Plainsong (Plainsong #1)(39)

The principal waited. And that’s all? That’s it. That’s all that happened?

Yeah.

You didn’t hit him?

No.

You didn’t say anything else?

Like what?

You tell me.

No. I never said nothing else.

That’s not what it says here, the principal said.

So. The boy stared sullenly forward. That’s just his bullshit anyway.

The principal looked at the boy for a long moment. Studying him, thinking. Then he appeared to have made a decision. He began to put the papers and pamphlets before him into order and to slide them into a manila folder. The others at the table watched him silently. When he finished collecting his papers, he looked up. I think that’ll about do it for today, he said. I think I’ve heard enough. I’ve made up my mind. Son, I’m going to suspend you for five days starting tomorrow like the rules call for. You’ll get zeros in all your classes for that period of time, and you’ll be required to stay completely away from school; I don’t want to see you anywhere near this building for the next five school days. Understand? You might just manage to learn something yet even if it doesn’t come out of a book.

As soon as he finished, Mrs. Beckman jumped up violently from her seat, knocking her chair over backward. It clattered on the floor. Her entire face had turned red and her sweater had risen again, showing a little of her soft stomach. She whirled on her husband. Well, my God, she cried. I never thought I’d see this. Aren’t you going to say something? You heard him. You heard what he said. You’re his father. Are you just going to sit there like nothing happened?

Her tall thin husband, sitting next to her in his satin athletic jacket, was not even looking at her. He was looking at the principal across the table. When you think you can shut your goddamn mouth, he said quietly, and can keep it shut, I’ll say something. His wife glared at him. She started to say something more but thought better of it and pinched her lips shut. He continued to look across the table at Lloyd Crowder. After a moment he spoke again. I don’t know nothing about this referral and suspension happy-horse-shit, he said. I don’t care about it. It don’t concern me. But this better not mean my boy can’t play basketball this weekend.

That’s exactly what it does mean, the principal said. He can’t practice. He can’t dress out. He can’t play in any basketball game of any kind for the next five school days.

You know there’s two games this weekend, Beckman said. You know that. It’s a tournament.

I ought to know it. I’ve been on the phone all day about it.

And now you’re telling me you won’t let him play.

Not till five school days have passed.

On account of what Guthrie here claims my boy said to some little knocked-up half-breed schoolgirl.

That. And what happened out in the hallway.

And that’s your final word. You made up your mind.

Yes.

Your final decision.

That’s right.

All right then, you fat son of a bitch, Beckman said. There’s other ways to deal with this.

The principal leaned heavily forward across the table toward Beckman. You want to hold up right there, he said. Are you threatening me? I want to know.

Take it how you want. You heard what I said.

No, by God. I don’t have to take this. I’ve been here a long time. I’m going to be here till I’m ready to quit. And you nor nobody else in this room had better think otherwise. Now this meeting is over.

Beckman stared at him. Then he rose up from the table and made a violent backward motion at his wife and son. They started out of the room and he followed, but at the door he turned back. Just remember, he said, you fat tub of guts, there’s always ways. I’m not forgetting this. I’m going to remember. I won’t forget none of this. Then he turned and shoved his wife and boy out of the room and the three of them went down the hallway.

When they were gone the principal sat for a moment musing, gazing distractedly at the open doorway. After a while he shook himself and turned toward Tom Guthrie. Well, he said. You see what you got us into. This here has got me upset and I wasn’t going to let it. I told myself I wouldn’t. I didn’t plan on it. It’s not how I like to conduct my business. But I’ll tell you something. You better be careful now.

You mean with them? Guthrie said.

That’s right.

What about you?

Oh, he’s not going to do anything to me. That’s only show. He had to do that. But you better just take it easy. You don’t want to mess with these folks. And that boy when he comes back, ease up on him for God’s sake. I told you before, we want him graduated and out of here.

He better do the work then.

Even if he doesn’t, the principal said.

I’m not changing my mind, Guthrie said.

You better listen to me, the principal said. You better hear what I’m telling you.





Ike and Bobby.

They went up the wood stairs and back along the narrow dimlit corridor after school in the afternoon, but not to collect. When she opened the door Iva Stearns said, It’s not Saturday. What is it? Are you collecting early?

No, Ike told her.

What then? What’d you come for?

They turned their heads and peered into the corridor behind them, too humble and embarrassed to say what it was they wanted even if they could have said exactly what that was.