“Soon? I should have chucked it the first week. I should have chucked it the day my records were smashed. A real teacher never gets into a setup like that, Rick. Never.”
“Real teachers...”
“They don’t, Rick. The kids respect them. Me? They’ve got no respect for me, but that’s because I’m not a teacher, Rick, I can be a fake teacher or a real man, and I think I’d rather be a real man right now.”
“But all your training, all the years...”
Josh smiled wistfully. “All the years,” he said, “the training, and the years before that when I just wanted. All those years. So, they go down the drain, Rick. But at least I don’t go down the drain with them. Isn’t that important, Rick? That I don’t go down the drain? That I keep some self-respect? That I leave a job when I know I’m not doing it well? Is that being a coward?”
“No,” Rick said seriously, “it’s not.”
“All right. So that’s what I’m doing.”
They drove on in silence, passing Thwaite’s on the parkway, the evening shadows lengthening across the winding road. Josh held the wheel tightly, and Rick relaxed on the seat beside him, thinking of what he’d said, wondering if he should quit, too. No, he could never quit, not now anyway. Not until he knew for sure. And once he knew, then what? Would he hang onto the security? Would he have a kid then, two kids? Would he keep the job even if he learned he wasn’t a teacher?
“I think we’d better start back,” Josh said.
“Sure,” Rick answered.
Josh pulled to the side of the road and waited for a car to pass. There was no heater in the car, and their breaths fogged the windshield, and Josh reached over to clear it with a gloved hand before making his U-turn.
“Am I doing the right thing, Rick?” he asked.
“I don’t know, Josh. If you feel right about it, I guess it’s right.”
“That’s what I figured,” Josh said.
“But what will you do now?”
Josh was silent for a few seconds, and his voice sounded uncertain when he spoke again, almost sad. “I don’t know. Get another job, I suppose. A bank teller, or something. I’m a college grad, Rick, lots of jobs for college grads.”
“Sure,” Rick said.
They drove to the project, and Rick glanced at his watch and saw how late it was. He hadn’t called Anne, and he knew she’d be worried, especially after that night long ago. He got out of the car hastily, and then leaned over when Josh opened the window.
“So you’ve got one more day,” Rick said.
“Yes.”
He had a sudden feeling that he would not see much of Josh tomorrow, and so he took off his glove and held out his hand, and when Josh took it, he said, “Lots of luck, boy.”
“Thanks, Rick,” Josh said.
He retrieved his hand and rolled up the window, and Rick saw his troubled face behind the breath-fogged glass. It was the last good look he would have of Josh Edwards because tomorrow would be a busy day for Josh, and he would only get a chance to talk to him briefly in the teachers’ lavatory before Josh passed out of his life completely. So he looked at Josh’s face, and then Josh turned the car out into the steam of traffic and Rick watched until the car was out of sight, and then he walked to the entrance door of his building.
There were three notes, and she had placed them on the kitchen table, and she stared down at them for a long time, thinking perhaps they would change, thinking perhaps they weren’t so, and concentration would change them.
The first note had come a long time ago, and the first note had said WATCH RICHARD. THERE’S ANOTHER WOMAN! and she had held that note in trembling fingers, standing in the lobby of the building with the sun streaming through the windows over the radiators. She had stared at the neat typescript, and then looked at the envelope again, finding nothing but a Bronx postmark smudged over a picture of George Washington. She had finally slipped the note back into its envelope and buried it at the bottom of her purse.
It had rested there like a hot coal, singeing her memory at irregular intervals while she shopped.
WATCH RICHARD. THERE’S ANOTHER WOMAN!
Boldly shrieking its message in upper case. Firm black letters on a white page.
She had thought about it all that day, wondering first who had sent it, and then wondering why it had been sent. She was not simple-minded, nor was she old-fashioned, but the mysterious informant could not have chosen a better subject than Anne Dadier. For Anne was the type of person who felt uneasy all day long if the phone rang and then stopped ringing before she had a chance to answer it. When she’d been sixteen, a prankster began sending her Secret Pal cards, and she received them regularly, starting with one on Hallowe’en, a card which wished her all the deviltry and merriment befitting the occasion, a card which boasted a printed inkblot over the alleged signature, a card that finally signed itself “Your Secret Pal.” Another had come on Christmas, and then one arrived for no occasion at all, one which just inquired about her health, letting her know her Secret Pal had not forgotten her. On St. Valentine’s Day, her Secret Pal had still not forgotten her, and by this time the receipt of a new card filled her with terror, even though the cards were innocently innocuous. The last card she received was on her birthday. She did not know it would be the last card, and she had almost begun crying when she opened the envelope and recognized the familiar format. She couldn’t understand how anyone could be so mean, how anyone could cause her so much torment, even on her birthday, which should have been a happy day, and which was spoiled by receipt of the probably well-meaning card.
Not knowing it was the last card, she had waited for the next one to arrive, dreading any envelope which bore her name. But her Secret Pal had apparently lost interest, most likely because Anne had never mentioned the cards to anyone. There was no sport in mystery cards unless the recipient fervently sought to discover the identity of the sender. The flow of mysterious correspondence ended, and Anne grew older and perhaps wiser — until this note.
She did not for a moment attribute any truth to the message. There was not another woman, and there was no reason to watch Rick. Richard, as the informant had called him. Richard, which probably indicated that the informant didn’t know Rick very well, or at least did not know him well enough to call him by the name everyone else used.
Watch Richard, indeed. And shall I begin searching his shirts for lipstick stains? Shall I search his pockets? Shall I test his virility, his... well, I can’t very well do that, not at this stage of the game.
The note remained in the bottom of her purse, but it smoldered there like the hot coal it was, and she thought about it further, and she wondered who? and she wondered why? and she found herself thinking that maybe, but that was ridiculous, yet just maybe, no Rick would never, but perhaps, possibly, maybe, who knows, maybe there was just a smidgin, just a tiny bit, just an infinitesimal bit of truth... no, there wasn’t.
Yet why would anyone.
No, there wasn’t.
Still, why would anyone send a note, a malicious thing like that unless...
That’s all it is, just a malicious thing, just someone who wants to cause trouble, that’s all. But who? And why?
To cause trouble, that’s all. That’s why.
BUT WHO? WHO?
And why, her mind persisted, unless there was some truth to it, oh maybe not a lot of truth, but maybe just a little truth, maybe someone saw something that could be misconstrued, or maybe Rick had been a little indiscreet once, or maybe even twice, and he couldn’t very well be blamed for that, not the way things were now, and you could certainly forgive a man for that, I suppose, you could forgive a man if you really loved him, and if there were any truth to the silly note at all, which there wasn’t.