Killing Mr. Griffin (6 page)

able to get a job immediately. The country’s overstocked with high-school teachers.” “Then why do you want to be one?” Kathy had asked him, puzzled. “Because there aren’t enough good ones,” Brian had told her. “Many of the kids coming into my classes at the university are all but illiterate. You give them a page to read, and they can’t tell you what’s on it. Try teaching them the classics, and they can’t pronounce the words. Ask them to write about something, and they can’t make complete sentences, much less spell anything over two syllables.”

“Can’t you do anything about it?” “I try, but it’s too late,” Brian had said. “By the time they’re in college, it’s gone too far. They’ve had twelve years without disciplined learning, and they don’t know how to apply themselves. They haven’t learned to study or to pace their work so that projects get completed on time. They fall asleep in lectures because they expect to be entertained, not educated. “We lost a third of our freshman class last year. They dropped out at the end of the first semester.” “And what would you do as a high-school teacher that isn’t being done now?” “I’d teach, damn it! I wouldn’t baby them or play games with them. I’d push each one into doing the best work of which he or she was capable. By the time they finished a class with me, my college prep students would be able to handle university work.” “And the others?” Kathy had known in her heart that, during her own school years, “the others” would have included her.

“The others would graduate with a knowledge of what disciplined work is all about. That should stand

56 “MS

them in good stead, no matter what they decide to do.” “You wouldn’t be very popular, I’m afraid.” “I’ve never been very popular.

Anywhere. I have an abrasive personality. Fierce dogs cower when I walk down the street and slink away to hide under porches. Small children run screaming to their mothers. Beautiful girls rip their numbers out of the telephone book and chew them up and swallow them, for fear I might call and invite them out.” “Oh, Brian!” She had burst out laughing. He was so seldom humorous that his awkward attempts at joking touched her deeply. “And so,” he had continued, “Are you willing to wait a year to be the wife of a high-school English teacher?

It isn’t a very exciting prospect, I must admit. Not nearly as respectable as being the wife of a college professor. I wouldn’t blame you—I really wouldn’t—” His sentence had trailed off, unfinished.

His eyes had dropped from hers, and she had looked down to see that his hands were clenched in his lap, the knuckles white, the nails making little grooves in his palms. And she had known then how much her answer meant to him. “Yes,” she had said. “I’ll wait a year, Bri.”

“You’re sure it’s what you want?” “I’m sure.” And now, three years later, she was still sure. Kathy had never needed a great deal to make her happy, and what she had now was more than sufficient. Humming tunelessly beneath her breath, she made the coffee, mixed the frozen orange juice in a pitcher, put bread in the toaster, broke two eggs into a pan. It was springtime! Under the kitchen window the first

hyacinths were blooming. Last week’s dust storm was behind them, and the air was fresh and clear and sweet. The nausea that had accompanied her first months of pregnancy was over also. She would eat a good breakfast. Later in the morning she would go out into the yard and sit in a lawn chair in the sunshine. She glanced up and smiled as Brian came in, his hair slicked down, his hands deftly adjusting the knot in his tie. “Do all the teachers at Del Norte wear ties to class?” “No, the riffraff wear open-neck sports shirts.” “Wouldn’t that be more comfortable?” “I like a tie. It gives me dignity.” He was only half joking. “I got used to wearing one at the university. Why change now?” He took his seat at the kitchen table and reached for his glass of orange juice. “Call the pharmacy and order a. refill on my pills today, will you? I’ll pick them up on my way home. That’ll be a bit later than usual.” “Oh? A faculty meeting?” “No, a student wants a conference. I’m meeting her at three. It may take a while. She wants to go over some papers.” “Is she one of your problems?” Kathy asked, sliding the eggs onto a plate and carrying them over to him. “No, actually she’s one of my good ones. Name’s Susan McConnell. She’s quite a talented writer. Very imaginative. I had them all write final songs for Ophelia. Hers was exceptionally good.” “Have you told her that?” “Of course not. I don’t want her resting on her laurels, thinking she’s a genius. She still has things to learn. She tends to get overdramatic And she’s sloppy about details, spelling and

punctuation and such. She’s not a perfectionist.”

“She’s still young, Bri.” Kathy seated herself across from him. She took a slice of toast and began to spread it with jam. “Most kids are sloppy.” “I’m afraid you’re right about that.” “Your own may be.

Have you ever thought about that?” “Brian Junior? Surely, you jest!”

His eyes moved fondly to the bulge in the front of her robe. “How is he this morning?” “Fine and active.” She took a bite of toast.

“Seriously, Bri, I worry sometimes about that. About your wanting him perfect, and his not measuring up. He might be born with crossed eyes or a birthmark or a harelip or something. Would you still love him?”

“Of course.” He was answering her seriously. “He wouldn’t be able to help those things. We’d ride with it, take care of him, get him fixed up if we could. He’d still be ours.” “If you really feel that way,”

Kathy said thoughtfully, “why can’t you be more tolerant of your students when they’re not perfect?” “Because they can help it.

Anybody can look a word up in a dictionary if he doesn’t know how to spell it. Time can be planned so that things come in on time. There’s no excuse for carelessness. “The Ruggles boy, for example, came in last week with a real sob story about how he completed his assignment and the wind tore it out of his hands and blew it away. Papers put carefully into a notebook don’t blow off. On a windy day, you close a notebook and put it under your arm. That’s elementary enough.” “Did he redo the assignment?” “He did, but I wouldn’t accept it. It would

set a precedent. If I took one late paper, I’d never be able to refuse the next one. Within a week everything I’ve taught them about work discipline would be down the drain. The class would be as much of a mess as the one taught by that idiot Luna woman.” “Dolly Luna.” She smiled despite herself. “I’ve got to meet her. After all, the kids dedicated the yearbook to her. Is she really a ‘dolly’?” “Sure is.

Two big eyes that open and shut, painted-on smile, head full of sawdust. Ever see a thirty-year-old teenager? That’s our Dolly. She doesn’t want the kids to think she knows more than they do for fear they won’t like her.” Kathy didn’t know why, but the metaphor struck her strangely. The grin faded from her lips. She herself smiled a lot. She had never thought about that. “Brian,” she said slowly, “am I—do you think of me—as a ‘dolly’?” “Of course not.” He was honestly shocked. “What am I—when you think of me?” “You? Why, you’re my wife.” “Before that, what was I?” “You were Kathy. You were real—a person. All you’ve ever been to me is Kathy.” He took a final swallow of coffee, stood up, took the paper napkin and ran it across his teeth. It was a gesture she hated. If people were that concerned about their teeth, they should brush them one extra time in the morning. At the same time it made him suddenly so human, so vulnerable, that she wanted to hug him. It was terrible to be married to a man whose weaknesses were his virtues. “Bri,” she said, “I want

to ask you a favor. About the McConnell girl.” “What?” He looked surprised.

“If she is really as talented as you say, I want you to tell her.

There’s something, you know, to handing out something positive. So she overwrites; so she’s messy. She’s imaginative and bright and special.

You said so yourself. I want you to tell her.” “My God, Kathy, you don’t even know the kid.” “Yes, I do.” She stood her ground. “Not personally, maybe, but I know her. What you just said to me— ‘you are real—you’re a person—you’re Kathy’—that matters, Brian. Tell her that. “You are real—you are Susan—you are a writer.” You don’t have any idea how much it matters, to be real.” “I can’t say a thing like that.” “Then write it. Put it on her paper.” “Not the test paper.

She didn’t do well on that quiz. In fact, it’s her worst paper so far.

I think she’s got a boyfriend.” “Then on another paper. On the song for Ophelia.” “You are a bossy wench!” He made a grab for her. “Kiss me, Kate!” “Not if you talk in Shakespeare.” She pulled back, both pleased and offended. “You’re not taking me seriously. I meant it, every word about Susan McConnell. You’re taking it too far, Bri.

You’ve got to give them something besides criticism.” “I won’t tell you how to cook eggs; you don’t tell me how to teach a class. Okay?”

He was leaving now, and he was suddenly angry. Her eyes filled with tears. It was ridiculous how often this happened lately. It must have something to do with being pregnant, she thought. Every time she got mad—or sad—or even happy—she cried. “Okay,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “Have a good day. I’ll phone the pharmacy for

you as soon as it opens. I love you. I’ll see you tonight.”

“Okay-later.” He was out the door, and for one sharp moment she almost ran screaming after him, “Come back!” That suddenly, that quickly, it struck her—I don’t want him to go! He mustn’t go! Without reason, terror shot through her. But she was as frozen as stone, her lips open to shrill the words that would make him stay. Something is wrong, she thought wildly. Something terrible! He mustn’t go! And as though her thoughts had been strong enough to reach out and touch him, he was back again. He was bending over her, his hand under her chin, raising her face to his. “Kathy,” he said, “I love you.” “I know,” she whispered.

“I know.” It was strange, like a formal good-bye. But how could it be, when he would be back so soon, in only a matter of hours? After school, after the conference with the McConnell girl, he would be home.

It will be different, she thought, when the baby comes. It will all be different. Once he’s a father, he will be able to give love more easily. He’ll be able to reach out to all of them then, and touch them. It will be different—in only months now—when the baby comes.

At ten past three on Thursday afternoon, Mrs. Irma Ruggles sat in a chair at her bedroom window and watched the woman in the house next door making her bed. She didn’t know the woman’s name, but she did know that she was slothful. She never got up in the morning before ten o’clock, and the bed lay open and messy until midafternoon. Mrs.

Ruggles, who was herself up each morning by seven so that her daughter-in-law could give her breakfast and fix her hair before leaving for work, was horrified by such laziness. “It’s better to wear out than to rust out,” she quoted self-righteously. “The Lord loves willing hands. Early to bed and early to rise makes the days fly.”

The bed-making woman could not possibly have heard her because the windows between them were closed, but she did lift her eyes in time to see the old lady’s lips moving and the disapproving expression on her

face. The woman left the half-made bed and walked very deliberately to the window and pulled down the shade. “Well, of all the rude things!” Mrs. Ruggles exclaimed in an injured voice, but an instant later her hurt was forgotten as she heard the sound of the front door opening and closing. Her eyes brightened in anticipation. “Is that you, Davy?” “Sure, Gram, it’s me.” He came swinging into the room, his schoolbooks under one arm, his windbreaker hung over one shoulder. He bent to kiss her, and he smelled of fresh air and sunshine. She reached up to ruffle his hair. “Davy, Davy, you look more like your daddy every day.” “Do I, Gram?” “The spitting image of him at fifteen.” “I’m seventeen,” he reminded her. “Oh, you can’t be, dear.

That’s just not possible.” “Time gets away from us.” He dumped the books on the table by the bed. “I’ve got something for you. A surprise. I’ll be back in just a minute.” “A surprise? Why, what in the world—” A moment later he was back with a bowl in his hands.

“Green Jell-O!” “Why, I thought there was just that yellow stuff.” “I made this special.” He grinned at her. His eyes were very bright. He seemed excited, jumpy and nervous, but at the same time happy. “I fixed it this morning before I went to school so it would be jelled for your snack when I got home.” “What a sweet thing, Davy.” She reached for it eagerly. “Aren’t you going to get something?” “Nope. I’m not

hungry. I’ll sit here with you though while you eat it. Let’s watch some television, shall we?” “I thought you didn’t like daytime TV,” she said in surprise. “You know it’s the game shows.” “That’s okay. I want to see somebody win a racehorse.”

He clicked on the set and began to fiddle with the dials, adjusting the picture. “How is it? Jelled enough?” “It’s just fine,” she said, taking another mouthful. Actually, it wasn’t as tasty as usual, but she didn’t want to hurt him by saying so when he had gone to so much trouble to please her. That slightly bitter taste was probably only in her imagination, or more likely her taste buds were failing her, which she supposed happened to people when they got older. All the old pleasures diminished. Nothing worked as well as it once had. Or maybe it was just so long since she had had the green Jell-O that she’d forgotten what it was supposed to taste like. David turned the dial from one channel to another. “Oh, hey, cool! Here’s that newlywed show where they ask them questions about the things they don’t like about each other and stuff. That’s a favorite of yours, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Ruggles said. “I do like that one.” She continued eating. When the bowl was empty David carried it to the kitchen and washed and dried it and put it back on the shelf. He washed the spoon and dried that also. When he went back to the bedroom his grandmother was nodding. “Tired, Gram?” “Of course not. What should I be tired

from? I’m not one of those people who nap in the daytime. You know that, Davy.” He sat with her until she was asleep, and then he got up and went over to stand by her chair. He looked at her closely. She was breathing heavily and slowly. He reached down and lifted one arm and shoved back the sleeve of the blue flowered robe. The pulse in her wrist was strong and even. He had not overdone it. But it had taken longer than he had expected. Leaving the old woman asleep to the canned gaiety of the television game show, David left the house and headed at a run back toward the school. It was Liz Cline’s lead when her hostess, who was dummy, went to answer the telephone. She came back to say, “That’s Betsy for you, Liz. She wants you to call back after this hand.” “Is she at home?” Mrs. Cline asked. “Yes, and from the sound of things there are boys with her.” “That’s normal for Bets. She can’t date one boy without taking on all his buddies.” She played out the hand, making game, and excused herself. At the hall phone she dialed her home number. “Hello, dear. It’s Mom. Is something the matter?” The voices in the background were loud and unmistakable. “What is Jeff yelling about?” “Nothing, Mom. He and Mark are just horsing around. We’re going to play records.” “All right. Fine. What is it you called about?” “I just wondered if we could have some of the cake,” Betsy said. “I didn’t want to cut into