a gutter she had to include guilt along with terror.
'When were you born, Tony,' she asked.
'May twenty-seventh.'
'Oh, I knew it,' she said. 'I knew it. You're Gemini.'
'What's that?'
'Gemini is the constellation under which you were born. Gemini determines many of your characteristics and one might say your fate; but Gemini men are invariably good linguists. The fact that you are Gemini proves to me that you can do your work and do it brilliantly. You can't dispute your stars, can you?'
He looked past her through the window to the playing field. There was still enough light in the air, enough color in the trees to compete with the incandescence of their cavern; but in another ten minutes there would be nothing to see in the window but a reflection of Miss Hoe and himself. He knew nothing about astrology beyond the fact that he thought it to be a sanctuary for fools. He supposed that she might have read in the stars (and he was right) that it was her manifest destiny to be unloved, unmarried, childless and lonely. She sighed and. he was suddenly conscious of her breathing, its faint sibilance and the rise and fall of her meager front. It seemed intimate-sexual-as if they lay in one another's arms, and he moved his chair back suddenly, scraping the legs on the Vinylite. The noise restored him.
'I've talked this over with Mr. Northrup, Tony, and we've reached a decision. Since you seem unable to manage your own time with any efficiency we are going to give you a little assistance. We are going to ask you to give up football.'
He had not anticipated this staggering injustice. He would not cry but there was a definite disturbance in his eyeducts. She didn't know what she was saying. She knew, poor woman, much less about football than he knew about French. He loved football, loved the maneuvers, the grass work, the fatigue, and loved the ball itself-its shape, color, odor and the way it spiraled into the angle of his elbow and ribcage. He loved the time of year, the bus trips to other schools, he loved sitting on the bench. Football came more naturally to him than anything else at his time of life and how could they take this naturalness away from him and fill up the breach with French verbs?
'You don't know what you're saying, Miss Hoe.'
'I'm afraid I do, Tony. I've not only talked with Mr. Northrup. I've talked with Coach.'
'With Coach?'
'Yes, with Coach. Coach thinks it will be better for you, better for our school, better perhaps for our football team if you spent more time at your studies.'
'Coach said this?'
'Coach said that you were enthusiastic but he doesn't think that in any way you're indispensable. He thinks perhaps that you're wasting your time.'
He stood. 'You know what, Miss Hoe?' he asked.
'What, Tony,' she said. 'What, dear?'
'You know I could kill you,' he said. I could kill you. I could strangle you.'
She stood, hurling her chair against the walls of Carcassonne, and began to scream. Her screaming brought Mr. Graham, the Latin teacher, and Mr. Clark (science) running. She stood at her desk, her arm outflung, pointing at Tony. 'He tried to kill me,' she screamed. 'He threatened to kill me.'
'There, there, Mildred,' said Mr. Graham. 'There, there.'
'I want a policeman,' she screamed. 'Call the police.' Mr. Clark called the office through the squawk box and asked for the secretary to call the police. Mr. Clark picked up Miss Hoe's chair and she sat in it, trembling and breathing heavily but sternly as if she were about to upbraid an unruly class. Tony simply stared at his hands. Then in the distance they heard the sound of a police siren that seemed, excited and grieving, not to come from the autumn twilight but from some television drama in which they were the actors or combatants, playing out nothing so simple as poor French marks and a mistaken threat. Tony was Miss Hoe's long-lost brother who had just returned from his travels with the news that their beautiful mother was a well-known communist spy. The science teacher would have been Miss Hoe's husband-a dreary failure whose business misadventures and drinking bouts had brought her to the brink of a nervous breakdown-and Mr. Clark came from the FBI. Thus, juxtaposed for a moment by the sound of the siren, they seemed about to have their dilemma interrupted by an advertisement for painkillers or detergents, until the police came in, asking, 'What's up, what's going on here?' Vandalism had been their guess, although it was the wrong time of day-but vandalism was the usual complaint. Why did kids want to rip the lids off desks and break windows. Miss Hoe raised her head. Her poor face, shining with tears, was ugly. 'He tried to kill me,' she said. 'He tried to kill me.'
'Now Mildred,' said Mr. Clark. 'Now Mildred.'
'Don't I have any protection at all,' she cried angrily. 'Are you all going to stand around and defend this murderer until I'm found some night with a broken neck? How do you know he doesn't have a knife. Has anyone searched him? Has anyone even asked him a question?'
'You got a knife, Sonny,' one of the police asked.
'No,' said Tony.
'You try to kill this lady?'
'No, sir,' said Tony.
'You try to kill this lady?'
'No, sir. I got angry at her and said that I'd like to but I didn't touch her. I wouldn't ever touch her,'
'I want something done about this,' Miss Hoe said. 'I am entitled to some protection.'
'You want to file charges against him lady? Felonious assault, I guess.'
'I do,' Miss Hoe said.
'All right. I'll take him down to the station and book him. Come on, Sonny.'
The corridor was crowded by this time with teachers, secretaries and janitors, none of whom knew what had happened and all of whom were asking one another what it was. Tony and the police had gotten to the end of the corridor and were about to turn out of sight when Miss Hoe cried: 'Officer, Officer.' It was a frightened voice and they turned quickly.
'Could you take me home, will you drive me home?'
'Where do you live?'
' Warwick Gardens.'
'Sure.'
'I'll just be a minute.'
She got her coat, turned off the lights and locked the door to her classroom. She came swiftly down the hall, through the crowd, to where they waited. She got into the back seat of the car and Tony sat in front between the two police. 'It's very kind of you to take me home,' Miss Hoe said. 'I do appreciate it, but I'm terribly afraid of the dark. When I go into the cafetorium for my lunch the first thing I think of is that it will get dark in four hours. Oh, I wish it would never get dark-never. I suppose you know all about that lady who was mistreated and strangled on Maple Street last month. She was my age and we had the same first name. We had the same horoscope and they never found the murderer…'
One of the police walked her to the door of the Warwick Gardens and then they drove to the police station in the center of town. Tony explained that his mother was in the city but that his father usually came out on the 6:32. 'Well, the judge won't be here until eight or later,' one of the police said, 'and we can't book you without the judge but you don't look very desperate to me and I'll remand you in the custody of your father as soon as he comes home. The lady seemed a little hysterical…'
It was, of course, the first time Tony had been in the police station. It was a new building, not in any way shabby, but definitely grim. Fluorescent tubing shed a soulful, grainy and searching light and an extraordinarily harsh and unnatural voice was coming from a radio. 'Five foot eight,' said the voice. 'Blue eyes. Crooked teeth. A scar on the right side of the jaw. A birthmark at the back of the neck. Weight one hundred and sixty pounds. Wanted for murder…' They took down Tony's name and address and invited him to sit down. The only other civilian in the place was a shabbily dressed man who wore a stained, white silk scarf around his neck. His clothing was greasy and threadbare, his hands were black but the white silk scarf seemed like a declaration of self-esteem. 'How long do I have to stay here,' he asked the lieutenant at the desk.
'Until the judge comes in.'
