The Midnight Tour

want to...”

“Why would I want to? What’s the big attraction of going to some crummy old house where a lot of people got murdered? In fact, I think the whole idea’s a little sick. They shouldn’t even allow tours of a place like that. And if they do, people ought to have the good sense not to go. It’s perverted. And it’s four hours on a damn bus.”

Owen stared at her. He felt as if he’d been bludgeoned.

“Are you calling me a pervert?” he asked.

She laughed and said, “Don’t be a dope,” and gave his leg a pat. “I didn’t mean you.” Mouth close to his ear, she whispered, “I love you, silly. Do you think I’d love you if you were a pervert?”

“I am, you know.”

“Oh, ho ho. You’re so funny. You’re such a dope. But I love you anyway.” She kissed his ear, then eased away and treated him with her wanton growl.

God only knows where she’d picked it up. Probably from some movie.

Monica’s wanton growl.

A soft grumble in the throat, accompanied by a slight baring of her teeth and a sultry gaze.

Owen hated it.

He’d hated it from the first time she tried it on him, six months ago.

Like Owen, Monica was a first-year teacher at Crawford Junior High School in Los Angeles. He’d met her .at the start of the fall semester, back in September of the previous year. And he hadn’t liked her one bit. His friend Henry, another teacher starting out at Crawford, hadn’t liked her either. He’d said, “She’s such a fucking know-it- all,” and Owen had agreed. “She acts like she thinks her shit smells like roses.” Owen had agreed with that, too. “Too bad,” Henry had said, “‘cause she’s sort of a fox. I wouldn’t mind playing a little hide-the-salami with her, if you know what I mean.” To that, Owen had responded, “Not me. Hide the salami, it’ll probably freeze and break off. And there you’d be, salamiless-in-Gaza.”

Though conceited, condescending, stiff and humorless and generally annoying, Monica was almost beautiful. She looked very similar to the way Elizabeth Taylor had looked in her early twenties. Similar, but different.

The differences were not to Monica’s advantage.

But nobody ever mentioned them to her.

What they pointed out were the similarities.

It had probably been going on since Monica’s early childhood—friends and relatives and teachers and kids in school and strangers stopping her on the street to tell her, “Do you know, you’re the spitting image of Elizabeth Taylor? It’s absolutley uncanny. I can’t believe my eyes.”

It must’ve been constant.

And, of course, she’d bought it.

In spite of the evidence of mirrors.

Owen figured it was little wonder that she’d grown up thinking she was the queen of the universe.

Henry had said, “To know her is to loathe her.”

And Owen had agreed.

During the entire fall semester, he’d done his best to stay out of Monica’s way. He’d wanted nothing to do with her. But they’d often been thrown together by circumstances. Since both were first year English teachers at the same school, it was inevitable.

And Owen just had to be nice to her.

Whenever an encounter couldn’t be avoided, he smiled and spoke to her in a friendly way as if he liked her. He was that way with everyone.

She seemed to react with her usual cold disdain.

Until that December morning when she asked him for a ride to the Christmas party. Cornering him in the teacher’s lounge, she said, “Could I ask you a big favor, Owen?”

“Sure, I guess so.”

“Are you planning to go to the faculty Christmas party?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Will you be driving?”

Oh, no.

“Yes.”

“Are you taking a date?”

If only.

“No, probably not.”

“The reason I’m asking, Owen—I simply can’t drive myself to the party. It’s so dangerous for a woman to be out by herself, especially late at night.”

“It sure is. Dangerous for anybody.”

“But it’s worse for a woman.”

“Sure. I’m sure it is. Worse.”

“And the party probably won’t get over till sometime after midnight. I can’t possibly drive home all by myself at an hour like that. So would you mind terribly taking me to the party? I don’t think I’ll be able to go, otherwise.”

Owen didn’t want to do it. He didn’t like her. But he’d already confessed his intention of going to the party without a date—blow—ing his best possible excuse. On the spur of the moment, he could think of no halfway decent reason to turn her down. So he smiled and said, “Sure, I’d be glad to give you a ride.”

It turned out to be more than a ride: it turned out to be a date. After their arrival at the party, she wouldn’t go away. She stayed by Owen’s side. She held on to his arm. She led him here and there, keeping him while she chatted with an assortment of faculty members and their spouses—usually the very teachers Owen liked least and would’ve avoided, given the chance.

Finally, Owen managed to sneak away from her. He got himself a cupful of red, potent punch, then spent a few minutes with his friends, Henry and Jill and Maureen.

Three minutes, maybe four.

Then Henry, keeping lookout, said, “Oops, here comes trouble. You’re up Shit Creek now, buddy.”

Owen said, “Delightful,” and gulped down his punch.

“If you can’t stand her,” Maureen said, “why not tell her to take a leap?”

“I can’t do that.”

Monica, arriving, greeted everyone with a rigid smile. Then she grabbed Owen’s arm and said to the others, “Will you excuse us, please?”

“Can’t,” Henry said. “You’re inexcuseable.”

“Oh, ho ho. Very amusing.” With that, she led Owen away from his friends. As she hurried him along, she said with a pout, “I thought you’d deserted me. You can’t just bring a girl somewhere and leave her stranded, Owie.”

He hated to be called Owie.

He hated the tone of her voice, as if she were talking to a three year old.

He also hated to dance. But she squeezed his arm and said, “How about tripping the light fantastic for a while?”

“I’m not much of a dancer,” he said.

“That’s all right. I’m a wonderful dancer. And a wonderful teacher. I’ll have you cutting the rug like Fred Astaire.”

“Fred Astaire’s dead.”

She smiled, shook her head, and said, “Don’t be morbid, darling.”

Darling? Oh, my God.

“I’d really rather not dance,” he said.

He despised dancing in general, but was appalled by the idea of dancing with Monica—especially at the faculty Christmas party, surrounded by teachers, counselors, secretaries, vice principals... the principal himself.