Within such a view of things, Mr. Lucy had an important place, for he could provide what the schools were unable to provide: individualized, private, and effective instruction. Only a day after he moved to Centerville, he presented himself to the principal of the junior-senior high school and made that quite clear.
The principal’s name was Bill Carman, and like so many of the school administrators Mr. Lucy had met, this one looked harried, confused, and overwhelmed by the start of the school day. Carman was a tall, stout man who unconsciously expressed the heaviness of his thoughts by slouching when he walked and sat. There were dark circles around his dull brown eyes, and his graying light brown hair had thinned considerably over the past few years. He looked more like a man of fifty than one of forty, and he wore the pained look of a man who knew it.
The man and his setting mirrored each other. His desk was a shambles—papers strewn about, family pictures blocked by pads, books and pamphlets open and turned over, and sheets from a message pad stuck in every conceivable spot on his desk. There were some water stains in the ceiling panels overhead where the roof of the school had leaked. Although the walls of his office were done in a rich dark pine, they too looked grimy, worn, and uncared for.
“Oh,” he said, rising and leaning over his desk to shake Mr. Lucy’s hand, “you’re an applicant for a sub position. That’s good. We’re in desperate need of substitute teachers. Teacher absenteeism has become an occupational disease.”
“No, I don’t sub,” Mr. Lucy said. “Not in the sense you mean, even though I have the qualifications.”
“You don’t sub? Well, if you’re looking for a full-time position, you should…”
“No, I’m not interested in a full-time position either. May I sit down?” he asked. Carman was still leaning over his desk.
“Of course, of course. I’m sorry. It’s been one of those hectic mornings. We had a bus breakdown, parents screaming over the phone, two of my English teachers are out, and one of my subs is having a hard time controlling the first-period class. To top it off, my wife just called to tell me our hot water heater is leaking in the basement. How’s that for a start?”
“No rest for the weary,” Mr. Lucy said. He smiled sympathetically, and for the first time, Bill Carman really looked at the man who had asked for an appointment.
Although Mr. Lucy’s posture was correct, it wasn’t stiff. There was an aura of power and authority about him. Dressed in a tweed suit and tie, he looked taller and larger than the principal first thought. Bill Carman felt himself settle back calmly in his chair. The frenzied atmosphere of the morning’s activities began to fade. It was as though he and this intelligent-looking stranger were adrift on a quiet sea. He welcomed the change of pace.
But this slowing down in the tempo of things had another effect, a disconcerting one. It made Bill Carman aware of his own disheveled appearance. The sports jacket he was wearing had long since lost its shape. He had a nervous habit of shoving his hands hard into his jacket pockets, stretching and pulling the material. The bottom button was loose and the dark blue looked as though it had faded a shade or two. He liked to think of it as his work garment, but the sharply and neatly dressed Mr. Lucy made him feel inadequate.
Sitting before a man like this, Carman was also embarrassed by his office. He had been after the custodians for weeks to do something about his malfunctioning venetian blinds. They hung on a slant because of a bad pulley. Carman moved some of the papers on his desk to make for a clearer space and quietly cursed his secretary for letting his paperwork become so slovenly.
“You’ll have to excuse all this,” he said, waving his hand about indefinitely so it would take in everything, “but this is what you might call a working office. Front lines, front lines.” He winked. “Now you can appreciate why principals fight so hard to become superintendents. It’s much quieter and saner in his office, believe me.”
“If you’re that aware of the differences, you’ll have the drive and ambition to become one,” Mr. Lucy said. Bill Carman liked that. He smiled widely and folded his hands against his chest.
“I think you’re right, Mr…”
“Lucy, Adam Lucy.”
“Yes. Well then, Adam, how can I help you? You say you don’t want to be a sub and you don’t want to apply for a full-time position?”
“That’s correct. I am a tutor.”
“A tutor?”
“In the traditional sense, yes.”
“Well, any of my subs can be used as tutors. Why don’t you consider…”
“No, you don’t understand. I am a professional tutor. I don’t do other things on the side. I tutor.”
“I see,” Bill Carman said, but he couldn’t hide the skepticism in his voice. He leaned forward. Mr. Lucy’s eyes were intriguing. They were magnetic, demanding. Carman couldn’t get himself to treat this man in a perfunctory manner and dismiss him.
“Because I have made that my primary work, I can tutor in any subject. I can do remedial work and I can help students advance. Today, with so much emphasis on standardized tests, my kind of extra help can be very important. In fact, I prefer working with students who are trying to improve on relatively good scores, students who are ambitious, or…” he smiled. “Whose parents are ambitious for them.”
“I know the type you mean,” Carman said. He smiled, too. It was as though they shared a secret about the world of education. He liked this man’s directness and confidence. What he said made some sense.
“What I would like to do is leave my papers with you. Included in this folder are a number of letters of recommendation from other school officials, teachers, and letters from parents who were satisfied with my work.”
Bill Carman leaned over and took the folder from Mr. Lucy. He opened it and flipped through some pages quickly.
“Impressive,” he said. “You’ve been around a bit, too, I see.”
“I like traveling. There are certain advantages to changing your setting every now and then,” he added. Bill Carman looked up sadly. Mr. Lucy’s smile evinced an inner happiness that he envied. The principal looked about his office again and nodded. “A fresh, new view of things can revitalize you,” the tutor continued. For Carman his words were like nails being pounded into a coffin. In many ways his office had become a kind of tomb. He was stuck; his career had been stymied.
“I guess it’s nice to be able to pick up and go if you don’t like your clientele.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I find kids the same most anywhere,” Mr. Lucy said. “You can’t escape the problems.”
“Maybe not. Anyway, I haven’t.” Bill Carman laughed. It was the first time he had laughed all morning.
“So, if you approve, I would appreciate your placing my name on any bulletin boards or with any parents who might want their children tutored.”
“I’ll give this to my guidance people. They handle such referrals every day.”
“Yes, that would be helpful.”
“But can you really…I don’t want to appear presumptuous…but can you earn enough from this work to make a living?”
“Everywhere I have gone, I usually have,” Mr. Lucy said and smiled. Bill Carman thought it was an odd smile, almost devilish. Again, he had the strange feeling they were sharing some sort of secret.
“And you’ve never considered sub work or full-time positions?”
“I prefer the one-on-one work, a luxury rarely afforded in a traditional classroom setting. It gives me the opportunity to get to know my students, and once I know them, I can direct my attention to them more efficiently. It’s an ideal way to teach.”
“No question about that. I envy you,” Bill Carman said. The intercom on his phone buzzed. He depressed the button on the little speaker. “Yes?”
“Sorry to bother you, Mr. Carman, but Mr. Leshner sent one of his students down to tell you that Miss Robinson’s class is going wild. He says there’s a lot of yelling and some pounding on his walls.”
“I’ll be
right there. It’s one of those subs I was telling you about when you first came in. Can’t handle the group. Once kids sense that, they’ll tear the sub apart. They’re like wild animals smelling blood.” Mr. Lucy nodded knowingly and stood up.
“I won’t take any more of your time. Thank you.”
“Not at all, not at all. I’ll forward the information. You’ll get some clients pretty soon.”
“Thanks again,” Mr. Lucy said. Bill Carman stood up and reached out to take Mr. Lucy’s extended hand. He found the grip firm, almost too firm. Once again, he took note of Mr. Lucy’s physical characteristics. This man was no dandy, he thought. The strength radiated from him. Too bad he couldn’t have such a man on his staff. Then again, he wondered, would so strong a teacher with such definite ideas somehow be a threat to his authority?
“If you change your mind about subbing, don’t hesitate to call us to have your name placed on the list.”
“I won’t change my mind,” Mr. Lucy said. “But thank you for the invitation.”
As soon as Mr. Lucy left, Carman sat back again. It wasn’t just the man’s appearance that made him feel inadequate, Carman thought; it was his whole demeanor, his control, his quiet but definite authority. That was the way a good school administrator should appear.
Dejected, he looked about his office. What had become of him and his ideals? Talking to this man, even for so short a time, had been like sitting in an air-conditioned room on a hot summer day. Now that the air-conditioner was off, the intensity of the heat became even more emphatic.
The buzzer interrupted his self-pity.
“I hate to keep bothering you, Mr. Carman,” his secretary said, “but that class Miss Robinson is covering…”
“Oh, yes, yes.” He got up quickly, cursed under his breath, and headed out of his office.
Right from the beginning, things went the way the tutor had expected. Such communities were always fruitful for him. With a miserly eye, he guarded his time. Every moment had to be on target. Because of that, he would take great care in choosing where to go, doing the research; quietly learning all that he could about the inhabitants, the area’s physical and economic characteristics, and its schools. For obvious reasons the last was the most important. Such areas, ones that had undergone relatively rapid changes, mostly for the worse, usually had the core of bitterness and fear he expected. It was expressed to him the day after he drove into Centerville when he looked for a place to live.
“We used to have a little prep school here,” Ruth Krepsky, the real estate agent, told him. “I mean it’s always been a public school, but the quality of the students and the nature of the community was such that education was a real priority. Why, do you know that until last year, this school district never voted down a budget? Even during the hardest times, the good people of this community would come out en masse and make sure the children had what they needed.
“I wouldn’t be telling you all this if you hadn’t told me you definitely would not buy property,” she added and patted his hand. He smiled with understanding. He knew that; he had known it before she started talking. “But after you told me what you do, I can assure you, you will have a great deal of business. Why, it’s like a doctor coming into a town where all the people have colds once a week, every week.”
This middle-aged woman with the terribly short haircut and jeweled eyeglass frames was flirting with him. She lingered over coffee, giggled like a schoolgirl, and patted and touched him at every opportunity. He had expected that, too. It was far from the first time.
“Can’t really be as bad as you describe,” he said.
“Believe me, I know.” She widened her eyes dramatically. It was as though she were finding a place for a Broadway producer and not a tutor. “My daughter graduated ten years ago. I know what kind of school system it was. Now my sister’s kids are in high school, and she has her hands full worrying whether they’ll get talked into taking drugs or lose interest in their studies, or…or her daughter getting pregnant. Yes! Why just the other day I found out there have been eight pregnancies in the junior high school this year already. Eight!”
“Those things go on everywhere now.”
“But it’s a shock for us. Ten years ago, you had to fight to get store space in any of these hamlets. Now, you can have your choice of dozens in any community.”
“Better not let that out or you won’t get your prices,” he said.
She giggled and squeezed his forearm. “Prices? They go and build all this low income housing, attracting an element you wouldn’t believe. When I take you to Centerville, we’ll pass one and you won’t believe that it’s only two years old. It looks like someone lifted a slum tenement out of New York and brought it up here.”
“You don’t have to take me to Centerville.”
“Pardon me?”
“It’s not necessary. I’ve seen the house.”
“But how did you…you didn’t go inside, did you?”
“I saw enough to know it’s what I want.”
“But…”
“Why don’t you just write up the deal. It’s OK, believe me.”
She simply sat back and stared at him for a few moments. Then he touched her hand as though to assure her it was all real. She jumped up and went out to tell her secretary to pull the file on the Taylor house.
After his telephone was turned on and he had visited the school, he went home to wait. He didn’t have to wait long. First came the Rosen boy and then Johnny Masterson and the others. It was a good group, as good as any he had had; and, as always, he knew the success it promised.
2
Barbara Rosen knew that it made little difference whether she told her husband Charlie about it or not. He said what he usually said, “Whatever you want, Barbara.” Then he held his hand over the receiver and shouted something at one of his men.
She envisioned the scene because she knew he kept his office door open so he could see everything and yell orders to the men. She hated the fact that he couldn’t give her his full attention for at least five minutes. But this was the way her marriage had been from the start.
She had always wanted to marry money and Charlie was one of the wealthiest men in the community. Though her parents had had only a modest income from a shoe store in Woodbourne, she had been spoiled.
She had developed a vocabulary of euphemisms to block out anything unpleasant. Her parents hadn’t been shoe store owners; they were small business people; she hadn’t merely gone to an inexpensive private college, she had attended a school for girls; her son wasn’t doing poorly in school, he was simply not applying himself.
When Bill Carman told her about the new tutor, she was very receptive. First of all, she didn’t see the concept as remedial and therefore, degrading. Even Bill Carman said it wasn’t like your child was being forced to get extra help after school. This was expensive; this was special. What’s more, from what Bill Carman told her, she gathered she would be the first parent to do it, and she liked the sound of that. Her friends would be calling to learn all about it so they could follow suit and send their children to the tutor.
Of course, Gary didn’t like the idea; he didn’t like anything that required any effort. Like her, he was an only child, and like her he had been spoiled. Her husband had made a slight, insubstantial effort to get his son to work in the lumberyard during summers and weekends. He wanted him to work with the men, to learn the business from the bottom up, the way he had learned it, but the kid resisted. When Charlie forced him anyway, Gary would come to work late and procrastinate for most of the day when he did come.
“You don’t work in the yard,” he argued, “why should I?”
“But I did. How do you think I built up this business? You think it was just there, handed to me?”
“But you don’t have to do it anymore. You pay the nerds to do the idiot work.”
“Don’t call them nerds.”
“What’s the point in doing that work if you don’t have to
do it? It’s stupid.”
“You’ll have to be logical, Charlie,” Barbara said. “Explain it to him logically.”
“There’s no logic,” Gary said. “That’s why he can’t explain it.”
“Well?” she asked. It was her husband’s cue. “Should he work in the yard or shouldn’t he, Charlie?”
Charlie Rosen looked at his sixteen-year-old son. His hair was too long, his body was too soft; he was so unlike him, he could almost believe Barbara slept with another man. But there were too many similar characteristics in their faces. No, Gary was his son, all right. There was no denying it. The kid stood there with his arms folded, his mouth open in a smirk, the expensive orthodontia work showing. Charlie felt a deep sense of defeat and personal grief. He couldn’t imagine passing on his business to such a boy.
“Whatever you think, Barbara,” he said, and so Gary hadn’t worked. Barbara was blind to her son’s inadequacies and often retreated to the rationalization, kids are just too smart these days. They grow up faster.
The moment she met Mr. Lucy, though, she felt she had made the right decision. He came to the house to meet her, to discuss Gary’s problems and to meet Gary. The voice on the telephone had intrigued her. He was polite, but warm. She felt they had known each other for a long time. Never had she so enjoyed a conversation with a complete stranger. His tone was sympathetic and sincere. She couldn’t forget about him all that day and actually looked forward to meeting him. That made her feel silly because she imagined him to be an elderly man looking to earn some extra money. So when he did arrive and she opened the door to greet him, she was pleasantly surprised.
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