The blackboard jungle

11

William Small, in his own words, and through his own voluntary admission, had “the memory of an elephant.” And since William Small had fondly clasped the hand of Richard Dadier in a warm let’s-forget-it-all handshake, he could not really be blamed for the persistence of his memory, or for the unconscious power it held over his alleged mind.

That memory, elephantine as it was, could not ignore the fact that Richard Dadier, a snotnose barely out of college, had in effect told Small to shut up. In reality, he had simply shouted, “That’s enough!” but this was the equivalent of “Shut up” and snotnoses barely out of college don’t go around telling principals to shut up, not when principals have memories as enduring as that of William Small’s.

So when the yearly chore of producing the Christmas Assembly rolled around, a task which any teacher at North Manual Trades would have happily shirked. Small was not to be condemned for choosing Richard Dadier as the man best suited for the job. Did he not have Stanley’s word that Dadier had done a lot of college dramatics, could indeed reel off obscure passages of Shakespeare at the drop of a leek?

And was not Dadier a young man, and did not students respond most eagerly to teachers who were not too far removed from them in age? Especially in something like a Christmas Assembly, where brotherhood prevailed?

This is what William Small told himself. This is what William Small told Stanley. And this is what Stanley told Rick at a meeting in the English Office. It is doubtful that Small ever realized the important role his memory played in deciding to choose Rick as the unlucky producer. For in truth, Small had completely forgotten the incident in his office, had forgotten that a snotnose barely out of college had told him, William Small, to shut up. Nor did William Small have an analyst with whom he could discuss that tricky dog of a memory. He was just a hard-working slob, William Small was, and Richard Dadier was obviously the best man for this particular dirty detail, and so Rick inherited it and — simple soul that he was — considered it a plum rather than a crumb.

Of course, Small could have relieved Rick from his third-period Hall Patrol, or even from one or two of his classes, was he of a mind to be magnanimous. He was not of a mind to be that, and so Rick carried a full program, and he was left to his own devious means in the matter of the Christmas Assembly. These devious means meant that he would have to devote his Unassigned sixth to the preparation of the assembly, as well as a good many after-school hours. Considering the fact that he would never even get to see the results of his labor, a fact of which he was not aware during his feverish preparation for the event, a more suitable punishment could not have been contrived — even if Small had consciously remembered Rick’s outburst, which he hadn’t.

Rick was truly happy about the job, and he got to work at once. He knew he could use the mimeograph in The Trades Trumpet office whenever he wanted to, whereas he might have to wait for a free opportunity to use the one in the English Office. However, he waited for that opportunity, rather than willingly bring himself into Lois Hammond’s presence. He ran off notices for every teacher in the high school, notices which heralded the approaching assembly and announced that a search for talent was on. Any interested students could contact Mr. Dadier at once. After the notices had been distributed and, he hoped, read to the classes, he then spoke to the teachers he knew, asking them to plug the assembly and generate some sort of interest among the boys. He needed talent badly. As a matter of fact, he would settle for no talent, just so long as he got some boys to turn out. Without the boys, he couldn’t very well put on a show, and he wanted very badly to put on a decent show.

He spoke to all his classes about the assembly, and at night — forsaking his lesson plans — he wrote a show. It was not intended for Broadway or Brooks Atkinson. It was intended for the enjoyment of the students and teachers of North Manual Trades High School. As such, it wasn’t a bad little thing. It dealt with Santa’s visit to North Manual Trades, accompanied by a host of angels. Rick didn’t know where the angels logically entered into the show, but he figured he’d get some of the senior boys into sheets and halos, and the costumes alone should be good for a laugh. He broached Solly Klein on the possibility of his playing Santa Claus, but Solly flatly refused.

He had to soft-pedal the play because the tendency to write what he really thought was overwhelming. He had Santa visiting various classes throughout the school, always accompanied by the angels of course, and finally deciding that North Manual Trades was a damned fine school, and leaving presents all over the place. The presents varied from the strictly cornball (like “And for all of you, all of you wonderful kids, a high school diploma, and the wish that you’ll use it wisely and well”) to the humorous (like “And to Mr. Clancy, of Carpentry and Woodworking, a great, big economy-size box of bonbons!”) He’d have liked to do a real satire, but he knew Small would be present at the assembly, and it wasn’t nice to stab a man on the Wednesday before Christmas. So he portrayed the school as an earnest beehive of learning and activity, portrayed the kids as wonderful little adolescents who wanted to learn a trade, portrayed the teachers as part of the “little family” Small thought existed.

He told his classes about the show as soon as he’d completed writing it, hoping he’d get additional interest that way. His notices had brought paltry results. Aside from a handful of kids who’d have turned out for anything from a chess competition to a discussion of nuclear energy — and there were such kids at Manual Trades — he had nothing to work with. And so he plugged harder in every one of his classes, and he rode the teachers harder, and he told Solly Klein that if he wouldn’t be Santa Claus, he could at least see that some of his kids turned out for the show.

His first break came when George Katz volunteered for the Santa Claus role. Rick accepted his services gratefully, and gave him a carbon copy of the script. The Santa Claus role was, naturally, the most difficult one in the show, and Rick had planned it with a teacher in mind all along. Katz’s arrival was a godsend, and when Katz came to the teachers’ lunchroom the next day and announced that he’d memorized the part overnight. Rick could have kissed him.

The second break came in 55-206, and that was a real surprise. It came from Miller.

The boy remained in class after most of the other boys had left, and then he walked to the front of the room and stood near Rick’s desk. Rick was inking in the absences on his Delaney cards, and he looked up, saw Miller there, and asked, “What is it, Miller?”

“Got a few minutes, Chief?” Miller asked.

“What is it, Miller?” Rick asked again, annoyed. He still felt that Miller was the boy who’d complained to Small, and he had still not forgotten that day in the principal’s office.

“I was thinkin’ ’bout your Christmus ’sembly, Mr. Dadier,” Miller said.

“What about it?”

“Well, them angels you tole us about in class. ’Member?”

“I remember.”

Miller shifted his feet, and succeeded in looking very embarrassed. “They got a lot of lines to say? I mean, will they be a lot of memorizin’ to do?”

“No, not too much,” Rick said. He looked at Miller curiously. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, I had a idea, Mr. Dadier. You sure you got a few minutes?”

“Yes, yes. Go ahead.”

“Whutchoo think of the idea of colored angels?”

Rick looked at Miller warily. “Colored angels?” he asked slowly.

Miller seemed to be just as wary of Rick. He looked at him levelly and said, “Black fellers. You know?”

“Well, what do you mean?”

“I figured maybe they’d look kind of... well... I figured it’d maybe be good for a few laughs, you know? Like four or five of us in them white sheets, with halos. You follow me, Mr. Dadier?”

“Yes, Miller,” Rick said, surprised, wondering what was up the boy’s sleeve.

“You want the angels for laughs, don’tchoo? You said you was gonna get seniors, if you could, ’cause they big.” Miller smiled engagingly. “I got some friends, Mr. Dadier, an’ they not ony big, they black.”

“I... I don’t know,” Rick said, undecided, wondering whether the idea would work or not, seeing it in his mind’s eye, and visualizing it as being good pictorially, but not wanting anyone to think he was poking fun at the Negro.

“These friends of mine,” Miller went on, really trying to sell the idea now, “they got talent. They sort of sing aroun’, you know, and maybe they could do a Christmus carol, if you wanted. They good on ‘Silunt Night,’ and they know ‘God Rest Ye’ an’ all the others. They good, I mean it.” Miller paused, seemingly more embarrassed, and then asked, “You... you was plannin’ on colored boys in the show, wunt you?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Rick said. “I just don’t know...”

“I think it might be good,” Miller said softly, lowering his head, apparently feeling his idea had not met with Rick’s approval.

“Would... would your friends be willing to work hard, Miller?”

“Oh, sure,” Miller said, a spark returning to his eyes.

“After school?”

“Well, I don’ know ’bout that. I mean, most of these fellers got jobs after school. But we’ll come anytime durin’ school, I mean on our lunch hours or any time. An’ we all know each other outside, so we could go over the stuff at night, you know? On our own time, I mean. I mean, if you like the idea.”

Rick hesitated and then said, “How do you think the other... colored boys would react to it? The ones in the audience.” He looked at Miller cautiously, surprised to find himself discussing the topic with the boy, and yet glad he was. “You see...”

“You mean you think somebody goan take offense?” Miller smiled confidently. “Naw, you got no worries there. They’ll jus’ think it’s a big laugh, tha’s all.”

“I don’t know,” Rick said, really not knowing.

“Mr. Dadier,” Miller said, possessed of a sudden idea, “you know Green Pastures?”

“Why, yes,” Rick said, surprised that Miller was familiar with the play.

“They colored angels in that one, Mr. Dadier. They even a colored God, and nobody took offense there, did they? They did that play up at the Y in Harlem, and everybody watchin’ was colored, and nobody got mad about it. It’ll be all right, you’ll see.”

“Yes,” Rick said, nodding his head, “maybe it would. Look, Miller, let me check this with Mr. Small today. If he likes the idea... well, you see, I don’t want to offend anyone. If he likes it, you can tell your friends okay.” He paused and tried a smile. “I hope, Miller, that... that you were planning on coming out for the show, too.”

“Why, sure I was,” Miller said, surprised. “Hell, man, I’m the bass in the group.”

“Well, good,” Rick said. “I’ll let you know in class tomorrow, Miller.”

Rick checked with Mr. Small that afternoon, and Small was in favor of the idea. He was especially pleased that the idea had come from one of the students, and when Rick had left him he congratulated himself upon having made an excellent choice for the producer of the all-important Christmas Assembly. At the end of the fifth period the next day. Rick passed the information on to Miller. He asked the boy to wait after class, and he was annoyed when West waited with him.

“I want to talk to Miller alone,” he said to West. “Would you mind waiting outside?”

West shot Rick a disgusted glance and then walked to the doorway, lounging against the doorjamb.

“I spoke to Mr. Small, Miller,” Rick said, keeping his voice low so that West would not hear the conversation. “He thinks it’ll be fine.”

“Tha’s good,” Miller said, smiling and nodding. “I’ll tell the boys. When do we start?”

“Well, can you get me a copy of the boys’ programs, so I can arrange some sort of schedule? We’ll probably rehearse Santa and the angels separately in the beginning. Maybe later we can work out something about night rehearsals.”

“I’ll get the programs,” Miller said. He started for the door, turned, and added, “An’ thanks, Mr. Dadier.”

West, standing in the doorway, said, “What’re you doin’, Greg, suckin’ up?”

The two boys passed out into the corridor, and Rick did not hear Miller’s answer. He stared at the empty door frame for a long time, wondering why Miller had volunteered for the show, wondering if he weren’t making a mistake. Was Miller plotting some trick? If Miller had been the one who’d complained to Small, couldn’t this be some sort of extension of his complaint? Was it possible he’d try to foul up the show, try to present the Negro in a bad light, so that it would reflect upon Rick’s taste and judgment?

Rick didn’t know, but he made up his mind to watch Miller and the other angels very carefully, and to drop them from the show at the first sign of trouble.

As it turned out, his fears were ungrounded.

There were six angels in all, counting Miller. They were, as Miller had promised, all big boys, with one member of the sextet standing at six-two. Miller, in fact, was the shortest boy in the group, and Rick arranged them according to height, pleased with the ocarina effect he achieved. The first rehearsal was held during the fourth period on December 2nd. Rick knew that Katz was free during that period, and the programs Miller provided showed that three boys in the sextet had lunch during that period. He was forced to yank the remaining three out of classes, and for a moment he wondered if this wasn’t what Miller had had in mind all along. Could the boy have realized no rehearsal schedule was possible unless some boys were taken out of classes? Since Miller turned out to be one of those lucky boys, the supposition was not an unlikely one. But Rick passed no judgment. He promised to treat the thing fairly and squarely, and he was surprised and pleased with the final results — or at least the results he saw at the first dress rehearsal. He never did get to see the actual show.

The angels were surprisingly co-operative. Surprisingly, because Rick had had experience with specialty acts before. In college, whenever someone could dance or sing or juggle, that someone became a specialty act, a featured performer. Having become a member of this elevated caste, the person usually felt the show should revolve around himself, plot be damned, continuity be damned, everything else be damned. The angels had apparently sung together before, and Rick expected trouble on that account. He expected another specialty act, and specialty acts don’t like being squeezed into the framework of a show, don’t like being reduced to ciphers. But the angels showed no signs of specialty actitis. They listened to everything Rick had to say, and they seemed delighted with their speaking roles.

The speaking roles, as Rick had written them, were not really individual parts. He surmised correctly that the success or failure of the angels would depend upon their actions and reactions as a group. Everything they said, therefore, was said in chorus. All of their actions were performed simultaneously. If one angel blew his nose, the other five angels blew their noses at the same instant. If one angel said, “Oh, yes,” he could be certain that five other angels were mouthing those same words at the same time.

But rather than simplifying the individual roles, the chorus setup made it more difficult. If all six angels had to shout, “Hi, Santa!” together, they simply had to shout it together. If one angel were a beat behind and another a beat ahead, the resultant chorus would become a hodgepodge of incomprehensible sound.

Rick knew there would be difficulty on this score during that first fourth-period rehearsal. There were eight people at the rehearsal: George Katz, the six angels, and Rick. The rehearsal took place on the auditorium stage, with the curtains closed, and with a pile of lunch-eating students sitting in the auditorium seats, most of them unaware of what was going on behind the curtains.

Rick introduced Mr. Katz to the boys and told them he’d be playing Santa Claus, and that the angels and St. Nick would have to work very closely together because they’d really be carrying the largest burden of the show between them. The boys were respectful in acknowledging the introduction, as if being introduced to a teacher was something they were not used to. Rick handed out copies of the angels’ parts, and then they all sat around on chairs in the center of the stage and began reading the parts, with Rick filling in by reading the minor roles in the script.

They’d read a few paragraphs when Rick noticed that one of the angels was silent. He called a halt and asked, “Is there any trouble there? I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name.”

“He Brown,” Miller said. “He can’t read so hot, Mr. Dadier.”

“Oh, I see,” Rick said, disappointed.

“We’ll teach him his part,” Miller assured him. “Don’ worry. He can’t read so hot, but he’ll be all right. He got a good memory.”

“Well, all right,” Rick said reluctantly. “Let’s take it from Santa’s second speech.”

George Katz had memorized the role, and he gave it all the stiffness of the Magna Charta. Rick let that pass because he was sure the stiffness would work out once he began walking the show through. Besides, the choral speaking was presenting more of a problem than George Katz’s interpretation of St. Nick. The boys weren’t together. Some were behind, and some were ahead, and the result was chaos, without a word being understood.

They went over one passage several times, with Rick trying in vain to synchronize them. He was saved, finally, by Miller’s intrusion, and by the boys’ innate sense of rhythm.

“We tacklin’ this all wrong,” Miller said. “We not givin’ what Mr. Dadier wants. You want this together, don’ you, Chief?” Miller asked.

“Yes, I do,” Rick said, convinced already that the angels simply would not work out.

“Yeah, well we ain’t doin’ that.” He looked at the script in his hand and said, “Look, fellers, you see there where Santa Claus he say, ‘How’re all my heavenly messengers today?’ You see that spot there on the paper, where he say that?”

The boys nodded and mumbled, and Miller said, “Okay, so his last word there is ‘today.’ Now, here’s the beat. One-and-two-and. You got that? One-and-two-and. Then we suppose to say, ‘Oh, we jus’ fine, Santa.’ Okay, so we speed up that one-and-two-and, an’ then we come in on the down beat. We say ‘Oh’ on the downbeat, an’ then we stop a beat, an’ then we say, ‘we jus’ fine, Santa.’ Now, you got that?” The boys talked it up a little more, nodding and studying the script, while Rick watched in amazement.

“You want to give us that speech, Mr. Katz?” Miller asked.

George Katz dug into his memory and stiffly said, “How’re all my heavenly messengers today?”

Miller said, “One-and-two-and Oh, beat, we jus’ fine, Santa.” He paused and looked at the boys again. “Okay, you got that? I’ll give you the beat one more time, then we’ll try it in our heads. Could we have that line again, Mr. Katz?”

“How’re all my heavenly messengers today?” George Katz asked stiffly.

“One-and-two-and,” Miller whispered.

“Oh,” the boys said in chorus together — and Miller whispered “beat” — “we jus’ fine, Santa.”

“That was very good,” Rick said, grinning broadly, surprised and pleased, amazed that Miller had recognized the boys’ talent for rhythm and utilized it so effectively. “Let’s mark that down on the scripts. The one-and-two-and, and then the beat. We’ll do that for every speech you boys have.”

“Could we try it silent, Mr. Dadier?” Miller asked. “Doin’ the countin’ inside our heads?”

“Why, certainly,” Rick said. “Sure. Geor—, Mr. Katz, would you give them their cue again, please?”

George Katz dutifully said, “How’re all my heavenly messengers today?”

“Oh,” the boys said in chorus, “we jus’ fine, Santa.”

“Very good,” Rick said, excited now. “Very good. That was excellent. Now if we can do that for all of your speeches...”

“We can do it,” Miller said confidently. “It’s jus’ like singin’, Chief, ’cept there’s no melody.”

They went through as much of the script as they could during that fourth period, marking out the rhythm of the speeches. Rick deciding where the pauses should be, where the emphasis should come, tailoring the lines for their maximum effect. When the bell rang at the end of the fourth period, he reluctantly walked up to Room 206 to greet 55-206. Miller was in the room already when he got there, having left the auditorium while Rick stayed behind to exchange a few words with Katz.

“Hey, teach,” Miller shouted. “You better watch that stuff.”

Rick, still happy over the first rehearsal, pleased by Miller’s behavior and co-operation, smiled and asked, “What stuff, Miller?”

“Draggin’ yo’ ass in after the late bell, Chief. You settin’ a bad ’zample for the pupils here.”

The class laughed, and Rick stared at Miller, surprised.

“Well, ain’tchoo, Chief?” Miller asked, his eyes roguishly innocent. “Wunt you draggin’ ass, man?”

Rick, still a little stunned, said, “I suppose so, Miller.”

“You s’pose so? Hell, man, don’t you know?” Miller asked. “You can’t be that stupid!” and the class roared its approval.

“He’s confused,” West sneered. “He’s gettin’ nervous in the service.”

“That’s enough of that,” Rick said tightly, suddenly shocked into reaction. “Let’s just knock it off.”

“Knock it off!” West shouted. “You heard the man.”

“He say ‘Knock it off,’ ” Miller put in. “An’ when he say ‘Knock it off,’ by God...”

“He means knock it off,” West concluded happily, clapping Miller on the shoulder in glee.

Rick blinked at Miller, not able to understand the change in the boy. Was this the same helpful co-operative kid who’d worked out the speech rhythms in the auditorium just a period ago? Could this be the same kid? This wiseacre who had just now initiated a new series of jibes against the teacher? He couldn’t believe it, and so he let it pass because he couldn’t understand it. But in the days that followed he learned a basic fact, and he also learned to live by it.

He learned that Miller formulated all the rules of this game, and that the rules were complex and unbending. And just as Miller drew an arbitrary line before the start of each fifth-period English class — a line over which he would not step — he also drew a line which separated the show from anything academic.

It was a confusing situation. It was confusing because Rick really did get along well with Miller at rehearsals. The student-teacher relationship seemed to vanish completely. They were just two people working for a common goal, and Miller took direction and offered helpful suggestions, and stood by shamefacedly whenever Rick blew his top about a bit of stage business or a fluffed line. Rick valued the boy’s participation in the show, and most of all he valued the way Miller led the sextet, helped Rick mold it into a unified, smoothly-functioning acting and singing machine.

And then rehearsal would be over, and 55-206 loomed on the horizon, and Miller drew his line again, and he pushed right up to that line, never stepping over it, always baiting Rick just so far, always annoying him until Rick trespassed onto Miller’s side of the line and Miller was faced with the choice of retreating or shoving over onto Rick’s side of the line, and that he would never do.

Rick tried to understand it, and the only conclusion he could draw was that the show provided a normal outlet for Miller’s leadership qualities — and there was no doubt he possessed these qualities — whereas the classroom (as Solly Klein had said) provided no such outlet; it was instead an abnormal situation in which bad behavior was the criterion.

Miller didn’t have to be bad during rehearsals. He had something to do, something which challenged his active mind. He had boys to lead, and he had a cause in which to lead them.

The English class was another matter. The other boys in the class considered English a senseless waste of time, a headless chicken, a blob without a goal. Miller may have felt the same way, though it was impossible to know just what he felt. But he sensed that approval lay in disorder, that leadership lay in misbehavior. And so he drew his line, and he drew his second line, the line that told Rick, “The show’s one thing, Chief, but English is another. So don’t ’spect me to go kissin’ your ass in class.”

Rick faced his two-headed gorgon squarely. He learned to accept the good Miller and the bad Miller, and he felt something like a psychoanalyst treating a schizophrenic. And all the while he wondered which was the real personality, hoping it was the good and not the bad.

The good certainly prevailed during rehearsals, and the show traveled along at top speed. By December 10th, the angels and Santa Claus were a working unit, and George Katz had lost most of the stiff regularity with which he’d initially interpreted the role. It was almost beautiful to watch the team in action. Katz, unable to completely disguise the pomposity and formality which was an intricate part of his own personality, was a perfect straight man for the six colored angels.

The angels, apparently putting in a lot of rehearsal time on their own at night, delivered their punch lines as one man. They breathed together, and they moved together, and they paused together, and they spoke together. They were like six marionettes governed by one set of strings. They were perfect, and Rick burst out laughing every time they performed, even though he’d heard the gags a hundred times, even though he knew exactly what was coming next. The boys developed a sort of deadpan delivery. The delivery held until the line had been uttered and until the laugh exploded from the audience, the audience being Rick at this rehearsal stage of the game. And then the deadpan vanished, and six mouths opened simultaneously over six sets of gleaming white teeth. False, burlesque smiles burst onto six black faces in a gesture that brought a double laugh following each punch line, one laugh for the deadpan delivery and the meaning of the line, and the second laugh for the simultaneous phony grins that followed the delivery. It couldn’t have been better, and Rick thanked God that Miller had popped in with his angel sextet.

And the boys could sing! With remarkable versatility, they dropped their comic approach when attacking the carols Rick chose. They gave their renditions warmth and sincerity, singing in a harmony they’d obviously developed over a good many years of close friendship. They did “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen,” “Deck the Halls,” “Noel,” and “Silent Night,” and they gave each carol a separate interpretation. Rick saved “Silent Night” as the last number in the show, using the six-foot-two boy — who had the best voice in the sextet — as a soloist on the second chorus, and then hoping the audience would join in on a repeat of the first chorus. As it turned out, the audience did join in on the day of the Christmas Assembly, but Rick didn’t know that until long after the show was over.

He began working harder. He contacted “Ironman” Clancy of carpentry and woodworking, and he told him what he needed in the way of sets. Clancy, having been secretly tipped off about mention of his name in the show, was only too willing to help, especially when his boys would be doing all the work. He designed the sets with the help of Scanlon in Blueprint Reading and Anuzzi in Related Drawing, and his classes dutifully put them together in a matter of days.

It was Lois Hammond who volunteered to make the costumes for the show. Rick’s rehearsals had gradually grown to include the remainder of the cast. The remainder, as it was, consisted of a stock group of twenty-five boys who composed the students in each class Santa and the angels visited, and seven teachers who had volunteered their services, most of them portraying themselves in the show. Rick took a small part because he couldn’t round up any other teachers as volunteers, and that part was played by Alan “Lover Boy” Manners on the day of the show. Rick’s absence making the substitution necessary. Rick’s absence was perhaps fortunate in that “Lover Boy” scored a personal triumph that momentarily caused him to forget his longing for an all-girls’ educational paradise, complete with hot and cold running, willing legs.

As the cast grew, the problems grew because Rick was in charge of scheduling rehearsals, and it was damned near impossible to get everyone together at the same time. He finally resorted to night rehearsals, finding that most of the angels were through with their outside jobs at seven or eight, and scheduling the rehearsals for them at eight-thirty or thereabouts. He had to get parents’ permission for this, and he also ran into trouble with the night school. They themselves had programs planned for the auditorium, but his need was more desperate and so they relinquished the stage to him. It was during one of these late rehearsals, rehearsals which caused Anne Dadier a good deal of torment, torment of which Rick was totally unaware, that Lois Hammond showed up.

She sat out front watching Rick put the cast through its paces, laughing in obvious enjoyment every time the angels opened their unified mouths. Rick was a hard taskmaster, and he stopped the show whenever something wasn’t just right. Lois watched him, watched the way he moved around the stage, watched the way he ran to the back of the auditorium, dashed to the side aisle, ran up onto the stage again, shouted, “Louder, angels!” or “Dip from the knees, George” or “Watch your back, Angostino. We don’t want your back.” She watched him, and she watched the show, but mostly she watched him, and it is difficult to imagine what she thought because her eyes were very careful and hardly anyone detected the heave of her breasts. When it was all over, she waited until the auditorium had cleared, sitting in her seat up front, watching Rick, and watching the boys and teachers depart.

Rick remained on stage, penciling something on his script, checking the lights which one of Lou Savoldi’s classes had thoughtfully rigged for him. Lois watched him, and one corner of her eye watched the auditorium doors whispering shut behind the departing cast, and finally the doors whispered shut after the last member of the cast, and the large auditorium was empty save for Rick on the stage and Lois Hammond sitting down front with her legs crossed.

“It was very good,” she called from her seat, resting her arm on the seat back beside her, sucking in a deep breath, the better to project across the distance that separated them.

Rick, his shirtsleeves rolled up, his tie pulled down, and his collar unbuttoned, looked up, surprised that anyone had remained in the auditorium, more surprised that the anyone was Lois Hammond.

“Oh, thank you,” he said.

“Really very good, Rick,” Lois answered. “You should be quite proud of yourself.”

Rick walked onto the apron and smiled. “Did you really like it?”

“Yes,” Lois said, smiling back. “Wherever did you get those angels? They’re magnificent!”

“Aren’t they though?” he said, very pleased. He closed his script and began rolling down his sleeves.

“Is it all right to smoke?” Lois asked.

“I suppose so,” he said.

“Or don’t you like breaking rules?” she asked. She lifted her eyebrow, cocking it inquisitively, and Rick remembered back to when he’d have considered such a gesture an innocent facial expression. He did not consider it that now. He recognized it for what it was, a not-too-subtle strengthening of the double entendre of her words.

“No,” he said, smiling, “I don’t particularly like breaking rules.”

“Rules were made to be broken,” Lois said softly.

“In that case,” Rick answered, “enjoy your cigarette.” He fastened the buttons on his sleeves, buttoned his collar and slipped up the knot on his tie. He found his jacket draped over a chair on-stage, slipped into it, and then started down the steps.

“Sit down,” Lois said. “Have a cigarette with me.”

“It’s really very late,” Rick said.

“It’s later than you think,” Lois answered, studying him with a penetrating gaze. “Why, Thanksgiving has come and gone already,” she said pointedly.

“Yes, it has,” Rick answered, knowing what she meant, but not playing the game this time.

“I’m trying to figure out my Christmas list now,” she said. “Trying to decide what presents I should give.”

“Oh?” Rick said, lighting a cigarette and leaning against the piano, the piano Martha Riley would pound in accompaniment during the Christmas Assembly.

“I’ve got a really big present to give,” she said, blowing out a cloud of smoke. “A really big one. Do you know, Rick?”

“Did you really like the angels?” he asked, trying to change the subject, not wanting her present, and not wanting to talk about it.

“Very much,” Lois said quickly. “I’ve been wondering when and where I can deliver this present. I’ve got it all wrapped up and ready to go. I just need a time and a place.”

“Why not try Railway Express?” Rick said quietly. “They deliver anything.”

Lois giggled and then dropped her cigarette to the auditorium floor, reaching out for it with a sleek leg in a black pump, crushing it underfoot.

“Do you think I should set the time and place, Rick?” Lois asked, leaning forward, her hands clasped in her lap. “Would that be proper?”

Rick was silent for a moment. He shoved back the sleeve on his jacket then, looked at his watch, and said, “I’ve got to get home. My wife is waiting.”

“Ah, yes, the married man,” Lois said sweetly.

“Ah, yes, the married man,” Rick repeated, smiling.

“Does the married man need a wardrobe mistress?” Lois asked, and Rick wasn’t sure whether or not a double meaning was intended this time.

“You mean someone to make costumes?” he asked.

Lois shrugged. “Yes. What else?”

“He sure does,” Rick answered. “Are you volunteering?”

Lois smiled, but her eyes did not join in the fun. “Seems I’ve been volunteering all night,” she said.

Rick chose to ignore her meaning. “The job is yours,” he said, happily.

“Thanks.”

“I mean, if you want it.”

“I want it,” Lois answered. “Oh yes, I want it.”

“The only real costumes to worry about are the angels,” Rick said. “We can rent the Santa Claus costume, you know.”

“And there’s the root of all the trouble,” Lois said.

“Huh?”

“Angel,” Lois replied, smiling. She stood abruptly, smoothing her skirt over her hips. “Isn’t that it, Rick? Wouldn’t you say so?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Lois,” Rick said slowly.

“Don’t you?” She stepped closer to him and patted his cheek. “Don’t you, Rick? Don’t you really?”

“I’m afraid I don’t,” he said, feeling the warmth of her palm on his face, feeling her closeness.

“Well,” she said. “Well.”

“I’ve got to get home,” Rick answered. He picked up his briefcase from the piano top. “Are you coming?” he asked, and Lois burst out laughing.

He stared at her for a moment, not realizing what was so funny,

“Oh, Rick,” she said. “Rick, you are an absolute doll.”

“Well, thanks,” he said, shrugging.

“Oh, you’re a real doll, a real angel doll. Go home, Rick, for God’s sake, go home.” She laughed again and then said, “Go home to your wife, Rick.”

“That’s just where I was going,” he said, annoyed by her laughter.

“I’ll make your costumes for you, angel doll,” she said. “Six white costumes for your six little angels. I’ll do a very nice job for you, Rick. A very nice job.”

“Well, thanks a lot, Lois. I was...”

“But tell me, Rick, doesn’t this goddamned place sometimes bore you to tears? Don’t you get sick up to here of teaching these stinking little brats all day long, Rick? Don’t you sometimes want to throw that stuffy little briefcase of yours up into the air and not care where the hell it comes down? Don’t you, Rick?”

“I think you’ve got me wrong, Lois,” Rick said, shaking his head. “I’m not...”

“I know you’re not. Brother, do I know you’re not. Okay, Rick, let it go. Just let it go. But will you mind if I’m bored?”

“I can’t...”

“Will you mind if I consider the first day of school the only true piece of excitement we’ve had since I’ve been here? Will you mind that?”

“You mean...”

“Yes, I mean. I mean the time that stupid slob tried to rape me, Rick. That’s exactly what I mean. My God, sometimes I wish he’d succeeded.” She paused and said, “Oh, not really, but damnit, I’m bored. I’m bored silly. I’m so bored... oh, the hell with it.”

“I had no idea you felt that way,” Rick said. “Why’d you go into teaching, Lois?”

“That’s right, steer us back to the academic train of thought. Play the absent-minded professor, Rick. Pretend we’re discussing John Dewey. How the hell do I know why I went into teaching? What else does a girl go into? Biochemistry? Zoology? Geology? Typing and stenography? Why not teaching? Two months’ vacation every summer, and a sabbatical in Italy with the rest of the teachers, cruising down a canal and ogling Venice. Oh, how the hell do I know why I became a teacher?” She paused and turned, leaning over to take a cigarette from her purse, her skirt tightening across her buttocks. She fired the cigarette and said, “But I’m bored, Rick, I know that. I’m bored silly, so now you’ve got a costume mistress, if that’s what you want. That is what you wanted, isn’t it, Rick?”

“It’s what I wanted,” he said.

“The Christmas Assembly is on Wednesday the 23rd,” Lois said. She took the cigarette from her mouth. “Most places have a drink around Christmastime, sort of usher in the holidays. You think we’ll have a drink here?”

“I doubt it,” Rick said.

“I didn’t think we would. So I’ve got an idea, angel. Try it for size, Rick, if it’ll squeeze in under your halo. My idea is that we go out after the assembly and have a drink in a local bar. You can bring a friend along, if you like. How about Solly Klein? We’ll have a drink, and we’ll toast your wardrobe mistress, Rick, okay? We’ll toast her and boredom, and all the angels in the world, and all the sweet wives waiting for those angels to come home to them. We’ll toast everything, Rick. And we’ll toast the present I told you about, and maybe we’ll exchange gifts.” She paused. “How does the idea sound to you, Rick? Flutter your wings a little and let me know.” She paused again. “A sign, yes? Something I can read. Flash a light, angel doll.”

“I took a beating the last time I toasted anything,” Rick said dryly.

“You and Mr. Edwards. The Quitter. Where is the Quitter now, Rick?”

“I don’t know. I suppose he...”

“Or am I offending you? He was your friend, I must remember. But didn’t my invitation include a friend? I’m being a very good little girl, Rick, providing a chaperone and everything. No wife could object to Solly Klein, could she, Rick?”

“Let’s cut it out, Lois,” Rick said suddenly.

“Ah, the sign. There it is, the sign I asked for. Red light. Stop. The mistress remains in the wardrobe.”

“Lois, you’re assuming a hell of...”

“I’m not assuming a damned thing, Rick, not one damned thing, remember that. I read the signs and I obey them if I want to, like smoking a cigarette in this inviolate territory called the auditorium.” She sucked in a long drag, blowing out the smoke in a swift, emphatic stream. “Just like that. I’ve got the sign now, Rick, but it’s not the sign I wanted.”

“Then why the hell don’t we...”

“December 23rd,” Lois said. “What’s today, the 14th? 15th? Well, what difference does it make? It gives you a little time, Rick. A few drinks, a few toasts, a few gifts. A big present. An end to boredom. Oh, for an end to boredom. Oh, but this place is one big cancerous bore!”

“I’m going home,” Rick said.

“Me, too,” Lois agreed. “Me, too. Homeward bound.” She smiled and touched Rick’s arm. “Look Homeward, Angel.”

“Come on,” Rick said roughly.

They started up the aisle together, neither speaking. At the back of the auditorium, Rick snapped off the lights, and Lois was suddenly very close to him, standing so close that he could feel the brush of her thigh against his leg, could feel her breath when she spoke.

“December 23rd, Rick,” she whispered. “An early Christmas this year, and maybe a happy New Year, who knows?”

She leaned forward, expelling her breath, the rush of warm air caressing his face. She tilted her mouth up toward his, and her hand closed on his arm, and in that instant he pushed the auditorium door open and stepped into the brilliantly lighted corridor.

“I’ve got to hurry, Lois,” he said conversationally. “Let me know how you make out with the costumes, won’t you?”

He avoided her as much as possible after that. The cards were all on the table now, face up, and Lois Hammond was not of a mind to play footsie. Lois Hammond was bored with North Manual Trades, and there was nothing like an adventuresome little bout with a married man to relieve boredom. Except that Anne was bored, too, and Anne wasn’t complaining much lately, but he could read her face and he knew damn well she wasn’t enjoying this final stretch of her pregnancy. And whereas it would have been a simple matter to accept Lois Hammond’s present — he had no doubt it would be an interesting package indeed — he would not have been able to live with Anne after that, and worse, he would not have been able to live with himself.

So he avoided her except for brief discussions about the costumes, discussions in which Lois never failed to mention December 23rd and the promise of that future day. She dangled the promise before him like an extended carrot, but he did not nibble at it. There was something confident about her manner, and he wondered how he could have ever considered her a shy, naive little thing. It was almost as if she felt suggestion would accomplish whatever she wanted to accomplish. She used her voice, and she used her words, and she used her body, all bunched together into one powerful suggestive machine, all holding the promise, the glittering promise, a few drinks, a few toasts, a few gifts. A big present.

Rick ignored the promise. He ignored it, but it remained at the back of his mind, and he sometimes examined it secretly. It was like a satchel of bank loot which he’d stored beneath the floorboards of his mind. He knew it was there, but he couldn’t spend it — nor did he particularly want to spend it. And the knowledge that it was there illegally filled him with guilt, even though he had not robbed the bank or placed the satchel under the floorboards to begin with.

Lois Hammond was a master — or a mistress — at the art of insinuation, and she plied that art well until December 23rd became a date to remember, like a birthday or an anniversary. Before she began working on Rick in earnest, December 23rd meant only one thing to him: the day of the Christmas Assembly. It meant more than that now, and he honestly didn’t know whether he was really undecided about accepting her proposition, or whether he was undecided only because she constantly suggested that he was undecided. He’d thought that his mind was made up, made up from that day in The Trades Trumpet office when she’d done a modified strip for him. His resolve had strengthened the night in the auditorium when she’d offered her services as wardrobe mistress. He would have nothing further to do with Lois Hammond. He’d begun avoiding her, but it was difficult to avoid someone like Lois, and now he found himself doubting his own judgment.

She had an annoying knack of making him feel somehow unmanly. Sterile was the word, he supposed. As if he were behaving contrary to all the laws governing the sexual behavior of the human male as reported by, thank you. Dr. Kinsey. As if not accepting the gratuity were abnormal. As if a man with a wife in her ninth month should snatch at this opportunity. As if he were some sort of blind thing that had crawled from under a slimy rock. What’s wrong with you, Rick? No blood? No hormones? No cojones?

Maybe not, he reflected. Maybe the boys in the locker room at the golf club would snicker behind their palms at this creep “who passed up a good thing when it was offered up rare and not under glass. Maybe they would shake their shaggy heads and murmur, “Losing his grip, Dadier is. Shame. Nice chap otherwise.”

Maybe so, and maybe he was being a creep and maybe he had no blood, or hormones, or anything. He doubted that because he heard his blood every night when Anne curled up against him. He heard the blood loud and strong, and his hands passed over her flesh, lingeringly, gently, until he had to stop himself because he knew he was being foolish, and besides it wouldn’t be much longer.

And Anne? He knew she felt nothing now, and he could not blame her for that. And when she soothed him, and when she murmured, “Oh, my poor darling,” he felt somewhat ashamed of himself, as if he should not be feeling desire, not now when she was feeling nothing. She understood, and she helped him, but it was not the same because she was not a participant, and he felt more shamed because sex becomes an empty hollow thing when it is not shared.

But he had blood, all right, and Lois’ intimations that he was a neuter gender textbook insulted his masculinity. He knew that was part of her approach, a buildup which should normally lead to an “All right, you bitch, you’re asking for it!” attack. He saw completely through her, but he still reacted to her approach, and his masculinity was greatly offended whenever she used “angel” as synonymous with “eunuch.”

And at the same time, “angel” — as far as the show went — became more and more synonymous with Gregory Miller.

Miller was the picture of helpfulness. There was nothing he would not do for the show, and his co-operative spirit delighted Rick. The boy did anything that was asked of him, and frequently many things Rick wouldn’t have thought to ask. Like the night Rick stayed over to repaint one of the flats which showed to bad advantage under the amber jells. He’d brought his Navy dungarees and denims to school, changed backstage, and sprawled out on the floor with his paint buckets and brushes, anxious to get the job over with.

Miller drifted in and stood over Rick, watching him for a little while without saying anything. Then, at last, he asked, “You got an extra brush, Mr. Dadier?”

“Why, yes,” Rick said.

“I thought maybe you could use a hand. Otherwise, you be here all night.”

“Help yourself,” Rick said, smiling. “That brush is a little hard, but I think it’ll work.”

Miller picked up the brush and tested the bristles on the palm of his hand. “Be all right,” he said, and then he sprawled out beside Rick and got to work. The job was a tedious one at best. There was no detail work on the flat, and it was simply a matter of spreading a new color in place of the old one. They worked in silence for some time, and then, perhaps because painting is a task which normally encourages conversation, they began talking.

They talked about the show at first, maintaining the stiff formality of a student-teacher relationship. And then, perhaps because they were both in dungarees, and perhaps because they were both working and engrossed in what they were doing, the formality dropped, and they began talking about other things, movies they had seen, teachers and students around the school, the “characters” they both knew, the way Christmas was a special time of the year for both of them, and even — surprisingly — the books Miller had read outside of school, pocket-size editions for the most part, but many of them excellent books.

It was at this point that Rick asked, “How’d you happen to come to a vocational school, Miller?”

“Oh, I dunno,” Miller answered, dipping his brush and slapping the paint onto the canvas. He worked the paint into the material in long strokes and then looked up. “Jus’ like that, I s’pose.”

“Had you considered an academic high school?”

“Yeah, I gave it some thought.”

“I mean...” Rick hesitated, wondering if he should mention the boy’s I.Q., and then deciding against it. “What are you majoring in, Miller?”

“Automotive,” Miller said.

“You want to be a mechanic?”

“I s’pose,” Miller said. He seemed suddenly embarrassed.

“Don’t you?”

“Well, way I look at it, Mr. Dadier, there ain’t much choice.”

“How do you mean, Miller?”

Miller looked up, and there was no malice in his voice when he spoke. “I colored, Mr. Dadier.”

“I don’t understand you,” Rick said.

Miller smiled. “You figure me for a lawyer or a doctor or somethin’? Can’t fool myself like that, Mr. Dadier.”

“Would you like to be a doctor?”

“No, no, nothin’ like that. Don’t misunderstand me. I jus’ don’t... well, you know. I mean, I rather be a mechanic than a elevator op’rator, or a bootblack, or a porter. You follow me? I figure a mechanic always got somethin’ to do, like a skill, and maybe it won’t matter he black or white. Tha’s what I figure.”

“But you’d like to be something... more than a mechanic?”

“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with bein’ a mechanic, I s’pose.”

Rick did not dip his brush. He held it in his hand and stared at Miller. “But you’d rather be something else?” he asked.

“I s’pose.”

“What, Miller?”

“I dunno.”

“But something else?”

“I s’pose.” Miller grinned embarrassedly. “I figured one time I could maybe be a singer, but I ain’t good ’nough for that. Lots of colored folks drift into singin’, you know. Nat Cole, Pearl Bailey, you know.”

“Yes,” Rick said.

“But I ain’t good ’nough for that. I figured on maybe fightin’, too, but I don’t like hittin’ somebody less’n I’m hit first.”

“Well, what would you like to be?”

“I dunno,” Miller said again.

“But not a mechanic?” Rick persisted.

Miller looked up and suddenly asked, “You think this is a good school, Mr. Dadier?”

“Sure I do,” Rick lied.

“Yeah?” Miller said, his brow wrinkled. “You really think that?”

“Yes, I do,” Rick lied again.

“You see, I wunt mind bein’ a mechanic, I mean, if I felt like... like I was learnin’ somethin’. But...” He let his sentence trail off.

“You feel you’re not learning anything here, is that it?”

“I guess so,” Miller said. He thought for a moment and then added, “You don’t hafta be a mechanic all your life, you know. You could branch out, maybe have your own place, a little shop, maybe. You could use bein’ a mechanic like a start, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” Rick said.

“I guess maybe I really did want to be a mechanic when I first come here. History an’ English an’ language an’ all those don’t ’peal to me. Tha’s why I d’in take the tech course. I guess I’m good with my hands.”

“But what you said about being...”

“Well, that too. You got to be sensible ’bout it, and I know a black man got a rough road. It’s easier to be a mechanic, you know.”

“You can’t always take the easy road, Miller,” Rick said.

Miller lifted his eyes. “You ain’t black, Mr. Dadier.”

“I know. And I understand what you’re up against. But black men have...”

“Oh sure, I know. But you got to make your choice, an’ I ain’t no crusader or nothin’. I’m jus’ a guy figurin’ on how he can make a livin’ the best way. An’ I figured I could learn to be a good mechanic here, and a man don’t care if black hands or white hands fixes his brake linin’, so long as the car run. An’, like I said, the mechanic angle can jus’ be a start. A black man could be somethin’ by startin’ his own shop, I mean without havin’ to battle his way all the time.”

“All right, Miller, that sounds sensible. But what’s the trouble? You sound as if you don’t like the idea of being a mechanic, as if...”

“Well, I thought it was a good idea when I first come here, but now I ain’t so sure. You see, if I got to be a mechanic, an’ a black one to boot, I got to be a good mechanic. They plenty white mechanics, an’ a white man goan get preference over a black man less’n the black man’s real good. An’ I jus’ ain’t learnin’ to be a good mechanic here, tha’s all.”

“Why not, Miller?”

“I dunno,” Miller said.

“Aren’t your teachers good?”

“Oh, they okay, I guess.”

“Well, what is it then?”

“I dunno,” Miller said.

“Do you want to learn?”

“Oh, sure,” Miller replied.

“Then what is it?”

“I guess...” Miller shook his head. “No, that ain’t it.”

“What, Miller?”

“Well, nobody else seems to give a damn, you know, Mr. Dadier? In the beginnin’, I tried real hard, but what’s the sense? This ain’t no real school, not like a academic school. This jus’... jus’... I dunno. This jus’ like a... like a big dump heap, tha’s all.”

A garbage can, Rick thought. What chance have we got? Miller believes that, too.

“That’s not true,” he said. “You shouldn’t say that, Miller.”

“Aw, it’s true,” Miller said. “You don’t know, you jus’ here a short while. You’ll fine out, you’ll see.”

This isn’t Miller, Rick thought, this is Solly Klein.

“You mustn’t believe that,” Rick said fervently. “You really mustn’t, Miller.”

“How can you b’lieve no different? You see it, doan you? Hell, I ain’t learnin’ nothin’ here, nothin’ at all.”

“But there are boys who do learn here, Miller,” Rick said, thinking This is crazy, this is an argument with Solly, this is all wrong.

“Yeah, maybe, but I ain’t seen none. All you see is a big screwed-up mess, tha’s all. Nobody even know what’s goin’ on here. Ever’body thinks ever’thin’s jus’ fine, but it ain’t. I’ll never be a mechanic in this place, Mr. Dadier. Ever’body jus’ fools aroun’ here.”

“Including you, Miller,” Rick said.

Miller stared at him for a moment, and Rick thought he would lose contact with the boy right then, thought the conversation would come to a complete halt.

“I s’pose,” Miller said.

“Why, Miller?”

“What else you goan do?” He looked at Rick with honest puzzlement on his face, and Rick wished he could say something immediately to take away the confusion. “You s’pose to work hard when ever’body else jus’ friggin’ aroun’? You s’pose to make a goddamn fool of yourse’f?” He shook his head, and his shoulders seemed to slump. “No, you jus’ go ’long with it, tha’s all. You forget ’bout learnin’, tha’s all. You fool aroun’ an’ have a good time.”

“That’s the easy way, Miller.”

“Tha’s the only way,” Miller said firmly, softly.

“No, Miller, it’s not the only way. You can’t always take the soft way out. Sometimes you’ve got to do whatever’s best, even if it makes things harder. Can’t you understand that, Miller?”

“No,” Miller said, shaking his head, forgetting completely that he was talking to a teacher, “no, I can’t see that. I can’t see anybody takin’ the hard way when the easy way’s open. You got to prove that to me, man. You got to show that to me.”

“I wish I could, Miller. I wish there were some way to show you.”

“There ain’t, man, I’m tellin’ you. You take the easy way, an’ you get along, and you fool aroun’ jus’ like ever’body else, and tha’s it.”

“And you forget about being a mechanic,” Rick said.

“I guess so,” Miller said sadly.

“And what will you be?”

“Somethin’ll turn up,” Miller said. “Things always turn up.”

“And meantime, you’ll just drift with the tide.”

“I s’pose,” Miller said.

Rick wanted to mention the English class, wanted to say something about Miller’s behavior there as contrasted with his behavior connected with the show, as contrasted with his behavior right now, right this minute. He sensed, however, that anything about the English class would be an intrusion here, and so he held his tongue, and they turned back to painting, and he wished he could think of something to say that would show Miller he was wrong about the easy road.

At the same time, he wondered if this talk would change Miller’s conduct in class the next day, and he had a sneaking dread that it would not. He knew that Miller’s line was drawn in indelible ink, and he didn’t think anything as slight as a heart-to-heart talk could hope to erase that line. So they painted in silence, and he tried to think of the correct example, but he couldn’t.

They left the school about nine-thirty, both lighting up cigarettes when they were outside the building. They walked together to Third Avenue, Rick in his street clothes now. Miller still in the dungarees which were his street clothes, his leather jacket pulled up high on his neck.

“I get a train here, Chief,” he said.

“G’night, Miller,” Rick answered. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“G’night,” Miller said.

“And thanks for the help. I appreciated it.”

“Don’t mention it, Chief,” Miller said, and they parted.

The next day, in English 55-206, there was no change in the behavior of Gregory Miller. Gregory Miller took the easy road, and the easy road was the road that raised hell and clowned and didn’t give a damn about learning. And Rick was not disappointed because he was not surprised.

On Friday the 18th, Rick held his first dress rehearsal, and it went off without a hitch. George Katz, his stomach padded, his face bewhiskered, seemed really to acquire the St. Nick personality once he got into the costume, but he never lost his pompous interpretation of the role, so that the character became a cross between a jolly laugh and a request for two lumps of sugar, please. Rick couldn’t have been more delighted with the interpretation. The angels, in costume, were — as Lois Hammond put it — “adorable.” And whereas Rick disliked that particular word, he had to admit it fit them to a T. They wore brass halos, rakishly atilt, held aloft over their heads by a slender brass rod that jutted up from the harness attaching their downy yellow wings to their backs. Lois had done wonders with ordinary household sheets, cutting yoke necks into them, lining the necks with gleaming gold braid, fashioning the sheets into tunics. The tunics had short sleeves, each sleeve edged in gold braid. The skirts of the tunics were edged in the same fashion. The skirts reached to the boys’ knees, and Lois had rounded out the costumes with golden sandals, each sandal sporting a pair of golden wings at the heel.

The picture was humorous as well as pleasing to the eye. The colors blended into a soft harmony: the warm brown of the boys’ skin, the crisp white of the tunics, the metallic yellow of the halos, sandals and gold braid, the softer yellow of the feathered wings. The boys loved the costumes, and Miller beamed broadly and said, “Bet you never thought you’d see me in a angel’s getup, did you, Chief?”

Rick looked at the angel Miller and laughed. “I’ll admit I pictured you in the other place,” he said, reflecting that Miller was always in the other place except during rehearsals.

They ran through the show without interruptions, while Rick took notes. He held the cast for about fifteen minutes after rehearsal, reading from his notes, making general comments about the caliber of the performances, correcting minor points. He told them there’d be two more rehearsals, one on Monday night in street clothes, and a final dress rehearsal on Tuesday night, the 22d. He also added that the show was a humdinger, and they’d all probably receive Broadway offers once it was presented.

Lois Hammond was waiting for him when he dismissed the cast, but he said good-night to her curtly, and then walked out of the auditorium with George Katz and Alan Manners who’d dropped in to see what was going on.

“You’ve really done a wonderful job with this, Dadier,” Katz said as they crossed the schoolyard.

“I had a lot of help,” Rick said modestly, feeling very pleased about the show, hoping it would go over well on the day of the assembly.

“Yes,” Katz admitted, “but you were the guiding force.” He paused, as if he were embarrassed by what he was about to say next. “I imagine you’re a very good teacher, Dadier. The kids seem to like you.”

“Me?” Rick asked, unconsciously using the standard Manual Trades reply. He chuckled in the darkness, wishing Katz’s supposition were true.

“I enjoyed the show a lot, Dadier,” Manners said. “I also enjoyed watching Lois Hammond.” He grinned in the darkness. “You getting some of that, boy?”

“Oh, sure,” Rick said lightly.

“How about seconds?” Manners asked.

“Seconds?” Rick said. “Hell, Manners, firsts are still free.”

“You won’t mind then? If I try?”

“You’re joking,” Rick said.

“I never joke where it concerns a piece of tail,” Manners answered seriously.

“Go ahead,” Rick said. “Hell, go ahead. I...”

“Manners is joking,” Katz said diplomatically. “He knows you’re married.”

“Yeah,” Manners said, “but does Lois know it?”

“Oh, come on,” Katz said, a bit irritably. “I don’t think this is something to joke about. I don’t think so at all, Manners.”

“Agreed,” Manners said. “I notice the lady was sitting alone, so if you’ll excuse me...” He stopped short and then turned on his heel, starting back across the schoolyard.

“Meshugah,” Katz said, wagging his head. “He’ll get in trouble yet, wait and see.”

“I think he can take care of himself,” Rick said.

“He shouldn’t have said what he said,” Katz persisted. “He knows you’re married.”

“Yes, that’s true,” Rick said, almost as if he were affirming the fact in his own mind. He’d been a little annoyed when Manners first started talking about Lois, annoyed because Manners automatically assumed something was going on between them, and then annoyed, irrationally, because Manners was stepping into the picture. For whereas Rick didn’t want her, or if he wanted her he wasn’t having any, thanks, there was something irritating about Manners’ intrusion. A sort of unfair advantage. Rick felt, the predatory bachelor against the... yes, the sterile celibate. But in the short space of time between Manners’ abrupt departure and Katz’s profound observation on the marital state. Rick’s entire outlook had changed.

Are you bored, honey? Tired with your humdrum existence? Feel hemmed in by the jour walls? Long for a life of romantic adventure?

Tell you what I’m gonna do. I have here a pair of eyes that are the biggest. I have here a piner for an all-girls’ paradise, a fancier of the female form, an ankle-ogler, an angle-artist, a lover from away back. Jack. I’m gonna let you have this skirt chaser, this Satan of the Satin Slip. I’m gonna let you have him, and pay close attention here, I’m gonna let you have him free of charge, absolutely free, you spend no money, not one penny, and I guarantee, I guarantee mind you, that this will end your boredom, that this lover boy, that this “Lover Boy” Manners will give you that life of romantic adventure. This Deus Ex Machina, Deus bless him, is the answer to your maidenly prayer, lady, and here he is, classic nose and all, yours for the taking, and Godspeed.

“Damn,” Rick said happily, “things are looking up, aren’t they?”

And George Katz, misunderstanding, nodded his head solemnly and said, “It’s a wonderful show, Dadier.”

12

The day Rick broke through was December 21st, two days before the Christmas Assembly. He would remember that day for a long time, for more reasons than his breakthrough.

His breakthrough was perhaps ironical in that it happened in his first class that day, 21-206, and it happened in a class for which he had prepared no lesson at all. He had meant to work out lesson plans for Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday over the week end, it being a short week terminated by the commencement of the Christmas vacation on Thursday, December 24th.

But he’d got home late on Friday night after the dress rehearsal, and he’d barely had time for coffee with Anne before it was time for bed. He’d spent all day Saturday at being a husband, devoting more time to Anne than he had in the past month. On Saturday night, Ray and Dodie Crane stopped by unexpectedly, with the news that Ray had passed his state boards and could now officially and legally be called Dr. Raymond Crane. Rick had made some comment about how nice it would be having a dentist around, and Ray had promised to give the forthcoming heir free dental care for the rest of his natural days, and then they’d broken out a bottle of rye, mixed some terrible whiskey sours, and proceeded to celebrate.

On Sunday, Anne’s parents dropped by in the afternoon, staying for supper, and consuming the major portion of the evening. Rick never did get to attack his lesson plans.

So on the bus Monday morning, he’d hastily scanned the text, picking out a yarn he thought was titled “The Fifty-First Dragoon.” This is a war story, he thought, knowing a very little bit about dragoons. He had never read the story before, but war stories were sure-fire with these kids, and it seemed like a good bet. He’d read it to them, and then try to lead the conversation around to his own war experiences, and that would, he hoped, kill the period.

He greeted 21-206 with the announcement that he was going to read a story to them, and the kids accepted the knowledge gratefully, always willing to listen to a story being read, if it were a good story, and if the teacher didn’t ask too many damned questions afterward.

Rick opened the text, a book for one of his upper-term classes, cleared his throat, and discovered right off that the story was written by Heywood Broun, a fact he had not gleaned from his hasty scanning of the table of contents on the bus. He also learned that it was not a war story titled “The Fifty-First Dragoon.”

It was, instead, a story titled “The Fifty-First Dragon,” and Rick felt a twinge of panic when he realized it was not a war story.

“The Fifty-First Dragon,” he said, and the kids looked at him with blank faces as he began reading aloud.

The story told of a young knight named Gawaine le Coeur-Hardy who was enrolled at a knight school but who did not seem to exhibit the proper spirit or zest for such knightly pursuits as jousting. In fact, Gawaine’s lack of enthusiasm may very well have been termed cowardice, and the Headmaster and Assistant Professor of Pleasaunce finally decided to take the matter in hand and work out a remedy.

The Assistant Professor wanted to expel the boy, but the Headmaster had a better plan. He would teach the boy to kill dragons.

They began teaching the boy just that. Gawaine studied and learned, and studied and learned, and he progressed from paper dragons to papier-mâché dragons to wooden dragons, and each time he lopped off these dummy dragons’ heads with one expert slice of his ax.

So they gave Gawaine a diploma and the Headmaster called him in for a little talk.

“It’s time to get out there and meet Life,” the Headmaster said, in effect, “and Life, as far as you’re concerned, is dragons.”

The prospect of getting out there and meeting Life did not appeal to Gawaine. So the Headmaster promised something that would help Gawaine in his slaying of dragons. Gawaine hoped this something would be an enchanted cap which would enable him to disappear at will, but the Headmaster scoffed at this, and gave him something better than an enchanted cap.

He gave Gawaine a magic word, and the magic word was Rumplesnitz.

And all Gawaine had to do was repeat the magic word once, and no dragon could possibly hurt him. Well, Gawaine went out to meet his first dragon the next day. The dragon charged at him breathing smoke and fire and Gawaine barely got the word Rumplesnitz out before he swung his ax and lopped off the dragon’s head, thinking it was almost as easy to kill real dragons as it was to kill fake ones.

After that, he went out on every good day, leaving at dawn, and he rarely returned without the ears of another dead dragon. He grew more confident. He would sneeringly say Rumplesnitz and then whoof, swing his ax with his strong arms, and off would come another dragon’s head, and home would come another pair of dragon ears.

And finally, Gawaine — who had taken to drinking at nights in the local tavern — went out after a night of revelry to meet his fiftieth dragon. The dragon shook in his boots because Gawaine’s fame had spread afar. Gawaine walked up to the beast, raised his battle-ax, and then lowered it again. The dragon, knowing Gawaine was protected by an enchantment, asked the fellow what the trouble was. And Gawaine was forced to admit he’d forgotten the magic word.

Well now, this was a fine kettle of dragons.

The dragon, of course, was most helpful. He asked Gawaine if he could possibly help the knight in remembering the all-important magic word. Gawaine could only remember that it began with an “r” but that was all. And so the dragon prepared to eat him.

He charged forward, and Gawaine remembered the magic word Rumplesnitz, but there was no time to say it, there was time only to swing his ax, and by God, off came the dragon’s head, and it went flying some hundred yards, and that was the farthest Gawaine had knocked any dragon’s head before.

Now this was all very confusing. Gawaine had not said the magic word Rumplesnitz, and yet the dragon hadn’t harmed him and he’d sure as hell knocked that head for a whaling good distance. He went back to the knights’ school and explained to the Headmaster what had happened.

The Headmaster admitted the truth. Rumplesnitz was not a magic word, it was Gawaine all along who was killing the dragons. The word just gave him confidence, that’s all, and wasn’t Gawaine glad that he finally knew the truth?

Gawaine wasn’t glad. Gawaine wasn’t glad at all. Why all those dragons he had killed could have devoured him if he hadn’t been just a little faster than they! This was not good. This was not good at all, at all.

Gawaine did not rise at dawn the next day. At noon, he was still in bed, trembling under the bedcovers. The Headmaster and the Assistant Professor of Pleasaunce dragged him out of bed and forced him into the forest where the boy met his fifty-first dragon, having killed fifty to date.

The dragon was a small one.

Gawaine never came back to the school. They found nothing left of him except the metal part of the medals he always wore into battle. The dragon had even eaten the ribbons.

Gawaine’s secret was never revealed, and he went down in the school’s history as a hero. There still hangs a shield on the dining room wall, and fifty pairs of dragons’ ears are on that shield. The legend “Gawaine le Coeur-Hardy,” and the inscription “He killed fifty dragons,” is gilt-lettered onto the shield under the dragons’ ears. The record has never been equaled.

That was the story, and Rick read it well, even though he was reading it for the first time, and reading it aloud at that. He’d tried out for a good many college shows back at Hunter, and he was excellent at sight reading and interpretation.

He was delighted with the story because he had never read it before and it was a new experience to him as well as to the boys in the class. But he was sorry in a way that it was not a war story, because it was decidedly allegory, and allegory was probably far above the heads of these kids, and allegory should be taught only from a carefully prepared lesson plan.

He had no such plan, and he had already read the story, and he faced the unusually silent class and wondered just what the hell he should do next. Allegory with second termers — some of whom couldn’t even write their own names.

“Well,” he said, “that was a pretty good story, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” the kids said, and he could tell they meant it and had really enjoyed it.

“All about a knight who kills dragons, right?” he asked.

“Sure,” the kids agreed. That’s what it was about, wasn’t it? A knight who kills dragons, except he gets killed in the end, a sad ending.

“What else was it about?” Rick asked.

Finley, a kid near the back of the room, said, “He didn’t really kill those dragons.”

“What do you mean, Finley?” Rick asked.

“He was cheatin’,” Finley said righteously. “He had a magic word.”

“What was the magic word?” Rick asked, and the class chorused, “Rumplesnitz!”

“That’s a funny word for a magic word, isn’t it?” Rick asked.

“It wasn’t no magic word,” Bello shouted.

“Wasn’t it?” Rick asked.

“The principal tole him it wasn’t no magic word,” Bello said. “That’s how come he could kill the dragon without sayin’ it. You remember that?”

“Yes, I remember it,” Rick said slowly.

“So it wasn’t no magic word.”

“Yeah, there wasn’t no magic word at all,” Spencer said. “He was just killin’ the dragons his ownself.”

“Now, I don’t understand that,” Rick said, pleased with the response, but not for a second thinking he was going to break through. “If it wasn’t a magic word, why’d the Headmaster give it to him?”

The class was silent for a few minutes, and then Shocken said, “ ’Cause Gawaine was scared. He was a coward.”

“But couldn’t he kill dragons?” Rick asked. “He did kill fifty dragons, and you just told me Rumplesnitz wasn’t a magic word at all.”

“Sure, he killed them,” Finley said. “But he was cheatin’.”

“Was he cheating? Remember now, there was no magic word.”

“So what?” Finley sneered. “He thought there was a magic word.”

“Yes,” Rick said, beginning to get a little excited now, surprised that they had garnered so much from the story, but still not realizing he was on the verge of his breakthrough. “That’s just it. Gawaine thought it was a magic word. And did that help him kill the dragons?”

“Sure,” White said.

“But how?”

“ ’Cause he thought it was magic. He figured I go out there, ain’t nothin’ goan happen to me. Tha’s how come he kill all those dragons.”

“Did Gawaine need the magic word?” Rick asked.

“Sure,” the kids said.

“Why?”

There was another silence, and Rick thought This is the end of it. The party’s over. The response dies now. Now we get the blank faces.

“He need it,” Speranza said, raising his hand.

“Why?”

“He scared of the dragons. If he don’t have the magic word, he run away. This way, he don’t know it’s not magic. He thinks it’s magic, so he feels strong. He thinks he can kill any old dragon and the dragon can’t touch him. That’s why he needs it. Otherwise, he’s a coward.”

“How do you know that?” Rick asked the class.

“Well, once he finds out the word ain’t magic,” Daley said, “he gets et up.”

“And is that why the Headmaster gave him this magic word?” Rick asked, praying the response would continue, feeling that something was happening out there, something he’d never experienced before. The kids were alive today, and he felt their life, and he responded to them the way they were responding to him, both he and the class thrashing out an allegory they had never seen before. “Is that why?” Rick asked.

“That principal, he’s a smart cat,” Davidson said. “He knows Gawaine need something.”

“What does Gawaine need?” Rick asked. “What’s the word for it?” Please, give me the word, he thought. Don’t let me hand it to you on a platter. Please, give.

“What’s the word?” he asked again.

“Con...” Daley started.

“Yes?”

“Confidence,” Daley said triumphantly.

“Ah-ha, that’s it,” Rick said. “Confidence.” He paused and made a sour face. “But that doesn’t seem real,” he said. “I mean, do you really think a word could give someone the confidence he needed?”

“Yeah, sure,” Speranza said belligerently.

“No, I don’t think so,” Rick said.

“Yeah, yeah,” Speranza said. “Sure, it could happen.”

“How?”

“Well... like sometimes I’m scared before we take a test or something, an’ I say three Hail Mary’s, and I feel okay after that.”

“It gives you confidence, is that right?”

“Yeah, sure,” Speranza said.

“But still... a word like Rumplesnitz. I mean, after all, Hail Mary is a prayer. Rumplesnitz isn’t a prayer.”

“I don’t think,” Padres said slowly, “thees word means that. I mean, I don’t think Rumplesnitz ees suppose to be nothing. You know what I mean?”

“Not exactly,” Rick said. He felt hot all at once. He felt almost feverish. He was tense and tight, and he knew now that the kids were really responding, were really discussing this thing the way it should be discussed, were really giving him something, helping him. He didn’t know why, and he didn’t stop to ask why. He just held on and prayed almost, and he heard Padres say, “Thees Rumplesnitz, thees ees a fake, you know? I mean, the Hail Mary, that’s real. Rumplesnitz, it don’t mean nothing. Thees Gawaine, he fooling heemself.”

“How is he fooling himself?” Rick asked.

“ ’Cause there ain’t no magic,” Bello said derisively. “Hell, he coulda killed all the dragons he wanted, Rumplesnitz or no.”

“Yes, then why does he need the word? Are there people like that who fool themselves? Who need magic words?”

“Sure,” Price said. “My brother-in-law’s like that.”

“How so. Price?”

“Oh, he’s a big bull artist, you know. He’s always talkin’ about his big deals, but he ain’t really got no big deals. He’s jus’ a little crumb, you know? But he makes out like he’s a big shot.”

“And is he one?” Rick asked.

“Naw, he’s a crumb. But he talks so much, I think he believes it himself.”

“Like Rumplesnitz, you mean?”

Price hesitated for a moment, and then a smile flowered on his face. “Yeah,” he said, surprised, “like Rumplesnitz. Just like that.”

It was rolling now. It was rolling fast, and the kids out there all had their hands up in the air, and those hands were waving frantically.

“Does anyone else know anyone like that?” Rick asked. “People who fool themselves like that. People who could kill dragons if they tried, but who are too afraid to without the help of magic.”

The kids were squirming because they all had something to say. They didn’t call out because they wanted this lesson to proceed in an orderly fashion. They were enjoying this, and they felt something of the same thing Rick was feeling, and they wanted to express their ideas.

“This guy who pitches for our team,” Finley said, “he got to chew gum or else he can’t pitch. He don’t need the gum. He’s a good pitcher anyway.”

“But that’s superstition, isn’t it?” Rick asked. “Is Rumplesnitz superstition? Is that what Rumplesnitz is supposed to be?”

“No,” Bello said. “No, it ain’t. It’s what gives him the confidence. But it ain’t superstition. That’s different.”

“How so?”

“Superstition is you’re afraid of something. Like black cats or thirteens. Gawaine ain’t afraid of Rumplesnitz. He loves that word. That’s his courage, that word.”

“That’s what he leans on,” Spencer said.

“A crutch?” Rick asked.

“Yeah, that’s it, a crutch.”

“And there are people who need crutches in life?”

“Cripples need crutches,” Finley said.

“Only cripples?” Rick asked. “Was Gawaine a cripple?”

“No,” Theros said, “he was strong.”

“In his body,” Rick said.

“Oh,” Theros said, “you mean maybe like he was crippled in his head. Like maybe ’cause he was scared, he was crippled. Like that?”

“Possibly,” Rick said. “Are there people like that?”

“I know a guy can’t do anything without his mother says okay,” Wilson said. “Like he don’t trust his own... his own...”

“Judgment,” Rick supplied.

“Yeah. But he’s okay. I mean, when his mother ain’t around, he’s fine. He could do things without her. He don’t need her.”

“The way Gawaine doesn’t need Rumplesnitz, right?”

“Right,” Wilson said emphatically.

“A cripple,” Rick said.

“As long as his old lady’s around,” Price said.

“Rumplesnitz, you mean,” Ventro said.

“But I thought this story was all about a knight who kills dragons,” Rick said, delighted now, pleased, almost thrilled. He knew he’d broken through, and his watch told him there were three minutes left to the period, and he wanted to round it out, wanted them to realize that the story said one thing while it meant another. “Was it?”

“Yeah, it was,” Finley said.

“And only that? Just a knight who kills dragons.”

“Well, you could twist it around,” Price said. “Then it becomes everybody, and not just Gawaine.”

“Everybody?” Rick asked.

“Everybody who needs a crutch,” Speranza supplied. “Like in real life.”

“You mean the story has a message?” Rick asked.

“Sure. It tells about fake words, and how you don’t need them. If you’re strong and quick, what you need the phony crutch for? You got it all in you anyway. You can kill dragons, not really, but you could maybe be a good mechanic, like that, you know?”

“Yes,” Rick said, “exactly. And is the story a better one because it tells a second story, because it gives a message, and because it’s not only about a cowardly knight?”

“It’s a good story,” Bello said.

“Yeah, that was a good one,” Price said. “I liked that one.”

“And will you remember the word for a story that tells two stories at the same time, a story that gives a message?”

“Yeah, what is it?” Speranza asked.

“An allegory,” Rick said, and he wrote the word on the board, and someone behind him said, “That was a damn good story,” and then the bell sounded.

He sat at his desk, and the kids crowded around him, and they asked him if there were other stories like that, where you could get something else out of them and not just the story. And one kid thanked him for showing him the second story because he’d only realized the story about the knight, and it was like finding something special, a present you didn’t know was there. And another kid told him about a friend of his who was like Gawaine and had a Rumplesnitz, and another kid asked if Rick would read them another story like that.

And Rick sat there stunned, answering their questions, listening to their stories, thinking I’ve broken through, Christ, I’ve broken through, and watching the kids mill around his desk while the kids in his second-period class filed in, puzzled. And at last the kids left, and he was too stunned to try a repetition of the same story in his second-period class, so he let it go, thinking all the while, I’ve broken through, oh my God, I’ve broken through to them. I’ve reached them.

And when he walked to his Hall Patrol at the end of the second period, he was stopped by kids in his seventh-term classes, kids who said they’d heard about the knight story, and would he teach them the same story. And one kid asked him what this was about Rumplesnitz, and could he learn it? And he was stopped at least a dozen times on his way down to the first floor, and each kid made the same request: teach us about the fifty-first dragon.

He would teach them now, oh God, he would really teach them now because he’d broken through and that was half the battle. He would give 55-206 the same story, and then he would give it to his seventh termers, and everything would be all right.

But he didn’t give it to 55-206, and he didn’t give it to his seventh termers because the messenger found him where he was sitting outside the Students’ Lavatory on the first floor opposite the entrance doors, and the message told him that his mother-in-law had called, and that Anne had been taken to the hospital in labor.

The subway stop was at 77th Street, and he ran up the steps to Lexington Avenue. He turned left on the corner, realized he was heading for 78th, and then changed his course and began walking fast — almost running toward 76th Street. There was a candy store on the corner, and he crossed 77th Street and the big brown bulk of the hospital filled Lexington Avenue between 77th and 76th. Across the street, on the other side of the avenue, he saw the stores, and he watched the stores as he walked rapidly opposite them: the grocery, the luncheonette, the restaurant, another restaurant, a stationery store, and on the corner, a florist. There was a florist on his side of the street, too, on the corner of 76th Street. He turned right at the corner, looking briefly at the big church on the other side of the avenue, and then walking past another candy store, and a toy shop, and a dry cleaner’s, and an electrician’s shop, and then the Einhorn Auditorium of Lenox Hill Hospital.

The green canopy of the hospital reached out for the sidewalk. White letters announced LENOX HILL HOSPITAL, added MAIN ENTRANCE in a sotto voce. The canopy covered the center arch of three arches. Plaques with the address 111 held the walls on either side of the center arch. He mounted the steps and he glanced upward, and the arch over the inner doors was inscribed with the legend ERECTED MCMXXX.

He noticed all these things, and he thought of Anne, and he cursed because it hadn’t happened while he was at home, and he worried about her at the same time, and then he was in the large entrance, and he looked first to the wall on his right, and then spotted the reception desk on his left and walked directly to it. The girl behind the desk was on the phone, and he waited impatiently, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. She put down the phone at last, and Rick said, “Mrs. Dadier.”

“Maternity, sir?” the girl asked.

“Yes, my mother-in-law just call...”

“One moment, sir.” She consulted some papers on her desk, papers he could not see, and then she said, “She is in the delivery room now, sir.”

“How long... I mean... is Dr. Bradley here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Will you let me know... how... how do I find out?”

“The doctor will come down after the delivery, sir.”

“Thank you.”

He stood at the desk for a moment, and the girl smiled sympathetically, and then he turned and walked to the bench on the opposite wall. He sat and jiggled his feet and clenched and unclenched his hands, and when he saw Anne’s mother he almost didn’t recognize her. She came out of one of the arches stemming from the waiting room and walked directly to him, taking his hands.

“You made good time, Rick,” she said. She was a small woman, as blond as Anne was, miraculously blond considering the fact that she was fifty-four and hadn’t once used any tints on her head. She smiled now and held his hands tightly, and he asked, “Is she all right. Mom?”

“She’s fine, darling,” Anne’s mother said.

“I came the minute I got your message. I had to clear it with the office, but...”

“I was in the ladies’ room,” Anne’s mother said, as if she felt some compulsion to explain her recent absence.

“But she’s all right?”

“Yes, she’s fine. She called me the minute the pains started.”

“She should have called me,” Rick said. “I would have...”

“I took a cab,” Anne’s mother said. “I was there in fifteen minutes. I think it’s going to be an easy birth, Rick.”

“How do you know? I mean, how can you tell?” he asked.

“The pains were coming very fast when we got here. Dr. Bradley took her right upstairs.”

“He was here when you arrived?”

“Yes. He’s awfully nice, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” Rick said, realizing he was whispering, and wondering why he was. His mother-in-law sat on the bench beside him, and Rick turned and looked up at the face of the clock in the wall, hanging over the list of names lettered in red and black scroll. He didn’t know what the names were all about, and he was too worried to read any of them. He turned from the clock without having consciously read the time, and then he looked at his mother-in-law and saw the nervousness on her face, too, and envied her for being a woman because she knew what it was all about, and he knew only the worry and the strain and the fear bred of ignorance.

His eyes roamed the room, and he knew he was consciously allowing them to roam, filling the time until Dr. Bradley appeared. He saw the sign TELEPHONES to the left of the entrance doors, and he saw the boards flanking each side of the entrance doors, the boards holding the doctors’ names, and the red in buttons and the black out buttons which flashed a white arrow when the doctor was in the hospital. He was tempted to walk over to the board and see if Dr. Bradley were indeed in, but the girl at the reception desk had said he was in, and his own mother-in-law had said she’d seen him, but he still wanted to walk over there and check. He rose abruptly, and then realized how foolish he was being, but since he was standing he began to pace, and Anne’s mother watched him and said nothing.

The wall opposite the entrance wall had an arch smack in its center. He could see a sign reading EMERGENCY jutting out into the corridor beyond the arch, and he wondered if Anne were considered an emergency, and then he realized that was foolish, too. Benches flanked the arch in that wall, and two windowed doors flanked the benches symmetrically. A water fountain hugged the wall in the left corner, and a high arched window with a bench under it was on the right-angle wall that held the reception desk. On the righthand side of the arch, over the bench there, a bronze plaque and a small sign commanded his attention. He could not read the plaque, but the sign said:

He wondered if Anne would need a transfusion, and he wondered if he should go up to the nth floor and give some blood, and then he reminded himself he was being foolish again, and he wondered why he was being so damned foolish. Women had babies every day of the week. In China, they dropped them in the fields and then picked up their hoes again. But this wasn’t China, and this wasn’t a faceless woman-who-had-a-baby-every-day-of-the-week. This was Anne, this was his wife, and she was up there in the delivery room all alone and there wasn’t a damned thing he could do for her. This was one battle that was all her own, exclusively, and the knowledge left him frustrated because he wanted to help her and he knew he couldn’t.

All he could do was pace under the big chandelier that dominated the ceiling of the room, the ceiling with its ornate circular design. He walked to the reception desk, and then to the glass-fronted case to the left of the desk, where the carefully scripted words Flowers For Sale were lettered onto the wood.

He wanted to buy flowers, but the case was closed, and the Gift Shop (magazines, candies) opposite it was locked tighter than a drum, too. He realized they were both probably open during visiting hours, but this was not visiting hours, so he toyed with the idea of running down to either of the two florists on the opposite corners of 76th Street, and then he thought he’d miss Dr. Bradley if he did that, so he kept pacing, back and forth, back and forth, and then over to the telephone booths, and then to the arch near the telephone booths, across the marbled floor, looking up at the legend on the arch:

He did not read the rest because the “in Loving Memory of” filled him with a sudden dread. He did not know the statistics for women who died in childbirth, though he suspected the figures were very low indeed. But women did die in childbirth and, no, nothing like that would happen, nothing like that to Anne.

He walked back to the bench where his mother-in-law sat, and she said, smiling, “Relax, Rick. It’ll be all right, you’ll see.”

He nodded blankly, looked up at the clock again, thought abruptly of the lesson he’d taught on “The Fifty-First Dragon,” and then switched his thoughts back to Anne and the delivery room.

It couldn’t have been more than ten minutes since he’d arrived at the hospital when he saw Dr. Bradley coming through the arch where the emergency sign hung in the corridor. Dr. Bradley was not smiling, and he looked very tired, and Rick walked to him quickly, seeing out of the corner of his eye Anne’s mother rise from the bench.

Dr. Bradley extended his hand, and Rick took it, and then the doctor smiled, very weakly, like a man who has just swum the English Channel and is too tired to pose for pictures. Rick didn’t ask anything, but his questions were all over his face, and the doctor looked at Rick’s face, and his mouth stopped smiling. He looked very, very tired, and the weariness showed in his eyes and even his mustache seemed limp under the aquiline sweep of his nose. A light sheen of sweat stood out on his forehead, and Rick studied the doctor’s eyes and then said, “Is she all right?”

“Yes,” Dr. Bradley said wearily, smiling again. “She’s fine, Mr. Dadier.”

Anne’s mother was standing beside them now, craning forward like someone who wants to intrude but isn’t sure her intrusion is welcome.

“She’s all right?” Rick asked again.

“Yes, she’s fine.”

“Is it a boy or a girl?” Anne’s mother asked.

Rick saw the pain stab deep into Dr. Bradley’s eyes, and the pain leaped the distance between them and lodged in his own throat like a poisoned dart.

“The baby was stillborn,” Dr. Bradley said softly. “A boy. I’m sorry, Mr. Dadier. The umbilical cord... it sometimes happens and there’s no way of foretelling...” He paused and wiped the sweat from his forehead, knowing that no matter how well he told this, no matter how honest he was, how sincere he was, there would still be doubt, that lingering doubt which silently asked, “But couldn’t you do something?” The doubt which silently accused the obstetrician.

“Around the baby’s throat,” Dr. Bradley said softly. “Intrauterine...”

“The baby is dead,” Rick said, stunned. “Is that it?”

“Yes,” Dr. Bradley answered. Anne’s mother drew in a sharp sigh, and Rick said, “Dead,” dully, and Dr. Bradley said “Yes” again.

“It’s...” Rick started, and then he forgot what he was going to say, and he thought only The baby is dead. A boy. And dead.

“A perfectly healthy, normal child,” Dr. Bradley said. He clasped Rick’s shoulder warmly and said, “You can have others, Mr. Dadier. You’re both young and... I... I know this is a shock, and believe me, I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”

“It’s... it’s all right,” Rick said softly. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“An unfortunate...”

“It’s all right,” Rick said.

“Your wife is doing very well. She...”

“Anne is all right? You’re sure...”

“Yes, she’s fine. I’m awfully sorry, Mr. Dadier. This is always the saddest part of obstetrics, and believe me, I wouldn’t...”

“No, that’s all right,” Rick said too hastily. “Please, it’s ail right. May I see my wife? May I talk to her?”

“She’s a little weak,” Dr. Bradley said, “but she asked for you. I... she... she doesn’t know about the baby yet, Mr. Dadier. I wouldn’t tell her until tomorrow, if I were you. You see, she’s been through a shock and it’s better if we wait. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I understand. May I go to her?”

“I would also suggest that you take her home as soon as possible. It’s not a healthy atmosphere, you understand, being on a maternity ward where the other women...”

“I understand,” Rick said, wanting desperately to see Anne, wanting to see her and to touch her. “Please, may I...”

“Come along,” Dr. Bradley said.

He followed the doctor down the corridor and they waited for the elevator, and he thought The baby is dead, the baby is dead. And then the elevator took them to the fourth floor and he stepped out into a dim corridor, and his heels echoed on the floor, and the high-vaulted ceilings carried the echoes. He waited while Dr. Bradley went inside, and he heard a woman screaming with her labor pains, and then a nurse in a crisply-starched white uniform wheeled Anne out. She lay back on the table with the sheet tucked up under her chin, and the sheet was flat over her stomach, and her head was twisted to one side. Her hair was damp on her forehead, and she smiled weakly when she saw him, and the nurse said, “Not too long now. She needs sleep.”

He took her hand, and she brought it to her chest and held it there, clung to it tightly. He kissed her damp forehead and there were suddenly tears in his eyes for no good reason, and he leaned over the table and held her close, and she pressed her cheek to his and he could feel the tears on her skin also.

“It was terrible, darling,” she said, half-sobbing and half-laughing. “Oh, Rickie, it was really very hard.”

“Do you feel all right?” he asked.

“I feel tired. I feel so exhausted, Rickie, I never knew there could be so much pain. Oh, Rickie, I’m so glad it’s over, so glad.” She laughed sleepily, and then she bit her lip, and the tears came again, unchecked.

“And you feel all right?”

“Just tired, darling. Darling, I want to sleep for a year.”

“All right, honey, you go to sleep.”

“No,” she said, “no, don’t go. Please don’t go yet, Rickie. Wait until they chase you.”

“All right,” he said.

“Did you see the baby?” she asked suddenly.

“Honey, I think you ought to get some sleep. I think...”

“It’s a boy, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it, darling?”

“Yes. Honey, why don’t you...”

“Are you happy, Rick?”

“Yes, darling.”

“I’m glad. I knew you wanted a boy.” She smiled and closed her eyes, and he thought she was asleep for a moment. He made a slight movement away from her, but she opened her eyes and held him tight. “Does he look like you, darling?” she asked.

“I... I don’t know,” Rick said.

“I’ll bet he does. Oh, he was so much trouble, Rick. The little stinker.” She laughed and then said, “Are you happy, Rick?”

He was ashamed of the tears that ran down his face, and he buried his face in her shoulder to hide the tears. “Yes,” he said, “I’m very happy.” He held her closer to him and said fiercely, “Anne, I love you so much, so terribly much.”

“I know, darling,” she said soothingly.

She stroked the back of his head idly, and they were silent for a few moments, and then Rick heard the click of the nurse’s heels on the floor, and her voice said, “We want her to rest now,” gently, because the nurse knew what had happened, too.

“I’ll come tomorrow,” Rick said.

“All right, darling. Take care of yourself, please. Promise. Is my mother here?”

“Yes.”

“Tell her I’m all right, just sleepy. Tell her it’s a boy, Rick.”

“I will.”

“They wouldn’t let me see him. They had to clean him up. Is he big, Rick?”

“I... yes, Anne.”

“You’ll come tomorrow? You will, won’t you?”

“Yes.”

“All right now,” the nurse said gently, “time for bed.”

He leaned over and kissed Anne again, and she clung to him for a moment with a happy smile on her face, and then she leaned back and the nurse wheeled the table down the corridor. He stood under the high-vaulted ceiling, thinking nothing, feeling nothing, empty, empty, drained.

He had not known the boy, not known it as Anne had, had never felt the kicks against his stomach, had never felt the life mushrooming within him. But he felt now a great loss and a great sadness, and he stood alone in the high-vaulted room, and he wanted to say something more to his wife, wanted to share this thing with her, wanted to talk it out. He watched the table wheel out of sight, and he stood there helplessly with the sadness inside him, a weary sadness, a sadness beyond tears. He turned at last and walked toward the elevator, and on the way down to the main floor he did not look at the elevator operator, nor did he hear a word his mother-in-law said on the way home. He thought only of the son he had never known — the son he had lost.

He told Anne the next day.

They’d put her in a private room even though he’d originally arranged for a semi-private one. They felt it would be better for her, alone, without seeing another mother and her infant. When he came during visiting hours, he brought flowers, a gigantic bouquet of roses — which were her favorite — and the nurses oohed and ahhed over the bouquet and then arranged the flowers expertly in a vase beside her bed.

He sat near the bed, and she had prettied herself for the occasion. She was still pale, but her hair had been combed and it framed her face with soft gold, and she had put lipstick on her lips, and she looked very pretty even though she looked very tired.

She shifted her weight uncomfortably after he’d kissed her, and then explained, “I’m on a rubber cushion. They cut you all up, did you know, Rick? To make it easier for the baby to come out. I have stitches down there.”

He smiled with a great effort and said, “They’ll heal.”

“My God, I hope so,” she said, opening her eyes wide.

She chatted about the hospital and about one nurse she didn’t like, and then she asked, “When do I see the baby, that’s what I’d like to know? After all, creation is something...”

“Anne...”

“... I don’t do every other day. The least they could do is...”

“Anne...”

She stopped talking and looked at him curiously, and he knew that she knew in that moment, or at least suspected, or perhaps suspected something worse, a deformed child perhaps, something worse than death could have been.

“What is it, Rick?” she asked, her voice very low, her face resigned. Her hands were clenched against the white sheet, and he knew she was bracing herself for what was coming.

“The baby is dead,” he said quickly, hoping to lessen the pain by saying it quickly. “The cord strangled him. It was nobody’s fault, Anne. It just happens... sometimes.”

She was quiet for a very long time. She did not look at him. She stared at her hands clenched on the white sheet and finally she lifted her head.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “please forgive me, Rick.”

He took her in his arms because she’d begun crying, and he wondered why this had to be a time of tears instead of a time of laughter, but he held her close and felt the sobs wracking her body.

“I’m sorry,” she kept repeating, “oh, Rick, please, please forgive me.”

“Honey, honey, don’t be silly. It was something...”

“Rick, forgive me,” she sobbed, “darling, darling, please forgive me.”

“Anne,” he said desperately, wanting her to stop crying, wanting to comfort her and not knowing how, “we can try again. We’re young,” he said, unconsciously repeating Dr. Bradley’s words. “The baby was healthy and normal, honey. It was just an accident, just...”

“And you’re not angry with me, Rick? Rick, please say you’re not angry. Please.”

“I’m not angry, darling. How could I be angry? Honey, I’m happy I’ve got you, that’s all that counts. Sweetheart, I don’t know what I’d do without...”

“Rick, I feel so ashamed of myself. The things I thought about you, and now this, I can’t even give you a baby right, Rick, I’m so sorry and so ashamed, Rick.”

“Come on now, Anne. Come on, honey, it’s all right. Believe me, it’s all right, Anne.”

“You do love me, Rick? Rick, do you love me?”

“You know I do, Anne.”

“Say it, Rick.”

“I love you, darling.”

“Even after what I thought? About those stupid notes, and Lois Hammond? Rick, I’m so ashamed I could die. Rick, please...”

“What notes, darling?” he asked gently.

She told him about the notes then, and he listened, and a tremendous hatred attacked him for a moment, a hatred for the unknown note-sender, but the hatred disappeared because he could not afford the luxury of hate now, and because the honest emotion inside him was something that hatred would never understand.

And when it was all over, when she’d purged herself of the doubt and the suspicion and the fear, she said, “Hold me, Rick. Hold me close, darling,” and he tightened his arms around her and he murmured, “There’s never been anyone but you, Anne,” almost to himself, not even sure she’d heard him.

“We will try again, Rick,” she said, “if you can forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive.”

“The notes...”

“Forget them. Some bastard...”

“We’ll forget them,” she said.

“Yes.”

“And we will try again, Rick? You want to try again?”

“Yes, darling.”

“I do, too.”

They were silent then. They held hands, and they could hear the sound of laughter down the corridor, and they said nothing to each other. He thought again about the loss of the boy, and he didn’t know what he felt exactly, except this emptiness within him. He could imagine how Anne felt, because she had been the one who’d had the baby growing inside her, feeding on her blood, a part of her, and now to lose it. He kept listening to the laughter from down the hallway, and he realized Anne was listening to the laughter, too, and because he wanted to take her mind off it, he began talking, and he told her about the school, and he told her about “The Fifty-First Dragon,” but he did not tell it well because it didn’t seem to matter so much now.

She listened, and she was pleased, but he could see that she was still thinking about the baby she had lost, and he knew that they would neither of them ever forget their first experience with childbirth, even if they lived to be a hundred and had two dozen kids. So he kept talking until it was time to go, and then he kissed her and left her with her own thoughts about the boy, and he wandered down to the elevator trying not to hear the proud fathers everywhere around him.

He walked out into the street, knowing he should go home, not wanting to go home, not knowing what to do with himself. He wondered if he should go back to school the next day, realizing the next day was Wednesday, the 23rd, the day of the Christmas Assembly, knowing he should be there, but not much caring whether he went there or not, except that it would keep him occupied and give him something to do. He finally went home, and when he spoke to Dr. Bradley on the phone that night, the doctor advised taking Anne out of the hospital the next day because there would be a lot of visitors for the holidays, and he did not want to risk undue depression.

So Rick stayed out of school all day Tuesday, and he stayed out of school on that Wednesday, too, missing the Christmas Assembly completely, not knowing (and not caring, anyway) that Alan Manners filled in with his small part, not knowing that Alan Manners shared the few drinks, the few toasts, the few gifts, the big present with Lois Hammond after the assembly.

And not knowing that there was another present and that this present had been purchased for Rick by the cast of the show, and that Gregory Miller had personally supervised the collection of funds and the selection of the gift which was a black-and-gold-striped necktie.

Nor did he know that the boys had prepared a little skit of their own to accompany the presentation of the gift, or that they had — on a sudden whim — given the present to George Katz because Rick was not there and they hated to see the gift go to waste. Miller had protested strongly, wanting to hold the gift until after the holidays when Rick would return to school. But the boys voted him down, saying they’d get another gift and hadn’t Katz been a real nice Santa Claus, perhaps sincere in their desires to get another gift after the holidays, but never fulfilling their promise once the assembly had been forgotten.

Rick did not know anything about this, and he couldn’t have cared less. He was vaguely aware of the fact that he had finally broken through in one of his classes, and he felt things would be easier when he went back to school, but he didn’t think much about school now.

He took Anne home from the hospital on Wednesday the 23rd, and he didn’t think about anything but her on that day.

He didn’t go back to Manual Trades until January 4th, when the Christmas vacation was over, and by the time that Monday rolled around, everyone in the school had completely forgotten “The Fifty-First Dragon.”

It was almost like greeting his classes again for the first time. It was almost like a beginning.

It was almost exactly like starting from scratch.

13

The door to Room 206 was locked when Richard Dadier reached it for his fifth-period English class on January 15 th. He tried the knob several times, peered in through one of the glass panels, and motioned for Santini to open the door. Santini, sitting in the seat closest to the door, shrugged his shoulders innocently and grinned his moronic smile. Rick felt a sudden flow of anger, and then the anger gave way to the revulsion he always experienced lately before stepping into a classroom. He wondered briefly if Josh had felt this way, if Josh had...

Easy, he told himself. Easy does it.

He reached into his pocket for the large key, and then slipped it into the keyhole. Swinging the door open, he slapped it fast against the prongs that jutted out from the wall, and then walked briskly to his desk. A falsetto voice somewhere at the back of the room rapidly squeaked, “Daddy-oh!”

Rick busied himself with his Delaney book, glancing around the room, flipping cards over as he took the attendance. Half were absent as usual. He was secretly glad. He was always grateful for the cutters now, because the classes were easier to handle in small groups.

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

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

“Shut up!” he bellowed, thinking I’m beginning to sound just like Halloran.

The class groaned into silence, startled by the outburst.

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

“Assignment for tomorrow,” he said flatly.

A moan escaped from 55-206, and Miller, an engaging grin on his face, said, “You work too hard, Mr. Daddy-oh.”

The name twisted deep inside Rick, and he felt the tiny needles of apprehension start at the base of his spine. So that’s it for today, eh, Miller? he thought. Today you draw the line at Daddy-oh. Today you call me Daddy-oh and break my back that way.

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

“In what?” West asked.

I should have known better. Rick reminded himself sourly. We’ve only been using the book since the beginning of the term. I can’t expect them to remember the title. No.

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

“Here in class?” West asked.

“No. At home.”

“Christ,” West mumbled.

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

“Whut page?” Miller called out.

“Two seventy-five.”

“What page?” Levy asked.

“Two seventy-five,” Rick said. “My God, what’s the matter with you?” He turned rapidly and wrote the figures on the board in a large hand, repeating the numerals slowly. “Two, seventy, five.” He heard a chuckle spread maliciously behind him, and he whirled quickly. Every boy in 55-206 wore a deadpan.

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

“Another one?” Miller asked lazily.

“Yes, Miller,” Rick said, “another one.” He glared at the boy heatedly, thinking Don’t start up with me today, Miller. Just don’t, that’s all. Miller grinned back engagingly, safe behind the secure comfort of the arbitrary line he’d drawn. Goddamn you and your goddamned line, Rick cursed silently.

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

A hush fell over the class.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who’s our subject teacher?” Belazi asked. His face expressed complete bewilderment, but he could not quite hide the smile there.

“Mr. Daddy-oh,” West said quite plainly. He sat in his seat next to Miller, his stringy blond hair hanging over his pimply forehead. An insolent smile perched on his mouth, and Rick looked at the smile and at the hard luster of West’s eyes, and then he turned his attention to Belazi.

“Mr. Dadier is the subject teacher,” he said. “And incidentally, Whoust,” he glared at West, “anyone misspelling my name in the heading will lose ten points.”

“What!” West complained, outraged.

“You heard me,” Rick snapped.

“Well, how do you spell Daddy-oh?” West asked, the smile curling onto his mouth again.

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

“Don’t worry, teach, I can spell your name all right,” West said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He cursed himself for having pronounced the boy’s name correctly, and then he cursed Miller for simply being Miller. He remembered the day he’d come back, after the Christmas vacation. He remembered Miller stopping him in the hallway and telling him he’d heard about the baby and was sorry. He’d stared at the boy and tried to combine both halves of his character: the half that could be an angel in a Christmas show and could express concern over the death of Rick’s son, and the half that raised hell in the classroom. He had given it up as a sorry task, had thanked Miller for his sympathy, and then left the boy. He knew what to expect from Miller now. Even after the show, and especially after the long talk he’d had with the boy. The easy road. That was what he would get. And the easy road was the hell-raising road, the one-of-the-boys road. And I’m taking the same goddamned road, Rick thought bitterly.

He sighed and made himself comfortable at the desk, and then he looked out over the class.

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

Bastard, Rick mused. Even I call them that now. All bastards, all the time. I must tell Solly Klein I’ve succumbed. I must take Solly aside someday and say, “Solly, old boy, you were right. This is the garbage can of the educational system.” Hell, even Miller recognized that. And then I must admit that I’m doing nothing more than sitting on the lid. And then I must look up Josh Edwards, wherever the hell he is, whatever the hell he’s doing, selling shoes, washing automobiles, and I must tell him. I must say to him, “Josh, I’m a fake. You were the brave one. Josh, and I’m just a goddamned fake. It’s I who’s the coward, Josh.”

But when did I give up, he wondered, when did I start taking the easy road, Miller’s easy road? Or have I given up? Yes, I’ve given up. No, I haven’t.

But I have, I have. And when? When the baby was born, when my son was not born. Before that? No, before that was “The Fifty-First Dragon,” and oh what a lesson that had been, God what a lesson that was. Just give me a lesson like that once a week, just once a week, that’s all, and I’d teach for the rest of my life. I’d take all the crap all the Millers and Wests in the world have to hand out, I’d let myself be called on the carpet everyday by all the Smalls alive, if only I could reach them like that once a week, just once a week. Or if one kid, just one kid that’s all, one kid got something out of it all. If I could point to one of these bastards and say, “I showed him the way,” if I could only do that, but who have I shown?

I’ve shown no one. It’s a big laugh, all right, but I’ve shown no one. And after all my big talk to Miller, all my big talk about hard roads and easy roads, with Miller wanting to be shown, and I couldn’t even show him. It’s Miller who’s shown me. It’s Miller who offered the easy road, join the crowd, fool around, play around, be a fake. Miller showed that to me, and I took it, and now we’re both on the easy road, a fake student and a fake teacher. But how can I blame myself?

They’re all the same, just the way they were when I first started, not changed one goddamned bit. But am I to blame?

Yes, you’re to blame, all right. You’re to blame because somewhere along the line you stopped trying. And you can say it’s because you don’t give a damn anymore, and you can say you’ve got your own headaches, but you still stopped trying. When Josh Edwards stopped trying, he also stopped teaching. He gave it up, and that was the honest thing to do, but you’re not honest. You’re filling the chair, but you’re not filling the job. You’re taking the easy road, and I’m glad I don’t have to live with you.

There are a lot of guys taking the easy road, Rick thought, but I never thought I’d be one of them, but I’m certainly one of them now, and that’s a hell of a thing to admit. The shining example, the one who was going to show Miller all about the hard road, and Miller’s skin is black, by Christ, he was born with a hard road, and yet you blamed him for taking the easy road that time you talked with him, even though you couldn’t explain the hard road, even though you still can’t explain it, especially not now when you’ve succumbed to the bastards.

Bastards again. All right, bastards.

They’re all rotten, and they’re all bastards, and I agree with Solly Klein now, and I should have seen it in the beginning, Solly, for you are all-wise, Solly, and you know all about baseballs crashing into blackboards alongside your head, and you know all about this machine that won’t run no matter what you do to it — no it’ll run but it won’t produce. You know all about this big goddamned treadmill with all its captive rats scurrying to get nowhere, scurrying to get right back where they came from. You know all about it, Solly, and you tried to tell me but I wouldn’t listen because I was the Messiah come to teach. Except even a Messiah wouldn’t be heard in this dump.

So why the hell bother? Why should I teach? Why should I get ulcers?

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

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

“All right, Belazi,” Rick said suddenly. “Bring your paper up. I’m subtracting five points from it.”

“Why? What the hell did I do?” Belazi shouted.

“Bring me your paper.”

Belazi reluctantly slouched to the front of the room and tossed his paper on the desk. He was a big boy with a sinewy, big-boned frame, and he stood with his thumbs looped in the tops of his dungarees as Rick marked a large — 5 on the paper in bright red.

“What’s that for?” Belazi asked.

“For having loose eyes.”

Belazi snatched the paper from the desk and examined it with disgust. Rick stared at the boy, remembering his first meeting with 55-206, and his announcement that they’d be making a trip to the bookroom. Belazi had piped, “Is this trip necessary?” A wise guy as well as a cheat. Rick thought. Oh, the hell with them all. Belazi wrinkled his face into a grimace and slowly started back to his seat.

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

“What?” Rick asked.

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

“Yes, West. What did you just say?”

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

“Bring me your paper, West.”

“What for?”

“Bring it up!”

“What for, I said.”

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

“Aw, bring him the paper,” Miller said, smiling good-naturedly.

“What the hell for?” West said to Miller. “What the hell did I do?”

“Go on, Artie,” Miller said easily, “bring him the paper.”

“I don’t see why I should,” West persisted, the smile gone from his face now.

“Because I say so, that’s why,” Rick said tightly.

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

“Look, Artie,” Miller said. “Why...”

“Keep out of this, Greg,” West snapped. “Just keep the hell out of it, understand?”

Miller’s eyes opened wide in surprise, but the smile clung to his mouth. The other boys in the room were suddenly interested. Heads that were bent over papers snapped upright. Rick felt every eye in the class focus on him.

They were rooting for West, of course. They wanted West to win. They wanted West to defy him, like that time he’d threatened to piss all over the floor. Rick couldn’t let that happen.

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

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

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

“Get up, West.”

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

“Hey, Artie,” Miller said, “whuffo you...”

“Get up, West,” Rick interrupted. “Get up and say my name correctly.”

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

Rick’s hand snapped out and grasped West by the collar of his shirt. He pulled him to his feet, almost tearing the collar. West stood an inch shorter than Rick, squirming to release himself.

Rick’s hand crushed tighter on the collar. He heard the slight rasp of material ripping. He peered into the hateful eyes and spoke quietly. “Pronounce my name correctly, West.”

The class had grown terribly quiet. There was no sound in the room now. Rick heard only the grating of his own shallow breathing. Alongside West, his eyes wide, the smile gone from his face now. Miller sat and watched.

I should let him loose. Rick thought. What can come of this? How far can I go? Let him loose!

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

“You heard me.”

“Fuck you, Mr. Daddy...”

Rick’s hand lashed out, slapping West squarely across the mouth. He felt his fingers scrape against hard teeth, saw the blood leap across the upper lip in a thin crimson smear, saw the eyes widen with surprise, and then narrow immediately with deep, dark hatred.

And then the knife snapped into view, sudden and terrifying. Long and shining, it caught the pale sunlight that slanted through the long schoolroom windows. Rick backed away involuntarily, eying the sharp blade with respect.

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

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

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

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

“Give me that knife, West,” Rick said.

“Come on, Artie,” Miller put in softly. “You jus’ bein’...”

“Give me that knife, West,” Rick repeated.

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

“Come and get it, Daddy-oh!” West yelled.

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

And suddenly, he caught a flash of color out of the corner of his eye. Someone was behind him! He whirled instinctively, his fist smashing into a boy’s stomach. The boy brought up his head, and Rick struck again, and he suddenly realized it was Belazi, the kid who’d been caught cheating. Belazi dropped to the floor and cramped into a tight little ball that moaned and writhed on the hard wood. Rick looked at him for just an instant, satisfying himself that any danger he might have presented was past. He turned quickly to West, a satisfied smile clinging to his lips.

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

He stared into the boy’s eyes. West looked big and dangerous. Perspiration clung to his acneed forehead. His breath was coming in hurried gasps.

“Give it to me now, West, or I’m going to take it from you and beat you black and blue.”

He was advancing slowly on the boy.

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

The class seemed to catch its breath together. No one moved to help Belazi who lay in a heap on the floor, his arms hugging his waist. He moaned occasionally, squirmed violently, but no one moved to help him. West backed away from Rick, and Rick moved forward, passing Miller’s seat. Miller sat on the edge of his chair, his hands clenching the desk top tightly. Belazi moaned again on the floor.

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

“Hand it over, West. Hand it over.”

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

“Come on, you stupid bastard,” he said. “Come on, stupid. Come and get the knife. Come on, you dumb jerk, come and get it.”

Rick wet his lips and watched the knife, and West paused suddenly and searched Rick’s face. He grinned again and began speaking softly as he advanced, almost in a whisper, almost as if he were thinking aloud.

“See the knife, Mr. Daddy-oh? See the pretty knife? I’m gonna slash you up real good, Mr. Daddy-oh. I’m gonna slash you, and then I’m gonna slash you some more. I’m gonna cut you up real fine, you bastard. I shoulda done this right from the start. I shoulda realized you was too stinkin’ dumb to take a hint, Daddy-oh. Come on, you sonofabitch. Come on and taste this friggin’ knife.”

The chair, Rick suddenly remembered. There’s a chair. I’ll take the chair and swing. Under the chin. No. Across the chest. Fast though. It’ll have to be fast, one movement. Wait. Not yet, wait. All right, West. All right. All right.

“Ever get cut, Mr. Daddy-oh? Ever get sliced with a sharp knife? This one is sharp, Mr. Daddy-oh, or are you too stinkin’ dumb to know that? You ever stop to figure who bitched you up with Mr. Small, Daddy-oh? You ever stop to figure that, you dumb prick? You didn’t, huh, Daddy-oh? You didn’t figure it, huh?” Hypnotically, advancing, closer and closer, his voice a whisper, his eyes gleaming hotly.

West, Rick realized. West. Not Miller. West. West, Westwestwest. West was the one. West told Small. West complained. Oh God, it was West.

“I shouldn’ta played games, Daddy-oh,” West said. “Your kind only understands a knife in the ribs. Well, you gonna get it now, you bastard. And then you’re never gonna bother us no more. No more.” He smiled and advanced, and Rick backed away down the aisle. “Your wife get them notes, you bastard? Richard Dadier, 1935 East 174th Street. Straight from the phone book, you dumb bastard. Stop me from taking a piss when I have to, huh? I shoulda come there in person. I shouldn’ta played games with notes and complaints. I shoulda come to your house and give you the knife right then, right in your friggin’ ribs.”

Anne, Rick thought. Oh the sonofabitch. Oh, you sonofabitch. West, you dirty maggoty bastard. So it was you. So you were the rotten little bastard who did it. You, West. He backed away down the aisle, and his thoughts were jumbled. He thought of the notes, and of West typing them up someplace, simple notes, oh the sonofabitch, and he thought I’ll make him think I’m retreating. I’ll give him confidence. The empty seat in the third row. Next to Maglin. I’ll lead him there. I hope it’s empty. Empty when I checked the roll. Thank God for Delaney books. I can’t look, I’ll tip my hand. Keep a poker face. Come on, West, follow me. Follow me so I can crack your ugly skull in two. One of us goes, West. And it’s not going to be me.

“Nossir, Mr. Daddy-oh, no more games. I’m through with games now. And I’m through with your tests, and all your goddamn noise. Just your face, Mr. Daddy-oh. Just gonna fix your face so nobody’ll wanna look at you no more.”

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

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

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

“You shouldn’ta hit me, Mr. Daddy-oh,” West mocked. “Ain’t nice for teachers to hit students like that, Mr. Daddy-oh. Nossir, it ain’t nice at all. Not at...”

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

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

“Here, you dirty bastard!” and West turned his head and shouted, “Greg! The knife! Get the knife!”

The knife. Rick suddenly remembered! Where’s the knife? What the hell happened to...

Sunlight caught the cold glint of metal, and Rick glanced up instantly, expecting to find Miller there, expecting West’s friend. Belazi stood over him, the knife clenched tightly in his fist. He grinned idiotically, his lips parting over rotten teeth. He spat vehemently at Rick, and then there was a blur of color: blue steel, and the yellow of West’s hair, and the blood on West’s lip, and the brown wooden floor, and the gray tweed of Rick’s suit. A shout came up from the class, and a hiss seemed to escape West’s lips.

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

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

The noise grew louder and Rick grasped in his mind for a picture of the Roman arena, tried to rise, felt pain sear through his right arm as he put pressure on it.

He’s cut me, he thought with panic. Belazi has cut me.

And the screaming reached a wild crescendo, hands moved with terrible swiftness, eyes gleamed with molten fury, bodies squirmed, and hate smothered everything in a sweaty, confused, embarrassed embrace.

This is it, Rick thought. This is really it.

“Lee him alone, you goddamn fool!” Miller was shouting.

Leave who alone. Rick wondered. Who? I wasn’t...

“Lousy sneak,” Levy shouted. “Lousy, sneaky bastard.”

Who, Rick thought. What...?

Miller seized West and pushed him backward against a desk. Rick watched him dazedly, his right arm burning with pain. He saw Morales through a maze of moving, struggling bodies. Morales who’d delivered the profane wire-recorder speech, saw Morales smash a book against Belazi’s knife hand. The knife clattered to the floor with a curious sound. Belazi’s hand reached out for it and Santini, the smiler, stepped on it with the heel of his foot. The knife disappeared in a shuffle of hands, but Belazi no longer had it. Rick stared at the bare, brown spot on the floor where the knife had been.

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

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

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

Belazi scrambled to his feet and lunged at him. A solid wall seemed to rise before him as Carter and Antoro flung themselves against the onrushing form and threw it back. They tumbled onto Belazi, Carter’s red hair flashing wildly, holding Belazi’s arms, pummeling him with excited fists.

They’re fighting for me! No, Rick reasoned, no. But yes, they’re fighting for me! Against West. Against Belazi. For me. For me, oh my God, for me.

His eyes blinked nervously as he struggled to his feet. Belazi and West were subdued now, and Rick looked at them briefly and then said, “Let’s... let’s take them down to Mr. Small.” His voice was very low.

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

“Man, that’s some cut,” he said.

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

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

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

For an instant. Rick felt a twinge of panic. For that brief, terrible instant he imagined that the boys hadn’t really come to his aid at all, that they had simply seen an opportunity for a good fight and had seized upon it. And then he remembered whose voice he had heard first, the voice shouting, “Lee him alone, you goddamn fool!” He looked among the crowd of faces around him, and he found Miller, and their eyes met, but he could read nothing on Miller’s face.

“I... I think I’d better take them down to Mr. Small,” he said. He stared at the boys, trying to read their faces, trying mostly to read Miller’s unsmiling face, searching for something in their eyes that would tell him he had at last reached them, reached them in a different way than “The Fifty-First Dragon” had. He could tell nothing. Their faces were blank, their eyes emotionless.

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

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

“That sure is a mean cut,” Kruger said, and Miller watched and said nothing.

“Yeah,” Rodriguez agreed.

“You can all go to lunch,” Rick said. “I want to take Belazi and West...”

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

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

“A hell of a mean cut,” Taglio said.

And then Miller came out of the circle of faces, and he stepped forward, and he chose his words very carefully, and his face was very serious. “Maybe we should jus’ forget the principal, Chief, huh?” he said. “Maybe we should jus’ oughta go to lunch.”

Rick looked at Miller, and again their eyes met. He did not pretend to understand. He knew only that West had stepped over the line Miller had drawn, and Miller had been presented with a choice. He could either step over the line with West, or he could help in shoving West back over that line. He had chosen to help Rick. He had fought for him, and now the fight was over, and through some unfathomable code of his own, he was now turning on Rick again.

Or was he?

There was something strange in Miller’s eyes, and the smile that usually dominated his face was not there now. His eyes were inquisitive and his entire body seemed to strain forward, tensed, waiting. He did not take his eyes from Rick’s face, and those eyes pleaded, pleaded with a mute intensity. Rick stared at him, and he did not understand at first, and then abruptly he realized that Miller had not chosen the easy road when he’d joined the fight against West. Miller had made a choice, and for once that choice had led him down the hard road.

And now there was another choice, and Rick weighed it carefully, and his eyes held Miller’s in the ring of faces around him. It would make things a hell of a lot simpler if he just sent all the kids to lunch and forgot all about Belazi and West. It would make things simpler the way things would have been vastly simpler had he not interfered in that rape so long ago. It would be easy, so easy to say, “All right, let’s just forget all this,” and then go back to teaching the way he’d come to teach lately. It would be easy, very easy, because the kids would all have had a good fight, and Dadier would have shown himself to be a fine guy by forgetting all about it and not getting Belazi and West in trouble. So easy.

The kids crowded around Rick and Miller, and West was smiling broadly, insolently, and everyone was very quiet, and they waited. They had heard what Miller suggested, and now they saw Rick and Miller staring at each other, and they did not know that one was deciding and the other was waiting for that decision. They themselves waited, but they did not wait the way Miller waited, and they did not know Rick was making one of the hardest decisions he’d ever had to make in his life.

When Rick finally spoke, he addressed Miller. He did not speak sternly or harshly or reprimandingly. He did not shout, and he did not whisper. He said it in a normal, conversational tone, and he looked directly at Miller when he said it, and he might have been discussing something entirely different, he might have been someone working at a bench alongside Miller’s who was simply explaining a job that had to be done.

He said, “I’m taking them down, Miller,” and Miller said nothing, and then Rick added, “I have to.”

Miller continued to stare at him for a moment, and the circle of faces seemed to blur together, and Rick wondered if he’d made the wrong choice. And then one of the faces broke into a smile, and that face was Miller’s, and Miller said, “Sure, Mr. Dadier.” And then he shouted, “All right, goddamnit, le’s break this up.”

The circle held for just a moment, and Rick shoved Belazi and West ahead of him, not knowing whether to expect resistance or not. But the boys parted to let him through, and Rick walked past them with his head high.

He was not surprised to hear a voice behind him pipe in a high falsetto, “Oh Daddy-oh! You’re a hee-ro.”

But a second voice shouted, “Oh, shut yo’ goddamn mouth!” and Rick smiled as he stepped into the corridor with Belazi and West ahead of him. He remembered what he’d thought earlier, before the fight, remembered what he’d thought about just one kid, one kid, that’s all, one kid getting something out of it all, one kid he could point to and say, “I showed him the way,” and that would make it all right, if he could only say that.

And so the smile mushroomed all over his face, and he walked down to Small’s office, smiling all the way, smiling happily because the second voice he’d heard had belonged to Gregory Miller.

14

Solly Klein stood near the bulletin board in the teachers’ lunchroom and pointed a stubby forefinger at the school page of the World-Telegram-Sun.

“Another list of names,” he said. “All the suckers who passed the elementary school exam this time.” He shook his head, tapped the tacked page with his finger, and then walked back to the table. “They never learn,” he said. “They get sucked in every year.”

“The way you got sucked in,” Lou Savoldi said, looking up from his tea.

“I got sucked in, all right,” Solly answered. “Had I known what...”

“Had I but known,” George Katz said, smiling. “Ah, had I but known.”

“Read your history book,” Solly said.

Rick, entering from the stairwell behind the gym, stopped at the refrigerator in the kitchen, opened the door, and looked inside for his container of milk.

“I’ve got the milk, Dadier,” Manners called from the table.

Rick nodded, closed the door, and then walked into the dining room.

“Look at all the happy faces,” he said, smiling.

“We ought to get two containers from now on,” Manners said. “I’ve almost finished this one.”

“You’re a greedy pig,” Rick told him.

“I can’t help it,” Manners said apologetically. “I like milk.”

“The trouble with you,” Katz said humorously, “is that you were weaned too early.”

“I was never weaned,” Manners answered slyly. “There’s nothing I like better than the breast.”

“You owe me money on that container,” Rick said. “And you haven’t paid me for yesterday’s yet, either.”

“Wait until payday,” Manners said. “I’m a little short.”

“High finance at Manual Trades,” Solly said sourly. “A bunch of bankers. What’s the bill come to now, Dadier? Twelve cents?”

“Twelve cents is a lot of money today,” Savoldi said.

Rick smiled. “As a matter of fact, it’s twenty-six cents. Milk went up.”

“Twenty-six cents is a lot of money today,” Savoldi said sadly.

“Just endorse your paycheck over to him, Manners,” Solly said. “That should just cover the debt.”

“He thinks he’s being funny,” Savoldi said, indicating Solly with a sideward movement of his head.

“Who me?” Solly asked. “There’s nothing funny about this dump, nothing. Except The Boss. He’s a riot.”

“He’s not a bad fellow,” Katz said.

“He’s a prince,” Solly said dryly.

“No, really. He’s not bad at all.”

“I said, didn’t I? A prince. They should send him someplace where royalty is appreciated.”

“Well, I don’t think he’s doing a bad job here,” Katz said staunchly.

“Nobody does a bad job here,” Savoldi said sadly.

“Except you, Lou,” Solly said.

Savoldi shrugged. “How can you do a bad job here?” he asked. “A bad job anyplace else is a good job here.”

“He’s finally catching on,” Solly said. “He’s been teaching here for eighty years, and he’s just getting wise.”

“I’m one of the Original Wise Men,” Savoldi said.

“It’s possible to do a good job here,” Rick said softly.

“Here’s Dadier again,” Solly said. “Dadier, you’d better be careful or you’ll wind up being a principal.”

“He’d like that,” Savoldi said sadly. “Wouldn’t you, Dadier?”

“That’s what I’m bucking for,” Rick said, smiling.

“You can always tell the hot-rods,” Solly said, wagging his head. “I spotted you for a hot-rod from go, Dadier. That’s why your arm is in a bandage now.”

“It’s healing,” Rick said, shrugging.

“Everything heals,” Savoldi said.

“Time heals all wounds,” Katz put in.

“Unless they use a zip gun on you someday. Try to heal a hole in your head,” Solly said.

“They won’t use a zip gun on me,” Rick said confidently.

“Famous last words,” Solly said.

“I don’t think they will, either,” Katz offered. “Dadier is a good teacher.”

“Oh, yeah,” Rick said.

“Yes, yes, you are,” Katz insisted. “You should have seen the way he handled those kids in the Christmas show.”

“Are you still crapping about that show, Katz?” Solly asked. “The term’ll be over in a few days, and he’s still talking about Christmas.” Solly shook his head.

“He believes in Santa Claus,” Manners said.

“Where’s your tie, Katz?” Savoldi asked. “No tie today?”

“He’s slipping,” Solly said.

“It was a very nice tie,” Katz said, a little embarrassed.

“Who said no?” Solly asked. “It was a very nice tie.”

“Then what was wrong about wearing it?” Katz asked.

“Nothing. But you could have stopped after you spilled catsup and coffee and mustard...”

“I never spilled anything on it,” Katz said seriously, offended.

“How did your kids like the tie, Katz?” Manners asked.

“They thought it was very nice,” Katz answered, still miffed.

“They don’t know ties from garter snakes,” Solly said.

“They’re not that dumb,” Rick contradicted.

“No, huh?”

“I don’t think so.”

“That’s because you love them all, Dadier. There’s nothing like a little knifing to generate love and devotion.”

“Dadier is a professional hero,” Savoldi said.

“He stops rapes and knifings,” Manners said, “and is also available for Christmas shows, hayrides, and strawberry festivals.”

“No bar-mitzvahs?” Solly asked.

“Those, too,” Rick said, smiling.

“What’s a bar-mitzvah?” Savoldi asked innocently. “An Irish stew?”

“Yeah,” Solly said. “With presents.” He rose suddenly and walked to the window, staring out at the red brick of the housing project in the distance. “They got people living in there already,” he said.

“I don’t think it’s proper to joke about Dadier’s knifing,” Katz said, really thinking it was not proper to joke about his gift tie.

“Who’s joking?” Solly asked. “Dadier is a very brave man.”

“A missionary,” Manners said.

Solly turned, seemingly surprised. “Are you still around, Manners? I thought you’d be teaching at Julia Richmond by this time.”

“I’m working on it,” Manners said smiling.

“It was,” Katz said thoughtfully, “an act of bravery.”

“What’s that?” Solly asked.

“Dadier’s knifing.”

“Certainly. You have to be very brave to get all sliced up.”

“You talk about it as if it were nothing at all,” Katz said seriously. “As if it meant absolutely nothing.”

“Knife wounds mean nothing to heroes,” Manners said. He flicked an imaginary cut on his shoulder. “Just a scratch, man.”

“That’s Dadier’s trouble,” Savoldi said sadly. “He’s a professional hero.”

“No,” Rick said, smiling. “I’m just a teacher.”

Solly turned from the window a moment and looked at Rick curiously. “Yeah,” he said. “A teacher.”

The men were silent for a moment, and Solly walked from the window, looped one thumb in his suspenders and pointed the forefinger of his free hand at Rick.

“You know what a teacher is, Dadier?” he asked.

“What’s a teacher?” Rick asked, straight-manning it.

“I’ll tell you, Dadier. You take some slob, see? You take him when he’s still in the cradle. You take this slob who doesn’t know a teacher from a preacher, who doesn’t even know to wipe his nose yet. You take him, and you...”

Rick sat and listened while Solly expounded his theory. He sat and listened, and the room felt very warm and very secure, and he was aware of the faces of the other men, all watching Solly while he talked, laughing occasionally, Solly enjoying himself as he spoke. He sat and listened, and he was very happy here with these other men in the lunchroom, hearing Solly talk.

But he was not sorry when the bell sounded, ending the lunch period, announcing the beginning of his fifth period, and he smiled when Solly said, “Well, back to the salt mines.”