Sometimes he was called Uncle Senility to his face. He began every Latin class with an enthusiastic, “Salve, discipuli.” Ocassionally, instead of the expected “Salve, magister,” the class would reply, “Salve, Uncle Senility.” I was never sure if it registered with him or not.
Uncle Senility's apparent lack of awareness helped foster a new trend that began in my second year at the school. Baker started it, and a few others followed suit. The school building was old, with large, double-hung windows and deep stone ledges. On warm days the windows that ran the length of most classrooms were opened wide. The drapes were drawn back, gathering thickly at each end of the window bank. One afternoon, Baker climbed out onto the window ledge and sat there for Uncle Senility's class, hidden from view by the curtains. There were giggles all round the room, but Uncle must have been used to that, and after asking a couple of times, “What's the cause of this mirth, you fellows?” he got on with his lesson. Baker's prank went undetected.
After that, Baker took to sitting on the ledge quite often. It was easiest to avoid being caught in Uncle Senility's class and also during English, because the spot on the ledge was squarely on Mr. Trent's blind side.
"Where's Wilkinson?” Uncle would ask, naming a boy who had taken his chance on the ledge. “Not here, eh? Well, tomorrow he'll just have to blunder along in his own ignorance.” Uncle Senility was full of such expressions. “Come on, Perkins,” he'd say, often when the class sat stumped by one of his questions, “pull us out of the weeds.” It wasn't always Perkins, but he was a particularly inept Latin scholar and thus the preferred choice, which caused Perkins no end of misery.
When any boy did not know and Uncle was feeling puckish he'd force the student to try again and again in the vain hope that he would stumble upon the answer. “Pull yourself up by your own bootstraps,” he would exhort.
These sayings, combined with his tendency to have us sing in Latin songs like “All the Nice Girls Love a Sailor” and a ditty that may have been of his own composition called “Listen Said the Pussy Willow,” made Uncle Senility a source of boundless amusement.
A few weeks after my visit to the rifle range, I arrived at school late from a dentist appointment. Walking through the parking lot to the side entrance, I saw Baker perched on the second story window ledge outside Mr. Trent's class. Stopping, I gazed up at him, wondering if I had time to run inside, take a rifle and some ammunition, and shoot Baker before the end of class.
Instead, I walked to the doors, directly beneath where Baker sat. He spat. Although I ducked, his saliva hit the back of my neck.
* * * *
Mr. McIlroy assigned us numerous challenges during swim class. There was the twelve-minute swim, an endurance test where we were graded for how far we could go. This was done either across the pool, with half the class swimming at a time, or lengthwise, with several boys in each lane. You were graded on the number of laps achieved.
There was the test of treading water for ten minutes at a time, which was easier than swimming. Then there was water polo, an exhausting exercise that gave the larger and stronger boys many chances to elbow you in the face and push your head under with impunity.
* * * *
The one great gift that the school bestowed on us each year was that we were released early for the summer. While other schools shut down at the end of June, we were free from the beginning of the month.
All summer, I dreaded going back, but I kept my fears to myself. Although I had stopped believing in God long before, I prayed for puberty. But the first wisps, when they finally appeared, were not enough. In September, in an effort to prove that I was not weak and effete, I started riding my bike to school. It took me an hour each way, much of my route along Bloor Street, busy even in those days. It made no difference. No one said anything to me about it, but it must have been noticed. I went out one day after school and my bicycle seat was missing. I looked behind cars and in garbage cans, but it was gone. I rode home standing up.
When I got off the subway the next morning, I saw Baker waiting to cross the street. “How was the ride home?” he asked.
* * * *
My revenge began with the mouse. It seemed a fitting symbol since I was determined to be timid no more. One day, at lunch, I went into our class common room and found it empty. I had slipped away ahead of the rest of my classmates for a few moments’ peace. The room was filthy, as usual, used as it was exclusively by teenaged boys and off-limits to the cleaning staff. Eventually, the headmaster issued an ultimatum that either the room be kept clean or be shut down. A massive cleanup was undertaken, but by then it was too late.
Even by the common room's grim standards, the mouse was something new. It lay in the middle of the floor, dead from unknown causes and, as soon as I saw it, I knew what I had to do. I took one of the discarded pieces of wax paper that lay about and folded it around the small, stiff body, finishing just as the rest of the boys arrived.
For a while, I sat with the bundle in my hand, waiting for one of my enemies to present me with opportunity. No one did right away. They all began eating. Finally, Segal obliged.
I must say that I bore Segal no animosity. He was a benign figure. But his was the only lunch bag available and I did not want to store the mouse in my locker until the following day. When Segal went into the washroom, I slipped the mouse into the bag.
When he came back, Segal reached in and took out a sandwich. He ate it with enthusiasm. I watched him surreptitiously, finding the anticipation hard to control. Reaching into the bag a second time, he drew out the mouse. He looked at the crumpled wax paper and the sloppy folds, so unlike his mother's trim work, and appeared puzzled. Then he unwrapped the paper.
Segal stared down at the mouse for some time, disgust on his face. He rose and went back to the washroom. When he returned, many boys, including me, were gathered around.
"Who could have done that?” I asked boldly, hoping my triumph did not show.
Segal smiled. “It was my brother,” he said, as if with approval. “I put some worms in his lunch last week. I knew he'd get me back. But I never thought it'd be this good.” The other boys cheered Segal's brother.
* * * *
One day in German class, Baker threw my textbook out the third floor window. He sat beside me next to the open window, and while Mr. Warfield's back was turned, Baker reached across, took my book, and tossed it out.
There was nothing I could do. I couldn't have stopped him without creating a scene. I couldn't ask to go downstairs to get the book because an explanation would have been demanded. Warfield, or Woofy as he was known, would not have believed it. I could not have asked to go to the washroom and come back with the book because that would have required another explanation. It also would have left my other books and papers unguarded and vulnerable.
I sat through the class hoping that my missing textbook would not be noticed. It was, of course. “I trust you are more diligent in your approach to your other classes,” Woofy said, eliciting snickers.
After class I went outside and found my book. It had landed on its spine and, being paperbound, had burst apart. The wind had carried off some of the pages. I gathered up what I could, hoping what remained would see me through the year. Textbooks were expensive. My parents had bought them for me and I could not ask for a replacement. In the end, when it became apparent that too much had been lost, I went to the bookstore and got another copy, slipping it in the front of my trousers and leaving the store as innocently as possible.
* * * *
We were playing floor hockey in the gym. We used hockey sticks with their blades sawn off and rings about six inches across, padded with felt, as the puck. You controlled the ring with the tip of your stick.
At one point, I was in the corner with the ring, ready to turn and head for the other team's goal. A boy named Perry was fighting me for possession. He slashed my legs and, in trying to lift my stick, hit my finger sharply. I decided to act. I lifted my stick and let Perry take
the ring. He didn't pause to wonder why it was so easy. He took two steps and I ran after him, lowering my shoulder and driving him into the gym wall.
There were few rules in floor hockey, but the one that was sacrosanct was no body checking within three feet of the wall. As soon as Perry's head smacked off the bricks, play stopped. The gym was silent except for Perry's moaning.
Mr. McIlroy pointed at me and shouted, “Go take a shower.” It was a relief. I was able to shower privately and without embarrassment. I felt confident that I had made a convincing argument for leaving me alone. It was unfortunate that Perry had been hurt. He was one of the more harmless students, but it couldn't be helped. I had to take every opportunity I could.
* * * *
On the day my major biology project was due, my father dropped me off at the front door of the school. Usually we both took the subway, but I was carrying the project with me, and it would have been awkward in the crush of the morning commute. He offered to drive me, which was a rare treat. Had he not, I would have gone in one of the school's side doors, as I did every other day.
The project was a large model of a protozoan, made of monofilament, plasticine, toothpicks, and balsa wood, mounted on a board. It was inside a green garbage bag for protection and had to be held flat, like a tray. By my standards, being an indifferent science student, it was an excellent piece of work. My father, who was much more patient than I, had helped me, and I knew a good mark was assured. When I tried to do tasks like that on my own, such as making the occasional plastic model, the results were messy, askew, or broken.
I was walking up the broad steps to the front doors when they opened and Baker came out in company with a gang of boys. Holding my project level before me, I stepped aside to let them pass. As they did, Baker reached out and hit the underside of my project quite hard. It popped out of my grasp, overturned, and landed on the concrete steps. There was laughter from the group as they passed, but none of them looked back.
The garbage bag made it impossible to see what damage had been done. Picking the project up, I could feel loose and broken pieces through the plastic. I looked toward the road, but my father was not there.
* * * *
Uncle Senility called the roll. Baker was among the absent. “Not here again,” Uncle mused. “Poor Baker will continue to fall deeper into the pit of ignorance.” He called the next boy on his list, but I could tell by the glances toward the open window and the bunched curtains that Baker was outside on the ledge.
The thought did not occur to me until class was over and I was gathering up my books. I moved slowly, not finished when the other boys began boiling out into the hall. They were all turned from me, surging through the doorway, full of urgency to be at liberty. Uncle Senility had his back to me, too, wiping down the chalkboard on the far wall. As I passed the curtain behind which Baker sat, I put down my briefcase, turned, placed my hands against the fabric and took a breath.
The curtains rustled and a head peered around cautiously, starting at seeing me so close. “I was just checking if it was okay to come in,” Baker whispered.
"That's what I came to tell you,” I said, checking again that Uncle Senility was not watching. “You're safe now."
* * * *
At some point, Mr. McIlroy decided it would be a good idea for us to do what he called “the Alcatraz swim.” His story was that, in attempting to escape from the prison, inmates of Alcatraz would try swimming to shore with their ankles bound and their hands tied behind their backs. How prisoners in such a condition would get to the water's edge, let alone swim across the bay, never occurred to us to ask.
The class was split into two groups. The boys in one group had their wrists and ankles bound and were expected, for twelve minutes, to propel themselves up and down the pool with eel-like writhings. Each swimmer had a spotter who followed along on the pool deck, counting each length as it was completed and making sure his swimming partner did not drown. Then the roles were reversed.
When McIlroy assigned partners he did so alphabetically, and so Baker and I were together. I tied my own ankles, but there was no option for my wrists. Baker bound them tightly, but I determined not to wince.
The swim started at the shallow end. We slipped into the water, ducked under, and began wallowing forward, undulating our bodies. Every time your middle went down and your head rose toward the surface, you gulped in as much air as possible before the movement of your body drove your head back under.
It had not been specified, but it was assumed that we were supposed to swim on our fronts. One boy, known as the Major for his dedication to cadets and his short haircut, assumed it would be easier to swim on his back. He did so and outpaced everyone else. McIlroy must have noticed what the Major was doing, but he said nothing until the twelve minutes were up. Then he told the Major that he would have to do it again, the proper way. No one could figure out why McIlroy waited so long.
The water, full of thrashing boys, was riled and choppy. More than once I took in water, spitting it out as best I could before going under again.
Not trusting Baker to pull me out, I ignored the pain in my wrists, the water in my lungs, and the fatigue of my muscles and kept going. Progress was slow but it was consistent. I also kept my own count of how far I had gone, assuming Baker would either lie about the result or not bother keeping track in the first place.
When McIlroy finally blew his whistle, boys knelt on the deck and helped their friends out of the water. I didn't bother waiting for help from Baker. I continued into the shallow end and asked another boy to release my hands.
As a young man, my father had sailed on Great Lakes freighters. He had taught me several effective knots. I tied Baker's wrists more securely than necessary. Like me, he had been wise enough to tie his own ankles. At the whistle, he began to heave himself through the water.
Baker was not a strong swimmer. After only three or four minutes, he began to founder. Every time he raised his head to breathe I could sense desperation that soon escalated to panic. On the crowded deck, I kept pace with him, counting his less and less frequent lengths.
Halfway through the drill, Baker lost the struggle to continue. His feet dropped and he began to thrash in the water. There were so many writhing boys, moving in both directions, that his distress went unnoticed at first by anyone but me. I watched him with interest as his head slid under and bobbed up again. His squirming did little to keep him afloat. After a few seconds, just before Baker squeaked out a terrified cry, I decided it was best if I seemed to be doing something.
Kneeling on the edge of the pool, I reached out for him, but his skin was slippery and he slid away, further from the side. The other boys had begun to notice and those in the shallow end stopped swimming and stood. Some in deeper water were pulled to the side and held securely by their partners. Baker continued to thrash and bob and wail.
I made a show of leaning out further over the water to grab him. Overbalancing, I toppled into the pool, pushing Baker still further toward the deep end. As I sank, I discreetly grabbed Baker's wrists and pulled him under too. When I resurfaced, Mr. McIlroy was yelling, and there were cries from some of the boys.
Baker was helpless. Mr. McIlroy jumped in with an impressive splash. He grabbed Baker and hauled him to shallow water, lifting him out and placing him on his side on the deck.
Baker retched and a stream of water trickled from his mouth. Mr. McIlroy started to untie his hands. He struggled with the knot. “Who tied this?” he demanded. I did not answer since the knot had nothing to do with Baker's incompetence in the water.
Baker lay gasping and weeping. I stood staring at him, unembarrassed by my nakedness, and smiled. Mr. McIlroy glared at me, eyes filled with anger. Of more importance to me were Baker's eyes, red and frightened.
Copyright (c) 2008 Peter Sellers
[Back to Table of Contents]
Department: THE MYSTERIOUS CIPHER by by Willie Rose
Each letter consistently represents anot
her. The quotation is from a short mystery story. Arranging the answer letters in alphabetical order gives a clue to the title of the story.
QDCG MDC FCEFTC AWMDCJCB MEACMDCJ EG EGC EL MDC AJCWM MJYWT BWUK, MDCU GCPCJ RGCQ QDCMDCJ MDCU QCJC ME QYMGCKK W XTEEBU KTWNADMCJ EJ W DYTWJYENK QCBBYGA.
—LJWGR J. KMEZRMEG
CIPHER ANSWER : A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
[Back to Table of Contents]
Department: UNSOLVED: LOGIC PUZZLE by Robert Kesling
Chicago Police Chief Walt Wright opened the Monday morning briefing. “It may be only an argument over at the Majestic Hotel, but I doubt it. I just got a call from Ralph Rentschall, the manager, who reports a fight there last night."
"What about?” asked Detective Teresa Tracey.
"All he heard was one guest accuse another of cheating at poker, claiming he owed the rest of them $250,000. The other four joined in. When Rentschall threatened to call the police, the fight broke up. To me, that spells a bunch of professional gamblers getting together for a showdown poker game. It could turn nasty."
"So, what else do we know?” asked Detective Hal Hunter.
"According to Rentschall, the six men involved, each with his wife, registered on a different day last week—Sunday through Friday —and from a different city."
"Sounds like a potentially explosive situation,” commented Detective Paul Probitt.
Chief Wright continued: “According to the hotel manager, they all meet in the hotel dining room at seven P.M., and after dining the men leave to start the game, which lasts all night. They sleep in during the day, while their wives go shopping. I want you, Hunter, to investigate the men. You, Tracey, make contact with the wives and find out what they know—don't be too forward or they'll get suspicious and clam up. And you, Probitt, observe what goes on at their dinner together. Report back at ten P.M. Dismissed!"
AHMM, November 2008 Page 4
