Oof! Would it do any good to lie? It was in the auditorium. Two hundred students? Maybe three hundred—or even more—if they crowded in extra chairs and, knowing the administration, they probably had.
In for a penny, in for a pound! “You just have to tell yourself the number of people doesn’t matter.”
As I said earlier, it’s hard to deduce a person’s thoughts under the best of circumstances. When they refuse to look at you, it’s well nigh impossible. But I think her expression indicated I’d lost a lot of points with what I’d hoped had been a comforting remark.
The same dizzying fragrance filled the air as she leaned over to sign the registration sheet above my signature. I caught a glimpse of two gentle curves rising below the base of the slender neck. I managed to recover enough to focus on her handwriting. Hers was a sharp contrast to my illegible scribble, as graceful as the figure which then rose from the chair in front of me. She thanked me, though I could hear the reservations. As she left, my one regret was there wasn’t a greater distance to the door so I could savor the sensuous departure I was sure she was totally unaware of.
I managed to catch Lockley before he left campus. He was skeptical of my description, but quite willing to give special attention and TLC to an overwhelmingly shy coed.
There was no need to prepare the economics instructor, who spent most of his time with his back to the class, drawing archaic supply and demand curves on the board, while the students boned up for their next physics test. I passed on Weisgartner, too. If Diana showed even a smidgen of competence in his class, Hyman would be pleased and would help her. If she didn’t, then tough! Sooner or later we have to learn to sink or swim.
My head was still swimming with thoughts of Diana Halstead when I got home. But with a wife who was insanely jealous, I wasn’t about to let any of those thoughts escape into words. Fantasies are difficult to brush aside, however, and Katherine must have wondered about my remarkable ardor that evening.
But it wasn’t as though I planned on doing anything but play the role of the model professor on campus. Sexual harassment charges had never been made at Millltown J. C., in spite of the devotion and diligence of Celia Compton—though there was at least one affair I was aware of involving a member of the faculty and a student. I wasn’t about to take any chances, even if Celia hadn’t been my next door neighbor. Besides, I was only too conscious of the height difference between Diana and me, to say nothing of the fact my beautiful counselee probably didn’t have the faintest notion about either my appearance or my interest.
***
It was less than a week into classes, while I was desperately trying to run down an article in Psychology Today without knowing either title or author, and with only a hazy notion about an appropriate key word, when I sensed someone pulling up a chair next to mine at one of the library computers. It was her!
She was staring at the screen as she announced, out of a clear blue sky, “I’m going to withdraw from speech class. I just have to.”
For the briefest of moments I thought I might have made the mistake of throwing this lamb to a wolf, but it turned out a lascivious professor was not at all the problem. She didn’t wait for me to ask why she insisted on dropping the class.
“There must be over four hundred students in class.” Fear mixed with something akin to accusation sounded in her voice. “If I have to stand up in front of them, I’ll die. I know I’ll die.”
The gruff father figure instantly emerged. “No you won’t. You’re going to be a teacher, remember? When you get up there, think of me telling you that.” (What corn!) I could only envision myself looking down from the Seattle Space Needle where the Washington State Psychological Society had had its last reception. Me, who couldn’t stand to look out of a second story window. I wouldn’t have been reassured then by mere thoughts, however edifying. I changed the subject.
“How’s the economics class?”
Though our shoulders weren’t actually touching, I could feel her relaxing. I caught her smiling while she watched the screen scrolling in front of her.” I can read.”
I looked puzzled at the remark, but I was fairly certain about what she meant. What she said next confirmed my suspicion. “I’m five pages ahead of Professor Carli. All he does is read from the book.”
I grinned. “Learned to spike yet?”
There was an answering grin for the monitor’s benefit, a headshake for mine. “No, but I do stop a lot of them from coming over the net.”
“How about math?”
There was no question but the soft voice now became tinged with awe. “Professor Weisgartner is the most intelligent man I’ve ever met.”
I pushed down the resentment and resisted telling her he didn’t even have a master’s degree. In fact, I wasn’t sure he’d graduated from college. I couldn’t picture Hyman ever sitting patiently through any course not directly involved with numbers. He had never gone beyond being an instructor, and since academia put so much emphasis on degrees—meaningless as those were—he never would go any higher … and wouldn’t be the least concerned.
She went on. “There won’t be any exam until mid-quarter, but I think I’m following his lectures.”
I wondered if she was actually looking him in the eye while he lectured. I doubted it and certainly hoped not.
As the weeks went by, Diana would occasionally drop by the office to fill me in on her progress. Each time, she seemed a bit more self-assured, but she was always apologetic, always eyeing the wall behind me or the bald spot—whose increasing extent I’d finally resigned myself to—always leaving much too soon.
It had been near the beginning of the quarter when I ran into her speech teacher. Chet didn’t wait for me to broach the subject. “Where in hell did she come from, and how did we fall heir to her?”
I laughed. “The answer to your first question is Marysvale High School, and if you’d get off your duff and check her records, you’ll really be in for a surprise. The answer to the second question is she turned down a scholarship to the U because she thought she’d better start college in stages, with a small one first. So you can imagine what she must have thought when she walked into your class and saw the size of the audience.”
Chet nodded his head vigorously. “She’s right on the verge of a panic attack. I finally got her up in front of the class, just to read a paragraph out of a book. I usually do with the really shy students. She managed, though I was afraid she was going to faint.” He looked thoughtful. “I would have had to catch her if she had.”
The thought passed. “She held the book right up in front of her face the whole time. At first I thought she was near-sighted, but the reason for it was so she could be sure not to catch a glimpse of anyone looking at her.”
“How do you think she’s going to do?”
“Demosthenes, no. But by the end of the quarter she’ll be giving a full-fledged speech. And I guarantee thunderous applause when she’s finished.”
Mid-quarter was approaching, and I’d run into her several times. Milltown J.C.’s campus isn’t exactly huge. I do have to admit the meetings weren’t always accidental, though. After all, you can walk down an aisle in the library stacks, supposedly engrossed in a book, and just “happen” to run into someone you might have noticed in the neighboring aisle.
And once or twice she actually said hello to me first in the hallways. How she recognized me is hard to say, since she seemed to be now keeping her gaze at knee level. It reminded me of the eighteenth century nobleman who was so shy he recognized his footmen only by the calves of their legs. Since I lacked exposed hose, I discarded the possibility as a likely explanation for her spotting me.
These occasional encounters were brief, and I had mixed feelings about them. It was certainly pleasant to talk to her, but the difference in heights did bother me. Fortunately, as long as we were standing, I could see she’d shifted her gaze to the far distance and wasn’t really examining my thinning head of hair.
Then mid-quarter came, and it happened!
My office space was more chaotic than ever. Blue exam books were stacked precariously on the edge of my jam-packed desk, and I was busily scratching away comments, telling myself how, in many cases, I was wasting my time. Essay exams were always especially discouraging.
As usual, the door was wide open when I looked up to see Diana wearing the same kind of white blouse she’d had on when she’d first entered my office. Today, the blouse was accompanied by a short plaid skirt, split down the side and held together with a jumbo-sized gold safety pin. There was no knocking this time. Not even a gentle rap. She stepped right in, reached back and closed the door. I was about to protest but was given no opportunity to do so.
“I have something important to tell you,” she said, her voice much louder than usual. At least, I think it was. Somehow, it seemed the entire office had suddenly grown silent. There were no conversations to be heard. Even the compulsive phone was silent. I suddenly had the horrifying feeling “Comstock” Compton’s watchful eye would appear at any moment over the partition separating our offices.
Oblivious to the world around her, Diana pulled the chair up close to me. Her knees were actually touching mine. I could see her face was aflame, could almost feel the heat from it. She leaned to within inches of my face. Abruptly and frighteningly she made eye contact with me.
The fragrance of her skin was unmistakable. The sensuous warmth of her breath pressed against my cheek. She leaned even closer. I froze. The words came out in a soft, almost caressing whisper.
“I got an ‘A’ on Professor Weisgartner’s mid-quarter exam.”
WHAT A GAS!
There were times when Stacey Martin wondered why she had ever gone into teaching. Looking over her tray as she entered the faculty lounge, the luncheon crowd gathered there was hardly inspiring. In the midst of the murmur of voices, she could already hear comments about the previous evening’s TV offerings—the latest episode of I Love Lucy and some new rock group called the Beatles.
She sighed. Harrison High wasn’t really all that bad. But, if it weren’t for a few dedicated and talented students in her music classes, she wondered if giving private lessons might not have been a preferable occupation—even with the comparative poverty it would have entailed. Looking around at the dubious offering of lunch companions, she caught sight of social science teacher Joe Harcourt’s hand waving her toward one of the empty chairs at his table.
It made the choice somewhat easier. At least Joe had a sense of humor. Now and again it grated, but he did occasionally slip into something brighter than a comedy routine. And math instructor Ken Pauling had unobtrusiveness in his favor. With seven children, his preoccupied look and the frown on his face were probably an indication of how he must spend most of his waking hours trying to figure out how to support his brood on a teacher’s salary.
Amused at herself, Stacey wondered what her mother would think of Joe. Without ever saying it in so many words, Mom had clearly been hoping for a pre-med son-in-law back in Stacey’s college days, but she had finally seemed to settle on the prospect of “one of those nice teachers.” Would Joe qualify? He was single. Wasn’t bad looking. About her age. But he was reputed to be a skinflint. The one, tentative invitation to dinner at the Doggie Diner Drive-in had convinced her of the accuracy of the rumor and that her life in the single lane was preferable to many alternatives.
Joe and Ken were on their desserts—rather sad looking chocolate cake Stacey had passed up. “How’s things going?” was Joe’s greeting, followed by, “Found any likely candidates for Carnegie Hall yet?”
Since the questions obviously required no answers, Tracey turned to Ken as she set her tray down. “I’ve got a student who’s worried about math. I’ve talked to her enough to know she’s plenty bright, but she really has a block when it comes to numbers.”
Ken shook his head. “I get them like that every so often. Not much I can do for them. I suggest you send her to Lenny.”
Joe guffawed and immediately began a detailed recital of special counselor Leonard Tuskee’s shortcomings. “Lenny wouldn’t be able to find his butt with both hands while standing in phone booth.”
Though she had spoken to Leonard Tuskee only once or twice, since his counseling sessions had little correspondence with the average teaching schedule, Stacey still felt the need to defend him. “The students I’ve talked to about him all say he’s great, that he really helped them.”
Joe’s laugh increased in volume and attracted attention from the neighboring tables. “Sure. That’s because he’s about on the same intellectual level as they are. Same limited vocabulary. And, lord, but he’s gullible. Ken! Tell her about the latest with Lenny. This’ll crack you up, Stacey.”
Ken seemed uncomfortable as he said, “You tell her, Joe. It was your idea in the first place.”
A snicker led off. “Couple of months ago, Lenny splurged on one of those weird looking Folks Wagons. He said at the time he was disgusted at people who drove big-finned American gas guzzlers, and was going to get himself a real economy vehicle. So the first time I talked to him after he bought it, he tells me he’s getting thirty-eight miles to the gallon.” Joe interrupted his own story and almost choked on his cup of coffee. “That’s when I came up with the idea of the century.
“I told Ken I was going to sneak out between classes and put some gas in Lenny’s tank. I knew he never locked up the car, so all I had to do was flip the hood, and pour in the gas. Sure enough, a couple of days later, Lenny’s telling everyone who’ll listen that he’s suddenly getting forty-six miles to the gallon.”
Joe’s face was red with laughter. “So you can guess what I’ve been doing since. Just upping the ante. I put almost a gallon in yesterday. Would have put more in, but there wasn’t any room in the tank. Last I heard, he’s telling everyone he’s getting over sixty miles. What a dope!”
The laughter stopped abruptly as Joe looked up at the lounge’s entrance. “Well, speak of the angels and you hear the flutter of their wings. Hey Lenny, come on over here. Lots of room.”
The special-ed had been examining the room’s occupants with a look on his face Stacey felt mirrored her own when she’d first arrived. He smiled and sauntered over.
“Hey, Lenny,” Joe said. “How you doing?” Then, as the newcomer was setting down his tray, “Hitler’s revenge still running?”
“VW’s a really great car,” Lenny said. “It’s a miracle automobile, actually. I’m going to write to the company and tell them all about it. Would you believe? I checked it last night, and I know I’m getting better than sixty-five miles a gallon.”
Ken looked at his watch, gave an embarrassed cough, stood and said, “Next class coming up.”
A reluctant Joe also rose. “Yup. Time to toss out some more pearls. Nice talking to you, Stacey. And be sure to keep me posted on how that prize car of yours is doing, Lenny.” He laughed as he added, “Might decide to get one, myself.”
Stacey knew her cheeks had reddened, but not with suppressed laughter. Lenny seemed so open-faced, so innocent of the fact he was probably by now the butt of campus jokes. She made a quick decision.
“Lenny?”
“Yes,” he looked up from the salad he had just put a fork into.
“You know, that Volkswagen of yours …”
He smiled. “Unbelievable mileage, isn’t it?”
She was more uncomfortable than ever. “There’s a reason for it, you know.” A long pause. He looked up expectantly.
“Someone’s been putting gas in your car.” The words came out in a rush.
He smiled and chewed thoughtfully on a lettuce leaf before he answered. “I know. I saw Joe putting gas in it one of the first days I brought it to school.”
“But … but, why … why? People think …”
The smile became a broad grin. “Remember the story of the village idiot? People used to offer him a choice between a nickel and a dime, and he always chose the nickel becaus
e it was larger. One day someone asked him why he did that, when the big coin was worth less than the small one. His answer was the obvious one, ‘First time I pick the little one is the last time they let me do any picking.’”
A pause, a piece of raw carrot, and then, “I haven’t spent a penny on gas since the initial filling. Actually, that means I’ve already saved enough money for a dinner for two at that new French restaurant in town. Got any plans for this evening?”
It took only a moment to decide. Then the thought came to mind that Mother Martin might not be disappointed after all.
CHECKMATE
The one-sided conversation was being conducted with enthusiasm. Homicide Detective Sergeant Gina Nolan had discovered the joys of low-carb dieting and was expounding on it at some length to her bored partner on the other side of the desk.
Detective Jill Waliewiski still felt obliged to show some interest. “But if you eat only the meat, what do you do with the bun?” Waliewiski decided it was a dumb question, but it was all she could think of to ask, and now it was too late to take it back.
“Hungry Joe solved that problem. They feature a double, no-bun burger. It’s terrific. And you can have cheese, two slices of bac…” Nolan’s phone broke in.
Waliewiski felt a distinct sense of relief when the half of the conversation she could hear had nothing to do with food.
Nolan looked puzzled as she hung up. “Come on,” she said. “It’s Captain Shaughnessey. He wants to see me, and he sounds annoyed about something. You might as well get the beef first hand. Speaking of beef…”
Waliewiski tuned out as they walked down the corridor to the captain’s office.
Rather than being annoyed, Shaughnessey seemed in an expansive mood. “Hey, Whisky, I’m glad you came along. You’re just the one we need. Don’t you have a set of lock picks?”
“Sure. Don’t you remember? Dad was a locksmith. He taught me how to use ‘em, and I always keep ‘em handy. Need your desk drawer opened?”
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