Norton glanced up at the clock above the blackboard.
The period was winding down, so he gave a short talk on Mengele and Nazi experimentation and, as always, there was an appreciable increase in the level of attention paid by the class.
He attempted, as usual, to place the information in historical perspective, to give it some context, to impress on the kids why this subject was important. To make them think.
'We're facing the fallout even now,' he said. 'The Nazi experiments on human beings, onerous as they were, yielded valuable scientific information that could now be put to good use. Therein lies the dilemma. Is that knowledge tainted because of the way in which it was obtained? A lot of people believe that no good can come of evil and that recognition of the worth of this information would indirectly validate what the Nazis did. There are other people who believe that knowledge is knowledge, it is neither good nor evil in and of itself, and the method by which it was obtained should have no bearing on its validity. Still others believe that if any good can come of this evil, all of those people would not have died in vain. It's a complex question with no easy answer.'
The bell rang.
'Think about it over the weekend. You may have to write an essay.' He smiled as the students picked up their books and papers, groaning. 'And enjoy your days off.'
'We always do!' Greg Wass yelled as he sped out the door.
The weather was still gorgeous after school, and Norton cut across the football field to Fifth Street. At the edge of the field, in the dirt border adjoining the chain link fence that separated school property from the sidewalk, he saw a line of huge red ants marching from a hole in the ground to a discarded lunch sack, and he stopped for a moment to watch them. It had always seemed ironic to him that the ant, the Nazi of the insect kingdom, was the bug most frequently subjected to genocide.
Flies and gnats, spiders and beetles, were usually killed individually. But ants were squashed or sprayed with poison, killed a hundred, two hundred at a time, entire colonies wiped out in one stroke.
He frowned, recalling a memory from his childhood, when he and a neighbor girl had set fire to an anthill, dousing the small mound of dirt and the surrounding grassy ground with kerosene before dropping a match and watching the little insect bodies shrivel and blacken.
They'd thrown other bugs into the fire as well, beetles and spiders, whatever they could catch, and they'd almost tossed in a kitten but the flames had sputtered out before they could capture the animal.
He closed his eyes. Where had that memory come from?
He felt suddenly ill at ease, slightly queasy, and he took a deep breath and walked through the open gate onto the sidewalk. The day no longer seemed so perfect, and instead of strolling slowly, enjoying the cool weather and the premature season, he hurried down Fifth Street toward home.
Carole was cooking dinner in the kitchen when he arrived, but he wasn't in the mood to talk to her, so he called out a cursory greeting, threw his briefcase on the hall tree, grabbed a Newsweek from the magazine rack, and locked himself in the bathroom. He stayed in there for almost a half hour, until Carole knocked on the door and asked if he was going to spend the night on the toilet or come out and eat. He yelled that he'd be out in a minute, and when he walked into the dining room, the table was set and the good china was out. In the center of the table was a full salad bowl, a plate of mashed potatoes, and a small basket of rolls.
Uh-oh, he thought.
Carole emerged from the kitchen carrying a silver tray upon which sat a delicious-smelling roast.
'What is it?' he asked as she placed the tray on the table.
'What is what?'
'This.' He gestured around the table. 'What's up?'
'Nothing,' she said. 'I'm in a good mood and I
wanted to have a nice dinner. Is that a crime?'
'No, it's not a crime. But you don't usually go to all this trouble unless you want something. Or . . .' He looked at her. 'Did you have an accident? Is the car dented?'
She glared at him. 'That's insulting. I told you, I was just in a good mood.' She paused. 'Was.'
They stared at each other for a moment, then Carole turned and strode back into the kitchen. Norton sat down to eat. The food looked delicious, and he piled his plate high with generous helpings of everything. Carole returned, placing a glass of milk before him.
They ate for a while in silence, a welcome change and a state of affairs he thoroughly enjoyed, but Carole was obviously discomfited by the lack of conversation, and she finally broke down.
'Don't you even want to know why I'm in a good mood? Why I'm happy?'
He sighed. 'Why are you happy?'
'Because we had our first CLO meeting of the season.'
'So what are you doing this year? Annie again? The world always needs more amateur productions of Annie.''
She slammed her fork down on the table. 'You pompous ass.'
'What are you talking about?'
'Why do you always have to belittle everything that I do?'
'I don't belittle everything you do.'
'What do you call it, then?'
'I'm not--'
'Not what? Criticizing? You sure the hell are. And for your information, we're doing Sondheim's Company this year.' She glared at him. 'And don't you dare say we don't have the talent for it.'
'I wasn't going to,' he said.
But he was. That was exactly what he'd been about to say. And he was only able to claim the high road now because she talked faster than he did and hadn't allowed him to put his foot in his mouth.
Why did he do this? he wondered. What compelled him to attack her, to disparage her abilities, to mock her accomplishments, to denigrate everything she did?
It wasn't that he thought himself superior, as she often suggested. It wasn't that he felt inferior and belittled others in an attempt to make up for it, either. No, it was simpler than that. Simpler, and at the same time, more complex.
He liked to hurt people.
The ants.
He took a deep breath, stared down at his mashed potatoes. It was a hard admission to make, a clear-eyed yet withering self-assessment, an understanding of himself that he'd rather not possess. Not many people could recognize or acknowledge such a base and reprehensible motive Jesus, he thought. He was even using this as fodder for self-congratulation, complimenting himself for recognizing that he was a bastard.
What the hell was wrong with him?
It had all started with those damn ants.
He looked across the table at Carole. 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I'm . . . I've just had a bad day.'
'It's not only today,' she told him.
'I know, I know--'
'No. You don't know.'
'What do you want me to do, Carole? I said I'm sorry.'
'You're an arrogant, self-centered jerk sometimes.'
CCT___??
'I don't want to talk to you right now, Nort . Just shut up and eat your dinner.'
They finished the rest of the meal in silence, and afterward he went out into the living room to watch a documentary on the Civil War on A&E while she retreated into the kitchen.
He finished grading the last test paper and put it on the pile, shaking his head. He hadn't had high expectations to begin with, but the scores were even worse than he thought they'd be.
Kids seemed to be getting dumber and dumber each year.
He sighed, grabbed his cup, finished off the last lukewarm swallow of coffee. They weren't really stupid, these students, but they weren't educated and had no desire to be so. They had no intellectual guidance, no one to tell them what they should know and why they should know it. 'The post-literate generation,' he'd heard them
