They went out of the room and closed the door. Outside the house in the bright sunlight again they crossed the drive and went across Railroad Street and walked down in the path through the ditch weeds and across the railroad tracks and through the old park toward school. When they arrived at the playground they separated to join their own friends and stood talking with the other boys in their own grades until the first bell rang and called them into class.
Guthrie.
In the high school office Judy, the secretary, stood over a desk talking on the telephone and making notes on a pink pad of paper. The short skirt of her dress was stretched tight over her hips and she was wearing hose and spike-heeled shoes. Guthrie stood behind the front counter watching her. After a while she looked up at him and for his benefit rolled her eyes at what she was hearing.
I understand that, she said into the phone. No. I will too tell him. I know what you’re saying. She put the phone back roughly in its cradle.
Who was that? Guthrie said.
That was a mother. She made another note on the pad of paper.
What’d she want?
About the school play last night.
What about it?
Didn’t you see it?
No.
You ought to. It’s pretty good.
What’s the matter with it? Guthrie said.
Oh, there’s this place where Lindy Rayburn walks out in a black slip and sings a solo by herself. And this person on the telephone doesn’t happen to think a seventeen-year-old girl ought to be doing that kind of thing in public. Not in a public high school.
Maybe I should go see it, Guthrie said.
Oh, she had everything covered. You couldn’t see anything that counts.
What’d she want you to do about it?
Not me. She wanted to talk to Mr. Crowder. But he isn’t available.
Where is he? I came in early to see him.
Oh, he’s here. But he’s across the hall. She nodded in the direction of the rest rooms.
I’ll wait for him in his office, Guthrie said.
I would, she said.
He went into the office and sat down facing the principal’s desk. Photographs of Lloyd Crowder’s wife and his three children in hinged brass picture frames stood on the desk and on the wall behind it was a photograph of him kneeling in front of Douglas firs holding up the antlered head of a mule deer. Against the adjacent wall were gray filing cabinets. A large school-district calendar hung over them. Guthrie sat looking at the photograph of the deer. Its eyes were half-open, as though it were only sleepy.
After ten minutes Lloyd Crowder entered the office and sat down heavily in the swivel chair behind the desk. He was a big florid man with wisps of blond hair drawn in exact strands across his pink scalp. He set his hands out in front of him and looked across the desk. So, Tom, he said. What’s this about?
You said you wanted to see me.
That’s right. I did. He began to consult a list of names on a paper on his desktop. Under the light his scalp shone like water. How’s the boys? he said.
They’re fine.
And Ella?
Fine.
The principal raised the sheet of paper. Here it is. Russell Beckman. According to what I see here you’re failing him this first quarter.
That’s right.
How come?
Guthrie looked at the principal. Because, he said. He hasn’t done the work he’s supposed to.
That’s not what I mean. I mean how come you’re failing him.
Guthrie looked at him.
Because hell, Lloyd Crowder said. Everybody knows Mr. Beckman isn’t any kind of student. Unless he gets struck by lightning he never will be. But he’s got to have American history to graduate. It’s what the state mandates.
Yes.
Plus he’s a senior. He don’t belong in there with all those juniors. He should of taken it last year. I wonder why he didn’t.
I wouldn’t have any idea about that.
Yes, well, the principal said.
The two men studied each other.
Maybe he ought to try for the GED, Guthrie said.
Now, Tom. Right there we got a problem. That kind of thinking, it makes me tired.
The principal leaned heavily forward onto the hams of his forearms.
Look here. I don’t believe I’m asking too much. I’m just saying go a little easy on him. Think about what it means. We don’t want him back next year. That wouldn’t be good for anybody involved. Do you want him back next year?