The anger in Eberson Ruby's eyes approached the maniacal. "Don't threaten me, Boden! I don't scare." The Rubys turned their backs, leaving Boden standing alone.
Boden could imagine the attitudes absorbed by Tom Ruby living in close proximity with such unbridled emotions. He feared Eberson Ruby; not a fear of personal harm as much as fear of the mindless brutality and violence raging in the man. Boden wondered how long Eberson Ruby could retain control. Sooner or later he would unleash his pack.
Hoping the Rubys would not discover Ben Troop at the snack bar, and fearing the possibility, Boden delayed his departure and remained in the square until the Rubys left town.
The departure itself was a sight to see. The Ruby women trundled out a trunk load of groceries and idly window shopped until the men appeared with Square in tow.
Boden watched with interest as voices rose over seating arrangements. Having lacked the foresight to leave a seat empty for Square, who leaned a trifle weakly against a fender, overcrowding was inevitable. Evaluating the size of the Ruby women, Boden was sure no one else could be crammed into the already overloaded back seat. The Ruby women sat, squeezed into oneness, adding their own scathing suggestions to those of the men.
Eventually, Eberson heaved himself behind the wheel and Square, moving with exaggerated delicacy, eased into the center position.
More discussion followed until Pap Ruby also crawled in and Ralph attempted to ride sitting in his lap. Eventually, all were contained, except that Ralph and Pap were so entwined, neither could exert the necessary leverage to close the door.
Stridently impatient voices rose from the car and a rear door opened; a Ruby woman hoisted her bulk to the street and closed the offending door with a mighty slam. She clambered again into the Pontiac and the engine staggered into life.
In his own home at his own table, the humor of the scene lessened the worry chewing at Boden's mind. Suddenly hungry, he tore into his lunch and with easing tension felt his confidence returning.
+++++
Janet Boden watched her husband respond to the calming influence of food, quiet and companionship. His intensity was often unsettling and she wished he could walk away from his school problems as a laborer lays down his shovel and forgets it until another day. Loving her man, she worried and watched the rarely easing tensions line his face and bow his shoulders.
Since his arrival at Newport, Ben Troop had been a source of inspiration to Boden. Jan had, in turn, appreciated Troop for bringing pleasure and renewal to her husband but now, seeing his worry, she wished Ben Troop and the Rubys far away.
Often, people complained of education's short work week and high costs. They knew nothing of the relentless demands of meetings, budgeting, planning, equipping, and justifying. How could they measure the value of endless rounds of talks to civic and religious groups? How, for that matter, could people evaluate the strain of countless evening phone calls, usually decrying, rarely commending, each perpetrator considering his call worthy of attention at any moment of his choosing?
How could a community ever pay for the weariness in her husband's face? Could his strain be correlated with that of typical business executives? She doubted it. Certainly education was big business. Even a small system like Newport involved an annual expenditure of over a million dollars. But the strains of education lay within a multitude of human relationships. They included satisfying academic needs while assuming an increasing burden of what were once parental duties.
Discipline, always a problem, had assumed monstrous proportions. Permissive society dumped its offspring into school and gained freedom from the self-created tyranny of uncontrolled progeny. Handing its young savages to the schools with expectations of complete rebuild, while simultaneously binding the educator's birch stick, undermining respect for his profession, and begrudging even the essential funding, was becoming a community's standard approach to enlightened education.
Excellent teachers left education unwilling to accept community standards that demanded white shirt and tie for a teacher while actively supporting their children's efforts to remove any and all dress codes for themselves. Others sought new careers because school boards knuckled under to the demands of vociferous minority groups leaving the teachers unsupported and mere punching bags for self-seeking parents.
Janet Boden sensed more than the immediate crisis in the Ben Troop-Tom Ruby affair. Newport's alacrity in choosing sides and drawing battlelines warned of community concern, not only with the current problem but with their school system's direction in general.
If Ben Troop was to be their scapegoat, she suspected they had chosen one with hard horns. Troop would not collapse limply like a punctured balloon, and with her husband leading Troop's defense, she thought those in opposition would find the way prickly.
She wondered what people really wanted. Were they confused by the passage of countless laws and handed down court decisions all stressing individual rights with no mention of responsibilities? Did they so resent their own school years that they automatically rejected whatever a school system suggested? Could they genuinely feel that attacks on teachers were in any way excusable; or that a teacher was subject to oral or physical assault without the right of immediate and personal retaliation? Ludicrous! Anarchy would result, as it already had in many urban schools where police patrolled hallways and teachers lived in fear. Couldn't they see the danger inherent in allowing laxity to invade education?
Schools were not democratic institutions, at least as far as students were concerned. They were autocracies controlled democratically by the citizenry through boards of education; but within the cloistered halls they were dictatorships. The teacher controlled, the teacher granted, and the teacher withheld. To educate by popular acclaim was impractical. To allow selection of teachers, direction of curriculum, or administration of discipline by a student body could only be an exercise in futility.
To avow that those who had experience, training, and education were less equipped to decide issues than was the current crop of adolescent learners offered stunning illogic. Yet one continually encountered requests to increase student participation in policy making and to pursue student inspired academic directions. It seemed as though adult populations had so dallied with youth culture that they had lost awareness of their own competence and had increasingly surrendered powers, privileges, and duties to anyone young enough and ill-informed enough to believe they had evolved convenient solutions to the difficulties of life.
Youth suffered severely from what some called "The Perry Mason Syndrome." As television's deductive, didactic, and dynamic detective solved crimes in thirty minutes, minus commercials, so the TV generation expected humanity's mightiest problems to tumble before their Pablum proposals and simplistic solutions.
She wondered that men like her husband remained educators. Considering the personal harassments and official vacillation to which they were exposed, their loyalty and dedication were remarkable.
Her thoughts carried her through the meal and she heard Bob humming to himself in the shower. His spirits were on the rise, and as she turned down the bed and pulled the curtains preparing the bedroom for his nap, she felt a great desire to lie beside him and lend him her comfort and encouragement.
To the rest of the world he might seem "Boden the invincible, but she knew and understood the doubts and worries that assailed him. Usually he weathered the storms outwardly undismayed but sometimes, as now, he wearied of the battle and sought the shelter of her love and care, and gratefully she gave it.
+++++
Al Gold asked, "How come you don't worry, Ben? The whole town's picking at each other, you could lose your job, and the Rubys are thirsting for your blood. Me, I'd be packing a colt, wearing brass knuckles and disguising myself as a little old lady.
"Here you are, parked on your dead butt in the town square like you were a first class citizen or something." Gold sank to the hotel step beside Troop, checking out people on the square with interest.
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"No joke, Ben. I heard the Rubys were in town." His eyes searched the square.
"Yeah, they were in. Hung around awhile and shoved off."
"For God's sake, did they see you?"
"No, I was in the snack bar."
"Well, if you don't mind me asking, old buddy, what in hell are you doing sitting out here? And don't tell me you're sunning or something."
"Just thought I'd be available in case anyone wanted a word with me, Al. I wouldn't want it thought that I was hiding out or making myself unavailable. Might give somebody the wrong idea."
"Yeah? But hell, don't thumb your nose at 'em, Ben."
"These are times that try men's souls, Al."
"Ho hum. You heard about the petition?"
His attention caught, Troop turned toward his friend. "Don't tell me, Al! The ladies?"
"Yup! Came knocking last night."
"For God's sake, it only happened yesterday afternoon!"
"Our ladies work fast, Ben. Didn't look like they were doing too well, though. Only had a page of signatures. Seems they want your job, Ben. You know, brutality, sadism, that good stuff. Said the board should put you on a fast freight out or words to that effect. I signed it!"
He grinned at Troop's astonishment.
"Yep, put a fine signature on it. Wrote Mortimer Snerd as clear as could be."
Troop snickered and Gold, pleased with himself, grinned evilly. "She thanked me and went away happy."
"You mean she didn't know?"
"Nope."
"Suppose she couldn't read?"
"Can't vouch for it."
They considered the situation and Troop again turned to his friend.
"I wonder if Boden knows he may get hit with a petition?"
"He doesn't miss much. Is Boden going all out for you?"
"I'll be wiped out if he doesn't. I'm sure he is. All I just hope he doesn't get hurt over it. He's too good a man to waste, Al."
"So are you. Troop. So don't let them run you off."
"Oh, I won't run easy. I like it here.
"You know, Al, you guys kill me. This isn't going to be the OK corral shoot out. It's a board meeting. A half dozen or so men will listen and decide to support me or not support me. That's all. No donnybrooks, Al."
"Sure, Ben, only just suppose the Rubys don't know that? You going to take on the whole tribe while Sylvester Drum yells for order? A few friends handy will help keep the lid on, Ben. It'll make the Rubys think twice."
"Al, I'll be ready. But it'll be nice having friends there. Don't think I don't appreciate it. I just don't like seeing everybody getting all stirred up."
Gold failed to reply and Troop propped his head against a corner of the towpath wall enjoying the penetrating warmth of the midday sun and letting his thoughts drift from the pending meeting.
Gold said, "You know, Ben, sometimes I wonder why we stay in education. I mean here we are worrying over something that would be settled in five minutes on any other job. Christ, carpenters fight, businessmen slug each other, bosses get coldcocked, and nobody gets excited. Same thing happens in school and everything hits the fan,"
"I think it's the big money that holds us, Al."
"Right, big dough! Wish I'd taken pre-med."
"Well, I've heard it said that we stay 'cause we can't do anything else. You know, those that can, do. Those that can't, teach."
"Boy, Troop, you make a man feel real good. You've got a pension from Uncle Sam, why the hell don't you cut out and live a little? Why bust your butt trying to make silk purses out of Newport's sow's ears?"
"You asking me serious, Al, or just bitching as usual?"
"Serious, man! If I had an income, I just might tell 'em where to shove their school system."
"No you wouldn't, Al, and for the same reasons I don't. We like our work. We like to teach. Don't you know that yet?"
Troop dragged himself upright on the step to add vigor to his words. "Look, I'm not claiming we're chasing the Holy Grail or that we're fulfilling some great commitment to humanity, although some of that may be true. I like to think teaching is important but, Al, we like to teach!
"I found that out in the Army when I had to teach stuff so bad you just wouldn't believe it, and I even liked that. If I liked typesetting better, I'd go do that, but teaching somebody something—I like!
"You're the same. I've seen you in your class just pitching away and loving it."
"Well, yeah, teaching has its moments, but sometimes I want out pretty badly."
Gold glanced hurriedly at his watch. "Oh my God, I'm late. My wife's waiting at the IGA. Look, Ben, I'll see you tonight, providing my wife doesn't kill me. And stay calm, man. Ok?"
Gold had parked his Volkswagen where he could give it a rolling start if necessary. Never sure if the tired battery and equally weary starter would cooperate sufficiently to turn the engine over, he avoided using them.
"Haven't gotten rid of that thing yet, Gold?"
"Well, it would cost some to get a better car. Of course, if you're willing to float me a loan until . . . ."
"Now that I look at that car more closely, I can see a lot of miles left in it, Gold."
"I thought you might, Ben,"
Troop remained on the square an hour or more after Al Gold's departure. He nodded or spoke to passers-by. Not a few stopped to discuss affairs with him. Some nodded distantly and went their way. He hoped the lines were not that distinctly drawn.
As the sun lost its heat he made a final stroll around the square and withdrew to his apartment. At his window he paused to stare absently out onto the square. The scene lay as it had a thousand times, but his mind was elsewhere.
After a moment he left the window, and reaching into the outer hall, removed a sturdy railroad broom from its rack on the stairs. He tested the stout handle with his hands then propped it firmly against a leather and wood hassock. Aiming carefully, he drove his foot against the handle, snapping off a three foot section with a fiercely jagged end.
He examined it with an almost sardonic smile and without hint of warning, whipped the stick in a full arc that slashed solidly into the pad of the unoffending hassock. The blow was blindingly quick. Even striking the soft cushion, its force was crushing.
Troop put the stick aside near the door.
+++++
A little past noon each Saturday, four boys owning bicycles with large wire baskets attached met at the office of the Newport Times. They received their prescribed number of flat-stacked newspapers, plus a few extra "to be sure" copies. It took the boys a while to fold each paper in the accepted triple-fold, tuck-in manner and to load the papers into the wire baskets and large canvas sacks they draped across one shoulder.
Each youth then mounted his bike and sped to his allotted quarter-town. Such had been the delivery system used by the Newport weekly for as long as anyone cared to remember. Lately, there was talk of mailing all the papers, but it had not occurred as yet.
Most homes waited with some impatience for the delivery. The older, more home-bound generation perused local happenings with avid dedication. They wished to know who had visited whose home, and Donny Benner rarely let them down. The obituary column was devoured as though each name entered somehow staved off the reader's own demise, and social events of engagement and marriage were clucked and speculated over.
On this Saturday, Bill Blue's column, "Bill's Place," had been moved to page one, a notification in itself of something portentous. His article was headed "Pause to Consider" and read:
Newport has a fine school system.
We have a competent and dedicated administration. Our teachers are skilled and devoted. Because the schools run smoothly we are seldom aware of the problems daily encountered and concluded by our educators.
Occasionally something goes askew and the drama of a moment catches our attention. If we examine such past instances, which at the time appeared as crises, we will applaud our educators’ competence in resolving the situations with justice
and efficiency.
However, all too often, at such moments of decision, community emotionalism has clouded an issue and retarded objective evaluation and rapid resolution of the difficulty.
While it is commendable for a community to be concerned with school activities, it is essential that the same community allow its officials to perform their duties without outside interference. Again, in the vernacular of the day, let’s keep our noses out of it and let our people do their jobs!
Because Newport is a small community, it is not necessary to elaborate on our current difficulty. Contrary to some prematurely expressed opinions, the administration and school board are investigating the incident and are actively pursuing an appropriate course of action. This writer has been in touch with school authorities and can assure the readership that proper steps are being taken.
Certain outside actions are, however, inappropriate at this time, and they are the point of this article.
It is inappropriate for individuals or organizations of this community to attempt to influence others, particularly, involved officials, until the facts of this matter have been presented to the school board.
Petitions, for or against, are especially inappropriate prior to clarification of the incident.
It should not be necessary to add, but probably is, that threats of violence and retribution are never appropriate.
Certainly, it is a community's duty to be concerned. It is likewise a duty to know what one is talking about, to understand the entire situation, and to act responsibly.
It is not a duty to gossip, perpetuate rumors, or speculate and vilify. Those actions merely compound the problem and obscure the facts.
The citizenry of Newport must demonstrate its maturity by allowing those empowered to act without interference and to individually observe, evaluate, and conclude in a manner objective, restrained, and responsible as behooves a community of rational Americans.
Superintendent Boden read the article and thought it might help.
Clara Coons read Blue and sniffed.
Sylvester Drum put down the paper and took his telephone off the hook.
The Didactor Page 17
