Staggerford (28 page)

Wayne felt good. He believed that Albert Fremling had shot a picture of him as he stood under the flagpole talking to Bigmeadow. And there might have been another picture as he shook hands with the Giant before the meeting broke up in his office. Albert Fremling was sober today, so the pictures would doubtless turn out sharp and appear in tomorrow afternoon’s
Weekly
. They would establish Wayne’s reputation in Staggerford as an efficient administrator. Wayne imagined a headline:
WORKMAN THE PEACEMAKER.
These words he found so compelling that he phoned the newspaper office and suggested them to Fremling.

Workman the peacemaker, after calling Fremling, gazed out the window and planned who should receive copies of the
Weekly
. Two or three copies should go to the governor, and at least one to the commissioner of education. Minnesota’s congressmen should each have one. And why leave out the President of the United States?

In the distance, Wayne saw a group of children out for a walk. They were led by a woman and they were approaching the far end of the football field from the direction of St. Isidore’s. The children followed the woman to the fifty-yard line, where she stopped to talk to Sorenson the janitor. Sorenson doffed his hat and with a sweeping motion of his arm he indicated the difficulty of his chore—the scraps of paper being set in motion now by a chilly breeze rising from the east. The woman turned to her group of children and gave them instructions. They leaped instantly to work, scurrying after paper and bringing it back in hand-fills and stuffing it in the janitor’s barrel. The woman left
them at their work and approached the school. Wayne saw that it was Miss McGee. A few moments later he turned in his chair and saw her standing in his doorway.

“Miss McGee,” he said, getting to his feet. “Please sit down.”

“I’ll stand, thank you.” She set her purse on his glass-topped desk. She pulled off her gloves, a finger at a time.

Wayne straightened his tie and buttoned his suit coat. “What can I do for you, Miss McGee?”

She carefully placed her gloves on top of her purse and told Wayne to sit down—which he did immediately. He was genuinely frightened by Miss McGee’s expression, which conveyed either ill health or anger. He was afraid it was anger.

“I have taken my class of sixth-graders out on a field trip this afternoon, Mr. Workman. I have told them that the purpose of our field trip is to identify birds, and since leaving the front door of St. Isidore’s we have seen four sparrows in the street and a small flock of approximately twenty blue-fronted geese flying very high in a southwesterly direction. This of course is not the time of year to be birdwatching. You know that as well as I do, Mr. Workman. Most of our migratory birds have left by this time. The robins are gone, the woodpeckers are gone, the bluebirds are gone; the thrushes, cedar wax wings, thrashers, and swallows are gone; the martins and finches are gone. I had a pair of finches nesting in my back yard this year, Mr. Workman, and they left in September. Now it’s true that the grosbeaks and chickadees are moving into our area for the winter, and it’s also true that the cardinals, bluejays, and sparrows are going to remain with us, but it is not, on the whole, a good time of year for birdwatching.”

Wayne nodded, tasting his mustache.

“So identifying birds was not my true purpose in bringing my class outside today, but I kept my true purpose to myself, and as we approached your athletic field we found that Mr. Sorenson was having difficulty picking up the paper left by the Indians, and so I have put my pupils to work under his supervision in order that I might come in here
and have a word with you. I was on my way over here during my noon hour, but I saw that you were occupied with visitors, and so I have waited until now to say, Mr. Workman, that you are a malicious liar, that you are an unscrupulous purveyor of calumny, scandal, and libel, and that if it were to Miles Pruitt’s advantage I would encourage him to take you to court for defamation of character. But of course a lawsuit would not be to Miles Pruitt’s advantage, for it would only serve to broadcast the unfounded rumor you are spreading concerning Miles and his student, Beverly Bingham. I have it from your own dear wife and from Miles himself that you accused him of having an illicit affair with that poor girl. The fact is that the conditions of Beverly Bingham’s home life are extremely sordid and discouraging, Mr. Workman, and in trying to rise above her difficulties and make something of her life, she has turned for counsel to one of her teachers—counsel, I might add, which she evidently did not find available from her principal—and her dependence upon the guidance of Miles Pruitt explains why she has been seen speaking to him between classes eight times in two weeks—am I correct, Mr. Workman, is eight the count?—and it is a tribute to her good sense that she chose to confide in a man as dependable and helpful as Miles.

“Furthermore, you expressed an interest in a paper you saw her give Miles. Actually that was a letter in which she was applying for admission to Berrington Junior College. And you expressed interest in their meetings outside of school, two of which were at my house. I myself was present when Beverly Bingham came to my house to see Miles, and I took advantage of the opportunity to do some counseling of my own. If she continues to visit my house I will continue to offer her my help, and when the day comes that her black truck no longer stops at the curb in front of my house, I hope it is because she has finally grown to a full independence and is able to meet life on its own terms and not because some simpleminded busybody is offended by the sight of that truck at my curb.

“Now I see that my pupils have finished clearing your
athletic field of paper, Mr. Workman, and I will be on my way, yet before I go I will mention that I am aware of your ambition to be superintendent of the Staggerford school system—a natural ambition for a high-school principal—but before I would be in favor of your becoming superintendent in a school district where I pay taxes I would want to be sure that you were a steadfast defender of your faculty and a man more interested in justice than in scurrilous rumor, a man of high moral standards with the courage to live up to those standards. We all know that in the foreseeable future the Staggerford School Board will be voting for a new superintendent—and lest you think that the opinion of one old maid doesn’t count for much, Mr. Workman, let me remind you that three members of the board are former students of mine with whom I have always seen eye to eye, and a fourth member—Mayor Bartholomew Druppers—has been a neighbor of mine all my life. That’s four votes out of six—a majority. My students and I shall now set off to a grove of trees along the river where I recall seeing a pileated woodpecker.”

Wayne Workman sat in a knot with his mustache in his mouth. His forehead hung an inch or so above his desk, so he did not see Miss McGee smile at him (having delivered her message, she looked refreshed) and pick up her gloves and purse. Only when he heard the sound of her heels in the outer office did he look up through his eyebrows at the empty doorway.

When fifth hour ended, Beverly Bingham told Miles that she needed a ride to her pickup, which was standing with a flat tire on the shoulder of the highway. It was out beyond Evergreen Cemetery. Miles said he would meet her at Miss McGee’s house after school, and he would drive her out there and change the tire.

She had been hoping he would suggest meeting at Miss McGee’s. It would allow her, for the third straight day, a visit to that curious oasis of order and peace on River Street. Before Tuesday, Beverly had never been in a house better than her own (she had been in a few on the reservation that
were worse) and she had never felt quite so self-indulgent as Miss McGee’s wing chair made her feel. Not that she could imagine herself living in a house like that. The rooms held the dead air of ancient history and reminded her of pictures she had seen of boring museums where people paid money to look at tables and chairs. No, the house was the perfect setting for Miss McGee, who was herself a museum piece, but not for anyone as young as eighteen. Yet it was nice to sit in that chair for a few minutes in the afternoon, before going home, and to be served grape nectar in a heavy goblet, and to see your reflection in the glass doors of the bookcase, and to sense the cleanliness and harmony that dwelt like presences in the dark, elegant rooms.

Today of all days Beverly wanted to sit in the wing chair. It had been a hell of a day.

“I’ve had just a hell of day,” she told Miss McGee, who served her hot chocolate instead of nectar because the temperature had dropped ten degrees since noon and there was a whistle in the east wind.

“Oh?” Miss McGee decided that today she would broach the subject of Beverly’s cursing and swearing. But first she would hear her out. What she heard alarmed her.

“First of all, at breakfast this morning I came that far from being shot through the head by my mother. We were in the kitchen and my mother saw a rat sniffing around the henhouse, and she picked up the twenty-two and went and stood in the doorway and took aim and pulled the trigger and nothing happened. About half the time our twenty-two misfires because it’s made for longs and when we buy shells we always buy shorts because they’re cheaper, but shorts don’t fit in the chamber. So the rat got away and my mother got mad and threw the rifle on the floor, and it fired and the bullet went right past my head. Christ. I was standing by the sink looking out the window at the rat, and I was holding a peanut butter sandwich in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other, and the bullet went right in front of my face a little above the cup and it lodged in the window frame. Christ, I stood there and shook. And then as if that
wasn’t enough, I had a blowout on the way to school. I got into a whole string of cars that were coming into town from the reservation and one of my back tires blew out. I was still scared from being shot at, and when the tire blew out I went to pieces. I came to a dead stop on the highway and bawled. All the cars behind me had to stop. They were nice about it, though. A whole bunch of Indians got out and pushed the truck off the highway and onto the shoulder, and then they gave me a ride to school. It turned out that’s where they were going anyhow. And then”—Beverly picked her cup of hot chocolate off the coffee table, poked the marshmallow down under the surface, licked her finger—”then third hour I got another scare, only this one proved to be a false alarm. In social studies I and everybody else went to the window to look at the Indians on the football field, and at first glance I thought I saw my mother over there with them. I just froze. My mother seldom comes to town except at night after people have had supper and are likely to have bones for her, but once in a while some Indian women—some cousins of my dad’s—will stop by the farm and take her to town to buy feed or just for the hell of it. I thought maybe they stopped by this morning and brought her along. God, I just froze. I live in dread of her coming to school because one time when I was a sophomore she did just that. It was the day my dad died in the veterans’ hospital and she came to town to tell me about it. She came into school and found what class I was in and she came right into the classroom, came barging right in without knocking or anything, came walking right across the room in front of the teacher and over to my desk. She was dressed just terrible. She had on her old sweater with the elbows out and the dress she cleans chickens in. God, I wanted to the. And that’s what I thought this morning. I thought she was coming in to find me. But it was my imagination. She wasn’t out there. God, was I relieved.”

Miss McGee sipped her hot chocolate, and when she looked up again Beverly was weeping. In a split second the girl had been jolted by the force of her sorrow. Shaken by sobs, she was spilling her chocolate on her lap and on
the arm of the wing chair. Like the time a week ago when she had wept in the corridor of the school, and like this morning in the pickup when the tire blew out, despair overcame her in the wink of an eye. There were never, it seemed, any preliminary stages to Beverly’s sorrow—no languid dampening of her spirits, no gradual sinking of her heart. Sorrow came to Beverly like a disfiguring blow to the face. Like a baby, she cried with her chin.

Miss McGee leaned forward and took Beverly’s cup, then offered her hand. Beverly took the hand and studied it through her tears. A homely hand—spotted and wrinkled and bumpy. Blunt fingers. She put the hand to her face and wiped her eyes with it.