4

In the masters’ room of F.F.H.S. the next morning Mr. MacPherson was interrupted when Mr. Coldwell burst angrily into the room. “If I ever find out which one of them phoned me last night,” he said, “I’ll fix it so that he can’t get into any school in the city.”

“So they’ve been calling you too,” Mr. Jackson said.

“Are you sure it’s the students?” Mr. MacPherson asked sleepily.

“Did you call me at one A.M., John? Shout obscenities into my ear and hang up?”

“I believe,” Mr. Jackson began, applying his years of intimacy with the scientific method to the present banality, “I believe — now we must allow some margin for doubt — but I do I recognized Kravitz’s voice last night.”

Mr. MacPherson began to read his history test papers.

“Damn it, John,” Mr. Coldwell said, “strap the little bastard and put an end to this nonsense.”

“Strapping,” Mr. MacPherson began in a small voice, “has never been a solution to…”

“Sure, sure,” Mr. Coldwell said, “but until your socialist messiah comes along I’d like my sleep undisturbed by obscene phone calls. Strap him, John.”

“I refuse to strap Kravitz.”

Mr. Cox lowered his newspaper. “As a matter of fact,” he said, “Kravitz and the rest of the Dead End Kids were at our place last night. I played some records for them.”

“Young man, you’ll hear more about this. I think we’ve had quite enough of your musical evenings.”

“Why don’t you try strapping me, Coldwell? You can make the same deal with me as you made with Kravitz. If I say nothing about my wrists bleeding you’ll promise not to mark it in your book.”

Even Mr. MacPherson joined in the ensuing laughter.

“Really, Cox,” Mr. Feeney said, “you don’t believe that story, do you?”

Mr. Cox’s face turned white.

“What would you say,” Mr. Coldwell said, his anger gone, “if Kravitz told you I beat him with chains?”

Luckily for Mr. Cox the first bell rang just then. He caught up with Mr. MacPherson just outside Room 41. “I want you to know,” he said, “that I’m with you all the way in this. Strapping is the worst kind of reactionary measure. I’m a socialist too,” he added warmly.

Mr. MacPherson saw Coldwell walking towards them. “Socialism is strictly for young men,” he said loudly. “I hope you too will grow out of it in time.”

A typed note was waiting for Mr. MacPherson on his desk in Room 41.

KRAVITZ MAY BE A BRAT AND AN

EXHIBITIONIST AND A COWARD,

BUT THE GUY AFRAID TO STRAP

HIM MUST BE A REAL CHICKEN.

Mr. MacPherson crumpled the note into a ball and tossed it into the wastebasket. “I’m warning you I won’t stand for any nonsense today. If anyone so much as talks without raising his hand, he’s as good as asking for a suspension.”

When Mr. MacPherson got home that afternoon there was yet another note waiting for him.

DEAR JOHN,

Dr. Hanson wants you to call him as soon as you get in. He gave me an injection and something to make me sleep.

JENNY

Mr. MacPherson phoned. Dr. Hanson was out on a call, Miss Floyd said, but Mr. MacPherson was to come to his office at nine A.M. tomorrow morning, without fail. Yes, he would have to miss school. This was urgent.

No sooner had he hung up than the telephone rang again. “Yes,” he said tightly.

“Guess who?”

“Look here, Kravitz, I’m warning you —”

“Oh dear, do I sound Jewish, John?”

“I shall have you suspended for this. That’s a promise.”

“John, pet, it’s me.”

“Who’s speaking, please?”

“Clara Shieldberg. Und vat’s new vit you, Abie?”

“Oh, it’s you, Clara. I’m sorry. You see, sometimes my students —”

“Never mind your students, pet. You get right into a taxi this minute and come over here and have a drink with us. We’re in Room 341.”

“Oh, I couldn’t do that. Jenny isn’t well and besides I —”

“If you don’t come over here this minute Herbert says he’ll report you to the police for having stolen his car.”

The party, centered in Room 341, actually embraced the two adjoining rooms as well. Even the surrounding halls swarmed with merrymarkers. A lot of the men wore badges with their names and addresses typed on them and, underneath, the one word DELEGATE. All the women were smartly dressed. Embarrassed, Mr. MacPherson edged into a free corner and hastily lit a cigarette.

“It’s great to see you again,” Herbert said. “What brand of poison do you prefer, Mr. Chips?”

Clara kissed Mr. MacPherson on the cheek and it was a long time and lots of whiskies later when he next looked at his watch and discovered that it was three A.M. He had only meant to stay for an hour. Horrified, Mr. MacPherson rushed for his coat, ran outside, and hailed a taxi.

Once in the taxi, he recalled how Herbert had introduced him to a group of strangers. “I want you to shake the hand of the most brilliant student of our class at McGill. He could have been a success at anything he wanted. Instead he’s devoted his life to teaching.” It was clear that they still took him for the freshly scrubbed idealist who had left McGill twenty years ago. They had no idea that he was exhausted, bitter, and drained, and that given the chance to choose again he would never become a teacher.

Perhaps, he thought, there’s still time. He hadn’t strapped a boy yet, had he? Cox admired him. Next year, he remembered, two more young veterans would be joining the staff. Together, maybe, they could help the boys. A club could be formed, perhaps, as was usually done in movies about delinquents. There might still be nostalgic reunions in his parlor. MacPherson began to feel much better. Cheerful, even. There’s still hope, he thought.

Mr. MacPherson tiptoed into the bedroom, but Jenny wasn’t there. He found her crumpled up on the hall floor. The receiver dangled idiotically from the hook above her. Mr. MacPherson, who was still only vaguely conscious of what had happened, snatched it up immediately, but the party at the other end had hung up. So he stared accusingly at his wife on the floor, not knowing whether to rip his clothes into shreds or hold her dry hand in his or go out for another drink. After he had hovered over her dumbly for a time he knelt down and discovered that she was still alive. Quickly he telephoned for an ambulance.