Toby didn’t know what he wanted to do. He only knew what he didn’t want to do.
“Murdstone’s got it into his head that I’m going to be a chemical engineer or some damn thing.”
Allen said, “What does a chemical engineer do?”
“Hell, I don’t know and I don’t want to find out. Even if there is a great future in it. So he says. I’m not even sure there’s going to be a future.”
Toby lived only a few blocks away, in a big, square white house with green shutters and a deep front porch, screened in. He’d lived there all his life. The man he called Mr. Murdstone was his stepfather.
Toby’s parents had divorced when he was four years old. His real father went off to California, he thought, and after that to Argentina. “He was in the blood-and-guts business, one of those big meatpacking companies. He used to send me postcards, but then he stopped. I don’t know where he is now.”
She thought Toby a very sad young man. He seemed lonely and not optimistic about his future, though he was bright as could be, and as voracious a reader as Allen. He often borrowed her books, her precious New Yorker magazines (an extravagant and much-appreciated Chrismas present from her brother), and returned them with more ideas to discuss.
Toby’s parents were quite social, and much more well off than George’s. Murdstone worked as a research chemist for a mining corporation. “Something to do with munitions. He won’t say much about it, but that’s what I think. They’ve sent him to Washington a couple of times.”
Nevertheless, Toby seemed envious of George, and his passion and talent for music.
When she asked Toby what he might want to do, he said, “I don’t know. Read books, I guess. Be a reporter. Or a whiskey drummer. I know I’ll end up being called up soon, one way or another.”
Allen insisted that they weren’t going to get into the war, but Toby was better informed than she, and insisted they would, and he would go.
“Maybe it won’t be so bad,” Allen said. “Maybe you’ll get sent to Italy, Even as a soldier, wouldn’t it be wonderful to walk on Italian soil and smell Italian smells and taste Italian food? I’ve always wanted to go to Italy. Don’t you?”
“Not now I don’t,” Toby said.
“Not that Italy. The real Italy,” said the Romantic. “Where the Brownings went, and Shelley and Keats.”
“It’s gone,” he said.
“It’ll come back.”
After her seminar ended, in early March, the boys began to drop in some weekend evenings after supper. Sometimes the three of them went to the movies and back to her place afterward for scrambled eggs. They listened, with questions and many comments, as she talked about books and art and other enchantments of that nature, even of the philosophers—Spinoza, of whom she had read a little; Nietzsche, of whom they had read a little; Plato and the ideal form; and Aristotle’s Poetics. She had learned enough in her time to know how much was left to learn, but it surprised her that she knew as much as she did. The boys seemed to draw it out. Perhaps because she wasn’t intimidated by them. She had the upper hand—she was the Teacher. A little authority and a salary gave one a heady sense of oneself.
But the boys knew a thing or two, themselves. Both of them read, though Toby had the wider range. Reading haphazardly—Conrad or Thomas Wolfe, Francis Parkman, Melville, Darwin—he had covered a good deal in his nineteen-going-on-twenty years. And George knew so much about music, educating her to the excellence of Mozart, the strict form of the sonata, and the unexplored pleasures of more modern music. He had introduced her to Debussy. She allowed herself one new record out of every other paycheck, and on George’s recommendation, had bought “Clair de Lune,” which she listened to over and over again.
The three of them settled into a pattern. The boys came after school some days, some weekends after dinner. They brought each other presents: limericks, passages from books, records to play on her phonograph. Having recently read For Whom the Bell Tolls in her seminar, the boys frequently obscenitied in the milk of something or other. Such as chemistry tests or Wednesday morning assemblies with speeches by local dignitaries. They disapproved of the Selective Service draft. But she assured them they needn’t be so suspicious of it, that they had nothing to worry about.
“After all, you are not twenty-one.”
“We will be.”
“Yes, but by that time—”
“They’ll lower it to eighteen!”
“No they won’t.”
“They did last time.”
“And should have learned their lesson,” she said. “They won’t do it this time. Roosevelt said—”
They obscenitied in the milk of what Roosevelt said.
She changed the subject. “I’ve got a new paragraph. Shut up and listen.”
She did not write many new paragraphs these days, but she read them passages from her notebook, written during the fall, and they discussed them. Other times she read Eliot or Yeats or choice stanzas from Blake and Tennyson. Sometimes they read Shakespeare together. Innocent as she was of disaster, and stubborn in that innocence, she persuaded them that nothing was wrong with the world that poetry couldn’t cure. Though George was inclined to believe her (he felt the same way about music), Toby was not persuaded.
Under all this ran the steady obbligato of music. She owned only a few records, but they played the same ones over and over: “Clair de Lune” and “Nights in the Gardens of Spain,” a Rachmaninoff concerto and one by Tchaikovsky, and two or three others by Mozart and Beethoven that George had brought. She also had a few dance records, Glenn Miller and the Dorseys and Artie Shaw, and whatever they heard over the small radio her brother had loaned her. On their nights together at her house, there was always music. And there was incessant talk. Around the kitchen table, under streetlamps, on their runs through the alley, the words poured out, their colloquies a mix of book learning and native wisdom, silliness and sense. They spoke maxims and great truths, pronounced upon the world and found it hilarious. They were brilliant, those nights—witty, profound, and wildly funny. Or so they seemed to one another.
Six
There will be a meeting of the staff this afternoon in Room 102 at one fifteen. Your attendance is urgently requested.”
She laid the note back on her desk. She didn’t know who had put it there—faculty meetings were usually posted on the bulletin board—nor why they should meet upstairs in Mr. Pickering’s room and not downstairs in the usual place. When she saw Dr. Ansel in the hall, she asked if he knew anything about it.
With a look that told her he knew everything, he said it was a special meeting. “A few items that need to be brought up. Seemed like this was a good time to do it.”
“Why in Pickering’s room?”
“I guess that’s where he wanted it. He’s chairing.”
“Pick? How come Mr. Frawley—”
“He’s over at Jeff City today.”
“Oh.”
“Some deal the board wanted him to go to. He and Souder went over.” Mr. Souder was the president of the school board, a banker with a square face and teeth like Teddy Roosevelt’s.
It sounded suspicious. And indeed, as she discovered shortly after 1:15, the meeting was more or less clandestine. Its purpose was to send Dean Frawley packing.
“He’s too old.” Mr. Pickering told the assembled teachers. “He should have retired five years ago.”
Allen was not wholly surprised. All year she had heard grumblings, mostly from the men: the dean was out of step with the times, he wasn’t progressive, he didn’t push hard enough, he didn’t raise money. One thing and another, to which she paid little attention. She admired the old man, even if others didn’t.
“They should never have made him dean in the first place,” Pickering said, “and they wouldn’t have, except that Souder wanted him. He’s too slow, he’s too conservative, his ideas are outdated—”
“They’re Souder’s ideas anyway,” said Mr. Lord. “He’s the one with the east
ern education.”
“Well, they’re Frawley’s ideas too, wherever he got ’em, and he carries them further. It may be Souder who wants Greek and Latin like he had back east, but it’s Frawley who’s pushing for ’em, along with the music and art and all that folderol. No disrespect meant,” he said to Mae Dell, who taught the one art course, “or to Miss Boatwright.” Maxine was not present. Neither was the coach.
“If I may put a word in here—” Dr. Ansel rose from the back of the room. Everybody had to turn around to look at him. “What we must understand,” he said in his best Speech Class diction, “is that Mr. Frawley is a nineteenth-century educator. Having some knowledge of that period myself, I, for one, have a great deal of respect for the classical program—as well as for our dean, I might add, as I’m sure we all have. Times change. It is my contention that our institutions are called upon to keep pace. It isn’t enough that we offer languages and philosophy and the creative arts, valuable as they are. Our schools have to adjust to the values of contemporary society. We have to meet the demands—”
“Kids gotta earn a living!” said Pickering, coming to the point.
“I can agree with that!” said Verna of the business department.
“I don’t say we shouldn’t give ’em the basic stuff, English and history and all that. But we don’t have to go overboard in that direction. It’s enough that we offer ’em French and Spanish.” Pickering gave a nod to Miss Peabody. “They aren’t going to earn a living with Latin and Greek.”
“And they don’t need to expect me to teach it,” Gladys said, looking around. “It’s all Greek to me.” She laughed through her back teeth with a satisfied hissing sound.
“We all know,” Pickering went on, “that what they get here is going to be all the college most of these kids will get. The ones that can afford it go to Springfield or the university. But we’re bound to get the rest of ’em and what they need is practical training. I’d like to see more stress put on the teacher-training program and on business education.”
“I could sure use some new typewriters,” said Verna.
“I’d like to see us put in some courses in the agricultural sciences.”
Mr. Lord said, “They could improve things if they supported the science they’ve got. I’m desperate for equipment. I’ll bet there would be twice as many kids in these courses if we could build up the department, give it a little more importance in the curriculum.”
“That’s what I mean!” Pickering put his fist down. “We need to reorient the direction of this school. The mostly scholastic program does not serve the needs of this community. If I had my say—”
“I agree!” Dr. Ansel rose to his feet and everyone had to turn around again. “I heartily agree with my colleague here, that the needs of this community should be served. But there is more than one way to serve them, a great variety of ways, if you will. Now as we all know, this is a community of intelligent, progressive people. They’ve made this new college possible, they support a series of concert performances brought in from outside. Many activities of that sort.”
“Did you go to that last one?” Mae Dell whispered to Allen. “It was so good!”
“And it is my feeling that the college is not doing enough to cooperate in those particular interests that are so manifest among the townspeople. Now, I don’t say the humanities don’t serve a purpose. But I do say there are more practical applications to which they might be addressed—and immediately, sooner than might be done under the present administration. For example, an active flourishing dramatics department would be of great benefit, I believe, to both community and student body. That’s one of the first things I feel should be done as soon as—”
“Well, I don’t know,” said the sociology teacher, and everyone shifted back around, “I don’t know much about playacting. But a good football team would sure do a lot to serve my needs—like bringin’ in some money so they could raise my salary!”
There was a chorus of agreement.
“A healthy athletic program could do more to stimulate support than just about anything else at the moment.” Mr. Pickering said. “I wish Coach were present—I sent him a notice. But I’m sure he supports us in this movement.”
Ansel said, “I don’t see that athletics and dramatics should be mutually exclusive.”
Pickering ignored him. “So what we need is a reorientation toward practical education, so these kids can walk out of here better equipped to hold down jobs.” There was a significant pause to let that sink in. “And we all know we will never get that out of Frawley.” Another significant pause. “Is there any further discussion?” His tone of voice said there had better not be. “If not—”
But Dr. Ansel rose again. He had some more things to say, and Pickering said more because Ansel had and the other men got a word in here and there. Mae Dell spoke up bravely on the subject of art in the schools.
“Now, I think it’s important. Naturally I would, since I teach it and I enjoy it. And if I may say so, I think the students find it enjoyable too. I think it means a lot. Of course, that’s just my opinion. I know they’re not any of them going to go out and get a job with it, but—” She smiled, lifted one shoulder, cocked her head, and sat down.
“Anyone else want to say anything?” Pickering gave them three seconds. “We have a prepared statement here to present to the school board. It says about what we’ve been saying here, how the faculty feels about the direction of the college and the reasons that we don’t think the dean is heading us down the right path. I’ve got carbons here, so you can read it. I’ll pass them around so you can all have a look. Miss Ingersoll, would you…? Thank you. It says about all we’ve been saying today. And I’d like to get it into the hands of the board before their next meeting. That will be week after next.”
Verna handed the copies around.
“I don’t want you to expect a miracle,” Pickering said. “Souder’s going to go to bat for his man, and he swings a heavy club. We all know that. But there’s some on the board don’t care much for his dictatorial ways either. And one of these times… It may take a year or two before the old man can be eased out. And it may not be very pleasant for us till he is. But we wanted to get the process rolling....
“There’s just one other thing I want to say.” He waited for the doodlers to stop doodling and for everyone to look up. “And that is that all of us have to sign this statement. Unless all of us sign it, none of us can. It’s got to be the whole staff. Four or five of us sign it, they’ll fire us. But they can’t fire the whole bunch, not without a whole lot of trouble.”
“Safety in numbers!” Gladys said, with her usual zing.
“If there’s anybody still hesitating, maybe we can discuss it further. How do you feel about it?” He looked out over the group. “Anybody not prepared to sign it today?”
There was an awkward silence. No one met his eyes, instead everyone looked at the floor or the blackboard.
“If there’s anybody not ready, would you please hold up your hand?”
Allen hesitated, then held hers up. Timidly, Mae Dell followed. And there was one other hand raised somewhere in the back. She didn’t dare turn to see whose it was.
“Well!” said Pickering, sitting down with a thump. “I see there are a few of us haven’t made up their minds yet. That right, Miss Liles?”
“I think it’s made up,” she said in a small voice.
“But you don’t want to sign. Is that it?”
“I’d rather not.”
“She’d rather not. Would you care to give us your reasons?”
“Well, I think Mr. Frawley knows what he’s doing, and I guess I think it’s the right thing.”
“Yeah. Well, I’m not surprised you’d feel that way. He let you have that course you wanted and money for the books.”
“That’s not the only reason.”
“I don’t know what you wanted with more work but … how about your reasons, Hudgin?”
Meek little Mr. Hudgin spoke right up and said he thought a good basic education was more valuable in the long run than specialization, and a small two-year college could not offer both.
“I thought we’d been through that.” Pickering smoothed out the petition and twisted his neck over his collar a time or two. “I was hoping to get this thing settled today.”
Somebody else said it wouldn’t hurt the three of them to sign as long as the rest of them did. Allen figured it would hurt Mr. Frawley, but she didn’t say so. She didn’t say anything. While Pick went over the arguments again, and Verna put in her two cents’ worth, Allen was thinking of the blacksmith she’d seen in church, now and then, as a child. Sometimes on a Sunday night, under the sallow lights, while the choir sang “Jesus Is Calling,” the preacher came down from the pulpit and whispered in the smithy’s ear, while the poor devil stood red and hangdog and stubborn as a post, refusing to be saved.
“Aw, you just like being the dean’s pet,” said the sociology teacher.
There was more good-natured ribbing and a good deal of laughter, which irritated Pick half to death. Then Dr. Ansel stood up and said he agreed with Miss Liles heartily, but went off on a long spiel that proved he didn’t, and said that if they would all sign the petition and listen to him the school would turn into the University of Chicago.
The meeting finally broke up for lack of consensus. Pickering packed up his petitions and stomped off, leaving the rest of them to straggle out and make their peace with each other.
Mae Dell hooked her arm through Allen’s. “You sure got us in trouble!”
“Gladys and Vernie are mad at us, aren’t you?”
Verna shrugged. “It’s your business. You can do as you please.”
“I just didn’t think it would be nice to do that to poor Mr. Frawley.”
“Look what he’s doing to us,” Gladys said, grinning.
“What is he doing?” Mae Dell said. “I just don’t understand all this.”
“Then you should have kept your mouth shut,” said Verna.
Clair De Lune Page 5
