remembered, “last night-“
“I give up.” Anna Semper put a third spoonful of sugar in her coffee and stirred morosely. “‘Every child has a something-I mean there’s some way to reach every child-all but the Francher kid. I can’t reach him at all. If he’d even be aggressive or actively mean or actively anything, maybe I could do something, but he just sits there being a vegetable. And then I get so spittin’ mad when he finally does do something, just enough to keep him from flunking, that I could bust a gusset. I can’t abide a child who can and won’t.” She frowned darkly and added two more spoonfuls of sugar to her coffee.
“‘I’d rather have an eager moron than a won’t-do genius!” She tasted the coffee and grimaced. “Can’t even get a decent cup of coffee to arm me for my struggle with the little monster.”
I laughed. “Five spoonfuls of sugar would spoil almost anything. And don’t give up hope. Have you tried music? Remember, ‘Music hath charms-’”
Anna reddened to the tips of her ears. I couldn’t tell if it was anger or embarrassment. “Music!” Her spoon clished against her saucer sharply. She groped for words. “This is ridiculous, but I have had to send that Francher kid out of the room during music appreciation.”
“Out of the room? Why ever for? I thought he was a vegetable.”
Anna reddened still further. “He is,” she said stubbornly, “but-” She fumbled with her spoon, then burst forth, “But sometimes the record player won’t work when he’s in the room.”
I put my cup down slowly. “Oh, come now! This coffee is awfully strong, I’ll admit, but it’s not that strong.”
“No, really!” Anna twisted her spoon between her two hands. “When he’s in the room that darned player goes too fast or too slow or even backwards. I swear it. And one time-” Anna looked around furtively and lowered her voice, “one time it played a whole record and it wasn’t even plugged in!”
“You ought to patent that! That’d be a real money-maker.”
“Go on, laugh!” Anna gulped coffee again and grimaced.
“I’m beginning to believe in poltergeists-you know, the kind that are supposed to work through or because of adolescent kids. If you had that kid to deal with in class-“
“Yes.” I fingered my cold toast. “If only I did.”
And for a minute I hated Anna fiercely for the sympathy on her open face and for the studied not-looking at my leaning crutches. She opened her mouth, closed it, then leaned across the table.
“Polio?” she blurted, reddening.
“No,” I said. “Car wreck.”
“Oh.” She hesitated. “Well, maybe someday-“
“No,” I said. “No.” Denying the faint possibility that was just enough to keep me nagged out of resignation.
“Oh,” she said. “How long ago?”
“How long?” For a minute I was suspended in wonder at the distortion of time. How long? Recent enough to he a shock each time of immobility when I expected motion. Long enough ago that eternity was between me and the last time I moved unthinkingly.
“Almost a year,” I said, my memory aching to this time last year I could…
“You were a teacher?” Anna gave her watch a quick appraising look.
“Yes.” I didn’t automatically verify the time. The immediacy of watches had died for me. Then I smiled. “‘That’s why I can sympathize with you about the Francher kid. I’ve had them before.”
“There’s always one,” Anna sighed, getting up. “Well, it’s time for my pilgrimage up the hill. I’ll see you.” And the swinging door to the hall repeated her departure again and again with diminishing enthusiasm. I struggled to my feet and swung myself to the window.
“Hey!” I shouted. She turned at the gate, peering back as she rested her load of workbooks on the gatepost.
“Yes?”
“If he gives you too much trouble send him over here with a note for me. It’ll take him off your hands for a while at least.”
“Hey, that’s an idea. Thanks. That’s swell! Straighten your halo!” And she waved an elbow at me as she disappeared beyond the box elder outside the gate.
I didn’t think she would, but she did.
It was only a couple of days later that I looked up from my book at the creak of the old gate. The heavy old gear that served as a weight to pull it shut thudded dully behind the Francher kid. He walked up the porch steps under my close scrutiny with none of the hesitant embarrassment that most people would feel. He mounted the three steps and wordlessly handed me an envelope. I opened it. It said:
“Dust off your halo! I’ve reached the !! stage. Wouldn’t you like to keep him permanent-like?”
“Won’t you sit down?” I gestured to the porch swing, wondering how I was going to handle this deal.
He looked at the swing and sank down on the top porch step.
“What’s your name?”
He looked at me incuriously. “Francher.” His voice was husky and unused-sounding.
“Is that your first name?”
