A Terrible Beauty: What Teachers Know but Seldom Tell outside the Staff Room (21 page)

She thought of Hugh, and spotting the phone on the
counter, leapt for it. Dragging it close, she punched in the number
and slunk back under the water, causing a tsunami.

“Hugh, it’s me.”

“Solange, dear Lord! They said they found your car
abandoned by Wolf Creek. I’ve been frantic, where the hell are
you?”

“I’m at O’Connel’s. Like an idiot I tried to make it
through. He pulled me out.”

“You okay?” Eyes closed, she took a long breath,
pressing fingers to her temples so hard veins stood out from her
wrists. A gust of wind slapped rain against the small window. It
was barely twenty-four hours until the meeting where she would
finish his career. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t sound fine.” How was it he saw through her
so easily? Frustrated, she slapped the water with the flat of her
hand, sending water spraying. “Dammit, what am I doing? I have what
we need, but I’m not proud of it. He’s a decent guy, Hugh, a good
teacher. He’s got no family, nothing but teaching, so I take that
away? Is that what I’m here for? Is that my job?” Angrily she wiped
her nose with a wet hand, looking over a bare shoulder to make sure
the door was closed. Why did she always cry when she got mad? Why
couldn’t she rage like a man without tears betraying her? “You’re
doing what has to be done. He may be a good teacher, but he doesn’t
belong where he is.” He paused, and she dreaded what he might say
next. “I know you’ve been spending a lot of time with him. You’re
just too close to it right now. Give this time, and you’ll be able
to put it in perspective. A year from now you’ll be able to look
back on this…”

“And what? What will a year change?”

“In a year you’ll be in my job. That’s what you want,
isn’t it? She was a long time answering. “I thought it was.”

“And now?”

“Now— “ Her voice broke and she pounded her fist on
the cold iron rim of the tub hard enough to hurt. “Of course I want
the job, it’s just…”

“Is this about something else?” He could always read
her so well. She shaded her eyes with her hand, feeling her face
color. How could he know? How could anyone know? She’d shown
nothing, told no one.

“Solange, you know how Mary and I feel about you. We
wouldn’t have you hurt for anything in the world. Has this…gotten
personal?” She hesitated, an ache gripping the back of her throat.
It was no use, she was crying again. “Oh, Hugh—”

“It’s all right. It’s all right kiddo.” Her breasts
quivered as she sobbed into a short-nailed fist. “It’s all got to
be such a mess.”

“I see.”

She reached for a Kleenex and he waited while she
blew her nose. “Mary told me it might be something like that.” He
chuckled. “You’d think as old as I am I might have seen it coming.
Well, you do what you need to do. They don’t get O’Connel’s head,
they take mine as consolation prize. Don’t forget that if I go, you
go with me. Have you forgotten what it is you’ve worked for all
these years?”

Forgotten seven years of no personal life, no time
for anything but work and night classes? Seven years? Was he
kidding? “You know I haven’t.”

“If you don’t want to be there, you don’t have to be.
Just drop off your notes and I’ll handle the rest, and if you need
a few days to work things out, take them. I’ve always been able to
count on you, and I know you’ll come through for us both this time,
too. Just don’t forget why you’re out there.”

What right did she have to hate him? Wasn’t he just
doing his best to give her what she always thought she wanted? “I
won’t, Hugh, I won’t.” She tossed the phone onto the towel and lay
back, sighed.

Okay. So she was here for the night. Big deal. She’d
spend tonight on the couch and tomorrow night she would send his
career flushing down the toilet. After that, back to the real
world. Back to her life. Nothing to get excited about.

There was a hesitant tap at the door.

“If you’ll promise not to run off into the dark like
a lunatic, I’ll leave a stack of clothes out here. They’re Patty’s,
might be a little big.” She flipped the drain knob with her toe,
and stood, stripping. “I’m not going anywhere.”

There were cream colored sweats, pajamas covered with
terminally cute teddy bears, and a wisp of a cashmere dress in
cobalt blue.

She held this up before her in front of the mirror.
Scoop neck, spaghetti straps, mid thigh. Oh, yeah, sure thing.

She tossed it into the corner and stepped into the
sweats. Binding her hair so tight it hurt, she calculated the
effect in the mirror.

Nodding with satisfaction, she opened the door.
Padding down the squeaking stairway in bare feet, she ran her
fingers over peeling wallpaper. This house was old. Lifting up a
curled corner, she uncovered a newspaper from 1916—a very old
house. The narrow stairwell, the worn pine flooring, the threadbare
rug—they smelled of age.

Rounding the rickety banister at the foot of the
stairs, she found herself in a high-ceilinged living room. The
floor was random slate, unevenly set. By the far wall a cast wood
stove squatted, kindling and firewood close at hand. A braided rug.
A chafed leather couch.

A dog on her bag by the stove. Pine board walls
yellowed with wood smoke and years. Not what she would have
expected, but nice. It fit him.

The black stove roared as it drew. Behind the smoky
glass of the door, the fire glowed, ticking angrily as dry fir
heated iron.

He’d changed into worn jeans and an old Henley the
color of an agrula mare. Setting a kettle on to boil, he turned to
do a fine impression of a man jumping out of his skin.

She did her best not to laugh, pleased she’d scared
him. “See a ghost?”

“Not used to company, I guess.” His smile lived a
split second, then died, setting off a flare of guilt inside her.
That had been cruel.

The kettle wheezed. Big hands steady, he poured
tea.

She sighed, contrite. “I wish I were good at saying
thank you. I’m not.”

He went to the kitchen. “Don’t worry about it.”
Feeling cheated by his off-hand response, she followed. If she were
going to apologize, the least he could do was show some gratitude.
She scented something that brought water to her mouth.

He stirred a steaming pot with a long wooden spoon.
She brought a hand to her mouth to stifle a laugh. “Oh, meu Deus!”
She laughed anyway.

He looked down at himself. “What’s so funny?”

“The spoon—you look just like my mother. What’s
cooking? Whatever it is, it’s making me weak in the knees.”

“Soup, oxtail vegetable. Think you could eat it? I
don’t have too much else right now.”

Could she? “Just hand me a spoon and stand back.”

“The oxtail doesn’t bother you?” She breathed deeply,
face bathed in steam rising from the soup, eyes closed in rapture.
“I had tea for breakfast, then lost my lunch. I’m only sorry the
rest of the ox isn’t in there.”

He ladled them each a bowl and they sat on the rug,
backs to the couch in front of the glowing stove.

“Have you got any wine to go with this?” He looked at
her curiously. “Half bottle of Cabernet I use for spaghetti. Been
open a while, might have gone off. Want it?” She did. Rarely did
she drink anything at all, but tonight, oh, yes, tonight she would.
He brought her a bottle three quarters full, and working the cork
free with her teeth, she poured a glass.

Sloshing it over her tongue, she swallowed. Dark,
strong, bitter—it would do. Yes. It would do nicely.

She had her spoon nearly to her lips when she noticed
his offered hand. Irritated, she set it back in the bowl, sighed,
looked at him. “What, grace again?”

He looked at her with that patient smile of his. “If
it’s all right with you.”

She shrugged, irritated, taking his hand. “I’m a
guest.”

“I don’t have to say it.”

She squeezed his hand, impatient to eat. “Just say
it? I’m wasting away right in front of you.”

He kept his eyes on her. “Lord, thanks for keeping me
on my feet in the water, and getting us home. Amen.”

She watched him curiously as he spoke, said amen,
took up a spoonful of soup. “Even better than it smells. You make
this?”

“No, have it delivered from a chic little deli on
Fifth in Eugene.”

She bared her teeth at him. “Ha, ha.” She watched his
hands as he crumbled crackers into his bowl, dusting off the crumbs
carefully. Nice hands, strong. He didn’t spill a crumb on the rug.
“No kidding, it’s good.” Draining her glass, she poured out
another, thinking, watching him. “You pray a lot, huh?”

He filled his spoon, scraping it carefully on the
side of the bowl. He shrugged. “When I’ve got something to say. Not
every day.”

She reached for the box of crackers, bracing herself
with a hand on his thigh, hard as the slate beneath it. She took
out a handful and crumbled them between her palms. “My father used
to say grace. You know what I remember about it? The dirt under his
nails. I don’t remember what he said, not a word, just the clay
under his nails, the black hair on the back of his hands.”

The rain roared on the tin roof overhead, the kettle
on the stove rolled and spit.

He held the bottle up to the light. “How’s the
wine?”

“Not bad.”

“You sure you should be drinking so much of it after
this afternoon?”

Annoyed, she took the bottle, drained the last of it
into her glass. She didn’t need his preaching. “That’s my
business.” That damned smile on his mouth again.

“I didn’t say it wasn’t.”

Stomach burning, head a little off kilter, an idea
crept into her mind, instantly igniting her imagination. It was
insane, hurtful, impossible to resist. Fired by it, she drained her
glass, got unsteadily to her feet.

He raised an arm to steady her. “You all right?”

She pushed his hand away. “Marvelous.” She climbed
the stairs, both hands groping in the dim light for the rail. In
the bathroom she reached with a bare foot to grasp the little dress
between her toes, drawing it to her. Her whole body humming under
the spell of the wine, she giggled, stepped out of the sweats to
pull the dress, soft as web, over her head. Clinging like dust on
moth wings, it slid over her soft as a breath. Undoing her hair,
vision only slightly blurred, she examined herself in the glass.
Sharp canines showed between her lips.

Perfect.

She padded down the old staircase, pads of bare feet
silent on the cool boards.

• • •

O’Connel looked up from where he sat on the couch and
forgot to breathe. What the hell was she up to now?

Giving him no chance to recover, she went to stand
before him.

Hands on hips, she leered down at him, lower lip
pinched between her teeth. “You like?”

His eyes crept to her face. “Why— “ He cleared his
throat, suddenly hoarse. “Why are you wearing that?”

“It was in the stack you gave me. I thought you must
want to see it on.” She spread her arms, smiling sourly, pulled out
the material at her breasts. “Sorry I don’t fill it out the way she
did.”

“Patti never wore it, said it made her look like a
whore.”

She pressed her knees into soft leather between his
thighs.

The hem of the little dress clung tight over caramel
thighs. “Well, does it?”

He felt trapped with her so close. “Does it
what?”

“Make me look like a whore.”

He turned away, hitched his glasses farther up his
nose, fighting the burn in his gut. “No.”

Smiling as if she were happy with herself— she weaved
over him, the hem rising further up her legs a few inches from his
face, his hands, his mouth. He was doing okay so far. If he could
just keep his eyes off her legs, he would be all right, everything
would be all right.

“Why?”

He looked up at her face, swallowed, throat dry.
“Why… why what?”

“Why did you come pull me off my car, bring me home,
give me a bath? Why?”

He looked down out at the river. She was drunk. He
wouldn’t answer, wouldn’t get drawn in. He looked at his watch.
“It’s getting late.” Lame, lame lame, but all he could think of
.

Solange dropped to her knees in front of him, snaking
arms up his legs. Now it was she who looked up at him, eyes
pleading. “Why’d you hold me when I fell?” She ran her hands down
his thighs, nails rasping on his jeans. “You should hate me, but
you don’t. Why not?” She propped her chin on his leg, smiled. “I
know. I know why you did it. I know what you want, what you
need…everything.”

He massaged his brow with the heel of his hand. “You
do, huh?” It was the wine talking he knew. “Tell me.”

“When I showed up at your room you weren’t
intimidated like most of them. Oh, no, you were glad to see me,
weren’t you? You wanted me to see you teach, wanted me to spend
time in your classes. Why?”

“I told you why.” He sighed growing impatient, leaned
forward to rise. “It’s late, you’ve had too much to drink and I’m
going to bed.”

She shoved him back down viciously, leaned close,
hands on his thighs. “You’re not going anywhere.

He sat pinned where he was by her eyes.

“I know why you do what you do.” She laughed, not a
nice laugh. A laugh bordering on a sob. “I haven’t slept in a week,
I just couldn’t—I couldn’t see it. Now I do.”

What could she know? Nothing. All she knew was her
own ambition, her preconceived ideas about how things were. She was
nothing, less than nothing to him. The sooner she said what she had
to the sooner he could get her off him. “You said that. Are you
going to share?”

She drew close enough so that he could feel her
breath on his face. “You decided two years ago you didn’t want your
job, and now instead of just quitting and crawling back here to
die, you make me do what you could have done yourself.”

Deep in his chest a pocket of cold burst, flooding
his arteries with razor sharp shards of ice. “You’re way off.”