A flickering blue light distorted my scope of vision as I regained awareness. Apparently, I had only managed to peruse half of Aaron’s essay on the computer’s screen before succumbing to the throes of my prior spell. I couldn’t presently muster the energy to read another word of his paper. As I predicted, Aaron’s writing neglected to stray beyond a cliché range of warfare to achieve the heroism he aspired. By now I should’ve recognized that it wasn’t my job to change any student’s mind more so than it was to encourage openness to novel ideas. In this boy’s case, however, he piloted toward a military campaign on cruise control long before entering my classroom.
Before pulling myself away from the computer, I checked my email and noticed two additional messages, one being marked urgent. I initially opened Mrs. Fassal’s note, while simultaneously remembering that I promised to visit her classroom before the onset of first period. The second letter sounded a bit more dubious in tone. Whether it was coincidence or not, another English teacher sought my advice on an undefined circumstance that he felt merited face-to-face interaction. Shawn Winger’s letter, while slightly unexpected, wasn’t an anomaly. We sometimes talked over lunch, but our discourse normally required no more preparation than a chance encounter in the hallway or cafeteria.
What struck me as bizarre about this particular note was its heedless composition. I counted four typos in a five-sentence paragraph. Normally, I wouldn’t have arched an eyebrow to such trivialness, but none other than Ravendale High School’s certified perfectionist typed this letter. Shawn was habitually lauded for his meticulousness. He even had an erudite reputation of correcting grammatical blunders in some of our less conscientious colleagues. Even on a bad day this man simply didn’t commit such careless errors in his writing. I surmised that Shawn must have composed the email hastily, which prompted me to offer him a cursory reply. Even still, whatever was agitating his mind would have to wait until after third period. My few minutes of spare counseling this morning already belonged to Mrs. Fassal.
Since Mrs. Fassal’s classroom was located on the opposite side of the school, I needed a proper head start if I expected to avoid the inevitable congestion. Shortly after the busloads of students arrived, navigating the corridors was like squeezing through a subway’s railcar at rush hour. Fortunately, I managed to reach the B-Wing, as it was called, without any obstructions. But before entering Mrs. Fassal’s classroom, I noticed the same custodian from earlier gawking at me at the hallway’s far end. Just as he had demonstrated previously, the janitor leaned nonchalantly on his broom’s handle, almost as if he anticipated the precise time of my arrival. I elected to ignore him on this occasion.
The eldest pedagogue in Ravendale High School’s fifty-year history hobbled toward her locked door to let me inside. Admittedly, this senile woman probably should’ve filed her retirement papers at least five years before now. Edna Fassal was a portrait of a passé schoolmarm, garbed in a floral-printed dress that could’ve doubled as a tablecloth in a gauche motel. She sported an equally unappealing hairstyle that hung like snippets of brindled tinsel around her shriveled neck. None of this, of course, was as remotely distracting as the plenteous liver spots peppering her cheeks and forehead like misfired buckshot.
I knew it bordered on cruelty to judge a teacher’s efficiency based on her physical appearance, and if that ever became the criterion for adroitness, few of us in this profession would’ve been eligible to instruct anything more academic than simple dog tricks. But as I perceived it, Mrs. Fassal’s true encumbrance derived from her inability to manage today’s animated and often corybantic teenagers. It was no secret within any school that the students of this educational era were byproducts of a Darwinian age, for they attacked and decimated frailer prey upon sight. Teachers no longer received immunity to such malice. As a result, Mrs. Fassal unwittingly relinquished control of her classroom to a gaggle of recalcitrant bullies.
As the elderly educator approached, I noticed her arthritic hand trembling as she clutched the door’s handle. Her fingers looked like withered blades of quack grass. Despite her obvious infirmities, I sensed that Mrs. Fassal had no intention of being compliant to those who already dismissed her relevancy. After all, she had outlasted all of her critics, and insisted that she planned on teaching literature for as long as Shakespeare and Dickens had a peg hole in the curriculum.
Unlike our previous encounters, something besides puzzlement strayed into the woman’s expression. She looked genuinely distraught, or at least frazzled to a degree where visible teardrops amassed in the crow’s feet edging the outer corners of her eyes.
“Thank you for coming, Corbin,” she said. Her voice sounded gravelly. She then uncharacteristically grabbed both of my wrists with her fingers as if she was monitoring my pulse. “This has been a terrible week for me. Just terrible.”
Since Mrs. Fassal wasn’t one who routinely overreacted to the inherent nonsense associated with high school politics, I decided that her complaint held merit. Even still, she probably expected me to uphold a certain level of calmness.
“Just relax, Edna, and tell me what’s the matter.”
Mrs. Fassal’s grip slackened after a few seconds as she ushered me toward her desk positioned beneath a low-slung American flag. By the time she lowered her backside into a cushioned chair, I noticed a few distinct changes in the classroom’s décor since my last visit. In earlier times, and many semesters prior to my arrival at Ravendale, Edna was formally known as the Cat Lady. She had collected enough feline-influenced posters throughout the years to wallpaper the pyramids of Giza. An untold quantity of these renditions found their way to Mrs. Fassal’s bulletin boards. But on this occasion, the room’s corkboards appeared like desert landscapes. With still more than eight weeks of school remaining, Mrs. Fassal had packed up her belongings.
“Are you planning on switching rooms anytime soon?” I asked, inserting an innocuous chuckle to offset any awkwardness.
The old woman seemed preoccupied with another notion as she rummaged through her desk’s drawers. After a pregnant pause she said, “Oh, you noticed my boards. I decided to box up everything a little early this year.”
“It looks empty in here.”
“Honestly, the kids pay more attention to my kitty collages than they do to whatever I’m teaching. Maybe it’s for the best that I’ve taken them down.”
I suspected that there was more to this explanation than what Mrs. Fassal cared to divulge, but I didn’t pursue any further details. Besides, I doubted that she summoned me to her classroom to discuss decorative choices. After I fidgeted in my stance for a couple of minutes, Mrs. Fassal specified her concern.
“I don’t normally ask the faculty about other students,” she started, “but I was wondering if you’re familiar with a boy named Drew Mincer?”
I must’ve cringed reproachfully alongside the old lady as I repeated that name aloud. This particular senior was the kind of student who caused teachers to second guess their choice of entering this profession. Drew Mincer symbolized everything that was unflattering about today’s youth. No one ever described him as anything other than a lazy, self-indulgent, ruffian who suffered from an undefined angst that he used to browbeat others into submission. Because of his behemothic stature and raucous disposition, Drew became one of the most feared and notorious figures at Ravendale High School.
“He’s in my fifth period study hall,” I answered. “If it makes you feel any better, he’s a royal pain in the ass there, too.”
Mrs. Fassal’s cataract-laden eyes splintered into milky rivers as she contemplated her next statement. “You know I’m a very patient woman,” she remarked, “but in all my forty-five years of teaching at this high school I’ve never met a more disagreeable hooligan. He’s put me at my wit’s end.”
I wasn’t alarmed by Mrs. Fassal’s earnest confession. Unfortunately, because of the litigious climate of today’s schools, it was nearly impossible for most teachers to do anything more than tolerate incorrigible tyrants suc
h as Drew.
“How does anyone sensible relate to that boy?”
“They generally don’t, Edna.”
“I should’ve scratched that delinquent from my roster back in September. He’s obviously not here to do anything else but disrupt my lessons and harass anyone smaller than himself. Is there any way to get him expelled from this school?”
“If there is, he’s found a way to avoid it. I hate to say so, but the laws not on our side in this case. Unless he does something criminal, we have to try to educate him whether he likes it or not.”
“I can’t accept such lunacy any longer,” Mrs. Fassal fumed. “This has become far worse than most people realize. I feel it’s a safety issue to keep him here any longer.”
“What do you mean? Has he threatened you or someone else?”
“Not directly,” she replied disappointedly. A slight hesitancy smothered her words as she continued. “As much as I loathe rumors, Corbin, I can’t deny that I’m not prone to overhearing them now and then. I know it’s unwise to get entangled in my students’ personal business, but whenever Drew’s name crosses my ear, I feel as if I’m morally responsible for stopping his behavior.”
“It’s a tempting instinct,” I agreed, “but it’s also a bad idea to put yourself in the middle. Outside of dealing with our administrators or phoning Drew’s parents, I don’t think there’s much more you can do. Have you tried calling his home?”
“Numerous times. His father seems indifferent to any accusation that his son is a relentless hazard to his classmates. But I’m not about to sit idly by and let that bullying reprobate terrorize my other students. Have you heard what that scoundrel did just last week?”
Mrs. Fassal didn’t wait for my reply before proceeding with her tirade. “Apparently, Johnny Kinders had two sets of gym clothes stolen from the locker room after tennis practice. In both instances, Drew was seen stuffing the garments down the lavatory’s toilets. But, as the case always goes, no one was willing to step forward and implicate the cretin. They’re all afraid of him.”
Any advice I offered to Mrs. Fassal on this matter required some discreet consideration. I certainly didn’t wish to instruct her on how to manage her classroom. I therefore decided to interject a practical thought into our discussion. “Look at it this way, Edna: in two months, he’ll be out of here. Then neither you nor me will ever have to see his smug mug again. Maybe it’s just best to wait until the slime slithers out the door.”
Mrs. Fassal may have furtively rated my suggestion about as functional as an administrator’s detention slip, but she refrained from any harsh criticism. I remained silent as the woman continued to shuffle through another drawer in her desk. Among the neatly arranged paperclips and packaged pens, she pulled forth a single sheet of folded stationary. I assumed she hadn’t yet conveyed the gist of what bothered her most about Drew Mincer.
“It’s come to my attention that there’s a larger matter at hand,” she revealed, while setting the paper within range of my hand atop her desk. She then adjusted the frilly collar on her dress before continuing. “As you may know, Drew generally picks on the most vulnerable kids he can find—the creed of his ill breed I suspect. I’m told that he occasionally offers exemptions from his torment to those who provide him with homework or money.”
Mrs. Fassal’s eyes fixated on the yellow paper, inviting me to inspect its content whenever I felt comfortable with the proposition.
“There’s more I need to know?” I inquired.
“That depends on how you interpret things,” she returned. “Before we go on, I’d like to know if you’ve ever heard of another student of mine. His name is Stanley Glacer.”
This name didn’t immediately register with my memory, but I couldn’t say conclusively that I wouldn’t have recognized the boy upon sight. “The name sounds somewhat familiar,” I answered, “but I can’t put a face to it right now.”
“I’m not surprised. Stanley’s not the type of boy who seeks attention from his classmates or otherwise. Unfortunately, that doesn’t mean he can avoid finding it against his wishes.”
“So I take it that this boy Stanley is on the meeker side?”
“He’s definitely introverted,” Mrs. Fassal confirmed. “I suspect the kids have always given him a hard time, but Drew takes the abuse to a shameful level. Since Stanley’s a naturally reticent student, he’s marked as a prime target.”
“Have you told Drew to back off?”
“You can probably guess how ineffective that tactic has been, Corbin. I honestly thought that Drew would’ve gotten tired of taunting the same kid everyday, especially when Stanley remains so unresponsive to the ridicule.”
After mulling over the former Cat Lady’s words, I decided to take a gander at the note she displayed on her desktop. She still appeared oddly unnerved by the presence of this paper. I therefore debated its content as thoroughly as she must’ve previously done. As I unfolded the note, it became immediately obvious that there wasn’t much to inspect. Written in pencil, on the paper’s upper left hand corner, two initials caught my eye. The capital letters D.M. seemed deliberately doubled over in graphite. More interestingly, in larger penmanship at the paper’s center, four words were etched in a similar fashion. I read these words aloud: “The bastard must die.” No other marks appeared on the paper, but they proved potent enough to induce tears in Mrs. Fassal’s eyes once again.
“Is this Drew’s paper?” I questioned.
Mrs. Fassal looked at me apprehensively as her head swiveled from side to side. Her voice and posture shrunk simultaneously as she continued. “I found that note under Stanley’s desk yesterday after class. I saw it slip from his knapsack. More to the point, the handwriting on that paper doesn’t belong to Drew.”
“Then it must be Stanley’s writing,” I said, as any practical person would’ve deduced.
“Of course it is. Doesn’t that trouble you?”
Mrs. Fassal watched me as if I should’ve been visibly dismayed by this shared information. But unlike some other neurotic teachers, I wasn’t prepared to overreact at the first indication of a student’s rebellion. Given the circumstances, Stanley’s reaction seemed quite ordinary. Of course, as teachers, we were duty-bound to steer any potential threats through the proper channels of authority.
I refolded the paper before asking, “Did you show this to anyone yet besides me, Edna?”
“No,” Mrs. Fassal replied in a quavering voice. “I thought about going to Principal Lemus right away, but I wanted to talk to Stanley first.”
“The kid is probably just venting,” I mused. “I can’t even count how many times I wanted to get rid of the class bully when I was in high school. Hell, half the kids in this school most likely have the same thought about Drew Mincer.”
“Well,” she said tentatively, “I’m not one who normally caves in to paranoia, but I also don’t want to deal with any ramifications if I’m mistaken. We don’t need another Columbine on our hands.”
Since I didn’t know Stanley Glacer’s temperament, I wasn’t qualified to comment on the likelihood of him running amuck with semiautomatic weapons. But I had yet to meet a teacher who believed any student was capable of such extreme violence. To my knowledge, Ravendale never had an incident on record warranting a comparison to the Columbine High School massacre in 1999.
“You can handle this situation one of two ways,” I continued, “and I think you mentioned them both already. Personally, I’d talk to Stanley before class and try to clear things up. I’m sure he was just letting off some steam.”
“I think so, too,” said Mrs. Fassal. “I really just can’t imagine Stanley writing something of this nature. He’s a docile boy. Never says a disparaging word in class.”
“It’s always the quiet ones,” I joked. “Seriously, you’ve been doing this gig a long time, Edna. Trust your instinct. You might still surprise yourself.”
Mrs. Fassal suddenly looked more confident in her abilities, and it was fo
r this reassurance that I believed she truly summoned me here. Perhaps the speculation that her mental acuity had declined in recent years was slightly overstated. In this instance, I felt she handled the tense situation better than most teachers half her age. Just in case, I decided to offer her a few other minor suggestions.
“When you ask Stanley about the note, he’s probably going to initially deny writing it. That doesn’t mean he’s anymore likely a threat. Just make sure he understands that words and weapons are almost synonymous with one another nowadays, especially in high school.”
“I knew you’d help me figure this whole thing out, Corbin.” Despite her gratitude, I still sensed crumbs of consternation sprinkled in the Cat Lady’s voice. “I wish Stanley would just stand up for himself once. If you pardon my French, why can’t he just haul off and pop that menacing prick in the nose? Otherwise, I don’t think Drew’s ever going to stop hassling him.”
Perhaps I should’ve stopped myself before uttering my next comment, but I suspected that a long-suppressed chivalry seized the cowardly part of me. “Maybe there’s something else I can do,” I said, while subconsciously straightening my posture to project authoritativeness. “What period do you have Drew and Stanley in class together?”
“Sixth, I think.”
“That works out perfectly. Since Drew is my fifth period study hall, I’ll try to talk to him today before he comes to your class, providing that he shows up.”
“Oh, please don’t mention the note to him.”
“No, of course I won’t. I’m just going to gently remind him to stop badgering Stanley.”
“Do you really think he’ll listen to you?”
I shrugged my shoulders innocently and admitted, “The odds won’t be in my favor. But look at it this way, Edna, Drew’s counting down the days to graduation just like we are. I’m sure he doesn’t want to get suspended from school with so little time left. He might even mellow out if presented with a challenge to behave.”
At least my proposal subdued Mrs. Fassal’s tears for the moment, which provided me a tiny glimpse of encouragement. With her concerns temporarily pacified, I hoped to leave before she moved on to some other gossip. Before I stepped away from her desk, however, she reached her skeletal hand out and clutched my wrist again.
“Is there something else on your mind, Edna?”
Mrs. Fassal didn’t answer me until she fetched another item from her desk’s top drawer. She crinkled her nose as she pressed a pair of horn-rimmed bifocals over her eyes. Then, for the first time since I stepped into her classroom, she scrutinized my appearance.
Her voice suddenly sounded maternal when she asked, “Have you’ve been getting the proper amount of sleep lately, Corbin?”
“Yes,” I lied. Apparently I wasn’t very good at fibbing. Mrs. Fassal wasn’t about to let me escape her interrogation so stealthily.
“Far be it from an ol’ spinster like me to comment on another teacher’s appearance,” she said, “but you look exhausted.”
“That’s a fair observation,” I responded. “I think I get up too early in the morning this time of year. I blame the loons for that inconvenience.”
“I’ve noticed you’ve lost some weight, too,” she continued. Her eyes then focused on my waistline, which barely had enough girth to hold up my pants. “You’ve shed maybe five or ten pounds since our last department meeting. That’s too much weight to lose for a fellow of your height. What’s going on?”
Even if I wanted to contradict Mrs. Fassal’s estimation of my weight loss (it was closer to twelve pounds), she would’ve spotted my insincerity before the words formed on my lips.
“I guess I haven’t been eating much lately.”
“We’ve known each other for many years now, Corbin, and I have a feeling you’re keeping something from me.”
“I’ve been under a lot of stress, Edna, that’s all.”
“And what does your wife have to say about all this?”
I didn’t have the humility to explain to Mrs. Fassal that my wife was the primary source of my anxiety. This was an occasion where silence transmitted my feelings most auspiciously. The old woman obviously felt inclined that her intuition for motherhood extended to anyone who looked like they needed assistance.
“Have you been to a doctor lately?” she asked, bluntly challenging my sensibilities. My body language should’ve fittingly projected that I had no desire to continue this segment of our conversation. But this old lady hadn’t withstood nearly a half of century in the classroom by employing subtleness. “Please don’t be offended by my prodding, Corbin. I only do so because I consider you my friend. You know I lost my husband because he was afraid of what his doctor might tell him when he got sick. I told him the same thing I’m about to tell you. No doctor ever wrote a prescription for death. Only the coroner does that.”
“I appreciate what you’re saying,” I declared. “And, just so you can put it out of your mind, I already made an appointment with my doctor for this afternoon.”
“What do you think the problem is?”
“I really don’t know, Edna.” This time she knew I wasn’t lying. “Maybe I’ll have some more answers for you when we talk again.”
My response satisfied Mrs. Fassal for now. She released her grip from my hand and clasped her fingers together across her lap. “Don’t ever be cautious about coming to me with your problems, Corbin,” she insisted. “Despite what the little urchins whisper about me around here, this ol’ fossil still has a bit of verve left in her bones.”
I no longer had any cause to doubt this woman’s astuteness. Her spry insight belied an unbalanced gait, but I should’ve known that perceptions weren’t always what they first seemed. She permitted me to leave her classroom only after I promised her an update on the situation with Drew Mincer and my health. After granting those requests, I checked my watch and paced out the door. I had intentionally synchronized my watch’s time to match my alarm clock at home rather than the school’s clocks. For unspecified reasons, the time in our high school was alternately three minutes too fast or slow. In this case, I had an advantage. All the buses hadn’t arrived yet, which left plenty of space in the hallways to maneuver unhindered toward my own classroom.
Before I reached the stairwell at the end of the corridor, however, I became distracted by another telltale sound. The rhythmic clacking of a woman’s heels hitting the polished floor halted me in my footsteps. I knew the cadence of this stride in the same way a lonely dog recognized the pitch of his owner’s car engine pulling up in front of the house. Only one woman on this campus managed to manipulate heartbeats with the mere din of her leather-strapped stilettos. I suddenly became as flushed as a pimple-skinned greenhorn at the prospect of crossing paths with her.
Miss Hannah Dixon didn’t simply walk a corridor like other teachers. I likened her movement to a provocative dancer, sashaying and wiggling her sculpted hips to a music that only she imagined. This nubile enchantress glided on fawn-like legs, partially wrapped in a pastel miniskirt that must’ve violated every code of professional decency. But not a salty man alive from here to Timbuktu would’ve ever dreamed of reporting her gams as an infringement to their eyes. Admittedly, I tittered like a lecherous crony every time I caught a whiff of her flowered perfume. I don’t think she was much older than a few years out of a bachelor’s program, and I suspected she used her feminine mystique to her advantage whenever practical.
Unlike the majority of her paramours parading torpidly through the hallways in search of some semblance of affection, I managed to keep out of range of her flirtatiousness most of the time. But since I made myself an inaccessible target to Miss Dixon’s seductive gambits, she seemed more intent on testing my willpower. For the past two months or so, I sensed that she was following me, while occasionally coaxing me into some trifling talk about the weather or current events. Without question or compromise, the young woman’s effervescent personality lured men to her side like mice to gumdrops. I just
wondered how much longer I’d last before this candy-baited trap unhinged upon me.
My choice to evade the coquette must’ve triggered fits of confusion in my carnal-minded colleagues. But, up until at least today, my reasons for doing so actually made sense. Firstly, I felt it was necessary for the preservation of my own sanity to present myself as a contently married man. I lived with this illusion for many months, maybe even years. Miss Dixon’s presence inadvertently exposed the emotional forgery that I muffled my libido in like bales of insulation. Submitting to the cajolement of a twenty-something seductress was counterproductive to any chance I had at salvaging whatever remained of my marriage. My second reason had more to do with Miss Dixon’s behavior on the few occasions where we actually exchanged words. In truth, she did most of the talking, while I babbled incoherently as if mouthful of cotton balls were lodged in my throat.
For motives yet unclear to me, Miss Dixon seemed inordinately fixated on tantalizing me with her sexuality. Aside from her suggestive style of dress, which usually showcased more tanned cleavage than a Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition, the woman had an intangible talent for scaling men’s marital barriers with flattery. Maybe it was just the bashful manner in which she tilted her head slightly to one side, or coiled her honeycomb-colored tresses around her index finger when she spoke. A delicate playfulness permeated her expression in almost every instance. She reminded me of a dexterous potter at work, using her velvety hands to mold her malleable creations in preparation for the kiln.
It didn’t require a seer’s foresight to predict that Miss Dixon would’ve concocted some excuse to delay me with small talk on this occasion. Even at a distance of ten paces, I smelled her lilac-scented loins perambulating toward me. Mischief churned like a vortex in her mint-green eyes. Despite my steadfast resistance, I felt my noble veneer evaporating from my mind like a shallow puddle evaporating in sunlight. She hardly needed to utter a word to secure my rapt attention.
“Hey, Mr. Cobbs,” she chimed like a nightingale. “You’re a hard fellow to track down, you know that?”
I wasn’t as nearly as elusive as I should’ve been in this instance. Against my purest efforts, I couldn’t abstain from stealing a quick view of her splendidly marketed breasts. I didn’t yet presume to know for whom she peddled her curvaceous wares to on this morning, but I was like a feasible buyer at a fruit stand. Rather than say anything unintelligible, I nodded my chin and offered a grin that was two sizes off from exuding confidence. But I’m inclined to believe that Miss Dixon nibbled on men’s insecurities with the same avidity as a rodent gnawed on delectable treats.
Before attempting to speak, I readied my throat like a rooster anticipating the break of dawn. I also assumed my most erect posture, and summoned a voice from within myself that I hoped conveyed a long-suppressed masculinity. “Good morning, Miss Dixon. Nice to see you.”
“It’s Hannah. You know that.”
“Of course,” I smirked, clumsily preening my shirt’s fabric to make certain that it wasn’t too wrinkled. “Well, good morning, Hannah,” I tried again, less robustly than my initial greeting.
Miss Dixon’s pink lips parted slightly, exposing a column of chiseled teeth that looked like an artisan’s marble opus. I suspected that this woman’s smile had already crumbled a thousand hearts into irrecoverable ruins. “So where have you been hiding yourself lately, Mr. Cobbs?” she asked, always mindful to monitor her tone’s breeziness.
“Nowhere in particular. I’m just keeping busy. You know how it is.”
“Yeah, trying to stay out of trouble, right?” she giggled.
“Something close to that.”
“What a shame.”
As it was with the tides of any storm, an undercurrent of sensuality always bubbled through Miss Dixon’s syllables. Most men yearned to bask in the froth of her undulating intonations, and here I stood like a sea green schoolboy without a life preserver in sight.
“Look, I don’t want to make you late for class or anything, but tomorrow after work a few of us in the history department are going to get together at Rounders for a drink or two. If you’re not too busy, maybe you should stop by.”
If I was fetching to get ensnared into a web of wantonness, this was a prime chance. And despite the warning signals flashing within my brain, I suddenly felt as vulnerable as Odysseus being lured by the Sirens’ songs. In my present state of mind, it would’ve been too easy to plunge headlong into this temptress’s fathomless gaze.
“You guys still go there, huh? It sounds like a good time,” I said.
“Sometimes it’s fun,” she remarked, while moistening her puckered bottom lip with her tongue. “Depends on who comes, you know what I mean?”
“I…I think I do.”
“So what do you say, Mr. Cobbs? You think you can squeeze me into your busy schedule? I promise not to keep you out all night. We wouldn’t want to worry your pretty wife anyway, would we?”
I cleared my throat nervously as Miss Dixon’s polished fingertips brushed over the fine hairs on my wrist. “I…I might be able to make it,” I stammered. By now, all of my preconceived composure sank like a torpedoed vessel into an abyss of idiocy. “In the event that I do go, Miss Dixon…I…I mean, H…Hannah, how late do you plan on staying?”
“As long as it takes.”
In spite of her youthfulness, Miss Dixon had already developed the cunning intuition of a beautiful woman twice her age. She looked at me like a doleful damsel, enticing me to accept her invitation even though it went against my prudent judgment. I assumed that no phrase resembling rejection ever crossed this nymph’s ear. My attempt to back away from this situation gracefully prolonged my embarrassment.
“Maybe we can get together another time. I really got to straighten out some personal business at home tonight. But I’m sure you’ll have more fun without me anyway.”
“You know, it’s good to get out once in awhile,” she said, intoxicating me with her mint-julep eyes. “If you’re worried about getting home too late, just tell your wife you’re grading papers or have a meeting. That’s what other husbands do.”
“It’s a little too complicated to explain right now.”
“Well, whatever it is, I’m convinced that people make time for the things they really want to do.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Hannah,” I said.
“You know, Mr. Cobbs, just because you teach Greek tragedy doesn’t mean you have to live such a dreadful life.”
Perhaps Miss Dixon understood my dilemma better than she realized. At the moment I couldn’t think of anything remotely witty or productive to say to her. She left me standing in the hallway pondering the possibilities that awaited us if I ever became bold enough to accept her offer. I watched her sally away like a zestful breeze until a sharp turn in the hallway obstructed my view.
My thoughts centered on my wife as I headed down the stairwell. The bitter image of her having an affair with my best friend caused me to tremble uncontrollably. I simply couldn’t dislodge the evidence from my head. Did my wife truly have the audacity to sleep with Leon Chase in our own bedroom? Was it even possible to orchestrate such a lusty demonstration of deceit? I just unwillingly verified how swiftly a man could’ve been tempted into infidelity by an artful lover. In my view, Leon Chase was the Picasso of persuasion. If anyone could’ve inveigled his way into Rachel’s heart, then I suspected Leon was designed for the task. But as much as I wanted to fault him alone, no affair ever occurred with a sole participant. As hurtful as it was for me to grasp, Rachel was a betrayer in equal measure. Nothing damaged a person’s character more so than this sort of sordid violation. By any man’s account, the sickly notion of another lover seducing his wife devoured him as rapaciously as any cancer.
I intended to make it back to my classroom without further delay, but my relapsing episodes altered this objective. A soupy film of sweat gathered on my brow as I stepped out of the stairwell. Then I felt my legs shifting beneath my torso as if the
y had suddenly transformed into rubbery appendages. I staggered a few additional paces, before retreating to the nearest wall of lockers. I didn’t see anyone watching, but it wouldn’t have mattered at this point. The spell was already upon me. This hallway inconveniently served as my next station of unrest.
Chapter 14
7:17 A.M.
The Classic Crusade of Corbin Cobbs Page 13
