The Didactor

by Roy F. Chandler

  Troop found nothing to say.

  "Look, Ben, I'd like you to write all this out for me. I'm going to get statements from everyone who can add anything. Give me a roster of that class so I can interview some of those kids."

  Boden again hopped from his chair and this time strode across the room. His cigar lay on the ashtray momentarily forgotten,

  "Too bad it's one of the Ruby tribe. Eberson will be in here as soon as he hears about it. I'll have to schedule a school board meeting on it for, hmmm—the sooner the better—maybe tomorrow night. That'll give me time to see some of the board members and prime them a bit, and it will settle our official position before the whole town takes sides."

  He turned to Troop with a sudden thought. "You watch out for these Rubys now, Ben. Christ, they might come after you. You can't tell about them; they're all crazy." He waved his hand excitedly and noticed his cigar wasn't in it. He went to the ashtray and began to pick up the butt then forgot about it and resumed his pacing.

  "Ok, Ben. We continue as usual the rest of the day. I'll gather facts. You say as little as possible. Officially, I'll be working up an investigation to be completed before the board meets tomorrow night. That'll give me time to get ready and not seem as though we are putting it off. It might allow some to cool down and think, but still get it done with before the town gets polarized.

  "It's a hell of a mess. It might be a long time getting settled. I doubt it'll ever be forgotten, but what else could anyone have done? Let him knock their block off? Some teachers have folded to that kid and that's some of our trouble now. Tom Ruby got his inch too many times; he tried for the mile. Very unfortunate. But the Tom Rubys aren't going to run this school. A kid farts in the class deliberate as hell and everybody knows it? You can't let that go on, and we both know that, Ben!"

  He calmed himself and dropped into his chair. "Look, we'll work it out. I'll see you later—in fact, stop in after school in case I need anything else—and Ben, get that statement in to me." Boden hoped it would be that simple, but he didn't believe it. With Rubys involved, nothing was ever easy.

  Boden was afraid this time; afraid for his teacher, and afraid of a schism that could rip administration and school board or separate the school and the community.

  He intended to back Ben Troop. After four years, he knew the man too well to suspect viciousness. The problem lay in convincing everyone else.

  Undoubtedly the architectural firm responsible for Newport High felt quite expansive when they included a room merely for teacher relaxation. The approving authorities basked in their own cleverness as they qualified the room for inclusion by labeling it a teacher preparation area. Inevitably it became known by its function—the faculty room.

  Of course it actually was a preparation room. There the teaching staff girded itself for the coming day. And into its relative privacy they staggered following the day's combat.

  It was a dingy room. Despite an air conditioner, the place reeked of stale cigarette smoke that seemed unremovable. The pool room smell was overcome only by the heavy stench of John Luther's inevitable cigar. As conditioned as most teachers were to the foul air, Luther's pall of blue cigar smoke drove many, particularly the women, out to other sanctuaries in administrative offices or even the supply rooms.

  The teachers' organization had provided the room's basic furnishings of two vinyl and chrome chairs acting as side men for the piece de resistance, a matching plastic sofa, which leaned a bit to the left and sagged into the center so severely that any three occupants ended up snuggled comfortably, or nervously, as the case might be.

  The Coca Cola Company had added its bit with a vintage machine, which not only possessed the common ability to keep the change, but lacked cooling power, so the hottest days meant the warmest drinks.

  A half dozen of the school's folding chairs had found their way into the room and, despite the custodian's repeated removals, were always present for a wearied teacher to collapse upon.

  The Newport faculty's cherished possession, in the form of a thirty-cup coffee maker, occupied a built-in counter below a cabinet of cups. Sometimes there were clean cups. Usually the sink was cluttered with used cups and the thirsty had to wash their own.

  If there was significant academic discussion or educational introspection carried on in the faculty room it was well disguised. There was a great deal of witty exchange, although some agreed with only half of that.

  There was very little serious griping. Because of Boden, few disruptive teachers remained at Newport. Conditions were made too uncomfortable for them and pointless grousing had been greatly curtailed because of the Roberts incident.

  Most teachers had been present because it occurred before the first morning period when the faculty crowded together and sucked a last coffee and cigarette. Those who weren't present had heard it hashed and rehashed until they felt as though they had been there. It was actually a simple incident, but within the pseudo-professionalism of education such things rarely happened.

  Cliff Roberts taught biology and was an assistant coach in a number of sports. A husky twenty-four year old ex-athlete turning toward plumpness, he was prone to regularly bad-mouth most situations. Roberts rarely found anything good in the world. The faculty had long tired of him and few listened.

  As usual, Roberts was complaining. He had run through a number of favored subjects and was warming to his task when he mentioned Mr. Boden.

  "Shut up!" The words were a command. They sliced through the undercurrent of conversation, the clouds of smoke, and brought a ringing silence not only to Roberts' aggressive monologue, but to all of the small, private dialogues throughout the room. The silence was shocked because teachers seldom spoke unprofessionally to each other and Ben Troop only rarely entered the normal lightweight chitchat.

  A slow flush crept into Roberts' already florid features and he straightened a trifle in his vinyl chair.

  "Now wait a minute!"

  "No, Roberts, you wait a minute!" Troop's voice sent edginess through the group. Trepidation was instinctive. When he became serious there was something about Troop that demanded respect. One experienced a sensation not unlike handling dynamite. It was known to be safe, but still, if it ever let go . . .

  Roberts sensed it too. His flush mounted as Troop continued. "You have a loose mouth, mister, and I've listened to you for three weeks, which is more than my ration. When you start on Boden, you're out of line!"

  Silence lay heavy on the room. Luther's cigar jutted upward in unnoted tension. Time seemed achingly suspended. Troop's eyes nailed Roberts to his chair with unwavering intensity, their customary deep blue sharper than usual.

  At twenty-four, Cliff Roberts was still quick and durable. Senior boys knew better than to grapple with Mr. Roberts. To have a forty-four year old has-been brace him was shocking. To be told off before his peers left him stunned and he experienced undreamt mortification. Roberts was proud of his physical abilities. He regularly sucked in his developing paunch and examined his physique before the mirror. He found himself powerful and appealing. He wasn't about to take abuse from Ben Troop.

  Al Gold was Ben Troop's faculty friend. He knew things about Troop that others only suspected. He had heard tales of past incidents and seen acts performed that led him to hope fervently that Roberts didn't pick up the gauntlet. Not that he cared about Roberts but he knew, as surely as he stood watching Ben Troop, that Roberts was in serious jeopardy—and probably didn't fully realize it.

  Gold switched his gaze to Roberts and thought of a bug on a pin. He knew he should do something to break the tension; say something funny that could relieve the pressure, or provide a face-saving alternative that would give Roberts some sort of option other than silently eating crow or opening his mouth and getting massacred. Gold felt his own heartbeat jump as the tension pumped adrenalin into his system. He felt his hands tremble slightly, marveling at Troop's relaxed control and wondering at the emotions tearing Cliff Roberts.

  His ciga
r momentarily forgotten, John Luther sat frozen with the rest. He felt pained embarrassment for Roberts. Luther disliked intensely both thoughts and deeds of violence. He could not recall engaging in even boyhood fights, and the tensions seething through the faculty formed a cold knot of anxiety in his belly. He wished himself far from the scene but, like the others, could only sit while eons rolled slowly past and Cliff Roberts' mental anguish became his own.

  Lin O'Day's feelings were different. She had been idly resting her eyes on Ben Troop and only half listening to the woman talk circulating among the female teachers who clustered together as though for mutual protection in a corner of the room.

  Mrs. O'Day often chose a seat that put Ben Troop in her view. Something about Ben stirred her blood, not that he was handsome; too battered and marked to be termed more than attractive, but definitely magnetic. Charisma, she thought.

  Maybe it was the blue innocence of eyes framed by the slightly blunted features. At times, Lin thought Ben's face resembled that of a marble sculpture she often saw in history books. The larger than life statue depicted an armored gladiator. Even in marble, weathered and stained by a thousand years, the fighter exuded physical power and a certain titillating menace. Troop attracted her in a strikingly similar manner and when their eyes casually met, she experienced a stimulation of senses not unlike that of looking over a high precipice.

  More recently she had detected Ben's eyes resting on her and once had tried to ignore his steady gaze until she knew her blush gave her away, turning half-angrily toward him (anger at herself), she intercepted a small, approving grin that sweetened her pointless irritation into a begrudging smile. Nothing had come of it and, except for an occasional speculative grin or appreciatively raised eyebrow, Ben Troop made no further advances.

  She alone of those present, had noted Troop's growing irritation. She saw his brow slightly furrow, the fine, even teeth disappear behind firming lip line, and the turning of the startling blue eyes onto Roberts. When Roberts turned his ire on Superintendent Boden, Lin expected the volcano might erupt.

  She felt no embarrassment for Cliff Roberts. He was a clumsy braggart and his put down was long overdue. That it was Ben Troop who applied the lash seemed to Lin fitting, and she prepared to enjoy the exchange.

  Mortification sank in billowing folds over Cliff Roberts and clogged his throat, altering his voice to a thin, high pitched squeak. He heard himself screeching, "I don't have to take that, you sonofabitch!" He lurched upward from his slouch to go for Troop.

  Linda O'Day thrilled, John Luther cringed, and Ben Troop moved. He reached Roberts while the teacher was still rising from the vinyl chair. His left hand caught Roberts' hair, jerking his head backwards and slamming him back into the chair's plastic softness. His knee smashed into Roberts' chest driving air from his lungs and pinning him helplessly, almost on his back, his right hand closed over Roberts' exposed windpipe, where a strong pressure could crush and cause immediate suffocation.

  Roberts never really saw Troop coming. Blinded by his own rage, he only knew that he was suddenly and inexplicably jerked painfully backwards by the long hair he cherished and that a violent blow jarred the air from his lungs. His eyes refocused to see Troop's hand, released from his hair, rise almost slowly, with palm slightly hooked, to a position just above his head. Troop could drop the edge of that hand like an ax.

  The class bell rang. Its clanging buzz shattered the intense silence of the faculty room. It stirred Al Gold into belated action. It unfroze individual faculty members and seemed to break the terrible concentration in Ben Troop's poised figure.

  Gold could almost feel the tension go out of Troop's hardened left hand. He broke the remaining paralysis saying, "Ok, Ben, let him live!" The faculty choked on nervous laughter. In retrospect, there was little funny in Gold's comment, but the need to escape the tension was great and laughter swept the room. Most importantly, Ben Troop rose very slowly from Roberts' body and stepped carefully away.

  Roberts lay unmoving. His chest pumped as though he was having difficulty returning air to collapsed lungs, and naked fear in his eyes caused further embarrassment among the watchers. Gold hooked his arm in Ben's and half-turned him saying, "Let's get to class, Ben. People waiting on us." And Ben Troop went.

  The faculty filed out the door, each a trifle numbed by the ferocity of the moment, a few hung back to make certain Cliff Roberts was alright. No one spoke to him, but as he roused himself they seemed satisfied and hurried out the door.

  John Luther was the last to leave. All his sympathies lay with the crushed teacher. The deadly efficiency of Troop's attack had so shaken Luther that he could only feel that Roberts had not been given a fair chance. He started to speak, then realized Roberts' mortification and let the words die in his throat. He followed the others, closing the door softly behind him and promising himself that he would speak about this to the administration.

  +++++

  John Luther had attained the status of "Great old teacher; the kind they don't make anymore." Parents would nod knowingly and say, "You just wait until you get Mr. Luther for English; then you'll learn. He taught me and he's about the best there ever was around here."

  Luther had for many years been teaching the sons and daughters of students he had taught in his early years and was looking forward to receiving some grandchildren. Within Newport, an aura had settled about the grey locks that graced Luther's rather stately head. Therefore, Boden, out of necessity, gave John Luther more time than he really merited.

  If Luther looked forward to teaching grandchildren of his first pupils, Boden, with at least equal fervor, longed for Luther's retirement. Boden considered Luther only a marginally acceptable teacher and otherwise an unremitting pain in the neck.

  "Now Bob, I'm not saying that young Mr. Roberts was right in voicing complaints in the faculty room, but Mr. Troop should never have lost control and attacked the man that way." Luther's shoulders shook with what could only be classed as a shudder.

  "In all my years of teaching I have never seen such viciousness. I am quite sure that if the bell had not rung, Mr. Troop would have seriously injured that boy."

  "Are you suggesting I take some particular action in this matter, John?"

  "Well, no, Bob. I know there isn't anything you can do about it unless someone makes some charges against Mr. Troop."

  "Would you care to make such charges, John?"

  "Oh no! Of course not, Mr. Boden! I'm not really involved; I'm just concerned over the matter. Serious breaches of decorum such as this just shouldn't happen. Oh no, I can't prefer any charges."

  Boden enjoyed a cynical amusement at the man's willingness to bellyache but reluctance to become otherwise involved.

  "Personally, Mr. Luther, I suspect that Mr. Roberts has been efficiently cleansed of the unprofessional habit of chronic complaining. Now, while I can't endorse Mr. Troop's methods, I do suspect that he was highly effective." He stopped Luther's intended retort by continuing, "John, I know your concern is sincere, but I'd like to point out that no one was hurt in this exchange."

  "I simply can't agree, Mr. Boden. If you had been there and seen the look on Troop's face, you'd feel differently. I felt then and do now that he was about to smash Mr. Roberts as coldly as one would behead a chicken."

  Boden twisted uncomfortably in his chair. While recognizing Luther as a soft and unworldly man, the teacher was also not a fool, and his insistence that Troop had been about to commit mayhem disturbed him.

  "Are you suggesting then that I remove Mr. Troop from the classroom, or have him submit to a psychiatric examination, or bring him before the school board for termination of contract? Just what action are you recommending, John?"

  Now it was Luther's turn to squirm.

  "Well, I just don't know, Bob. I know how you feel about him as a teacher. Personally, I think he is a swashbuckler who looks a lot better than he is, but all that aside, I simply don't trust him to contain his temper. Someday he'll explode.


  Boden rose to pace a step or two before returning to sit across a desk corner. "Look, John. Ben Troop is unique in a classroom. I know that you've never taken the opportunity to see him in action and I wish that you would do so. Troop has a special ability to motivate students. He's more than a teacher in the sense we usually apply it. He teaches all the time—in and out of the classroom. His conversations teach. He is always didactic. Maybe didactor would fit him. I rarely talk with Ben Troop that I don't gain something, a different concept or position reinforcement. He is something special, John. He is worth our adapting to him. I could never replace him."

  Again he hesitated, digesting the stony unacceptance on Luther's face. He realized that complimenting Ben Troop was gall and wormwood to the older man, but now was the time to make it crystal clear to John Luther that, whatever else Ben Troop might be, he was one hell of a teacher.

  "Just a few more comments on the subject, John, and I'll let you go." That must have rubbed Luther a little cross-grain since Luther had requested the meeting.

  "When Ben Troop entered the profession of education he did so because he enjoyed teaching. As with most of us, he could have earned a better living in other occupations. However, Troop lacks an attribute we prefer seeing in our teachers. He is not a mixer, not a joiner, not a socializer. The result is that people wonder about him and few understand him, even though the understanding is simplicity itself.

  "Ben Troop is a man of highly developed physical skills. He's a man of extraordinary teaching ability. He's a man who means what he says and is prepared to support what he says with whatever actions are necessary.

  "Now John, it's the latter aspect that people fail to recognize. Most of us talk and do little. We raise our voices without intent to back up what we say, with fists if necessary. Ben is different. It's a foolish individual who attempts to bluff him, because he stands fast and does not turn away.

  "I think, John, you'll find that Ben Troop is a highly civilized individual who, unlike so many of us, has not relinquished his personal sting to the police department, the government, or some other authority. In effect, Ben Troop will personally defend himself and his ideals, but treat him with courtesy and respect, and the iron will never show."