by Jon Hassler
As Miles left the room Imogene was saying, “And the worst of it was he wanted to run all the way. And me in heels. If he wanted to get here so fast why didn’t he take his car out of the garage for once?”
Wayne Workman was sitting on a kitchen stool, reading the label on a bottle of rum. He wore a suit and tie. A cigarette stuck out from under his shaggy mustache and the smoke was getting in his eyes.
“Hello, Pruitt, what will you have?” Miles was called Miles by everyone except Wayne Workman and Imogene Kite.
“A screwdriver.”
“Make it yourself. The ice is in that bucket.” He went back to his reading.
When Wayne Workman first came to town, people remarked that he resembled Miles. Both men were tall and square-jawed and although Wayne’s hair was not red, it could be mistaken for red at first glance. So Miles, who from the beginning felt a latent antipathy toward this man, grew a mustache; but that was about the time mustaches became fashionable and Wayne grew one of his own, so Miles shaved his off. Now the resemblance, with or without mustaches, was disappearing as Miles gained weight and Wayne stayed lean.
Miles mixed two screwdrivers, one of them for Imogene. “What about Thanatopsis?” he asked. “Shall I mix her one?”
“Pruitt, will you please stop calling my wife that crazy name?”
“Sorry. It’s a habit I somehow—”
“Her name is Anna Thea. It’s a perfectly good name and anybody with average intelligence should be able to say it.”
“Sorry.”
“Pruitt, how do you make a daiquiri? The last time Mrs. Stevenson was here she asked for a daiquiri and I didn’t have what I needed. What do I need?”
“Lime juice.”
“I don’t think I have any lime juice.”
“Wayne, why aren’t you wearing a costume?”
“Well, I’m glad you noticed. But I’m not sure I should tell you.”
Miles shrugged and mixed a screwdriver for Thanatopsis.
“Where did you get that ranger outfit?”
“From Imogene. It belonged to her father.”
“It’s kind of tight on you.”
“Miles sucked in his belly.
“Pruitt, would you really like to know why I’m not wearing a costume?”
“Yes.”
“It’s a test.” He put out his cigarette and lit another. “I decided to wear one of my everyday suits and see if people notice that I’m not in costume. This is one of the suits I wear as principal, and it’s possible that some people will subconsciously assume that I’m in costume. I want to see who those people are.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“Well, if they think this suit is a costume then deep down inside they probably don’t think of me as a real principal. They think of me as an impostor.”
“Are you serious?”
“I’d like to know where I stand with certain people.”
“Like who?”
“Like Doc Oppegaard. He’s chairman of the school board this year, and I’ve never been sure exactly where I stood with him. I’m on the good side of quite a few prominent people, Pruitt. I get along well with Mayor Druppers. But when the time comes, the chairman of the school board is the kingpin.”
“When the time comes for what?”
“Well, let’s face it, Ansel Stevenson isn’t going to last forever. I mean one way or another he’s going to be replaced before too long. How do you like the sound of Superintendent Workman?”
“Superintendent Workman?”
“How do you like the sound of it?”
“Swell.” Miles downed his screwdriver.
“I played golf last Sunday with Mayor Druppers. He’s not such a bad golfer for his age.”
“That so?”
“He shot an eighty-nine.”
“Mmmmm.”
“Myself, I shot an eighty-three.”
“Nine holes, or eighteen?” Miles regretted this remark, but he couldn’t seem to help it. Wayne Workman for some reason always brought out the worst in him.
The Gibbons arrived, and Coach Gibbon came out to the kitchen dressed in a Staggerford High School wrestling uniform. The red tank-top shirt revealed the pimples on his broad shoulders and the tights revealed a great pouch of genitalia. He nodded at Miles and Wayne without looking them in the eye. His mind was on the tie with Owl Brook, and he seemed to be studying, with a scowl, the point of his long nose.
“Nice game last night,” said Wayne, whose rare pleasantries were reserved for Coach Gibbon and for members of the school board.
“Aw, that goddamn Fremling. Did you see what happened on our try for point? Finally this year I get a team with some size and I figure we’ll beat Owl Brook for once, and what happens? That goddamn Fremling turns out to be a fat-assed weakling. Give me scotch and water.”
“Help yourself. The ice is in that bucket.”
As Coach helped himself he asked, “How come you aren’t wearing a costume?”
“I’m glad you noticed. Did it ever occur to you that some people might think I am wearing a costume?”
“I don’t getcha.”
“I mean they might look upon me as an impostor in my job.”
“Let’s go into the living room,” said Miles.
“I mean subconsciously they might think that.”
“I expect we’ll do all right in wrestling, though,” said Coach. “We’ve got Lawrence Winters at one ninety, and Willy Samuels at one eighty, and Clyde Albertson at one seventy, and Bill Clifford at one sixty, and John Innes at one fifty, and Jack Worley at one forty, and Charlie Zeney at one thirty, and Doug Smith at one twenty, and some little pipsqueak of a freshman at one ten.”
“Let’s go into the living room,” said Miles.
“How do you mix a daiquiri?” asked Wayne.
“I told you. You need lime juice.”
“I’m not asking you, I’m asking Coach.”
“You need lime juice,” said Coach.
“That’s what I thought,” said Wayne.
Miles downed his second screwdriver and mixed a third.
“Now what I’d like to do is take ten pounds off Lawrence Winters and wrestle him at one eighty, take ten pounds off Willy Samuels and wrestle him at one seventy, take ten pounds off Clyde Albertson and wrestle him at one sixty, take ten pounds off Bill Clifford and wrestle him at one fifty, take ten pounds off John Innes and wrestle him at one forty, take ten pounds off Jack Worley and wrestle him at one thirty, take ten pounds off Charlie Zeney and wrestle him at one twenty, take ten pounds off Doug Smith and wrestle him at one ten, and take ten pounds off the little pipsqueak and wrestle him at a hundred.”
Miles went into the other room, where Thanatopsis was laughing and explaining to Imogene and to Stella Gibbon, “Tonight we’re really having two parties. It’s always two parties when you invite the Stevensons. The first party, which is always very proper, ends at ten thirty when the Stevensons go home, and the second party, which is sometimes very improper, ends whenever we please.”
Miles handed Thanatopsis and Imogene their drinks, and he asked Stella Gibbon what she would have. Stella was dressed as a Staggerford cheerleader (short red skirt, anklets, tennis shoes, a red 5 on a white wool sweater) and this outfit, together with her new front teeth, made her very attractive. Since going to work part-time as Doc Oppegaard’s dental assistant, Stella had acquired a mouthful of new bridgework, which (it was said) hadn’t cost her a penny.
“Fix me something strong, Miles, and sweet. I’m dying for something strong and sweet. I tell you that husband of mine has been nothing but a sourpuss ever since that game last night, and then at the office today it was nothing but rush, rush, rush. We had an impacted wisdom tooth and a broken incisor and neither one of them was scheduled ahead of time. I’m supposed to be done at noon on Saturdays, but I was still there at quarter to two. I mean, I couldn’t leave Pappa Doc alone with those patients on his hands, could I?”
“How about a Tom Colli
ns?”
“That sounds wonderful, Miles honey.”
In the kitchen Wayne Workman had finished reading his rum bottle. “Pruitt, I was just saying to Coach that I have come up with a new plan to encourage Indian attendance. I don’t see how it can miss. I’m going to spring it on the faculty Monday afternoon, but I don’t suppose it will do any harm if you learn about it beforehand. I’m going to tell Superintendent Stevenson and Doc Oppegaard about it tonight, and you can listen if you want to.”
“Swell.” Miles finished his screwdriver and made himself another. The alcohol relieved his toothache.
Next to arrive were the Stevensons. The superintendent came stooping into the kitchen nodding benevolently at Miles and Coach and Wayne. He wore a flannel shirt and a pair of large overalls. “I’m here as a farmer,” he said. “I grew up on a farm and I know the kind of healthy life a farmer leads. My one regret is that we sold the family farm. If I had spent my life as a farmer instead of a schoolman, there’s no doubt I would be enjoying robust health to this day.” His overalls were the right length but much too big around. The straps over his shoulders seemed to be the only parts touching his body.
“What do you want to drink?” asked Wayne.
“Water, if you don’t mind.”
“There’s the sink.” He handed the superintendent a glass.
Stevenson filled the glass and said, “Why aren’t you wearing a costume?”
“Oh, it’s a long story. You might say I am testing people’s reactions.”
“Reactions?” He lowered himself carefully into the breakfast nook.
“Yes, reactions.”
“Reactions to what?”
“Reactions to my not being in costume.”
“Oh … Well, what kind of reactions have you been getting?”
“I’ve been getting about what I expected.”
“And what did you expect, if I may ask?”
“I expected people to ask me why I wasn’t in costume.”
The superintendent considered this for a moment, then went back to farming. “My father homesteaded eighty acres, and when he homesteaded it, all but five acres were woods. It was seventy-five acres of oak and willow and a little bit of pine, and five acres of open land. And, you know, he spent his whole life clearing that land. All the while we boys were growing up we cut off the timber and grubbed out stumps. Now that’s hand work, let me tell you, grubbing out stumps. Have any of you ever grubbed out stumps?”
“Never,” said Miles, full of screwdrivers. “I’ve never grubbed out stumps.”
“It was my dad’s ambition to have the whole seventy-five acres cleared off by the time he quit farming and turned the place over to his sons, but the woods were so thick we never cleared more than two or three acres a year, and by the time he quit farming there were sixty arable acres and twenty wooded acres, and that was a disappointment to him. People didn’t value woods in those days the way they do now. To a farmer, a stand of woods is a hindrance to farming and the sooner you log it off the better.”
“What would your wife like to drink?” asked Wayne.
“A daiquiri.”
Wayne bit his mustache—always his first sign of nerves.
Miles said, for fun, “Mr. Stevenson, didn’t you think we did well to tie Owl Brook last night?”
“Oh, yes, by the way, Coach, congratulations. The Stags played a fine game, from what I hear.”
“Aw, that goddamn Fremling. Did you hear what happened on our extra point?”
“No.”
“Lee Fremling backed into the ball just as Peter was kicking it. In all my years of coaching I never saw such a fat-assed weakling as Lee Fremling.” Coach folded his arms and looked out the kitchen window at the black night.
“And another disappointment to my father was the fact that none of us boys wanted to be farmers. We were determined to get off the farm. I think it was the result of grubbing out all those stumps. And when each boy in turn went into a profession other than farming, my father was disappointed. Nowadays, of course, a man doesn’t expect his boys to follow in his footsteps so much as he did in those days.” He looked about him. “I bet none of you are the sons of teachers, for example. Miles, you’re not the son of a teacher. You’re the son of a buttermaker. Wayne, what did your father do for a living?”
“My father was a teacher. Excuse me, but I don’t seem to have any lime juice.”
“And what about you, Coach? What did your father do?”
“My father was a coach,” said Coach.
Wayne put on his coat and went out into the night for lime juice.
The Oppegaards arrived. Doc Oppegaard joined the men in the kitchen. The dentist, father of the genius child, was a shriveled wisp of a man with an enormous nose and a lecherous reputation. Certainly his succession of pretty assistants—Stella Gibbon included—did more for him than sterilize his tools and send out his staggering monthly statements. Miles did not understand what women saw in this wasted man. Except for his large nose, there was nothing to him. His skin was the color of oatmeal. Tonight he was wearing a loud sport shirt open at the neck and a cowboy hat.
The superintendent said, “Doc and I grew up in the days when sons followed in the footsteps of their fathers, didn’t we, Doc? Tell me, Doc, was your father a dentist?”
“My father was a bum. Hello, Miles, nice to see you. How is Nadine doing in English?”
“If she does any better she’ll be teaching it.”
“That’s fine. Just so you keep her working up to her potential.”
“Don’t worry. By the way, Doc, what did you think of the game last night?”
“A good game. Congratulations, Coach.”
“Aw, that goddamn Fremling.”
“Anyhow, Doc, I was telling the fellows here that my father was a farmer.” Stevenson was still speaking from the breakfast nook. “Farming is hard work, I’ll admit that, but there are many joys connected with farming that you don’t find in a lot of other lines of work. A sense of accomplishment, for one. I cannot truthfully say that I feel, after twenty-six years as superintendent of schools, a sense of accomplishment. I know you don’t believe it, Doc and Coach and Miles, but I have to say it. I’ve given my life to school work and what has school work given me? I wish I had stayed on the farm and cleared those acres my father left in woods. Out there I would be filling my lungs with God’s fresh air. We had a John Deere tractor and I can still see myself sitting up there on that tractor cultivating corn and breathing in God’s fresh air. Fanning makes a man robust. Farming is an honest, robust life, and I shouldn’t be surprised to see more and more people turn back to it as time goes on and our cities become uninhabitable.” He took a sip of his water. “I wonder if you men have noticed how it’s become the fashion among our young people to wear overalls with straps like this. Don’t you think it’s their way of expressing their belief in a simpler way of life? A more honest, robust way of life? That’s the way I see it, and I wonder if any of you men see it that way? Young people’s overalls, I’m talking about.”
Doc asked Miles where he got the ranger uniform.
“It belonged to Lyle Kite.”
“Oh, yes. I remember Lyle. He didn’t live long after he retired from the Park Service.”
“Miles!” said the superintendent. He struggled out of the breakfast nook. “You’re wearing the clothes of a dead man!” He backed out of the kitchen.
Doc shook his head. “Poor jerk.”
Stella Gibbon came into the kitchen and said, “Miles, honey, have you forgotten about me?”
He had. He mixed her a strong sweet drink as Doc Oppegaard patted her fanny. Coach was still at the window staring at the night. Or was he watching his wife and Doc reflected in the glass?
“Where is the host?” said Doc. “He said he wanted to talk to me about Indian attendance.”
“He went out for lime juice,” said Miles.
Stella said, “Why are you men hiding out here in the kitchen anywa
y? Come into the living room.” She took her husband by the arm. “Come into the living room, honey, and show the girls your wrestling tights.” She led him away.
From the kitchen Miles saw Imogene Kite impulsively cover her eyes when Coach walked, crotch first, into the living room.
“I like Stella’s new teeth,” said Miles.
“Yes, I’ve done wonders for her,” said Doc. “You know, as long as I’ve known Stella her old teeth were the only flaw in her appearance, though they never caused her to keep her mouth shut, and I was hoping that some day I could go to work on her. Now with that new bridge across the front, she looks like a million dollars.”
“And what do you think of Coach’s wrestling tights?”
“He’s an exhibitionist. He and his wife are both exhibitionists, but with her it’s okay, you know what I mean. She looks like a million dollars.”
“And what do you think of Thanatopsis Workman? I mean as a woman isn’t she a treasure?”
“Miles, are you drunk?”
“All I want to know is what you really think of Thanatopsis Workman.”
“You mean Anna Thea?”
“Yes, but Anna Thea is her nickname; her real name is Thanatopsis, and it makes her husband angry when everybody calls her Anna Thea.”
“Her real name is Thanatopsis?”
“Yes, isn’t she a treasure?”
“Thanatopsis means ‘view of death,’ Miles. What the hell kind of name is that?”
“And what do you think of Imogene Kite? Doesn’t she remind you of young Abraham Lincoln?”
“Miles, you’re drunk.”
“She’s a rail splitter if I ever saw one.”
“Let’s go into the other room.”
In the other room everyone was at the front door saying good-by to the Stevensons. Miles looked at his watch to see if it was already ten thirty. It was eight forty-five. The Stevensons were hurrying to their car.