2

After he left school that afternoon Mr. MacPherson decided that rather than getting right on a streetcar, instead of waiting in the cold and fighting for a place in the rush hour, he would go to the Laura Secord Shop to buy a box of chocolates for Jenny. Directly across the street from the shop was the Pines Tavern.

Once in the tavern, Mr. MacPherson was careful to seat himself two tables away from the nearest group of laborers. He decided that he had been morally right to call Kravitz a coward. But after he had delayed his trip to the Laura Secord Shop twice more he admitted to himself that there were more urgent reasons why it had been wrong to insult Kravitz. Tomorrow or the next day the bottle of ink on his desk would be mysteriously overturned. Pencils and sheets of foolscap paper would disappear from his drawers. The boys would be given to fits of coughing or, at a secret signal, would begin to hum “Coming Through the Rye.” On his side Mr. Macpherson would bombard the boys with unannounced exams and cancel all athletics, assign at least two hours of homework nightly and suspend a few boys from school for a week, but he would not use the strap.

Long ago Mr. MacPherson had vowed never to strap a boy. The principle itself, like the dream of taking Jenny on a trip to Europe, keeping up with the latest educational books, or saving to buy a house, was dead. But his refusal to strap was still of the greatest consequence to Mr. MacPherson. “There,” they’d say, “goes the only teacher in F.F.H.S. who has never strapped a boy.” That he no longer believed in not strapping was beside the point. As long as he refused to do it Mr. MacPherson felt that he would always land safely. There would be no crack-up. He would survive.

Outside again, waiting for his streetcar, Mr. MacPherson kept kicking his feet together to keep them from freezing. Flattened against the window by the crush of people in the rear of the streetcar, anxious because the man next to him was sneezing violently, he thought, Another eight years. Eight years more, and he would retire.

Only when he hung his coat up on the hall rack did he realize that he had forgotten to buy that box of chocolates for Jenny. There were two strange coats on the rack. The woman’s coat was gray Persian lamb. Briefly Mr. MacPherson considered slipping outside again.

“Is that you, John?”

“Yes.”

“Surprise, John. We have visitors. Herbert and Clara Shields.”

Ostensibly her voice was cheerfully confident, but Mr. MacPherson was familiar with the cautionary quality in it, and the fear also. Calling out to him, even before he got out of the hall, was a warning. Automatically Mr. MacPherson reached for the package of Sen-Sen he always carried with him. He also lit a cigarette before he entered the bedroom.

Jenny sat up in bed. Her mouth broke into a small, painful smile. Mr. MacPherson smiled back at her reassuringly and averted his eyes quickly. “Hello, Herbert, Clara,” he said. “How nice to see you again.”

Big, broad Herbert Shields charged out of his seat and grabbed Mr. MacPherson’s hand. “You old son of a gun,” he said.

“Herbert and Clara are in Montreal for the Pulp and Paper Convention. They’re going abroad this summer. Herbert’s been made an assistant to the vice-president. Isn’t that lovely, John?”

“It is indeed. I’m very happy for you, Herbert. How nice of you to remember us. Really, I —”

“Look at him, Herbert,” Clara said. “He hasn’t changed one bit. He’s still our John. I’ll bet he thinks we’re dreadful. Materialists, or philistines. John, are you still a what-do-you-call-it? A pacifist?”

“You old son of a gun,” Herbert said.

The Shieldses had kept in touch with most of the old McGill crowd. Jim McLeod had his own law firm now and was going to stand for parliament. Chuck Adams — Hey, remember the time he sent out invitations to the Engineers’ Costume Ball on pink toilet paper? Well, Chuck has finally married Mary. Walsh is Eastern Sales Manager for Atlantic Trucking and Wes Holt is buying up salmon canneries left and right on the West Coast.

Mr. MacPherson knew that Clara would write letters to all of them explaining why they never heard from John. “He’s a failure, my dear, absolutely, and the Colby girl, the minister’s daughter if you remember, well, she’s turned out an invalid.”

After the Shieldses had left, first making him promise that he would call them at the Mount Royal Hotel, Mr. MacPherson gave Jenny her medicines. He had meant to work on his history test papers, long overdue, but he was too tired. So, remembering to unhook the phone, he got into bed. He told Jenny about Kravitz.

“But what a rude thing for you to have said about the boy’s father. I’m surprised at you, John.”

“You ought to meet my boys one day.” Mr. MacPherson laughed out loud. He reached over and touched Jenny’s forehead. “Good night,” he said.

Jenny awakened him around three in the morning, complaining of a nagging pain in her chest. He thought of calling Dr. Hanson. But Dr. Hanson would say that Jenny must get a month’s rest in the mountains or he wouldn’t be held responsible for the consequences, and then he would shake his head, mildly exasperated, and prescribe the usual sedatives, so Mr. MacPherson administered the sedatives himself.

“Would you like me to read to you for a while?” he asked.

“Thanks, anyway, John. But I think I’ll be able to sleep.”

Mr. MacPherson sat down in his armchair and passed the night overlooking her difficult sleep, squeezing his hands together whenever she coughed.