Crackpot, page 15
“But it’s true!” Hoda didn’t understand what Miss Boltholmsup was saying, or what it had to do with her talk, but she knew that somehow she was being attacked, and it must be because teacher didn’t believe her. “I never made it up! It’s true, every word,” she protested desperately. And it wasn’t true what Miss Boltholmsup seemed to be saying, because it didn’t make sense. Why did she talk that way? Tears, uncontrollable, were running out of Hoda’s eyes and down her cheeks and nose and plopping on her desk. “It’s true! You can ask my daddy!”
“You needn’t yell, Hoda,” replied Miss Boltholmsup reasonably. “We can certainly all hear you when you speak. You don’t exactly whisper, you know.” Her words drew some uneasy laughter from the class. “I’m not accusing you of anything. In any event we’d have had to cut it short soon. You were running on too long. I don’t know about the rest of the class, but I for one could hardly follow. And I did have something special planned for music period. But I would like to say a few general words to the class first, seriously. I had meant to save all my general comments till after the last of you had spoken, but now does seem to be as good a time as any.” Miss Boltholmsup was improvising, but thank God they were listening quietly, curiously. Now to lead them away, gently gently…She could feel that they were, some of them, far from pacified yet.
“You have, on the whole, been very quiet and attentive; I’ve meant to mention this before. In any public speaking situation so much depends on the audience, and I’ve noticed throughout the past few weeks the class has been, on the whole, exemplary in attention to the speaker, in courtesy, and even though you’ve sometimes been a bit harsh in your comments, on the whole a spirit of fairness has prevailed, a very nice spirit. I must say I’ve often found it to be so since I’ve taught in this school, the spirit of fairness, of cooperation, of consideration for each other that the children in this district have, the desire to learn, to adjust to the new world and break away from backward and old-fashioned ways and ideas and superstitions, to get ahead, to be good citizens, I’ve found them all here. Each one of us here is lucky to be here and to have this opportunity to be a part of a great new civilization. We should realize and appreciate this, and try not to fight old battles over and over again. But the main thing I want to stress is fitness. If you want to fit in with people what you say should fit the occasion and the audience. Don’t think you can really make a significant impression on people by shocking them, by offending them, by bringing up subjects that aren’t discussed in decent circles.
“Now I want particularly,” Miss Boltholmsup was inspired, suddenly, “what I want particularly to close the subject with, is an expression of gratitude to you, Hoda.” It was now Miss Boltholmsup who probed past the tears and fixed her eyes firmly on Hoda’s fast-blinking watershed. “I want to thank you, Hoda, on behalf of all of us, for reminding us once again how lucky we are to be here. I think that in the back of your mind that may have been your real purpose in telling us your story. By a very strange coincidence,” Miss Boltholmsup found herself covering up an earlier lie sublimely, “I had actually planned a more relaxed music lesson than usual for today. I thought we might have a sing-song for a change. Thanks to Hoda I think we’re all really in the mood for a few songs of thanks. Shall we put the plagues and the…how do you say it?…the programs? behind us and begin with ‘The Maple Leaf Forever’?”
“Pogroms,” said one of the boys.
“Ah, pogroms, thank you,” said teacher courteously. “Shall we sing?”
The class rustled assent.
“Yah but what I don’t get,” said Morgan, “is how did it stop the plague for them to get married in the graveyard?”
“God knows, Morgan, as Hoda has already told us. And I think we’d better leave it to Him,” said Miss Boltholmsup with witty finality. “Now do be quiet while I give you the note.”
Hoda heard the relieved ripple of amusement with which the kids responded to teacher’s reply to Morgan as through a veil, which, like the veil of tears which filmed over her eyes, gave a blurred quality of distance to the patriotic songs which now rolled through the classroom. After a while her tears stopped flowing, but she didn’t notice. She remained isolated in her astonishment. She did not understand, could not even reconstruct what the teacher had said. She remembered that something in her had all along been reluctant to speak, but she could not now remember why, certainly not because she had remotely imagined that something like this could happen. But what was it that had happened? That was what she couldn’t understand. First teacher had not even let her finish and then she had simply reduced everything that she had tried to say to nothing, somehow, without questioning her or even directly criticizing. She had just, simply, thrown it all away, dismissed it as though it meant nothing, had even tried to hint that it had never been, or if it had that it had been something unclean and uncivilized and best forgotten by those who wanted to sing “The Maple Leaf Forever.” Was Miss Boltholmsup crazy? And the kids, why hadn’t they said anything, all except Morgan, who was supposed to be stupid but wasn’t too stupid to ask a question at least, while they all just sat there. Hadn’t they heard anything at all? Maybe she hadn’t told it right. How could they fail to see that it was going to be beautiful and holy? How could they all just sit there singing those dumb old songs and not even care what had happened?
That was what Hoda felt worst about, as though she had somehow betrayed what had happened, had taken a precious and beautiful and private thing and sneaked it out of the house where it belonged and everybody loved it, and showed it to all kinds of people who didn’t even know what it was, and they smudged it with their dirty hands and hardly even looked at it and threw it away. She hadn’t even had a chance to finish, but now she was beginning to be glad. They didn’t deserve to know, even if they ever wanted to now. And Daddy didn’t have to find out about what she had tried to do and how they were acting; she didn’t have to tell him; and if he didn’t know it wouldn’t be any less precious; he would never know it had been in the dirt. She was stupid for having tried to tell them, that’s all. And treacherous old Bottoms-up with her friendly-for-pretend eyes, who did she think she was anyway? She didn’t know anything, and she was up there pretending she could teach you something. At least the French teacher taught French and the Latin teacher taught Latin. If Hoda had got up there and told about some silly vacation she never had or how her dog could crap standing on his hind legs, oh goody goody! yummy yummy! Inside of herself Hoda couldn’t really believe it was all over, just like that. Miss Boltholmsup must have made a mistake. She had to let her know; she didn’t want to do it but she had to have another chance, and give Miss Boltholmsup one too, though now she could hardly bear to look at her.
When Miss Boltholmsup finally dismissed the class she realized that her ordeal was not yet quite over. Hoda was still fiddling at her desk, though the classroom was empty. Miss Boltholmsup picked up her ruler to help quiet her nerves, as the fat girl came down the aisle toward her with dogged step. Hoda’s face was set rigid with determination. Miss Boltholmsup clutched the ruler in one hand and pretended she was busy collecting her things, which were actually all collected and waiting for escape time, with the other. Hoda stood by the desk, enormous and silent.
“Yes, Hoda?” said Miss Boltholmsup finally, when she realized that the moral and strategic victory she might win by outwaiting the girl and forcing her to speak first might delay her long enough to make her miss her streetcar connections.
Hoda remained silent for another instant, gathering force to burst through teacher’s curtain of remoteness. “I didn’t lie,” she blurted finally. “It’s all true. My daddy can prove it. I worked hard; only you didn’t let me finish!” Hoda stopped; her throat was all clogged up, her eyes were awash again, she hated herself for her weakness and she hated Miss Boltholmsup, who smiled.
Miss Boltholmsup smiled with relief. A crying adolescent is a less dangerous one. “Now now,” she remarked crisply, “you weren’t listening to me, Hoda. I never said you were lying. I’m sure if you say so it all happened, though I’m sure there are other explanations and other points of view. But…no, don’t interrupt, listen to me. What I was remarking on was…appropriateness. A public utterance should be appropriate. I’m sure you don’t like to make a fool of yourself, nobody does. No, I don’t want to discuss it with you; I want you to go home and think about it. I think you and I can be friends, yes, I really do. I feel that way about most of you young people, that you are a new generation; I have a great deal of faith in you. But just look at you. When you got up in front of the class I was appalled, yes I was, and embarrassed, for your sake. Look at your tunic. You know as well as I do that school board regulations specify your tunic length must be no more than six inches above the ankle. Well, look at yourself. What is one to think of a girl who wears her tunic almost as short as her knickers? That is what I meant by appropriateness. Your whole display this afternoon was inappropriate. And if I tell you so it’s because that’s what I’m here for. I don’t like having to do it any more than you enjoy being told. But somebody has to teach you. And you’ll notice,” Miss Boltholmsup couldn’t help pointing it out to the still sullen girl, “that I refrained from mentioning this to you in front of the class. Now do as I say, run along and think about it. You don’t want to make a vulgar display of yourself. You’re getting to an age where a young girl’s reputation is valuable. No buts now!”
Teacher’s tone was final. Hoda was forced to retreat. Miss Boltholmsup felt, on the whole, that she had handled it rather well, so well, in fact, that she couldn’t resist a test of strength. “Good afternoon, Hoda,” she called after her, as Hoda turned wordlessly away.
“I said good afternoon, Hoda!”
“Good afternoon.” From the shapeless, retreating back, came the shapeless mumble, reluctant, but a token of submission nevertheless.
Wretched girl would come to an evil end; if ever Miss Boltholmsup had seen the signs they were here. Only not in my class, not in my time if I can help it. Another one to watch. Miss Boltholmsup didn’t honestly know how it was humanly possible to go on being as alert as she knew she had to be. She didn’t notice that she herself was being watched as she hurried from her greater cage into the air of an early autumn afternoon at last. Survival! Miss Boltholmsup rushed off to catch her streetcar.
“What did she say?” asked Morgan.
“My tunic’s too short,” growled Hoda.
“So what are you bawling about? I don’t mind,” said Morgan, and the other guys laughed.
“You shoulda heard her story, though,” said Morgan. “Creeps dying all over the place, and she got born in a graveyard. Bottomsuck jumped in and stopped her in the middle, just when it was getting interesting.”
Hoda was about to jump in hotly and protest that she was not born in a graveyard. That wasn’t what she’d said at all. But she remembered and stopped herself in time. Nobody was going to get another chance to spoil it. Let them be as dumb as they couldn’t help being anyway. At least Morgan didn’t mean to be mean. But she couldn’t help being a little glad when Hymie said to Morgan, “I heard you weren’t so happy either, when your turn came.” Hymie was a big guy who hung around with them after school, and played crap in the schoolyard with some other big guys who had quit school already, though they didn’t have steady jobs yet, because all the soldiers who were coming back had to get jobs first. Morgan liked to show off to these big guys though they teased him because he was still at school though he didn’t want to be, only his dad wouldn’t let him quit.
“Yeh, Morgo,” said the guy they called Popowicki Polack. “They say the cat got your tongue and all you could say was ‘meow meow.’”
“Sure,” said Morgan. “I was afraid to open my mouth all right. All I could think of to tell them was about the time grandpaw caught his balls in the bedsprings. He sat down this funny way, see? It was a tight pinch. Yow!”
“Yow!” the guys chorused, wincing and laughing. Hoda said “Yow” too, and winced and laughed.
“Wasn’t funny,” said Morgan. “Granmaw cried for a week.”
“What are you yowing about?” said Popowicki to Hoda.
“Business,” said Hymie. “I’d rather give her the business than the bedsprings any day. How about it, Hoda?”
Hoda laughed with them. They were all right guys. Bugger Miss Boltholmsup. She didn’t even want to think about it. And most of all she didn’t feel like going home yet.
“All right, boys,” said Popowicki, “let’s get rolling. How much doremi you got?”
“That’s right,” said Hymie, “artfing time’s over. I want my dime’s worth. Let’s shoot.”
“Hey, shut up; can it I say; can’t you see there’s a lady present?” said Morgan gallantly.
“Yeh,” said Hoda, “can it and sell it.”
“I tell you what,” said Popowicki. “How about we play this way today. Whoever wins the pot, and I mean we’ll shoot for the works, and whoever wins he turns over the pot to Hoda, see, and she turns over for him. How’s that? Fair sport, hey Hoda?”
“Aw come on, climb off me,” laughed Hoda.
“Say, you know, how come I never noticed, her tunic is too damn long!” laughed Popowicki, measuring in close.
“Get away from me, you Octopotz!” Hoda swung at him.
It was just kidding around and Hoda didn’t mind it, even though they got a little rough sometimes; mostly it was only lip-rough anyway. They diced and kidded for a while until they got hungry, then they decided to go for supper and meet back under the enclosed arch of the front stairs of the school after they’d eaten, to try to finish the game before it got too dark for them to see the dice. Hoda promised jokingly to come back too, to see which guy she was going to belong to, since they were still kidding about Hoda being the grand prize.
So she had to go home, but she had an excuse ready for making and eating supper in a hurry. She told Daddy she’d promised to meet some kids, and she really had, hadn’t she? She just couldn’t stand it when he asked her how school was today and what she’d learned. She was afraid if she said anything, even if she just started to talk, she’d have to tell everything, it would all come out, and she couldn’t bear it. So she pretended she hadn’t heard him, and when Daddy repeated the question she almost wanted to yell at him, she felt so impatient. But she managed to put him off, and got out of the house as quickly as she could.
The guys knew how to fiddle the lock the janitor put on the gate that he drew across the front of the enclosed stairs that led up to the front doors of the school. It was cosy and private in there under the enclosed arch, and the boys got down to finishing their crap game while Hoda kibitzed and flirted with them, and every now and then one of them tried to cop a feel of her, pretending that he was looking for inspiration to win the game and the prize. Hoda played along, even to the end, when Morgan had cleaned the other guys out. Not that there was much money, but Morgan counted out the pennies and nickles and three dimes and spread them carefully and lovingly out on his big palm before he gallantly held them out to Hoda.
Hoda laughed and said, “Come back when it’s longer or greener.”
But Morgan wasn’t so dumb about some things. “It’s getting longer all the time,” he cracked back, and they all laughed. “Scram you guys!” said Morgan to the others, and they kidded around some more, till the other guys slid outside the gate, each with a parting shot, like “May the best man win next time,” and “I tell you it’s money down the drain.”
Not that Hoda had any intention of letting it go too far with Morgan. He was neither a Jew nor, she was pretty sure, a prince. But he was nice to her and Hoda didn’t want to go home yet. Morgan spread out the money on the step beside Hoda. “Here,” he said hopefully, “it’s all yours. A bargain’s a bargain.”
Hoda wondered if he really meant it. Would he give her all that money? Even the seven cents he’d started with? How did she know he wasn’t a prince anyway? The way they’d played for her, all three of them, like in those stories where a whole bunch of knights and princes and dukes and things went out to fight for the fair lady, and the best one won. Wasn’t it the same thing, only with them shedding their money instead of their blood? Wouldn’t any princess rather have it that way? What good was a bloody prince? And Morgan had won and laid the whole purse at her feet. Wasn’t that love?
They kidded around some more, but Morgan’s hands were blurring the limits for Hoda. Teacher was crazy. At this moment Hoda’s tunic was really too long; her blouse had too many buttons, her bloomers were pulled up too high, and her belt was too tight for all those swelling feelings. But Morgan’s hands were fixing all that. To hell with everybody; right here under the arch of the stairs of the school her tunic had suddenly got so short it was nearly strangling her. “Morgan! Morgo! No!” Hoda laughed. It was like a dirty joke she knew. “More! Go! Go! More!” She couldn’t help saying it. “No! No!” She had to grip him tight, to hold him off, after she said that. Morgan fought, trying to roll on to her. Lucky for her she was fat.
“Ah come on, Hoda, please. Hoda, ah come on!”
“No no, that’s enough Morgo. Don’t!”
“Come on, Hoda, be a sport, come on!” He was very strong and he had fought for her, hadn’t he? And he had won. And he had given her the money. And she should shove him away for good now, before her arms gave way. “No! No!”
