‘Tell the kids that. They’ll be interested.’
‘You like teaching?’ Ben said.
‘Sure I like it. It would have been a busted-axle forty years if I didn’t.’
The late bell rang, echoing loudly in the corridor, which was empty now except for one loitering student who was wandering slowly past a painted arrow under a sign which read ‘Wood Shop’.
‘How’s drugs here?’ Ben asked.
‘All kinds. Like every school in America. Ours is booze more than anything else.’
‘Not marijuana?’
‘I don’t consider pot a problem and neither does the administration, when it speaks off the record with a few knocks of Jim Beam under its belt. I happen to know that our guidance counselor, who is one of the best in his line, isn’t averse to toking up and going to a movie. I’ve tried it myself. The effect is fine, but it gives me acid indigestion.’
‘You have?’
‘Shhh,’ Matt said. ‘Big Brother is listening everywhere. Besides, this is my room.’
‘Oh boy.’
‘Don’t be nervous,’ Matt said, and led him in. ‘Good morning, folks,’ he said to the twenty or so students, who were eying Ben closely. ‘This is Mr Ben Mears.’
2
At first Ben thought he had the wrong house.
When Matt Burke invited him for supper he was quite sure he had said the house was the small gray one after the red brick, but there was rock ‘n’ roll music pouring from this one in a steady stream.
He used the tarnished brass knocker, got no answer, and rapped again. This time the music was turned down and a voice that was unmistakably Matt’s yelled, ‘It’s open! Come on in!’
He did, looking around curiously. The front door opened directly on a small living room furnished in Early American Junk Shop and dominated by an incredibly ancient Motorola TV. A KLH sound system with quad speakers was putting out the music.
Matt came out of the kitchen, outfitted in a red-and-white-checked apron. The odor of spaghetti sauce wandered out after him.
‘Sorry about the noise,’ Matt said. ‘I’m a little deaf. I turn it up.’
‘Good music.’
‘I’ve been a rock fan ever since Buddy Holly. Lovely music. Are you hungry?’
‘Yeah,’ Ben said. ‘Thanks again for asking me. I’ve eaten out more since I came back to ‘salem’s Lot than I have in the last five years, I guess.’
‘It’s a friendly town. Hope you don’t mind eating in the kitchen. An antique man came by a couple of months ago and offered me two hundred dollars for my dining room table. I haven’t gotten around to getting another one.’
‘I don’t mind. I’m a kitchen eater from a long line of kitchen eaters.’
The kitchen was astringently neat. On the small four-burner stove, a pot of spaghetti sauce simmered and a colander full of spaghetti stood steaming. A small drop-leaf table was set with a couple of mismatched plates and glasses which had animated cartoon figures dancing around the rims-jelly glasses, Ben thought with amusement. The last constraint of being with a stranger dropped away and he began to feel at home.
‘There’s Bourbon, rye, and vodka in the cupboard over the sink,’ Matt said, pointing. ‘There’s some mixers in the fridge. Nothing too fancy, I’m afraid.’
‘Bourbon and tap water will do me.’
‘Go to it. I’m going to serve this mess up.’
Mixing his drink, Ben said, ‘I liked your kids. They asked good questions. Tough, but good.’
‘Like where do you get your ideas?’ Matt asked, mimicking Ruthie Crockett’s sexy little-girl lisp.
‘She’s quite a piece.’
‘She is indeed. There’s a bottle of Lancers in the icebox behind the pineapple chunks. I got it special.’
‘Say, you shouldn’t-’
‘Oh come, Ben. We hardly see best-selling authors in the Lot every day.’
‘That’s a little extravagant.’
Ben finished the rest of his drink, took a plate of spaghetti from Matt, ladled sauce over it, and twirled a forkful against his spoon. ‘Fantastic,’ he said. ‘Mamma mia.’
‘But of course,’ Matt said.
Ben looked down at his plate, which had emptied with amazing rapidity. He wiped his mouth a little guiltily.
