Read Online The Writing on the Wall: A Novel by W. D. Wetherell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: W. D. Wetherell
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ask.
“Mr. or Mrs.?”
“Mrs. of course.” I wanted to stand up for myself right away.
“Who’s your favorite?” he said to the student behind me.
“Jack London.”
“And you?”
“Theodore Dreiser.”
Mr. Sass returned to the chalk board, folded his hands behind his back, drew himself up straight like he was about to issue orders to his platoon.
“This is a large class and we have permission from the principal to divide it into sections. One group will immediately transfer to Miss Gleason’s class while the ones I call out will remain here.”
He walked down the aisle again, brandishing a ruler.
“Stay,” he said to the boy who liked Wilde.
“You too,” he said to the boy who liked London.
“And you,” he said to the girl who liked Dreiser.
My heart sank because he walked right past me toward the other aisle, but then he abruptly swiveled, came back to my desk.
“And you.”
This is what it became, just the four of us in that dark, drafty classroom hidden away under the eaves. How Peter arranged this no one knew. We heard that he worked very hard with his other classes, took a personal interest in every pupil, and I saw for myself how furious he would get when Lawrence, the blonde boy, made fun of them and called them dolts. Even with us he was strict, he would call roll and demand we answer, and then we had to stand up and salute the flag. After that he would relax, treat us as equals, and I think he saw our special class, coming at the end of a long day, as his reward for drilling the rules of grammar into future shop owners, druggists and clerks.
We started with four but were soon down to two. The girl who read Dreiser, Ellen knew lots of names I had never heard before, not just American authors but ones in Europe. Though I was frightened of her for being so smart and she was frightened of me for already being married, we tried hard to be friends. Her parents had sent her there from a village even more remote than ours, but the room and board turned out to be so dear that she had to leave school and start work.
The boy who liked Jack London was quick and very funny but his banker father wanted him to take business courses, not waste his time on novels and poetry, so he soon left as well. That left just two of us—and yet every day, the moment he stepped into the classroom, Peter would take out his attendance book and call roll.
Lawrence was the other pupil, Lawrence Ridley Krutch. Like Ellen, his parents sent him into town to board since he lived so far away. He never talked about them or his home, seemed already done with that part of his life, and kept his eyes firmly on his future. His brilliant future. He made sure everyone knew it was going to be brilliant. For he was by far the smartest pupil in school and saw no reason to pretend otherwise. Unlike every other boy, sports held no interest for him and he was outspokenly contemptuous about the “clodhoppers” who played football and baseball.
His hands were soft and delicate, not rough like the other boys’, and his eyes were a flirt’s, so lively and dancing. The girls adored him but he had no favorites, seemed happiest when five or six surrounded him in the hall and giggled at his jokes. He was very nice to me, I was the one girl he let be his confidante, I suppose because he thought of me as an experienced older woman. When I had trouble with mathematics he made sure he sat with me after class to go over every problem until I understood. When he learned I was an orphan he asked me all kinds of questions about what it had been like and no one had ever done that before.
“Why didn’t you take down their names?” he asked. “The names of all the people who mistreated you.”
“Their names? I’ve tried hard to forget them. Why would I want their names?”
“For revenge,” he said—and then he shook his head in amazement, that I could be so innocent and naïve as to forgive them.
I worried about him sometimes, the
“Mr. or Mrs.?”
“Mrs. of course.” I wanted to stand up for myself right away.
“Who’s your favorite?” he said to the student behind me.
“Jack London.”
“And you?”
“Theodore Dreiser.”
Mr. Sass returned to the chalk board, folded his hands behind his back, drew himself up straight like he was about to issue orders to his platoon.
“This is a large class and we have permission from the principal to divide it into sections. One group will immediately transfer to Miss Gleason’s class while the ones I call out will remain here.”
He walked down the aisle again, brandishing a ruler.
“Stay,” he said to the boy who liked Wilde.
“You too,” he said to the boy who liked London.
“And you,” he said to the girl who liked Dreiser.
My heart sank because he walked right past me toward the other aisle, but then he abruptly swiveled, came back to my desk.
“And you.”
This is what it became, just the four of us in that dark, drafty classroom hidden away under the eaves. How Peter arranged this no one knew. We heard that he worked very hard with his other classes, took a personal interest in every pupil, and I saw for myself how furious he would get when Lawrence, the blonde boy, made fun of them and called them dolts. Even with us he was strict, he would call roll and demand we answer, and then we had to stand up and salute the flag. After that he would relax, treat us as equals, and I think he saw our special class, coming at the end of a long day, as his reward for drilling the rules of grammar into future shop owners, druggists and clerks.
We started with four but were soon down to two. The girl who read Dreiser, Ellen knew lots of names I had never heard before, not just American authors but ones in Europe. Though I was frightened of her for being so smart and she was frightened of me for already being married, we tried hard to be friends. Her parents had sent her there from a village even more remote than ours, but the room and board turned out to be so dear that she had to leave school and start work.
The boy who liked Jack London was quick and very funny but his banker father wanted him to take business courses, not waste his time on novels and poetry, so he soon left as well. That left just two of us—and yet every day, the moment he stepped into the classroom, Peter would take out his attendance book and call roll.
Lawrence was the other pupil, Lawrence Ridley Krutch. Like Ellen, his parents sent him into town to board since he lived so far away. He never talked about them or his home, seemed already done with that part of his life, and kept his eyes firmly on his future. His brilliant future. He made sure everyone knew it was going to be brilliant. For he was by far the smartest pupil in school and saw no reason to pretend otherwise. Unlike every other boy, sports held no interest for him and he was outspokenly contemptuous about the “clodhoppers” who played football and baseball.
His hands were soft and delicate, not rough like the other boys’, and his eyes were a flirt’s, so lively and dancing. The girls adored him but he had no favorites, seemed happiest when five or six surrounded him in the hall and giggled at his jokes. He was very nice to me, I was the one girl he let be his confidante, I suppose because he thought of me as an experienced older woman. When I had trouble with mathematics he made sure he sat with me after class to go over every problem until I understood. When he learned I was an orphan he asked me all kinds of questions about what it had been like and no one had ever done that before.
“Why didn’t you take down their names?” he asked. “The names of all the people who mistreated you.”
“Their names? I’ve tried hard to forget them. Why would I want their names?”
“For revenge,” he said—and then he shook his head in amazement, that I could be so innocent and naïve as to forgive them.
I worried about him sometimes, the
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