slate in a trade school is a dirty one.

He got the idea the day the machine shop upstairs went into operation. He’d brought an adventure magazine to school, figuring he’d start a new regime by showing some friendship toward the boys, by reading them a story from a popular publication rather than a textbook. The story was a good one, if not a classic masterpiece, and he read it well, injecting life into the descriptive passages, giving the dialogue real meaning. He had reached the climax when the machine shop erupted.

It started as a dull whine, and he barely glanced up from the printed page. The whine increased in volume until it sounded like a runaway buzzsaw. Rick looked up with honest bewilderment on his face, and he saw the boys in the classroom begin to smile. He lifted his eyebrows, shrugged, and started to read again.

The buzzsaw began to click, and then it began to clank, as if someone had thrown a monkey wrench into the gears and the gears were pounding hell out of it. The entire room seemed to vibrate from the sound. The windows rattled, and the pencils lying on his desk began doing an impromptu jig.

Rick opened his eyes wide in astonishment. The boys laughed, and something inside him responded to the laughter. For the moment, even though his astonishment had been real at first, he had become a showman. He opened his eyes wider in mock astonishment this time, and then let his jaw fall open, and he lifted his eyebrows until they were almost touching his hairline.

The class waited, and he felt the way he had back at college when the group had done Room Service. He felt that waiting for a gag line, sensed the anticipation, and he seized upon the interest and very slowly and very precisely said, “Now-what-the-hell-is-that?”

The class laughed, and then one of the kids said, “Machine shop upstairs, teach.”

Rick had slapped his forehead and pretended to swoon. “Brother,” he answered, “that’s all we need.”

He’d laughed aloud, a half-sincere, half-phony laugh, and the kids had laughed with him. He knew they were not laughing at him. He knew they were, just for the moment, sympathetic with his problems, looking at themselves from where he stood at the front of the room, realizing they were not exactly angels, and laughing because this added sound barrier was making a tough job tougher. They laughed with him because, just for the moment, they saw things as he saw them, and perhaps as they actually were.

“Read the story, anyway,” one of the kids had called out. “It’s a good one.”

Rick had looked up at the ceiling and regarded the noise suspiciously, like a man about to dip his toes into an icy pool. Then he’d sighed, smiled, nodded his head in resignation, and gone on with the story, finishing it before the bell sounded. A feeling of good spirit had prevailed during that class, and Rick correctly attributed it to his impromptu dramatic reaction to the situation. He began to give this dramatization business deep consideration.

He’d been fairly good in college dramatics, and he knew that no one liked anything better than a show, especially if the show were free. And if he could hold the kids’ attention by putting on a show, why not do it? There was no doubt that he had held their attention during the machine-shop episode. They had listened to him attentively, and he had felt something like rapport for the first time at Manual Trades. If the single problem was in reaching them, and if he had successfully reached them by becoming an actor, why not carry the thing further? After all, he didn’t care how he reached them, so long as he did. And if dramatics was the answer, dramatics he would try.

He tried it. A little at a time at first, a few hammy gestures, a few mugging expressions. They ate it up, so he expanded on it. He tried illustrating a grammatical point by doing a little skit. They loved it. So he revised his lesson plans, organizing them so that everything he taught revolved about some piece of dramatics. He dramatized everything he did in class, whether it was reading a story or explaining the structure of a newspaper. He found himself exhausted at the end of each day, but the exhaustion was worth it, he reasoned, if he was accomplishing something.

He recognized the fallacy of his reasoning after he’d been acting for two weeks. He should have recognized it sooner, but he was so enthusiastic over the idea that its shortcomings went unnoticed. He made a common mistake, a mistake Solly Klein had repeatedly warned against. He assumed the intelligence level was higher than it actually was.

He greeted his seventh period, seventh-term English class with the news that he wanted them to write a composition in class. There was the usual grunting and groaning, and when the class had settled down. Rick explained exactly what he wanted done.

“The title of the composition,” he said, “will be Something Lost.” He paused and looked out at the vacant faces before him. “Lost,” he said, spreading his hands wide, “you know, lost. Now there are a million things that get lost every day. I simply want you to write a composition about something you’ve lost, either recently, or a long time ago, or anytime, for that matter.”

He saw the faces out there, and he hoped the gears were beginning to click behind the expressionless eyes.

“You mean jus’ somethin’ we lost?” one of the boys asked.

“That’s right,” Rick said. “Tell me how you lost it, where you lost it, how you tried to find it, and how you finally did find it, if you did. For example...” he said, rubbing his hands together and preparing himself for his dramatic stint. He saw the smiles appear magically on the boys’ faces, saw the anticipation in their eyes. He was going to put on a show again, and they liked his shows. Hell, let the bastard knock himself out. Didn’t cost them nothin’.

Rick walked to the door of the room.

“You come home from school,” he said. He opened the door, stepped out into the corridor briefly, and then entered the room again. He was no longer Richard Dadier, English teacher. He had rolled up the cuffs of his trousers, and he strolled into the room whistling, mugging broadly, giving his interpretation of what a seventeen-year-old kid looks like entering his home when the school day is over.

“You drop your books on the kitchen table,” he said, reliving the way he’d done it every day when he came home from high school. He pantomimed the dropping of the books, and then he pantomimed taking something from his pocket. “You take your fountain pen from your pocket,” he said, “and you put it down on the table, right next to the books.” He patted his desk alongside the imaginary books there. “Right here now. Right here alongside the books. That’s where you put the fountain pen.”

The kids nodded, really enjoying this. He was driving at something, Daddy-oh was, something about that fountain pen, right there near the books.

“Okay,” Rick said, smiling idiotically, rubbing his hands together and looking down at the imaginary fountain pen, “time for a little refreshment. Hard day today, English a pain in the neck, as usual.” He paused and waited for his laugh, pleased when it came, timing it the way he’d done on the stage, waiting for it to reach its crest, and then speaking again when the laugh had almost but not quite subsided. “Think I’ll have a little milk.”

The kids nodded at each other, liking this goddamned show. What was he gonna do with that fountain pen?

“Off to the refrigerator!” Rick shouted, pointing his finger up at the ceiling like a kid getting an inspired idea. He raced across the room, paused at the door, and said, “Ahhhhh,” opening the door and pretending it was a refrigerator door. He reached out into the corridor, shoving around some imaginary items in the refrigerator.

“Pickles, mm, cream cheese, mm, lasagna, bagels and lox, the cat, mm “ He did a take, reached in for the imaginary cat and yelled, “What’s the cat doing in there?” gingerly depositing the animal on the floor while the class howled. “Ahhh,” he said when the laugh had died, “the milk.” He held up the imaginary bottle, beamed, and then went to the sink for a glass.

“So you’ve got the milk and the glass, and you go into the living room and relax,” and here he walked to the opposite side of the room, toward the windows. “And you forget all about the kitchen, and the books and... the fountain pen!”

He nodded his head to emphasize the point, pursing his lips. The kids watched him, realizing it was a mistake to forget about that fountain pen because something was sure as hell going to happen to it.

“You’re drinking your milk in the living room, minding your own business,” Rick said. He pointed toward the windows, indicating someone drinking over there, out of sight of the kitchen. “So who should come into the kitchen?”

He paused, waiting, listening.

“Your kid sister!” he announced, and here he became a prancing ten-year-old brat, sticking his tongue out at the class, skipping up to the kitchen table and looking for trouble.

“Ooooh,” he squealed, “a great, big, fat, old fow-tin pen!” He picked up the pen with childlike delight, hugged it to his chest, and then began scribbling on an imaginary sheet of paper, doodling wildly, his tongue caught between his teeth as he leaned over in a grotesque position. Then he skipped across the room, held up the fountain pen and said, “But the kid gets tired of it, so she finally puts it down. But where? Where? On top of the refrigerator!”

The class howled, and Rick let them howl, and then he carried the sequence to its end, dragging in mama and papa, and even the refrigerated cat, moving the fountain pen from spot to spot until its original owner couldn’t possibly find it in a million years.

“Do you get the idea?” he asked when the class had stopped laughing. “Something Lost. I just gave you an example of how something can get lost. Now you tell me about your own experiences.”

He passed out the lined composition paper, said, “Don’t forget the heading at the top of the paper,” and then watched the class get to work. He was rather pleased with himself. He’d held their interest all the way, and he’d graphically explained the type of composition he wanted them to write. The class worked until the bell rang, and then he collected the papers.

The surprise and realization didn’t come until later, when he was correcting them. He did not expect decent English. He had long since stopped expecting good spelling, organization, or grammar from any of his classes, even the seventh-termers. So he was not disappointed on this count. But he was almost floored when he read the contents of the compositions.

Jackson, a seventeen-year-old boy, a seventh-termer, wrote:

Conrad, eighteen years old, a term away from graduation:

Rick read the compositions slowly and carefully, the fear growing within him. He kept thinking of the little skit he’d performed, kept seeing that same skit performed over and over again in composition after composition. A little imagination, yes, but just a little. Not what he’d wanted at all. A few embellishments on what he’d done, but basically all the same, all poured from the same master mold.

From Di Luca:

From Perez:

Rick stared at the compositions, feeling completely defeated, wondering how this thing could have happened. Hadn’t he made it clear? Didn’t they know he wasn’t asking for a simple repetition of what he’d given them? God Almighty, didn’t they know that? Could they be that stupid? Had all his goddamn work been for nothing?

He checked on their records the next day during his Unassigned period. He found the I.Q. of every boy in every one of his classes listed on their permanent record cards. He knew that intelligence tests weren’t truly accurate gauges of intelligence, especially with people whose manual skills were better than their language skills. He had never fully trusted such tests, but the evidence presented on the record cards — especially in the light of what had happened the day before — seemed overwhelming.

Like the low-numbered jerseys on the backs of a football team, the intelligence quotients spread across his field of vision.

He checked all the cards, and then he went through them again, making a rough computation and coming up with an average intelligence of 85. He was familiar enough with the Stanford-Binet test to know that an I.Q. between 80 and 90 was considered Low Normal. He sighed and looked through the cards again, studying each one carefully, trying to identify each boy as he read off the intelligence quotients.

He was not surprised to find that Santini, the smiling, first-row-first-seat boy in 55-206, had an I.Q. of 66, and he knew the S tan ford-Bi net test classified anyone within the 50 to 70 range as a moron.

There was one boy in all of his classes with the surprisingly high I.Q. of 113. In Rick’s mind, the Stanford-Binet table took photographic shape and form:

He looked at the figure on the record card again — 113. And then he looked at the boy’s name.

On impulse, he turned to the card headed WEST, ARTHUR FRANCIS, almost relieved when he saw an I.Q. listing of 86. He left the records with a new knowledge within him, and he wondered why a teacher in a vocational school wasn’t told about little unimportant things like average I.Q.’s before he started teaching. Or was it policy to let a teacher find out for himself? Was it policy to let him blunder around on his own until he happened to hit the right combination? And if he never hit the right combination? Well hell, vocational school teachers were expendable.

But he could not dismiss the seeming injustice of the system. He had taken enough education courses at college to qualify him for licenses in both the high school and the junior high school. He had taken the junior high school examination and had passed it. The license, in fact, was home in his dresser drawer, under his socks. He had tried to get a job in a junior high, and failing in that, had taken the emergency license examination when it was announced. The exam had not been an easy one, in spite of the need for teachers in vocational high schools. He had taken a good many exams throughout his years of schooling, and this one had definitely not been a snap.

Nor had the education courses at Hunter College been lacking. Dry, yes; but lacking, never. At least, not lacking by current standards. He was taught exactly what he was supposed to learn. Hunter was a good teachers’ college. He knew that, and was secretly proud of the fact. He had no doubt that the education courses offered there were equal, if not superior, to those offered at any other teachers’ college in the country.

But he could not remember any emphasis being placed on the vocational school. Passing mention, yes. But emphasis, no. And perhaps passing mention was sufficient for the fellow who wound up teaching at Christopher Columbus, but it was definitely not sufficient for someone who now found himself in a vocational high school. The topic had, of course, come up during his conferences with Professor Kraal, the college instructor who’d supervised his student teaching. When Rick had been assigned to Machine and Metal Trades, even though he’d asked for an academic high school, he’d been none too pleased about it. He’d voiced his displeasure, and Kraal, a mild-mannered man who preferred discussing the days of the nickel glass of beer to education, had shrugged and simply replied, “Someone’s got to get the trade schools. It’ll be good experience for you.”

Rick supposed it had been good experience, although he still wasn’t quite sure. He’d had no trouble with the boys there, mainly because Miss Daniels, the teacher to whose class he’d been assigned, never left the room when he taught a lesson. He taught exactly eight lessons during the semester. The rest of his mornings spent at the high school were devoted to work in the English office — typing up tests, running the mimeograph, little chores that helped the department chairman — and observation at the back of Miss Daniels’ room. The observation had been enlightening, in that he’d learned a good deal about Miss Daniels’ technique. He did not, unfortunately, get much opportunity to develop his own technique.

Nor had his conferences with Professor Kraal helped, and those conferences could have contributed a great deal toward his understanding of the vocational high school. He invariably left a conference feeling bored, tired, and unrewarded.

“Someone’s got to get the trade schools,” Kraal had said, and that seemed to sum up the attitude of everyone concerned. That plus the always-thought but never-voiced addition: “And no one wants the trade schools.”

All right, no one wanted the trade schools. No one wants leprosy, either, but...

But what? Rick wondered. Suppose the college had given elective courses titled Teaching the Trade School Student. Sure, let’s suppose that. Would there have been a mad scramble to elect those courses? Doubtless, oh yes. Ohmyyes.

Everyone was just dying to learn how to teach the trade-school student. Everyone was just itching for the opportunity to get out there in the system and land smack in the middle of a trade school.

Sure. He knew at least twenty people who’d yelled bloody murder and threatened mayhem when they’d been assigned to vocational high schools for their student teaching. Picture anyone actually counting on the trade school as his career. Picture that.

“What are you going to be when you grow up, Johnny?”

And proudly: “A vocational high school teacher.”

But... but there were teachers who ended up in the trade schools, and goddamnit, their job was to teach kids who happened to be in those schools. The system was there. It existed. There were kids enmeshed in that system and some of them, surely some of them, really wanted to learn, were really counting on the system to teach them a trade, something from which they could earn their daily bread. You can’t condemn a kid because he’s not a mental giant. There’s a poetry in repairing the carburetor of an automobile, too, even if the kid repairing it can’t spell carburetor. Then why ignore the system? Why give birth to it and then flush it down the toilet?

Why pretend it’s not there?

Why prepare a teacher for an altogether different type of student, an ideal student, and then throw him into a jungle hemmed in by blackboards and hope he can avoid the claws and the teeth? If the teacher survives, well all fine and dandy. If he doesn’t, the wild animals will surely survive, won’t they? But who wants wild animals in the street?

Or was that why the system had been invented? Was Solly Klein right? Was it just to keep the kids off the streets, just to keep them out of trouble for the major part of the day?

No, Rick couldn’t believe that. Maybe Solly Klein had been in the racket for a good long time, and maybe Solly had seen things Rick would never see, but Rick could not believe the system was sham. A lot of thought had gone into its conception, a lot of careful thought, a lot of consideration for the kids who were at a total loss groping with the subjects taught in the academic high school. When had the system come into being? Rick wondered.

He did not know.

He did not know, and he felt a deep shame for not knowng, the same shame he’d felt about not knowing the average I.Q. of his students. Why hadn’t anyone told him? Wasn’t that something he should know? Goddamnit, wasn’t that one of his tools? Would they send a soldier onto a battlefield without a goddamn rifle? Would they send a surgeon to an operating table without a scalpel? Not when a human life depended on it.

Well, a great many human lives depended on what he did at North Manual Trades High School. He taught a lot of kids every day, and every day he went into the blackboard jungle without even knowing how many teeth there were in a lion’s mouth. Or how many claws on a lion’s paw. Or anything about a lion at all. They’d taught him how to milk cows, and now they expected him to tame lions.

Perhaps they expected him to behave like all good lion tamers. Use a whip and a chair. But what happens to the best lion tamer when he puts down his whip and his chair?

Goddamnit, it was wrong! He felt cheated, he felt almost violated. He felt cheated for himself, and he felt cheated for guys like Joshua Edwards who wanted to teach and who didn’t know how to teach because he’d been pumped full of manure and theoretical hogwash. Why hadn’t anyone told them, in plain, frank English, just what to do? Couldn’t someone, somewhere along the line, have told them? Not one single college instructor? Not someone from the Board of Ed, someone to orientate them after they’d passed the emergency exam? Not anyone? Not one sonofabitch somewhere who gave a good goddamn? Not even Stanley? Not even Small? Did they have to figure it out for themselves, sink or swim, kill or be killed?

Rick had never been told how to stop a fight in his class. He’d never been told what to do with a second-term student who doesn’t know how to write his own goddamn name on a sheet of paper. He didn’t know, and he’d never been advised on the proper tactics for dealing with a boy whose I.Q. was 66, a big, fat, round, moronic 66. He hadn’t been taught about kids’ yelling out in class, not one kid, not the occasional “difficult child” the ed courses had loftily philosophized about, not him. But a whole goddamn, shouting, screaming class-load of them, all yelling their sonofabitching heads off.

What do you do with a kid who can’t read, even though he’s fifteen years old? Recommend him for special reading classes, sure. And what do you do when those special reading classes are loaded to the asshole, packed because there are kids who can’t read in abundance, and you have to take only those who can’t read the worst, dumping them onto a teacher who’s already overloaded and who doesn’t want to teach a remedial class to begin with?

What do you do with that poor ignorant jerk? Do you call on him in class, knowing damn well he hasn’t read the assignment because he doesn’t know how to read? Or do you ignore him? Or do you ask him to stop by after school, knowing he would prefer playing stickball to learning how to read, and knowing he considers himself liberated the moment that bell sounds at the end of the eighth period?

What do you do when you’ve explained something patiently and fully, explained it just the way you were taught to explain it in your education courses, explained it in minute detail, and you look out at your class and see that stretching, vacant wall of blank, blank faces, and you know nothing has penetrated, not a goddamn thing has sunk in? What do you do then?

Give them all board erasers to clean.

What do you do when you call on a kid and ask, “What did that last passage mean?” and the kid stands there without any idea of what the passage meant, and you know he’s not alone, you know every other kid in the class hasn’t the faintest idea either? What the hell do you do? Do you go home and browse through the philosophy of education books the G.I. bill generously provided? Do you scratch your ugly head and seek enlightenment from the educational psychology texts? Do you consult Dewey?

And who the hell do you condemn, just who?

Do you condemn the elementary schools for sending a kid on to high school without knowing how to read, without knowing how to write his own name on a piece of paper? Do you condemn the masterminds who plot the educational systems of a nation, or a state, or a city?

Do you condemn the kids for not having been blessed with I.Q.’s of 120? Can you condemn the kids? Can you condemn anyone? Can you condemn the colleges that give you all you need to pass a board of education examination? Do you condemn the board of education for not making the exams stiffer, for not boosting the requirements, for not raising salaries, for not trying to attract better teachers, for not making sure their teachers are better equipped to teach?

Or do you condemn the meatheads all over the world who drift into the teaching profession, drift into it because it offers a certain amount of paycheck-every-month security, vacation-every-summer luxury, or a certain amount of power, or a certain easy road when the other more difficult roads are so full of ruts?

Oh, he’d seen the meatheads, all right, he’d seen them in every education class he’d ever attended. The simpering female idiots who smiled and agreed with the instructor, who imparted vast knowledge gleaned from profound observations made while sitting at the back of the classroom in some ideal high school in some ideal neighborhood while an ideal teacher taught ideal students.

Or the men, who were perhaps the worst, the men who sometimes seemed a little embarrassed over having chosen the easy road, the road to security, the men who sometimes made a joke about the women, not realizing they themselves were poured from the same steaming cauldron of horse manure. Had Rick been one of these men? He did not believe so.

He had wanted to teach, had honestly wanted to teach. He had not considered the security, or the two-month vacation, or the short hours. He had simply wanted to teach, and he had considered teaching a worth-while profession. He had, in fact, considered it the worthiest profession. He had held no illusions about his own capabilities. He could not paint, or write, or compose, or sculpt, or philosophize deeply, or design tall buildings. He could contribute nothing to the world creatively, and this had been a disappointment to him until he’d realized he could be a big creator by teaching. For here were minds to be sculptured, here were ideas to be painted, here were lives to shape. To spend his allotted time on earth as a bank teller or an insurance salesman would have seemed an utter waste to Rick. Women, he had reflected, had no such problem. Creation had been given to them as a gift, and a woman was self-sufficient within her own creative shell. A man needed more, which perhaps was one reason why a woman could never understand a man’s concern for the job he had to do. So Rick had seized upon teaching, had seized upon it fervently, feeling that if he could take the clay of undeveloped minds, if he could feel this clay in his hands, could shape this clay into thinking, reacting, responsible citizens, he would be creating. He had given it all his enthusiasm, and he had sometimes felt deeply ashamed of his classmates, often visualizing them in teaching positions, and the thought had made his flesh crawl.

These will teach my children, he had mused. These.

And these had sent kids to his classes without knowing how to read. These had taught a total of nothing, but who was to be condemned?

Who, who was to be condemned?

He had a tool now, one tool. A magnificently powerful, overwhelmingly miraculous tool, a tool no one in all his years of preparation had ever thought to tell him about. And worse, his preparation had not even instilled in him the curiosity or common sense to ask about this fantastic tool.

He now knew the average I.Q. of his students.

He spent the next week observing his classes. He taught, or tried to teach, while he was observing, but he was really stalling for time, trying to learn in one week all the things he’d never been taught. On this Monday of October 19th, he did not know if he was any closer to reaching the kids. But he had some ideas now, just a few ideas, and he sat at his desk and waited for 55-206 to put in its appearance, waited and watched the snow nuzzling the windowpanes.

He sensed that the beginning of the teaching process had to come from the kids themselves. He knew, in fact, that there could be no beginning in this school unless the kids desired it. Standing up there in front of the room and throwing facts at them was a waste of time, until they realized that there could be no teaching and no learning unless there was a give and take. And rather than spend all his time giving, and hoping they would be taking, he’d decided to let them do a little giving, let them do all the giving in fact, until this sense of mutual exchange became a habit.

The boys were beginning to trickle into the room now, one at a time, breezing by his desk and looking at the leather box there. Rick looked at the box and smiled. The box was part of his plan, and he was anxious to see how 55-206 reacted to that plan. He had reached the conclusion that 55-206 was the worst of his classes, a deduction he’d cleverly made after learning about Juan Garza from Solly Klein. He knew that if he licked 55-206, he had them all licked, and so he’d chosen this class as the first for his experiment. He would not let them know there was anything extraordinary about today’s lesson, of course. He would handle the class the way he always did, letting them believe nothing had changed. He spotted Miller in the doorway, and then the colored boy entered the room smiling.

He walked directly to Rick’s desk, indicated the leather box with a slight movement of his head, and asked, “You bring your cosmetics t’school, Chief?”

“Take your seat, Miller,” Rick said.

Miller opened his eyes wide in innocence. “Don’t be touchy, Chief,” he said, smiling. “I know lotsa guys use makeup.”

“Sit down,” Rick said patiently. “Come on, Miller.”

“Why, sure, Chief,” Miller said, delighted. “Why, sure.”

He slouched up the aisle and collapsed into his seat, and Rick looked at the leather box and thought He knows damn well what it is. He never saw a cosmetics case that big.

The boys drifted into the room, walking to the windows and looking out at the snow, lingering there a while and finally taking their seats before the bell sounded. West, his blond hair plastered against his forehead, rushed into the room just as Rick was closing the door. He grinned, said “Thank you” as though Rick were a doorman, and then went to his seat beside Miller.

Rick closed the door, walked back to his desk, took the attendance rapidly, and then rapped on his desk for silence. The boys went right on chatting, ignoring him completely.

“Okay,” he said, “let’s knock it off.”

The kids modulated into silence, and Rick said, “Let’s keep it quiet for now, anyway. You’ll have plenty opportunity to talk later during today’s class.”

“We goan make speeches, teach?” Miller called out.

“No,” Rick said, “we’re just going to talk.”

The other kids were already considering what Miller had said. So that’s what was on deck for today. A goddamn speech period. Give a three-minute speech on How I Spent My Summer Vacation. This was going to be real jazzy.

“Any of you fellows plan on becoming President of the United States?” Rick asked, hoping they would see the absurdity of this, and hoping it would provide the peg he needed.

“Yeah,” West said, “I’m planning on that.”

“You are?” Rick asked. “Well, I didn’t know that.”

“Lots of things you don’t know about me, teach,” West said, grinning.

“I didn’t think we had any future presidents here,” Rick said. “I was going to say that...”

“But we do have a future president,” Miller put in. “You jus’ heard West there, dintchoo?”

“You gonna vote for me, Greg?” West asked.

“Why, sure, man,” Miller answered. “I goan lead the campaign.”

“Well,” Rick said, wanting to recapture the class before it got too far away from him, “those of us who aren’t going to become President will never have to make any speeches in my class. Of course...”

“I changed my mind,” West said, getting a laugh from the class. “I think I’ll be a mechanic instead.”

“Do mechanics got to make speeches, teach?” Miller asked.

“No,” Rick said. “No speeches.” He looked out at the class to see how all this was registering. 55-206, like all his other classes, had been disappointed during his past week of observation when his play-acting had come to an abrupt halt. They couldn’t understand why he’d stopped putting on shows, and they were disgruntled over this good thing having come to an end. The fact that they hadn’t learned a single thing from all his play-acting didn’t matter to them at all. The period had at least been an entertaining one, and that’s the most anyone could ever expect from an English class.

“Politicians make speeches,” Rick said. “I don’t think any one of you will ever be called upon to make a speech, so let’s forget speeches. You’ll never have to make a speech in one of my classes.”

“Oh yeah,” Corrente called out. “Yeah, sure.”

“I’m not kidding,” Rick said. “If there was anything I hated in high school, it was...”

“You go to high school, teach?” Miller asked innocently.

“Yes,” Rick said. “Of course.”

“That right? Which one, teach? You go to a vocational high school?”

“No,” Rick said. “I went to...”

“This your first teaching job?” West asked.

“No,” Rick lied.

“Where’d you teach before?” West asked.

“Brooklyn Automotive,” Rick said impulsively.

“Then you must’ve known Mr. Small there, huh? Is that right, teach?”

“Let’s knock the small talk off,” Rick said, unintentionally presenting a pun on the principal’s name.

Miller slapped the top of his desk and threw his head back. “Hey now,” he shouted, “that’s real clever! We talkin’ ’bout Mr. Small, and Daddy-oh here say we should knock off the small talk! That’s real clever, by God, that is.”

The class began laughing, and Rick said, “All right, cut it out. And you just keep your mouth shut, Miller.”

“How’s that, teach?” Miller asked, the smile dropping from his face.

“I said keep your mouth shut. We can’t all talk at the same time, and I happen to be doing the talking right now.”

“I thought you said we’d all get plenty opp’tunity to talk today, teach,” Miller said.

“If you’ll let me get on with the lesson,” Rick said, exasperated, “maybe we will.”

“Gee, teach,” Miller said innocently, “I had no idee I was detainin’ you. Go right ahead.”

Rick sighed, wondering why he’d lied about having taught before. Was he hoping to gain their respect that way? And had he really hoped to fool them?

“We don’t have to make speeches,” Rick said, going back to the lesson he’d prepared, “but we do have to talk in life. If you want a glass of water, you have to say, ‘Let me have a glass of water.’ You can’t say, ‘Og migga zoo nod’ and expect a glass of water. Am I right?”

“Was that French, teach?” West asked.

“No, it wasn’t French. I was just...”

“Rooshian, Chief? You speak Rooshian?”

“No, it wasn’t Russian, either. It was just nonsense, something I made...”

“You talkin’ nonsense, Chief?” Miller asked.

“I thought I asked you to shut up, Miller,” Rick snapped.

“Did you?”

“I did! Now keep your mouth closed or you’ll find yourself sitting in Mr. Stanley’s office for the rest of the day.”

“That Stan man, boy he scare me,” Miller said.

“Did you hear me, Miller?”

“When you say, ‘Ig mogga re-bop’? Why sure I heerd you. That was nonsense, wunt it?”

“I was just trying to illustrate a point, Miller. You see, we all talk. All day long, we talk. Right now, you’re talking too damned much, Miller, and...”

“Watch the language, teach,” Levy shouted. “Watch the language.”

“Thank you. Levy,” Rick said coldly. “What I’m trying to say is that in spite of all this talking that’s going on, we very rarely stop to listen.”

“I don’ follow,” De la Cruz said.

“I mean just what I said,” Rick answered. “We never really listen.”

“How cou’ that be?” Kruger said belligerently, his jaw thrust forward. “You got to listen if you ’spect to hear.”

“Oh, we listen, sure,” Rick said. “With half an ear, and a little part of the mind maybe. But we’re not really listening. We don’t really know what we sound like. And believe me, some of us sound as if we’re saying, ‘Og migga zoo nod.’ ”

“Hey, bobba ree bop!” Miller shouted.

“There’s that Russian again,” West added.

“Keep quiet, Miller,” Rick said. “Now just keep quiet, do you hear me? Just shut up!”

“Other guys talkin’,” Miller said sullenly. “Why you pickin’ on me?”

“Because you’re talking altogether too much. And because I don’t happen to like your attitude. Now shut up.”

Miller folded his arms across his chest and tightened his mouth. Rick stared at him for a few seconds, and then said, “You’ve all seen this leather box on my desk, and perhaps you’ve been wondering what it is.”

“I know what it is,” Miller said.

“It’s not a cosmetics case, Miller.”

“No kiddin’?” Miller said pointedly. “No kiddin’? It couldn’t be a li’l ol’ wire recorder, could it, teach? It couldn’t be that, could it?”

“Yes,” Rick said, the wind taken out of his sails, the careful preparation all shot to hell. “Yes, Miller, that’s what it is.”

“Well, well,” Miller said happily, “what do you know?”

“The idea is this,” Rick said. “The reason you can’t hear what you sound like is because you’re usually too busy talking to listen. Well, I’m going to give you the chance to talk first and listen later.”

“You mean we gonna make records?” Carter asked, lifting his red head for a better look at the recorder.

“Yes,” Rick said, unsnapping the lid and then plugging the cord into an outlet. He fiddled with the spools, giving the boys a little opportunity to talk it up out there. He was fairly certain most of them hadn’t used a recorder before, and they seemed to be fairly enthusiastic about the project now that it had finally got rolling. He had not been able to introduce the lesson the way he’d wanted to, thanks to his good friend Miller, but he’d still been able to generate enough interest among the kids, and that was what counted. If he could get them to loosen up, get them to give a little...

“So we gonna make speeches after all,” Miller said knowingly.

“No,” Rick contradicted, “we are not. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. We’re just going to talk. And then we’re going to listen.”

“That’s doubletalk for sayin’ we gonna make speeches,” Miller said.

“How’d you like to bring your mother to school, Miller?” Rick asked.

“I wunt,” Miller said.

“Then please keep quiet.” He paused and stared at Miller, hoping to strengthen his threat that way. Even the most difficult kid usually flinched at the thought of his mother coming to school. A mother coming to school usually preceded a beating from the father that night, no matter how uninterested the parents were in their son’s learning process. There was something terribly embarrassing about being called to school and chastised about a delinquent son.

“We’ll all talk a little,” Rick said, “and the recorder will take down everything we say. Then I’ll play it back, and we’ll have the chance to hear what we really sound like. If we don’t get to everyone today, I’ll borrow the recorder again. Now I want you all to speak the way you normally speak. Don’t try to sound like Gabriel Heatter. Just talk naturally. That’s the idea of this.”

“Why don’t we sing a little?” West suggested.

“We’ll save that for your Music Appreciation class,” Rick answered.

“All we get in Music Appreciation is ‘Marche Slave’ and ‘To A Rose,’ ” West said.

“To a rose, to rose, to a lovely wild rose,” Miller sang.

“Knock it off, Miller.”

“We learn lots of those,” Miller said, smiling. He nodded his head in self-agreement and sang, “Narcissus was, a very good-looking boy. His im-mage in the brook, would fi-ill him up with joy...”

“You got the recorder going, teach?” West asked.

“No. Now, let’s cut out this...”

“He looked, and looked, and looked, and looked, un-til he turned, into, a lovely flow-er,” Miller concluded. “You got that machine takin’ down this marv’lous voice, Chief?”

“No. Listen, Miller, I...”

“I know lots of them, Chief. I could go on all day.”

“Don’t bother. We want to...”

“You know ‘Amaryllis,’ Chief? Tha’s a good one. Amaryllis written by Ghys,” he sang, “Use to sell oranges, fi’ cents apiece. Hey, Chief, you takin’ all this down? Man, this shunt go to waste, I mean it.”

“Miller, I don’t want to warn you a—”

“Man, I a musical genius. You hum any ol’ tune, an’ I’ll name it for you. Go ’head, Chief, try me. Go ’head.”

Rick was half tempted to take Miller’s challenge. Give the wise guy a passage from Shostakovich and see how quickly he identified it. He was ready to do so, but he couldn’t remember any passages from Shostakovich, and he was also a little afraid that Miller might be able to identify one, even if he could remember it. Besides, he’d be playing right into Miller’s hands if he went on with the repartee, so he let it drop and said, “We’d better start recording before the period runs out.”

“Dawn,” Miller sang, “over mountain, and Dawn, ov-er valley, and Dawn, while the shep-herd is play-a-a-ing his fluuute—”

“Shut up, Miller.”

“That’s from the William Tell Overture, Chief. That’s by—”

“SHUT UP, MILLER!” Rick shouted.

“Rossini,” Miller said softly.

“Now let’s get this machine going before...”

“These periods sure do seem short, don’ they?” Miller asked.

“All right, Miller,” Rick said, really angry now. “All right, wise guy. I warned you. Now we’ll see how you like...”

“I’ll be quiet, Chief,” Miller said, a serious look on his face. “I’m sorry.”

“You’d better be quiet. I’m not kidding around anymore.”

“I’ll be quiet,” Miller promised. He folded his hands before him on the desk top, striking an angelic pose, a pose which got a laugh from the class. Rick felt his jaws tighten, and he waited a moment while he gained control of himself.

“All right,” he said, “who will we start with?”

“How ’bout Morales?” Miller piped.

“No, I think...”

“What’s wrong with Morales?” West said.

“Sure, Morales he like to talk,” Miller said.

“I don’ want to make no speech,” Morales said from the back of the room. He was a Puerto Rican boy with a thick accent, and Rick didn’t want to subject the boy to any class ridicule. He looked at Miller, trying to understand why the boy was insisting on Morales. An accent might be good for a laugh, but it seemed like a cruel way to strike at the teacher.

“No,” Rick said, “let’s start with—”

“I know why you don’t want Morales,” Miller said. “ ’Cause he can’t talk English good.”

“That’s got nothing to do with it,” Rick said, annoyed.

“Then why? It’s ’cause he speak Spanish, tha’s why.”

“Look,” Rick protested, “that has nothing to do with it.” He glanced at his watch, cursing Miller silently, and cursing the way the time had all but vanished.

“Come on, Morales,” West shouted, “get up there. Let’s hear you talk.”

“No, no,” Morales said thickly. “No’ me.”

“Agh, you jus’ chicken,” Miller said. “Tha’s all.”

“Come on, Morales,” Erin shouted.

“Let’s go, boy,” Pietro said.

“We want Morales,” Vandermeer chanted.

“We-want-Morales,” the class began chanting. “We-want-Morales. We-want-Morales, We-want-Morales.”

“Come on, chicken,” Miller said.

“I no chicken,” Morales said angrily.

“Then le’s hear you talk, man. What’s wrong, cat got yo’ tongue?”

“Let’s cut this out,” Rick said wildly, but his voice was drowned beneath the “We-want-Morales” chant. He watched as the thin Puerto Rican got to his feet and reluctantly slouched to the front of the room. He had a surly look on his face, a look that told the class he was not chicken and not afraid of any goddamned machine in the world. He walked right up to Rick’s desk, looped his thumbs in his dungarees and spread his legs wide, waiting.

“All right, Morales,” Rick said, resignedly. “All I want you to do is talk, that’s all. Nothing fancy. You just talk.”

He started the spools, and then walked to the back of the room. Miller was silent, listening now, waiting for Morales to begin his talk. West leaned forward in his seat eagerly, and the class waited with smiles on their faces while Morales fidgeted at the front of the room.

“All right,” Rick said, “start talking. And remember, I want to hear you all the way back here.”

“What I gon’ talk about?” Morales asked, looking down at the revolving spools of the machine.

“Tell me how you got ready for school this morning, what you did, where you took the train, all that. Go ahead, Morales.”

Morales glanced at the machine again, casting it a dirty look. “I get up at se’n-thirry,” he said, “an’ I go the bat’room to wash.” He paused and looked at the recorder. “My sist’, she in the bat’room, so I can’ get in, so I ha’ to wait outsi’. I wait there, an’ she singin’ insi’, so I keep waitin’, an’ then she come out.” He looked at the machine again, apparently beginning to realize that the silently revolving spools were not going to bite him.

“That’s fine, boy,” Rick said. “Go on, keep talking.”

Morales smiled, complete master of the machine and the situation now. He visibly relaxed, and Rick said encouragingly, “Go on, Morales, go on.”

“I go in the fuckin’ bat’room an’ I wash my fuckin’ face an’ bans,” Morales said, smiling. “Then I come out an’ eat some fuckin’ corn flakes.”

The boys were beginning to snicker. The first fuckin’ had shocked them, and they’d glanced toward the back of the room at Rick. It had shocked Rick, too, but he’d let it pass, unaware that a series of profanities would follow it. He didn’t know quite what to do now. Morales had finally relaxed. Morales had forgotten all about the recording machine, had forgotten that his words were being captured for posterity. He’d relaxed, and in relaxing he’d begun to speak the way he normally spoke, and the word fuck in all its various uses was a normal part of his normal speech. Rick looked at the smiling faces, and then he spotted Miller, and he saw the look in Miller’s eyes and knew then why Miller had insisted on Morales being the first to record.

“So I go don’ the fuckin’ street,” Morales continued, smiling happily, “wit’ my fuckin’ books under my arm, an’ I meet this fuck he lives in the same buildin’ wit’ me. He say, ‘You go to school, Pete?’ an’ I say you fuckin’ A right. So we walk together the fuckin’ subway.”

The class was laughing now, laughing loudly. Miller clutched his middle and rocked in his seat. West jabbed Miller in the ribs with his elbow, guffawing wildly. Rick stood at the back of the room and watched the class disintegrate. He could stop it now, sure, but what difference would it make? The damage was done now. Miller had successfully fouled up the lesson. Miller had—

“So wat the fuck you think?” Morales asked seriously. “Fuckin’ train, she late, an’ they a big fuckin’ crowd on the station. My frien’, he say, ‘Those fucks at school, they mark us late, jus’ cause this fuckin’ train.’ So tha’s how come I so fuckin’ late to school today, teach.”

“All right,” Rick said tightly, “that’s fine, Morales. Take your seat now, won’t you?” He walked toward the front of the room and Morales, a gold tooth shining in the front of his mouth, beamed happily.

“I wass all right, teach?”

“You were fine,” Rick said. He snapped the recorder off, and the class continued to laugh, the laughter rising and ebbing, rising again, and then falling as Rick stood silently by his desk.

A hush fell over the classroom as the kids watched Rick, wondering what was coming next. That was, after all, a recorder on his desk, and a recorder made records, and now when he played it back at them, there’d be a few more good laughs.

Rick glanced at his watch. “I think that’s enough for today,” he said. “Time’s running short.”

“Ain’t you goan play back that li’l talk, Chief?” Miller asked, smiling.

“There isn’t time,” Rick said flatly.

Miller looked at his own watch. “Hell, we got least five minutes yet. Tha’s plenty time.”

“I’m running this class, Miller.”

West looked up suddenly. “And some fuckin’ class it is,” he mumbled.

“What?” Rick asked, turning to West.

The class was very quiet now. It was one thing for Morales to curse all over the place; he just didn’t know any better. And it was okay for Miller to ride the teacher ’cause he was a card that way. But this with West, this was something else.

“What what?” West asked, smirking.

“Your mouth is filthy,” Rick said. “Just watch it.”

Miller stepped in quickly, smiling. “No filthier’n Morales,” he said. “An’ he a recordin’ star.”

“Never mind Morales,” Rick said, turning to Miller again.

“Wha’s the matter?” Morales asked from the back of the room.

“Nothin’,” Miller answered. “Teach don’t like the way we talk, tha’s all. Guess he won’t make no more records now.”

“You guessed right, Miller,” Rick said, speaking impulsively. “It’s too bad you had to foul it up for everybody.”

“Me?” Miller asked innocently. “What I do, Chief? Morales who made the speech.”

“Wha’s the matter?” Morales asked again, perturbed.

“Yes, you, Miller,” Rick said. “It’s a shame. I think the class could have really enjoyed this recorder.”

“I doan see what I done,” Miller said, shrugging.

“Ain’t we gonna make no more records?” Maglin called out.

“No,” Rick said, wondering if that was what Miller wanted, and wondering if he wasn’t behaving like a spoiled brat by denying them the privilege of the machine.

“Why not?” Antoro asked.

“Ask your friend Miller,” Rick answered. “You might all ask Miller,” he added. “He’ll tell you.”

Miller shrugged again. “I doan know what you talkin’ ’bout, Chief.”

“Don’t you. Well, you think about it. And if you all get a test tomorrow, in place of a lesson with the recorder, you’ve got Miller to thank for it.”

“Hey, what the hell!” Parsons bellowed.

“A test! Man, why...”

“What the hell did Miller do?”

“Knock it off,” Rick shouted. “Just knock it off or you’ll find yourselves with a homework assignment to boot.”

55-206 did not knock it off. They continued complaining and protesting, and Rick stood at the front of the room and said nothing for the remaining two minutes of class time. When the bell rang, he locked the recorder in his coat closet, scooped up his things, and left the room without even looking at the kids. He was disappointed and hurt. Disappointed because he’d really hoped the recorder would be the beginning of something, the origin of a new teacher-student relationship. And hurt because the class had missed the significance entirely, had chosen to follow Miller instead and make a complete mockery of his attempt to reach them.

And now, he surmised, things were worse. The class really did not know why he had picked on Miller, or why he was punishing them for this imaginary thing Miller had done. What the hell had Miller done? Nothing you could put your finger on, surely. Could you accuse the kid of having known Morales’ speech pattern? Could you say, “Miller, you bastard, you knew Morales would talk that way?”

Supposing Miller hadn’t known? Supposing Miller just didn’t like Morales and wanted to see him suffer up there in front of the class? Or supposing Miller thought it would be amusing to hear Morales’ accent-thick voice coming from a recorder?

No, Miller had known all right. He knew Morales, and he knew Morales used profanity with every breath, and he knew damn well what would happen once Morales loosened up. Miller had spotted the recorder the instant he’d stepped into the classroom. He’d spotted it, and he was intelligent enough to know what was coming, and intelligent enough to know that Morales’ language would break up the class completely.

What the hell is this. Rick wondered, a war? Do I have to plan a campaign against Miller every day of the week? Is that how I’ll finally get to teach?

Sure, except Miller isn’t the only one. West is another, and West may not be as smart, but he’s just as dangerous.

Dangerous? Dangerous? Come on, boy, let’s not exaggerate the situation. They’re just kids, you know.

Sure, but mighty big kids.

Yes, but the biggest kid...

“You ever try to fight thirty-five guys at once, teach?”

No, Rick thought, I never did. And I never want to. Miller is no shrimp. He’s only about two inches shorter than I, and he probably weighs just as much as I do, and he looks like a strong kid, if you can call him a kid at all. And West may look thin, but that thinness is deceptive, and I knew a lot of thin, lanky guys who would kill you as soon as look at you.

So now we’re down to the killing stage, something in his mind said. A hit melodramatic, no, Richie?

Miller and West aren’t my only problems. Rick thought, ignoring the other part of his mind. There’s Sullivan in my official class, and Marchetti in the seventh period and Harris in the eighth period. No, Miller and West aren’t all by a long shot. They just...

But what you said about killing? What about that?

Why don’t you take a walk? Rick thought. Go on, take a walk, Bud.

Are you afraid of these kids? They’re just kids, you know.

No, I’m not afraid of them.

What then?

Nothing. Who asked you, anyway?

You’re getting touchy, boy. The kids are making you touchy. I think you’re afraid of them.

I’m not afraid of them, damnit. I’m just trying to do a job. Can’t you see that?

Well, you’re not doing too well, boy. I’d say you’re not doing too well at all.

You’re an observant sonofabitch. Rick thought. Go take a walk.

He told Solly Klein and the assembled teachers about the wire recorder the next day. They sat around the wooden table in the lunchroom, with the exception of the man lying face down on the couch, and Rick related the incident, telling them about Miller’s part in it, and explaining the apparent innocence of Morales, who hadn’t known what happened from start to finish.

“That’s why I want an all-girls’ school,” Alan Manners said.

“I don’t get you,” Rick answered.

“You take this kid Morales. He uses fuck all over the place, and he doesn’t even know what he’s saying. If a girl uses that word, she knows damn well what she’s saying, and you can chalk up another roll in the hay.”

“It’s guys like you who get in trouble,” Solly Klein said. “I wouldn’t let my daughter come within ten feet of you.”

“What’s wrong with a normal sex urge?” Manners wanted to know.

“On you already,” Solly said, “it’s an urge beyond normal. It’s super-normal.”

Manners smiled shyly. “I’m just a red-blooded American boy,” he said.

“Then you should be happy here in the Forbidden City. You’re surrounded by a lot of red-blooded American boys.”

“I won’t be here long,” Manners said, nodding his head for emphasis. “Believe me.”

“Famous last words,” Savoldi said wisely.

“I’m pulling strings,” Manners told them. “I want to be surrounded by underprivileged eighteen-year-old girls. I can’t help it, it’s my calling.”

“They’ll be calling your name at Quentin,” George Katz said, munching on his sandwich. “Why’d you become a teacher, Manners? Why didn’t you get a job backstage at a burlesque house?”

“I’ll do that during the summer vacation,” Manners answered, smiling.

“He’s got all the angles figured,” Savoldi said. “Those are the guys who wonder later why they were there when the crap hit the fan.”

“Anyway,” Manners said, “there won’t be any kids like Morales in an all-girls’ school.”

“Or any troublemakers like Miller,” Rick added.

“No,” Solly said, wagging his head.

“No what?” Rick asked, chewing on his sandwich. Solly rose and walked to the windows, looking out, not facing Rick.

“You’re making a mistake, Dadier. You always make a mistake when you isolate one kid in the class as a troublemaker.”

“I don’t follow,” Rick said.

Solly cocked his head and seemed to meditate for a second, still staring through the window. “There’s no such thing as a single troublemaker in this school.”

“Solly’s going to philosophize again,” Lou Savoldi said sadly.

“In a dump like this,” Solly answered, “it’s only the philosopher who survives.”

“I’m no philosopher,” Savoldi said, his eyes sad over the steaming teacup he held close to his mouth.

“That’s why you haven’t survived. You’re just dead and too stupid to lay down.” Solly nodded his head in sour reflection and turned away from the window. “Look, Dadier, learn to accept these kids as a big rotten whole. Like an apple with worms in it. The apple is rotten to the core, and it’s the worms that make it rotten, but if you take out the worms you’re still left with the rotten apple. I know this kid Miller. I taught him last term. He’s a smart kid, Dadier, I’m telling you.”

“I know he is,” Rick said. “That’s what puzzles me. Why’s he doing all this? What’s he got against me?”

“You see,” Solly said, shaking his stubby forefinger, “there’s the mistake in your reasoning again. You think Miller has something against you personally. Forget it, ’cause he hasn’t.”

“But...”

“He gave me trouble, too. Look, every goddamn kid in that class will give you trouble. They take turns, that’s all. Today it’s Miller, tomorrow it’s some other bastard. You’re giving Miller too much credit.” Solly paused, searching for a clincher to his point. “Look, Dadier, in this school...”

“Miller’s got a high I.Q.,” Rick interrupted.

“For this school, maybe.”

“For any school,” Rick said. “What’s the average, something like a hundred?”

“More or less,” Solly said, shrugging. “So what’s Miller got? no, 120, 130 even? Who cares? Don’t you see, Dadier, that makes it worse. He stands out because he’s in with a pack of morons. The morons can give you a lot of trouble, but it’s the bright ones who become the leaders. That’s why...”

“You’re contradicting yourself,” Rick said.

“No,” Solly answered, “I am not. I’m just saying that these bright ones need an outlet for their leadership qualities. In a normal setup, those qualities would find normal outlets. But in this dump, there are no normal outlets. Does a kid become a leader here by kissing the teacher’s ass? Hell, no. He becomes a leader by making things rough for the teacher. That’s how he’s recognized. The bigger the bastard, the better the leader. But he hasn’t anything against you personally, believe me. He’d be insulted if you accused him of carrying a grudge, I mean it. You understand, Dadier?”

“I understand, but I can’t believe it. I’m sorry, but...”

“Solly’s right,” Savoldi said sadly. “You listen to him, Dadier. He knows.”

“They all stink,” Solly said emphatically. “You’ll learn that, Dadier. They all stink to high heaven. For you. Miller happens to stink the worst right now. For me, it’s a kid named Grandioso who stinks the worst. You start grading the stinks according to intensity and you’ll go nuts.”

“It’s tough on the nose,” Savoldi agreed.

“I think you’re too preoccupied with odors and aromas,” George Katz said in an attempt at wit. “That’s what’s wrong with you, Klein.”

“Solly is a professional smeller,” Savoldi said.

“In a girls’ school,” Manners said, “you get perfume. That’s what I want: perfume.”

“Yeah, perfume,” Savoldi said dolorously. “Some perfume.”

“I’m just trying to say that you’ve got to recognize these bastards as one big machine,” Solly persisted. “You start picking it apart and looking for individual cogs and wheels, and you get no place. The machine is labeled North Manual Trades High School. It’s manufactured in New York City, and it happens to have defective parts. It doesn’t do a damn thing right, and it wasn’t made to do anything in the first place. It just stands there and makes a hell of a lot of noise and it takes a hell of a lot of trained mechanics to keep it running. But it’s no goddamn good, and it never will be any good.”

“Solly,” Savoldi said wistfully, “that was beautiful. You should have been a poet.”

“Miller,” Solly went on, “is just a part of the machine. For all you know, he may be a doll outside school.” Rick raised his eyebrows and Solly said, “You don’t think so, huh, Dadier? Well, you don’t know yet. That little jerk may be supporting his blind grandmother, and he may be the nicest kid in his neighborhood. He gets inside the machine, and he becomes a part of the machine.” Solly paused and tweaked his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “Don’t worry about Miller, Dadier. That’s how you go buggy in this joint. Just consider the picture as a whole. You’re like a general worried about one stinking private in the front lines.”

“Solly has a point,” George Katz admitted. “After all, Dadier, it’s the over-all results that count.”

“You won’t get any results here, anyway,” Solly said. “You missed my point completely, Katz.”

“Isn’t that what you were saying, Klein?” he asked.

“No, it’s not what I was saying. Who the hell is talking about results? You think I’m a goddamned dreamer? I’m talking about survival. I’m talking about stomachs without ulcers. Wake up, Katz.”

“I’m sorry I misunderstood you,” Katz said, his face taking on an offended look.

“Miller provoked that profanity exhibition,” Rick said doggedly. “You can’t tell me he didn’t.”

“You should have done what Ironman Clancy does,” Savoldi said.

“Agh, Clancy is a bedbug,” Solly said.

“Still, they don’t curse in his classes.”

“When’s the last time you visited any of his classes? They curse in everybody’s class, even the women’s. Clancy can’t control it anymore than the rest of us,” Solly said.

“Clancy controls it,” Savoldi insisted. “I know he does.”

“You mean he has some method?” Rick asked.

“I suppose you could call it that,” Savoldi said. “It works, anyway.”

George Katz leaned forward curiously. “What does he do, Savoldi?”

“You mean you haven’t heard about Clancy?” Solly asked. “He’s a bedbug.”

“He’s got this box of candies on his desk,” Savoldi said, sipping at his tea. “Only they’re not all candies.”

“What are they?” Rick asked.

“Some of them are candies,” Savoldi said, “but not all of them. He’s got them wrapped like bonbons. You know, the paper twisted on each end.”

“If they’re not candies,” Katz asked, “what...”

“Well, some of them are. But some of them are just little hunks of soap, wrapped up exactly like the candies. The idea is, the kids can’t tell which are the candies and which are the pieces of soap. They’re all wrapped the same, you see. And, take it from me, there’s more soap than there is candy in that box.”

“So what does he do?” Rick persisted.

“When he hears a kid cursing, he brings him up to the desk and offers him a piece of candy. This is established routine, you understand. I mean, he’s got those kids so trained now that they’ll rat on their best friend if they hear him curse. The kid reaches into the box, and then unwraps what he pulled out. If it’s candy, all well and good. Nine times of ten, though, it’s soap. Clancy forces the kid to chew that soap and blow three bubbles before he can spit it out. It works, believe me.”

“But suppose the boy gets candy?” Katz asked. “It seems to me he’d be getting rewarded for swearing.”

“There’s not much candy in the box,” Savoldi said.

“There’s probably no candy at all in the box,” Solly put in. “Maybe Clancy used to have candy in there to start with, and maybe he throws in a hunk every now and then to keep things looking legitimate.”

“They think it’s a big game,” Savoldi said sadly astonished. “They love to watch the guy who’s caught. Three bubbles, the kid has to blow.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier to simply establish discipline?” Katz inquired. “This seems like a rather roundabout method.”

“There you go again,” Solly said, pointing at Katz. “You and Dadier, and this other guy, what’s his name? The one with the glasses.”

“Josh Edwards,” Rick supplied.

“Yeah, him. You’ve all got ideas about teaching these kids discipline and manners and whatever the hell. You’re all crazy.”

“I’d like to teach them,” Rick said softly.

“Forget about it. Just oil the machine and let it run in its own fouled-up fashion. Don’t try to get it to produce anything. It wasn’t built for that.”

“I’d still like to teach them,” Rick said, more softly.

If Solly heard him the second time, he showed no indication of it. He walked over to the windows again and hooked his thumbs in his suspenders, looking out.

“Look at that project go up, will you?” he said in amazement.

“They work fast,” Savoldi said, not looking up from his sandwich.

“They’ve got these molds,” Solly expanded, “and they just pour the concrete right into them. They can put up a building in no time.”

“These projects are very good for the city,” George Katz said.

Solly shrugged. “The people who live in them have them looking like craphouses inside of a month.”

“That’s not true,” George Katz said suddenly. “I have some friends in middle-income projects.”

“That’s a different story already,” Solly said. “I’m talking about these low-income jobs. You take most of those, and you’ll see what I mean. They put them up in slum areas, and they expect the project to defeat the surrounding area. It can’t be done.”

Rick said nothing, even though he lived in a low-income project which was in a good neighborhood, and which did not look like a craphouse though it had been standing for more than a year. But he began to wonder about the accuracy of Solly’s observations.

“Some are in good neighborhoods,” Katz said.

“Yeah, some,” Solly agreed. “Some vocational schools are in good neighborhoods, too, but I can’t think of any offhand.” He stared at the construction work in the distance again and said, “That’s a job, all right. Outside all the time. Fresh air.”

“You’re maladjusted,” Savoldi said wearily. “On a day like this, with snow on the ground, I’m damn glad I’ve got an inside job.”

“You talk like a bank teller,” Solly said.

“I wish I was,” Savoldi answered sadly. “All that money.”

“Fresh air,” Solly said, “that’s what a man needs.” He looked down to the snow-covered street, placid and white now that the snow had stopped. “Not the stink that’s in this place.” He sighed and turned away from the window.

“Fresh air,” he said again.

At ten minutes to four that day, when Rick was leaving the building, he met Josh Edwards and Lois Hammond. He studied Josh’s face carefully for a moment, repeating the habit he’d fallen into lately. He forced his eyes away at last and said, “Another day, another dollar.”

“Ah,” Lois said, smiling pertly, “but this has been a very special day, Rick.”

“Oh really? I wasn’t aware. What happened?” “I’ve been put in charge of the newspaper,” Lois said. “Well, well. Are congratulations or condolences in order?” “It’s a very important job,” Lois said primly, sucking in a deep breath and throwing her shoulders back, seemingly completely unaware of what her breasts did whenever she went through such a simple maneuver.

“Well then, congratulations,” Rick said, his eyes lingering on her expanding chest a moment longer than they should have. He turned to Josh and asked, “How were your monsters today, boy?”

“So-so,” Josh answered dully. “I’m getting there.”

“Well, fine,” Rick said with false enthusiasm, looking at Josh’s face again. You may be getting there, he thought, but where the hell are you getting, Josh? He turned his eyes from Josh’s face, wondering if his concern had shown. The beating that night had done something to Josh. He’d come to school the following Monday, of course, but something seemed to have gone out of him. Not his desire to teach the kids, certainly, because that was still obviously there. The energy, perhaps, the restless, nervous energy that had been so much a part of him before. Or perhaps his optimistic viewpoint. Perhaps that had fled.

Whatever it was, he was not looking well lately. There were heavy pockets of shadow beneath his eyes, and his cheekbones stood out too prominently, and Rick didn’t like the tight way he carried his mouth. There was such a thing as trying too hard, even in a vocational school, and Josh was apparently doing just that.

“Unless you like walking in the snow,” Josh said softly, “I can give you a lift to the bus stop. I’ve got my brother’s car today.”

“Nothing I like better than a walk in the snow,” Rick said, attempting to get a smile out of Josh. “Unless it’s a ride in the snow. Lead me to it, boy.”

“I’m dropping Lois off, too,” Josh said, unsmiling. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“He’d better not mind,” Lois said, looking at Rick in a surprisingly warningly way.

“No, not at all,” Rick said, puzzled, wondering what had prompted the almost possessive, proprietary look she’d given him. Hell, he thought, it’s my imagination. They walked down the corridor and then out of the building, and Lois took his arm as they went down the steps. She looked at the slushy snow underfoot and said, “I hate snow. I’m scared to death of slipping.”

“Careful,” Rick said, aware of the pressure of her hand on his arm, feeling uncomfortable because he was used to Anne’s hand on his arm, and this hand did not belong to Anne.

They began crossing the schoolyard, and Rick spotted Miller leaning against the cyclone fence, and then he noticed West beside him with a cigarette dangling from his mouth. Rick glanced at Miller, and the boy looked back and then smiled disarmingly.

“Hello, Mr. Dadier,” he said politely. “Nice day, ain’t it?”

“If you like snow,” Rick said, smiling back.

“Oh, yes, I like snow,” Miller said. West’s eyes traveled the length of Lois Hammond’s body, and then a smirk filled his mouth.

“Good-night, boys,” Rick said.

“ ’Night,” Miller said. West did not answer.

Rick coughed uneasily. He turned his eyes from Miller, increasingly aware of Lois’s hand on his arm. He wanted to shake the hand off, but he knew he couldn’t do that, and at the same time he felt guilty as hell, and he thought of Anne and wondered how she’d react to a glimpse of this scene.

“It’s this way,” Josh said, turning right as they left the schoolyard. They walked in silence, the snow squeaking underfoot, a cold nip in the air. When they reached the car. Josh unlocked the door and then walked around to the driver’s side. Rick helped Lois in as Josh waited for his door to be opened. She slid onto the seat, and her coat caught for an instant, pulling back over her nylons. She reached down and adjusted the coat almost immediately, but not before Rick had seen the taut tops of her stockings and a little of the white flesh beyond that. He turned away as she pulled down the coat, and then he slid onto the seat beside her.

Josh rapped on the window, and Lois giggled suddenly. “Oh my goodness, we’ve forgotten Josh,” she said. She looked at Rick curiously, and he wondered about her choice of language, including him in the “we’ve forgotten Josh,” as if they’d been so involved in something else, so completely unaware, that they’d forgotten Josh completely. She reached over for the inside handle near the driver’s seat, straightening one nyloned leg, and Rick unconsciously looked down at her leg, averting his gaze when she turned back suddenly, glanced at her leg, and then smiled.

He felt very warm all at once. His face was very warm even though Josh let in a blast of cold air when he opened his door. Josh crowded onto the seat, and Lois moved closer to Rick, her thigh tight against his. He felt the warmth of her body, and he thought again of Anne, and he said to himself. Hey Dadier, am I imagining all this? Am I crazy? and Lois moved her leg at that moment, and her foot brushed his lightly, and he knew goddamn well he wasn’t imagining anything.

“It’s crowded,” Lois said, smiling. “I like crowded cars in the winter. They’re so cozy.”

Rick remained silent. He did not like this warm feeling within him, and he did not like the feeling of guilt that accompanied it. He knew that Lois Hammond was a woman, and it had been a long time since he’d looked at any woman as a woman, at least any woman other than Anne. He wondered if Anne’s pregnancy had anything to do with this strange new awareness, and he tried to recall the last time he and Anne had enjoyed bed together, and then he told himself that was foolish, that had nothing to do with it. But the pressure of Lois’s thigh against his own was disconcerting, and he wished Josh would hurry up and start the car and take him to the goddamned bus stop and hurry up about it because he felt uncomfortable, and he felt uncomfortable because he was feeling like a man reacting to a desirable woman, and he sure as hell did not want to be reacting to any woman, least of all Lois Hammond, when Anne was home and waiting for him and probably feeling as big as a balloon.

Josh started the car, and Lois wiggled on the seat, wiggled so gently that it could hardly be classed as a wiggle at all unless someone was waiting for it, unless someone was anticipating it, and then it felt very much like a wiggle, almost like a suggestive tautening of flesh on the thigh, almost like the seductive nuzzling of a woman curling up for the night.

He could smell her perfume very close to him, and he was exceptionally warm now, with the blood all clotted up there in his face. He wanted to loosen his tie, but he knew that would seem foolish. He wanted to get away from her, too, and yet there was something else inside him that enjoyed the soft feel of her thigh against his, and the light movement of her foot brushing his own.

He sat unmoving because he didn’t want her to think he knew what was going on, didn’t want her to know he was enjoying and disliking this at the same time. He sat scarcely breathing, but he saw the tiny smile on her flawless face, and he knew damn well he wasn’t fooling her a bit, not one goddamn bit.

The car was in motion now, and when Josh rounded a corner she was hurled against Rick, and she seemed to move sideways when the car turned, so that her breast touched his arm as she was thrown toward him. She lingered there for an instant, and he thought back to that day she was about to be raped. He could feel her breast against his arm now, and he wanted to take his arm away, but he didn’t, until finally she moved and he was grateful for that, but sorry at the same time. She turned sideways on the seat, and her knees touched his gently, nylon-sleek, touched his for the fraction of a second and then pulled away.

He thought of Anne. He thought of Anne, and he remembered the touch of her hair, and the color of her eyes, and the way she used to look, and he remembered her sweetness above all, the sweetness of her that he had never found in another woman, the thing he loved most about her. He thought of Anne, and he forgot the pressure of Lois’s thigh against his, forgot Lois completely.

“I’m going to bring my records in next week,” Josh said tiredly. “Remember I told you about them, Rick?”

“Yes,” Rick said.

“Going to bring them in,” Josh said, as if he were trying to convince himself to do just that. “Give the kids a lesson on jazz.”

“Sounds good,” Lois said, wriggling on the seat, and then turning to Rick for his comment.

“Yes,” Rick said, “it sounds very good. I think they’ll like it.”

“I hope so,” Josh said. He sighed heavily and then said, “You get off here, don’t you, Rick?”

“This is it,” Rick said.

“Oh, so soon?” Lois said. She faced Rick and smiled, and Rick smiled back wearily. Josh pulled the car over to the curb and Rick opened the door and stepped out into the snow.

“Someday we ought to all go for a drink together,” Lois said, looking at Rick steadily. “All three of us.”

“Sure,” Rick said. “Someday.” He smiled, waved, and said, “See you all tomorrow.” And then he closed the door. Lois waved at him, but he spotted the bus and turned his back on her, running to catch it because Anne was waiting and he didn’t want to be late.

7

The day Rick had his brief encounter with Arthur Francis West was, coincidentally, the same day that Joshua Edwards brought his record collection to school. It started like any ordinary day starts, except that Rick had grown wary of ordinary days, knowing that the students of North Manual Trades had a peculiar knack for turning the ordinary into the extraordinary within a matter of minutes. It was this peculiar ability to twist the mundane into the grotesque that made the job so difficult. Rick thought. You could never really plan because you never knew exactly how your plans were going to work out.

It wasn’t like working in an office somewhere. It wasn’t like consulting a rigid schedule: call Andrews at 11:00 to close deal, lunch with Mrs. Mahaffey at 12:30 to discuss Bigelow account, interview prospective stenogs at 3:00, get memo off to Frisco office re delinquent payments. Nothing like that. Because, barring the small office annoyances that came up, it was usually possible to call Andrews at eleven, or wine and dine Mrs. Mahaffey at 12:30, or hire the stenogs, or get off your memos.

It wasn’t like that at Manual Trades. Rick spent a good part of every evening planning his lessons. The lessons all looked good on paper. They were the same kind of lessons which had garnered A after A in his education courses at Hunter. There was only one hitch: they didn’t work. Because if he started out to show the difference between “shall” and “will,” he invariably wound up trying to make himself heard over the roar of a class that preferred discussing the coming Election Day holiday, or the damage they would wreak on Hallowe’en. And if he started out to teach the correct form for a friendly letter, he almost always wound up giving the class a test to keep them quiet and busy. Or sometimes he just gave up and sat there, telling them they’d get a test the next day on the material they should have covered today, and then watching the kids complain and fuss and fidget into silence, only to burst into disorder again when they discovered he’d really meant what he’d said.

So on this very ordinary day, with its very ordinary beginning, the loins of Richard Dadier were girded for whatever surprises the students of North Manual Trades had up their collective sleeves.

The first surprise came in 55-206, and that was no surprise because 55-206 was just full of surprises. It would, in fact, have been surprising if 55-206 had come up with no surprise.

There was something peculiar about the class on that day. Rick noticed it when he was taking the attendance, flipping over the Delaney cards of those boys who were absent. He didn’t know quite what the difference was until he came to Miller’s seat, and then he realized what had changed.

Miller was absent.

“Well,” Rick said aloud. He was truly surprised because Miller had attended his class religiously, even when the other boys were indulging in wholesale cutting. Miller’s appearance at each class had in itself been a surprise, and Rick couldn’t quite understand the boy’s motivation. If someone disliked something so intensely, you’d imagine he’d want to avoid it as much as possible. It was almost as though Miller had formulated a strict set of rules for the playing of the game, though. Those rules included strict attendance at each and every class Rick taught. He had also seemed to have drawn an arbitrary line over which he would not step. It was true that the line seemed to advance a few inches each day, with Miller growing bolder and bolder, but it seemed that once the line had been set for any particular day. Miller observed it as the law, and would not tread beyond it no matter how far he was provoked. His observance of the line extended to holding back anyone else who attempted to cross it. It was as if he said, “This is as far as we’ll go today, and don’t you forget it.”

His absence, therefore, was almost shocking in that Rick had come to understand the rules that governed the game they played, and this was a distinct breach of the rules. When he looked at Miller’s vacant seat and exclaimed, “Well,” there was honest surprise on his face, and West promptly supplied, “Greg ain’t here today.”

“I gathered,” Rick said dryly.

“He ain’t cutting neither,” West said.

“We’ll find out about that when I send a list of absentees down to the office,” Rick answered.

“Go ahead,” West said. “He ain’t cutting. His sister’s in the hospital.”

“Oh?” Rick said. “Nothing serious, I hope.”

“Naw,” West answered. “She got knocked up, that’s all.” He smiled and stared at Rick. “You know what ‘knocked up’ means, teach?”

“I, ah, think I’ve heard the expression before,” Rick said, a bored look on his face.

“Yeah, well she got knocked up. At a grind session.” West smiled again. “You know what a grind session is, teach?”

“You know what a jam session is, West?” he asked, suddenly annoyed with all this nonsense. The boys automatically assumed that an English teacher was some sort of sexless, neuter, unthinking, unfeeling, unaware person who knew only his textbooks. He had upheld this misconception up to now, but he was all at once disturbed by it. He didn’t like West’s intimation that expressions like “knocked up” and “grind session” were foreign to him. He’d been a kid, too, and he’d flopped in whore houses from Panama to Tokyo, and his manhood was somehow offended by West’s implication. He realized this was all a matter of masculine pride, but he could not control the urge to show West that he knew a few things about life, too, perhaps a little more than West with his goddamned wise-guy smirk would ever know.

“A jam session ain’t a grind session, teach,” West said knowingly.

“No kidding? Is that right, West? Tell me, West, do you know what a dream session is? You ever been inside a shooting gallery, West? You know what mootah is, West? You dig a monkey scratching at your back, West? You know what a twist is? You ever flop into some cat’s pad, West? You know what screech trumpet is? Are you hip or from nowhere? What do you say, West?”

West stared at Rick, plainly confused. “You don’t fool me,” he said. “You’re a square.”

“Like a bear,” Rick snapped. “But tell me, West, do you know what H is? Or C? Or M? Do you know what a fix means? Have you ever met The Man, West? Tell me, West, has your experience included names like Cat Andrews or Thelonious Sphere Monk or Vido Musso or Cozy Cole? Come on, West, talk. You want to talk, don’t you?”

“I heard of them guys,” West said, frowning.

“Well good, boy. Fine. Then you know what smoke is, huh, West? You dig a high on smoke, boy? You hip to the art of a water mix? You ever dance fish, West? You ever swap spit? Or are you just all talk and no cojones? You ever read Hemingway, West?”

“Who’s he?” West asked.

“He plays drums with Gillespie, West. He beats a wild skin. He beats a wine skin, too. But you’ve been to Spain, haven’t you, West? A man of your wide experience. A man who knows what ‘knocked up’ means, and ‘grind session.’ You also know what planked means, don’t you? You know what a dry run is, huh boy? Or do you go for crime jargon, West? Is that your speed? You a heel and toe boy? A grifter? A fish? What are you, West? A con man? Come on, West.”

“You don’t fool me,” West said.

“You got it wrong, boy. You mean I’m not snowing you, don’t you? That’s what you mean, isn’t it? Well, I don’t think you’re any of those things, West. You’re not a paper hanger, and you’re not a small fry pusher, and you’re not even a booster. I dig your mo, West, and here’s what you are, man, here’s just what you are. You’re a lot of noise, West, and that’s all. You’re an empty barrel. You’re a lot of sound and fury, if you’ll pardon my quoting Willie, who beats the bass for Kenton, and you signify nothing, West. Absolutely nothing.

“So don’t come expanding your chest and spouting ‘grind sessions’ as if I’m a half-wit who was weaned on the other udder. Just keep your smart-guy language to yourself, and remember that I know just what you’re talking about, everytime you talk, whenever you talk. Remember that, and then remember that I don’t want to hear what you have to say, anyway. That way we’ll get along fine, West, just dandy. Is that clear?”

“You don’t fool me,” West said. “You picked that up in books.”

“I’m a book man from ’way back, West. But you can’t get everything from books. Now let’s stow the talk and go on with the lesson. We’ve had enough nonsense for one day.”

“Yeah, you don’t fool me,” West said, determined to have the last word.

Rick let him have the last word. He felt immensely pleased with himself, felt almost purged of something that had been bothering him since the term began. He knew it was not good policy to put yourself on the same level as the kids, but there had been something ecstatically satisfying about his outburst. He had spouted choice expressions culled from a variety of things: his own experience, stories and novels he’d read, plays he’d seen, even radio shows he’d listened to. Why, he hadn’t even been sure of the meanings of some of the words that had spilled from his mouth. He’d simply tossed them all at West, a potpourri of bop, a melange of underworld slang, a real boiler-maker.

Boilermaker. There was a good one. He should have used that, too. Had he mentioned smoke? Yes, he had. What the hell was smoke, anyway? Something alcoholics did with wood alcohol, or denatured alcohol, or something. If the alcohol turned smoky after a few drops of water were added, it was good to drink. Or maybe it wasn’t good to drink. What the hell difference did it make? West hadn’t known what he was talking about anyway.

That cojones business. He shouldn’t have used that. No, there were a good many Puerto Ricans in the class, and they sure as hell knew what cojones were. Well, let it pass. He had done well. He was pleased, and he felt damned good.

He went on with the lesson, convinced he would have no more trouble from West, pleased that Miller was absent, wondering if his sister were indeed pregnant. Knocked up. “You know what ‘knocked up’ means, teach?” He couldn’t get over it. He went on with the lesson, a satisfied smirk on his face. He gave the boys a written assignment to do in class, and then he went over the test papers from his second-termers. He was grading the papers when he became aware of someone standing near his desk.

He looked up.

West slouched there with his thumbs looped in his dungarees.

“What is it, West?” Rick asked.

West smiled. “Give me the pass. Handsome,” he said.

Rick blinked up at him. “What?”

“I said give me the pass. Handsome.”

“What?” He kept staring at West, blinking his eyes at him. He almost couldn’t believe what he was hearing. After the tongue-lashing he’d given the boy...

“I got to go to the John,” West said. “Give me the pass.”

“Sit down, West,” Rick said tightly.

“I said I got to go to the John. Give me the pass.”

“I heard you, West. Sit down.”

The boys had stopped writing now, and they were looking to the front of the room, anticipating trouble, perhaps hoping for it.

“All right,” West said, “keep the pass. I’ll go without it.”

He started to move around the desk behind Rick, and Rick shoved his chair back suddenly, blocking the narrow passage behind his desk, ramming the chair up against the blackboard, and standing quickly.

“You’re not going anywhere, West. Get back to your seat.”

“I got to go to the John,” West said, his voice louder. “You want me to piss all over the floor?”

“Shut your filthy mouth, West,” Rick said. “Shut up and sit down, do you understand?”

“I understand I got to take a piss, that’s all.”

“Sit down, West,” Rick said warningly, his lips tight against his teeth. “Sit down or I’ll knock you down.”

West stood there with his thumbs looped in his dungarees, silently appraising Rick. “You can’t stop somebody from going to the John,” he said softly.

“Try me,” Rick said, angry as hell now, a strange sense of power inside him, a sense of power generated by his previous outburst, fanned now by West’s rebellion.

They stood glaring at each other for a few moments, and then West backed off, slouching up the aisle to his seat. He sat down reluctantly, his expression sour, his eyes glowing.

“You can’t stop me from going to the John,” he called out ineffectually.

“You can go the second you learn how to ask for the pass properly,” Rick said. “Not until.”

“I did ask for the goddamn pass,” West shouted. His face was flushed, and he seemed on the verge of tears, and Rick wondered if he hadn’t carried the episode a bit too far.

“But not properly,” he said curtly.

West suddenly bounced out of his seat and started for the front of the room, his fists balled. “You want me to get down on my knees? You want me to beg for the goddamn pass?”

“Get back to your seat, West,” Rick said, his own fists clenching unconsciously. He felt anticipation out there, waiting like a poised tiger.

“I’ll piss all over the goddamn floor,” West shouted. “You think I won’t? You think I give a damn? You gonna give me that pass, or do I piss all over the floor?”

“You’re putting yourself in bad trouble, West,” Rick said. “Ask for the pass properly.”

“I’ll piss on trouble, too,” West shouted. He unzipped his fly, and moved toward Rick’s desk, and Rick took a step forward, and the bell sounded at that instant.

West froze with his hand on his fly, listening to the bell, listening to the silence that followed its insistent ring. He smiled then, a superior smile that told Rick he didn’t need the pass now anyway.

He zipped up his fly, and the rasp of the zipper was harsh in the silent room.

“Saved by the bell,” he said, and then he turned his back on Rick, gathered up his books, and left the classroom. The other boys lingered a while, watching Rick where he stood near the desk with his fists clenched. His mouth was tight, his eyes were gleaming hotly. They looked at him for a few seconds, and then they drifted out of the room.

You sonofabitch. Rick thought. You rotten, lousy, filthy sonofabitch.

Viciously, he packed his briefcase and headed out of the room, thankful for the Unassigned period ahead of him.

There was no Unassigned period ahead of the kids in 66-201. None at all. There was another English drag with Mr. Edwards, little ol’ Josh-wah fittin’ the battle of Jericho. Man, these guys could think of more ways to bore a guy. Like all they had to do was sit around and think up new ways of torture. That lesson he had preached yesterday, that garbage about a business letter. Nuts, who’d ever have to write a business letter in his life? Edwards maybe, but not them. No, this stuff was all for the birds, and even the birds wouldn’t swallow it unless you covered it with chocolate sprinkles.

They walked into the room slowly, like prisoners being forced into the cell block after their afternoon meal. They looked at Edwards sitting at his desk, looked at the flutter of his hands, looked at his goddamn goggles perched on his nose, looked at the intense, serious eyes behind those goggles. Man, they thought, why was you born such a ugly child? And such a boring one in the bargain. Didn’t no one ever teach you how to be interesting, Edwards? Josh-wah, old boy, didn’t no one ever tell you you was a boring sonofabitch? It’s a shame, Josh-wah, because somebody should sure as hell have told you. Someday, you’re gonna get reported to the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children, Josh-wah, and then you will lose your gold-plated license, and then you will have to go out and dig ditches or climb flagpoles or sit around with your thumb up your backside, which is a good job for you, Josh-wah, because you are really a boring sonofabitch.

They drifted into the classroom, and they took their seats, resigned to their fate, waiting for Edwards to begin blabbing again. Balls, Josh-wah, don’t you never learn? You need another beating to wake you up? That was a fine beating, wasn’t it, Josh-wah? Boy, you looked jazzy on that Monday morning, like a steam roller had tried to flatten your head, only better because your head was flat to begin with. Still, some guys never learn. What’s it gonna be today, Josh-wah? A letter to Grandma in Oshkosh? How you feeling. Grandma? Your rheumatiz bothering you, girlie? You keeping your legs crossed, Grandma? Come on, Josh-wah, get through with the attendance and let’s start. We can hardly wait for this ball to begin.

Edwards closed his Delaney book and smiled at the boys. “I’ve got a surprise for you today,” he said.

Well now, Josh-wah has a surprise. Ain’t that great? Let’s all stand up and clap our hands. What kind of surprise, Josh? Little test maybe? Little homework? Something pleasant like that? Something you thought up last night in your torture chamber?

“What kind of surprise?” Vallera asked.

“A surprise I think you’ll like,” Edwards said, still smiling.

“Not a test?” Jones asked suspiciously.

“No, not a test,” Edwards answered, smiling secretly. “Something you’ll like.”

Yeah, something we’ll like. This boy’s ideas are always pips. Like the time he asked us to bring newspapers in. Yeah, we were gonna like that, too. So he spends the next week telling us to read the New York Times. That’s his idea of a big ball, a real snappy time. Sit on your ass and wade through all that fine print. Boy, what a ball! Man, it gassed us, the happiest time, the most. Now he’s got another peachy idea. He’s got a million of them, this boy. Why don’t he just throw in his jock?

Edwards was not throwing in any of his underwear. He was, instead, walking to his coat closet at the rear of the room. Maybe that’s his surprise. Maybe he’s gonna put on his coat and go home? Now that would be a surprise. That was something to look forward to.

“As you know,” Edwards said, “literature is not the only form of expression. We’ll be studying a lot of literature this term in class, but there are other means of expression, too. A lot of other means of expression.”

He sounds nervous, Josh-wah does. Repeating himself all over the place. What’s he got in that closet, a naked girl? Never saw a guy as nervous as this one. Jumpy as two skeletons screwing on a moving freight car.

“Art is one form of expression,” Edwards said. “Painting, sculpture... uh... art, in general. And music is another form.”

He had the closet open now, and he was taking out something that looked like... well, how do you like that? A record player! A phonograph. And what was that little case with the lock on it? Records? Dig that! Old Josh-wah was turning into a disc jockey.

“Today we’re going to listen to some music,” Edwards said. He was walking back to his desk now, the phonograph under one arm, the leather case of records dangling at the end of his other arm.

“What kind of music?” Pasco asked suspiciously.

“No longhair stuff,” Edwards said. “Today, we’re going to hear swing, and jazz, and even a little bop.”

Bop? From you, Josh-wah? Oh, come down, man. Climb off that cloud, boy. Bop? Bop this a while, Josh-wah.

“I think you’ll like these records,” Edwards said. “I’ve been a collector for a long time now, and there’s some exciting stuff here.”

Like the Times, huh, Josh-wah? Exciting like the Times is exciting. Man, that was really exciting.

He was setting up the player now, plugging it into the outlet. He tested the needle with his forefinger, and a scratching sound flooded the classroom. He smiled and said, “The player’s not my own, but it’ll do. Let’s see now.” He fiddled around in his record case, and came up with a shining black disc. He looked at the disc like a guy sick over a girl, and then brushed at it with his sleeve.

“We’ll play this one first,” he said. “ ‘I Can’t Get Started’ is the title. It’s one of Bunny Berigan’s best records.”

Bunny Berigan? Who the hell is Bunny Berigan? What kind of crap is this, anyway?

He put the record onto the turntable, dropped the arm into place, and then stepped back with his arms folded across his chest, a broad smile on his face.

So this is Bunny Berigan. What’s so special?

So it’s a guy singing. Does he stack up against Como? Where does he shine to Tony Bennett? Guys singing are a dime a dozen. Who does Josh-wah think he’s fooling? This is exciting stuff, huh? Like the old maid said when she kissed the cow, “It’s all a matter of taste.” Ain’t he got no stuff by The Hilltoppers?

“Listen to this fine trumpet work,” Edwards said. “This man is the predecessor of James and Spivak and Elman. Just listen.”

James? He mean Harry James? But who’s Spivak? And who the hell is Elman? Man, this guy lives in another world. All right, so we hear a trumpet player. Bunny Berigan. Sounds like a strip queen in Union City. What else you got, Josh-wah? Come on, this one is almost over.

The needle raced through the record, clicked in the retaining grooves. Edwards stood with a stupid grin on his face, and finally he picked up the arm, lifted the record from the turntable and returned it to the case like a guy tucking his daughter into bed. He picked up another record and said, “This is the old Will Bradley combo. A fine record, and it’s called ‘Celery Stalks at Midnight.’ ”

How’s that again? Celery stalks? Come on, Josh-wah, we ain’t that dumb. Celery stalks? Jesus Christ! Ain’t you got nothing good in that goddamn box? How about Julius LaRosa? Now he’s got something on the ball. Or how about Joni James? Nothing from her?

“What else you got, teach?” Brothers shouted.

“This is a good one,” Edwards said, engrossed. “Listen to it.”

“You got any recent stuff?” Magruder asked.

“Listen, listen,” Edwards said, his head cocked toward the player.

That simple jerk, watch the look on his face. He really digs this crap. A band playing around with a tune. This is his surprise, his big jazzy surprise. Hell, he must have something good in that box. What’s he got in that box?

“Hey, come on, teach,” Kramer said. “What else you got?”

“I’ve got plenty more,” Edwards said. “Don’t worry. Here, listen to the trombones.”

“Ain’t you got nobody singin’?”

“Well, you just heard Bunny...”

“Yeah, I mean somebody who knows how to sing.”

“Well, yes, I have. As soon as this one is over, I’ll... I’ll see what else I have.”

“Aw, take it off now,” Liggett shouted.

“This is really a classic,” Edwards said lamely. “Will Bradley. Have you ever heard of Ray McKinley?”

“Who?”

“Ray Mc— he got his start with Bradley. He was... a... the drummer with the Bradley... combo. He...”

“Any relation to President McKinley?”

“Well, well no, I don’t think so. That is...”

“What the hell is this, a history lesson? Come on, let’s have some music.”

Edwards lifted the arm near the end of the record and quickly took the disc from the turntable.

“I’ve got a lot of vocals,” he said. “Some of them, I’m sure will... a lot of vocals. Here’s... here’s one by Ella Mae Morse. It’s called ‘Cow-Cow Boo—”

“More history!” Falanzo shouted. “Finley Breeze Morse, we’re gettin’.”

“Come on, Josh-wah!” Alexander shouted. “What the hell you hidin’ in that goddamned box?”

“Watch your language, Alexander,” Edwards warned.

“Agh, let’s see what the hell he’s hiding,” Alexander shouted to the class. Vallera leaped to his feet and started for the record case. Edwards had already put the Morse disc on the turntable, and he dropped the arm now, whirled, and shouted, “Sit down, Vallera.”

“What you got in the box, teach?” Vallera yelled.

“Keep away from those records!” Edwards yelled. He rushed to the record case and stood before it, his arms widespread, like a cop trying to hold back a throng of parade watchers. “Keep away!” he yelled.

Well, dig the little bastard! Damn if those records ain’t like a woman to him. Look at the little sonofabitch! You’d think he was protecting some pussy.

“We want some good stuff,” Vallera insisted, reaching for the records. Edwards shoved him away, and then backed up against the case again, his arms still widespread.

“I’ll choose the records!” he yelled. “You keep away!”

“So choose some good ones!” Jones shouted.

“Oh, get the hell out of the way,” Vallera yelled. He shoved Edwards, and Edwards staggered and then went flying back against the blackboard.

“Keep away from that case!” he screamed, but Vallera already had a record in his hands, and he held it up and shouted, “ ‘Clap Hands, Here Comes Charlie!’ ”

“Put that record—” Edwards started.

“You want to hear that one?” Vallera roared.

“No!” the class shouted in unison, rising out of their seats now, ready to join in the fun. Edwards flung himself off the blackboard, rushing toward Vallera, but the record had already left Vallera’s hands, was spinning through the air in a dizzying black arc.

Edwards stopped short and made a grab for the record, but it was beyond his reach, and it hit the wooden floor, and the crash was lost in the din that had suddenly sprung up in the classroom.

“ ‘Cherokee’!” Vallera shouted. “You want to hear this crap?”

“NO!” the class bellowed. “Throw it out!”

Edwards was down on his hands and knees, scrambling for the broken record. He saw the second record leave Vallera’s hands, sail across the room, and smack into the wall alongside the light switch and the bulletin board. Black shards showered from the wall, and Edwards turned to the second record, dropping the pieces of the first record, and then whirling and rushing over to Vallera.

Jones grabbed his arm and spun him back across the room, and Liggett shoved Vallera away from the record case and yelled, “Here’s ‘Kalamazoo.’ What am I bid for ‘Kalamazoo’?”

“Smash the friggin’ thing!” someone shouted.

“No!” Edwards yelled. “No, don’t! Stop it, stop it! You don’t know what you’re...”

The record hit the wall, splashed off it in a dozen flying black pieces. Someone else was at the record case now, and Edwards was rushing across the room, trying to stop him. A boy in the first row stuck out his foot, and Edwards fell forward on his face, his glasses shattering on the bridge of his nose.

“Stop it!” he yelled. “Please, you don’t know what...”

He tried to get to his feet, the bridge of his nose bleeding. He struggled about blindly, searching for the elusive record case now, trying to push past the knot of boys swarming around his desk.

Sonofabitch, this had turned into a real party after all! Goddamn, if those records weren’t smashing all over the joint like hand grenades! Man alive, this was a surprise all right, the best damn class they’d had all term!

“Here’s ‘B-19’!” And then the crash as the record hit the wall and exploded.

“ ‘Concerto for Cootie’!” And another crash, and then the crashes came one after the other, like machine-gun fire, because everybody had his hands in the record case, and everybody was yelling all at once and throwing records, and the floor was covered with shining black shards.

“ ‘Sophisticated Lady’!”

“Not that one,” Edwards shouted. “Please, that’s my...”

And then the crash and then another voice yelling, “ ‘Harlem Nocturne,’ ” and the crash, and then “ ‘Sing, Sing, Sing’!” and Edwards blindly tore at the backs of the boys as the record splattered against the ceiling and showered black slivers on them.

“ ‘Tippin’ In’!” and Edwards was screaming wildly now like a woman, just screaming and saying nothing, and when the crash came, he slugged the boy nearest him, slugged him with all the power of his arm, slugged him blindly because his glasses were on the floor with the broken records, trampled under the feet of the milling boys, crushed into the wooden floor.

And then one of the boys grabbed the case, and shouted, “Here it goes!” and he held it in both hands, swung it down beneath his knees, holding it tightly, holding it the way a basketball player holds the ball when he’s taking a foul shot. He brought his arms up straight and stiff, just the way Captain Schaefer had taught him to do. The case left his hands, sailed upward toward the ceiling, hung at the apogee of its orbit like a square rocket in flight, and then plunged toward the floor, upside down, the records tumbling from their slots, falling like black rain, crashing against the floor, shattering, singly, spattering, the case thudding to the floor, too.

“You bastards!” Edwards screamed. “You dirty bastards!”

The boys kicked around the records that had miraculously escaped damage, and then they realized all this screaming and yelling and crashing around was going to bring somebody damned soon, so they cut out for the door, leaving Edwards on the floor with his broken records and dented case, leaving Edwards mumbling, “You bastards” over and over again. The machine shop upstairs was in operation, and so the boys were lucky because the racket all but drowned out the good fun they were having. Christie Paulson was teaching a Science class next door, but it was a well-known fact that Christie was a deaf old crumb who wouldn’t hear a ton of nitro if it exploded in one of his own test tubes. So the boys were lucky, and they ran like bastards, away from the room, each one ready to swear they’d had no part in the mess there, each one ready to swear Edwards had dismissed them early, and they sure as hell didn’t know what had happened after that.

It wasn’t until Rick came up from his Unassigned sixth period, a little before the seventh period started, that he found Joshua Edwards.

He walked into the room and saw Josh sitting in the middle of the floor, his fingers idly running over the dented case, the broken records scattered around him like a dead army.

“Josh!” he said. “What the hell...”

“My records,” Josh mumbled. “They... they broke my records, Rick.” He looked up, and his face looked pathetically young without glasses perched on his nose, and there were thin streams of blood running down his nose, and he suddenly began to cry bitterly, tears that welled up from deep inside him. He was ashamed of the tears, but he couldn’t stop them, and they streamed down his face together with the blood, and Rick put his arm around Josh’s shoulder and held him in a firm grip, and Josh kept crying and saying, “Why’d they want to do that, Rick? Why’d they want to do that? What’d I do wrong? Rick, they broke my records.”

The tears kept coming because the records were broken, and each time he said it he was reminded of the fact. And the tears kept coming because the records were a part of Josh Edwards, and if the beating that night so long ago had taken something out of him, this breaking of the records had taken a little more, only this time it was a little more that was really a part of the man, and you can’t dissect a man slowly and expect him to survive.

And so Rick crouched alongside Josh on the floor of the classroom, and he kept his arm around Josh’s shoulders, and he listened to the sobs that wracked his friend’s body, and he wanted to cry himself, but he didn’t.

8

The first note came on November 4th, the day after the Election Day holiday. It was not in the mailbox when Rick left for school that morning, and it was not placed in the mailbox until 10:44 when an overburdened mailman pulled down the row of boxes in the hallway of 1935 East 174th Street and methodically began dumping letters into the open metal mouths. He was busy, and he gave only a cursory glance to the small envelope typed MRS. RICHARD DADIER, and then he dumped it into the box for 11C.

The delivery of the note was preceded by an important flow of events at North Manual Trades, a tide in fact which left no doubt about Mr. Small’s reformative policy. The incident in Joshua Edwards’ classroom had disturbed him deeply. The records, of course, had meant little or nothing to him. Hell, you could buy records anywhere. The record player, on the other hand, had belonged to the school, and the record player had been damaged in the disorderly fracas, and Small could not let such an incident go unnoticed or unpunished.

The parents of every boy in Josh’s sixth-period English class had been summoned to school, and an itemized list of the damages presented to them. Small had informed them in firm, principal-like tones, that Joshua Edwards would be reimbursed for his loss, and that North Manual Trades would be likewise reimbursed for the damaged record player. There had been twenty-six boys present that day, and the sum total of the damages had been divided by twenty-six, and Small advised the parents that payment should be made promptly. He would not like to call in the police on a matter such as this, but he was sure they all knew that wilful destruction of private or public property was a criminal offense. He was quite willing to forget the police; he knew that no one liked trouble with the police. On the other hand, he could not ignore the damage that had been done, hence his suggestion that payment be made promptly or he would be forced, in spite of his distaste for such a course of action, to inform the police of the incident. The collected, collective parents got the point. They got the point, and they forked over the cash, and there were many raw, red behinds that week, and a few battered heads. Money did not grow on trees, and being called to school was humiliating even when it didn’t cost anything.

Nor were the red and aching behinds the only punishment the boys in Josh’s class suffered. They were brought in a group to Mr. Small’s office, whereupon Mr. Small delivered a shouting, ranting, biting, vituperative ten-minute speech on the conduct he expected from the students of Manual Trades. He concluded his dissertation by telling the boys they would spend their next week at school in the auditorium, all day, every day. They would come supplied with fountain pens, paper, and bottles of ink. They would sit three seats apart from each other all day long, and there would be three Unassigned teachers watching them during each period of the day, a task which did not appeal to the faculty of the school, who enjoyed their Unassigned periods fully as much as they did their God-given lunch periods.

The boys would not be idle during their week of incarceration. They would use the pens, the ink, and the paper. They would write. They would write all day long. They would write, “I shall learn to respect the property of others.” They would fill page after page of lined paper with these words. The teachers watching them would make sure that none of the boys shirked their literary efforts. The boys would write until their fingers were ready to fall off, and then they would write some more. So did William Small, Principal and Chief Executioner of North Manual Trades High School, decree.

Rick, perhaps prompted by the Boss’ decisive action in The Edwards Affair, inflicted his own punitive program upon Arthur Francis West. He exiled the Urinating Unicorn to the English Office during the fifth period every day. There, under the watchful eyes of Mr. Stanley, Department Chairman and Executioner in Charge of English Department Violations, West practiced his own penmanship to the tune of “I shall learn to ask for the pass properly.” West did not like the tune. He also did not like Stanley. He cared even less for the English Office, and his lack of affection spread rapidly to include North Manual Trades High School, Bronx County, and even the entire City of New York. Most of all, he definitely did not like Daddy-oh. Not at all. Not in the least.

And while his cramped right hand struggled with “I shall learn to ask for the pass properly,” a punitive technique which allegedly went out of practice with the coming of the horseless carriage, his mind silently avowed “I shall piss all over Daddy-oh.”

Anne Dadier, on that morning after Election Day, was not aware of West’s urinating aspirations. She had given Rick his breakfast that morning and then gone back to bed, rising finally at 9:10 and beginning another day, a day which loomed large on the horizon, and which loomed large in the area beneath her breasts and above her legs.

She went into the bathroom in her shorty nightgown, and when she spotted herself in the full-length mirror behind the bathroom door, she put her hands on her hips and thought. Gad, you sexy creature, you.

She turned sideways and examined her profile, studying the insistent bulge with fascination. She placed both hands on her belly, holding it like a medicine ball, and then she turned again, looked at herself fullface, and thought. You can hardly tell this way. Except that my hips have gone.

She turned her back to the mirror, looking back over her shoulder, her eyes traveling over her good, long legs where they jutted out from beneath the end of the gown. This is the best view, she thought. All expectant mothers should be forced to walk backwards. She shrugged, walked to the mirror over the sink, and unbuttoned the top part of her gown. She cupped one breast and studied it in the mirror, amazed at the way the nipple had darkened, had become somehow more mature, had become a woman’s nipple. She dropped the breast and her thoughts about pregnancy and then brushed her teeth, washed her face, and brushed out her hair.

She enjoyed the new shine of her hair, the only improvement her pregnancy had brought to her. Well, that’s not true, she thought. My face has filled out a little, and I look better this way. Less gaunt. She counted out the brush strokes, and when she’d finished she took a last look at herself in the full-length mirror.

She put one hand on her hip and the other at the back of her head, like a prostitute lounging in a dimly-lit doorway. She lowered her head, and her blond hair fell over one eye. She wet her lips, narrowed her eyes, and then rotated her hips in mock lewdness, tossing a burlesque grind and bump at the mirror.

“Baby,” she said aloud, “you should be in the movies.”

She burst out laughing suddenly, covering her mouth and almost looking over her shoulder to see if anyone had been watching her. She was still laughing when she left the bathroom and went into the bedroom to dress. She put on the three-sizes-too-large girdle she’d bought over Rick’s protests. Rick hated girdles. “Who wants a stuffed sausage?” he was fond of repeating. When she explained that her doctor felt a girdle would take some of the strain of carrying away from her stomach muscles, he’d grudgingly allowed her to buy one, but his attitude plainly stated that this had better be only a temporary thing.

She struggled with her stockings, stooping to roll them up over her calves. The stockings and shoes were always the hardest part. What did people who were fat all the time do? Pregnant women should have eunuchs to help them on with their stockings, she thought. And then she wondered. Eunuchs? Why in heaven’s name would a pregnant woman need a eunuch?

Poor Rick, she thought. He’s a technical eunuch. I wonder if it’s difficult for a man? I mean, it doesn’t really matter to me because I haven’t any desire anymore. Isn’t it terrible how this takes away desire? I wonder if you have to feel desirable in order to feel desire? The only thing I desire right now is to have this over and done with. Nine months is such an awfully long time. It seems to me that Whoever planned all this should have taken that into consideration. But Whoever planned it was probably a man. Or a manlike God. Why is God always presented as a manlike figure? Something there to consider, all right.

I’ll make it up to Rick, of course. Afterward. They tell me the afterward is the worst part, the six weeks’ wait after the baby is born. Because desire returns then, and you can’t do anything because it’s dangerous. That’s what they say, anyway. Freida finally took to sleeping on the living room couch during those six weeks, but Freida’s a nymphomaniac, I’m sure.

I’ll make it up to you, darling, she promised. And I won’t sleep on the living room couch, either.

And it won’t be too long, either. The middle of December, Dr. Bradley said. Wouldn’t it be nice if the baby were born on Christmas day? Or would it? It would be nice for Rick, I suppose, a sort of super Christmas present. It wouldn’t be very nice for the baby, though, because he’d miss out on either a birthday present or a Christmas present. It wouldn’t be fair to cheat him of...

Him.

I always think of him as him. I suppose I subconsciously want a boy. Rick wants a boy, I know. Oh, he’d love a boy.

I love you, Rick, do you know? she thought, and she smiled and reached for the slip her mother had given her. She pulled the slip over her head, and then thwacked the elastic around her waist. She put on a blouse and the skirt with the hole in it, the one that allowed her stomach to pop out through the big hole, with the blouse covering it, so that the skirt fell straight and no one could tell you were carrying.

No one except everyone you met, she thought.

She smiled, dabbed on some lipstick, and then went into the kitchen where she started the coffee going. She drank a little orange juice, put up the toast, and then had two cups of coffee, leaving half a slice of toast on her plate. She lighted a cigarette, smoked it down, and then reluctantly rose and washed the dishes. She dusted around a little, and then decided she’d better get downstairs and do some shopping if anyone expected supper that night.

Eating, as far as she was concerned, was something that had to be done now. There was no longer any enjoyment attached to it. Like the bed, she supposed, except that you couldn’t do anything there in the eighth month, no this was the ninth month, well not really but soon, even if you did enjoy it, and even if you had the desire to do anything, which she certainly did not have, not now in the eighth-nearly-ninth month.

She put on her coat and locked up the apartment, walking down the hall to the elevator. Viola Jackson, her colored neighbor, was standing in front of the red elevator door, waiting for the car to come.

“Hello, Anne,” she said warmly. Viola had a rich voice that started deep down within her someplace. She was a plump woman with a ready smile, and Anne never failed to feel a warm sort of happiness in her presence.

“Hello, Viola,” she answered, smiling.

“I think the kids are holding the elevator downstairs,” Viola said. She shook her head. “It’s a shame.” She smiled suddenly and asked, “How do you feel?”

“Fine,” Anne said.

Viola laughed a hearty, booming laugh. “It’s the first ten are the hardest,” she said. She sobered instantly and said, “Now, listen, you haven’t been taking your laundry down to those washing machines all by yourself, have you?”

“Well, yes, I have,” Anne said.

“Well, you can stop that right now, do you hear me? You in your eighth month. My daughter will take it down for you, do you hear me?”

“That’s awfully nice,” Anne said, surprised, “but—”

“Never you mind your buts,” Viola bullied. “She has to take mine down, and she can just as soon throw yours in, too. Now do you hear me?”

“All right,” Anne said, smiling. She had first met Viola Jackson two days after Rick and she had moved into the project. Her husband, Fred, had been out sweeping up the corridor, and when they’d stepped off the elevator he’d explained, “If you got a nice place to live in, you got to keep it nice.” He’d introduced himself, then, and Viola — hearing the conversation through the open door to her apartment — had come out and joined them. Fred had been in his undershirt, and he’d seemed embarrassed over having been found in this state of undress. He’d put down his broom and gone into the apartment, to emerge a few moments later wearing a shirt. That had been the beginning of their friendship.

“Here it is now,” Viola said, wagging her head. “Darn kids.”

The car stopped and they got in and punched the ground floor button. They got off in the wide entrance foyer and Anne walked directly to the mailboxes, taking the key out of her purse, and unlocking the box.

There was a phone bill, and a handbill from the local supermarket, and also a letter. She glanced at the brown telephone company envelope without opening it, stuffed the handbill into her purse for later when she made out her shopping list, and then looked at the letter.

The envelope was neatly typed and it read simply:

She looked in the upper lefthand corner for a return address, but there was none. She turned the envelope over, looking at the flap, hoping for some clue as to the identity of the sender. There was nothing on the flap.

“Bills, bills, bills,” Viola said. “Not a day goes by without another bill. Sometimes I wish the mailman would never come.”

Anne smiled and ripped open the flap of the envelope.

“Today is my rent day,” Viola said. “Are you going to the office?”

“No,” Anne said, reaching into the envelope. “I’ve got some shopping to do.”

“Nothing heavy,” Viola said suspiciously.

“No, just a few things for tonight.”

“All right,” Viola said. “You get that husband of yours to do the heavy shopping.”

“He does,” Anne said, holding the folded contents of the envelope in her hand now, wondering who had written them a letter.

“Well, I’m going. I’ll see you later, Anne.”

“All right, Viola.”

Viola waddled out of the building, bundling her coat around her. Anne walked to the windows near the radiator, and unfolded the letter. It was a plain white sheet of paper. There was no date on it and no salutation. In the exact center of the page, neatly typed, were the words:

The note was unsigned.

9

“Oh, Mr. Dadier!” Lois Hammond called, poking her head out of the doorway and waving to him in the corridor. She’d addressed him formally because there were students in the corridor, rushing to their sixth-period classes, and teachers never used first names before the students.

Rick smiled and waved back, and then started for the stairwell. He’d planned on going down to the auditorium and grading his seventh-term test papers, a time-saving device which would afford him a free evening when he got home.

“Would you come in a moment, Mr. Dadier?” Lois said. “I want to show you something.”

Rick hesitated, and then swerved away from the moving stream of students and headed for the open doorway. A lettered sign hung on the door, and the sign boldly stated that the room beyond the door was the office of The Trades Trumpet, if office it could be called. Rick had been inside the room only once before, when he’d used the mimeograph machine to run off some material for his classes. The room was small and square, and it possessed a desk, two windows that looked out on the courtyard enclosed by the school’s L shape, a bulletin board, three chairs, a metal bookcase, and the mimeograph machine. It now also possessed Lois Hammond, and she held the door wide and said, “Come on in.”

He entered the room, and she closed the door behind him.

“It’s not the New York Times,” she said, “but it’ll have to do.”

“The Trades Trumpet, huh?” he asked. “Whose brainstorm was that?”

“Mine,” she said proudly. “Do you like it?”

“It’s alliterative, at any rate.”

“Do you know what they used to call the paper?” Lois asked.

“No. What?”

“The North Manual Trades High School Monthly.” She smiled and lowered her lashes. “Sounds like a woman’s complaint, doesn’t it?”

Rick chuckled a little and said, “Yes, I suppose so.”

“The Trades Trumpet,” Lois said, “I like that. The Trades Trumpet. Don’t you like it?”

“How about The North Nickelodeon?” Rick asked.

“Oh, Rick,” Lois said, delighted.

“Or The Manual Mandolin?” He paused and laughed. “There’s a good one.”

“You’re joking, but don’t you really like the name?”

“It’s a dandy,” Rick said. “What’d you want to show me?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, excitedly reminding herself. “Lock the door, will you, Rick?”

Rick raised his eyebrows, and Lois, seeing his surprise, quickly said, “Oh that has nothing to do with what I’ve got to show you. I feel like a smoke, and I’m also hot as hell, and I don’t want any of our students popping in.”

“I thought you had some French postcards,” Rick said jokingly.

“You would,” Lois replied, and Rick wondered just what she’d meant by that, and he didn’t know whether or not he enjoyed the implication. He locked the door, and Lois fished a package of Chesterfields out of her purse, promptly tucking one between her lips and waiting for Rick to light it. Rick, who was the kind of smoker who had to smoke whenever anyone else smoked, took a single cigarette from the package in his jacket pocket, and then struck a match, holding it first to Lois’s cigarette and then his own.

Lois exhaled a deep cloud of smoke and then said, “This is the stuffiest room in the building. Do you mind?”

He didn’t know what she meant at first, and then she began unbuttoning her suit jacket, and he remembered what she’d said about being hot as hell. The jacket was a long gray one with a tight waist and it flared out over her hips with a straight black skirt sheathing her thighs and legs. She unbuttoned the jacket quickly and then slipped out of it, throwing it over a chair.

“After my first-day escapade,” she said, “you won’t find me anywhere in this school without my armor on. Unless there are no students present.”

She had turned to face him now, and the blouse she wore was sheer and frothy, a nothing-thing of transparent silk, a blouse similar to the one she’d worn to the Friday Organizational Meeting so very long ago. But there was something different about this blouse, and Rick stared at her for a few moments before he realized what it was, and then he self-consciously averted his eyes lest she realize that he had realized what it was.

For whereas the blouse worn to the Organizational Meeting had been worn with only a skirt and no jacket, this blouse had been put on beneath a jacket, and by Lois Hammond’s own testimony, she would not be found anywhere in the school without her armor on, and the armor she referred to was her jacket. Indeed, when she had been inside the jacket and the jacket around her, there was no telling she wore a blouse under it. With the jacket off, and it was off now, and Rick knew it was off, and he wanted to leave the office of The Trades Trumpet and get the hell down to the auditorium and grade his seventh-term papers, there was no doubt that Lois Hammond wore a blouse beneath the jacket.

And because the blouse was of the sheerest stuff, there was also no doubting that Lois Hammond was not wearing a slip, or if she was, it was a half-slip that began at her waist and did nothing to conceal the firm, abundant cones of her breasts caught tight in a white cotton bra. As he had noticed about her so many times before, she did not even seem aware of the fact that rounded white shoulders and a firm white solar plexus were showing above and beneath the thrust of her brassiere.

“There,” she said, “that’s better,” and Rick did not entirely agree with her, because this was not better but worse. He was aware of her again as a woman, and he did not want this awareness which sneaked up on him like a cutthroat and slashed his stomach to ribbons. He did not want the awareness, and because it was unbidden, it produced the guilty feeling again, and he wet his lips nervously.

“What did you want to show me?” he asked, anxious to get this over with, wanting to get out of this office and away from her. His palms were wet, and his eyes strayed back to the front of the blouse, and he again visualized the exposed white breast on that day of the attempted rape. The brassiere now cupped her breasts firmly, and there was a deep shadow of warmth between the breasts, and he longed to touch that softly pocketed valley, longed for just an instant, and then turned his eyes away and felt the guilt spread into his face.

“I’ve got the first page for the Thanksgiving issue,” Lois said, turning and walking to the desk. “It’s a honey.”

He watched her walk, and he realized that the removal of the jacket had revealed more than her transparent blouse and what lay beneath it. For whereas the jacket had successfully hidden her hips and buttocks, its removal just as successfully exposed them. The black skirt was very tight, and he could see the firm, rolled edge of her panties beneath the skirt. She walked, and her buttocks rolled, and the panty line rolled with the movement, a slow, insinuating movement. He watched the slender lines of her skirt, and the roundness of her buttocks and the tapering fullness of her legs and he knew very well what he was thinking but he thought anyway. What the hell am I thinking?

Lois turned suddenly, and he lifted his eyes too late, knowing he was too late, and knowing she found him watching her, but knowing at the same time she’d wanted him to watch her.

She held a sheet of paper in her hands, and her eyes met his, and she said, “It looks good, doesn’t it?” and she could have been talking about the first page of the Thanksgiving issue, but Rick knew damn well she wasn’t. It was all about as subtle as a rivet, and he knew that, and he resented her obvious tactics, but at the same time he enjoyed them in a strange, forbidden-cookie-jar manner. Except that the cookie jar was not forbidden, the cookie jar was indeed within easy reach, and the only thing that stopped him from reaching was something like an unwritten law, despite his appetite at the moment.

He did have an appetite, a very strong appetite, and Anne’s pregnancy was not helping that appetite in the least. If anything, it was making things worse because Anne’s flesh was still warm and soft and her breasts had become larger and fuller with nipples that hardened the instant his hands found them. And Anne still curled against him each night, curled in the arc of his body, and she was there but not there because she was really the forbidden cookie jar, with no ifs, ands, or buts about it.

And so he walked the tightrope of the celibate, with desire on one side, and here, now, temptation on the other side. He would be lying to himself if he did not admit that Lois Hammond was temptation. One of the things Rick had never done was lie to himself. He admitted this, and in admitting it he acknowledged the guilt that accompanied his sudden, unbidden desire for her, and he resolved to get the hell away from her damned fast because he did not like walking a tightrope.

“It’s a little early for Thanksgiving, isn’t it?” he asked, and he realized his voice was trembling, and then he wondered if his body were trembling, too. Lois studied him with a small smile on her face, a smile that told him she knew just what she was doing to him, and she was enjoying it immensely. But a smile that said she wasn’t kidding, and this enjoyment was just a small enjoyment, because she was not kidding and because she knew what she was doing.

And because he knew she was aware of all this, he was pleased deep within his masculine self, pleased that she was making an obvious effort, even though he disliked the obviousness of her effort, to display herself as a woman, even though she knew he was a married man. He was pleased because the smile on her face had not a damn thing to do with Thanksgiving issues, but with issues which might call for thanksgiving. He was pleased because her unashamed advances were telling him just what she wanted, and she wanted him, and he was married, and that combination appealed to his ego immensely.

But he was ashamed of himself for catering so to his ego, and ashamed of himself for even thinking what he was thinking because he knew he could never — in a million years, — not if she ripped off the blouse and the bra, too, not if she slipped out of the skirt, and then he realized he was hoping she would do just that, and this time his hands did begin to tremble and he was even more deeply ashamed of himself.

She held out the first page to him, the ink still wet on it. He looked at the large turkey there, drawn by one of the students no doubt, and at the pumpkins decorating the page, and at the banner and then at the lettering which told everyone this was the Thanksgiving Issue. And above the page she extended, holding it just below her breasts, holding it so that his eyes took in a panorama of mimeographed page and white cotton bra, above the page was the soft shadow, and the rounded mounds of white flesh on either side of the shadow. His eyes strayed from the page, and Lois said, “Do you like it?” and again her voice was low and insinuating, and he knew she was not talking about the first page but about what rested just above the first page, and he answered, “Yes, I like it very much,” and he knew, too, that he was talking about just what she was talking about.

“This is just the beginning, you know,” she said, skillfully twisting the knife of double entendre, her eyes on Rick’s face, the smile on her lips. “The ground work, so to speak. The rest will come later.” She paused and suddenly withdrew the extended page, reaching behind her to put it on the desk. She kept her arms behind her, the palms flat on the desk. “The rest will come later,” she repeated. And then she turned the full power of her gaze on him, and her lashes almost touched, and she wet her lips and added, “Before Thanksgiving.”

She pushed herself off the desk, standing erect, standing so close to Rick that her breasts almost touched his chest. He smelled the perfume of her hair, and for a wild moment he almost reached out and clasped her to him. But he stood there unmoving, a muscle in his jaw twitching, his eyelids blinking.

“I don’t want to keep you,” Lois said softly. She walked around him, her shoulder brushing his arm, and he turned and watched her walk across the room, watched the exaggerated swing of her hips, watched the rolled edge of panties, the straight seams of stockings, the high-heeled pumps. She walked to the chair and picked up her jacket, snuffing out her cigarette and then slipping into the jacket quickly, buttoning it with slender, red-tipped fingers, covering the blouse slowly, starting with the bottom button and working her way upward, closing the V over her breasts, hiding the bra, hiding the blouse, buttoning the jacket to her throat like a strip teaser working in reverse.

“I’ll see you,” Rick said tightly, and he walked to the door without turning to look at her again, angry at himself all at once, angry because he was behaving like a goddamned adolescent ogling a cheesecake magazine. He tried to put her out of his mind, but the anger mounted, a frustrated sort of self-incriminating anger which finally spread to include Lois Hammond and then focused on her alone.

He thought of her rich body, and then he thought of what she was trying to do, and he hated her intensely in that moment. He slammed the door behind him, and in his anger he almost missed Gregory Miller walking past the stairwell.

“Hello, Mr. Dadier,” Miller said, his eyes taking in the flush on Rick’s face.

“Hello, Miller,” Rick said briefly. “You cutting a class?”

“Why no, Chief,” Miller said. “I was just goan to the John.” He held up the large wooden room pass and said, “See?” And then he glanced curiously at the closed door of The Trades Trumpet and asked, “You... uh... cuttin’ a class, teach?”

“What do you mean by that?” Rick asked touchily.

“Why nothin’. Nothin’ at all, teach.”

“Mr. Dadier,” Rick snapped.

“Why, sure. Mr. Dadier. That’s what I said, wunt it?”

“No, it wasn’t what you said. And you know damn well it wasn’t.”

“You got somethin’ against me?” Miller asked suddenly.

“I might ask the same of you,” Rick answered, his anger forcing the words out of him.

“Me?” Miller asked, seemingly surprised.

“There aren’t but two of us here,” Rick said nastily, “and I’m not talking to myself.”

“You ha’ got somethin’ against me, hant you?” Miller said.

“Oh, go to hell, Miller,” Rick answered. He turned his back and started away from the boy, heading into the stairwell.

“Hey, Mr. Dadier,” Miller called, “wait up, will you?”

Rick stopped and whirled. “What is it now, Miller?”

Miller caught up with Rick, standing very close to him, his eyes almost level with Rick’s. “ ’Bout that class of yours I missed.”

“What about it?”

“I wunt cuttin’.”

“No one said you were.”

“I jus’ wanted you to know.”

“All right, so now I know.”

“My sister had a baby,” Miller said, a proud smile forming on his face, a gleaming white smile against the brown of his skin.

“Congratulations,” Rick said briefly.

“A boy,” Miller said, and Rick wondered what the hell all this was about. He looked at Miller curiously for a moment and then said, “That’s very nice, Miller.”

“My brother-in-law’s overseas,” Miller explained. “He in the ahmy. Tha’s why I took my sister to the hospital. Tha’s why I wunt to school that day.”

“I see,” Rick said, still wondering why Miller was telling him all this. They stood close to each other for a few seconds, neither speaking, the silence closing in around them. Rick was aware of the silence, and he felt enormously awkward.

“My wife’s expecting a baby, too,” he said suddenly, wondering what had provoked him to tell this to Miller.

“That right?” Miller asked, seeming truly interested.

“Yes,” Rick said. And then like a fighter who has momentarily lowered his guard and suddenly realizes he’s liable to get punched, he said, “I’m busy, Miller.” The guard was up again.

The smile disappeared from Miller’s face. “What is it, Chief?” he asked.

“What’s what, Miller?”

“You an’ me, Chief? Why you got the knife out for me?”

“I haven’t got a knife out for anyone, Miller. You’re imagining things.”

“You do, Chief. You sure as hell do. Why, tha’s what I like to know. Why?”

Rick stared at Miller. “Are you serious?” he asked, his voice rising.

Miller looked confused. “Why, sure I am.”

All of the contained anger seemed to suddenly spill out of Rick’s mouth. “You’ve got the nerve to ask that I After all the trouble you’ve caused in my classroom? After all you’ve done? After your goddamn wise-guy remarks, and after the way you fouled up that lesson with the recorder, and after the way you’re thick as thieves with your buddy West? Goddamnit, Miller, you’ve got the nerve to ask that?”

“Steady, Chief,” Miller said, the smile reappearing, but somehow a defensive smile now. “Jus’ take it easy.”

“Oh, just get the hell out of here, Miller,” Rick said. “You make me sick.”

“I still doan see...”

“Don’t hand me any of that, Miller,” Rick said, his anger gaining new momentum. “You’re not stupid, and you know damn well what’s been happening.” He paused and then blurted, “I wouldn’t be surprised if you were in on that beating I got a while ago.” He was instantly sorry for his accusation because his anger seemed to burn out with it, but there was nothing to help it now.

Miller’s eyes tightened, and he looked at Rick soberly. “You doan mean that, Chief,” he said softly.

“I do mean it,” Rick said, refusing to budge an inch, refusing to eradicate his mistake now that he’d committed himself to it. “I damn well do mean it.”

“You really got it bad, huh boy?” Miller said. He shook his head and glanced into the corridor, and Rick, still feeling the guilt of his reactions to Lois Hammond’s body, mistook the gesture, understood Miller to be looking at the closed door of The Trades Trumpet.

“What the hell do you mean by that?” he shouted.

Miller’s eyes popped wide in surprise. “What? I...”

“You heard me! What’d you mean by that? What’d you mean, you little...” He took a step toward Miller, and the boy backed off, and his eyes narrowed and his lips pulled back over his teeth.

“You gonna hit me, Mr. Dadier?” he said.

“What...”

“I’d like that, Mr. Dadier. Tha’s all you need, boy. Tha’s all you need to wash you up. Go on, hit me.”

Rick gained instant control of himself, and now that he was calm again, he could not understand Miller’s anger. Nor could he understand how a seemingly innocuous conversation had led to this explosive point.

“I’m sorr—” he started, and Miller backed off another pace and crouched over low, as if he were ready to deliver a punch from the floor.

“Go ahead, Mr. Dadier,” he shouted, “go ahead and hit me. I doan know what the hell’s eatin’ you, but I’d sure like to see you hit me. Come on, hit me. Come on, come on, come on!” he shouted, his voice rising in hysteria.

Rick turned his back to Miller. “I’ll see you in class tomorrow,” he said coldly.

“And maybe you won’t!” Miller shouted, as if that were the worst threat he could hurl. He turned his back and started off down the hallway, and Rick walked down the steps, his own anger slowly returning.

The little bastard, he thought. The little black...

He stopped abruptly.

Hey now. Hey now, what the hell was that? Now just what the hell was that?

Nothing, it just...

No now, no now don’t “nothing” me. Now just what the hell was that, and just what the hell did you mean by that, and just who the hell are you anyway? Now just who the hell are you anyway? Now just what the hell were you about to say?

It’s not because he’s black. Rick thought. That has nothing to do with it.

Then why did you think that? Come on, you prejudiced sonofabitch, start making your alibis. Why the hell...

I’M NOT. Goddamnit, you know that. If you know me at all, you know I’m not that way. You know that never once entered my mind.

Until now.

Not now either. Look, that has nothing to do with it.

Then don’t think it again. Not ever again. You understand that, you bastard? Never again.

I didn’t even think it this time. I was angry, I...

Don’t give my any horse manure. Just promise, that’s all. Just redeem yourself, you chauvinistic sonofabitch. Just...

Don’t say that. For Christ’s sake, you know it isn’t true. Fred and Viola are...

Some of my best friends are niggers.

All right, if you’re going to get flippant about it, the hell with it. But inside you know it isn’t true. Either that, or you don’t know me at all, and then I don’t give a damn what you think, anyway. You know I’m not that way. Don’t you?

Yes, I know.

Then why accuse me of thinking...

What you think isn’t important. What does Miller think?

Miller?

Miller, Miller, the boy you almost called a little black bastard. What does he think, stupid? What does he think about you? What does he think about what you think, and does he think you think of him as a little black bastard? Had that ever occurred to you? Had that ever occurred to your brilliant, all-seeing, all-powerful intelligence? Had it ever occurred to you, or were you too goddamned busy observing the udders on that goddamn Trades Trumpeting cow?

It... it never occurred to me. No. No, it never did. And Lois means nothing. You know that. You know I’d never...

I know. I know you damn well better never.

I don’t need threats. I know what’s right and wrong.

Then start thinking about Miller, and start thinking about how you’ve wronged him.

But I haven’t...

Unless he thinks you have, and then you have. And I’m going to forget all about what you almost said, did in fact say, I’ll forget all about that and pretend it never happened, but you’d better start thinking about it, you’d better start thinking about it damned hard.

He started thinking about it.

It had never occurred to him that Miller might feel that way, and he cursed himself for his own blind stupidity. That would be ironic, he thought, that would be really ironic. If Miller thought that about me. If that were the nub of all the trouble. It would be something like the story he’d heard about the white man married to a Negress, the white man who’d been going home to his Negress wife when the race riots broke out in Harlem, the white man who’d had his throat slit for being a white man in black territory on that night when color was the all-important factor in deciding the behavior of human beings. Color or the lack of color.

It would be something like that because Rick had never consciously thought of Miller as a Negro. Miller was another boy in his classes, and Miller happened to be a troublemaker, but Miller was never a Negro. Rick knew he was colored, of course. He knew that, but he knew it the way he knew that Carter had red hair. He had no grudge against red hair, and he certainly had no grudge against Miller’s pigmentation. That had never once entered into his thoughts about the boy.

But if Miller thought that...

Rick had been in a similar situation once before. It had caused him an uncomfortable two weeks, but he’d finally straightened it out. It had happened while he was in the Navy, and it had nothing whatever to do with color, or the lack of color, but it had a lot to do with misunderstanding. If Miller believed this about him now, it was clearly a case of misunderstanding, and the only way to combat that was with understanding. If anything, the time in the Navy had been more difficult because Rick had been on a destroyer, and a destroyer is a small ship, and you’ve got to live with a lot of different guys, and the living is cramped. You can’t step on anyone’s toes without getting your own toes crushed.

They’d been coming back from liberty in the town of Kagoshima, with the twin volcanos steaming in the distance, with the ash-covered slopes leading down to the beach and the LCVP that would take them back to the ship. He’d been sitting on the metal deck aft of the ramp, chatting in a group of guys from the radar gang, when Mr. Goldin walked over to the circle, leaned down into it like a man ready to roll in a floating crap game.

“This gunner’s mate,” Mr. Goldin had said. “A blond guy, thin, with a sort of hooked nose. What’s his name again?”

The guys had been talking about the town, and the women in the town, and they looked up uninterestedly when Mr. Goldin asked his question. They all knew the gunner’s mate’s name, and any one of them could have supplied it and probably would have because Mr. Goldin’s question had been innocent enough. Rick just happened to be the first one to speak.

“Bowden,” he said. “Is that the one you mean?”

“Yes,” Mr. Goldin said, smiling. “That’s him.”

“What about him?” Rick asked.

“Oh, nothing,” Mr. Goldin said, and then he strolled away from the group. The guys went back to talking about the town and the women in the town, and suddenly the LCVP’s squawk box burst into static, and a gravelly voice said, “Now hear this, now hear this. Bowden, Gunner’s Mate Third Class, report to the bridge on the double. Bowden, Gunner’s Mate Third Class, report to the bridge on the double.”

The radarmen in the circle stopped talking and looked at Rick, and then looked over to the port side of the landing craft where the gunner’s mate, Bowden, pushed himself to his feet with a curious smile on his face. He walked forward and mounted the ladder to the bridge, and Mr. Goldin went up that ladder a few seconds afterward.

The whole thing couldn’t have taken more than five minutes. Goldin came down from the bridge first, and then Bowden followed after him, that same curious smile on his face. He walked back to where he’d been sitting on the port side of the landing craft, and then he looked across to where Rick was sitting on the starboard side. His eyes met Rick’s, and the smile dropped from his face, and that was the beginning of it.

At first. Rick wasn’t even aware of what was happening. It started with all the gunner’s mates, of course, but it spread rapidly to people on the ship he didn’t even know, and people he was sure did not know him. The first indication came that time in the head when he’d been waiting for a sink. Arbuster, a gunner’s mate first whom he’d always exchanged a friendly word with, was shaving, and Rick slouched near the sink, watching him, waiting for his turn.

“You make me nervous,” Arbuster had said suddenly, irritably.

Rick looked into the mirror and at Arbuster’s reflection there. He smiled and said, “That’s okay, take your time. I’m in no hurry.”

“Then why the hell don’t you take a walk someplace, ’stead of watching me like an eagle?”

Rick was surprised by Arbuster’s outburst, but he attributed it to a hair across the ass, something that happened to everyone sooner or later. He’d shrugged, and been saved any further conversation by the appearance of a suddenly vacated sink. He hadn’t thought further about the incident until he’d noticed that none of the gunner’s mates returned his greetings when he passed them on the ship. That struck him as being peculiar, and then the sickness spread to the radar gang, and everyone began treating him like some sort of leper. He finally cornered Frank Port, a radarman and his closest buddy aboard ship.

“What’s the scoop, Frank?” he’d asked. “Did I do something?”

“You know,” Frank said, avoiding Rick’s eyes.

“No, I don’t know. What is it?”

Frank lifted his eyes like a man with four aces about to call a pair-of-deuces bluff. “You ratted on Bowden,” he said.

“I what?” Rick asked, astonished.

“You told Goldin he swiped that bottle of Coke,” Frank said.

“What bottle of Coke? What the hell is this?”

“On the LCVP,” Frank said patiently. “Come on, Rick, you don’t have to snow me.” He’d turned to go, but Rick caught at his sleeve and forced Frank to face him again.

“No, wait a minute, Frank. I don’t know what it’s all about, I mean it.”

Frank had hesitated a moment, and then given Rick the whole story. There’d been a Coca-Cola case aboard the LCVP, one of these red metal jobs with the doors on top. The crew apparently chipped in each month for the Coke and they were allowed the privilege of dipping into the ice-filled case whenever they were thirsty. This privilege, however, did not extend to include the crews of every ship in the Pacific Fleet. Bowden, probably thirsty after his bout with the dust-filled streets of Kagoshima, had dipped into the metal case, swiped a bottle of Coke, and drunk it hastily and apparently unseen.

Except that someone had seen him, and someone had supplied Goldin with the information, and that someone had been Rick Dadier.

“Me?” Rick asked. “Hell, I only answered Goldin’s question. I didn’t know Bowden swiped anything.”

“Yeah,” Frank had said, and then dismissed the subject.

It was really an amazing thing. He’d been accused and tried and convicted without ever once opening his mouth in defense. The funniest part was that everyone believed it, even the guys who’d been sitting in the circle when Goldin had come over, the guys who knew damn well what was asked and damn well what was answered, the guys who probably would have supplied the same information had not Rick spoken first.

He let it ride for two weeks, bearing the ostracizing looks, the accusing glares. And finally he took a stand, and he took it in the mess hall. He got his food and carried the tray into the mess hall, and he spotted Bowden sitting at the far end of one table. He walked down the aisle on the opposite side of the table, climbed over the bench, and sat down directly opposite Bowden.

Bowden did not look up. His blond head was bent over his tray, and he ate studiously, even though this was Sunday night and horse’s cock was being dished out.

“Bowden,” Rick said softly.

Bowden looked up, his eyes a pale gray, his nose hooked, his mouth tight. “Yeah?”

“I want to get something straight between us,” Rick said.

“Yeah, what’s that, Dadier?”

“I didn’t rat on you. I didn’t even know you swiped the Coke. Goldin came over and gave us a description of you, and then casually asked what your name was. I told him, but I didn’t know why he wanted you or what you’d done. Hell, I figured he was just looking for you.”

“Yeah?” Bowden said.

“You don’t have to believe me,” Rick said, “but it’s the truth. Why should I get you in hot water?”

“There was no hot water,” Bowden said. “I just had to pay for the Coke, that’s all.”

“Well, I wouldn’t even have wanted you to do that. I don’t give a damn what you swipe. I’d have swiped a bottle myself if I’d known it was there.”

“Yeah?” Bowden said again.

“Okay, don’t believe me if you don’t want to. I’m telling the truth, though. I don’t care what these other guys think about me, but I wanted you to know the truth. Okay, Bowden?”

Bowden looked at him levelly, studying him for a few seconds. “Sure,” he said finally. He rose, picked up his empty tray with his left hand, and then extended his right across the table. “Forget it, Dadier.”

Rick had taken his hand firmly, and that had been the end of that — as far as Bowden was concerned, anyway. It took a while for the rest of the crew to catch on to the idea that Rick and Bowden had squared it all away, but even that came eventually. It had simply been a question of substituting understanding for misunderstanding.

But could he do that with Miller?

Could he go over to the boy and say, “Look, Miller. You’ve got me all wrong. I don’t care what color your skin is.”

Could he do that?

He himself was always wary of people who said, “I don’t care what color his skin is. He can be purple for all I care.” A kind of Methinks the lady doth protest suspicion always possessed him whenever someone made such a statement. So wouldn’t Miller feel the same way?

And how could he make an issue of the color of Miller’s skin and at the same time state that the color of that skin was a thing of no importance? And would Miller believe him?

And suppose he was wrong, suppose Miller never once considered that as the source of the trouble between them? Suppose he brought it to Miller’s attention, and by so doing created a problem that had not previously existed?

No, he could not take the direct approach. If color was a sore spot with him. Miller would not want to discuss it openly and frankly. And if it wasn’t, there was no sense making an issue of it, and risking a fresh breach.

As it turned out, the whole thing was simpler than he ever imagined it could be.

The corridor run-in with Miller seemed almost to have never happened. Miller, apparently forgetting his parting threat, diligently appeared at each fifth-period English class, and it was during one of those classes that the opportunity presented itself.

Antoro and Taglio provided the opening.

The class was discussing, after a fashion, a story Rick had just read aloud to them. Rick had asked Antoro a question, and Antoro had got to his feet, and then fumbled haltingly with his thoughts on the subject.

Taglio, bored with Antoro’s ideas, shouted, “Oh, sit down, you crazy wop. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re a bigger wop,” Antoro had answered, smiling, and Rick had stepped in instantly, a serious look on his face even though he knew the boys were joking good-naturedly.

“That’s enough of that,” he said sternly.

Antoro sat down immediately, relieved to be off the hook, but not knowing what Rick was talking about. Miller sat placidly in his seat, and West sat beside him, both boys unusually quiet.

“I don’t like name-calling in my classes,” Rick said, a bit too pompously perhaps.

“I wasn’t calling no names,” Taglio said. “I was just kiddin’.”

“That’s the way it starts,” Rick said. “Just kidding. Like a fist-fight in the streets. You shove a guy jokingly, and he shoves you back, and the next thing you know you’re at each other’s throats. Name-calling is the same way.”

The class regarded him silently. He had their complete attention, and he sensed that he was broaching a subject in which they were interested.

“All right, Antoro, you’re of Italian descent. So’s Taglio. You call Taglio a wop, and he calls you a wop, and everything’s okay. But suppose Levy calls you both wops? Is it okay then?”

Rick paused and waited.

“No, it’s not okay,” he provided. “It’s not okay, and you’ll snap right back and call Levy a kike or a mockie. But you were the ones who gave Levy the idea in the first place, don’t you see? Because you used the expression yourselves, just kidding around.”

“Aw, I didn’t mean nothin’,” Taglio said, a little embarrassed.

“I know you didn’t. That’s just my point. You shouldn’t use vicious expressions, whether you’re joking or serious. Look, my parents are French. Do you know how many times I’ve been called a frog? Do you think I like it? Well, no, I don’t.

“Do you think Morales or De la Cruz or Rodriguez here like being called spies? Well, I can tell you they don’t.”

He looked out at the class, saw the three Puerto Rican boys smile in embarrassment.

“Do you think Kruger or Vandermeer like being called krauts? Do you think O’Brien or Erin like being called micks or donkeys?” Rick paused and then focused his gaze on Miller. “Do you think Miller or Parsons or Baker like being called niggers?”

The class stirred a little, and Rick knew damned well they’d all used every one of these expressions at one time or another.

“No one likes fun poked at his color, creed, or nationality,” Rick went on, “and I won’t tolerate it in my class. So don’t tell me you’re kidding or not kidding or whatever. I’m not interested. Just don’t use derogatory expressions in my classroom. Is that clear?”

The kids remained silent. Some of them nodded, and some of them fidgeted in their seats. Miller smiled. He smiled broadly, and Rick could not read the smile, but he felt that his little lecture had made a point, and most of all, he felt he had delivered his message to Miller.

He met Miller’s smile with his own, and said, “Let’s get on with the lesson now, shall we?”

Miller continued smiling, and now West was smiling, too.

10

The executive ax began falling the day before Armistice Day, and it dropped finally just before the Thanksgiving vacation. Rick had no idea the ax would fall, nor did he even know it was poised over his head. He considered Stanley’s first visit to his classroom a part of normal procedure. He did not know it was the whetting of the ax-blade.

The Department Chairman arrived at Room 206 just before the fifth period began. He entered the room smiling, walked to Rick’s desk and said, “Hope you don’t mind a little observation, Dadier?”

“Why... why not at all,” Rick answered, wishing at the same time that Stanley had not chosen this particular class to observe. But then, Stanley undoubtedly knew all about Juan Garza, knew that 55-206 was a class full of his disciples, and had purposely chosen it.

“I’ll just sit at the back of the room,” he said, his lips moving below his now-full mustache. He was dressed impeccably, as always. His not-quite-blond hair was brushed neatly, and his gray eyes had been ordered to attention by a strict drillmaster. There was no doubt that he was the chairman of the English Department. “I’ll be very quiet,” he added, smiling, assuming the role of a mildly interested observer, giving the lie to his regal bearing and his cold eyes. He walked familiarly to the back of the room, took the last seat in the first row, crossed his legs after lifting the trouser to preserve its crease, and then opened a black notebook on the desk before him.

The class filed in, spotting Stanley instantly, and behaving like choir boys before the Christmas Mass. There’d be no trouble today. Rick knew. It was one thing to badger a teacher, but not when it led to a knockdown-dragout with the Department Chairman. No one liked sitting in the English office under the cold stare of that Stan man.

The cold stare showed no signs of heating up during the lesson. Rick gave it all he had, glad he’d prepared a good plan the night before, able for the first time to actually follow the plan because the kids kept their peace in Stanley’s presence. He called primarily on his best students, throwing in a few of the duller kids to show Stanley he was impartial, but he steered away from Miller and West, not wanting to risk any entanglements while Stanley was observing.

At the end of the period, Stanley came to the desk and smiled briefly. “You might watch the distribution of your questions,” he said, a bored expression in his eyes. “You seem to favor several students.”

“Oh, do I?” Rick asked innocently, cursing Stanley for having seen through his scheme. “I’ll watch that.”

“Yes, do.” He paused and consulted his notes. “Ever call on Morales?”

“Yes,” Rick said, a little flustered now. “Yes, I do.”

“Nice boy.”

“Yes.”

“Ever call on Rodriguez?”

“Why, certainly. Yes. Yes, I do.”

“Like him?”

Rick shrugged and smiled. “He’s all right. Not too bright, but not a bad kid.”

“Uh-huh. What about Miller? Notice you didn’t call on him once.”

“Didn’t I? No, I guess I didn’t. Oh, he’s quite active in the class usually.” Rick smiled a fraternal smile. “Oh yes, quite active,” hoping Stanley would understand what he meant. Stan-lay did not return the smile.

“I’ll have a report typed up for your guidance, Dadier. I may drop in again sometime.”

“Please do,” Rick answered politely.

Stanley did not drop in the next day because the next day was Armistice Day and there were no teachers or students present at the high school. But he did drop in on November 12th, this time during Rick’s eighth-period class. He took his seat at the back of the room, observed Rick while he taught, made several notes, and then left when the bell rang, not stopping to chat with Rick this time.

Nor was that the last visit. Stanley began stopping by frequently, sometimes remaining for the full period, and sometimes visiting for ten or fifteen minute stretches, and then departing silently.

In the beginning, Rick resented the intrusions. He would watch Stanley scribbling at the back of the room, and he wondered what Stanley was writing, and he felt something like a bug on the microscope slide of a noted entomologist. Why all the secrecy? What the hell was this, the Gestapo?

He began to realize, after a while, that Stanley’s visits were probably just what he needed, and he found himself looking forward to the unannounced appearances of the Department Chairman. With painful honesty, he admitted to himself that his students were not entirely to blame for the lack of teaching that went on in his classes. He was not prepared to cope with them, and unless someone told him what he was doing wrong, he’d probably never be prepared to cope with them. Perhaps Stanley’s visits were the answer to his problem. Perhaps Stanley would eventually make known the results of his observations, would say, “See here, Dadier, this and this is your trouble. Such and such is fine, but you’ve got to concentrate more on that and that.”

Rick would have appreciated that immensely, and so he was quite pleased with the sudden attention Stanley devoted to him. For the first time in his educational career, he honestly felt that someone was interested in what he did, and in whether or not he was doing it correctly. So where he had made lesson plans carefully before, he now devoted more time to them, enlarged on them, outlined his lessons in the minutest detail. And when Stanley asked to see his plan during one of his visits. Rick felt amply rewarded, even though Stanley made no comment on the outline.

He was grateful, too, for the obedience of his classes whenever Stanley was present. One of his greatest problems had been discipline. With these kids, it was almost impossible to get a word in edgewise and — especially in the beginning — his teaching efforts usually disintegrated into a contest to determine who could shout the loudest. He had never fully licked the discipline problem, and he doubted if he ever would. He had succeeded, though, in forcing some sort of obedience out of the kids, usually by threats of homework or tests or after-school confinement, or visits from parents. There were times when no threat would work, times when the kids were just feeling bastardly and presented a solid, unyielding front that could not be cracked no matter how much he ranted or raved. These times were not infrequent. They were a part of vocational school teaching, a part acknowledged by any teacher who’d ever served in the system.

There were formulas for establishing discipline. Rick learned, and one of these formulas had been succinctly stated by Captain Schaefer during one of his periodic visits to the lunchroom.

“Clobber the bastards,” he’d said. “It’s the only thing that works. What do you think happens at home when they open their yaps? Pow, right on the noggin. That’s the only language they understand.”

Perhaps they understood that language in Captain Schaefer’s domain, a domain devoted to the physical, a domain of sweating, athletic bodies, a man’s world of physical strength. Perhaps they accepted a cuff on the mouth from a man in a tee shirt, a man who was sweating just as they were, a man who was king of this writhing land of bodies unadorned. Perhaps so.

But Rick could not picture Josh Edwards clobbering a kid. Nor could he, in all honesty, picture himself doing that. The urge to do so was always present, of course. You can push someone just so far, and when he finds he can’t strike back verbally his first instinct is to inflict some sort of damage, and his only remaining weapons are physical. Especially when these kids did not seem to be kids. The second-termers, yes. They were kids. He could look upon them as kids, and he could feel the superiority of adulthood. There was a difference between his body and their bodies, and a difference between the basic mechanism of his mind and their minds.

Not so with the fifth-termers and certainly not so with the seventh-termers. Perhaps they weren’t old enough to vote, and perhaps some of them weren’t old enough to be drafted. But their bodies were mature, strong bodies, and they thought — in their own twisted manner — the way adults think, and it was extremely difficult to consider them “kids” when a good many of them outreached you, and outweighed you, and sometimes (only sometimes) outthought you.

So the temptation to clobber was always there, and it was sometimes more difficult not to strike than it would have been to strike, and the consequences be damned. Because, despite any edicts about corporal punishment, there were a good many vocational school kids who got clobbered every day, and when the heavy hand of someone like Captain Max Schaefer clobbers, the clobberee knows he’s been clobbered, but good.

Clobbering, then, was one accepted means of establishing discipline in a trade school.

Another method was Slobbering, and this worked most efficiently when a female teacher — scarce as such creatures were — used it.

The Slobbering method appealed to the sympathy of the boys, and it took various forms. The most common form (and this is why the method worked best when employed by females) was the one which turned on a touched-to-the-quick expression, and then dolefully complained about the ingratitude of the class.

“After all I’ve done for you,” the Slobberer whined. “You give me this treatment.”

When a female used this tactic, unattractive though she might be, there was usually something inside the boys which responded. Perhaps it was their innate chivalry, their desire to come to the resue of the damsel in distress. Whatever it was, in the hands of a good female Slobberer (and Martha Riley was one of the best at Manual Trades, if not the best in the City of New York) an assorted collection of hoodlums could be made to feel like heels, and would indeed hold a respectful silence throughout the remainder of the period, showing their gratitude for all the teacher had done for them, which was usually nothing.

A male Slobberer performed a variation on the theme, and the variations were multiple and many-faceted. The most common form of male Slobbering was the one which appealed to the boys’ sense of fraternal spirit. Treating them all like Alpha Beta Tau boys, the male Slobberer would say, “Come on, fellows, give me a break. I’m just a poor slob trying to do a job, that’s all.”

And the fellows, knowing all about poor slobs trying to do jobs, might or might not respond to the teacher’s plea, depending upon how they felt about the proletariat on that particular day.

The Veteran Hook was another variation on the male Slobberer’s pitch. The Veteran Hook was not a direct plea; in fact, its effectiveness lay primarily in its quality for understatement. It entailed a dramatic reconstruction of several isolated war experiences, with a few descriptions of the Germans, Italians, or Japanese who had met death at the hands of the male Slobberer. The more dead enemies, the better. The boys loved tales of bashed skulls. But this was not where the Slobbering ended. In fact, had it ended here, it would have accomplished nothing. The Slobberer then went on to tell about the Purple Heart he received, or the steel plate he carried in his head, or the cork leg beneath his trouser, or the way his balls were shot off — none of which things ever happened to him. He then went on to describe the rough time he had rehabilitating, and the rough time he had in college, and the rough time he had finding a teaching job. And now, now that he is teaching, he’s grateful to the United States and the wonderful people who made all this possible, and he only hoped he could keep his job and continue to teach all these swell kids who helped make all this possible.

And the kids, weaned on the hero legend, unable to tell a cork leg from a cork-tipped cigarette, usually accepted this type of Slobbering and made it a little easier for the teacher to keep this job he fought for, provided they did not kick his leg out from under him some day to see if it really was cork.

Another type of male Slobbering, akin to the fraternal pitch, but different in a degree, was the type Halloran used. Halloran, as he exhibited on the first day of school while introducing the assorted teachers to the assorted students, was “just one of the boys.” He’d never been to college. He fulfilled the Board’s requirements for becoming a shop teacher in a trade school by:

1) Graduating from Junior High School, and having nine years of trade experience. Or...

2) Graduating from Senior High School, and having seven years of trade experience. Or...

3) Graduating from a technical or vocational high school, and having five years of trade experience.

He was, as any fool could plainly see, just one of the boys. And so he spoke like the boys, and he joked like the boys, and he even borrowed from the Clobbering approach and sometimes batted the boys around, but all the time just being one of the boys and basing his Slobbering technique upon that single peg.

Oh, the ways of the Slobbering technique were many and varied, and Rick heard about all of them, but he somehow felt all of them were a little degrading, like sucking up to an officer to get a weekend liberty, except that these kids weren’t even officers, and there were a good many of them.

If you didn’t choose to Clobber or Slobber, you could Slumber. Slumbering, as apart from Slobbering, was an art in itself, and Solly Klein was one of its most ardent practitioners. The Slumberer treated discipline as a non-existent problem. For him, indeed, the problem was a non-existent one. He chose to ignore it. He taught, and if no one heard what he was teaching, it was just tough. He taught like a man talking in his sleep. He rattled on and on, and the noises and sounds of the outside world meant nothing to him. If, as occasionally happened, the noises broke into his slumber, the Slumberer would simply step outside the room for a moment, waiting for the class to knock itself out, and keeping an eye open for the Boss at the same time. The Slumberer’s philosophy was a simple one: Let the bastards kill themselves. So long as I’m not hurt.

So if a fist-fight started in the Slumberer’s classroom, the Slumberer allowed the two protagonists to beat themselves silly while he stood by and watched. He then stepped over the pool of blood on the floor and went on with his lesson, not caring if anyone was listening, and having long since realized that no one was listening anyway. No one ever failed a course the Slumberer taught. There were a lot of Slumberers in the New York City system.

The Rumbler was a fellow exactly like the slumberer, except for one thing. The Slumberer knew there was no discipline in his classes, but he slept soundly at night as well as during the day. The Rumbler, on the other hand, did exactly what the Slumberer did all day long, but then he went home and complained to his wife about the lack of discipline, or he complained to his Department Chairman, or even to the principal. Or when no one else was around to listen, he would rumble silently to himself, cursing everyone responsible, including God, and especially cursing people like the Slumberers who had allowed such a shocking disciplinary problem to develop.

The Fumbler, and Rick classified himself in this broad group of teachers, simply didn’t know what the hell to do. The Fumbler kept trying. He tried this way, and he tried that way, and he hoped that some day he would hit upon the miraculous cure-all for the disciplinary problem. Most Fumblers eventually became proponents of one of the other methods of establishing discipline. Some Fumblers really did lick the problem eventually, but they never divulged their secrets — learned after many years of batting their heads against the wall — to the lesser mortals who shared the teaching profession.

So Rick fumbled, and he was immensely grateful for Stanley’s visits because there was no disciplinary problem whenever Stanley was present. On those occasions, he was allowed to teach, and he discovered then that there was something other than a lack of discipline to fight at North Manual Trades. The discovery left him feeling a bit defeated, like a man who’s purchased an AC television set only to discover that his apartment is wired for DC.

He discovered that the kids simply did not care.

It was as basic as that. They did not want to learn.

He did not know what had planted this attitude inside them, but he suspected it was the vocational school system itself. He was surprised to find out that the kids knew they were in a bad school. He’d mentioned something in class about North Manual Trades being a damned fine trade school, and the kids had all but laughed at him. He wasn’t kidding them one bit. They knew the school was lousy, and they knew they were here because they’d flunk out of an academic high school within a week. What’s more, they knew that most vocational high schools were lousy, and they seemed to feel that the lousier the school was, the more desirable it was.

Now that was a strange manner of thinking, Rick felt, and he wondered who was to blame for it. Certainly not the guidance counselors who recommended vocational high schools to students. Certainly not them. They explained patiently and fully that perhaps a vocational school, since you are so good in shop, and since your academic grades haven’t been so good lately, might be best for you after all. The picture painted was a pleasant one, there was no denying that. A school where someone could learn a bread-and-butter trade. A school like that, imagine! The answer to the working-man’s prayer. Are there really schools like that? Golly!

But somehow, the secret had leaked, or maybe it just leaked after the kid was in the middle of a trade school for a few days. The picture wasn’t as pretty as it had been painted. In fact, the canvas had been slashed with a knife. And if a kid really wanted to learn a trade, see how long he kept his ideals when he was surrounded by other kids who’d have liked to blow up every school in the city.

And the worst part was that when you were in the middle of a bad school, when you were surrounded by kids who were acknowledged problem students, you began to feel bad yourself. The man who goes to a whore house because he likes the magazines in the waiting room is not considered a bibliophile. He’s spotted coming out of the red-lanterned doorway, and he’s considered a man who has just had a piece of tail. The Saturday Evening Post doesn’t enter into the observation at all.

So a kid who goes to a vocational school, even if he’s going there to learn a trade, is not considered a hard-working, earnest student. He’s considered a kid who didn’t fit anywhere else in the educational system. He’s considered that, and he senses it, and if he’s got the name, he’ll have the game, and so he becomes part of the waste product, and he considers the school itself a garbage can.

There are kids who survive, kids who learn trades, kids who maintain their individual goals despite the corrupting stench that surrounds them. Those kids are few and far between.

Those kids were not the problems. Rick had a few of those kids in each of his classes, kids who seemed to want him to say something, who were annoyed when his lesson was interrupted, who did their homework whenever it was assigned, who turned in book reports, who were excellent in the shops of their choice, who wanted to learn, who were eager to learn, and who somehow managed to learn in spite of the opposition.

Those kids were the easy ones to reach. They wanted to be reached, they longed to be reached. It was the others. Those who didn’t care, those who were content to wallow in the filth, those who not only didn’t want to learn but consciously wanted not to learn.

It was those he could not reach, and it was those he tried desperately to reach. It was almost fantastic, and he doubted if he could have explained his problem to anyone but Anne. It was like a man standing on a street corner giving out fifty dollar bills, and having a tough time finding takers. Why wouldn’t they take what he had to give them? He did have something to give them, so much to give them if they would only accept it.

So he tried to reach them, and he tried harder when Stanley was present because he did not have to fight the shouting and the ranting then. Time and again, he found himself remembering Solly Klein’s garbage can metaphor, and more and more he began to see himself as the fellow with the fat behind who sat on the lid of the can. He fought against thinking that way because he knew the thought preceded the action, and the instant he conceded the kids were filth and he was a garbage man, he would stop trying to reach them, and he didn’t want that to happen.

There were times when he wanted to shout, “Can’t you see that I’m trying to help you? Can’t you see that?”

There were times when they irritated him so much that he felt like chucking the whole goddamned mess and taking a job as a shoe clerk.

And there were times when he simply did not understand. Like the afternoon four of his seventh-term, eighth-period students stayed after school voluntarily, helping him erase the boards and stack the books away in the closet. They’d asked him if he had a car, said they’d be happy to fix anything that was wrong with it. When he’d told them he didn’t own a car, they’d seemed disappointed. They’d chatted with him about their own jalopies, and he’d found himself talking about Anne, and the baby to come, talking to these kids the way he’d talk to anyone else, treating them like the adults he felt they were. When they left him, they all waved and said, “So long, Mr. Dadier. See you tomorrow.”

He’d felt a strange inner peace when they’d gone, a feeling of having made some inroad, a feeling of having taken a first wavering step toward breaking through the shell that surrounded them. He’d liked the kids that afternoon, and he couldn’t wait to get home and tell Anne about how nice they’d been.

And then the very next day, those same four kids had raised all kinds of hell during the eighth period, creating a havoc he’d never had before in that seventh-term class. The same four kids, the same kids who’d listened sympathetically while he told them about his expected baby, the same kids who’d offered to repair his car if he had one, those same four were the worst bastards imaginable, shouting, yelling, disobedient, not caring for anything he said, not listening to any of his threats.

He could not understand.

He simply could not understand. They didn’t even seem like the same boys. What could you do when they ran hot and cold like that? Why even try to reach them? Why not throw in the towel and sit with your fat ass tight to the cover of the garbage can? Why not fool the system and fool the kids and fool yourself in the bargain? Why not collect a teacher’s salary, and tuck the good vacations into your hip pocket, and all the while be an employee of the DSC?

And you could forget all about being a man in addition.

Oh, so what the hell? Are you supposed to keep banging your head against a stone wall?

Yes.

Are you supposed to try to teach kids who don’t want to learn, who aren’t interested in learning at all?

Yes.

All right, how? How?

And he had no answer.

He had no answer to why Stanley dropped in so often, either, but he enjoyed the visits, and so he did not probe too deeply into the reasons behind them. He kept teaching in his own fashion, hoping for some miraculous thing to happen, hoping the kids would suddenly realize he was the man with the fifty dollar bills, hoping he’d break through if he simply kept at it, hoping he’d find the way.

He did not find the way, but he did find Stanley’s reasons for lavishing so much individual attention upon him.

It was two days before Thanksgiving. Stanley had dropped in on 55-206 again, taken his seat at the rear of the room, and watched, his gray eyes cold, his pencil moving. Rick had taught as well as he knew how to teach, calling primarily on his best students to impress the Department Chairman. At the end of the period, Stanley came to him and said, “You’re unassigned now, aren’t you, Dadier?”

“Yes, I am,” Rick said.

“I think Mr. Small would like to talk to you. Mind going down to his office?”

“Mr. Small?” Rick asked, surprised.

“Yes,” Stanley said dryly. “Drop down there, won’t you?”

“Is... is anything wrong?” Rick asked, suddenly suspicious of Stanley’s frequent visits, suddenly wondering why the Boss wanted to see him.

“Mr. Small will discuss it with you,” Stanley said noncommittally. “Get down there as soon as you can, Dadier.”

“Yes, sir,” Rick said. He watched Stanley leave the classroom, and then he packed his briefcase slowly, a perplexed frown knotting his forehead.

What could Small want? And wasn’t it a little unusual for the message to be transmitted through the Department Chairman? Surely, it had something to do with Stanley’s visits. But was this customary procedure?

He found himself becoming angry. Did they always send the Department Chairman around to snoop? like a member of the Gestapo? like a goddamned secret policeman? Was that how they worked it? And was Small going to fire him? Is that how they fired people? Just a few visits from the Department Chairman and then blooie?

Goddamnit, he’d tried his best. If they were so concerned over the teaching job he was doing, why hadn’t someone offered advice? Instead, they sent around a storm trooper with a little black notebook. Damnit, how was he going to tell Anne? How do you tell a woman in her ninth month that you’ve lost your goddamned job? Sonofabitches, the least they could have done would...

Now, hold it, he told himself, just hold it. You’re behaving like the guy going to borrow the lawn mower. Maybe Harry won’t lend me the lawn mower, after all I’ve done for Harry, after all the things I’ve loaned Harry, after the way we’ve been neighbors for ten years, imagine that louse not wanting to lend me the mower. So when you get to Harry’s door and knock on it, and Harry opens it with a friendly smile, you look at him coldly and shout, “Keep your goddamn lawn mower!”

You’re doing the same thing here, he told himself. Maybe Small isn’t going to fire you at all. Maybe Small is going to commend you for your excellent work!

But deep down inside him, he knew he was going to be fired, and his anger suddenly dissipated to be replaced by a sort of fear. He’d have to start looking for another job, and November wasn’t a good time for getting a teaching job, and Anne was in her ninth month, and goddamnit, this was a hell of a way to fire a person.

He picked up his briefcase and then looked around the room, as if he were looking at it for the last time, as if he did not expect to be back. Then he went down to Small’s office, and told Miss Brady, the Boss’ secretary, that Stanley had asked him to stop in.

“Oh, yes,” Miss Brady said haughtily, and Rick felt the fear expanding inside him. Even she knows, he thought. Good-by, Dadier. It’s been fun, Dadier, but have you ever thought of becoming a toy salesman? Very nice racket, toys. Miss Brady entered the inner sanctum, was out of sight for a few moments, and then returned to say, “Mr. Small will see you now.”

Rick left his briefcase on the bench outside, walked to Small’s frosted glass door, and knocked on it tremulously, his heart in his mouth.

“Come in, Dadier,” Small called from behind the door, and Rick felt another twinge of panic because the principal had not used a Mister, as was customary, before his name. He twisted the brass doorknob and entered the room. He had not been in this room since the day of the Organizational Meeting, when Stanley had taken his new teachers to meet the principal. There were bookcases on two walls of the room, and windows on the other two walls. Small’s large desk sat catty-corner in the right angle provided by the banks of windows. He sat behind the desk, and the afternoon sun struck the side of his face, illuminating the scar that curled there like a withered banana peel.

He indicated a chair before his desk, said “Sit down, Dadier,” and then picked up his pen to sign something on his desk. He capped the pen without looking at Rick who had already taken the seat, shoved aside the papers, and then lifted his head.

“Now, then, Dadier,” he said.

He paused and stared at Rick, and the stare was a frigid one, and Rick felt certain he would be fired, and he could only hope that Small would make it clean and quick.

“Do you like Negroes?” Small asked.

Rick blinked, surprised. “Sir?”

“Do you like Negroes?” He frowned at Rick belligerently. “Can you hear me all right, Dadier?”

“Yes. Yes, it’s just... I... your question surprised me.”

“Why? Don’t you like them?”

“Yes, I do. That is, as much as I like or dislike anyone else.” Rick’s brow furrowed. “I... I don’t understand, sir.”

“What about Puerto Ricans? What about spies, Dadier?”

“Spies, sir?” Rick asked, immensely surprised by Small’s choice of language. “Spies?”

“Yes, spies. Do you like them?”

“Why do you ask, sir?”

“I’ll ask the questions, Dadier. Do you or don’t you like spies?”

“Sir, I like them or dislike them as they are people.”

“And just what does that mean, Dadier?” Small asked, his voice a little louder now.

“It means there are Puerto Ricans I like and Puerto Ricans I dislike. That’s what it means, Mr. Small.”

“And how many do you like as against those you dislike, Dadier?”

“I never counted, sir,” Rick said, tightly respectful, but beginning to be annoyed and confused by Small’s questions. Was this the customary firing procedure? All this cross-examination? And why these questions about...

“What about wops?”

“Wops?” Rick asked, really amazed now by Small’s vocabulary. “Italians, sir?”

“You know what I mean, Dadier. What about them?”

“Is this some sort of joke, sir?” Rick asked, smiling and thinking he’d found the answer at last.

“No, damnit, it is not a joke,” Small shouted, “and I’ll thank you to remember that I am asking the questions and that I happen to be the principal of this high school and the man to whom you are directly responsible. Remember that, Dadier, and answer my question.”

The smile dropped from Rick’s face. “You... you want to know if I like Italians?” he asked, really puzzled now, not able to understand Small’s anger. “The same applies to what I said about Puerto Ricans, sir. I judge a person by whether or not I like him, and not whether or not he’s Italian or...”

“Don’t give me any double-talk, Dadier. Don’t tell me...”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I wasn’t trying to...”

“Don’t tell me,” Small shouted, “that you like someone because you like someone. I wasn’t born yesterday, Dadier.”

They were both silent for a moment. Small to catch his breath, and Rick to consider a course of action.

“Sir, may I ask what this is all about?” Rick asked politely, assuming Small was driving at something, and assuming he’d done something to really irritate the Boss.

“No, you may not ask what it is all about,” Small shouted. “I’ll damn well tell you what it’s all about when I’m good and ready, and besides you know damn well what it’s all about.”

“I’m afraid I don’t, sir,” Rick said, his teeth clenched, his hands beginning to clench and unclench.

“Tell me, Dadier, what do you think of kikes and mockies and micks and donkeys and frogs and niggers, Dadier. Niggers, isn’t it, Dadier? Isn’t that it?”

“I’m afraid I...”

“Isn’t it niggers, Dadier? And spies? And krauts, Dadier? Isn’t it?”

“No,” Rick said angrily, “it isn’t. What are you insinuating?”

“I never insinuate, Dadier. I say or I don’t say, but I never hint. Did you or did you not use these derogatory terms in your classroom, did you or did you not use these expressions before your students, did you or did you not malign racial, religious and national groups, Dadier, did you or did you not?”

“I certainly did not!” Rick said, rising. “Where the devil did you...”

“Sit down, Dadier,” Small said menacingly.

“Where’d you get all this filth?” Rick asked. “Who...”

“DID YOU USE THE EXPRESSION ‘NIGGER’ IN YOUR CLASSROOM?” Small shouted.

“Yes, I did. But only to explain...”

“DID YOU USE THE EXPRESSION ‘SPIC’?”

“Yes, in the same lesson. To show the kids...”

“AND KIKE AND MOCKIE, and goddamnit, Dadier, where the hell do you come off spouting such crap at my students, in my school? Are you a goddamned Fascist? A COMMUNIST? WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU, DADIER?”

“What the hell are you?” Rick shouted. “A Grand Inquisitor?”

“What?” Small sputtered.

“I used those expressions to teach a lesson on democracy. I used...”

“Do you realize...”

“I used them as examples of what should not be said. I used them as negative examples, goddamnit!”

“You did not!” Small roared.

“Are you calling me a liar, Mr. Small,” Rick asked, his voice cold white.

“I am telling you exactly what was reported to me by one of your own students, one of the boys forced to listen to your maligning talk, and I am basing my conclusions upon what that student told me and upon reports from Mr. Stanley as to the prejudiced teaching practices employed by you in your...”

“That’s enough!” Rick shouted. “That’s just about enough, Mr. Small. I’ve heard enough!”

“What?” Small said.

“I don’t care if you’re the mayor. I don’t care. I don’t care if you fire me right this minute, do you understand? I don’t want to hear anymore of that, not another word, not if it costs me my job. I don’t have to listen to it, do you hear me? So just stop it, that’s all. Just stop it, Mr. Small.”

He was trembling now, and his face was white, and he stood before Small’s desk clenching and unclenching his fists, unable to control the anger within him.

“I told you I used those expressions as negative examples. I never once, not in my classroom, and not anywhere, ever referred to a minority group...”

“This boy said you did,” Small answered, his voice somewhat on the defensive now.

“Which boy?” Rick snapped.

“A boy in one of your classes.”

“Who? What’s his name?”

“I prefer not to divulge that,” Small said, quietly pompous.

“He was lying,” Rick said tightly. “He was lying, and you took his word over mine.”

“Mr. Stanley substantiated...”

“I called on my best students whenever Mr. Stanley was observing. I can’t help it if he drew the wrong conclusions. If he’d visited my second-period class, I’d have called almost exclusively on Simpson, who happens to be the brightest kid in the class, and who also happens to be a Negro.”

“Gregory Miller is in your fifth-term class,” Small said. “He has an I.Q. of 113. I consider that bright, Dadier. Yet Mr. Stanley visited that class four times, and you called upon Miller only once during those four visits. Why, Dadier?”

“Because Miller is a troublemaker, and I didn’t want to risk trouble while being observed by the Department Chairman. Is that difficult to understand?”

“I see,” Small said.

“I didn’t call on Harris in my eighth-period class either, and Harris is pure white Protestant. But Harris is a goddamned troublemaker, too, and I wasn’t going to put my worst foot forward while the Department Chairman was taking notes.”

“I see,” Small said quietly.

“Do you?”

“Yes, I see. You can understand, Dadier...”

“Was Miller the one who put this idea into your head? Did he make the complaint?”

“I prefer not to divulge the boy’s name, Dadier.”

“Why not? Don’t you think I have a right to know?”

“No, I do not think so. You can understand, Dadier, that a complaint of this type demanded immediate action. I won’t stand for nonsense of that sort in my school. I don’t care if someone’s skin is purple, Dadier, he gets taught the same as the white boy does.”

“Is it policy to accuse someone before he...”

“Perhaps I was a bit hasty, Dadier, but you can’t blame me for misinterpreting the facts, especially in the light of the complaint. A thing like that makes my blood boil, Dadier.” He paused and fingered the scar on his face. “If I was wrong, I apologize.” He stared at Rick fixedly.

“You were wrong, sir,” Rick said, not able to resist the twisting of the knife, “but I shouldn’t have lost my temper, either.”

“In that case,” Small said, smiling benevolently, “shall we let bygones be bygones?”

He extended his beefy palm across the desk, and Rick took it, thinking back to that time in the mess hall when Bowden had extended his hand, and thinking about how he’d felt taking Bowden’s hand then, and realizing he did not feel at all like that now.

“There,” Small said, “that’s better. I don’t like tiffs in my school family, Mr. Dadier.”

Rick heard the added Mister, and knew that he had regained his position in the principal’s esteem, or at least he felt he had.

“No, sir, Mr. Dadier, no tiffs in the school family,” Small repeated.

“Yes, sir,” Rick said.

“We’re here to do a job, and the only way we can do it is by presenting a solid front to these kids. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes, sir,” Rick said, very weary now that it was all over. “I suppose so, sir.”

“Well,” Small said, reaching for the pile of papers on his desk again, “don’t let me cut into your unassigned time, Mr. Dadier. A little relaxation is important to a teacher.”

“Yes, sir,” Rick said.

“And...” Small smiled in a fatherly manner and cocked his head to one side, “... let’s just forget about this little incident, eh? I’ve already forgotten it, believe me, and I have a memory like an elephant.”

“Yes, sir,” Rick said, backing to the door. He opened the door, and Small waved in farewell, and then Rick closed the door gently. Miss Brady, who’d apparently heard every word of the argument, stared at Rick in wonder when he picked up his briefcase. He stared back at her until she averted her eyes, and then he walked out into the corridor, his anger returning.

That’s a hell of a way to do things, he thought. Drag a man in on the carpet and accuse him of being a prejudiced sonofabitch without even having heard his side of the story. That’s a dandy democratic way of handling things, all right. And why hadn’t he realized Small was a meathead long before this? How could he have been so blind? Anne had been right after all. She’d pronounced Small a very stupid man, and he was just that, and he was also principal of North Manual Trades.

Oh the sonofabitch, Rick thought. The unmitigated gall of that dictatorial sonofabitch! I should have thrown him through his own window, the way Juan Garza had tried to do with Ginzer, who must have been another goddamned meathead. What do I have to do, fight the kids and the teachers? Am I getting a taste of school politics? Is this why Andy Jacobson kisses his principal’s ass at the elementary school where he teaches?

Oh that dirty bastard! That simple goddamned bird-brained Mongolian idiot, the principal of a high school! He couldn’t be the principal on a 12.00 mortgage. I should have told him to shove his job where his hemorrhoids are. No wonder the bastard carries a scar. Some teacher probably stabbed him with a razor-sharp Delaney card.

Rick smiled at the absurdity of his own observation, a little ashamed over his I-should-have-said behavior.

He’s not the real bastard, he realized suddenly. The real bastard is whoever dumped the idea into his empty head. Miller, of course, Miller. Goddamn Miller to Hell! Goddamn Miller and his tricky goddamned handsome smile! The little bastard is like a snake; every time he bites, he spreads more venom. I wish I were Max Schaefer. I’d clobber the little bastard until he couldn’t do a pushup if he had four arms.

The hell with them, he thought viciously. The hell with ’em all. All but six. Save them for pallbearers, and the hell with all the rest of them.

And, of course, he knew he didn’t mean this at all.

He made his way up to the second floor after glancing at his wrist watch. It was 1:40, and the seventh period began at 1:50, and he could thank William Small, protector of the minority, for having swiped his free time. It was a good thing he’d eaten his lunch during the fourth period. Suppose he’d waited until the sixth, as he frequently did? Oh, what difference did it make? He wouldn’t have felt like eating anyway, not after that stomach-turning exhibition. This isn’t a school, he reflected, it’s a police state. We ought to wear swastikas on our arms, and we ought to give Small the upraised finger salute whenever we see him. Here’s to Small, long live Small, a damned fine guy, a stupid bastard who doesn’t know his brass from his oboe, a clever chap whose brains leaked out that time they stabbed him in the head. Assuming there were any brains there to begin with. Assuming he’d been stabbed and hadn’t cut himself while shaving and wasn’t just using a fine variation of the slobbering technique, the variation that was similar to the veteran hook. Here’s to Small, who had been appropriately named by a most wise Providence, despite his physical height. Here’s to small Small, and here’s to Miller, the Sorcerer’s Apprentice, the sonofabitch who started it all. And here’s to Eagle-eye Stanley, whose observations were right on the button, who wouldn’t know prejudice if it came up and hit him on the head with an African war club.

He reached the second floor and started down the corridor, and that was when he heard the din coming from Josh Edwards’ room, and he forgot his own troubles immediately. He walked rapidly to Josh’s room, remembering that this was the sixth period, and remembering that this was the class that’d smashed Josh’s records, now liberated from their penmanship exercises in the auditorium. He remembered all this, and he rushed to the door and looked through the glass panels. Josh sat calmly at his desk, and the kids were romping all over the room, shouting, yelling at the tops of their voices. Rick rapped on one glass panel, and Josh looked at him, and then waved.

Rick motioned for him to come outside a moment, and Josh stood, smiled out at the hell-raising kids in his class, and then walked nonchalantly to the door, opening it and stepping outside.

“Hello, Rick,” he said, smiling. He’d got a new pair of glasses, and they changed the appearance of his face, but the sadness in his eyes, behind the new glasses, despite the smile on his mouth, changed the appearance of his face even more.

Rick looked through the glass panels again, anxiously this time, observing the disorderly conduct of the class. “Any trouble, Josh?” he asked, concerned.

“Trouble?” Josh’s eyebrows climbed onto his forehead. “No, no trouble.” He glanced over his shoulder. “You mean the way the bastards are acting up? That’s not trouble.”

“Well, I thought...”

“You thought I should quiet them down, Rick? That it? I would ordinarily. Not today, pal.”

“What do you mean? What’s so special about today?”

“Today... November 24th, isn’t it... today is a very special day, Rick. Mark the date well.”

“What happened, Josh? What is it?”

“Mr. Stanley and I had a delightful little chat earlier today, Rick. Charming. Really quite touching, too, if you look at it a certain way. Tragic, almost.”

“What kind of a chat?” Rick asked.

“A fairly one-sided one, I’m afraid. I did most of the talking. Do you want a blow-by-blow report, or can I sum it up for you?”

“Sum it up,” Rick said.

“It can be summed up in two words, clearly and concisely. I quit.”

“You what?”

“I quit. I tendered my resignation. I am dropping from the roll call. I’m fading into the sunset. I’m leaving. Going, going, gone. I quit.”

“No. No, you didn’t.”

“Ah, but I did. Verily, truthfully. I did indeed quit. So, you see, I don’t give a damn what these little bastards do for the next two days. I’m through then. Off for Thanksgiving, and that’s the last I’ll see of Manual Trades. By God, it’ll be a good Thanksgiving this year.”

“Look, Josh...”

“I really did quit, Rick, I mean it. Stanley was terribly sorry to see me go, but that’s the way it is, and all that sort of crap, you know. It’s the first few months that separate the men from the boys, Rick. I’m just a boy, I guess.” The smile dropped from his mouth, leaving only the sadness in his eyes, and Rick remembered what he’d said about wanting to teach ever since he’d been a kid. He rested his hand on Josh’s arm and said, “Look, let’s talk about this a little more, okay? After school.”

“Sure,” Josh said, “if you want to.”

“Yes, I’d like to. I’ll see you after the eighth, okay?”

“Fine,” Josh said, nodding. The bell sounded, hanging in the empty corridor like the strident shriek of an eagle. “There it is,” Josh said. “Beginning of the seventh period. That cuts it down to one day and two periods. Then liberation.”

The boys were already piling out of Josh’s room, and doors were opening all along the corridor, spewing kids who joined the departmental stream.

“I’ll see you later,” Rick said.

He started down the corridor, and Josh stood in the doorway of his room, smiling at the moving stream, nodding his head at the boys, his eyes never joining in the fun. Like a man on a high rock overlooking a river. From behind him someplace, Rick heard the shouted word “Daddy-oh!” but he did not turn. He was thinking about Josh, and he thought about him all through the seventh and eighth periods, and he almost forgot completely about his brush with Small. And finally it was 3:25, and his day was over. He packed his briefcase, hastily window-poled the windows shut, picked up his coat, and locked the door to 206. Josh was waiting in his room across the hall.

He was sitting at his desk, leaning back in his chair, looking up at the ceiling. He did not notice Rick when he entered the room, did not turn until Rick was standing beside his desk.

“Oh, hello, boy,” he said. He looked down at Rick’s feet and asked, “You wearing sneakers?”

“You seemed lost,” Rick said. “Didn’t want to startle you.”

“Nothing can startle me anymore,” Josh said. “You ready to go?”

“Well, I wanted to talk a little.”

“Do we have to do it here? I’ve got my brother’s car with me. I’ll drive you home, and we can talk then.”

“Well, gee, that’s awfully nice of you,” Rick said.

“My last magnanimous gesture,” Josh said. “Come, let’s go. I get claustrophobia sitting here.”

They punched out, and when they reached the car. Josh asked, “Are you in a hurry to get home?”

“Why?”

“Well, I thought we’d take a little ride. Westchester, maybe. Unless you’re in a rush.”

“No, it’s okay,” Rick said.

“Good.”

Josh unlocked the car and then walked around to the driver’s side. Rick opened the door for him, and when he’d settled himself behind the wheel, he fitted the key into the ignition and started the car. He drove uptown, and Rick leaned back against the seat cushion, his legs stretched out in front of him. They hardly spoke until Josh turned onto the Bronx River Parkway, and then Josh said, “Well?”

“Well what, Josh?”

“Say what you think, Rick.”

“About your quitting?”

“Sure. Start cursing me out.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know, Rick. Quitter, coward, turncoat, I don’t know. All of them, I suppose. They all fit, don’t they?”

“I wasn’t thinking anything like that,” Rick said.

“No? Well, Stanley was thinking it. I could read it in those cold eyes of his. That superior smirk, you know? The commanding officer watching the green private turn and run under fire. That’s me, Rick. Running under fire.”

“Stanley’s a jackass,” Rick said, remembering the reports the Department Chairman had given to Small.

“Admittedly. But he’s not a quitter. That’s the difference. A jackass commands more respect than a quitter, doesn’t he?”

“If you feel that way about it,” Rick said, “why are you quitting?”

“That’s a good question,” Josh said. “I asked myself that question a lot of times, Rick. It’s a very good question.”

“Well, why?”

“Why? Not the beating, Rick. Hell, what’s a beating? You took the beating, too, and you’re not quitting. The records? Smashing my records? No, not that either. I loved those records, but you don’t live with a phonograph. So it wasn’t the beating, and it wasn’t the records, though both helped in my decision. It was something bigger than both, Rick.” Josh smiled at his own unintentional cliché. “This is bigger than both of us, baby,” he said.

“What, Josh?”

“A feeling of failure.”

“Hell, Josh...”

“Oh, I know what you’re going to say. You’re going to tell me the term started in September, and it’s only November now, and why don’t I give it a little time? I gave myself the same argument, Rick, and I always came up with the same answer.”

“And what was that?”

“That I’m no damn good. I’m not a teacher.”

“Don’t be silly. You...”

“No, it’s the truth. It’s not my fault, Christ knows, because I certainly want to be a teacher, you know that. But I’m not one. I’m not teaching. I’m standing up there and doing a lot of talking and waving my hands a lot, but I’m not teaching anything. Sure, the license says I’m a teacher, but the license is full of crap. You’re only a teacher if somebody learns from what you say or do. Nobody is getting anything from me, believe me.”

“Josh, you’re hardly given it a fair chance. It’s a matter of breaking through to the kids, and once you’ve done that...”

Josh turned his eyes from the road momentarily, and then shifted his attention back to driving again. “No. I’ll never break through. I’m the square peg in the round hole. I could teach for fifty years, and the kids still wouldn’t learn anything. I’d stand up there and pour my heart out at them, and nothing would sink in. I know there are teachers like that, but I’m not of a mind to cheat the City of New York. If they pay for a teacher, they should get one, and I sure as hell am not one.”

“Josh, you’re as good as I am. I haven’t reached the kids yet, either. But I’m not quitting. Why should I quit? How can I ever get to them if I quit?”

“Nobody’s asking you to quit,” Josh said. “I’m doing it because I have to do it.”

“I don’t understand that,” Rick said.

“You don’t? Maybe it’s a little difficult, Rick. Maybe you don’t know me well enough. Maybe it’s just my makeup, I don’t know.”

“Explain it to me.”

“I’m disappointed, but I’ve been disappointed before, too, and it never seemed to matter this much. I was disappointed in the service because I expected glamour and I got drudgery. I was disappointed when I was discharged because the apple pie and coffee dream wasn’t that at all. I came home to a not-too-pleasant apartment and a lot of changes, and it didn’t add up to my dreams of home while I was away. But I let that disappointment ride, and I enrolled in college, and college wasn’t the way I’d seen it in the movies or in Life magazine. I didn’t steal anyone’s panties, and I didn’t paint a cannon blue, and I wasn’t a football hero, nor did I ever steal a girl’s virginity in the chemistry lab after hours. I let all these disappointments ride because I knew what I wanted to do, and I’d known it for a long time. I wanted to teach. So I studied to be a teacher. I studied hard, and I swallowed all the junk they handed out because I thought that junk would really make me a good teacher. Well, I’m not a good teacher, and this time I’m not going to ride out the disappointment. This time I’m going to be goddamned good and disappointed, and I’m going to chuck it all and do something else, and maybe I’ll find a niche someplace for myself. And if I don’t, the hell with it, because I’m not going to teach when I know I can’t teach.”

“Josh, it’s the kids. It’s...”

“Sure it’s the kids, because the little sons-of-bitches don’t want to learn. But a good teacher should make them want to learn. There are good teachers in the vocational schools. Rick, you know that, don’t you?”

“Well...”

“There are, and maybe we’re surrounded by lemons, but we’ve got some good ones at Manual Trades, too. Do you know Sokoloff? He’s really good, and a grade advisor to boot, and there’s Jamison and...”

“Then why don’t you stick with it?”

“Because I’m no goddamned good. Rick, don’t you see? Rick, what’s the sense of kidding myself? Could I live with myself if I did that? Could I come to school all day and fake being a teacher, fake it all the way through, just blab all day long, and then go home and look at myself in the mirror and try to think I’m not a fake. Could I do that?”

“I don’t know, Josh. I suppose...”

“Well, I know I couldn’t. So I’m running out, and that may seem cowardly to Stanley and to Small who has a scar down his face and who probably took a lot of crap climbing the ladder in the system, and it may even seem cowardly to you. For all I know, it may be cowardly. I don’t feel like a coward, though, so maybe I’m not being one. I don’t know.”

“Can’t you stick it a while longer? To the end of the term? Josh, the term is almost over.”

“Rick, I knew the first week. Rick, I just knew, that’s all. When I got the beating, I began thinking about it seriously, and I tried harder to get at the kids, but they weren’t having any. Why? How the hell do I know? Maybe it’s the system. Maybe the vocational high school stinks completely, and maybe it isn’t the wonderful idea they thought it was. Except that some teachers do teach, and I’m not one of them. What the hell am I supposed to do, Rick? Take a complaint back to my college? Tell them, ‘Look, you stupid bastards, you didn’t teach me how to teach! What have you got to say for yourselves?’ Hell, are they to blame? They went to college, too, and someone who’d never learned to teach taught them how to teach me so that I never learned to teach. What came first, the chicken or the egg?”

“If you’d only give it a chance,” Rick persisted. “Come on, Josh, don’t throw it over so soon.”

“Soon? I should have chucked it the first week. I should have chucked it the day my records were smashed. A real teacher never gets into a setup like that, Rick. Never.”

“Real teachers...”

“They don’t, Rick. The kids respect them. Me? They’ve got no respect for me, but that’s because I’m not a teacher, Rick, I can be a fake teacher or a real man, and I think I’d rather be a real man right now.”

“But all your training, all the years...”

Josh smiled wistfully. “All the years,” he said, “the training, and the years before that when I just wanted. All those years. So, they go down the drain, Rick. But at least I don’t go down the drain with them. Isn’t that important, Rick? That I don’t go down the drain? That I keep some self-respect? That I leave a job when I know I’m not doing it well? Is that being a coward?”

“No,” Rick said seriously, “it’s not.”

“All right. So that’s what I’m doing.”

They drove on in silence, passing Thwaite’s on the parkway, the evening shadows lengthening across the winding road. Josh held the wheel tightly, and Rick relaxed on the seat beside him, thinking of what he’d said, wondering if he should quit, too. No, he could never quit, not now anyway. Not until he knew for sure. And once he knew, then what? Would he hang onto the security? Would he have a kid then, two kids? Would he keep the job even if he learned he wasn’t a teacher?

“I think we’d better start back,” Josh said.

“Sure,” Rick answered.

Josh pulled to the side of the road and waited for a car to pass. There was no heater in the car, and their breaths fogged the windshield, and Josh reached over to clear it with a gloved hand before making his U-turn.

“Am I doing the right thing, Rick?” he asked.

“I don’t know, Josh. If you feel right about it, I guess it’s right.”

“That’s what I figured,” Josh said.

“But what will you do now?”

Josh was silent for a few seconds, and his voice sounded uncertain when he spoke again, almost sad. “I don’t know. Get another job, I suppose. A bank teller, or something. I’m a college grad, Rick, lots of jobs for college grads.”

“Sure,” Rick said.

They drove to the project, and Rick glanced at his watch and saw how late it was. He hadn’t called Anne, and he knew she’d be worried, especially after that night long ago. He got out of the car hastily, and then leaned over when Josh opened the window.

“So you’ve got one more day,” Rick said.

“Yes.”

He had a sudden feeling that he would not see much of Josh tomorrow, and so he took off his glove and held out his hand, and when Josh took it, he said, “Lots of luck, boy.”

“Thanks, Rick,” Josh said.

He retrieved his hand and rolled up the window, and Rick saw his troubled face behind the breath-fogged glass. It was the last good look he would have of Josh Edwards because tomorrow would be a busy day for Josh, and he would only get a chance to talk to him briefly in the teachers’ lavatory before Josh passed out of his life completely. So he looked at Josh’s face, and then Josh turned the car out into the steam of traffic and Rick watched until the car was out of sight, and then he walked to the entrance door of his building.

There were three notes, and she had placed them on the kitchen table, and she stared down at them for a long time, thinking perhaps they would change, thinking perhaps they weren’t so, and concentration would change them.

The first note had come a long time ago, and the first note had said WATCH RICHARD. THERE’S ANOTHER WOMAN! and she had held that note in trembling fingers, standing in the lobby of the building with the sun streaming through the windows over the radiators. She had stared at the neat typescript, and then looked at the envelope again, finding nothing but a Bronx postmark smudged over a picture of George Washington. She had finally slipped the note back into its envelope and buried it at the bottom of her purse.

It had rested there like a hot coal, singeing her memory at irregular intervals while she shopped.

WATCH RICHARD. THERE’S ANOTHER WOMAN!

Boldly shrieking its message in upper case. Firm black letters on a white page.

She had thought about it all that day, wondering first who had sent it, and then wondering why it had been sent. She was not simple-minded, nor was she old-fashioned, but the mysterious informant could not have chosen a better subject than Anne Dadier. For Anne was the type of person who felt uneasy all day long if the phone rang and then stopped ringing before she had a chance to answer it. When she’d been sixteen, a prankster began sending her Secret Pal cards, and she received them regularly, starting with one on Hallowe’en, a card which wished her all the deviltry and merriment befitting the occasion, a card which boasted a printed inkblot over the alleged signature, a card that finally signed itself “Your Secret Pal.” Another had come on Christmas, and then one arrived for no occasion at all, one which just inquired about her health, letting her know her Secret Pal had not forgotten her. On St. Valentine’s Day, her Secret Pal had still not forgotten her, and by this time the receipt of a new card filled her with terror, even though the cards were innocently innocuous. The last card she received was on her birthday. She did not know it would be the last card, and she had almost begun crying when she opened the envelope and recognized the familiar format. She couldn’t understand how anyone could be so mean, how anyone could cause her so much torment, even on her birthday, which should have been a happy day, and which was spoiled by receipt of the probably well-meaning card.

Not knowing it was the last card, she had waited for the next one to arrive, dreading any envelope which bore her name. But her Secret Pal had apparently lost interest, most likely because Anne had never mentioned the cards to anyone. There was no sport in mystery cards unless the recipient fervently sought to discover the identity of the sender. The flow of mysterious correspondence ended, and Anne grew older and perhaps wiser — until this note.

She did not for a moment attribute any truth to the message. There was not another woman, and there was no reason to watch Rick. Richard, as the informant had called him. Richard, which probably indicated that the informant didn’t know Rick very well, or at least did not know him well enough to call him by the name everyone else used.

Watch Richard, indeed. And shall I begin searching his shirts for lipstick stains? Shall I search his pockets? Shall I test his virility, his... well, I can’t very well do that, not at this stage of the game.

The note remained in the bottom of her purse, but it smoldered there like the hot coal it was, and she thought about it further, and she wondered who? and she wondered why? and she found herself thinking that maybe, but that was ridiculous, yet just maybe, no Rick would never, but perhaps, possibly, maybe, who knows, maybe there was just a smidgin, just a tiny bit, just an infinitesimal bit of truth... no, there wasn’t.

Yet why would anyone.

No, there wasn’t.

Still, why would anyone send a note, a malicious thing like that unless...

That’s all it is, just a malicious thing, just someone who wants to cause trouble, that’s all. But who? And why?

To cause trouble, that’s all. That’s why.

BUT WHO? WHO?

And why, her mind persisted, unless there was some truth to it, oh maybe not a lot of truth, but maybe just a little truth, maybe someone saw something that could be misconstrued, or maybe Rick had been a little indiscreet once, or maybe even twice, and he couldn’t very well be blamed for that, not the way things were now, and you could certainly forgive a man for that, I suppose, you could forgive a man if you really loved him, and if there were any truth to the silly note at all, which there wasn’t.

No, he could not be blamed, if the note were true, because he definitely did not have an attractive, provocative wife to come home to these days, and Lord knows there are plenty of attractive, provocative women running around all over the place, without bulging bellies and without complaints about backaches. I must stop complaining about backaches.

He could be blamed, if you wanted to look at it another way, and if there was any truth at all in that stupid note, he could be blamed, but I’m not blaming him if it’s true, and I certainly won’t make an issue of it, but goddamnit, why didn’t whoever sent the note just shut up about it, I mean who cares? I mean who wants to know about such a thing, not now certainly, not now when I don’t even feel like a woman. God, how could I hold him now if such a thing were true, if that note were telling the truth, how could I hold him when I don’t look like a woman, don’t act like a woman, don’t even feel like a woman. I’m just some sort of growing parasite, just a big blob of, of protoplasm, a nothing, a thing, he could be blamed for not standing by now, of all times, he could be blamed, but I won’t blame him if there is another woman, the way the note says, provided the other woman is just a temporary thing, provided she’s another woman only as long as I’m not a woman.

But I can’t believe it, she thought, not Rick.

Although in my fifth month he did dance a lot with Helen that night of the alumni gathering, though he was a bit high that night, and God knows I didn’t feel very much like dancing, still he did dance with her a lot, and she seemed to be enjoying it immensely, but she’s probably to blame there and not him, if a man feels like dancing and his wife just feels like vegetating. Still she seemed to be enjoying it a good deal more than she should have been, I’ve never really liked Helen anyway, and I don’t remember if Rick enjoyed it or not, he was drinking, anyway, no, not Rick, and especially not now. Rick is, well yes he is. Rick is honorable.

But, damnit, why would anyone send me a note like that? Oh damnit, why would anyone have to do that?

Now start crying, sissy, that’s all we need, right here on the street, go ahead, start crying like a damned fool over a stupid note which was maliciously sent and which doesn’t mean a damned thing, and which can’t be true, which certainly cannot be true.

She didn’t start crying, nor did she forget the smoldering coal which was the note. Nor did she mention it to Rick.

The second note came a week later. She fished it out of the mailbox, and when she saw the neatly typed MRS. RICHARD DADIER, she felt a twinge of panic, felt the same dread she’d experienced a long while ago when her Secret Pal was at work. Only this was a Secret Enemy, and she studied the flap of the envelope and found no return address, and she knew this would be another note, and she was tempted to throw it away without opening it. But she did open it, and when she’d unfolded the sheet of white paper, she looked at the neatly centered, neatly typed message, and it read:

That was all, just that, but it started a new train of thought. She had never considered this before, never visualized the school itself as a trysting place. She always looked upon it as a place of labor, but now she began remembering stories about places of labor, stories about men and their secretaries, and she also began remembering Rick’s part in an attempted rape long ago, and she began thinking about the woman who had provoked that rape, and Lois Hammond began taking shape in her mind.

She put her out of her mind, and she told herself this was all nonsense and probably a joke one of their friends was playing, but she could not think of any of their friends who would indulge in such morbid humor when she was in her ninth month. She toyed with the idea of Rick himself sending the notes, building to some kind of misunderstood surprise, the kind of surprise where he could say, “Why sure there’s another woman! The baby, honey! It’s going to be a girl, don’t you know?” But Rick wanted a boy, and he wouldn’t joke about something he wanted, and he wouldn’t make a joke like that anyway when she was in her ninth month, and besides the second note wouldn’t make any sense i£ that were the explanation, unless the surprise he’d planned was too intricate for her to comprehend, but still he wouldn’t make a joke like that, not Rick.

Nor would Rick play around with another woman.

Unless the other woman were at fault, the way Helen had been that night at the alumni gathering, in which case you couldn’t do anything but hope your man was strong enough to resist, and Rick was that, if nothing else, though he hadn’t resisted very damned hard that night with Helen. Dancing is only dancing, though, for God’s sake. Let’s not make a federal case out of a few waltzes. And a few fox trots. And a few polkas and even a few lindys, even though he doesn’t like to lindy, he lindied that night, but he was high remember.

AT SCHOOL. ALL DAY, EVERY DAY the note Said, all in nice, simple language, but after all what could a man do at school, all day, every day, even every other day? There wasn’t even a co-ed teachers’ lunchroom, unless Rick were lying about the talks with Solly Klein and Lou Savoldi and all the other men teachers, and all his other time was occupied with classes and duty periods and whatnot. Of course, no one said you had to eat in the teachers’ lunchroom. Oh, nonsense I Picture Rick in some quiet, out of the way place, holding hands with that Hammond woman. I don’t even know what she looks like.

And I’m sure Rick doesn’t either.

And I can’t see him holding hands with her. And even if he were holding hands, what’s so terrible about that?

Well, maybe it is terrible. After all, there’s nothing wrong with my hands. You can sell the rest of me for scrap, but there’s nothing wrong with my hands, or has it gone farther than hands, and if that’s the case I’m out of the competition. What does Lois Hammond look like? What does the other woman usually look like?

A slinky bitch (you mustn’t call her bitch, you don’t even know the girl) a slinky bitch in a slinky black nightgown with a cigarette holder in her long, tapering fingers. That’s the way it is in the Ladies’ Home Journal serials. Her kisses are like...

Stop it, just stop it. You’re hanging him without even telling him about the notes, without even discussing it with him, and you’ve always discussed everything else in your married life together, everything, even when you had to ask him what to do, because you didn’t know what to do, not with your hands and not with anything, even though the anything was worth something then and not worth a damn now. Well, you did discuss it, and it was harder to discuss that, surely, than it would be to discuss these stupid notes. And you’ve leapt from hand-holding to kissing to God knows in the space of three minutes. And you know what to do with your hands now, that’s a cinch.

And that makes me competition for a slinky bitch in a slinky black nightgown (and stop calling her bitch because you don’t even know her and she’s probably a girl who goes to church every Sunday — Helen goes to church every Sunday, too — and who wouldn’t want your husband if you offered him on a silver platter) and besides there is no truth whatever to these damned silly notes, and I think I’ll burn them.

She did not burn them.

She sat now in the kitchen of her housing project apartment, and she stared at the kitchen clock on the beige wall (the walls you were not allowed to paint or paper unless you wanted to lose the deposit you placed with the Authority when you took the apartment) and the notes were before her on the kitchen table, three notes now, and the third note read:

And the clock read 8:22.

And Rick was usually home at 4:30, the latest.

But the clock read 8:22, and the notes read WATCH RICHARD. THERE’S ANOTHER WOMAN, AT SCHOOL, ALL DAY, EVERY DAY. LOIS HAMMOND. And she couldn’t change what the notes read, nor could she change what the clock read, and she was dangerously close to tears, but she did not cry.

She looked at the notes again, and then she looked at the clock again, and she vowed to discuss it with him that night, because if it were true, she wanted to know, and if it were not true, she wanted Rick to know. She vowed to discuss it, and she picked up the notes tenderly, as if they were old friends, and she put them into their individual envelopes, and then she put the three envelopes into the bottom of her purse, under the disorderly array of junk she kept there.

She went into the living room where she could not watch the clock, and she turned on the radio, annoyed when an announcer gave her the time.

She was not frightened this time. She did not for a moment believe that Rick had met with another ambush. She did not know what to think, and she tried not to think that he was with Lois Hammond, but she could not forget the notes, and she did think he was with Lois Hammond, and that was why she wanted to discuss it with him, because it would certainly be better to bring this thing out into the open. She cursed the note sender again, thinking it would be better if she’d never known, and the notes ate at her mind, ate there like a disease, gnawed and ate until the disease showed on her face and in the clasping and unclasping of her hands in her lap.

He came into the apartment at 8:40.

She heard his key in the lock, and she bit her lip and stayed where she was in the living room, until she realized it would look strange, her not going to the door. She rose too hastily then, awkwardly, almost slipping, and cursing the mountain of flesh which she partially blamed for Rick’s behavior, if the notes were true. She rushed into the foyer, hoping all this didn’t show on her face.

He was closing the door, and then he turned and she went to him and kissed him tenderly, but he didn’t seem terribly interested. His face was very tired and somehow sad looking, but she’d got used to sad faces when he came home, faces that reflected the trouble he’d had with the kids all day long.

“How was it today?” she asked, trying to keep her voice light, but realizing at the same time that she had made no mention of his coming in at 8:40, and wondering if she shouldn’t make some mention because that would be the normal thing to do.

“Lousy,” Rick said. He shrugged out of his coat and dropped it onto the sofa. “I had a fight with Small.”

“Rick, you didn’t!”

“Yes, I did,” he said. “And Josh is quitting and... oh the whole goddamned setup stinks!”

“What did you fight about?” she asked, momentarily forgetting her resolve to discuss the notes with him, feeling that this was important, too, and if she had nothing else to offer him she could certainly offer sympathy and understanding.

Rick cupped the bridge of his nose with one hand, and sighed heavily. “Oh, we fought,” he said. “What difference does it make?”

“Well...” She paused, wondering if he hadn’t already discussed this with someone, wondering if that someone weren’t Lois Hammond. “I meant... don’t you want to talk about it, Rick?”

“He said I’d been intolerant in my classroom. He said...”

“What!”

“Honey, please don’t have me repeat everything a dozen times. I’m...”

“I’m sorry, Rick. I just...”

“I’m tired, and it only makes me more tired to have to remember what that bastard...”

“If you don’t want to talk about it...”

“I didn’t say I didn’t want to talk about it, Anne, for God’s sake...”

“I’m sorry, Rick,” she said.

They were both silent for a moment, and then Rick sighed again.

“Someone made a complaint to him. You remember that little lecture I gave? My bright idea? Well, someone misconstrued it. Accidentally on purpose.”

“Who?”

“He wouldn’t tell me.”

“Miller?”

“He wouldn’t tell me, Anne,” Rick said, trying to hide his exasperation, but not succeeding.

“How did it happen? I mean...”

“Stanley told me Small wanted to see me. I went down to his office and he started throwing rocks. ‘Did you use the expression nigger in your classroom?’ ” Rick mimicked. “ ‘Did you use the expression kike and mockie?’ ” He slammed a clenched fist into the open palm of his other hand. “Oh, the hell with him!” he said. “The hell with them all.”

“What did you say, Rick?”

“I told him he was wrong. I told him... what difference does it make, Anne? We kissed and made up, but he’s still a sonofabitch!”

Anne nodded, troubled by what Rick had told her, and then abruptly remembering the notes again.

“Have you... have you had supper yet?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “Where would I have supper?”

“I don’t know. I just thought... well, it’s rather late. I thought...”

“Oh, Josh and I went for a ride.”

“Oh.”

“Did I tell you he’s quitting?”

“Yes. Yes, you did.”

“Well, he is. He told me this afternoon, right after my wrestling match with Small. I thought I might be able to talk him out of it, so we went for a ride in his car.”

“You and Josh?”

“Yes, me and Josh. Anne, what’s wrong with you? I just told you it was Josh and me, and now you ask...”

“I’m sorry, it’s... the chops got overdone waiting for you, and now everything is cold. I just...”

“Oh, the hell with supper. I’m not hungry, anyway.”

She stood there awkwardly, wondering whether he had already eaten, afraid to ask him again, afraid because she loved him terribly and did not want to lose him, and afraid he would tell her the truth, and then she would know everything, and she would be forced to fight back, having none of the weapons a woman must use against another woman.

“Should I... some eggs, maybe? Or a cup of coffee?”

“Coffee,” Rick said.

She went into the kitchen and started getting the coffee ready, thinking I’ll talk to him about the notes when I go back into the living room. I’ll do it then. She puttered with the coffee pot for a long time, not admitting to herself that she was stalling, and then she dried the palms of her hands on her skirt and walked into the living room. Rick was sitting at one end of the couch, his head resting on his cupped hand. He did not look up when she entered the room.

“Rick,” she started, hoping her voice was not trembling.

“Coffee ready?” he asked.

“No, not yet, Rick...” She didn’t know how to say it because she’d never done anything like this before. How do you accuse your husband of infidelity? Or do you accuse him? Maybe she should just casually mention the notes, just casually say, “Oh, Rick, I meant to tell you about these silly little notes I’ve been getting, someone’s idea of a joke, I guess.” Except it wasn’t a joke to her, and she couldn’t joke about them, not if she tried with all her being. She realized that she was standing there after having started to say something, and she frowned, and Rick asked, “What is it, hon?”

“You’re... you’re awfully late,” she said.

“Yeah, we got to talking. Josh and I.”

“Did you drive very far?”

“Upstate a little ways, Westchester. Not too far.”

“Oh.” She paused, biting her lip. Now, she thought. Now is the time. “Are you sure...”

“He’s quitting, you know. I couldn’t change his mind, and maybe he has the right idea, after all. Why bang your head against the wall?”

“Yes,” she said. “Rick...”

“Yes?”

I can’t do it, she thought. I can’t just come out and...

“Are you sorry he’s leaving? Josh, I mean?” she said lamely.

“Yes, I am. I like him, Anne. He’s a hell of a nice guy, and...”

“But there are other teachers, aren’t there? Others you like?”

“I suppose so. Josh and I, though...”

“Teachers you can talk to, I mean. You know.”

Rick shrugged. “I talk to them all. They’re all right. But Josh is most like me, I think. A new teacher, a guy who wanted to teach... you know what I mean, Anne?”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” She was extremely nervous now because she was leading gradually to what she wanted to really talk about, and she hoped Rick didn’t suspect. “Solly Klein, do you talk to him much?”

“When Solly’s talking,” Rick said, “it’s pretty difficult to get a word in. We talk, though. Sure, we do.”

“And the others? George Katz? And Savoldi? And Manners?” She paused. “And Lois Hammond?” She swallowed hard and watched him, her hands clenched.

“Sure, all of them,” Rick said. “But I’ll still miss Josh.”

“I see.” She paused again. “I don’t suppose you get much chance to talk to Lois Hammond. I mean, there are no women in the lunchroom are there?”

“No. But I see her around. You know, in the halls, here and there. The school isn’t very big.”

“I suppose not.”

“Honey, maybe I can eat something after all. Are those chops burned or what?”

“No, but they’re pretty dried out, I think. Shall I heat them?”

“Would you?”

“Sure. Shall I heat the spinach, too?”

“If you will. Honey, you don’t mind if I just sit here, do you? I’m really bushed.”

“That’s all right,” she said. She went into the kitchen again and put the chops into the double boiler, not wanting them to get any drier than they already were. She put a flame under the spinach, and then called from the stove, “Does Miss Hammond know Josh is quitting?”

“What?” Rick called back.

“Miss Hammond. Does she know about...”

“Oh. I don’t know.”

“Didn’t he tell her?”

“I don’t know, hon.”

She stood at the stove, her back to the foyer and the living room. “Did... did you tell her, Rick?”

“Me? Why, no. Why should I?”

“I... I thought you might have run into her, you know. In the halls, here and there.”

“No, I didn’t tell her,” Rick said, and Anne suddenly wished she was in the living room, where she could see his face.

“Is she very pretty, Rick?”

“Who?”

“Lois Hammond.”

“I suppose so. If you go for that type.”

“What type?”

“Dark. Busty.”

“She’s dark?”

“Yes.”

“And... busty?”

“Very.”

“Oh.”

She took a tablespoon from one of the cabinet drawers and began stirring the spinach so it wouldn’t stick to the bottom of the pot.

“I like blondes,” Rick said from the living room, and again she wished she was there to see his face.

“Do you now?” she asked, trying to make her voice sound light.

“Indeed I do. And your bust is fine, thank you.”

“Thank you,” she said, automatically smiling,

“Don’t thank me,” Rick said. “I had nothing to do with it.”

“You had a lot to do with the rest of my figure,” Anne said. I’m being unfair, she thought. I’m using the home and family hook. I’m trying to keep him that way. I’m giving him a motherhood idol to worship. Damnit, why can’t I keep him as a woman?

He was suddenly behind her, his arms encircling her waist. He’d entered the kitchen so softly that she hadn’t heard him, and she wondered for a moment if she’d thought out loud. His hands rested lightly on her stomach, and he said, “You do have a bit of a pot, don’t you?”

“A bit,” she said lightly. “But only so you’ll appreciate me more afterward.”

“I appreciate you right now,” he said.

“Well, you don’t sound like it,” she answered, busying herself with the spinach.

He spun her around, holding her by the shoulders. “What kind of talk is that?” he asked, smiling.

“Snapping like a... like a turtle or something the minute you come in the house,” she said, pouting prettily.

“Did I snap?”

“Yes, you did.”

“I apologize,” he said. He kissed her on the tip of her nose. “There.”

“Is that the best you can do?”

“I wasn’t half trying,” he said, still smiling.

“Well, half-try.”

He pulled her closer to him and kissed her on the mouth this time, lingeringly. She felt his mouth on hers, and she clung to him tightly, thinking The notes are crazy, this is my Rick, he was with Josh, the notes are crazy. And then she pulled her lips away and pressed her cheek to his tightly, her arms moving up around his neck, her fingers spreading, holding him close.

“Hey!” he said, surprised.

“Do you love me, Rick?” she asked, her lips close to his neck.

“Why, of course I love you.”

“No, I don’t mean ‘of course,’ darling. I know ‘of course.’ I mean...” She shook her head, her cheek still against his, not knowing what she meant. “I mean, do you love me, Rick?”

“Yes, darling.”

“Even though I look like a horse?”

“You do not look like a horse.”

“I do, Rick, really, darling, please don’t deny it. But do you love me anyway?”

“Honey, what’s got into you. Of course, I...”

“No, Rick, please don’t say ‘of course.’ Just tell me you love me, darling. Just hold me close and tell me you love me.”

“Honey, honey,” he said, stroking her hair, closing his eyes, smiling. “Honey, I love you more than anything in this world.”

“Really, Rick?”

“Of...” He cut himself short. “I love you, Anne,” he said gently.

“I love you, too, Rick. I mean, I’m really crazy about you, Rick. Does that sound too high school girlish?”

“No, darling.”

“I can’t help it if it does, because that’s the way I feel. I’m just crazy in love with you, Rick. That’s why when you come home and snap at me, I think...”

“I didn’t mean to snap at you, hon. It was just Small, and then Josh, and I guess I was hungry, in spite of...”

“I know, but I begin thinking all sorts of things, Rick, and I don’t want to think those things. Darling, hold me. Please hold me very close.”

He tightened his arms around her, and she clung to him desperately.

“Rick,” she said, “Rick, Rick.”

He kissed her again, and she thought, I was silly, everything is all right, he likes blondes, and I’m as busty as most, everything is all right, and I’ll burn those damn silly notes, I’ll really burn them this time, oh Rick, I love you so much.

“I think the spinach is burning,” he said.

“Oh, my goodness!” She tore herself from him and turned off the gas, and then she began setting the table. He sat at the table and watched her, not helping because he was tired, and she didn’t mind his not helping at all. They began talking about other things, not the school, and not Small, and not Josh. Things about family, and friends outside the school.

And while they talked, she thought about the notes again, and she realized she hadn’t discussed the notes with him, hadn’t even come near discussing the notes. She told herself it didn’t matter because she knew Rick loved her now, but she couldn’t forget the notes in spite of what she told herself. And so she thought of Lois Hammond again, dark and busty and there at Manual Trades all day long, and she condemned herself for not discussing the notes when she should have, but she listened to him talk and she nodded and she smiled and she thought. How could I have doubted him, doubting him all the while.