Benediction (Plainsong #3)(34)

No. Not very long.

The waiter, a different one, came to the table with menus and asked if they wanted to order drinks. Willa ordered white wine and Alene and the principal each asked for red wine. The waiter wrote in a little pad and went away.

I believe I’ve been told that you’re a high school administrator, Willa said.

Yes. That’s right.

Where is the school?

North of here. In a little town along the Front Range.

I notice you don’t say the name.

I could tell you, he said. But it won’t matter.

To me or to you?

I was thinking it wouldn’t matter to you and might only cause problems for me.

Because you’re married.

He looked at Alene then at her mother. Yes, he said. That’s right. Because I’m married.

At least you don’t hide it anyway, Willa said.

Do you mean from your daughter?

From her. Or from me.

I don’t think I would do that. I might do other things. But I wouldn’t keep that from Alene. There are enough secrets already.

Your wife doesn’t know, of course.

No. She doesn’t. I wouldn’t be here if she knew.

Do you have children?

Yes. Two girls.

How old are they?

They’re ten and eight.

Just young girls.

Yes. Innocent young girls, if that’s what you mean.

Do you love them?

What do you think?

The waiter came with their drinks on a tray and a plate of bread and butter and set them out on the table and took their dinner orders.

I was a teacher myself, Willa said. A long time ago, before I married Alene’s father.

What did you teach?

This was out in a country school in South Dakota. I had five grades all at the same time, all subjects. Then I fell in love and after I got married I found out that my husband didn’t want me to work outside the home. He wanted me there with him. I hadn’t understood that before I married him. People didn’t divorce then, so I gave up my career. I never went back.

I’d guess you were a good teacher.

Yes, I was. I was very good.

Why are you telling all of this now, Mother? Alene said.

Because it’s true. I want your friend to know. It was after the Depression. We were lucky to have survived.

You’re exaggerating now, Alene said.

Do you think so? There were people out on the plains who canned thistles to eat. People died of lung disease because of the dust. You might not believe me. But it’s true.

The man passed the plate of bread around.

Do you intend to leave your wife? Willa said.

He put his roll down. We haven’t decided that yet.

When will you decide?

Mother, now what are you doing?

I’m trying to ask the questions you need answered.

You don’t know anything about this.

Don’t I?

No. Please stop it.

The man laid his napkin down and rose from his chair. He took out his wallet from a pocket of his trousers and placed money on the table beside his plate.

This isn’t doing anybody any good.

I think I would like you under different circumstances, Willa said.

Probably not, he said. Good-bye.

Alene got up and went with him out through the café to the sidewalk. The sky was darker now, the streetlights had come on and people were hurrying. It was cold now outside along the street.

I’m sorry, she said. I didn’t expect this.

It was a mistake. We shouldn’t have done it. This was too much to expect her to accept.

Will you call me?

Yes.

When?

In a few days.

He kissed her quickly and walked away around the corner out of sight and she went back inside and sat down beside her mother. The waiter had brought their entrées and the plates of food were steaming at the table.

What were you thinking? Willa said. Why would you want me to know about this? I thought we were just meeting for supper. Just a friend of yours.

I wanted one person to know, Alene said.

You should have told a girlfriend, one of your young friends. Not me.

I thought you’d want to know. For my sake. Because I’m happy when I’m with him. There’s some pleasure in my life that I’ve never had before.

He’s married. He has children to think of. Nothing good can come of this.

Don’t say that, Mother. I thought it would be all right if I could tell one person. I wanted you particularly to know.

You were wrong, Willa said.

Why did you tell him about teaching and the Depression? And my father. You didn’t have to say all that.

Because things don’t often turn out the way we think they will. I wanted to be sure you knew that.

I know that too well, Mother.





23


WHEN FRANK WAS FIFTEEN and Lorraine eighteen and they were both attending Holt County Union High School, he came into her bedroom late one night. She was in her winter pajamas reading, listening to the radio turned down low. He stood in the doorway looking at her. What’s wrong? she said. He came in and shut the door. Come over here, she said. He went to her bed and stood there. Tell me.

They did it again, he said.

Oh no. What was it this time?

He told her. After football practice that afternoon some seniors and a couple juniors jumped him when he came out of the shower and held him down on the floor in the corner while he was still wet and naked and rolled him over and slapped him hard on the butt and the back of the head, laughing and calling him what they always called him, and then turned him faceup and one of the naked boys sat on him. Look at him. He likes that. One of the boys grabbed at his dick and hit it back and forth, cursing him, while the others pinched and gouged at him. One boy had an arm pressed against his throat and he could hardly breathe.