Gina

by Anne Georg

        As has been her routine for her twenty years at Garneau Elementary and Junior High School, Miss Muriel MacCrimmon opens her classroom door at the ring of the morning bell. In the broad hallway twenty-three Grade fivers wait in single file, as she’s trained them.

        Over their innocent heads she spots the junior high math teacher, Mr. Solobsky of the hungry eyes and faucet of sweat gushing from his underarms, splat of wet spreading like a map of Argentina on his shirt. He’s flirting with the pretty young French teacher, Mademoiselle Leroux. In front of the children!

        That woman is inviting his lust: her bottled red hair, thick makeup, ridiculous oversized hoop earrings. Tight sweaters and big necklaces draw attention to her full bosom. Even her accent is suggestive. Although she can’t help that. Muriel questions the school’s judgement in hiring her, but she knows how difficult it is to find French teachers.

        Muriel ushers the children into the classroom and shuts the door to her domain. Five tidy rows of five wooden desks each, walls festooned with images of dinosaurs and maps illustrated with stickers of flora and fauna. Chalked on the blackboard:

                 Wednesday, October 6, 1965
                 Enterprise: Middle Ages
                 Arithmetic: Multiplication table x 7
                 Silent reading: Island of the Blue Dolphins by Scott O’Dell
                 Spelling drill
                 Class story time: Jamba, the Elephant by Theodore J. Waldeck

        It is a quiet day. The children are eager learners, snapping their hands up when she asks a question. Ursula’s is the first hand up. What a change in that girl. She was wrongly placed in the accelerated program last year when her family moved from the country, and she was floundering. Muriel had set up an appointment with Ursula’s mother and they agreed to hold her back a year so the shy, immature child could catch up. It was best for Ursula, who is now outgoing and achieving academically, which is paramount.

        The students are generally well behaved for the first months of the school year. Muriel only needed to clamp her clothes pin onto one absent-minded student’s ear to remind him to shut his desk drawer. She’s rammed her shin on open drawers and ruined her stockings too often to forgive that transgression.

        The children file out of school at four o’clock. Muriel changes the date on the chalkboard and updates the lessons. Satisfied, she inhales the odor of chalk and crayon, polished wood and children, pulls on her coat and catches the bus to the two-storey, family home she and her elder sister, Margo, inherited from their parents.

        Margo is out rehearsing with the church choir. Good. No argument about Muriel’s volunteering for the Voice of Women to knit children’s clothing for Vietnamese victims of war.

        “Why, they’re women’s libbers, Muriel,” Margo had said. “Communists, too, no doubt. Don’t be a silly old fool. Our calling is to help the children’s choir carry a tune. The Lord will bless us for that.”

        Muriel can’t sit idle knowing children are suffering. And if the women’s libbers are helping these poor children, well, she would join them—for that purpose only. She has no intention of becoming a bra-burning man hater. Ridiculous. Not that she has a great deal of respect for most men, who seem to lack in compassion and introspection. The image of Mr. Solobsky invades her thoughts.

        She hangs her work dress ready for tomorrow: calf-length black wool flared skirt, fitted bodice and lace collar. She changes into a navy A-line skirt and white blouse, top button done up. Dons coat and gloves, perches navy pillbox hat on salt-and-pepper bob, still mostly black.

        A shard of shiver pricks the autumnal gust that pushes Muriel through the church basement door. She drapes her coat on her forearm, gives her name to a woman seated at the entrance.

        “Are you an experienced knitter, Muriel? We like to pair someone who knows how to knit with a beginner.”

        “I’m experienced. And I’m a teacher. I’d enjoy helping someone.”

        “I’ve got the perfect fit: a new teacher.” She leads Muriel through the hall effervescent with women at tables in clusters and pairs, knitting, laughing, chatting. On first view, they seem like ordinary women, not loud or ill-kempt as she feared they might be.

        “Muriel, Cheri. Cheri, Muriel. You two should have a lot in common.”

        “What a surprise! Miss MacCrimmon! Sit down! I’m so glad I’m paired with you!” Mademoiselle Leroux’s mascaraed eyes lick Muriel’s face like a puppy. She squeezes Muriel’s arm. Muriel flinches.

        Mademoiselle Leroux. Of all people! “I’m flabbergasted to meet you here, too. Especially since you don’t knit. How did that happen?” Muriel’s eyes avoid Mademoiselle Leroux’s impertinent gaze.

        “I live in a room at the Young Women’s Christian Association. They support this project. They suggested that I join. And I can’t bear the thought of those children being orphaned by the war. It’s the least I can do to help.” She smiles broadly. “And it’s hard to make friends in Edmonton. A woman alone in the city. These are my friends now.” She gestures around her, hot pink lacquered fingernails flickering. “They are a lovely group of women.”

        Muriel hadn’t asked for the young woman’s entire life story! “Let’s begin, shall we? The sooner you learn to knit, the sooner you will be of benefit to those children.” She picks up knitting needles and a blue knot of cotton yarn from a basket at their table, ties the yarn onto a knitting needle and hands them to Mademoiselle Leroux.

        “In knitting we have two stitches, purl and knit.” She picks up her own needles and yarn and begins the lesson. “We’ll begin with knitting.”

        Mademoiselle Leroux scrunches up her face as she tries to grasp the stitch. Muriel nods approvingly at Mademoiselle Leroux’s effort and corrects her as needed. Soon Mademoiselle Leroux finds her rhythm. She is deft with the needles, a quick learner.

        “I heard that you’re an excellent teacher. And now I see it. You’ve made this easy, even fun. Your students are lucky to have you,” Mademoiselle Leroux says. She lays her knitting down, ready to begin talking.

        Muriel is aware she is a good teacher and proud of it. But she refuses to acknowledge Mademoiselle Leroux’s compliment. Keep it formal. Don’t get devoured by Mademoiselle Leroux’s flattery and sucked into her vortex of loneliness and need, and likely political subversion.

        “How are you enjoying our school?”

        “I love teaching. The students are, well, junior highs, you know, especially the boys. I need to teach them respect.”

        If she didn’t wear those suggestive outfits the boys would respect her. And what kind of a role model was she for the girls? Muriel presses her lips together to contain sharp words that threaten to spill. “I’m blessed to have the little ones. They’re still obedient for the most part. I brook no misbehavior in my classroom.”

        She concentrates on her knitting needles to avoid talking. Mademoiselle Leroux resumes her task. Their knitting needles harmonize with the chorus of clicking needles clacking in the church basement. This industriousness pleases Muriel. She smiles into her knitting, breathing in the comforting scent of the yarn, the warmth of the place, the presence of women with purpose.

        “Can we use some of this red thread? Children like bright colours.” Mademoiselle Leroux has put her needles down and is fingering the balls of yarn in the basket.

        “Excellent idea, Mademoiselle Leroux,” Muriel concedes. No doubt Mademoiselle Leroux also likes the bold colour; she’s like a child herself, unable to concentrate, distracted by shiny objects.

        Mademoiselle Leroux again squeezes Muriel’s hand— “Call me Cheri.”

        Oh dear. Muriel stiffens. This relationship is veering into familiarity. She has few friends and reserves her intimacies for her sister. Even with Margo, much is unspoken.

        “Let me show you how to introduce the red yarn into the blue.” Bottled red and salt and pepper heads lean together for the lesson. Before long Mademoiselle Leroux lays down her knitting and sighs.

        “Muriel?”

        Muriel raises her head. Mademoiselle Leroux’s forehead is furrowed, her eyes burrow into Muriel’s.

        “What is it? Did you drop a stitch? Easily fixed. Let me show you.” Muriel extends her arm for Mademoiselle Leroux’s knitting.

        “No, no. The knitting is fine. There’s something I need to talk to someone about. And you are the perfect person. It’s a blessing that we were paired.”

        “Oh?” Alarm floods Muriel. What is this young woman about to reveal? Why her? What has she done to invite this confidence?

        Mademoiselle Leroux inhales sharply. “It’s Mr. Solobsky. His classroom’s next to mine. He’s hard to avoid. I can’t stand his sweaty face and his smell. I don’t think he ever bathes or washes his clothes. And he slobbers over me like a Saint Bernard.”

        “Oh dear. I’m sorry. He’s an awful man.” Muriel’s distaste for Mademoiselle Leroux, already softening with the communal knitting, wavers even more. No one deserves that.

        “It’s bad enough for me. I’m an adult. I don’t like the way he looks at the more developed girls. Have you noticed?”

        “Mademoiselle Leroux! Take the advice of a long-time schoolteacher. Your job is to pay attention to what’s going on in your classroom, so your students excel. Sticking your nose into another teacher’s classroom does nothing for the children.”

        “Cheri. Please.”

        “I stand corrected. Cheri. But that doesn’t change my thoughts on the matter.” Muriel’s hands knit more quickly. Clack clack clack clack. She makes a show of counting stitches, wanting to avoid the younger woman’s gaze.

        “But I can’t look away. They’re my students, too.” Mademoiselle Leroux’s pretty face pleads, her eyes soft. Then they harden. “I know about creeps, Muriel. And Mr. Solobsky is a creep.”

        Mademoiselle Leroux’s soft accent doesn’t fit with the brittleness of the words.

        “I can’t help but agree. But what can I do about it? I can’t go about poking my nose into what is not my business. I simply can’t. It wouldn’t be professional.”

        “He’s trying to seduce Gina Hajek!” Mademoiselle Leroux names a victim, daring Muriel to deflect.

         “Gina Hajek?” Muriel taught her in grade five, a shy girl, struggled academically, but muddled along with help. A beauty and more mature physically than the other girls.

        “Yes. Her. Sweet child. She’s naïve even for thirteen. The way she looks at him—trusting like a kitten! I’ve seen him corner her, like he does me, with his hulk blocking the air around her. I see how he tries to get her alone. He keeps her after school. I’m worried about what will come next.” Mademoiselle Leroux bites her lip, concern a tangled sheen unspooling from her brown eyes.

        “That’s quite an accusation.” Muriel’s voice squirms.

        She longs to be at choir practice with Margo, comfortable, familiar. She is out of her depth here.

        Gina. She recalls Mr. Solobsky in the library hovering over the girl—even last year—giving her ‘special attention’. Muriel had averted her gaze in discomfort, and convinced herself the man was genuinely concerned, giving him the benefit of her doubt, blaming her prejudice against him for her suspicions. Now Mademoiselle—Cheri—Leroux, she of undetermined morals, has taken away that doubt, and Muriel’s ability to look away.

         “I may have noticed an inappropriate interest in Gina.” It’s like a confession. Why say that? Nothing but trouble will come of it. Margo warned her.

        Too late.

        “We have to do something!” Mademoiselle Leroux—Cheri—leans into Muriel, a flood of cheap perfume rippling from her low-cut V-neck sweater, disturbing Muriel’s polite past, pressed lavender flowers of faded scent that crumple to dust under the burden of knowing, a weight that she doesn’t want to carry. Yet. How can she turn away from Gina?

        Without warning, Muriel’s own youth and a lecherous uncle, who had been so kind and attentive when she was a child, flutters through her mind. She’d almost forgotten about him. As she entered her teen-age years, he would press his loathsome body against her developing bosom when he greeted her at family gatherings, and attempt to kiss her on the lips. When Muriel told her mother, she replied, “Careful. That’s my brother you’re speaking ill of. I don’t hear Margo complaining. Perhaps you’re inviting him. Don’t be so forward, child, and he will leave you be.”

        Muriel was ashamed, blamed herself, and never spoke about it again, not even to Margo. All she could do was to go rigid when her uncle hugged her, turn her face away when his tongue sought her mouth, and avoid spending time with him. She wore billowy blouses, pulled her wavy hair tight to constrain it and purposely tempered any feminine attribute that she possessed so he wouldn’t be attracted to her.

        “I have to study,” she’d object when he asked her to go on outings with him. Her mother, keen on ensuring her daughters went to college, would accept her excuses, pleased with her studious daughter. And Muriel, always an enthusiastic student, studied hard and was accepted into teachers’ college and left home. She never saw her uncle again, which suited her fine.

        Muriel had erased those memories, like wiping chalk from a blackboard. Now they reappeared, reminding her of her shame. What will become of Gina should Mr. Solobsky have his way with her? She knows Gina is a latchkey child; her mother needs to work to help support the family, an unfortunate circumstance that has become ever more prevalent.

        “Yes.” Muriel’s voice feels disembodied, like it doesn’t belong to her. Her words suspend in the air between her carefully constrained life and this young woman who cares too much.

        “Are you feeling well?” Cheri pulls fretfully at her dangling beaded necklace.

        “No, I’m not. I’m afraid I have to leave.”

        “I’m sorry.” Cheri leans toward Muriel, peers into her eyes, as if her stare could will Muriel’s wellbeing. “Perhaps we can talk about Gina some other time.”

        Muriel averts her gaze. This young woman is single minded.

        “Let me think about it overnight.” Muriel stands up so quickly she is momentarily lightheaded. To make her departure less abrupt, she adds “You’re a natural knitter, Cheri. I’m glad I was able to assist you. Keep up the good work.”

        Muriel picks up her coat from the back of her chair and hurries from the church basement into the dark night, leaves forced from their branches by a hostile wind, adrift, swirling under the illuminated cones of streetlights.

        Margo is home when Muriel arrives. She’s reading on the couch under the soft beam of a table lamp. Muriel wants to get a television, but Margo is against it. “Just another contraption to distract us.” She lifts her head as Muriel enters the room.

        “Why, Muriel! You look pale as a phantom. Are you quite all right?”

        “I’m feeling a bit lightheaded. You know how I sometimes do.”

        “Let me get you a strong cup of tea.”

        Muriel slumps into the stuffed burgundy armchair, where she remembers her mother sitting when Muriel told her about her uncle’s advances. Margo brings tea in their grandmother’s bone china brought from Scotland by their parents when they emigrated to Canada.

        “Margo?”

        “Yes?”

        “Do you remember Uncle Stanley?”

        “Of course. He was a jolly chap who was especially fond of you. I was always jealous.”

        “What else do you remember about him?”

        “Just that Papa wouldn’t let him take you to his cottage at the lake because you had to study. I wanted to go, but he wouldn’t let me either. I was so angry with him. He said it was out of the question. And Mama—unusually—respected his wishes. Uncle Stanley rarely came around after that.”

        So, Papa knew. Mama must have told him. And they had protected her!

        “Why do you ask?”

        “Oh, just that one of our teachers at school reminds me of him.”

        “And how was your day? I’m curious about your session with the women’s libbers. Were they braless? Shouting Marxist slogans?” Margo chuckles.

        “No need to be sarcastic, Margo. They seemed normal. Friendly. And they’re working on a useful project. I’m pleased I went—and I intend on returning. How was your day?”

        “Seven strapping howling babies have joined us on Earth as God’s creatures. Seven mothers fulfilling their womanly role. A blessing.” As a child Margo had always wanted to be a mother, playing with dolls, choosing the names of her offspring to-be. “Nathaniel if it’s a boy. We’ll call him Nate. And Muriel, after you, if it’s a girl.” But their mother, always cautious about her daughters and boys who “would amount to nothing”, discouraged her girls from dating, pushing them instead to academic achievement. Probably because of her disappointment with what she considered their father’s underachievement. Even though their father worked at a decent job as a typesetter at the Edmonton Journal, and they had a good home, wanting for nothing. Her mother had unattainable and undefined aspirations for her husband, and when the newspaper began using phototypesetting and he’d found only sporadic work with smaller presses, her dissatisfaction grew. She would ensure that her daughters were not held back by a husband.

        Margo never met the man who could father her children. Instead, she became a nurse and took joy in other women’s babies. Muriel, bespectacled and bookish, had little time for the flirtation and compromise demanded for courtship and marriage. She was repelled by most men, by their overt sex. And she pitied them in the sad image of her father, struggling to find work, bullied by her mother, obedient, forlorn, lost.

        Muriel spends a sleepless night, sheets winding around her as she shifts from one position to another and the clock downstairs tolls hour by hour. Gina, Margo, Mademoiselle Leroux, Mr. Solobsky, her uncle, her mother and father gyrate though her garbled thoughts till the thin shafts of autumn sunlight filter through her window to liberate her from the turmoil of the night. She rises, weary, without the certainty she possessed yesterday morning.

        Her sister is in the kitchen in her uniform, drinking the last gulp of coffee from her cup, ready to leave for her shift at the hospital.

        “Oh dear, Muriel. You look a wreck!”

        “Yes. I couldn’t sleep. Must have been the tea.”

        “That’s unusual for you. I hope you’re not coming down with something. Take your temperature, will you?”

        “Yes. I will. And you have a good day bringing children into the world.”

        Margo places her starched white cap on her greying curls. “From the pain of woman comes the miracle of life!” An expression Margo takes pleasure in repeating.

        How uncomplicated. Muriel feels a tweak of envy given the day of tangles and knots that lies ahead of her.

        As she ushers her students into her classroom, she sees Mr. Solobsky’s wolfish grin, long legs covering the distance between Mademoiselle Leroux’s and his classrooms in two overwrought strides. Already his underarm sweat seeps through the fabric of his shirt. She notes Mademoiselle Leroux, firmly placing her hand on the back of the last dawdling student to hurry him into the classroom. Too slow. Mr. Solobsky catches her arm, says something and laughs loudly. Muriel sees Mademoiselle Leroux flinch. How has she not noticed Mademoiselle Leroux’s discomfort before? It is clear to Muriel now. The overbearing man intimidates and repels the young French teacher.

        The morning chafes ragged on Muriel. She is short with Ursula for daydreaming, and the girl begins to cry. “Go to the cloakroom with your tears, Ursula.” She can find no sympathy within her. “How is it that you cannot spell that word after weeks of practice?” she reprimands another student, as she wipes ‘brisklie’ off the blackboard. His face flushes with shame, and with head down he shuffles back to his desk.

        “Anyone else care to try?” Muriel’s voice rises brittle, bitter, challenging. No hands shoot up. She is relieved when the lunch bell rings. Her students hurry out of the classroom, not lingering to tell her an anecdote, or to ask a question as one or two of them normally would.

        She eats her egg salad sandwich without tasting it and lays her head on her desk, soon dozing.

        “Knock, knock.” Cheri’s voice jolts her. She yanks her head from the desk, jarring her neck.

        “I knew you were in here and I knocked but you didn’t answer.” Mademoiselle Leroux’s too-sweet perfume accosts Muriel, her cheerful voice grates. She is wearing a blue floral scarf around her head and looks ridiculous, like a Bohemian. Muriel glares at her. Mademoiselle Leroux doesn’t notice. She’s too self-involved, too excited. She prattles on.

        “After you left the knitting bee last night, I spoke to a couple of the women I know about Gina. They’re both schoolteachers. They gave me a good solution to our problem.”

        Now it has become Muriel’s problem, and she is in no mood to take it on. “I slept poorly last night, and the children were difficult this morning. Can this wait?” She doesn’t attempt to hide her irritation. Rubs her stiff neck fearing she may develop a painful kink.

        “Oh. I’m so sorry to have barged in on your nap.” Clearly not sorry, Mademoiselle Leroux rushes in and sits in a desk directly facing Muriel. If it weren’t for the bosom, she would almost look like a grade five student, so petite is she, and so brightly, shiningly keen.

        “I promise I’ll leave as soon as I’ve told you. I can’t hold it in.” She takes a deep breath. “I’m sure it will work. It’s so simple I’m surprised I haven’t already thought of it.”

        “Go on then, if you must. But a synopsis will do, if you don’t mind. I have to prepare for this afternoon.”

         Undeterred, Mademoiselle Leroux launches into her plans to save Gina. “I set up a meeting with Gina’s parents and I’m going to offer her extra tutoring in French that I will provide after school. I won’t be lying. It’s true. That way Mr. Solobsky won’t get to be alone with her after school. Is that not simple?”

        “And have you passed this by Mr. Stauffer? This action feels hasty.” But Muriel is relieved it doesn’t involve her. “I wish you the best of luck.” Muriel stands, a signal to dismiss Mademoiselle Leroux.

        “Hasty? No. It’s fantastic!” Mademoiselle Leroux leaps from the desk, and throws her arms around the older woman, once again jarring Muriel’s neck. Muriel winces with pain.

        “I’m so glad we’re going to save Gina!”

        Muriel places her arms around Mademoiselle Leroux attempting to avoid contact with her breasts, stiffly pats her back.

        “Yes. Me too. Now I have to get ready. The bell is about to ring, and I still have work to do.”

        “Au revoir, ma chère amie!” Mademoiselle Leroux scurries out of the classroom in her determined mission to save Gina.

        Tired and listless, and shamed by her curtness with the children and Mademoiselle Leroux, Muriel allows the students an afternoon of silent reading and time to do their homework, followed by a lengthy story time in which she finishes Jamba the Elephant. After she dismisses her students at the end of the day, she goes to the school library to return the book before heading home. There she sees Mr. Solobsky, arm around the chair on which Gina is sitting, their heads close together, his slick and dark, hers soft and blonde. She can hear Mr. Solobsky murmur. Gina giggles. The sharp smell of his cologne overpowers the dusty vanilla scent of books in the library. Tired as she is, the scene of a colleague seducing an unwitting girl alarms her. The librarian is stocking shelves and unaware. Of course, she would not think she needs to monitor a teacher helping a student.

        Muriel walks toward Mr. Solobsky and Gina, compelled to act, uncertain what she will say.

        “Hello Mr. Solobsky, Gina. You’re here late. Perhaps I can walk you to the bus stop, Gina, so you can get home before dark. The days are so much shorter now.”

        “Oh, that’s alright, Miss McCrimmon.” Gina swings her head, looks to Mr. Solobsky, her long sandy hair swishes along with the movement. “We’re studying for the social studies test tomorrow. Right, Mr. Solobsky?”

        “Yes, Gina is right. Her mother has asked me to help her. I’ll make sure she gets home safely.” He smiles at Muriel. A snake snapping a forked tongue from a grinning mouth. “And you’re here late too, Miss MacCrimmon.”

        “Yes. Returning a book.”

        She stands hovering above the two of them. Unable to move. Gina’s mother asked him?

        They are silent, eyes down. Muriel clears her throat.

        “Until tomorrow then.” Muriel rushes away and wishes Mademoiselle Leroux’s plan to unfold quickly.

        Troubled, she forgoes the bus, walks home in the autumn afternoon, sun retreating quickly and the trees almost bare now after last night’s storm. A walk will clear her head and allow her to think. But her thoughts repeat themselves in an endless fruitless spiral and she opens the door to an empty house, agitated. Margo has not yet arrived, which is unusual, but Muriel is grateful that her intuitive sister is not there to observe her.

        She makes a grilled cheese sandwich and opens Doris Lessing’s latest book, The Golden Notebook, while distractedly chewing and swallowing her meal. She moves to the stuffed couch in the living room, flicks on the old, tasselled lamp and lays back on plush burgundy cushions to resume her reading.

        Muriel awakes with a start as Margo takes the book off her lap. “You fell asleep while you were reading again. You and your novels. What a waste of a good mind.” She reads the cover and tosses the book onto the coffee table.

        “How can you read that woman? She’s radical. I fear for your soul, Muriel. It’s late now. Go to bed.”

        Margo pulls Muriel from the couch and leads her to the staircase. Muriel, stiff-necked, blurry-eyed, thick with sleep, allows herself to be led. Still in a fog, she changes into her white cotton nightgown and falls into a deep sleep.

        She awakes, rested, stretches, feels the kink in her neck that has developed, reminding her of yesterday. She dresses with dread and goes downstairs where her sister is unusually cheerful, singing “What a Friend We Have in Jesus” in her trilling voice. The sizzle of frying eggs, gurgle of percolating coffee, and the warm aroma of bread toasting envelop Muriel as she walks into the spacious kitchen, the overhead light brightening the dark of the morning.

        “Good morning, Margo. You’re chirping. It must be your day off.”

        “Indeed, it is. And a good morning to you too.” Still humming the song, she slides a plate of eggs and toast across the yellow Formica table. “There is something I need to tell you, Muriel. Sit down.” Pours Muriel and herself coffee, releasing its rich dark scent.

        “Black like your heart. Just the way you like it,” Margo quips, chuckles at her wit.

        Muriel has never seen her wry, stern sister quite this cheery. She realizes she is hungry and gratefully eats the breakfast.

        “Go on. Tell me your news.” She wipes the dripping yolk off her plate with a piece of toast, savours the golden flavour.

        “There’s a doctor at the hospital. Widowed. I’ve told you about him before.”

        “Dr. Harrison, the widower with the two young children. Yes. You’ve mentioned him.”

        Margo looks directly at Muriel, a smile playing on her lips. “We’ve become quite close since he’s been assigned to the labour and delivery unit.”

        “I’m happy to hear that you work well together.”

        “It’s more than that, Muriel.” Margo, takes a deep breath, clasps her hands at her chest. Last night he—Bryce—asked me to marry him.”

        Muriel inhales the coffee she is drinking. It scalds her throat. She coughs it up, spattering the bitter liquid all over the table, bits of toast and egg spraying from her lips.

        “Oh dear! I didn’t expect that reaction!” Margo is at Muriel’s back, slapping it. She grabs a dish towel hanging on the oven door to wipe up the mess on the kitchen table.

        “Yes. It’s quite a surprise,” Muriel squawks, even as her throat burns. “But you’re almost forty. Isn’t it late for all that?” She wipes her chin with a cotton napkin.

        “It’s never too late to love. He’s kind. He’s a good churchgoing man. And he needs help with the children. I intend to accept his offer. I wanted you to be the first to know.”

        Muriel attempts to collect herself. She searches for what to say, strangles on her words.

        “This is so sudden.” Awkward. “Congratulations.” She stammers, coughs into the napkin. Her eyes sting. She feels herself harden with an emotion she’s unfamiliar with. Jealousy? Fear?

        “I’ve never known you to be secretive,” Muriel says. “I’m disappointed that you haven’t been more forthcoming with me.” She gets up from her chair. “I’ll be off now. I have a bus to catch.”

        As she hurries from the kitchen, Margo follows and stays as Muriel dons her coat and hat.

        “Of course. I’m sorry for not being more forthright. I didn’t want to blab about it before we were certain. It seemed, I don’t know, unseemly. I hope you can forgive me.”

        “Have a lovely day, Margo.” Muriel shuts the door behind her, crosses the wide veranda, and out on the street she inhales the sharp hint of frost in the air.

        Why was she so abrupt at her sister’s obvious happiness? She is completely out of sorts. Quite unsettled. Unlike herself.

        The sun is rising and the sky erupts in fuchsia and lemon, tangerine and scarlet. What she would normally find delightful is savage, a painful bruise on the day, accosting her eyes.

        Muriel doesn’t know how she arrived at the red brick school. The turmoil of her mind has become vertiginous, spinning, spinning, spinning out of its orbit, into chaos. She is thankful that it’s Friday. Only one more day in front of the class. It’s rare that Muriel looks forward to the weekend but ever since Mademoiselle Leroux told her about Gina—three days stretched like an elastic band, taut and threatening to snap. And now Margo. Getting married!

        Muriel longs to escape on long walks in the autumn gold or reading novels for hours.

        She barely has time to hang up her coat before the bell rings. She hasn’t even wiped the blackboard of yesterday’s lesson to write today’s work for the children. Everything feels like a chore and her students notice. When she opens the door, they file to their desks, silent, tense, mirroring her own demeanor. Muriel wipes yesterday’s lessons from the blackboard.

        Mr. Schaeffer’s voice greets the children from the intercom, reminding them they will be released at noon today for the Thanksgiving long weekend. He announces that it’s time to sing the national anthem. The children rise and raise their voices in song, familiar and uplifting. Then they bow their heads to say The Lord’s Prayer. Then they salute the flag. Their day begins in a ritual, as it should, and gives Muriel a few moments to find the rhythm of routine that the children rely on in her classroom. The upheaval of her life shouldn’t affect them.

        “Open your arithmetic workbooks to page eighteen. We’ll work on your times eight table.” Instead of the flipping of pages she would normally hear, there is only an uncertain scuffle of feet beneath desks, a flutter of turned heads, a murmuring. She looks up from her own workbook and sees the faces of her bewildered students.

        Only Ursula has the nerve to say anything, albeit timidly. “Miss MacCrimmon. It’s Friday. We have gym.”

        “Of course. Thank you, Ursula. I don’t know where my mind is today. Quickly line up in twos and let’s go to the gym.”

        The gym teacher awaits them. Humiliated at her oversight, Muriel stammers an apology and returns to her classroom, happy to be alone for an hour to organize the day’s work. And a short one it will be. Teachers have the afternoon to tidy their classrooms and attend to the details of teaching, a new system-wide time allotment. When she’s released the children at noon, she realizes that she’s forgotten her lunch. Possibly for the first time in twenty years. She can’t remember ever forgetting her lunch. She’ll just run over to Windsor Bowl and Grill to buy a sandwich that she will bring back to her classroom to eat.

        She pulls on her coat, careful not to aggravate her stiff neck, and rushes from the school using the Girls Entrance, and crosses the street to the bowling alley and restaurant. She pulls open the door to the restaurant to the scent of hamburgers and French fries and walks to the dark wooden counter that forms a long oblong in the middle of the restaurant. A young man takes her order, while she waits on an orange-padded stool for her hamburger to go. She swirls around on it. Even in her peevish frame of mind, she enjoys the sensation, feels childlike, almost free. The rotating stool allows her to see through the windows into the bowling alley. There’s Mr. Solobsky and Gina, their backs toward her! Mr. Solobsky’s body curls against Gina’s back as he guides her in throwing the bowling ball down the narrow alleyway. Muriel freezes, staring at the cozy scene. The bowling ball careens into the gutter. Gina turns to face Mr. Solobsky, giggling at her flub. She’s wearing a snug pink turtleneck sweater revealing her fully bloomed bosom. Mr. Solobsky must be saying something. Gina lowers her eyes, demure. Muriel imagines Mr. Solobsky appreciating this submissive girl’s breasts.

        “Ma’am, your burger. That’ll be twenty-two cents.” Muriel spins around, embarrassed at witnessing Mr. Solobsky and Gina’s illicit intimacy, grateful at the interruption.

        She takes the hamburger wrapped in tinfoil, goes to the till, shakily pulls out the coins from her change purse and bolts from the restaurant. She steps off the curb at the crosswalk and a car screeches and honks. She gasps. Jumps back. She hadn’t even noticed the red pedestrian light, so muddled is she by her somersaulting thoughts.

        Now what? Muriel becomes annoyed at Mademoiselle—Cheri—Leroux. What is she waiting for? The situation is unravelling faster than a ball of yarn. Muriel moves quickly when the light turns green, thrusts her hamburger into her coat pocket and beelines for Mademoiselle Leroux’s classroom, rushing in to find her slumped at her desk, staring out of the window.

        “Oh dear. You look deflated. Are you well?”

        “Muriel. I’m glad you came,” Mademoiselle Leroux answers, her voice dispirited.

        “What is it, Mademoiselle Leroux? What’s upset you?” Muriel slides into the metal frame desks that the junior high school’s students have begun using. No desk drawers that open into the aisles. Everything is tucked in a compartment under the shiny wooden desk surface.

        “Please call me Cheri. I insist.”

        “Of course. I’m sorry for forgetting.” Would she ever become accustomed to this informality?

        Cheri raises her head, listless. Her eyes lack the sparkle Muriel has come to expect from her.

        “I’m afraid we’ve lost Gina. I had a conversation with Mrs. Hajek. About the after-school tutoring. Remember?”

        “Yes, I do. I came to talk to you about that,” Muriel says. There have been developments.”

        “Well,” Cheri continues. “She spoke to Gina and it appears that girl is already receiving tutoring from Mr. Solobsky and wants to continue with him. She told her mother that she ‘loves’ his lessons and is learning so much from him. Mrs. Hajek has already contacted the school to give Gina permission to stay after school with him.” Cheri’s disheartened gaze meets Muriel’s dismay.

        “Oh dear. That certainly is terrible news. And it explains everything.”

        “Yes. I know. I’m not sure there’s anything more we can do now.” She sighs wearily, looking less like an adolescent, more like the adult she is. “And what developments did you come to see me about? What do you mean ‘explains everything’?”

        “I’m not sure you want to hear.”

        “Probably not. But tell me anyway.”

        “I’ve seen the two of them, yesterday at the library and today at the Windsor bowling alley. Like conspirators, in their own world. So improper. And your conversation with Mrs. Hajek explains why he is so audacious, taking her off the school grounds. And Gina’s taken to wearing tight sweaters that he appears to relish. Worse, his attention to her chest seems to please her. It’s disturbing. I was so distracted, I crossed the street at a red light and was almost hit by a car!”

        “Mon Dieu.” Cheri shakes her head, her pretty face pale, grim. “I don’t know what to do. It bothers me to watch that girl be seduced by that creep and be helpless to stop it.”

        Muriel could never abide helplessness. “We’re not helpless.” She cups her chin in her hand, stares through Cheri. It seemed obvious to talk to the mother. How unfortunate that failed. They need to escalate their action.

        “I think it would behoove us to talk to Mr. Schaeffer about our suspicions. We should have done that right away. I haven’t been thinking clearly. He’s the principal after all, and no doubt he’s not aware of Mr. Solobsky’s intentions. What do you think?”

         “I thought about it. I thought he might not believe us.” Cheri brightens. “But you know him better than I do. And if you think it’s a good idea, then I like it!” Her face becomes animated. “He’s in his office now. I saw him. This might be the perfect time to talk to him.”

        “Of course he’ll believe us. Let’s go.” Muriel slides out of the desk. She and Cheri stride from the classroom down the hallway into the principal’s office. The secretary has been sent home and Mr. Schaeffer’s office door is ajar.

        Muriel takes the lead. She has a good understanding with Mr. Schaeffer, who has been in his role for longer than she has been at the school. He is old-fashioned and she respects his steadfastness and fair discipline. He administers the strap only if the teacher can make a strong case for the corporal punishment. Generally, he prefers after-school detentions, which are not popular among the teaching staff as they prefer to leave their classrooms when their day is done. Mr. Schaeffer often supervises the most errant students in his own office and takes upon himself the difficult task of informing parents of their children’s transgressions, which the teachers appreciate.

        “Knock knock,” Muriel says, standing at the doorway. The room is wood paneled. Behind his desk is a large portrait of Queen Elizabeth painted at the time of her inauguration. The new red and white Canadian flag hangs on a pole in a corner.

        Mr. Schaeffer lifts his narrow head, sparse, tiny ashen sticks of hair growing on the balding orb. He reaches for a bookmark with his long, well manicured fingers, places it in the page, and closes the book he has been reading.

        “Hello, Miss MacCrimmon. Please come in.” His tone is courteous, and his deep-set grey eyes mirror his serious nature.

        “I’m here with Mademoiselle Leroux.”

        “Ahh. Mademoiselle Leroux. Please, ladies. Come in and take a seat. Miss MacCrimmon, hang your coat on the rack.” Muriel feels the weight of her uneaten hamburger in her pocket as she hangs her coat and is reminded of her missed lunch. She hopes her stomach doesn’t begin to growl. Mr. Schaeffer is friendly, gestures to two wooden chairs across from his desk, and Cheri and Muriel sit. Cheri is flushed from nervousness.

        “Are you enjoying the time I’ve given you to organize?” A benevolent smile flickers across his thin lips.

        “Oh yes. It’s very helpful.” Muriel responds while Cheri sits frozen in her seat, seemingly at a lack of words. It will be up to Muriel to explain their concerns.

        “How can I help you?” He takes off his reading glasses and leans back onto his chair and regards them.

        “Mr. Schaeffer. We’ve come to you because we are concerned about Gina Hajek.”

        “She’s in my French class.” Cheri interrupts, becoming animated, face flushed, words tumble out. “I’m concerned about her. We—we’re concerned about her.”

        “Yes, I taught her in Grade five and have been watching her progress. Cheri brought her concerns to me.” Muriel realizes that her connection to the girl is tenuous. Perhaps it’s better Cheri does the talking. “Go on Mademoiselle Leroux,” she prompts the young teacher.

        “Mr. Schaeffer.” Cheri’s eyes are large and gleaming, her teeth bite her lip, her hands fidget with her necklace; she shifts in her seat as she launches into her story. “I’ve been keeping an eye on Gina. She has some struggles in French, but nothing I can’t help her with.”

        “What seems to be the problem, then?” Mr. Schaeffer furrows his already deeply lined forehead. His mouth turns down.

        “Mr. Schaeffer.” Cheri is breathing rapidly, shallow. The flush on her face deepens and Muriel notes perspiration beading on her forehead.

        “I’ve noticed one of the male teachers behaving—well—behaving—indecently— towards her. Taking an inappropriate interest in her.” Her voice trembles.

        Muriel fears that Cheri may begin to cry. Was this a wise course of action? The young woman can hardly control her emotions.

        Too late. Here they are.

        Mr. Schaeffer abruptly leans forward, elbows on his desk, eyes reflecting hostility.

        “What are you saying Mademoiselle Leroux? Who are you talking about? And how do you describe indecent? Inappropriate?” His voice emerges strained, strange. Not the pleasant tone he used when inviting them in and making them comfortable.

        “Mr. Solobsky. He’s all hands and Gina is—Gina is— well—she’s very well developed and—and Mr. Solobsky spends a lot of time alone with her. And well—I don’t think—his intentions are—well—purely academic.”

        Mr. Schaeffer’s body jerks to rigidity. His normally modulated voice booms.

        “That is quite the accusation to hurl at one of our senior teachers, Mademoiselle Leroux. How can you know what his intentions are? Gina’s mother recently called me requesting that Mr. Solobsky tutor Gina in her academics after school because of his exemplary skills. Are you telling me this is a ruse?” Mr. Schaeffer’s anger spirals. “This is very serious indeed. Very serious. You are maligning a teacher of mine whom I admire greatly. What evidence do you have to back up your charge?”

        “I—I’ve seen him put his arm around her—and how he looks at her.” Cheri is wilting as quickly as a cut wildflower.

        “Well. If that’s a sin, then surely, we are all going to Hell.” Muriel startles at Mr. Schaeffer’s vehemence. In all their years together, she has never seen him this ruffled, not even when Mr. Jackson, the junior high science teacher and a former boxer struck a boy in the face and broke his nose. Not even when Mrs. Brightly, the junior high music teacher suffered a nervous breakdown while her unruly class mocked her. She had to be taken away by an ambulance.

        This is all turning out badly. What had she been thinking? That reporting Mr. Solobsky would be straightforward and easily understood? Muriel needs to come to Cheri’s rescue.

        “I have seen him with her at Windsor Grill and they appeared to be very intimate. It alarmed me given Cheri’s—Mademoiselle Leroux’s—suspicions. She approached me a few days ago and I too have become concerned about the time Mr. Solobsky and Gina are spending alone together.”

        Mr. Schaeffer stands up pushing his chair roughly. Ominous in its wrath, his six-foot-six frame in gray suit and tie and white shirt looms over them.

        “Your suspicions are what appear inappropriate to me.” He glares at the two women. “Perhaps you’re jealous of the girl. Perhaps you’d prefer Mr. Solobsky pay attention to you!” His pallid complexion turns florid. He slams his hand on his desk.

        Muriel jumps in her seat. Cheri gasps. The radiators rattle and emit a burning metallic odour. The small over-heated office is stifling. Muriel feels perspiration prickle under her arms and around her lace collar.

        Mr. Schaeffer’s voice rises, strains. “I will not have you cast any aspersions on anyone on my staff without concrete evidence of wrongdoing. Please leave my office immediately. I have a good mind to suspend the two of you. I’ll be examining my options. Shut the door behind you.”

        The women tumble from his office and Muriel feels his eyes penetrate their backs with his disgust. She shuts the door and follows Cheri across the hallway and into her classroom, where the young woman is crumpled over her desk, emitting wracking anguished sobs.

        Muriel comes from a lineage of Presbyterian Scots who believed in a stiff upper lip and an equally stiff spine. She has never seen a grown woman so upset. Few tears were shed in her home. Crying was not indulged. It was discouraged as a weakness to be purged young. Muriel recalls poor Margo in tears when Mother chided her for her poor report card. Mother slapped Margo and sent her distraught from the table without finishing her dinner.

        Muriel carries the genetic distaste for the tears to her students, although on occasion she has comforted them on the death of a family pet or a relative. Usually, she asks them to go to the cloakroom to recover their composure.

        She moves toward the heaving heap in front of her.

        “Oh dear. Dear, dear.” She must find the words to console her colleague, yet she is incapable. She extends a tentative arm. Pats the distraught woman on the back, awkward and uncomfortable.

        “I’m sorry I was so wrong about Mr. Schaeffer. He was so cruel. You shouldn’t take it to heart. You’ve done what you can for Gina. Perhaps we need to move on from this unfortunate situation.”

        “How can you say that?” Cheri erupts from her chair. Eyes confrontational, wild, smudged with mascara, face blotchy from crying, lips quivering, her body trembling. She slams her hand on the desk. Muriel jumps for the second time that afternoon.

         “He’s horrible and old and blind! He spoke to us like naughty children! And he’ll use his power over us to protect Mr. Solobsky. We’re the ones who will lose our positions and that creep will still be here, preying on girls. That’s the way it is. Men always win. And women cower. I hate it! I hate him!”

        “Oh dear.” How silly to keep repeating the same empty words! But what can she say? It’s true. Cheri makes valid points. Women are accused of being weak, hysterical and in need of guidance; men confident, rational, always right and ready to guide a pretty girl. Muriel sees it clearly now, how Mr. Schaeffer rendered their concern a weakness to be punished and Mr. Solobsky above reproach.

        “It’s easy for you to be calm.” Cheri fumes. “Nothing will happen to you. Oh, maybe a slap on the wrist. But me? I’m on probation and I’ll be fired.” She wails. “I need this job. I can’t go back home. I will never go back there. Never.” She slumps down again onto her chair, head in hands, sobs. Muriel plucks a tissue from the box on the corner of Cheri’s desk, holds it out to her.

        “Gather yourself, Cheri. You’ll see. Everything will work out.”

        Cheri jerks her head up. Looks at the tissue, ignores it.

        “Everything will work out.” She sneers at Muriel. “Platitudes! Everything will not work out. I will never get another job in Edmonton. And I can’t go back home. You have no idea what it’s like in that town. The gossip. The righteousness. I won’t go back there. And what about Gina? What will happen to her? She’ll get pregnant. Then they’ll see. But it will be too late.”

        Cheri’s bellows fizzle to whimpers that trail away to sniffles. Her tears are drained, her anger exhausted. She looks up at Muriel, accepts the tissue offered and blows her nose loudly.

        “It’s a mess. But you know what? I don’t regret it. Damn them both, Mr. Solobsky and Mr. Schaeffer.”

        “Oh dear.” The swearing, the disrespect for their principal, even Mr. Solobsky.

        “Quit saying that!” Cheri’s anger explodes again. “What you don’t know, Miss MacCrimmon, is that I was a Gina. I got seduced by an older man who made me pregnant. My parents threw me out of my home, said I caused disrepute to the family. Hah. They sided with the man who forced himself on me, whose baby I was carrying. I hated them as much as I hated him. I was only eighteen. A high school senior. Full of fun and hope.” Her eyes spit naked loathing.

        “I’m so sorry.” Muriel stammers.

        “Pregnant. Abandoned by my family. Nowhere to go. A good Samaritan brought me to the Young Women’s Christian Association in Edmonton. They sent me to the Misericordia Home for Unwed Mothers. You’d think I’d done the raping. That’s how they treated me. Forced me to do other people’s laundry because I was to be grateful they’d saved a fallen, weak-minded girl like me. Then they put me in a room alone when I went into labour.” She glares at Muriel. “You shake your head in disbelief. But oh yes, that’s what they did. And when they did come and check on me, they said I deserved the pain and much more because I was a slut. I never saw the baby. I was glad they took it away from me.”

        Cheri’s hardened face confronts Muriel. “Now do you understand why I don’t want Mr. Solobsky anywhere near Gina? I know how this will end. Mr. Solobsky will go home to his decent wife and children. Gina will be forever shunned.”

        Muriel flounders, out of her depth in the face of this young woman’s horrific story.

         “I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say. I see why you’re distressed but I don’t know what to do. How terrible, Cheri.”

        “Don’t feel sorry for me. I learned to be strong. I had to. I went back to the Young Women’s Christian Association and stayed there while I took my teacher training. I’m still there.” Cheri’s anger is ebbing. “I’m hoping to save enough money to rent an apartment this year. I don’t know what I’ll do if I lose my job.” She burbles and sniffles, wipes her tears with the back of her hand, leaving a streak of black mascara on her cheek. “Gina haunts me. Mr. Solobsky repulses me. And Mr. Schaeffer enrages me.”

        Muriel is moved by the fierce emotion of this young woman. Her whole life Muriel has docilely accepted the authority of others. Even when they are not on her side. Even when they are contemptuous of her. She accepted that Mr. Schaeffer took credit for giving them the afternoon off from the children, when it was the Teachers Association that instituted that. She cups her chin in her hand and slides into her own thoughts. And the obvious comes to her.

        “You know Cheri, Mr. Schaeffer can’t fire me or you. We’re teachers. We are part of an association that has rules about that. A principal can’t punish his staff as he wishes. And you’re right. He dismissed us without even considering Mr. Solobsky’s behaviour. Did you hear him suggest that we were jealous?” Muriel scoffs. “You are so right, my Cheri. I’m beginning to become furious myself. I’m going to have a few words with Mr. Schaeffer. You wait right here. All is not lost. Nothing is lost.”

        Muriel pivots. Her back straight, she marches out of Cheri’s classroom, a soldier with a mission. She strides across the hallway, her face set with purpose, her neck surprisingly free. She reaches the principal’s door and knocks, doesn’t wait for an answer. Opens the door.

        Mr. Schaeffer stands when she enters. His face disarranged at her abrupt entrance.

        “Miss MacCrimmon. I’m glad you’ve returned. I want you to know how disappointed I am in you, the senior teacher, to have indulged this young hysterical teacher in her fantasies. I imagine you’ve come to apologize.”

        Muriel reaches for her coat, slings it around her forearm, turns and glares at the principal. “No, Mr. Schaeffer, I have not come to apologize. It is you who owe me and Mademoiselle Leroux an apology. You dismissed out of hand our valid concerns for a young girl—a student in this school under our supervision. Your supervision. We are in the classroom and in the hallways. We see what is going on. You had no right to speak to us like that.”

        “Why, Miss MacCrimmon. This is unbecoming—”

        “What is unbecoming is your defense of a vile act that is occurring under your watch. Mark my words, Mr. Schaeffer, the Teachers Association will hear of this. You have overstepped your authority by threatening us with disciplinary action for bringing our concerns to you. You owe it to Gina and her parents to investigate our allegations. That’s all I have to say. Enjoy your Thanksgiving.”

        Muriel stifles a giggle on noting the queen’s crown in the portrait behind Mr. Schaeffer appears to sit atop his head. She walks out of the office leaving him looking ridiculous. She skips across the hallway to Cheri’s classroom, elated by her act of defiance. She shuts the door and leans against it, puts her hand over her mouth in disbelief at her audacity and the power surging through her livened body with every pounding heartbeat, every throbbing pulse. She hardly recognizes herself, this defiant and giddy woman.

        “I feel positively merry!”

        Cheri looks quizzically at her.

        “Thank you, Cheri. I needed your fury to make me act. And Mr. Schaeffer needed to be put into his place. We have nothing to worry about. We’ll keep our eye on Mr. Solobsky. We’ll keep notes and we’ll take them right to the Teachers Association. If anyone’s going to lose their jobs, it’s those men. And rightfully so.” Muriel smiles as broadly as she ever has. A hunger pang gnaws at her stomach. She remembers the hamburger wrapped in foil in her coat pocket. She pulls it out.

        “I’m starving.” She sits in the desk facing Cheri, unwraps the burger, still warmish in its tinfoil wrapper.

        “You know, Cheri, my sister is getting married. She’s forty and seems to have fallen in love. Can you imagine that?” She takes a bite from her hamburger, enjoying the juicy texture in her mouth, the fatty flavour. Juice runs down her chin and she takes a tissue from the box on Cheri’s desk to wipe it off.

        “I’ll have that big old house to myself.” She looks at Cheri and feels compassion for this young woman who has shown such bravery in surviving banishment from her family, the humiliation of an out-of-wedlock pregnancy and such fortitude in completing her teacher’s degree. Why not offer her solace? Wouldn’t she, Muriel, benefit from companionship, now that Margo is leaving?

        Muriel ponders. Best not to be too hasty.

        “Tell me, would you be interested in coming to my house for Thanksgiving dinner? My sister, Margo, always makes a turkey and I supply the mashed potatoes, cranberries and Brussel sprouts. It’s truly a feast. And I’m sure Margo’s new fiancé will be there too.”

        Cheri looks at Muriel. “In spite of everything you know about me? You’d invite me to be with your family. I’ve always had the impression that you disapproved of me.”

        “Dear Cheri. My disapproval came from not knowing you. Now that I know you better, I believe you are a woman with a strong moral compass. And that you have overcome so much speaks volumes for your character.” She smiles at Cheri. “I’d be honoured to have you accept my offer.”

        Cheri’s face lights up. “Thank you, Muriel. I accept. I haven’t had a family Thanksgiving in a long time.”

*  *  *

        Mr. Schaeffer stands flabbergasted by Miss MacCrimmon’s outburst. She appeared to be such a sensible woman. She’d always adhered to the rules, respected his authority, kept her students disciplined, and was well thought of by the parents. Mademoiselle Leroux has somehow corrupted her. This young French woman from northern Alberta. He’d not been keen on hiring her, but French was now a required course in junior high and there were few teachers available who spoke French.

        And now he has a problem on his hands. Rebellious, the two of them. Challenging his authority. And Miss MacCrimmon is unfortunately correct. The Teachers Association would prevent him from disciplining them. They could open an investigation. Not that it would reveal any wrongdoing on the part of Mr. Solobsky, of that Mr. Schaeffer is sure.

        Agitated, he takes his coat from the rack, locks the office door and walks down the stairs through the Boys Entrance to the parking lot where he gets into his pale blue Chevrolet Impala. He sits for a moment, clears his head, turns the key and steers out of the school grounds toward home. His route takes him down a residential street.

        A red Ford Mustang catches his eye. That looks like Mr. Solobsky’s. Mr. Schaeffer checks his wristwatch. Shouldn’t he still be at school?

        Indeed, there he is. Mr. Schaeffer is tempted to stop and forewarn him about the accusations against him. He stops. Gina Hajek strolls beside Mr. Solobsky. Holding his arm, like they are a couple! She looks up at him and Mr. Solobsky grins down on her. Mr. Solobsky opens the passenger side door and Gina slips in. He walks to the driver’s side, gets in and starts the motor.

        Mr. Schaeffer slides his car to the curb. He puts his head onto the steering wheel. What is happening to young people today? He will not be dragged down by nosy women, a wayward child and a reckless man. Miss MacCrimmon is correct: this has happened on his watch. He has lost control of the school. He will be held responsible and his reputation, flawless after three decades, will be destroyed. Perhaps he should consider retirement. He turns on the ignition and steers the car back on the road toward the sanctity of his home.

*  *  *

        Gina rests her head in the damp crook of Mr. Solobsky’s right arm that is slung around her shoulder. He’s told her that when they are alone together, she must call him Gene. Gene has stopped the car at the end of a dirt road in the river valley. On the radio Sony and Cher croon ‘I’ve got you babe’. Gina feels dreamy, safe.

        Gene’s hand slides down her shoulder and dangles above her right breast.

        Gina has never had a boyfriend. She likes it. Even though she can never speak about it. Ever. Gene touches her breast. Gina gasps. Her eyes meet his, glimmering green under his heavy lids.

        “Do you like that?” He begins to massage her breast, his smile slides across his face revealing red gums, ivory teeth.

        Gina trembles a mix of fear and delight.

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