“I’ll do that, Captain,” the Principal informed him. And then, suddenly, “You know what? I think my deputy Principal can help you a hell of a lot too, Captain!”
“Who’s he. Mr. Proffer?”
“Mike McDrew—oh, he knows everybody—thoroughly—”
“McDrew—” Surcher thought about it, turning over the thousands of names in his mental filing cabinet with computer speed, almost, “He’s your football coach, isn’t he?”
Proffer nodded, smiling broadly—Who in the whole of the State didn’t know that, he wondered—“That’s right, Captain. Heard of him?” He couldn’t help taunting him. The Captain was nodding, with that little grin. “He teaches Health Education, Civics, Phys Ed, and directs our plays also, Captain.” He paused, still smiling, “And—he’s our Guidance Counselor,” he added, with a modest flourish, watching the Captain.
Surcher nodded.
“Sounds like quite the fellow,” he said.
“He is, believe me. This school wouldn’t be what it is without him!” Proffer proclaimed.
“Does he get paid for all those activities?” The Captain asked.
“Oh, well, ha ha, it works like this, Captain—Say, you’re really getting to learn the ins and outs of the school
business, aren’t you, Captain?—” Proffer paused, chuckling, “Well, he has a basic salary, you see, and then draws a little extra for his football coaching and Guidance/Counseling activities—H
“I see,” said the Captain.
“We try to take care of him, we do our best,” Proffer said, chuckling still, “How about if I put a call through to
him now?” He added.
“Where is her*
There was a moment of silence. Proffer was aware suddenly of the Captain’s formidable figure hovering over him like a Michelangelo sculpture. For a fleeting moment he thought of his visit to Florence one summer, a visit he would never forget as long as he lived, no doubt about it He thought of Tiger.
“Why—” he began, trying hard not to seem as if he were choosing his words carefully, “In his Guidance/ Counseling place, I guess this is one of his days for it he’s probably in there now, working away at it—” he said.
“Call him,” the Captain said.
“Sure, I’ll do that,” Proffer said, reaching for his interoffice phone, dialing a number, “You’ll find a friend and a half in Mike McDrew, Captain, believe me. You won’t regret it. You ought to hear about some of the situations he’s handled—Ah ha—and of course, well, you down there in Kitston—ha ha—and G.A.R.—ah ha ha—know all about him!” He heard the ringing tone. Tiger would be answering soon. “When’d you last beat us, anyway?” He threw in.
The Captain, grinning in his way, nodded. He certainly knew the answer to that alright, though not exactly. He remembered the last Sawyersville-G.A.R. game very well— his kids had come home heartbroken. As usual, Sawyersville had triumphed. He himself had not made that game, much as he wanted to—and tried to. He had been called out urgently—as it turned out, for nothing.
He still was bitter about it, whenever he thought of it, for that Sawyersville team was always something to see, no matter how they clobbered old G.A.R. Proffer had something there, alright, to be proud of.
“Hello, Mike?” He heard Proffer say now, into the mouthpiece, “Listen, can you come down here?” He heard him pause, “About ten minutes? Good—yeh—hell of a thing —hell of a thing—oh yeh—Well—What?” Another pause, “I guess you might as well cancel Practice tonight, eh, Mike?” pause, “I don’t know about the game, we’ll have to work on that, o.k.?” Pause, “Right—right, Mike—oh yeh— Right—oh Christ—” pause, “Look, get down here, o.k.? Yeh. Right, see you, boy—Yeh—oh yeh—” And he hung up.
“He’ll be right down.”
Surcher nodded. He was looking around the room, which he certainly liked very much, then at his notepad. He tapped on his notepad. He looked at Proffer.
“It’ll be alright if we use your office?” he inquired, “I mean, when we start interviewing everybody—”
“Sure, perfectly alright. Captain,” Proffer said, though only half-meaning it, for it was like his home, and even more so. “My god, I’m at your service,” he added though. “We might need a few more offices. Private.”
Proffer thought about it. He certainly wouldn’t touch the Guidance/Counseling office. He mused.
“I think we can scrounge up a few more. We have nooks and corners. Hmmm. I know we can,” he finally'told him.
“Good. And we’ll work out a schedule. You’ll see, nothing will be disrupted, or interrupted. All your activities will carry on normally.”
“Great, Captain,” Proffer said, “That’s really what I want to hear. You’re one hell of a decent fellow, let me say so.” He chuckled, “Not at all like the storybook, TV, movie, and radio detectives!”
Silence.
Proffer wasn’t sure he had said the right thing, or that the Captain had even heard it. He seemed absorbed in thought. And though there were one or two more things he wanted to take up with him, Proffer kept quiet. He thought he ought.
“Don’t you have a few colored students, Mr. Proffer?”
The Captain asked him, finally.
“Very few. Hardly any.”
Mr. Proffer answered, quietly.
Tiger was just beginning to write up his report on Marjorie, who had departed, finally, when the phone rang. It was Proffer. Harry the hatless wonder Proffer. Now what the hell was it this time, Tiger wondered? He was almost chuckling. If he could count the number of times he had hauled that jocko out of it, he’d sure qualify for some prize or other. A computer prize. Or something. Old Mummer, that walking teaching machine, no less, could think of something. Tiger chuckled. Proffer’s banal voice still filled his ear as he continued musing over the report. Marjorie was certainly an interesting specimen, no doubt of it Her place on the Bcmkrokkler scale was well formulated, and delineated, and within the corrective coefficient of bilinear and indeed trizonal sigma error, he was sure of it. What the hell did Proffer want this time? He had said yes, of course, in view of everything, and the time of day, free, as he was, in any event. Proffer! Would he ever open up that Radio and TV store and get out of Education as he always, but always, was saying he would? Tiger had to chuckle. He saw the customers walking in and wondering. They’d sure have a lot to wonder about! What the hell was he babbling about—cancel Practice—the game—no less—Tiger shook his head, slowly, wonderingly. What an ace. An Ace he was. He studied the burgeoning report. Already, in his mind, he could see the whole of the report. Very interesting. And when he got that store, of course, the School Board would make him Principal. As if he didn’t have enough on his hands already. “Very interesting" Tiger murmured, putting his pencil down, just alongside the report, and sitting back in his chair, musing over things, for a couple of minutes at least, before getting up, and heading for the Principal’s office. . . .
Ponce, on arriving home, wandered about the house awhile, aimlessly, in a state of semicontact. As it happened, there was no one at home, his father, naturally, out working, his mother, no doubt, buying groceries, and Rusty Joe, his little brother, in school up at the Elementary School Building. Only Peppy the cat was moping around, snoring, of course, at this time of day, almost. He had seen her crawl behind her favorite studio couch. By this time she would be snoring, without a doubt. He knew. Ponce smiled a little, and sighed, also. If it had been left up to him, to tell the truth, Ponce would have stayed at the school. What was the point of coming home—or rather, being sent home? Captain Surcher. Andy. Proffer. They all gave him a pain, suddenly. Sure he was shook up, and who wouldn’t be? He felt sorry as anything for poor Jill, that sweetheart of a girl, if ever there was one. But how would his coming home help him? Or anybody? The more time passed the more he wondered just how it was supposed to help him. Maybe Surcher just wanted him out of the way? What for? He wondered about that. He wanted to be in that classroom with all of them, the whole gang of them, and tell them anything—or most anything—they might want to know. He was in the kitchen now, peering out at the back yard and all the leaves starting to fall into it. There was a wind puffing them about and all around, they did a dance out there at the wind’s command, a dozen or more times, at least, before settling down. Jill Fairbunn. A lump in his throat and a peculiar combination hot and icy feeling crept up his neck and face and hit his eyes finally. She was a girl he had admired for a long time, from a distance of course, in fact, ever since ninth grade, two years ago. The truth was, he had a crush on her, the way he had crushes on girls who were good-looking like that, with blond or red hair especially, and older, and up there. For she was, or had been, a Senior of course, at least a year older, and Captain of the Cheerleaders, of course, right up there. He remembered her at the football games, he saw her of course whenever he turned around from his post of duty, or when he was running off the field, after a time out, with Billy King, and the water bottles. That terrific cheerleader’s uniform. Jesus. She looked the most terrific of them all in it, and no doubt of it. She was the best. That’s why she was Captain. What other high school that Ponce knew of put out cheers like Sawyersville? Wasn’t that partly why the team had such a fantastic record? Outside of the material and Tiger of course. But those cheers were something. Those cartwheels! Those razzle-dazzle routines all led by Jill! He remembered them. They matched the team, no doubt of it. Now she was gone. Gone gone. She’d never be around again. Not ever again. That girl. That peach of a honey dream girl. That sweetheart, that angel-girl. Ponce burned with it. He thought any minute he would break down and cry with it. He remembered opening the lavatory door and coming face to face with it. Beautiful! Who had a more beautiful rump? What a hump! For the first, the only, the last time he had seen the beautiful behind of that beautiful girl. What irony! What could be more ironical than that? In Eng Lit class he wished he could bring that up as an example, for what could top that? Nothing could. He knew that. Of course he never would bring it up, not in a million years. It would just have to stay inside, like so many, many other things. That was life. It was, wasn’t it? And no doubt of it He would never see her again. The scream. It came back to him now, as it always would, he could see it for a long time, maybe forever, haunting him. It hit him like a kick. It seemed embedded in his eyes somehow and wanted to flood him, burning hot. What were they all saying about him now? Were they all having one hell of a laugh? What if some wise guy pinned a good name on him? That bothered Ponce a lot, now that he thought of it. For he had two more years to go, more or less, at the high school and that kind of a thing could play hell with them, he knew. Ponce winced at the thought. Screamo! For example, that. Ponce hoped and prayed, he still felt like crying, and any minute now, any second, the flood could burst out of his eyes. But the wince seemed to be doing things, for one thing, it held back the crying. The flood was there, massed alright, its pressure enormous—but he wasn’t crying. Ponce stood there, staring out of that kitchen window. He wished he had someone to talk to. Should he call Tiger? What was going to happen now? How long was he supposed to stay home, away from school, anyhow? What about Practice? The game? Would they go ahead as scheduled? Who would take over Jill’s place? Yvonne Mellish? What did Miss Smith think? What was she doing? What about Mummer?