“I know we have to be courteous,” I said. “I wish I had not lost my temper.”
“Make sure you don’t lose your temper this afternoon. George’s father can be very—direct.”
“I promise,” I said. “Do I meet him in here?”
“You can use this office if you want. I won’t be here.”
“You’re not even going to be in the building?”
“He wants to see you alone. I told you that.”
“But I thought you’d be …”
“I’m leaving you with a key so you can lock up when you’re done.”
“Can’t I ask Bible to join me?”
She gave me a scornful look. “Just be here will you? I’ll leave the key right here in the center drawer of this desk. And I’ll put the dogs in the Math room as usual.”
“Okay.”
“And whatever you do, don’t forget to turn out the lights and lock up.”
“I won’t.”
“If you think of it, you might let the dogs out for a bit before you lock up the Math room. It might spare me a mess in the morning.”
“Should I mention our concern about the bruises on George’s neck, or …”
“What I want you to do,” she said firmly, “Is make sure he doesn’t take George out of this school. Do whatever you have to do to keep that from happening.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“If you and Professor Bible would just leave those things to me, I would take care of them. I was dealing with the situation,” she said.
I did not have the courage right then to ask what she was doing about it. All I said was, “Okay.”
“I don’t think I have to forbid you to mention the abuse, do I?”
“No, ma’am.”
Her expression darkened. “I hate to be called ma’am.”
“I mean, no, you don’t.”
Now she smiled, began lifting pages from the pile of paper on her desk. Without looking at me, she handed me more tissue so I could wipe the sweat that dripped out of my hair. She may as well have said “run along,” so I did.
I needed to talk to Bible before my next class but he wasn’t in his room. I went outside and found him standing under the big tree by the basketball court, watching the kids play a hotly contested game of half-court ball. When he saw me approach, he smiled and waved. He was wearing his customary white suit, and black bow tie. His hair was as white as his shirt and flew high in the sunny breezes. It was an absolutely beautiful day for November—bright and clear, with only great puffs of white cloud high in the deep blue dome above us.
“Want a cigarette?” I said.
“You ever play?” he pointed to the court.
“All the time. I still do, in fact.”
“Why don’t you join them?”
“Nah.”
I handed him a cigarette and he pulled out a lighter and lit it.
“Can I talk to you?” I said.
“Sure.” He watched the players on the court, puffing his cigarette.
“George Meeker’s father is coming to see me.”
“I heard.”
“I’m pretty nervous about it.”
“He’s a pretty scary guy.”
“You think he’s going to try and knock me around?”
“When’s he coming?”
“Five thirty this evening. I have to come back here and wait for him.”
“You’ll be by yourself?”
“Yeah.”
“She did that to me last year.”
“Really.”
“I think that’s the way she wants it.”
“What happened?”
“Well, that’s when I confronted him. And when George began to hate me. He had George with him.”
“Oh, I hope he doesn’t do that to me.”
One of the boys missed a pass and the ball bounced into the grass at Bible’s feet. He picked it up and threw it back on the court. He was still watching the game, his face turned from me, but he said, “I’ll stick around if you want.”
“I’d appreciate that. But Mrs. Creighton said I should meet him alone.”
“I’ll be in my classroom; I won’t horn in on the conference.” He puffed on the cigarette. Then he turned to me. “Don’t worry about it, young man. It will be all right.”
Bible was so big in my mind, so capable and venerable. I believed him.
12
Imminent Threats of Varying Degrees
George’s father was huge. Probably in his early to late forties. He was not much taller than George, but he was massive from the waist up, incredibly broad in the chest, with arms the size of small dogs. He wore a dark sports jacket, tan loafers, and a wide leather belt. His hair was dark brown, piled high in the middle and tapered down to just skin on the sides by his ears. His face was stony, with crevices like the surface of Mt. Rushmore, minus the four presidents. He had a small, very thin, short mustache that stuck straight out under his nose, as though electric current would not let the bristles lie down. His eyes seemed always darkened by the heavy brow—so all of his expressions were shaded with irritation. Even pleasure would register as a kind of pain, or frustration. Displeasure looked like murder was in the offing. And he was clearly displeased with me.
He did not knock on the door. I was sitting at Mrs. Creighton’s desk, wondering if I had heard a car outside in the parking lot, and the door in the hallway simply opened and closed. While my heart seemed to scatter and scurry in my chest, I heard someone removing his coat, and then he came around the corner and stood in the doorway. Seated at the desk, I could scarcely get to my feet fast enough. I stuttered, “Y-y-you must be Mr. Meeker.”
He had a pair of tan gloves in his hand. He smacked them in his palm and came to the desk. “Mr. Jameson.”
“Sit down,” I said. I tried to see past him, across the hall to Bible’s room. His door was closed and I couldn’t tell if he knew Mr. Meeker had arrived.
Mr. Meeker reached across the desk and offered his hand. I shook it, noticing the grip was nothing to write home about. We both sat back down. “What can I do for you?” I said.
He smiled and said, “You have some complaint, I’m told.”
“I have a complaint.”
“That’s what I was told.”
“I thought you wanted to see me because …”
“I was told you,” he pointed at me on the word you and paused there for a fraction of a second, “have a complaint.”
“What were you told?”
“What’s your complaint?”
“Well, it’s not a complaint really.”
“Really.”
“Certain concerns …”
“What concerns, sir?” He raised his voice a little. “You have made allegations against me and my family.”
“I don’t know what you’re referring to,” I said, calmly. “I don’t even know exactly what it is you’re asking.”
He sat there looking at me. Finally he said, “Are you denying that you accused my wife?”
“Accused her of what?” I immediately regretted letting that question out. He was going to have to address the abuse, the very thing I had been told to avoid.
He dodged the question. “You think you can tell my wife how to raise our son?”
“No.”
“You think it’s your job to insult her?” His voice was a little louder.
“There’s no need to raise your voice.” I remembered what Mrs. Creighton expected of me, and I did everything I could to rein in both my fear and my temper. He did piss me off.
In a calmer voice, but still fairly piercing, he said, “What right have you to speak to my wife as you did last night.”
“I am sorry she misunderstood me.”
“She did not misunderstand.”
“She was angry when she got here and she said a few things …”
“Are you going to argue with me?” Now he was indignant, his voice almost quiet in its malevolence and disbelief.
/>
“No, sir. I’m just trying to explain …”
“You don’t have to explain anything.”
“I just want to say …”
“My wife and I know what kind of person we’re dealing with.” He stopped, leaned toward me, as though he were going to let me in on a little secret. “We know your type.”
“What type, sir?” I really wanted to know.
He sat back and folded his arms. “Liberal.”
“Really now. Is that supposed to offend me?” I couldn’t help my tone. Conservatives always think they’re really hoisting you up on the scaffold whenever they call you a liberal. I took it as a compliment. (Just as every conservative I’ve ever known takes it as a compliment when I call him a “conservative,” and what I mean when I call somebody a conservative is that he is a tight-assed, lily-white, deeply religious, highly hypocritical, racist Visigoth on a black horse, moseying up a barren trail, with a statue of God in the saddle with him, and the New Deal, help for the poor, civil rights, and the environment a burning village in the background.)
Mr. Meeker went on. “I want you to apologize to me and my wife, or we are taking George out of this—this—school.” He hated saying the word, “school.”
“Wellsir,” I said—one word, like that. “I already apologized to your wife, and I’m saying to you now, that I am sorry.” It was hard to get air for the last word in that sentence. But I did it. He was not amused, pleased, or satisfied.
“I want a formal apology.”
“I will put it in writing. I’m terribly sorry for the way I spoke to Mrs. Meeker.”
“Not just that.”
“And if I did anything to offend you, sir.”
“I want you to apologize for what you suggested to my wife about me and my son.”
Well, now we were back in the real world. We were right there where I did not want to be, the place I’d hoped to avoid. I studied the desk in front of me, the way my thin, white hands seemed to tremble above the papers there. I let my fingers touch down, gently. “Sir,” I said. “I really like George.”
He seemed to snort a little.
“I think he’s smart, and in his own way a wonderful child.”
“What do you mean ‘in his own way’?”
“He’s unique. Not like the others.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s so—so mature. Yes, that’s it. George is really already a young man, and he’s devoted to you.”
He nodded, as if I wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know.
“Perhaps his imagination runs away with him at times …” This was a bald lie. I didn’t think for a minute that George had imagined those bruises, and although he had never mentioned his father’s abuse, he had written about it—written about it so analytically he may as well have been describing his favorite flavor of ice cream—in his private journal entries, but I couldn’t tell his father that. All I had was the bruises, and how could I mention those, knowing how Mrs. Creighton wanted this meeting to go? I know. I am not unmindful of the fact that, from a certain point of view, it might be construed as fairly certain that I didn’t bring up the bruises because I was mortally afraid for my life. I’ve thought of that.
At any rate, I was in enough trouble for mentioning George’s imagination. Mr. Meeker took it up like it was a fire hose and the building was on fire.
“What did he say to you?”
“Oh, nothing directly …”
“What has he been saying?”
“Nothing.”
“What are you getting at?” He raised his voice again.
“Sir, if you would just calm down.”
“What did that little bastard say to you?”
“The little bastard didn’t say anything to me!” Now I was loud. It took him back. He glared at me in silence. More quietly (and desperately) I said, “And he’s not a little bastard to me, sir.” He almost rose from his chair. I felt my heart tremble. To forestall his rage, I said, “I have always liked George. George is a good guy—he’s a good student.” Remembering it now, I think my voice sounded pathetic. I felt pathetic.
Mr. Meeker settled in his chair again. For a brief moment I think his face might have looked sad, but then he said in a quiet, almost confessional voice, “He’s a weak little failure is what he is.”
I must have blanched. I know I shook my head.
“Does that shock you?” Mr. Meeker said.
I didn’t know what to say to that. Either way, I’d insult him. If I said it didn’t shock me, I’d be admitting that I thought he was a prick and nothing he said would shock me. If I said it did shock me, I’d be admitting that I thought he was a prick because of what he said. So I muttered, “Does George know how you feel?”
“He’s a little girl. He’s not even …” Mr. Meeker stopped. He seemed to consider something and seconds ticked by. All I saw now was this man struggling with his emotions. I was actually trying to imagine how I would ask him about the bruises. I’d completely forgotten Mrs. Creighton, the purpose of this meeting; I don’t think I remembered that I was a teacher. It’s possible I remembered that I shouldn’t bring it up, but in the softening of his face—in his apparent sadness—I saw an opening. I felt, for the first time since he walked in the door, as though I was in a position of power. Finally I couldn’t help myself. I just blurted it out. “Do you sometimes hit George with your fists?”
He didn’t answer, but he slowly nodded his head.
“Hard?”
He looked at me. “As hard as I can.”
“Mr. Meeker,” I said, slowly. “I wonder if you know how much damage …”
“He’ll be tough. He’ll be able to take it. He’ll be a man when I’m finished with him.”
“And how will he feel about you?”
“I’m treating him like a man.”
“And that’s how you treat other men?”
“What?”
“How do you think he’ll feel about you?”
“He’ll respect me.”
“He’ll hate you.”
Now he stood up. “Who the fuck do you think you are? You’re not much older than George.”
I remained seated behind the desk. The feeling of power was gone and I figured the desk would be a nice barrier between me and Mr. Meeker’s tan loafers. “Mr. Meeker, please,” I said. I could not have finished the sentence anyway—I didn’t know what I wanted him to do, unless it was to get the hell out of there—but he interrupted me.
“Get up.”
“Mr. Meeker, there’s no need to …”
“Get out of that chair.”
I reached over and picked up the telephone. He stood there while I dialed two numbers.
“Who are you calling?”
“If you don’t sit down and get control of yourself, I’m going to finish calling the police.”
“You are.”
“Sir, I’ve dialed two of the three numbers I need. If you don’t sit down, I’m dialing number three.” It was a lie, but he believed it. He moved a bit, as though he might leave, but then he simply sat down, adjusted himself and crossed his legs. I put the phone back in its cradle. “I will apologize to you and your wife in writing. But I want you to do something for me.”
He waited, silent, sort of brooding there across from me. He might have been trying to decide if he wanted to kick my ass anyway, and deal with the police later. I was trying to figure out how to say what I wanted to say as delicately as possible.
“You own a business in town, right?”
“I want that letter,” he said.
“You’ll have it. I’ll write it today.”
He nodded, still fighting himself.
“You own a dealership of some kind?”
“Chevrolet, Pontiac, Oldsmobile.” His eyes remained dull and uninterested. He was waiting there for something.
“You have salesmen working for you?”
“Yes.”
“Lots of them?”
/> “No.”
“How many?”
“Four.”
“Don’t take this wrong, but how do you keep them interested?”
“Interested?” He uncrossed his legs, and leaned a bit toward me, curious.
“You know. What do you do to motivate them?”
“We have incentives.”
“What kind of incentives?”
“What’s it to you?”
“I just want to know.”
“When do I get the letter?”
I shook my head. “I’ll write it today.”
He started to get up.
“About those incentives?”
Now he looked at me, frowning. “What?”
“You said you have incentives in your business, for the salesmen …”
“Bonuses, better demos, cherry floor time, that sort of thing,” he said impatiently. He stood and started toward the door. Then he stopped and looked back at me. “Believe me, I know how to motivate people. Sometimes I take the entire sales staff and their families out to dinner at a very expensive restaurant.”
“That works?”
“Sure.”
“You ever beat the crap out of one of your salesmen, put bruises all over him?”
With a great flash of scorn and anger he said, “Fuck you,” and started around the desk.
“Now wait a minute,” I said, reaching for the phone again. Remembering this event now, I think I am always going to be very proud of the way I’d worked the conversation around to what he was actually doing to George, but at the moment I was terrified again. I backed against the wall, and tried to dial the phone with the same hand that held the receiver in it. With the other hand I tried to block Mr. Meeker’s approach. But he just batted it out of the way and took hold of the front of my shirt.
“Mr. Meeker, listen to me, listen to me.”
He had to reach up to grab my shirt by the collar, and we were both behind the desk, so anybody looking at us from the door might have thought that Mr. Meeker had lifted me up and was holding me in the air against the wall. That’s how short he was.
In the Fall They Come Back Page 10