by Joan Hess
She laughed. “For almost three years, Sherwood had a jewel, and he knew it. She did his tax returns, balanced his personal checkbook and that of the Latin Club, edited and typed his manuscript, and did almost everything a devoted wife would do for her hubby. All in hopes, I’m afraid, that he would marry her so that she could quit teaching and start reproducing in a vine-covered cottage.”
“Then Jerry showed up?” I said encouragingly. I will admit to a flicker of shame for encouraging gossip. A teensy flicker. Curiosity snuffed it.
“He strolled into the first staff meeting of the year in his saggy gray sweats, his blond hair flopping in his eyes and his boyish grin just a shade shy. Paula melted; she hasn’t recovered since.”
“Was Sherwood devastated by the loss of free labor?” I was now utterly shameless, and I scolded myself without mercy as I panted for further details.
“More irritated than devastated, I believe. He does sulk whenever the lovebirds coo too loudly in the lounge, but other than that, he seems to have recovered. He may think he can persuade me to take over her duties.”
“Is that possible?” Pant, pant.
“As the kids would say, no way. I was married once upon a time, to a tool salesman from Toledo. During the first trimester of newly wedded bliss, I had the opportunity to meet two of his other wives. And I thought bigamy was reserved for Mormons!” Laughing, she waved and clicked away down the hall.
I picked up a bundle of old Falcon Criers and started for the stairs and a dose of scotch. As I passed the teachers lounge, I heard loud voices from its interior.
“Jerry,” Paula said with surprising vehemence, “there’s nothing he can do to you. Even if he does fire you, there are lots of coaching jobs in other schools. it’ll be okay.”
“He’s a damn tyrant. How in the hell did he ever get hold of my transcript, anyway? I’m doing a good job with the team. Fred thinks I’m a good assistant coach, and so do the boys. We have a chance at the district title, Paula. Fred’s talking about retiring at the end of the school year, which means I could take over the head coach position. We could afford to get married!”
“Oh, Jerry,” she sighed.
Conversation halted. Anyone with an ounce of scrupulosity would have tiptoed away, and allowed the two to do whatever they were doing in private. I edged closer to the door.
Jerry came up for air. “Somebody ought to do something about Weiss. Maybe I’m the somebody.”
“What can you do? He already knows about your past, and he’s probably told Miss Dort. She’ll tell the Furies, and they’ll broadcast it to God.” Paula was trying to sound stern and sensible.
“I’ll think of something.” Jerry merely sounded angry.
Wincing, I opted to retreat before the door opened and my nose was creased. I turned around and ran into Sherwood Timmons, who was wiggling his eyebrows like venetian blinds.
“Trouble in paradise?” he murmured, noticeably undistressed. “Could there be some bone of contention between the two?”
“I have no idea. I came by to see if I left a folder in the lounge.”
“And were prevented ingress by our Echo and Narcissus? Did you catch them in flagrante delicto?”
Evelyn had the right idea-and the right shoes-to deal with Sherwood. I gave him a quick frown and went around the corner to go upstairs, but he followed like a faithful old dog. Or a slobbering old bloodhound. I gave up and stopped.
“Yes, Mr. Timmons? Was there something else?”
He backed me into a corner, close enough for me to smell a hint of wintergreen on his breath. “Would you be interested in a peek at the journalism accounts, Mrs. Malloy?”
We had found the darkest corner of the basement, which was no sunlit meadow to begin with. I dared not glance at the ceiling, due to a phobia of bats and other rabid creatures, including men in goatees.
I put a finger on his chest to remove him from my face. “Why would I he interested in a peek at the journalism accounts, Mr. Timmons? I’m a substitute teacher, not a CPA.”
He leaned forward and propped an arm on the wall above me. “Ah, but in reality you are a bookseller-not a substitute teacher. It’s rather obvious why you’ve come to Farberville High School, my dear literary peddler. Your reputation precedes you.”
“What reputation might that be?”
“As our local amateur sleuth, dear woman. I’m sure all your activities were pro bono publico-”
“If you say one more syllable in Latin, I will yank off your goatee to use as a mascara brush. I will then apply my foot to your gluteus maximus.”
about apologies; I shall do my utmost to restrain myself. Now, your purpose for infiltrating our little school, Mrs. Malloy.
May I call you Claire? It’s obvious that you’re on an undercover mission to expose the financial diddlings.”
“It is? Perhaps I’m here to help out until a replacement can be found for Miss Parchester. Civic responsibility, a commitment to education of our youth, that sort of thing.”
He chuckled at my silly attempt. “You’re here to snoop around and discover our closet embezzler, Claire. You need not be ashamed. In truth, it’s quite admirable. That’s why I offered to help you get your lovely hands on the journalism accounts.”
As a Mata Han, I was not good. As a loser in the skirmish of wits, I could at least struggle for a graceful concession. “Where are the journalism ledgers? When I couldn’t find them in the journalism room, I presumed Miss Dort locked them away in the office for the auditors.”
Sherwood put a hand in his pocket and pulled out a key. “She did, but that needn’t stop us. Shall we say tonight at midnight? The two of us, tiptoeing through the darkened hallways lit only by shafts of moonlight, our hearts pounding wildly yet in unison as we approach our shadowy destination?”
A door opened across the hail. Pitts smirked and said, “I’m supposed to fumigate the offices tonight, kids. Try a motel, or the backseat of a car.” The door closed with a soft squeak.
“Do you think he heard the entire conversation?” I gulped.
Sherwood took my elbow to steer me up the stairs to the land of the living. “Pitts has an ear to every wall and a finger in every cesspool. Luckily, he is too much the resident troglodyte to use the information wisely.”
“Well, we can’t get into the office tonight,” I said, relieved. My conscience (a.k.a. duty to Miss Parchester) prodded me to add, “I suppose we could try tomorrow night. Midnight seems overly furtive; shall we say ten o’clock?”
Sherwood agreed, although he looked vaguely disappointed by my more prosaic suggestion. In the parking lot, he hopped into a red sports car and roared away in a cloud of dust. I chugged home, left my purse on the living room floor, and headed for the nectar of the gods. And I don’t mean apricot juice.
FOUR
I felt obliged to appear the next day at dear old FHS. Miss Parchester had telephoned the previous evening; I had admitted failure and defeat, rather hoping she would tell me to forget the silly scheme. She had wished me luck.
The cave was hardly home sweet home, but the aroma was familiar. When the homeroom bell emptied the hail, I took my personalized coffee cup (I had scratched an M on the bottom, as in “mindless”) to the lounge, left a box of saltines and a package of cream cheese in the refrigerator (I hate poducks), and filled my cup (I need caffeine). All this was accomplished in semi-solitude. A mute Fury came and went, but the lounge lovebirds apparently had found another place to wish each other good morning.
I returned to the cave in time to greet the first class. They chattered, I read, and the bell rang. The second-period class came on schedule. I had just counted noses and settled then down when the door opened, and Miss Parchester tiptoed in. She wore a baggy blue coat, a plastic rain scant and galoshes. She had an umbrella in one hand, but it may have had more sinister applications than protection from the elements. For the record, the sky had been blue and cloudless when I went underground earlier.
“I thought I
’d drop by to see if I might help you in any way,” she murmured apologetically. “You mentioned that the Falcon-name would be published as scheduled. Perhaps I can offer a few words of advice.”
“Ah, thank you, Miss Parchester,” I said. “But are you sure you ought to be here? Mr. Weiss might be upset if he knew you.
She clasped her hands over her bosom as her eyes began to fill with tears. The umbrella swished past my nose with only an inch to spare. “I so wanted to visit, Mrs. Malloy, if only to see my dear students for a brief moment.
Her dear students were gaping like guppies, their eves unblinking and their little mouths opening and closing silently. I took her elbow and escorted her into the darkroom. “I’m not sure this is wise, Miss Parchester. I appreciate your offer to help with the yearbook, but I don’t want you to jeopardize the situation. It really might be better for you to slip away before anyone else notices you.”
She gazed up at me. Her breath would have pickled a cucumber at one hundred feet, and her eyes were etched with fine red lines. I realized she had tied one on since breakfast, no doubt with her blessed mother and the judge in attendance. Her sorrowful smile was interrupted by a hiccup.
“Oh, dear.” She covered her mouth with her hand. “I must have sipped my tea too quickly in my haste to visit you.”
“Oh, dear,” I echoed weakly. “Let me bring you a cup of coffee from the lounge, Miss Parchester. Black coffee, I think.”
She caught my arm in a birdlike claw. “I much prefer”- hic-”tea, dear. Coffee does stain one’s dentures. You’re much too young to worry about that, but we senior citizens must he careful.”
I was aging rapidly; gray hairs were popping out each second I remained in the darkroom with the tipsy trespasser. “One cup of coffee won’t do any permanent damage. Trust me. Now, if you’ll promise to sit on this stool-”
“You’re too Kind,” she said, shifting from manic to maudlin with amazing ease. “It’s been so dreadful these last few days. Everyone must think I’m a common criminal, a petty thief with no conscience. I am beginning to wonder if I might have made an error-although I must assure you it was done in innocence. I-” She broke off with a helpless quiver.
“I’m sure any error was unintentional, Miss Parchester. Please let me bring you a cup of coffee. Please.”
She shook her head as she dug through her purse for a handkerchief. We were seconds away from a deluge that was apt to result in a forty-day cruise. Black coffee, in quantity. Immediately. I opened the door, but again the claw stopped me.
“I shall go to the lounge on my way out of the building,” she said. “I brought a jar of my brandied peach compote for Mr. Weiss. He is terribly fond of it, and I thought he might enjoy it even if-if-it was brought by a common thief.” She squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, gave me a jaunty wave, and weaved through the door. A hiccup sufficed for a farewell.
The guppies and I watched her coattail disappear around the corner. I frowned warningly, and they began to whisper among themselves. Miss Parchester’s brief appearance would not remain a secret, nor would her condition. The peach compote was not the only thing with a slug of brandy in it.
Thirty minutes later the bell rang. I went down the hall to the teachers lounge, aware that I was apt to find Miss Parchester snoring on a sofa. The room was empty. I refilled my coffee cup and sat down on the mauve-and-green to think of a way to salvage the poor woman’s reputation.
Evelyn came out of the ladies room. “That room is filthier every day. Pitts is impossible; I wish Weiss would do something about finding a replacement.”
“Did you happen to see Miss Parchester in here earlier?” I waited to hear whether the woman in question was asleep in a stall in the ladies room-or worse.
“Oh, my God, is she in the building? Weiss will have a tantrum if he finds out. He’s in a foul mood today, and-”
A thin young woman rushed into the lounge. She pulled a tissue from her pocket and began to wipe furiously at her dripping eyes. Small, muffled sobs came from under the tissue. I stared at the display of misery, unsure how to offer comfort or aid. Before I could decide, the woman crammed the tissue in her pocket and flew out the door.
“My student teacher,” Evelyn explained. “She is no match for the French II class. They get her every day at about this time.”
“And she wants to be a teacher?”
“When she grows up. I didn’t see poor Miss Parchester, so we can hope she left before Weiss spotted her. Are you ready for our weekly poduck free-for-all?”
I admitted that my preparations had extended only to a stop at the grocery store on my way to school. A brief stop, at that.
Evelyn shook her finger at me. “The Furies live for the whoosh of the Tupperware containers on Friday, Claire. Our little luncheons are a major part of their social activities-those and chaperoning the school dances. What a life.”
“I’m supposed to be chaperone!” I buried my face in my hands. “Miss Dort informed me that I was to appear in Miss Parchester’s place. I tried to block it out.”
“Don’t worry about it. All you have to do is keep the kiddies sober and celibate, the band from undressing or eating their instruments, and the roof from collapsing. Don’t forget earplugs- and shin guards, in case one of the sophomore boys asks you to dance.”
“Asks me to dance? I trust you’re making a little joke, Evelyn. I would no more dance with a sophomore boy than I would balance a desk on my nose while chanting the Koran.”
“They make book on it in the boys’ bathroom. I believe it’s some sort of primitive rite of passage. I was worth ten dollars. The Furies, on the other hand, run into larger sums, thus far unclaimed.”
“I don’t intend to be a substitute for more than a few days. Miss Dort is searching for a certified teacher to replace me. I may take out an ad in the New York Times.” I sank back in the bilious plaid. “Tell me about the Furies, Evelyn. I can’t seem to keep them straight.”
“Only Bernice can do that. They are equally drab, tedious, and morally superior. They kept Paula in team for months, but she finally learned to stand up to them or simply ignore them.”
“Why are they so hard on her?”
“She has made two very serious breaches of conduct in the lounge. For one thing, she has committed the sin of being young and pretty. The girls all adore her, and the boys can barely breathe when she bends over someone’s typewriter in the classroom. Her second sin is to encourage Jerry to come in the lounge.”
“He’s a teacher, isn’t he? Why shouldn’t he come in the lounge with the rest of us?”
“He is also a coach. Coaches do not come into the lounge; they loiter in their offices or on the fields. It’s an unwritten law that coaches and principals avoid the lounge. Coaches are inclined to smell of physical exertion, and principals are the topic of many conversations. Weiss has been lurking in here since the beginning of the semester, mostly in order to glower at Jerry and Paula.”
“I thought Sherwood-”
“Herbert Weiss is a notorious lecher, despite a vague presence known as Mrs. Herbert Weiss. She materializes each year for fifteen minutes at the faculty Christmas party, where she smiles politely at everyone, and then vanishes until the following December. I doubt she has any effect on her husband or daughter.”
“Does every male in the building have his eye on Paula?” I asked. “It sounds ominously competitive.”
“As far as I know, Weiss and Sherwood are the primary contenders for the maiden’s hand. To their regret, it is not available for warm, suggestive squeezes.”
The door opened before I could elicit any more details of the idle, but nevertheless interesting, gossip. Sherwood Timmons had a bottle of champagne in his hand.
“I thought we might celebrate the arrival of blessed Friday,” he announced as he went into the kitchenette and put the bottle in the refrigerator. “What is this? Could Emily Parchester have been sneaking around the basement this very morning, brandied peach compote
bulging in her purse?”
“She came by to see me,” I called. I did not elaborate, but it wasn’t necessary.
Sherwood stuck his head out the door with an impish grin. “I heard she was a bit non compos mentis, but her compote-sic itur ad astra… her pathway to the stars.”
“If Pius hasn’t been pawing in it,” Evelyn said. “I think we ought to use the lounge fund to buy a padlock for the refrigerator.”
“That would merely delay him,” Sherwood said. The refrigerator door closed, and water ran in the sink. “The man could pick it with his teeth if motivation were strong enough.”
While I pondered the wisdom of a diet, the door opened again. The Furies stalked in and took places on a sofa across from me. Miss Dort came in seconds later and continued into the ladies room. Mr. Weiss was next, followed by Jerry and Paula Hart.
Large, black clouds rolled in from the hallway. Lightning crackled invisibly, and thunder crashed soundlessly. The air was thick with odorless ozone. What air there was. I wondered if they really went through this every Friday, and for what reason. Fun, it clearly wasn’t.
Evelyn stood up. “Well, shall we eat?”
Herbert Weiss stared at Jerry, who returned the gaze with ill-disguised anger. Paula tugged at her coach’s hand and whispered something in his ear, but he brushed her aside. Sherwood smiled to himself. The Furies wiggled on the sofa and tried to look uninterested.
“Shall we eat?” Evelyn repeated, a hostess to the bitter end. “Claire, will you help me bring things to the table?”
I strolled into the kitchenette where I had to grab a drawer handle to keep myself upright. “Why are we doing this?” I hissed. “This is not my idea of a gala party.”
Evelyn shrugged and began to pull plastic bowls and boxes out of the refrigerator. She piled them in my arms, balanced a stack of napkins on top, and sent me into the lion’s den. She followed with paper plates, the champagne, and someone’s saltines.
With the high spirits of a funeral cortege, we assembled around the table. Jerry sat down next to Paula at one end; the Furies formed a row across one side, impenetrably grim. The rest of us scattered about to act as buffers. Plastic lids whooshed loudly in the silence.
