“What about her sister?”
“She, uh—” What to say about this woman I theoretically didn’t know about? “She, ah, they didn’t get along.”
He was silent for a long moment, either despairing of my mind or x-raying what I’d said in search of a modicum of meaning. “Lots of sisters don’ get along,” he finally said. “You mean more than that?”
My turn to be silent. What else was there to say? We were so out of sync, we could have lived in different states. I felt in danger—of what, I didn’t want to think—and the silence intensified it. I wanted to shout into the phone, to say: Come home now! Let’s stop this sparring, get a routine, commit to it, to us, to anything. Let’s make being together one of the things I’m doing the rest of my life.
I wanted bedrock. I wanted him, but not this circling existence. I didn’t want him forever elsewhere and otherwise preoccupied when I was most confused and his being elsewhere only added to my confusion.
“Gotta run,” I said. I didn’t want to say stupid things like that when so much more was on my mind. “I’m about to be fired for my little session with the Evanses”—not that he’d understand what I was saying. We still hadn’t had time to discuss it. And would he listen, anyway? “Don’t want to be late for that, do I?”
“Don’ let them fire you unless you’re tired of that job anyway,” he said. “Not even then. Exit on your own terms. Whenever you want. You acted from conscience, tried to protect a kid, be a Good Samaritan. That’s noways wrong. Stick up for yourself. Hire a lawyer if you have to. You’re in the right.”
He’d been listening. He’d heard things I hadn’t even said. He’d thought about it. He understood. He was speaking directly. He was helping me be who I wanted to be.
I hate it when that happens. Hate it when I decide I don’t need him because of his failings and he proves me a liar and does the right thing.
THERE WAS NO ESCAPING HAVERMEYER. THE NOTE WAS IN MY mailbox. Helga the Office Witch watched with malicious satisfaction as I retrieved and read it. In fact, she made sure I was aware of her watching me. She didn’t like a single faculty member: We wanted too much, like paper, markers, the copy machine, roll sheets, and sticky tape, and we interrupted her day with questions. In short, we necessitated her actually doing her job. So why was that woman gloating? Did she think she’d like my replacement any more than she liked me?
Miss Pepper, it said on a sheet ripped from a pad headed by FROM THE DESK OF MAURICE HAVERMEYER, PH.D., I would like the opportunity of discussing certain urgent matters with you at your earliest convenience, such as before classes begin. The office aide can cover your homeroom and roll-taking.
Extremely ominous. Although the note could be cut and tightened (e.g., Miss Pepper, I’m pissed, you’re fired, goodbye), it was, for Maurice Havermeyer, the essence of brevity and directness, which suggested a seriously perturbed headmaster.
And he was. “Anyone with your seniority at this position and comprehension of the unique requirements of this institution surely fathoms that establishments such as this, not underwritten by government or long-standing trusts, at the mercy of mercurial marketplaces and fluctuating economics, must have the support and confidence of its patrons.”
Translation: You know this school needs money. Why are you such a jerk as to queer it with a big donor?
“And the irony at this particular juncture, when the school is enjoying a surge in individual and collective achievement and our student body is getting its just due, the recognition of academic progress as shown by increasingly prestigious college acceptances. Our image has been considerably enhanced of late, and our endowment fund’s prospects have never been brighter.”
Was he happy or upset? Yes, more of our seniors had been accepted to good colleges. The staff, myself included, took that as a sign of lowered admission standards, but still and all, it would warm any headmaster’s heart. And bring in the bucks, as he’d said. Happy news. Sure, therefore, to be followed by a mighty powerful however. The muscles in the small of my back spasmed in anticipation.
He hadn’t asked me to sit down. I bet he’d asked Mr. and Mrs. Evans to sit down. Sure, the school needed their money, but it needed teachers, too. And the students needed teachers who cared about their problems. So there. I sat down without being so invited. I had a long day ahead—unless he was going to march me off and shoot me immediately.
“Hmmm,” he said when I seated myself. “Indeed. And so …” He contemplated me for a long moment, then sighed and sat down himself behind his oversized burl desk. “We are presented with something of a conundrum.”
I said nothing. It made Havermeyer nervous as hell to have his flow of words greeted with silence.
“Mr. and Mrs. Evans, as you undoubtedly know, have been exemplary in their support of this institution, and now they are understandably distraught in the light of your hasty assumptions and your unfortunate decision to use corporal punishment—”
“I never—”
“Ah, but I believe they have proof that—”
“They can’t. He was—”
Havermeyer ground on. “While a perusal of his records does indicate Adam’s increasing nonconformity and a lamentable recent pattern of noncompliance with official school requirements, given the realities of understandable parental concern and the seriousness of the suggested deviations from the norm and psychomedical impairments you have raised, I must assume your actions were less than fully considered. These were rash accusations—”
“Not accusations. I thought—I still think—Adam needs attention. I think he may be in danger. I’m a teacher.” It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to shame him into a thought about social responsibility. “It’s a teacher’s role to help a child in danger.” Refute that one. I dare you.
Havermeyer blinked.
“I could never forgive myself if I thought something was wrong and I said nothing, and then the child—something happened to the child.”
“Well, of course, yes, one shares your sentiments, although surely the parents are the first line of defense, the people most familiar with their own child’s—”
“In my professional judgment, not in this case.”
He fish-mouthed, glubbing dry air, sucking more words out of the atmosphere.
“In my opinion,” I continued, “the Evanses’ serious denial is putting their son in danger.” I had never before enjoyed “talking” with Havermeyer, but things were different when the pillow of possibility was there to cushion the fall. Go ahead. Fire me. See if I care. I’ll become something else—I have other options.
“Miss Pepper.” I could tell he was leaving behind the issue of whether Adam was mentally ill or needed testing. Could see him puffing out of that station into the wilds where my real sins lay. “Mr. and Mrs. Evans are eager to involve the media in this dilemma. They feel you are relentlessly pursuing their child, abusing him both physically and emotionally and destroying his future. It is possible they are motivated by psychological stress, a sense of guilt, since they are going through a difficult time themselves, but nonetheless, they perceive themselves as Good Samaritans who must alert the community to your offenses and, alas, to what they see as a failure on my part to adequately monitor and supervise my staff. This is most awkward.”
Entirely too many Samaritans in town, and were we all misguided? “But—”
He put a beefy hand up. “We conferred at length and I was able to delay any such public exposure, although not indefinitely. I trust you comprehend how devastating such negative publicity could be to our entire endeavor. We are still in the enrollment process for the coming year, not to mention the possibility of current enrollees withdrawing. And with graduation approaching, the traditional time of special giving, I wish this moratorium on media involvement to continue. Although, of course, immediately after the agreement with the Evans parents, given yesterday’s events, that has already not been the case.”
“But—”
The hand
again. “You’ve had an unconventional … well, let me say this. I’m not casting stones or blaming you necessarily, but I haven’t otherwise encountered a teacher who—I have never even heard of one in the professional annals. I would doubt that among all secondary-school instructors …”
If only he were my student, we’d work on his communication skills. Of course, he’d fail, because Maurice Havermeyer, Ph.D., did not want to communicate clearly. If he did, his listeners might be able to see how pathetic and petty his ideas were.
“… my observations lead me to believe you apparently have a predilection for nonacademic adventures of a counterproductive and oftentimes hazardous nature. This trait is potentially incompatible with, I believe you’ll agree, and has a deleterious effect upon one’s pedagogical duties.”
I wasn’t sure what his precise grievance was, but none of this sounded good for me. Did he mean that I got into too much trouble, created too much trouble, or what?
“Repeated instances cannot help but lead me to the opinion that you have a tendency to find yourself involved with law enforcement officials more often than—”
Than what? Than salamanders? Than normal people? Than he would prefer? I didn’t feel like letting him think I understood him, and I didn’t feel like letting him complete the sentence. “You’re right,” I said. “I am involved with a law enforcement official. I have been for several years now. Are you saying he is interfering with my teaching?”
“I never … I didn’t … I’m afraid you’re misinterpreting …” Once again I saw his engines rev up and leave another unsatisfactory stop en route. “Miss Pepper, yesterday your professional inattention allowed a child in your care to wander off. This is a serious problem fraught with both educational and legal ramifications, and although he was unharmed and reached home intact, we are gravely concerned, and of course the media—despite my earnest and previously successful attempts to prevent their presence here—the media has seized upon this.”
I’d had it, whatever it might be. “Dr. Havermeyer, unless Adam is seriously disturbed and in need of special attention, as I suggested, and in which case he should not be main-streamed in the manner he was, he should instead be under a doctor’s care, and his parents’ refusal to look at the situation should not be tolerated—” I not only was copying his verbosity and lack of breaks for breath, but as he started to interrupt, I put my hand up to prevent it, Havermeyer-style.
But the anger was all mine. “Unless you agree with me that he needs attention and probably medications to help him function more normally, then let’s be honest. Adam is a seventeen-year-old city boy who gets himself around on his own all the time. He left the library before he was supposed to. That is all. And that is hardly a child who wanders away. We have a problem here—but with Adam Evans. Not with me.”
I’m not sure anybody has ever spoken that directly or assertively to Maurice Havermeyer. Certainly not anybody who kept his job. But it felt great. Cleansing. I’d use the word empowering if it didn’t embarrass me. I was tempted to plow on, keep the advantage and ask him questions that had been troubling me for years. Precisely what field was his Ph.D. in? How the hell had he earned it? Could I see his dissertation? I envisioned it as roughly the size of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, with about a paragraph’s worth of meaning buried alive in it.
“The police are already here,” Havermeyer said abruptly. “Extremely disruptive of classrooms and routine, although of course there is a civic duty to cooperate in such situations, still—” He looked at me accusingly. This was my fault, too. The cops were here, and I was to blame because I was a cop magnet.
“Today?” I answered stupidly. “This morning? Already?”
He nodded. “In search of Adam.”
“Who is not here, I take it. Is he home? Do Mr. and Mrs. Evans know where he is?”
“May I remind you we are educators and we are not supposed to be privy to police business, despite your own predilection for such matters? I believe, in fact, that in this particular instance, the circumstance that directed official attention to our school is that Adam’s name was cried out in such a public and incriminating manner as to throw him under the shadow of suspicion, to implicate him in the regrettable events in the library yesterday. Furthermore, I have been led to believe, until otherwise contraindicated, that you were said person who did the crying out, Miss Pepper.”
“I couldn’t find him. I was trying to find him.” I didn’t think that was the whole truth, but it would have to do.
“Do you consider that appropriate and protective behavior in regard to one of our own students?”
Yes, indeed, I thought it was appropriate when the teacher was near hysterics and couldn’t find the boy whose behavior had frightened her and whose black scarf was draped over a statue while an alarm was blaring throughout the library and something was really wrong. How much more appropriate could you get?
“This … propensity you demonstrate for overinvolvement in criminal activities and matters that by rights concern only those entrusted to handle such matters—this is incompatible with pedagogical responsibilities, Miss Pepper. I realize that the term is speedily nearing its completion. In a matter of weeks, we will all be free to engage in whatever summertime activities we so desire, and to my regret, at such time, it will behoove me to reconsider this issue, reassess the situation, and for you as well to determine whether or not you have found that professional position which most suits your particular temperament. It may be that your nervous system requires more excitement than a small secondary school can be expected to provide. It may be that you would find a greater degree of self-satisfaction in a different environment.”
I’d just been fired, Havermeyer-style. Murkily given notice. I stood to leave and, standing above him, could see his bald spot and how he tried to cover it with long hairs growing near his ears. I tried not to look at it because it made me feel sorry for him. It was so silly and pitiable a disguise—and for what? It made me realize what a mess of a man he was, and I wanted to think of him not as that but as my enemy and oppressor.
“In the interim,” he said, “and despite any desire on your part for exposure to the media, I want this school kept out of the newspapers, unless it’s to disseminate good news. I believe the popular term for the behavior I require is ‘keeping a low profile.’ Are you familiar with the term, Miss Pepper?”
I nodded, although I resented the implication that I was a media slut, constantly inviting the press in so I could publicize myself. I understood his plan now. He, too, would be low-profile. Just as low-profile as a snake. And when the term ended, he’d quietly fail to rehire me. No outcry, no high profile, no witnesses.
He pointed to the Inquirer on his desk. Emily was on the front page—and so was Adam, always referred to as “a senior at Philly Prep.” “Suffice it to say, no more of this.”
As if I’d murdered Emily, just to push the place where I worked back into the news. “I’ve never contacted the press,” I said.
“Intentionally or not, you nonetheless manage to involve them. You must admit, Miss Pepper, you took your class for what in any ordinary, normal circumstances would be a quiet research outing at the library, and once again, catastrophe strikes in a garish and horrifying fashion. You must admit you have a talent for being near such events and for generating all manner of unwelcome attention to our student body and establishment. You must admit—”
“You are absolutely correct, Dr. Havermeyer,” I said. “I must admit that the woman who toured us through the library was strangled, potentially traumatizing my students and, may I say, myself. I’m sure you understand the psychological necessity of talking about it, and I want to thank you for being so generous with your time and helping me deal with what I’ve been through. Now, I need to follow your example and extend a helping hand to my students. I assure you I’m fine, despite the trauma, and thank you for asking. Now I have to run or I’ll be late for first period.”
I was going to make
his role in my dismissal as difficult as I humanly could. I would not accept his meaning until he said it clearly. The English teacher’s last stand.
Nine
THE ONLY THING I REALLY WANTED TO TALK ABOUT WAS THE fact of my firing. Also, the probable fact of my being sued, arrested, or whatever happened when you’re accused of battering a student. I wanted to talk about it with everybody I’d ever met. It would have been heartening to talk with Mackenzie—if only I knew how to reach him when he was capable of listening and in a mood to chat.
Normally I had a guaranteed fallback in my mother. She so loves a play-by-play recitation of news in the making. Her ideal daughter would wear a microphone at all times and treat her life as if it were featured on CNN. “Now, Mom, I’m bringing you this live from the classroom, where my days have just been numbered by my headmaster.” But today, in her new perversity, my mother would not commiserate. She’d say Havermeyer’s decision was a sign that it was time to begin her agenda for me. She was a bit of a pagan, finding portents everywhere—and, amazingly, those signs always pointed in her direction of choice.
With no one on the horizon who wanted to hear my problems, I hauled myself out of my wallow and loaned an ear to others. The first miserable-looking creature who intercepted my do-gooder beams was a senior, Daisy Rollins. “You look upset,” I said. “I can understand, given what—”
Adam and Evil Page 10
