Now only the most loyal were left, clustered around him at the front of the room. Donna was among them, pretending to be interested in the topic at hand but fooling no one. Freirs took advantage of every opportunity to catch her eye; she was the best-looking thing in sight. 'Listen,' he was saying, half seated on the desk in a manner that allowed him to take the weight off his feet but still keep his head on a level with theirs, 'a lot of you seem to think that superstition disappeared from the human scene somewhere between the talkies and TV.' His eyes swept the group, daring them to look away. 'I only wish it were true, but it's just not so. I mean, think hard. How many buildings have you seen lately with a thirteenth floor?'
One of the younger men smiled – a good-natured longhair, or so he'd always seemed, who all this semester seemed to have enjoyed feeding Freirs his best cues. Everyone liked a good straight man. 'Oh, come on, Mr Freirs, that thirteenth-floor stuff is just a joke nowadays.'
'Believe me,' said Freirs, 'it's no joke. There are people in this country, even today, who think it'll rain if they pray hard enough. They're out there right now, happy as can be, brewing their love potions, warding off the evil eye, setting traps for demons. They tell time by the stars, just like their grandfathers did, and they still plant corn by moonlight.' It was the Poroths he was thinking of, Sarr's gloomy frown, Deborah naked under that severe black dress.
The student was still regarding him with amused skepticism, probably putting on an act for Donna and the rest. Or maybe it just seemed funny to him that a pudgy city boy like Freirs should talk knowingly of old-time country ways. Freirs dug deep into his wallet and pulled forth a dollar bill. 'You know,' he said, 'I can't resist this little test.' He nodded to the younger man. 'You're obviously one of those rare beings we all hear about, a totally rational man, and so I want to give you this dollar as a gift.' He waved it theatrically in the air. Several of the onlookers turned to one another and grinned. What was old Freirs up to now? 'All I want in return,' he continued, 'is a simple little note, signed and dated, selling me, for one dollar' -he leaned forward – 'your immortal soul.'
The others laughed, and Donna managed to get in a slightly too enthusiastic 'Oh, Mr Freirs!' The younger man eyed the money, smiling uneasily, but made no move to comply. 'You want it in writing, huh?'
Freirs nodded. 'That's all. Just a scrap of paper with your name on it, and the words, "This is to certify that I sell my soul to Mr Jeremy Freirs… forever." '
The student laughed but shook his head. 'Why take a chance?' he said, shrugging.
'Exactly! It's Pascal's wager in reverse.' Freirs stood, looking flushed, and stuffed the dollar back into his pocket. He turned to the rest of the group. 'So you see, kiddies, the old fears die hard. We're not out of the woods yet.'
His thoughts were on the farm again, out there in the night across the river. Behind the smiling faces of his students, darkness waited at the windows like a living presence. 'And now,' he said, suddenly tired, 'maybe it's time we adjourned for the summer. I've got a lot of packing to do.'
'Hey, anybody up for a drink?' the long-haired youth asked brightly, as if it had just occurred to him. He glanced quickly around the circle, lingering an extra second on Donna.
Several of the others voiced an interest in going. Donna remained silent – leaving herself free, Freirs realized. He wondered how he could go off with her without making it too obvious. 'Now if any of you still have problems with your papers,' he said, 'deciphering my handwriting or disagreeing with my comments, we can- Uh-oh, what's going on here?'
The lights in the classroom blinked once, then again. After the second time, only the light directly above them came back on. Freirs saw Donna reach nervously in his direction, then draw back her hand.
'Sorry, you folks. Gotta clear this room.'
They turned. The voice, wheezy with age, had come from the shadows at the other side of the room. Dimly they could make out a small figure standing outlined in the doorway, silhouetted against the light from the hall. He appeared to be dressed in a shabby grey uniform several sizes too large. There was a pushbroom in his hand; he was holding it before him like a weapon.
'What's the rush?' said Freirs. 'We've always stayed this late before.'
The figure in the doorway seemed to shrug. 'End of the year,' he said softly. 'Gotta clear the room.'
Donna's lip curled. 'Boy! These goddamned janitors think they own the school.' She glanced at Freirs for support, but he was reaching for his jacket.
'Oh, well,' he said, 'I guess we've been here long enough.' Gathering up a few remaining papers and stuffing them into the bag, he began moving toward the door.
Awkwardly the others filed out, brushing past the small grey figure, who had turned away and was busily dragging through the doorway a large brown trash barrel almost as big as he was. Its wheels squeaked unpleasantly behind them.
Outside, in the light, Freirs stood slouching in silence by the hall elevator, but several of the younger students headed for the stairs. 'Come on,' called one, 'it's just two flights.' With a sigh Freirs straightened up and moved toward the stairway. The ones remaining followed him – all except Donna, who reached worriedly to her ear. 'Damn!' she muttered. Her left earring was gone.
The others had already started down. The hall was silent. Frowning, she searched the floor around her, then turned back toward the classroom. From its shadowed interior came a faint irregular squeaking, then silence again. Hesitating a moment, she strode through the doorway and disappeared inside.
'Do you mind putting on a light in here?' Her voice echoed in the hall. 'Fm trying to find-'
There was a thud, a high-pitched little laugh, and then a protracted series of cracking sounds, as of the splintering of wood. Moments later came another sound: the crunch of compressed paper, as from an object being stuffed into a wastebasket.
With a snap the final light went off, and then a small grey figure emerged from the darkness pushing a laden trash barrel, its wheels squeaking rhythmically as he steered it down the hall. To this noise, as if softly in counterpoint, he was whistling a tuneless little song.
Outside, the group had begun to disperse. 'There's no sense in waiting,' said one of the women. 'She's certainly not up there.' The others followed her gaze; she was staring at the darkened windows on the third floor.
'Right,' said a young man. 'She must've gone on ahead.' They turned to Freirs; he looked puzzled and somewhat annoyed. 'Well,' he said at last, shrugging, 'tell her when you see her that if she wants to talk about her paper, she'd better call me first thing tomorrow, because she won't be able to reach me after that.' Slinging the bag over his shoulder, he nodded goodbye. 'Maybe I'll be seeing some of you next fall. Have a pleasant summer.'
Two of the students walked westward with him as far as Seventh Avenue; but then, as Freirs turned south, they repeated their goodbyes and went their separate ways.
Smiling at what he's performed back there in the darkness, he slips from the doorway of the school, averting his face from the glare of the streetlamps. Beyond the glare, half hidden by the city's fumes, the night's first constellations glimmer faintly to the east, while before him, in the northern sky, Draco sweeps sinuously round an invisible pole star. To the west there are no signs at all save a lonely broken moon.