moment, as if responding to her thoughts, he seemed to turn toward her, though his eyes were concealed by the glare from off the. screen. But then a dark-haired woman sitting beside him leaned toward him to whisper something in his ear, and he turned away.
In the end, like lovers, the two children were parted, and Carol felt the customary lump form in her throat. The boy kicked over the crosses, trampled the mounds, and hid the rosary forever in the owl's nest, while, rigid with dread, the girl was led off like a prisoner and lost amid the crowds and confusion of a refugee center somewhere far away. Until this moment the story had been set within the rural isolation of a farm, and it had been easy to forget that, beyond the cornfields and the pastures, a modern world was speeding toward destruction.
She looked back at the young man near the wall – yes, she was sure now; it was Jeremy – in time to see him whisper something to his dark-haired companion. The woman turned to face him, smiled, and whispered something back. Her hand touched his shoulder familiarly. Carol felt a stab of disappointment so intense it made her catch her breath and look away. She saw that she'd been duped into coming here; she'd been a fool to have expected anything else. So much for her daydreams!
Moments later, in the front of the room, the screen was filled with Fin, like a gate slamming shut upon the characters' lives. By the time the overhead light came on, they had already receded into memory.
But Carol herself was already gone; she had gotten to her feet and slipped out the door before the film had ended.
She'd arrived in the New School with light still coloring the western sky. Departing now, she stepped outside and found herself in darkness broken only by the melancholy glow of streetlamps and a scattering of windows lit behind drawn curtains. Above the chimneys and the ventilator ducts a chip of moon looked small and far away.
After the heat and glare of the classroom, the cool night air with its solitude, its silence, brought a kind of relief. She walked listlessly, though, weighed down by a sudden feeling of fatigue and, beneath it, a dull unspoken loneliness. Several couples passed her as she made her way up the block – couples her own age, bound for a party, a disco, or a bar – and something in their voices made her feel painfully old. She was halfway to Sixth Avenue when, passing the doorway of an apartment house, she caught the smell of garlic, tomatoes, and cheese and remembered that she'd not yet eaten dinner. Her hunger had been forgotten for the duration of the film; now it returned with a rush.
Normally she'd have stopped at the all-night bodega at the end of her street to buy a package of spaghetti or a box of rice, but tonight the idea of cooking in that cramped, steamy little kitchen, with the ever-present roaches crawling just behind the stove, was too dispiriting to consider. When she reached the avenue, she paused. Tired as she felt, it was still too early to go home.
Home, in fact, seemed a rather dismal prospect, the more she thought about it. Rochelle would be up there with her new boyfriend tonight, the boisterous one who seemed so proud of his body and left coarse, dark curls in the sink and tub. The kitchen would be piled high with pots and dirty plates. The TV would be on – loudly, no doubt – but almost totally ignored; the two of them would be far more interested in each other. No doubt, too, they'd resent any interruption, though Rochelle would be more resentful than the boyfriend; he'd made one pass at Carol already. The television belonged to Rochelle and so did, in effect, the living room itself, since this was where she slept. Carol would be confined to her bedroom, trying to read or write letters above the sound of the TV's canned laughter and the less easily ignored laughter of the lovers.
Holding that image firmly in mind, she turned left on the avenue and headed toward the lights and crowds of Eighth Street, resolved that something good would happen to her before the night was through.
The night is growing dark now, but his mood is darker still. His wrinkled face is frozen in a scowl. From the shadowy recesses of an alley across the street he has seen the woman leave alone.
Something has gone wrong. Where is the man? The two of them are supposed to be together.
But perhaps it may still be arranged.
Stealthily he pads from the alley and into the street, moving toward the entrance of the school.
In the classroom on the third floor, Freirs and nearly a dozen of his students, some habitual sycophants, some who genuinely liked him, were still gathered near the front desk. After the film a far larger mass of them had surrounded him like a mob of petitioners, a few waving their papers at him, their excuses loud and earnest, others eager to get their reports back and quarrel over the grade. It had taken him nearly fifteen minutes to get them sorted out and, as it was the final class, to write down the addresses of the students whose papers he would have to mail back over the summer. His red book bag was stuffed once more with work.
Now only the most loyal were left, clustered around him at the front of the room. Donna was among them, pretending to be interested in the topic at hand but fooling no one. Freirs took advantage of every opportunity to catch her eye; she was the best-looking thing in sight. 'Listen,' he was saying, half seated on the desk in a manner that allowed him to take the weight off his feet but still keep his head on a level with theirs, 'a lot of you seem to think that superstition disappeared from the human scene somewhere between the talkies and TV.' His eyes swept the group, daring them to look away. 'I only wish it were true, but it's just not so. I mean, think hard. How many buildings have you seen lately with a thirteenth floor?'
One of the younger men smiled – a good-natured longhair, or so he'd always seemed, who all this semester seemed to have enjoyed feeding Freirs his best cues. Everyone liked a good straight man. 'Oh, come on, Mr Freirs, that thirteenth-floor stuff is just a joke nowadays.'
'Believe me,' said Freirs, 'it's no joke. There are people in this country, even today, who think it'll rain if they pray hard enough. They're out there right now, happy as can be, brewing their love potions, warding off the evil eye, setting traps for demons. They tell time by the stars, just like their grandfathers did, and they still plant corn by moonlight.' It was the Poroths he was thinking of, Sarr's gloomy frown, Deborah naked under that severe black dress.
The student was still regarding him with amused skepticism, probably putting on an act for Donna and the rest. Or maybe it just seemed funny to him that a pudgy city boy like Freirs should talk knowingly of old-time country ways. Freirs dug deep into his wallet and pulled forth a dollar bill. 'You know,' he said, 'I can't resist this little test.' He nodded to the younger man. 'You're obviously one of those rare beings we all hear about, a totally rational man, and so I want to give you this dollar as a gift.' He waved it theatrically in the air. Several of the onlookers turned to one another and grinned. What was old Freirs up to now? 'All I want in return,' he continued, 'is a simple little note, signed and dated, selling me, for one dollar' -he leaned forward – 'your immortal soul.'
The others laughed, and Donna managed to get in a slightly too enthusiastic 'Oh, Mr Freirs!' The younger man eyed the money, smiling uneasily, but made no move to comply. 'You want it in writing, huh?'
Freirs nodded. 'That's all. Just a scrap of paper with your name on it, and the words, 'This is to certify that I sell my soul to Mr Jeremy Freirs… forever.' '
The student laughed but shook his head. 'Why take a chance?' he said, shrugging.
'Exactly! It's Pascal's wager in reverse.' Freirs stood, looking flushed, and stuffed the dollar back into his pocket. He turned to the rest of the group. 'So you see, kiddies, the old fears die hard. We're not out of the woods yet.'
His thoughts were on the farm again, out there in the night across the river. Behind the smiling faces of his students, darkness waited at the windows like a living presence. 'And now,' he said, suddenly tired, 'maybe it's time we adjourned for the summer. I've got a lot of packing to do.'
'Hey, anybody up for a drink?' the long-haired youth asked brightly, as if it had just occurred to him. He glanced quickly around the circle, lingering an extra second on Donna.
Several of the others voiced an interest in going. Donna remained silent – leaving herself free, Freirs realized. He wondered how he could go off with her without making it too obvious. 'Now if any of you still have problems with your papers,' he said, 'deciphering my handwriting or disagreeing with my comments, we can- Uh-oh, what's going on here?'
The lights in the classroom blinked once, then again. After the second time, only the light directly above them came back on. Freirs saw Donna reach nervously in his direction, then draw back her hand.
'Sorry, you folks. Gotta clear this room.'
They turned. The voice, wheezy with age, had come from the shadows at the other side of the room. Dimly they could make out a small figure standing outlined in the doorway, silhouetted against the light from the hall. He appeared to be dressed in a shabby grey uniform several sizes too large. There was a pushbroom in his hand; he was holding it before him like a weapon.
'What's the rush?' said Freirs. 'We've always stayed this late before.'
