I did not sink to the floor and burst into tears, although the idea crossed my mind. On the other hand, I did not linger to explore the murky corners of Carlsbad Cavern. I figured I had over five minutes of free time, so I bolted for the teachers’ lounge-which had to be more enlightening than any book of daily unit delineations.
The lounge was decorated in early American garage sale. The several sofas were covered with tattered plaid variations that would have convulsed a Scotsman; the formica-topped table was covered with nicks, scratches and stains. There were two rest rooms along one wall, and between them a tiny kitchenette with a refrigerator, soda machine, and-saints be praised-a gurgling coffee pot. A variety of cups hung on a peg board; not one of them said “Malloy” in decorative swirls, or even “Parchester.”
The situation was dire enough to permit certain emergency measures, including petty theft. I took down a cup, poured myself a medicinal dose of caffeine and slumped down on a mauve-and-green sofa to brood. Four minutes at the most. Then, if I remembered my high school experiences with any accuracy, students would converge on my cave, their little faces bright with eagerness to learn, their little eyes shining with innocence. Presumably, I would have to greet them and do something to restrain them for fifty minutes or so. Others would follow. Between moments of imparting wisdom, I was supposed to audit the books and expose an embezzler.
In the midst of my gloomy mental diatribe, a woman in a bright yellow dress came into the lounge. She was young, pretty, and slightly flustered by my presence. “Hello, I’m Paula Hart,” she said with a warm smile. “Beginning typing and office machines.”
“Claire Malloy. Intermediate confusion and advanced despair,” I said. My smile lacked her radiance, but she probably knew what daily unit delineations were.
“Are you subbing for Miss Parchester? This whole thing is just unbelievable, and I feel just dreadful about it. Poor Emily would never do such a thing. She must be terribly upset.” Miss Hart went into the kitchenette and returned with a cup decorated with pink hearts. “I’m in the room right across from you, Mrs. Malloy. If you need anything, feel free to ask.”
I opened my mouth to ask the definition of a delineation when a thirty-year-old Robert Redford walked into the lounge. He was wearing a gray sweatsuit, but it in no way diminished the effect. Longish blond hair, cornflower blue eyes, dimples, compact and well-shaped body. The whole thing, living and breathing. And smiling solely for Paula Hart, who radiated right back. They had no need for physical contact; the space between them shimmered with unspoken messages.
Young love was nice if one liked that sort of thing, but I was more concerned with my personal problems. Before I could suggest they unlock eyes and make constructive comments about my classes, the bell rang. The sound of tromping feet competed with screeches of glee. Locker doors banged open and slammed closed. The war was on, and I couldn’t do battle in the lounge.
“Bye,” I said as I headed into disaster. Neither of them seemed visibly distressed by my departure-if they noticed.
The journalism room was, as I had feared, filled with students. I went to the desk, dug through the mess until I found a black book, and then tossed it at a pudgy girl with waist-length black hair and a semblance of intelligence.
“Tell everyone to sit down and then take roll,” I commanded coolly. If I could only find the other book, I suspected I could discover who they were and why they were there.
The girl goggled briefly but began shouting names above the roar. Eventually the students sat down to eye me in a disconcertingly carnivorous way. I squared my shoulders and reminded myself that they were simply unpolished versions of the species.
We quickly established that they were Beginning Features, and I was a substitute with no interest in their future. They agreed to hold down the noise; I agreed to leave them alone until I found the daily unit delineation book. My pudgy aide at last produced it from a cardboard box beside the desk.
Since we were all content with the present arrangement, I left them to whisper while I scanned the book. Second period was to be Intro to Photo, and third was gloriously free, followed by a reasonable lunch break. Fourth period was Falcon Crier, which I presumed had something to do with the newspaper, fifth was Photo II, and sixth was something called “
The whispering grew a hit louder. I turned a motherly frown on them, and the noise obediently abated. Pleased with my success, I wandered around the room, discovering a coat closet filled with old newspapers, boxes of curled photographs, a quantity of dried rubber cement bottles, and a small, inky hole that proved to be a darkroom in all senses of the word. It also proved to be the source of the garbage can aroma. I now knew the confines of my domain, for better or worse.
I was sitting at the desk with an old newspaper when a box on the wall above my head began to crackle. After a moment of what sounded like cellophane being crumpled, a voice emerged.
“Mrs. Malloy, I have neither your attendance list for first period, nor your blue slips. I must have them at the beginning of each period.” Miss Don, or Frosty the Snowman.
I gazed at the box. “So?”
“So I must have them, Mrs. Malloy.”
Good heavens, the thing worked both ways. I wondered if she could see me from her mountaintop aerie as well. “I’ll send them to the office,” I called with a compliant expression, just in case. The box squawked in reply, then fell silent.
Pudge waved a paper at me and left the room. Hoping she knew what she was up to, I returned to an article on the chances of a district championship in football, complete with photographs of neckless boys squinting into the sun, but nevertheless optimistic.
On the last page, I found a photograph of Robed Redford himself. The caption below informed me that this was the new assistant coach, Jerry Finley. He thought the chances for a championship were good if the boys worked hard during practice, perfected their passing game, and gave the team their personal best. He was delighted to be at Farberville High and proud of the Falcons. His hobbies included water-skiing and Chinese cooking. When not on the gridiron, he would be found teaching general science and drivers’ ed, or supervising study hall in the cafeteria.
Or dimpling at Miss Hart, I amended to myself
The bell rang, and the class departed with the stealth of a buffalo herd. Their replacements looked remarkably similar. I tossed the attendance book to a weedy boy with glasses, made the same announcement about immediate goals, and even managed to send my attendance slip to the office before the box crackled at me.
I spent the period rummaging through Miss Parchester’s desk for anything that might contain accounts. I found a year’s supply of scented tissues, worn pencils, blue slips whose purpose escaped me, and other teaching paraphernalia. When the bell rang, I went down the hail to the teachers’ lounge to drown my sorrows in coffee.
As I opened the door, I heard a furious voice saying, “Mr. Pitts, you are a despicable example of humanity. I have told you repeatedly that you must not-must not- enter the lounge for any reason other than maintenance. I shall have to report you to Mr. Weiss!”
The speaker was a grim-faced woman with hair the color of concrete. On one side of her stood a diminutive sort with bluish hair, on the other a lanky woman whose shoulders barely supported her head. All three wore long dark dresses, cardigans, and stubby heels. They also wore disapproving frowns. Despite minor variations, they were remarkably similar, as if they were standard issue from some prehistoric teachers’ college; I had had them or remarkable facsimiles throughout my formative years. Many of said years had been spent cringing when confronted with steely stares and tight-lipped smiles.
The object of their scorn was a man with a broom. His thin black hair glittered in the light from years of accumulated lubrication. He wore dirty khaki pants, a gray undershirt that might have been white in decades past, and scuffed cowboy boots. His lower lip hung in moist and petulant resignation, but his eyes flittered to me as if to share some secret amusement. Having nothing in common with lizards, I eased behind the three women and slipped into the kitchenette.
“Well, Mr. Pitts,” the woman boomed on, “it is obvious that you have been rummaging in the refrigerator once again. Stealing food, contaminating the lunches of others, and generally behaving like a scavenger. I am disgusted by the idea of your filthy fingers in my food! Disgusted, Mr. Pitts! Have you nothing to say in your defense?”
“I didn’t even open the refrigerator,” he growled. “I ain’t been in here since yesterday evening when I cleaned. You don’t have no reason to report me, Mrs. P.”
“My coffee cup is missing, Mr. Pius. The evidence is clear.”
Oh, dear. I stuck my head out the door and pasted on an angelic smile. “I’m afraid I may be the cup culprit. I was in earlier and borrowed one of them.”
Three sets of eyes turned to stare at me. The middle woman said, “We do not borrow cups from each other. It is unhygienic.” On either side of her, heads nodded emphatically.
“I’m sorry, but there were no extra cups. I’ll wash it out immediately and return it to you,” I said, trying to sound composed in the face of such unanimous condemnation.
“There is no detergent,” the woman said. “I’ll have to take it to the chemistry room and rinse it out with alcohol.” She held out her hand.
I meekly gave her the cup and babbled further apology as the three marched out of the room. Once they were gone. I sank down on a sofa and lectured myself on the ephemerality of the situation.
“Who’re you supposed to be?” the lizard snickered.
“I’m the substitute for Miss Parchester in the journalism room.
“I’m Pius, the custodian. I used to be a janitor, but they changed my tide. Didn’t pay any more money, though. just changed the title to custodian ‘cause it sounds more professional. I had hopes of being a building maintenance engineer, but Weiss wouldn’t go for it.”
“How thrilling for you,” I said, closing my eyes to avoid looking at him. I immediately became aware of an odor that topped anything in the journalism room. Decidedly more organic, and wafting from the custodian’s person. I decided to risk everything and steal another cup; coffee held squarely under my nose might provide some degree of masking.
Pitts leered at me as I went into the kitchen and randomly grabbed a cup. “You stole Mrs. P’s cup awhile ago, didn’t you?” he called. “She was gonna have my hide, but she’s always trying to get something on me. I’m beginning to think she doesn’t like me-ha,”
I couldn’t bring myself to join in the merriment, so I settled for a vague smile. I returned to the sofa and tried to look pensive. Pitts watched me for a few minutes, then picked up a bucket and ambled into the ladies room, his motives unknown.
The lounge door opened once more. A man and woman came in, laughing uproariously at some private joke. The man was dressed in tweeds, complete with leather elbow patches. His light brown hair was stylishly trim and his goatee tidy. My late husband had been a college professor, and I was familiar with the pose. I wryly noted the stem of a pipe poking out of his coat pocket.
The woman had no aspirations to the academic role. Her black hair tumbled down to her shoulders, and her makeup was more than adequate for a theater stage or a dark alley. She wore a red dress and spike heels. She was dressed for a gala night on the town. At eleven-thirty in the morning, no less.
The two filled coffee cups (I hadn’t stolen theirs, apparently) and came in to study me.
“Cogito, ago sum Sherwood Timmons,” the man said with a deep bow. “Or I think that’s who I am. Who might you be?”
