The after-lunch stupor invaded the building. In the safety of her room she listened for a moment to the fussing of a pair of jays in the maples just outside the window, then took out her notes for the two o’clock class. Her seminar on the novel had been the course she enjoyed most. But that had ended in mid-March. Next to that, she liked this class best—Engl. Lit. I—both the course and the students. Lively, bright, attentive kids, all of them (except Lindsey Homeier, who had to sit someplace). She was teaching The Tempest. Appropriate to the end of the school year, when the kids would be released to summer and holiday. “Then to the elements / Be free, and fare thou well…” With the book open before her she ran through her notes for Acts IV and V, laughing to herself as she came to Ariel’s final song. Where the bee sucks, indeed! After that performance by Toby and George, how was she supposed to get through this with a straight face? It would need some careful handling, especially since several in the class were also in the chorus. She turned to the passage and read through it again.
Lost in the dependable magic, she did not hear him come in. She looked up, startled by a discreet cough. “Oh, hello, Mr. Frawley!”
“Miss Liles,” he said in his courteous way, “I wonder if you could come to my office?”
She went with him up the hall, passing the time of day and wondering briefly why he had come on this errand himself. Ordinarily, if he wanted a conference, he sent his secretary. The dean seemed distracted this afternoon, but then he usually did. His duties lay heavily on his shoulders. He was close to seventy, so they said. Maybe Pick and the others were right; maybe he was getting too old.
In the outer office the secretary looked up from the typewriter. “Hi, how are you?”
“Fine, thanks. How are you, Roberta?”
The dean ushered her into his sanctuary, closed the door, and pulled up a chair for her.
She sat easily, swinging her foot, and glanced about at the instruments on the walls, those that had so fascinated Toby. The dean had a passion for weather recorders—barometers, thermometers, humidity gauges, charts of wind patterns and cloud formations. On one wall an artist’s rendering of a sailing ship, locked in ice, flanked a large framed map of the Arctic Circle. Beneath it a fine globe stood on a mahogany stand.
The dean sat down, brushed a speck from the polished desk, and picked up a paperweight. It was a particularly beautiful paperweight, a crystal globe holding simulated snow. Nothing else. No miniature house and pine trees, no Santa Claus, only the fine white particles, which sparkled, iridescent, as the weight was turned. He turned it once, watched the snow fall, and set it back.
“I hesitate,” he said, and did so. Then making another start, “I’m reluctant to bring up this matter. However…” Another pause while he looked out the window. “I’m sure it’s of no consequence—that is, no substance. But it’s a matter of some concern, I suppose you might say.”
The old gentleman was having trouble coming to the point. He spoke in bits and pieces, the sentences tending to lapse, unfinished. His mind was full of words, but like an old scholar among many books, he was obliged at times to stop and search for the one he wanted. She listened, faintly amused but puzzled.
“As I say, I’d rather not have to go into this at all. But I suppose as a formality…” He turned to face her. “It was Mrs. Medgar who brought it to my attention.”
Allen’s foot stopped swinging. Now what was eating that woman who wouldn’t believe her name was Allen? “And I suppose as a courtesy to her—Mrs. Medgar seems to think that some reevaluation might be in order.”
Reevaluation?
“We have to keep in mind that Mrs. Medgar takes great pride in the development of our college,” he went on. “A proprietary interest, you might say. It’s due in great part to her zeal that the school was established. The tax referendum. Without her efforts—”
He was interrupted by a peal of thunder. “Ah yes,” he said and swiveled around to tap a barometer. “Down a bit from this morning.” He checked the thermometer, rose, and went to the window. “Can’t see much of the sky with the trees leafed out.”
Money! Was that it? Were they—Lord help her!—about to cut the budget and eliminate her job? Since she was the newest faculty member and the youngest—
“I was saying—” The dean sat down and picked up the paperweight, holding it in both hands. He gazed into it as if for a clue to just what he had been saying. “Mrs. Medgar … as I say, she has been a conscientious guardian of our standing. We all want to maintain our standing, of course. We’re a young institution in this city, and in our opening years, especially, we want to do our best. Mrs. Medgar is right to demand it of us … as we demand it from ourselves.” Fidgeting and swiveling in the hard oak chair. “I could wish, however, that she might bring a little more … moderation, shall we say, to her guardianship. She has brought up such matters once or twice in the past, in other situations. But this time…” He turned toward the window, letting the sentence hang. “Although I suppose she is within her rights to question what might appear to her to be irregular. Perhaps if you had more years in the teaching field—”
Up from the cellar of her heart came a little warning squeak. There was something else that Mr. Frawley was finding hard to say.
“As I say, I feel sure it’s of no real substance,” he went on. “I would find that hard to believe. But I can understand how you might in all innocence—”
She sat very still, her eyes on his face.
“No doubt it seemed harmless enough at the time. But your lack of experience might have led you to believe—well, I can see how you might have made a mistake.”
And then she was sure.
“Perhaps it is others who are mistaken. I hope so. Outward appearances are often misleading. But these rumors are of a rather serious nature, and for Mrs. Medgar’s sake…”
He faltered and plunged in again. “It seems certain stories have reached her—I’m sure it’s hearsay; I don’t believe I have seen any evidence—that you may have been a little too familiar, as it were, with some of the student body.”
“Oh,” she said faintly, opening her mouth for the first time.
She smiled, with a modest dip of the head, but warily, knowing worse was to come.
“And so far as I’m concerned I see no harm in mingling with the students, being entertained in their homes on occasion. I’m sure the parents … and an occasional picture show. Chaperoning young people can be a pleasant experience from time to time.” Here he straightened himself, placed his arms on the desk in good executive manner, and looked across at her. “However, Mrs. Medgar seems to see these things in a different light. In fact, I gather she puts some credence in the rumor that some of the students…” He turned toward the window. “It has been suggested that certain young men … have been known”—he turned to her with a face full of consternation—“to visit you at your home in the evening.”
By the time he got there she was almost ready for him. She met the dean’s gaze with no more than a look of astonishment. Then quickly gathering her wits, she laughed in disbelief. “Oh, for heaven’s sake!”
The dean’s face remained solemn, although he looked somewhat relieved. “I’m sure we agree this is hardly a laughing matter.”
“Oh,” she said quickly, “I didn’t mean to imply—”
“Though I admit it’s rather an excessive claim.”
“Oh, but it’s true!”
It was the dean’s turn for surprise.
“They—a few of them—have been in my home. And I have gone out with them now and then—to the movies or—”
“That was mentioned.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t have. I just never thought about it. Some of the students from my seminar, we just sort of carried on informally. I’m interested in the theater and poetry, and some of them are very much interested too. We read The New Yorker, you know. The movies are hardly the same as the stage, but since it’s all we have…” She raised her hands in a helpless ges
ture. The dean nodded. “Of course they walk me home from the movies, sometimes from activities at school. And sometimes—once in a while—I may ask them in for a few minutes. We talk—about their work—this and that—” She was feeling her way along. “About books and art. Several of them have quite an aptitude for literature. And we talk about books and the theater—rather like we did in the seminar!” she said eagerly.
“I see.”
“When I was a graduate student we always went to our professors’ homes in the evening. That was a little different, maybe. But I just never thought… We’ve had wonderful discussions. We read poetry … and listen to music....” She was bumbling along, just as badly as the dean had.
“Yes. Well,” he said, moving the paperweight, “I don’t know that there’s anything wrong in that. I’m sure you meant well. A little overenthusiasm, perhaps.... Let’s see, you live where?”
She gave him the address. “About five blocks from here.”
“I don’t recall the house. You have a sleeping room?”
“I have an apartment. A kitchen and living room. It’s a sort of penthouse.”
“There are other tenants in the building?”
“Several. The owners live somewhere else, south, I believe.”
“Are you acquainted with the other tenants?”
“Only to speak to as I see them going in or out. That’s not very often. We all go our own way.”
“And how do you go in and out, by a central stairway?”
“I have a private entrance. In plain view,” she added quickly, “just off the street, in the back. The others go through the front.”
“Ah. Has anything ever been said to you by the other tenants, about your visitors?”
“Nothing. Never.” Though she marveled suddenly at their respect for her privacy. They could hardly not have known, some of them, that the boys were up and down those stairs day and night. “I don’t have that many visitors,” she added truthfully.
The dean nodded and sat for a moment, thinking. “Well, so far as I can see.... It was necessary, you understand, that I speak to you about it.”
“Yes, of course.” She drew a long, careful breath and leaned forward, ready to stand up.
But the dean had not yet dismissed her. Tilted back in his chair, he turned again to the window. “It may be a little difficult to convince Mrs. Medgar. I’m afraid she has certain biases. I realize the need for propriety on our part, however. The community demands certain standards of its teachers. Higher than for others, perhaps, but still, I can see the point. As teachers we’re in charge of their children for a good part of their lives. We have an obligation to them. We not only have their minds to form, but their moral character as well. Any action on our part, any attitude, can leave its mark.”
She kept her gaze steady.
“I often think of something Henry Adams once said: ‘A teacher affects eternity.’ A broad statement, but you grasp his meaning.”
She nodded.
“What we do and what we say have an effect on the students. We influence them more than we know, for better or worse.” There was a long pause and he went on, talking as much to himself, it seemed, as to her. “As teachers we can’t always allow ourselves certain freedoms that others take for granted. Any lapses of dignity on our part, any thoughtless word or action, can be damaging. In the right circumstances, as damaging as more deliberate offenses … drinking, smoking, profanity, the teaching of atheism. Such as that. Although,” he said with a wry smile over his shoulder, “I don’t suppose smoking is considered a social disgrace these days; still, as teachers, we set an example.” He turned back to the window. “We’re older, we’ve had more experience than our students. Let us hope we have gained some wisdom from it. This necessarily sets us apart. By the time they reach college they should have a certain maturity. But we cannot expect them to behave strictly at an adult level, any more than we would wish to behave at theirs. And we have to remind ourselves that most of them at college level are still very young, very impressionable.” He paused. “More so than they may seem, perhaps.”
The dean swung around then, with a genial look on his face. “I’m not suggesting that any of us is in that particular danger. I hardly think that any of us would knowingly contribute to the delinquency of minors. As for these … rumors, I felt all along that they were overblown, a matter of hasty judgment. Even, I might say, a touch of resentment because of your youth. None of us likes to admit…” The thought trailed away. “And I feel certain,” he went on, “that you would do nothing to jeopardize the reputation of our college.”
“I would certainly not want to,” she murmured.
“Nor your own.”
“Nor that.”
She looked up timidly but with a faint hopeful smile. He had delivered his sermon; it was time for the benediction.
“But I must add,” he said, “that there is a serious implication here.”
Her smile vanished.
“There is the matter of your continuation. Your employment here,” he said in reply to her puzzled look. “You have your contract for next year. I believe I mentioned that the board reelected you unanimously.”
She murmured something in appreciation.
“Mrs. Medgar did bring up the matter of your credentials, your lack of credits in education. But you’ll take more hours through the summer and you have an excellent record, otherwise. We have no problem there. But then later this other matter came up. It was only yesterday that Mrs. Medgar came to me with these … rumors. I’ll do what I can to reassure the good lady.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“However,” he ran a hand over his bald head, “I must tell you frankly that Mrs. Medgar is asking for a reevaluation. She wants a thorough explanation. In short,” he said, summoning his courage, “she has requested that you appear before the school board and clear yourself of these allegations.”
She had turned to salt. She stared for a moment, then looked down at her clenched hands. “I see.” Then, briskly, she raised her head. “Well, if that’s what is necessary—”
With his arms on the desk, the dean studied her thoughtfully. “I just don’t believe it is,” he said and leaned back in the chair. “I see no real need to call in the board or involve them in any way. I see no reason to carry it that far. A hearing, in itself, could put a black mark on your record.”
“Yes,” she said, knowing just how black.
“Leave a shadow that could be damaging in the future, make it difficult to advance. A suspicion of guilt…” He again contemplated the snowfall in the crystal globe. “In my experience, it is ill-advised to let these things get out of hand. It causes exaggeration, distortion. I, for one, do not care for witch hunts, and I shouldn’t like to see you let go on mere suspicion.”
“Thank you,” she said in a whisper.
“Mrs. Medgar hasn’t spoken to anyone else about this, and I’ve asked her not to. It’s all confidential so far. I don’t see that it needs to go any further. After I’ve met with her again, now that I’ve talked with you … and perhaps if you were to meet with her yourself—”
She hesitated. “If that would help—”
“—she would be satisfied. But let me speak to her first. Maybe that will be sufficient. Meanwhile,” he said, standing up, “it might be well, these last few days, to be especially careful.”
“Indeed,” she said.
“Maybe a little added precaution—”
“By all means.”
“I’ll speak to Mrs. Medgar as soon as possible.”
“Thank you, Mr. Frawley. I appreciate your concern.” She went on in a low voice, “I’m sorry to have done anything that could be misconstrued. I’m sorry to cause you worry. You’ve been very kind.”
“Well…” he said, with his distracted smile, and opened the door for her.
All the way down the hall the dean’s words, and all their implications, drummed in her head. She was about to lose her job and with i
t any chance of another. She would be cast out, in disgrace and in debt—because for a time it had slipped her mind that she was no longer a schoolgirl. Unthinking, she had gambled it all. And all that stood between her and ruin was this pink, troubled, trusting old man who would not believe what she’d done was true.
Seventeen
Reaching the safety of her room, she closed the door quietly, put her back against it, said Oh God, and slid down to her heels.
Moral character, lapses of dignity, the delinquency of minors—was it that bad? She knew it wasn’t altogether right, but was it so altogether wrong? Except for Toby—“Oh God!” she said again. The only comfort was that they had not made love. They came close but they hadn’t done it. But they might have if Toby hadn’t left when he did. Maybe he knew better than she did when wrong was wrong.
She sat with her head on her knees, too wretched to cry. But that was one thing, at least, that they couldn’t know. No one could know except her and Toby, because Toby would not have talked, not even to George. It was not his way.
She pulled herself up and went across to the desk. But those other rumors, the part Mrs. Medgar knew about (where had she got her information?)—those were the public sins and they alone could ruin her. Being seen at the movies, eating sugar buns on the curb in front of the bakery—all that could look very bad. And was she seen at Sutt’s Corner with them? That would be much worse. And then George and Toby coming up the stairs to her door in the late afternoons and the evenings! She was a teacher—all such things were forbidden to her. No wonder she was facing a firing squad!
But she had explained it all. She thought back, reconstructing the dialogue in the office, what she had said, the expressions on Mr. Frawley’s face. She had explained all that. He believed her. And it was true. No harm had been done, none that she could think of. They had done exactly what she said—gone to the movies together, talked about books and listened to music and held their own seminars. It was no more than graduate students did as a matter of course. Mr. Frawley understood.
Clair De Lune Page 13
