He let it ride for two weeks, bearing the ostracizing looks, the accusing glares. And finally he took a stand, and he took it in the mess hall. He got his food and carried the tray into the mess hall, and he spotted Bowden sitting at the far end of one table. He walked down the aisle on the opposite side of the table, climbed over the bench, and sat down directly opposite Bowden.
Bowden did not look up. His blond head was bent over his tray, and he ate studiously, even though this was Sunday night and horse’s cock was being dished out.
“Bowden,” Rick said softly.
Bowden looked up, his eyes a pale gray, his nose hooked, his mouth tight. “Yeah?”
“I want to get something straight between us,” Rick said.
“Yeah, what’s that, Dadier?”
“I didn’t rat on you. I didn’t even know you swiped the Coke. Goldin came over and gave us a description of you, and then casually asked what your name was. I told him, but I didn’t know why he wanted you or what you’d done. Hell, I figured he was just looking for you.”
“Yeah?” Bowden said.
“You don’t have to believe me,” Rick said, “but it’s the truth. Why should I get you in hot water?”
“There was no hot water,” Bowden said. “I just had to pay for the Coke, that’s all.”
“Well, I wouldn’t even have wanted you to do that. I don’t give a damn what you swipe. I’d have swiped a bottle myself if I’d known it was there.”
“Yeah?” Bowden said again.
“Okay, don’t believe me if you don’t want to. I’m telling the truth, though. I don’t care what these other guys think about me, but I wanted you to know the truth. Okay, Bowden?”
Bowden looked at him levelly, studying him for a few seconds. “Sure,” he said finally. He rose, picked up his empty tray with his left hand, and then extended his right across the table. “Forget it, Dadier.”
Rick had taken his hand firmly, and that had been the end of that — as far as Bowden was concerned, anyway. It took a while for the rest of the crew to catch on to the idea that Rick and Bowden had squared it all away, but even that came eventually. It had simply been a question of substituting understanding for misunderstanding.
But could he do that with Miller?
Could he go over to the boy and say, “Look, Miller. You’ve got me all wrong. I don’t care what color your skin is.”
Could he do that?
He himself was always wary of people who said, “I don’t care what color his skin is. He can be purple for all I care.” A kind of Methinks the lady doth protest suspicion always possessed him whenever someone made such a statement. So wouldn’t Miller feel the same way?
And how could he make an issue of the color of Miller’s skin and at the same time state that the color of that skin was a thing of no importance? And would Miller believe him?
And suppose he was wrong, suppose Miller never once considered that as the source of the trouble between them? Suppose he brought it to Miller’s attention, and by so doing created a problem that had not previously existed?
No, he could not take the direct approach. If color was a sore spot with him. Miller would not want to discuss it openly and frankly. And if it wasn’t, there was no sense making an issue of it, and risking a fresh breach.
As it turned out, the whole thing was simpler than he ever imagined it could be.
The corridor run-in with Miller seemed almost to have never happened. Miller, apparently forgetting his parting threat, diligently appeared at each fifth-period English class, and it was during one of those classes that the opportunity presented itself.
Antoro and Taglio provided the opening.
The class was discussing, after a fashion, a story Rick had just read aloud to them. Rick had asked Antoro a question, and Antoro had got to his feet, and then fumbled haltingly with his thoughts on the subject.
Taglio, bored with Antoro’s ideas, shouted, “Oh, sit down, you crazy wop. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’re a bigger wop,” Antoro had answered, smiling, and Rick had stepped in instantly, a serious look on his face even though he knew the boys were joking good-naturedly.
“That’s enough of that,” he said sternly.
Antoro sat down immediately, relieved to be off the hook, but not knowing what Rick was talking about. Miller sat placidly in his seat, and West sat beside him, both boys unusually quiet.
“I don’t like name-calling in my classes,” Rick said, a bit too pompously perhaps.
“I wasn’t calling no names,” Taglio said. “I was just kiddin’.”
“That’s the way it starts,” Rick said. “Just kidding. Like a fist-fight in the streets. You shove a guy jokingly, and he shoves you back, and the next thing you know you’re at each other’s throats. Name-calling is the same way.”
The class regarded him silently. He had their complete attention, and he sensed that he was broaching a subject in which they were interested.
“All right, Antoro, you’re of Italian descent. So’s Taglio. You call Taglio a wop, and he calls you a wop, and everything’s okay. But suppose Levy calls you both wops? Is it okay then?”
Rick paused and waited.
“No, it’s not okay,” he provided. “It’s not okay, and you’ll snap right back and call Levy a kike or a mockie. But you were the ones who gave Levy the idea in the first place, don’t you see? Because you used the expression yourselves, just kidding around.”
“Aw, I didn’t mean nothin’,” Taglio said, a little embarrassed.
“I know you didn’t. That’s just my point. You shouldn’t use vicious expressions, whether you’re joking or serious. Look, my parents are French. Do you know how many times I’ve been called a frog? Do you think I like it? Well, no, I don’t.
“Do you think Morales or De la Cruz or Rodriguez here like being called spies? Well, I can tell you they don’t.”
He looked out at the class, saw the three Puerto Rican boys smile in embarrassment.
“Do you think Kruger or Vandermeer like being called krauts? Do you think O’Brien or Erin like being called micks or donkeys?” Rick paused and then focused his gaze on Miller. “Do you think Miller or Parsons or Baker like being called niggers?”
The class stirred a little, and Rick knew damned well they’d all used every one of these expressions at one time or another.
“No one likes fun poked at his color, creed, or nationality,” Rick went on, “and I won’t tolerate it in my class. So don’t tell me you’re kidding or not kidding or whatever. I’m not interested. Just don’t use derogatory expressions in my classroom. Is that clear?”
The kids remained silent. Some of them nodded, and some of them fidgeted in their seats. Miller smiled. He smiled broadly, and Rick could not read the smile, but he felt that his little lecture had made a point, and most of all, he felt he had delivered his message to Miller.
He met Miller’s smile with his own, and said, “Let’s get on with the lesson now, shall we?”
Miller continued smiling, and now West was smiling, too.
10
The executive ax began falling the day before Armistice Day, and it dropped finally just before the Thanksgiving vacation. Rick had no idea the ax would fall, nor did he even know it was poised over his head. He considered Stanley’s first visit to his classroom a part of normal procedure. He did not know it was the whetting of the ax-blade.