One day late in the month the boy came much earlier than usual, long before school usually let out. Dussander was sitting in the kitchen, drinking Ancient Age bourbon from a chipped and discoloured cup that had the words HERE’S YER CAWFEE MAW, HAW! HAW! HAW! written around the rim. He had his rocker out in the kitchen now and he was just drinking and rocking, rocking and drinking, bumping his slippers on the faded linoleum. He was pleasantly high. There had been no more bad dreams at all until just last night. Not since the tomcat with the chewed ears. Last night’s had been particularly horrible, though. That could not be denied. They had dragged him down after he had gotten halfway up the hill, and they had begun to do unspeakable things to him before he was able to wake himself up. Yet, after his initial thrashing return to the world of real things, he had been confident. He could end the dreams whenever he wished. Perhaps a cat would not be enough this time. But there was always the dog pound. Yes. Always the pound.
Todd came abruptly into the kitchen, his face pale and shiny and strained. He had lost weight, all right, Dussander thought And there was a queer white look in his eyes that Dussander did not like at all.
‘You’re going to help me,’ Todd said suddenly and defiantly.
‘Really?’ Dussander said mildly, but sudden apprehension leaped inside of him. He didn’t let his face change as Todd slammed his books down on the table with a sudden, vicious overhand stroke. One of them spun-skated across the oilcloth and landed in a tent on the floor by Dussander’s foot.
‘Yes, you’re fucking-A right!’ Todd said shrilly. ‘You better believe it! Because this is your fault! All your fault!’ Hectic spots of red mounted into his cheeks. ‘But you’re going to have to help me get out of it, because I’ve got the goods on you! I’ve got you right where I want your I’ll help you in any way I can,’ Dussander said quietly. He saw that he had folded his hands neatly in front of himself without even thinking about it — just as he had once done. He leaned forward in the rocker until his chin was directly over his folded hands — as he had once done. His face was calm and friendly and inquiring; none of his growing apprehension showed. Sitting just so, he could almost imagine a pot of lamb stew simmering on the stove behind him. ‘Tell me what the trouble is.’
‘This is the fucking trouble,’ Todd said viciously, and threw a folder at Dussander. It bounced off his chest and landed in his lap, and he was momentarily surprised by the heat of the anger which leaped up in him; the urge to rise and backhand the boy smartly. Instead, he kept the mild expression on his face. It was the boy’s school-card, he saw, although the school seemed to be at ridiculous pains to hide the fact. Instead of a school-card, or a Grade Report, it was called a ‘Quarterly Progess Report’. He grunted at that, and opened the card.
A typed half-sheet of paper fell out. Dussander put it aside for later examination and turned his attention to the boy’s grades first.
‘You seem to have fallen on the rocks, my boy,’ Dussander said, not without some pleasure. The boy had passed only English and American History. Every other grade was an F.
‘It’s not my fault,’ Todd hissed venomously. ‘It’s your fault. All those stories. I have nightmares about them, do you know that? I sit down and open my books and I start thinking about whatever you told me that day and the next thing I know, my mother’s telling me it’s time to go to bed. Well, that’s not my fault! It isn’t! You hear me? It isn’t!’
‘I hear you very well,’ Dussander said, and read the typed note that had been tucked into Todd’s card.
Dear Mr and Mrs Bowden, This note is to suggest that we have a group conference concerning Todd’s second- and third-quarter grades. In light of Todd’s previous good work in this school, his current grades suggest a specific problem which may be affecting his academic performance in a deleterious way. Such a problem can often be solved by a frank and open discussion.