Richard Sharon - Diary of a Lover

And so, although I continued to see her, I wrote off Terry, ex-hostess, ex-whore, ex-lover, as another learning experience. It would seem that she had learned more from me, but I doubt it."

For the first time I had a woman, another human being dependent upon me for support, for morale, and for moral sustenance. I paid the bills, took care of her when she was ill, gave her advice, looked out for her welfare, and was concerned for her happiness and her future. I did the right thing by getting her out of whoring, by keeping her with me, and by sending her gently into the world on her own when I thought she was ready. It was my first taste of real responsibility.

I liked it.

The school year began as had all the school years before it, with roll calls, seat assignments, and introductions by new teachers.

English literature was a special class for college-bound students who didn't need any more verb conjugation. It was located on the third floor of the main school building. During the long summer you forget, but one whiff of the convict-made wooden desks, the canvas window shades, and the faint trace of chalk dust brought it all back in an instant. It was as though you had never left and that three-month interval were just a daydream between classes.

The buzzer hadn't yet sounded, and a pleasant, low hum of voices, students renewing old friendships, filled the background. I didn't know anybody, so I sat with my own daydreams, pondering on the difference in noise level between this class, which was all college material, and the other classes, filled with ticket-punchers just hanging around to get their high-school diplomas.

Our teacher walked in just as the buzzer went off, signaling the beginning of class. We were supposed to have Mrs. Gilchrist, an ancient and revered member of the faculty, but the lady who walked through the door certainly wasn't she. She was tall, about five foot six, and except for her face it was pretty hard to tell anything about the rest of her. She wore her ink-black hair pulled back in a severe schoolmarm bun, accentuating the narrow lines of her face, which was quite lovely. Her emerald-green eyes were framed in thick, old-fashioned spectacles which sat on a thin, straight nose, forming a T with thin, straight lips over a rounded chin. She wore a white blouse with a ruffled dickey sticking out in front between the lapels of a conservative, gray wool suit, the skirt of which hung nearly to her darkly stockinged ankles. Her shoes were the hideous, fat-heeled, lace-up type on which shoe salesmen made an extra commission because they rarely sold a pair. The jacket and skirt of her suit were so full-cut that it was impossible even for me to read 'the body underneath.

It was obvious that she was quite nervous as she walked purposefully to the blackboard and, in large letters, wrote MISS LAWRENCE, breaking the chalk twice in the process. I thought that she -must be around thirty or maybe even a bit older.

"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen," she said in a soft, barely audible voice. "My name, as you can see, is Miss Lawrence, and this is English literature, in case any of you are in the wrong room."

Nobody moved.

"Good, then we're all in the right place. If you're wondering about Mrs. Gilchrist, she had some very serious surgery during the summer and will be recuperating for a long time, possibly the entire semester, so, while I'm here -as a substitute, it looks as though I may be with you for an extended period."

She moved a bit awkwardly over to the desk and sat down, folding her hands carefully on her blotter. "I don't believe in alphabetical seating. You may sit wherever you wish, but if you have a sight or hearing problem I would suggest you get up to the front of the room somewhere. So if you want to change seats, do it now."

There was a rustling as people got up and moved about the room. I was seated four desks back, directly in front of her, so I stayed put. When the class quieted down she continued, smiling, "I'll let you all in a little secret. This is my first real class, and I'm scared to death." Everybody laughed.

"So you'll all have to help me. You're all planning to attend college and I'm going to treat you as I would treat college students, as adults rather than children. I don't plan to have any more discipline problems here than if I were teaching a college class, which means none. If you act up in a college class, it's your fellow students who look at you as though you're some kind of a nut, and it's very embarrassing for those who do it. So anyway, I've said my first, and I hope my last, about discipline."

There was something about her, this Miss Lawrence. I couldn't put my finger on it. It was in my head, but I couldn't tie it down. Something wasn't right, didn't ring true.

She called the roll, prefacing each name with "Mr." or "Miss," and when she got to me I tried to catch her glance, to hold it, if even for an extra second, but it didn't work. She looked at me, smiling impersonally, and moved on to the next face.

When the roll call was finished she told us that we would be studying Canterbury Tales, Hamlet, Gulliver's Travels, Alice in Wonderland as seen from an adult viewpoint, and, if time permitted, the writings of Ernest Hemingway. I had already read them, all, except Hamlet, and so I looked forward to the course with confidence.

Miss Lawrence had bought a get-well card for Mrs. Gilchrist and passed it around for us all to sign. By the time we finished, the buzzer ending class had sounded. I tried to catch those brilliant eyes of hers again on the way out, but she was working on her attendance book and never looked up. Damn, she bothered me. What was it about her?

She occupied some back portion of my thoughts through the entire day, not that I was consciously thinking of her, but I was still bothered. It was like meeting someone wearing one black and one brown shoe, and not being quite able to figure out what was wrong with his appearance.

After school I went to my car, and was busy for some time putting down the top. September, October, and November are San Francisco's summer months and, while the early mornings may be cool and foggy, the late morning and afternoon hours are usually beautiful, until the white mist comes rolling in again shortly after sunset.

By the time I was ready to leave, the Muni buses had already picked up most of the home-bound students. When I passed the No. 30 bus stop, Miss Lawrence was the only one standing there, a long, tent like coat covering her. I pulled over. "Can I give you a lift?"

She looked at me, startled, and I realized that she didn't know who I was.

"I have you for English lit," I said.

Then she nodded and smiled. "Of course. Thank you, but I wouldn't want to take you out of your way."

"I'm going all the way downtown," I lied, "so anywhere you want to go is fine."

She hesitated, then opened the door. "Well, I don't want to put you to any trouble, "

"No trouble at all," I interrupted. "Glad to have you."

She kept her knees together as she swung into the seat, and I threw the car into gear. She thanked me again, commenting on how nice it was of me, and all the other usual courteous bullshit. Then we talked aimlessly about the weather for a while. It was not satisfying conversation, and I had the definite feeling that she was capable of a great deal more. I also had the feeling that she was a bit nervous. I glanced at her face. Those blazing, green eyes caught mine for just an instant, then averted.

"Nice car," she said. "Your parents must be wealthy to give you a big convertible like this."

It was a natural assumption for her. Yet I felt anger. "It's almost two years old and I paid cash for it. I haven't taken a cent from my parents since I was fifteen."