old men in trusses, the kind of men who are more interested in hair length than in textbooks, more’ involved in finding out who might smoke pot on the’ faculty than in finding out how to get some’ twentieth-century equipment for the Sci Wing.
l have written a strong letter of protest to the’ board-at-large, and with a little arm-twisting I believe I can get Irving Finegold to cosign it with me’. But I’d also be’ less than truthful if I told you there was a hope in he’ll of getting those five old men to change their minds.
My honest advice’ to you is to get yourself a lawyer, Johnny. You signed that blueback in good faith, and I believe you can squeeze them for every last cent of your salary, whether you ever step into a Cleaves Mills class-room or not. And call me when you feel like’
talking.
With all my heart, I’m sorry.
Your friend, Dave’ Pelsen
16.
Johnny stood beside the mailbox with Dave’s letter in his hand, looking down at it unbelievingly. It was the last day of ‘975, clear and bitingly cold. His breath came out of his nostrils in fine white’ jets of smoke.
‘Shit,’ he whispered. ‘Oh man, oh skit.’
Numbly, still not assimilating it totally, he’ leaned down to see what else’ the mailman had brought him. As usual, the box was crammed full It had just been luck that Dave’s letter had been sticking out the end.
There was a white, fluttering slip of paper telling him to call at the’ post office’ for the’
packages, the’ inevitable package’s. My husband deserted me in 1969, here’ is a pair of his socks, tell me’ where he is so I can get child-support out of the’ bastard. My baby choked to death last year, here’ is his rattle, please write and tell me if he is happy with
the angels. l didn’t have’ him baptized because’ his father did not approve’ and now my heart is breaking. The endless litany.
What a talent God has given you, Johnny.
The reason: You’re’ too controversial to be’ effective’ as a teacher.
In a sudden vicious spasm he began to rake letters and manila envelopes out of the box, dropping some in the snow. The inevitable headache began to form around his temples like two dark clouds that would slowly draw together, enveloping him in pain. Sudden tears began to slip down his cheeks, and in the deep, stiff cold, they froze to glittering tracks almost immediately.
He bent and began to pick up the letters he had dropped; he saw one, doubled and trebled through the prisms of his tears, addressed in heavy dark pencil to
JOHN SMITH SIKIK SEER.
Sikik seer, that’s me. His hands began to tremble wildly and he dropped everything, including Dave’s letter. It fluttered down like a leaf and landed print side up among the other letters, all the other letters. Through his helpless tears he could see the letterhead, and the motto below the torch:
TO TEACH, TO LEARN, TO KNOW, TO SERVE.
‘Serve my ass, you cheap bastards,’ Johnny said. He fell on his knees and began to gather up the letters, sweeping them together with his mittens. His fingers ached dully, a reminder of the frostbite, a reminder of Frank Dodd riding a dead toilet seat into eternity, blood in his all-American blond hair. I CONFESS.
He swept the letters up and heard himself muttering over and over, like a defective record: ‘Killing me, you people are killing me, let me alone, can’t you see you’re killing me?’
He made himself stop. This was no way to behave. Life would go on. One way or another, life would most certainly go on.
Johnny started back to the house, wondering what he could do now. Perhaps something would come along. At any rate, he had fulfilled his mother’s prophecy. If God had had a mission for him, then he had done it. No matter now that it had been a kamikaze mission, He had done it.
He was quits.
PART TWO
The Laughing Tiger
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
1.
The boy read slowly, following the words with his finger, his long brown football-player’s legs stretched out on the chaise by the pool in the bright clear light of June.