banned. At least out here, standing alone by the Dumpster, no one would hassle him.
He heard the soft growl of an engine, and he glanced toward the street. A dark green car was creeping by, so slowly it barely seemed to move. The windows were too darkly tinted to see through, and Noah couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman behind the wheel.
The car stopped right across the street. Somehow Noah knew the driver was staring at him, just as surely as Noah was staring back.
He dropped the cigarette and quickly crushed it under his shoe. No sense getting caught; the last thing he needed was another detention. The evidence now obliterated, he turned and brazenly faced the unseen driver. He felt a sense of victory when the car drove away.
Noah looked down at the crushed cigarette, only half smoked. What a waste. He was weighing the chances of salvaging what remained when he heard the school bell ring, signaling the end of break.
Then he heard the shouting. It came from the front of the school. He rounded the corner of the building and saw a crowd of kids milling on the lawn, chanting:
“Cat fight! Cat fight!”
This should be something to see.
He pushed forward, trying to get a peek at the action before the teachers broke it up, and the two battling girls practically flew right into him. Noah stumbled backwards to a safer distance, shocked by the viciousness of the fight. This was worse than any brawl between two boys; this really was a cat fight, the girls clawing at each others’ faces, yanking at hair. The shouts of the crowd rang in his ears. He looked around at the circle of spectators, and saw their frenzied faces, smelled the blood lust, strong as musk.
A strange excitement coiled inside him. He felt his hand close into a fist, felt heat rush to his face. Both the girls were bloodied now, and the sight of it enthralled him. Provoked him. He pushed forward, jostling with the crowd for a better view, and was angry when he could not get closer.
“Cat fight! Cat fight!”
He began to chant too, his excitement building with every glimpse of a bloodied face.
Then his gaze froze on Amelia, standing at the far edge of the lawn, and instantly he fell silent. She was staring at the crowd in disbelief and horror.
Shamefaced, he turned before she could see him, and he fled into the building.
In the boys’ restroom, he stared at himself in the mirror. What happened to everyone out there? he thought. What happened to me?
He splashed icy water on his face, and scarcely felt its sting.
“They were fighting over a boy,” said Fern. “At least, that’s the story I got.
It started off with a few insults, and the next thing you know, they were clawing each other’s faces.” She shook her head. “After Mrs. Horatio’s funeral, I was hoping the kids would support each other. Stand by each other. But this is the fourth fight we’ve had in two days, Lincoln. I can’t control them. I need a policeman to stand watch in this school.”
“Well, it seems like overkill,” he responded doubtfully, “but I can have Floyd Spear drop in a few times during the school day, if you want.”
“No, you don’t understand. We need someone here all day. I don’t know what else is going to work.”
Lincoln sighed and ran his hand through his hair. It seemed to Fern that he was getting grayer every day, just as she was. This morning, she had noticed the telltale hairs sprouting among her blond ones, had realized that the face she saw in the mirror was that of a middle-aged woman. Seeing the changes in Lincoln’s face, though, was somehow more painful than confronting her own aging image, because she carried such vivid memories of the man he’d been at twenty-five: dark-haired, dark-eyed, already a face of strength and character. The days before Doreen caught his eye.
She regarded the deepening lines in his face and thought, as she so often did: I could have made you so much happier than Doreen has.
Together they walked to her office. Fourth period classes had started, and their footsteps echoed in the empty hallway. A banner sagged overhead: Harvest Dance November 20! From Mr. Rubio’s classroom came the sound of bored voices raised in unison: Me ilamo Pablo. Te llamas Pablo. Se llama Pablo…
Her office was her private territory, and it reflected the way she lived her life, everything neat and in its place. Books lined up, spines out, no stray papers on the desk. Controlled. Children thrived on order, and Fern believed that only through absolute order could a school function properly.
“I know it’s asking for a manpower commitment,” she said, “but I want you to consider assigning a full-time officer to this school.”
“It means pulling a man off patrol, Fern, and I’m not convinced it’s necessary.”
“And what are you patrolling out there? Empty roads! The trouble in this town is right here, in this building. This is where we need a policeman.”
At last he nodded. “I’ll do what I can,” he said, and stood up. His shoulders seemed to sag with the burdens they carried. All day he wrestles with the problems of this town, she thought guiltily, and he gets no praise, only demands and criticism. Then he has no one to go home to, no one to comfort him. A man who makes the mistake of marrying the wrong woman should not have to suffer for the rest of his life. Not a man as decent as Lincoln.
She walked him to the door. They were close enough to touch each other, and the temptation to reach out, to throw her arms around him, was so overwhelming she had to close her hands into fists to resist it.
“I look at what’s happening,' she said, “and I can’t help but wonder what I’m doing wrong.”
“You haven’t done anything wrong?’
“Six years as principal, and suddenly Fm fighting to keep order in my school.
Fighting to keep my job.”
“Fern, I really think it’s just a temporary reaction to the shooting. The kids need time to recover.” He gave her shoulder a reassuring pat and he turned to the door. “It'll pass.”
Once again Claire was staring into Mairead Temple’s mouth. It seemed like familiar territory to her now, the furry tongue, the tonsillar pillars, the uvula hanging down in a quivering flap of pink flesh. And that smell, like an old ashtray, the same smell that permeated Mairead’s kitchen, where they were now sitting. It was Tuesday, the day Claire made house calls, and Mairead was the next to last patient on her schedule. When one’s medical practice is failing, when patients are switching to other doctors, desperate measures are called for. A home visit to Mairead Temple’s smoky kitchen qualified as a desperate measure. Anything to keep a patient happy.
Claire turned off her pen light. “Your throat looks about the same to me. It’s just a little red.”
“Still hurts wicked bad.”
“The culture came back negative.”
“You mean I don’t get any more penicillin?”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t justify it.”
Mairead clacked her dentures together and glared at Claire with pale eyes. “What kinda treatment is that?”
“Well, I’ll tell you, Mairead, the best treatment is prevention.” “So?”
“So Claire eyed the pack of menthol cigarettes lying on the kitchen table. In the advertisements, it was a brand usually associated with slim sophisticates, women in slinky gowns trailing furs and men. “I think it’s time for you to quit smoking.”
“What’s wrong with penicillin?”
Claire ignored the question, turning her attention instead to the wood-burning stove in the center of the overheated kitchen. “That’s not good for your throat, either. It dries out the air and fills it with smoke and irritants. You do have an oil furnace, don’t you?”
“Wood’s cheaper.”
“You’d feel better.”
“I get the wood free, from my nephew.”
“All right,” sighed Claire. “So how about just quitting the cigarettes?” “How about the penicillin?”
They looked at each other, budding enemies over a handful of three-buck pills.
