I don’t want him this year.
Nobody wants him this year. None of the teachers want him. But he’s here. You see my point. Oh hell, give him a downslip if you want to. Scare the young son. But you don’t want to fail him.
Guthrie looked at the framed pictures on the desktop. Did Wright put you up to this?
Wright? the principal said. How come? On account of basketball eligibility?
Guthrie nodded.
Why hell, he’s not that good of a player. There’s others can bring the ball down. Coach Wright never mentioned a thing about this to me. I’m just saying to you, as someone who has to consider the whole school. You think about it.
Guthrie stood up.
And Tom.
Guthrie waited.
I don’t need somebody else to put me up to something. I can still do my own thinking. You try and remember that.
Then you better tell him to do the work he’s supposed to do, Guthrie said.
He left the office. His classroom was at the far end of the building and he went down the wide hallway that was lined with student lockers that had sheets of colored paper taped to the metal doors with names and slogans written across them, and above the lockers attached to the walls were long paper banners bearing extravagant claims about the athletic teams. This early in the morning the tiled floors were still shiny.
He entered the classroom and sat down at his desk and took out the blue-backed lesson book, reading through the notes he’d made for the day. Then he removed an examination ditto from a desk drawer and went back out into the hallway, carrying the ditto.
When he entered the teacher’s lounge Maggie Jones was using the copy machine. She turned and looked at him. He sat down at the table in the center of the room and lit a cigarette. She stood at the counter watching him.
I thought you quit that, she said.
I did.
How come you started again? You were doing okay.
He shrugged. Things change.
What’s wrong? she said. You don’t look good. You look like hell.
Thanks. You about done with that?
I mean it, she said. You look like you haven’t even slept.
He pulled an ashtray closer, tapped the cigarette into it and looked at her. She turned back to the machine. He watched her working at the counter, her hand and arm turning rapidly with the crank of the machine, her hips moving at the same time and her skirt jumping and swaying. A tall healthy dark-haired woman, she was dressed in a black skirt and white blouse and wore considerable silver jewelry. Presently she stopped cranking the machine and put in another master.
What brings you here so early? she said.
Crowder wanted to talk to me.
What about?
Russell Beckman.
That little shit. What’d he do now?
Nothing. But he’s going to if he wants to get out of American history.
Good luck, she said. She cranked the machine once and looked at the paper. Is that all that’s bothering you?
Nothing’s bothering me.
Like hell it isn’t. I can see something is. She looked into his face, and he looked back without expression and sat smoking. Is it at home? she said.
He didn’t answer but shrugged again and smoked.
Then the door opened and a muscular little man in a shortsleeve white shirt came in. Irving Curtis, who taught business. Morning one and all, he said.
He moved up beside Maggie Jones and put his arm around her waist. The top of his head came up to her eyes. He stood up on his toes and whispered something into her ear. Then he squeezed her hard, drawing her toward him. She removed his hand.
Don’t be such an ass, she said. It’s too early in the morning.
It’s only a joke.
And I’m just telling you.
Oh now, he said. He sat down at the table across from Guthrie and lit a cigarette with a silver lighter and snapped it shut and then played with the lighter on the tabletop. What’s the good word? he said.