had to throw it out.’
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.
I should point out that although Todd has passed the half-year, his final grades may
be failing in some cases unless his work improves radically in the fourth quarter.
Failing grades would entail summer school to avoid being kept back and causing a
major scheduling problem.
I must also note that Toad is in the college division, and that his work so far this
year is far below college acceptance levels. It is also below the level of academic
ability assumed by the SA T tests.
Please be assured that I am ready to work out a mutually convenient time for us to
meet. In a case such as this, earlier is usually better.
Sincerely yours, Edward French
‘Who is this Edward French?’ Dussander asked, slipping the note back inside the card
(part of him still marvelled at the American love of jargon; such a rolling missive to
inform the parents that their son was flunking out!) and then refolding his hands. His
premonition of disaster was stronger than ever, but he refused to give in to it. A year
before, he would have done; a year ago he had been ready for disaster. Now he was not,
but it seemed that the cursed boy had brought it to him anyway. ‘Is he your headmaster?’
‘Rubber Ed? Hell, no. He’s the guidance counsellor.’
‘Guidance counsellor? What is that?’
‘You can figure it out,’ Todd said. He was nearly hysterical. ‘You read the goddam
note!’ He walked rapidly around the room, shooting sharp, quick glances at Dussander.
‘Well, I’m not going to let any of this shit go down. I’m just not. I’m not going to any
summer school. My dad and mom are going to Hawaii this summer and I’m going with
them.’ He pointed at the card on the table. ‘Do you know what my dad will do if he sees
that?’
Dussander shook his head.
‘He’ll get everything out of me. Everything. He’ll know it was you. It couldn’t be
anything else, because nothing else has changed. He’ll poke and pry and hell get it all out
of me. And then … then I’ll… I’ll be in Dutch.’
He stared at Dussander resentfully.
‘They’ll watch me. Hell, they might make me see a doctor, I don’t know. How should /
know? But I’m not getting in Dutch. And I’m not going to any fucking summer school.’
‘Or to the reformatory,’ Dussander said. He said it very quietly.
Todd stopped circling the room. His face became very still. His cheeks and forehead,
already pale, became even whiter. He stared at Dussander, and had to try twice before he
could speak. ‘What? What did you just say?’
‘My dear boy,’ Dussander said, assuming an air of great patience, ‘for the last five
minutes I have listened to you pule and whine, and what all your puling and whining
comes down to is this. You are in trouble. You might be found out. You might find yourself in adverse circumstances.’ Seeing that he had the boy’s complete attention – at
last -Dussander sipped reflectively from his cup.
‘My boy,’ he went on, ‘that is a very dangerous attitude for you to have. And dangerous
for me. The potential harm is much greater for me. You worry about your school-card.
Pah! This for your school-card.’
He flicked it off the table and onto the floor with one yellow finger.
‘I am worried about my life!’
Todd did not reply; he simply went on looking at Dussander with that white-eyed,
slightly crazed stare.
The Israelis will not scruple at the fact that I am seventy -six. The death penalty is still
very much in favour over there, you know, especially when the man in the dock is a Nazi
war criminal associated with the camps.’
‘You’re a US citizen,’ Todd said. ‘America wouldn’t let them take you. I read up on that.
I -‘
‘You read, but you don’t listen! I am not a US citizen! My papers came from la cosa nostra. I would be deported, and Mossad agents would be waiting for me wherever I
deplaned.’
‘I wish they would hang you,! Todd muttered, curling his hands into his fists and staring down at them. ‘I was crazy to get mixed up with you in the first place.’
‘No doubt,’ Dussander said, and smiled thinly. ‘But you are mixed up with me. We
must live in the present, boy, not in the past of “I-should-have-nevers”. You must realize that your fate and my own are now inextricably entwined. If you “blow the horn on me”,