The Moonflower Vine

by Jetta Carleton

  “Sure, you go ahead,” said Matthew, “Get to bed and take care of yourself. I’ll take care of the furnace.”

  The janitor thanked him and went away. Matthew looked at his watch. “I’m going to have to excuse myself, Garney. I have a class to teach in a few minutes. I’m sure we can take this matter up at the next board meeting.”

  “It’ll come up,” Garney said, rising. “But I thought we could save time if you and me had some kind of understanding.”

  What an affront to education, Matthew thought, watching Garney slouch away. Goodness knows, the school board was never any Continental Congress, but most of the men were decent and earnest and they tried to do right. How had a man like Garney Robles gotten himself elected? Bullied himself in, no doubt—as he would bully the rest of them into hiring a coach. Sic transit the Latin course, he thought sadly. He was proud of that course; it added a certain luster to the school. He would have liked to go into the class himself and study with the pupils. He had had very little Latin in college, and his ear for languages was none too good. But how he revered the classics! He had tilled his fields to the tune of the Georgics, a few remembered phrases singing in his head. The loss of the Latin course would be a personal loss.

  What’s more, he would lose his ball team, too! He enjoyed coaching and prided himself on his agility. He could still dribble a ball down the court as nimbly as boys not half his age. But as Garney bluntly pointed out, he was getting no younger. He climbed the stairs wearily to his class.

  2

  The events of the afternoon did nothing to improve his spirits. He was used to such crises as a baseball through the windowpane and a child throwing up in the hall. But for the furnace to smoke in the janitor’s absence seemed an outright insult. Then came the special Easter assembly, and the students finished his patience. They were normally a well-behaved group—as well as you could expect at that age—but it didn’t take much to set them off, and today something set them off. They whispered and squirmed and coughed in unison. Waves of suppressed laughter rolled through the room. He managed to keep it under control until he rose to direct the glee club. Then he had to turn his back, and what went on behind it he could only imagine. It was all he could do to get his singers through their anthem (which he had rehearsed so lovingly for the last four weeks).

  He returned to the office thoroughly out of sorts. “Behaving like Hottentots!” he said, standing at the window. “No respect at all. And look at the trash!” The wrapper from somebody’s lunch blew across the yard, followed by scraps of tablet paper, a page from a notebook. And someone had left a kite tied to the back fence. It flopped about on the ground like a chicken with its head off. Matthew turned in disgust and strode out of the building, picking up scraps of paper on his way to the fence. Taking out his pocketknife, he cut the string and began to reel the kite in, noticing as it bounced toward him that it bore some sort of decoration. He pulled it up and turned it around. It was quite a large kite, made of brown wrapping paper, and on one side, drawn rather skillfully in red ink, was the figure of Christ, crucified on the kite’s crossed sticks. The other side bore the legend: “Shame on you, Pontius Pilate!”

  Matthew looked at it in a kind of despair. He hadn’t enough trouble this day—now this had to come along, condemning him automatically to a session with the culprit. And who the culprit was he knew full well. Only one boy in school had the audacity to make a crucifix of a kite. That was Ed Inwood. Sighing inwardly, he carried the kite back to the office. For a little, he’d drop it into the wastebasket and pretend he had never seen it—the wind blew it away. But every kid in school knew about this, and maybe the teachers, too; the story would spread all over town. He was forced to call Ed on the carpet, no more for Ed’s sake than his own. He closed the office door and sat down at the desk to gather strength.

  Ed Inwood was a senior by the grace of indulgent teachers—the ladies, not Matthew. He read a good deal but studied nothing and knew too little about too much. He had a mind as inquiring as a pup’s nose and about as discriminating. He was forever smelling around among familiar dogmas and sniffing the backside of the Almighty at the most embarrassing moments. Many was the time he had snarled a class discussion with his irrelevant questions. “Mr. Soames, if the theory of evolution is true, does that make Adam and Eve a pair of apes?” “Mr. Soames, if Christ were alive today, wouldn’t we call him a Bolshevik?” Mr. Soames this and Mr. Soames that, till Matthew lost his temper and tripped over his own arguments.

  At Halloween, Ed had tarred a KKK on the flank of Matthew’s cow. He admitted it next day and offered to remove the brand. Matthew set him to work with turpentine, only to find later that Ed had shaved the patches, leaving the letters plainly incised. Ed swore he had to do it to get the tar off.

  The boy was as governless as air! Clamp down on him, and he escaped like wind from a paper bag, with a loud explosion—more noise than damage, but he was a terrible disruption. It was the fault of his upbringing, thought Matthew—brought up by a married sister (the parents were dead), allowed to run loose and do more or less as he pleased. (Play basketball, drive cars, and chase girls. Many was the time Matthew had flushed him out of a parked car at night, up by the schoolhouse.) And it was too bad, for he had a good mind. “Ed,” Matthew said to him time after time, “Ed, why don’t you apply yourself! Settle down and study a little. You could amount to something.” The answer was always, “I don’t want to amount to anything—I just want to have fun!” Fun! That’s all he thought about. And this was typical of his “fun”—to crucify Christ on a kite!

  Matthew rose, rang the closing bell, and opened the office door. Children stormed out of the classrooms into the hall. He had tried to make it a rule that they march out quietly. But maybe it was too late in the year to expect much order, even of the teachers. Besides, it was Friday. As he watched, a tall well-built boy descended from the third floor two steps at a time, hugged a girl, goosed a boy, and trotted down the hall toward the office, his handsome face as brightly eager as if he expected a prize. Big basketball star, thought Matthew! At the door he paused politely. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

  “Come in, Ed,” said Matthew. “Close the door, please.” He pointed to the kite. “I assume you’re familiar with this?”

  Ed leaned over the table. “Yes sir, I believe that’s mine.”

  “You’re certain?” Matthew said dryly.

  “Oh yes, sir. No mistake.”

  “And you drew this picture on it?”

  “Yes sir. I’m pretty handy that way.”

  “I’m aware of that.” (Oh, the years of comic Valentines, of cartoons drawn on the margins of books, the tattooed arms of Venus de Milo!) “Ed, what prompted you to do a thing like this?”

  “Well,” Ed drawled, “I was making this kite the other day—”

  “In the first place, is this a fit pastime for a boy your age?”

  “Look at Ben Franklin!”

  “Never mind Benjamin Franklin.”

  “Well, like I said, I was making this kite, and I got to thinking how the sticks made a cross—Mr. Soames, do you think the kite had religious significance at one time? Like you were saying in class the other day, how some nursery rhymes had political meaning in the beginning—do you think maybe the kite—”

  “We are not here to discuss the history of the kite.”

  “Yes sir. Anyway, I noticed that a kite is built on a cross. And this being Easter, I thought I’d keep the whole thing in the spirit of the occasion. I thought it worked out pretty good.”

  “There is no doubt of your ability. It’s your use of it I’m questioning.”

  “Is there anything wrong with drawing a picture of Jesus?”

  “It’s not the drawing of a picture—”

  “I copied it out of a Sunday School paper. I believe the original was a painting by Van Dyck, the great Dutch artist.”

  “Ed, it is not the painting of a picture that’s at fault! It’s where you put it. A kite is no
place for the image of Christ. Putting the Lord on a frivolous plaything makes a mockery of Him. And your caption,” he added, “is impertinent to a high degree!”

  “You don’t think Pilate should have been ashamed of himself?”

  “Certainly—and so should you, for treating a sacred matter so lightly.”

  “Mr. Soames, would you say that this comes under the heading of sin?”

  “Your action? Well, no,” he said, softening a bit, “I would not call it a sin. But it is highly disrespectful.”

  “Who to?”

  “To the Lord. It’s blasphemy.”

  “What if I don’t believe He is the Lord?”

  “Most of us do believe it. I, for one.”

  “Then it’s disrespectful to you.”

  “And all who believe.”

  “But is it disrespectful to the Lord—if I don’t think He is the Lord? What I mean is, Mr. Soames—well, my sister has one of these things you call an incense burner. It looks like a statue of Buddha—you know, you burn some kind of stinkin’ stuff in it and smoke pours out of his mouth? Now a lot of Chinamen think Buddha is God. So we take their god and make him into a trinket and burn incense in him. But we don’t mean any insult—we don’t consider it blasphemous, because we don’t think he is a god. So if I don’t believe Christ is—”

  “Ed, I will not excuse you on the grounds of your atheistic views! If you persist in your mistaken notions, there is no way I can force you to change them. But I will not tolerate your flaunting them in or around this school.”

  “Well, all right. But all I did was draw a picture. I don’t see why I’m any worse than Van Dyck and those other guys.”

  “It’s your attitude, Ed! Attitude makes all the difference between reverence and profanity. You can say ‘My God,’ and it’s one thing or the other, depending on your attitude. By your attitude you have profaned the image of Jesus Christ. It’s exactly the same as taking the name of the Lord in vain.” Matthew finished eloquently and leaned back.

  “That’s one of the Commandments, isn’t it?” said Ed.

  “The third,” said Matthew.

  “Yeah…So in that case, I reckon I’ve busted a Commandment wide open.”

  “One might put it that way.”

  Ed looked at him innocently. “But you said it wasn’t a sin, Mr. Soames.”

  “Well, what I meant was—”

  “I thought breaking a Commandment was a sin, to you Christians.”

  “If you’ll recall my words, Ed—”

  “Maybe the Ten Commandments are out of date—I know some people say they are, but I sure didn’t know you thought so. I’m surprised!”

  “Young man—”

  “I guess a lot of folks are going to be surprised!”

  “Now see here!”

  “But don’t worry about it, Prof.” Ed leaned forward with an air of malevolent complicity. “I won’t tell on you!”

  “Now you listen to me!” said Matthew, his voice rising. “I’ll not have you go out of here and say that I have refuted the Bible. Do you understand that? You have twisted my words, and I want you to know—Stop laughing, Ed!”

  “I’m not laughing at you!”

  “Then what do you find that’s so comical?” Matthew glanced over his shoulder. Pressed against the windowpane was a horrendous little face, the eyes crossed and the tongue stuck out as far as it would go.

  He sprang to his feet and flung open the window. “What in the name of goodness are you doing here?”

  “I’m practicing my rope climb,” said Mathy.

  “You get down from there about as fast as you can get and go straight home!”

  Mathy dropped out of sight. A prolonged Wheee! rose upward as she slid down the rope.

  Matthew slammed the window shut and turned around. “Now let’s get this straight!” he shouted.

  Ed was smiling at him in pure malicious delight. “Ah, forget it, Prof. I was only joking.”

  “If this is your conception of a joke—”

  “Not a very good one, was it?”

  “It certainly wasn’t.”

  “I shouldn’t have made that kite. It was a pretty fresh thing to do.”

  “Typical of your behavior.”

  “I know it. I apologize, Prof.”

  “Well—” said Matthew.

  “I’m sorry I did it and sorry I got you all riled up. I didn’t really mean to. I don’t know what gets into me sometimes. But I’ll try not to let it happen again.”

  Matthew sat down. “Very well, Ed,” he said after a moment. “We’ll forget about it this time.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll try not to desecrate any more religious symbols, even if I don’t believe—”

  “All right, Ed. That’s enough. You may go now.”

  “Yes sir. I think something ought to be done about those incense burners, don’t you, Mr. Soames?”

  Furor loquendi! “Good night, Ed.”

  “I wonder if the Chinese burn incense in little statues of Jesus Christ!”

  “I don’t think we need to discuss—”

  “I’d like to see that, wouldn’t you—smoke pouring out of all the nail holes?”

  “Good night, Ed.”

  “Right.” He rose and opened the door. “ ’Night, Mr. Soames. Happy Easter,” he added cheerfully and closed the door behind him.

  Matthew leaned wearily on the desk. His head had begun to ache. He propped it on his hands, rubbing his temples with his thumbs. He felt old and defeated. Maybe Garney was right. Maybe they needed a younger man.

  Gradually he became aware of singing in the distance. Girls’ voices singing Mendelssohn:

  “The moon shines bright, the stars give a light

  A little before ’tis day…”

  It was a guileless and healing sound.

  “For the Lord knows when we’ll meet again

  In the merry, merry month of May.”

  The girls’ trio, rehearsing its number for the spring contest in Clarkstown. Matthew lifted his head, remembering guiltily that he had instructed the girls to stay after school so that he could help them. He started to the door, but he had delayed too long; he could hear them coming downstairs. He sat down again at the desk. A moment later there was a knock.

  “Come in?”

  “It’s me.” Leonie stepped inside, looking as righteous as the Little Red Hen. “I saw you were busy, Papa, so I went ahead and rehearsed the trio for you.”

  “Well. Thank you, Daughter.”

  “I had each one sing her part alone, first with the piano and then a capella, just reading notes. Then I had the alto and second soprano sing together and after that the soprano and alto. After that, we all ran through it once together. And then—”

  “Yes, honey. You don’t have to give me the whole story right now.”

  “But I thought you’d want to know how we did it.”

  “Yes. Well, that’s fine. You run on now, dear. I’m busy.”

  “Aren’t you about ready to go home? I’ll wait and walk with you.”

  “I’ve got a lot of things to do first. You go on ahead.”

  “But I can go upstairs and study till—Oh, all right. Shall I close the door?”

  “You can leave it open.”

  She went away. Matthew rose again and went to the window. Everyone else had gone, the building was quiet. He could hear it settling after the long day, its old joints creaking, the echoes sounding through the empty halls. His shoulders slumped. He was cross and tired, worn out by the day’s vexations. As he stood there gazing absently toward the graveyard hill, his hot forehead pressed against the glass, the office began to fill with golden light. Shreds of cloud caught fire one after another, and the flame and tumult of a windy sunset spread over half the sky. Slowly, as it engaged his senses, it drew him forth to some godlike vantage from where he looked back on himself—a solitary figure in a deserted schoolhouse, and he felt like a general abandoned on the darkling plain, all his warrior
s fled. (Lear on the heath…sad Henry on the field at Yorkshire.) How lonely I am! he told himself. Lonely in his battle against ignorance, in his love of wisdom, truth, and order. Lonely in his love of beauty, too. He wondered if in all the town there was one other who stopped now to behold the sunset. That great slow soundless splash of color in the sky! Its beauty pained him, it called him to respond—one was obliged to beauty. And he wished with all his heart, that moment, for a way to answer, a way to praise it, for some one, even, to say to simply, “How beautiful it is.” Someone to listen.

  As if in answer, the front door opened and someone started up the stairs. Turning, he saw a golden head rise into the sunlit hall. Aphrodite emerging from the foam! A girl came toward him nimbused in gold, her eyes as warm and blue as the sky in summer, and paused, smiling, on his threshold. His heart stood up in welcome. “Come in!”

  She came, carrying her English book; a fair presence in a middy blouse and skirt, her tawny hair bound with blue ribbon. They stood at the window side by side and watched the sunset. He told her how beautiful it was. She clasped her hands, said Oh! and looked at him with a shy, glowing face. Then they sat down together and opened the book and he spoke to her of literature and of learning. She listened eagerly. He read poetry aloud.

  “Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,

  Thy Naiad airs have brought me home.”

  “You make it sound so beautiful!” she said.

  He talked on and on. His voice, calm and wise, bore them gently o’er a perfumed sea, while the room brimmed with golden light pouring from yon brilliant window-niche. Suddenly the girl looked up at him and said, “I love you!”

  “My dear,” he said smiling, “it is poetry you love.”

  “It’s you!”

  He looked into the blue eyes and faltered. “I think,” he said, turning nobly away, “I think you should go now.”

  She protested. He was firm. She pleaded. He smiled gently. Then she lifted her soft pink mouth and kissed him and ran out of the room, leaving her English book behind. He heard the front door slam.