Dear Miss Demeanor Page 2

  In the far corner of my brain, a violin began to play. Visions of pathetically inept landscapes flashed across my eyes. A short bus trip. Miss Parchester sitting in the mausoleum, gradually disappearing under a layer of dust. Drinking from a cracked wine goblet and talking to the judge. The judge answering. A string quartet took up the melody.

  I found myself agreeing to check the deposit slips. “But,” I added in desperation, “I am not qualified to substitute for you. I have no teaching credentials, and the only thing I’ve done with a newspaper is read it.”

  “Miss Don feels that your literary background is adequate,” Miss Parchester said, taking a slug of what I suspected was not straight Lipton. “You do have a degree in English, don’t you, dear? The students are quite capable of handling the production of the newspaper; some of them have worked on the staff for two years.”

  I shook my head. “I cannot-”

  “Of course, you can. As the Judge used to say, a healthy attitude can overcome a mountain. You’ll be a splendid teacher, Mrs. Malloy.”

  The teacup was removed from my numb fingers. Somehow or other, I was congratulated for my endeavor, tidied up, and left on the doorstep to ponder the situation-which was clearly out of control. The jackhammer had done it, I told myself morosely as I returned to my car. Brain damage.

  I drove home and climbed the stairs, still bewildered by preceding events. Caron looked up as I opened the door, the receiver in her treacherous hands.

  “She just came in, Miss Don,” she chirped.

  Miss Dort’s name had been popping up like a dandelion in recent conversations, but I had no idea who she was.

  “Hello,” I said, eyeing the liquor cabinet in the kitchen. If Miss Parchester could indulge before five o’clock, then surely I deserved to do the same.

  “Mrs. Malloy, this is Bernice Don at the high school. I’m the vice-principal in charge of administrative services,” said a brisk and somehow brittle voice. “I have been informed that you are willing to substitute for Miss Parchester until a permanent replacement can be found-or until the problem is resolved.”

  I would not have selected the word “willing.” Bulldozed, coerced, emotionally blackmailed-but not “willing.” I realized I was staring blankly at the receiver and managed to say, “Something like that, yes.”

  “I shall assume that you are aware substitute teachers receive thirty-eight dollars a day, and that you are familiar with both the standard state and federal withholdings and the obligatory contribution to the teacher retirement fund. Were you certified, Mrs. Malloy, you would receive forty-three dollars a day.”

  I did a bit of multiplication in my head. “I taught two undergraduate sections of English literature,” I suggested tentatively. It would surely take me a week to solve Miss Parchester’s problems, which would appease Visa and keep Lean Cuisines in the freezer. The hypothetical banker’s breath on my neck seemed warmer.

  “I was speaking of the secondary education certification block, not the amateurish attempts of graduate students to earn their assistantships. The fact that you lack proper credentials does pose a problem for me, Mrs. Malloy. It certainly would have been more expedient had you previously filled out an application at the administration office, but I may he able to slip through a backdated STA111. It will entail extra paperwork.”

  I wondered if I owed her an apology for the extra paperwork. I wondered if Caron could be boarded with an Eskimo family. I wondered if the jackhammer was all that had.

  “Mrs. Malloy, are you there?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Don, I am here. If the STA111! is too much trouble, I’ll be glad to step aside. I’m sure that there are plenty of qualified substitutes-”

  “No, there are not. On an average, we require twelve to fifteen substitutes each academic week, and we are always desperate to fill the gaps so that the educational process can continue with minimal disruption. I fear we must both accept the necessity of a little extra work. Now, I’ll need your social security number for the W- 8, your date of birth, your academic record, and two personal references-anyone who can confirm that you’re not an axe-murderer,” Miss Don said.

  I produced the information, listening to the sound of an efficient and officious pen scratching on the other end of the line. When we reached the point of two character references, I drew an embarrassing blank.

  “Anyone, Mrs. Malloy,” Miss Don prompted me. “Anyone who knows you welt enough to attest to your moral standing in the community.”

  Miss Parchester? Inez? The jackhammer operator who should have worn a black, hooded cape? I could almost hear Miss Don’s mind questioning my moral standing.

  “Peter Rosen,” I sputtered. “He’s the head of the CID.”

  “The CID? May I presume that is a government agency of some sort?”

  “The Criminal Investigation Department of the local police force,” I said. “He’s a personal friend of mine, and will certainly vouch for-“

  “How fascinating.” Miss Don wasn’t fascinated. “I’ll need one more name, Mrs. Malloy. There surely is at least one more person who can attest to your character, isn’t there?”

  I finally remembered the name of the sociology professor who lived downstairs and repeated it grimly. If he were asked about me, I hoped he could figure out who I was. Her forms filled, Mrs. Don assured me that she would stay at school until midnight to process my paperwork, and told me to report to her office at seven-thirty the next morning.

  I replaced the receiver and went to find Caron. The door to the bathroom was locked, and I could hear water gushing into the tub. Apparently the sound was loud enough to muffle my comments, in that I received no reply. If the child had any sense, she would remain in the sanctuary of a bubble bath until her toes turned to prunes. I made a face at the door, then went into the kitchen for a much-needed medicinal dose of scotch and a few more aspirins.

  Farberville High School is, no doubt, a perfectly lovely place. Caron and approximately five hundred other students attended daily without much uproar. All sorts of dedicated teachers appeared to do their best to instill knowledge in adolescent heads. As far as I knew, no serious crime riddled the campus or precipitated armed guards in the hallways to protect teachers. I had gone to such an institution myself, although it had been a few years. It hadn’t been all that had. The Book Depot was closed until the street was repaired; I really had nothing of any great importance to do in the interim. The money would hardly be a shopping spree in Paris, but it would very definitely come in handy should Caron and I decide to indulge in madcap, extravagant activities such as eating.

  “It’s only for a few days,” I reminded the ceiling. Why, then, did it have the same ring as life without parole?

  A knock at the door saved me from further schizophrenic conversation with the, architecture. I found a smiling Peter Rosen on the landing, a bottle of wine tucked under his arm. He put the wine down and spent a few minutes greeting me with great charm.

  “What’s only for a few days?” he asked, turning on his innocent smile. At one time in our past the smile had enraged me- but so had his presence. The effect was quite the opposite now. For the most part.

  “You wouldn’t believe it,” I said. While I took the wine to the kitchen, I told him the identity of the newest substitute teacher at the high school, although I omitted any references to the absurd investigation. Peter does not approve of amateur involvement in piddly little puzzles-on principle. This I knew from experience.

  “I was going to suggest we have dinner tomorrow night,” he said, putting on a show of disappointment that would not have passed must4 in a kindergarten pageant. “But I suppose you’ll be home grading papers and devising lesson plans. Perhaps Caron will be my escort.”

  When he wished, the man could be as funny as sleet.

  TWO

  The high school resembled a collection of yellow blocks abandoned on a moth-eaten shag carpet. No ivy or any such traditional nonsense; just jean-clad students exchanging insults and di
splaying anatomy as they streamed into one of the four double doors. I felt like a first-grader on the first day of school. I did not hold Caron’s hand, however; she could not have survived the humiliation.

  I was escorted to the central office, introduced to a pimply boy behind the counter, and warned to wait until Miss Don appeared. Caron then squealed a greeting to Inez and disappeared into the human tidal wave. My pimply baby-sitter eyed me incuriously, picked up a stack of manila envelopes and left. People of all sizes wandered in and out, ignoring me.

  I read a poster that warned against smoking on campus, drinking alcoholic beverages on campus, running in the hallways, missing classes without excuse, and a variety of things I hadn’t known teenagers were aware of. I then scanned the list of honor graduates from the previous year, the school calendar for the next year, and everything else tacked on the bulletin board. When in doubt, read the directions.

  A rabbity little man with oversized glasses scurried into the office. “Are you the new juvenile parole officer?” he gasped, looking thoroughly dismayed. “I haven’t done the seven-one-four forms yet, but I do have the nine-thirties from the spring semester.”

  “I am not the new parole officer,” I said gravely.

  “Oh, my goodness not” He disappeared through a door behind the counter. I heard a series of breathless disclaimers drifting out, as though he needed further reassurance of my identity-or lack thereof.

  I was edging toward the nearest exit when a tall, unsmiling woman swept into the office. A gray bun was pinned to the top of her head like a mushroom cap, and pastel blue glasses swung on a cord around her neck. There was a hint of a mustache on her decidedly stiff upper lip.

  “Mrs. Malloy I’m Bernice Dort. Sorry to be late, but Mr. Eugenia has made a muddle of his first quarter grades and someone had to explain it again. And again, It’s merely a matter of recording grades, according to the code in the manual, on both the computer card and the reporting form, but Mr. Eugenia seems unable to follow the simplest instructions.”

  “I’m beginning to wonder if I ought to fill in for Miss Parchester,” I said, continuing to retreat. An elbow caught me in the back before I reached the doorway.

  “Humph!” A large, red-faced man pushed past me to confront Miss Don. His silver hair had been clipped with military precision, and nary a hair dared to take a tangential angle. His face was florid, and his bulk encased in a severe blue suit and dark tie. “I want Immerman in my office, Bernice-and I want him now. That boy has gone too far! Perkins called this morning to tell me that Immerman had demanded reinstatement of his eligibility!”

  “Oh, how dreadful, Mr. Weiss. Immerman has indeed gone too far. I shall have Mr. Finley send him to the office immediately,” Miss Dort agreed in a frigid voice. “Mr. Weiss, this is Mrs. Malloy. She’s subbing for Miss Parchester until central admin can locate a certified teacher for the journalism department.”

  Mr. Weiss stopped in midstep, as if an invisible choke collar had been tightened around his neck. Two small, hard eyes bored into me. His mouth curled slightly in what I presumed was meant to be a smile of welcome, but the message was lost.

  I fluttered a hand. “Hello.”

  “Malloy. Aren’t you the woman who runs the Book Depot?” he barked in accusation. “Weren’t you involved in some sort of police investigation?”

  Caron and Inez had every right to be awed. Although I was near forty, I felt a rush of heat to my cheeks and had to pinch myself to hold back a whimper. “That’s correct,” I said. “I assisted the police with a problem involving the Farber College faculty.”

  “And now you’ve decided to be a substitute teacher?” he continued, still staring at me as if I tripped into his office under a beanie with a propeller on the top.

  Miss Don cleared her throat. “Mrs. Malloy has offered to help out, Mr. Weiss. You know how difficult it can be to find a substitute six weeks into the semester, so we’ll simply have to make do with what we can get. Now, if you’ll excuse us, I’ll take Mrs. Malloy down to the journalism room and get her settled. Her paperwork is on your desk, although I’ve already sent the triplicates to central admin.”

  Mr. Weiss gave her a tight nod. “Then get Immerman in here. Tell his first period teacher that he’ll be in my office during class.”

  Miss Don seemed on the verge of a heel-clicking salute, but she instead bobbed her head curtly and picked up her clipboard. Thus armed, she led me out of the office and into the battle arena. We marched down several miles of hallway as she rattled off names, departments, and other bits of meaningless information. Students leaped out of our path, and conversations were revived only in our wake.

  We then descended into the bowels of the building. A bell jangled shrilly as we reached the bottom step; seconds later students scuttled through doorways like cockroaches caught in the light.

  Miss Don pointed at a scarred door. “That is the old teachers’ lounge, Mrs. Malloy. The new one is on the second floor in the west wing; you may find the distance inconvenient. Most of the teachers in the basement still congregate in the old room, but you may use whichever you prefer.”

  I suspected I would prefer the one with a well-stocked bar. Nineteen minutes had passed since Caron dragged me through the door. Nineteen incredibly long minutes. Seven hours remained in the school day. This scheme was insane. I would personally buy Miss Parchester a pad of watercolor paper and a bus ticket to wherever she desired to go. Caron could accompany her as a porter.

  “This,” Miss Don announced as she opened a door, “is the journalism department.”

  The room resembled the interior of a cave. The air was foul, reminding me of the miasma of a very old garbage can. Miss Don snorted, switched on a light and gave me a stony look meant to impede flight.

  “You do not have a homeroom class, so you will not have to deal with the attendance reports until your first class arrives m seven minutes. Miss Parchester’s daily unit delineations will be in a dark-blue spiral notebook, and her rosters in a small black book. Good luck, and keep in mind the faculty motto: TAKE NO PRISONERS.” The woman actually started for the door.

  “Wait a minute!” I yelped. “What am I supposed to do about-”

  “I have to make the daily announcements, Mrs. Malloy. Homeroom will be over in six and one half minutes, and I must remind the students about the variations in the bus route on snow days.” She sailed out the door before I could argue.

  I did not sink to the floor and burst into tears, although the idea crossed my mind. On the other hand, I did not linger to explore the murky corners of Carlsbad Cavern. I figured I had over five minutes of free time, so I bolted for the teachers’ lounge-which had to be more enlightening than any book of daily unit delineations.

  The lounge was decorated in early American garage sale. The several sofas were covered with tattered plaid variations that would have convulsed a Scotsman; the formica-topped table was covered with nicks, scratches and stains. There were two rest rooms along one wall, and between them a tiny kitchenette with a refrigerator, soda machine, and-saints be praised-a gurgling coffee pot. A variety of cups hung on a peg board; not one of them said “Malloy” in decorative swirls, or even “Parchester.”

  The situation was dire enough to permit certain emergency measures, including petty theft. I took down a cup, poured myself a medicinal dose of caffeine and slumped down on a mauve-and-green sofa to brood. Four minutes at the most. Then, if I remembered my high school experiences with any accuracy, students would converge on my cave, their little faces bright with eagerness to learn, their little eyes shining with innocence. Presumably, I would have to greet them and do something to restrain them for fifty minutes or so. Others would follow. Between moments of imparting wisdom, I was supposed to audit the books and expose an embezzler.

  In the midst of my gloomy mental diatribe, a woman in a bright yellow dress came into the lounge. She was young, pretty, and slightly flustered by my presence. “Hello, I’m Paula Hart,” she said with a warm s
mile. “Beginning typing and office machines.”

  “Claire Malloy. Intermediate confusion and advanced despair,” I said. My smile lacked her radiance, but she probably knew what daily unit delineations were.

  “Are you subbing for Miss Parchester? This whole thing is just unbelievable, and I feel just dreadful about it. Poor Emily would never do such a thing. She must be terribly upset.” Miss Hart went into the kitchenette and returned with a cup decorated with pink hearts. “I’m in the room right across from you, Mrs. Malloy. If you need anything, feel free to ask.”

  I opened my mouth to ask the definition of a delineation when a thirty-year-old Robert Redford walked into the lounge. He was wearing a gray sweatsuit, but it in no way diminished the effect. Longish blond hair, cornflower blue eyes, dimples, compact and well-shaped body. The whole thing, living and breathing. And smiling solely for Paula Hart, who radiated right back. They had no need for physical contact; the space between them shimmered with unspoken messages.

  Young love was nice if one liked that sort of thing, but I was more concerned with my personal problems. Before I could suggest they unlock eyes and make constructive comments about my classes, the bell rang. The sound of tromping feet competed with screeches of glee. Locker doors banged open and slammed closed. The war was on, and I couldn’t do battle in the lounge.

  “Bye,” I said as I headed into disaster. Neither of them seemed visibly distressed by my departure-if they noticed.

  The journalism room was, as I had feared, filled with students. I went to the desk, dug through the mess until I found a black book, and then tossed it at a pudgy girl with waist-length black hair and a semblance of intelligence.

  “Tell everyone to sit down and then take roll,” I commanded coolly. If I could only find the other book, I suspected I could discover who they were and why they were there.

  The girl goggled briefly but began shouting names above the roar. Eventually the students sat down to eye me in a disconcertingly carnivorous way. I squared my shoulders and reminded myself that they were simply unpolished versions of the species.