A Plague Year (14 page)

Dr. Lyle’s bloodshot eyes suddenly turned toward Arthur. He squinted and then demanded to know, in a loud voice, “Now, what are
you
supposed to be? Let me guess: a homeless man with a sleeping disorder?”

The pirate boys laughed.

Arthur did not reply, so Dr. Lyle tried again. “No? Perhaps a coal miner who has tried, unsuccessfully, to wash his face?”

The boys laughed again.

Arthur cleared his throat. He answered, “Yeah, that’s it. I’m a coal miner. You got a problem with that?”

Dr. Lyle leaned back, popping his red eyes open. “Certainly not. That is a great career for the new millennium. Coal miner. Yes, there will be a great demand for nonrenewable fossil fuel and those who can dig it up, I am sure.” He looked at his boys. “Did you know that
clean coal
is an oxymoron? A self-contradiction?”

The boys replied with variations of
no
, so he continued.

“Like
wise fool
. Like
military intelligence.
”

The boys laughed appreciatively. One of them snorted, and told him (obsequiously), “That is hilarious, Doctor.”

I looked at Arthur. He was enraged. What would he do? I took a step down the stairs, hoping he would follow me, but he did not. Instead, he spoke up in his dumb voice. “Well, coal minin’ isn’t as fancy as doctorin’, I guess.” He held up a finger, like he had a thought. “Oh! I hurt my finger today, Doctor. Do you think you could look at it?”

Everybody froze. Dr. Lyle’s nostrils flared out, as if he had detected an odor. He finally replied coldly, “No. I’m not that kind of doctor.”

“Oh? What kind are you?”

Dr. Lyle answered abruptly, “Perhaps you should go home now.”

Arthur joined me on the step. “Yeah. Yeah, perhaps. Perhaps to all that.” He took off quickly toward our parking space, and I followed.

Dr. Lyle said one more thing to his boys, but I could not hear it. They all started laughing, so I concluded it was about Arthur.

Or about townies.

Or about coal miners.

 
 
November
 

Last week was pretty miserable for me.

Wendy did not come to school the first two days after the party. Maybe she had a really bad hangover. I was relieved because I had no idea what to do—about her, about the college guy, about the whole humiliating scene.

That guy had broken up the most beautiful moment of my life. He had pulled Wendy away from me. He had called me her “little townie friend.”

So what was I supposed to do about all of that?

Wendy finally reappeared midweek, on the TV, giving the morning announcements. She was smiling and beautiful, as always. She talked up this week’s football game against North Schuylkill. (And she pronounced it right.)

I took my front-row seat in Mr. Proctor’s class and waited for her. She breezed in just seconds before the bell. She smiled at me and whispered a breathless “Hi,” like nothing was wrong.

I smiled back. I don’t know why; I just did. I couldn’t help myself. But I did not speak to her. I didn’t speak to her on Thursday, either. But by Friday, I had relented. I had basically forgiven her. She had kissed me, sort of. Twice. And then she had moved on.

It was what it was.

Make no mistake, though, I had not forgiven that scumbag college guy. I couldn’t. Maybe that’s how they do things in California, and in Florida—they forgive and forget and move on.

But it’s not how we do things in Blackwater.

Mr. Proctor began with vocabulary. He picked up his marker and wrote this on the whiteboard:
docent—a museum guide. A decent docent doesn’t descend to dissent
.

Wendy sounded as perky as ever. “Another good one, Mr. P.!”

We all started working silently on vocabulary. I finished mine quickly. I guess Arthur did, too, because he started whispering to me from my right side. “Did you hear, cuz? We’re going on another field trip.”

I stared straight ahead, but I whispered, “No, I didn’t hear.”

“Jimmy told his counselor lady that he’s scared of going down into coal mines.”

“Is he?”

“Yeah. Jimmy did some wildcat mining a few years back. The down shaft collapsed on him, and it took the other guys about an hour to dig him out. He was okay, but he quit mining. Anyway, he told Mrs. Lyle about it, so guess where we’re going next?”

“A coal mine?”

“Got it. Over in Ashland.”

Mr. Proctor interrupted us. He raised his voice and announced, “Okay! It sounds like you’re all finished.”

He returned to the whiteboard and wrote
annus mirabilis—the year of wonders
. He asked, “Who here remembers his or her Roman numerals?” About half of us raised our hands. “Okay. Call some out to me.”

We did, and he started to write them on the board, apparently in random order:
C, L, X, V, I
.

He turned back to us. “Come on, what are the bigger ones?
M
is a thousand, right? What about five hundred? What is that?”

Nobody answered, until Wendy told him, “
D
.”

“There you go!” He added
M
and
D
to the list. “That’s it. And that’s all of them. The Romans had no use for millions, or billions, or trillions. And frankly, neither do we.” He pointed at the capital letters, and we learned that they were not in random order after all.

“The Romans only needed
these
numerals. And only once in human history would each numeral appear only one time, in descending order, to designate a year. The year was MDCLXVI. Who can tell me what that is in our numbers? How about you, Tom?”

He caught me off guard, but I managed to work it out aloud: “Sixteen hundred and … sixty-six.”

“Correct! Good man! Sixteen sixty-six. It was expected to be the annus mirabilis, the year of wonders, and great things were expected to happen during it. However, because of what
did
happen during it, it has come down through history bearing another name. That name is …” He paused for effect before intoning in his horror-movie voice, “The plague year, 1666. One of the most deadly, destructive, devastating years in all of human history.”

He paused to write
the plague year
on the whiteboard.

Wendy raised her hand. “Mr. P.? What would that be in Latin?”

“I am not sure,” Mr. Proctor admitted. “I did look it up online”—he started to write again—“and I came up with three possibilities.” He read them out:
“annus vomicam, annus pestis, and annus pestilentiae.”

Arthur pointed out, in what I guess was his Wendy Lyle voice, “Mr. P.? They’ve all got
anus
in them.”

A few kids sniggered.

Wendy turned and glared at him.

Ben said, “I like Annus Vomicam. It has, like, the plague and vomit in it.”

Arthur turned to Ben and added, “And
anus
. And
cam
, like in
camera
. Like you have a camera in your anus to record when you’re vomiting.”

Ben replied, “Awesome.”

Just about everybody laughed or groaned. Except Wendy. She threw up her hands angrily.

Mr. Proctor stopped the discussion, saying, “Okay. Okay. That one is particularly disgusting, yes. But so was the plague. Let’s remember what we already learned about it from Daniel Defoe.” He raised up his copy of
A Journal of the Plague Year
.

“The plague had devastated London the previous year. The English people
knew
they were in for it. They were aware of plagues that had ravaged Europe three hundred years before, when half the people in the Western world had died.

“Half the people in the world! Dead! For no apparent reason!

“Imagine what the plague would do to your town. Imagine half the kids in this school not showing up tomorrow, not because they were sick, but because they were
dead
. Half the members of your family not showing up for Thanksgiving dinner! Half the world … just … gone!

“It was devastating beyond belief. It appeared to be the end of the human race. Whole towns disappeared. Whole economies collapsed. There was no one left to bring in the crops, or herd the sheep, or milk the cows. Western society broke down completely, and it would stay broken down for generations to follow.”

Mr. Proctor held up his copy of
The Roses of Eyam
. “That brings us to my play. My play needs actors.” He looked right at me. “My play needs you.

“Now, do not worry if you have never acted before. I promise you, this will be a no-pressure production. All the actors will carry Bibles. Inside those Bibles will be your lines, typed out in big letters. You may simply read what you cannot memorize.”

Wendy didn’t like that, and she told him so. “That is so lame. Actors should memorize their lines.”

Mr. Proctor shook his head. “It will be fine. The message of
the play is what matters.” He pointed his book at Wendy. “You know, I could see you and Tom Coleman in the lead roles.”

Wendy smiled delightedly.

I did not. I replied right away, “I’m sorry, Mr. Proctor. I can’t do it. I have to work.”

He raised up one eyebrow. “It may not be the big time commitment you think.”

“I have to work just about every day now.”

Mr. Proctor seemed genuinely disappointed. “Oh. Okay. I’m sorry to hear that.”

I thought,
Yeah. Me, too
.

He pointed to my right. “How about you, Arthur? I have a role in mind for you.”

“What is it?”

“The Bedlam.”

“Who’s that?”

“He’s a very important character.”

Arthur cocked his head. He asked, like he was horse trading, “If I played him, would I get an A for your class?”

“Yes, you would.”

“For both semesters? Because that’s what I really need.”

Mr. Proctor thought for a moment, but then he agreed. “Sure. Why not.”

Arthur slapped his desk. “Then sign me up.”

Mr. Proctor pointed his book at other students. “Ben, Jenny, you could have parts, too. Let’s talk about it. I’d like this class to take as many parts as possible. The remaining parts will be filled by members of the Drama Club.”

So, for the next fifteen minutes, everybody who was interested in a part got one.

Everybody but me.

Because I had to work. For no money. At a family business that my family doesn’t even own.

After school, while we were waiting to go into the conference room, Arthur said, “Check this out: Jimmy Giles had on a white shirt and tie this morning.”

“No way.”

“Yeah. He’s got a new gig with WorkForce.” He explained, “They do day labor.”

“I know. We use those guys at the Food Giant.”

“Jimmy doesn’t like it. He says it’s like government work.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means you don’t really have to work. Close enough is good enough. That kind of thing.”

“Got it.”

Jenny came out of Mrs. Cantwell’s office. She joined Arthur and me and whispered, “Did you hear? Mike Szabo’s dad got arrested.”

I was shocked. “No!”

“Yes. Out on the turnpike. At a rest stop.”

“What did he do?”

Her voice dropped even more. “He tried to sell meth to an undercover cop.”