Evan Hunter: The blackboard jungle

“I’ll try them,” Jerry said, happily, thankfully, gratefully.

“And I think Samuel Gompers may have something. I know a guy who was hired there last week, and he said they were desperate.”

“I’ll try them, too,” Jerry said gratefully. “Did you student teach in a vocational school, Richie?” They were walking down the dim corridor now, walking toward the door through which Rick had first entered the building. Their heels clacked on the marble floor, and the corridor seemed very lonely and very dim.

“Yes,” he said, “I did.”

“You were lucky. I student taught at Taft, up in the Bronx.”

“That’s a good school,” Rick said.

“Yes,” Jerry agreed, “but it doesn’t train you for coping with juvenile delinquents.”

“Oh, it’s not that bad,” Rick said. “I got along fine at Machine and Metal Trades.”

Jerry looked at him admiringly. “Is that where you taught? I heard that was a very rough school.”

“I never had any trouble there,” Rick said, basking in the glow of admiration on Jerry’s face.

“Still, it’s a tough school.” They were walking down the marble steps now, and Jerry shoved open the scarred, slashed wooden door and held it open for Rick. He gestured with his head toward the corridor they’d just left, and said, “This one isn’t any finishing school, either, you know.”

“Stanley said there’s no discipline problem here,” Rick told him, stepping out into the sunshine.

Jerry nodded solemnly. “There’s no discipline problem at Alcatraz, either.”

The door slammed shut behind them, and they started across the schoolyard. This is my schoolyard, Rick thought. My students will play in this schoolyard.

“I’ve heard pretty good reports about this school,” he said, disturbed by Jerry’s Alcatraz allusion.

“Really?” Jerry said agreeably. “Well, perhaps I’m wrong.”

“I’ll soon find out, I guess,” Rick said.

“Yes.”

They walked in silence to Third Avenue, and then Jerry said, “I’ll take a cab to New York Vocational. It’s getting late and if there is anything, I don’t want to miss out. Can I drop you anywhere?”

“No,” Rick said. “I get a bus across the street. Thanks, anyway.”

“We should get together,” Jerry said, smiling.

“Yes, we should.” He paused, and then popped with sudden inspiration, “Look, let me know how you make out at New York, won’t you? Give me a call.”

“All right,” Jerry said happily. “I will.”

“It’s Tyrone 2-9970,” Rick said. “Like in Tyrone Power.”

“That’s a funny exchange.”

“It’s a new one,” Rick said,

Jerry jotted down the number in a small black pad. “I’ll call you,” he said. “It was real good running into you again, Richie.”

“Same here. Good luck, Jerry.”

They shook hands awkwardly, the way two people will when they have recalled an old friendship for just a brief while, and are ready to commit it back to the limbo from which it had come.

“There’s my bus,” Rick said.

“Go ahead,” Jerry said, smiling. “You can catch it.”

They terminated the handshake abruptly, and Rick ran across the street under the El structure. He caught the bus at the corner, and when he was seated and looking through the window he saw Jerry wave and smile from the other side of the street.

It wasn’t until then that he remembered he hadn’t called Anne, but he told himself it was better this way, he’d surprise her.

And then the bus belched carbon monoxide, pulled out into the thick traffic, and left Jerry on the corner where he stood, smiling.

When the old-fashioned twist bell in the metal door sounded she was standing at the sink with her hands in soapy water. There was a nice breeze here on the eleventh floor, and it lifted the plaid curtains at the kitchen window, touching her blond hair lightly, loosening a wisp near her throat.

She called, “Just a moment,” and then opened the cabinet to the left of the sink, removing a dish towel from its hook and drying her hands rapidly. She dropped the dish towel on the kitchen table, walked down the long foyer past the living room and to the front door. She lifted the metal flap of the peephole in the door, and then said, “Oh, Rick, it’s you.” She said it happily surprised, and then she dropped the peephole and unlocked the door, wondering why he hadn’t used his key.

He stood there with a little-boy look on his face, both hands behind his back. The light from the bulb down the hallway struck the planes of his face, touching on the high cheekbones and the strong nose, putting a pinpoint of light in each of his deep brown eyes. He was grinning broadly, like a kid on Christmas morning, and she knew then that he’d got the job, but she would not have spoiled his surprise for all the tea in China.

“Hello, Anne,” he said softly, secretly.

“Hello, darling,” she answered, smiling, almost not able to contain the fact that she already knew his secret. “Why didn’t you use your key?”

“I couldn’t,” he said secretly, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. His hair was still cropped close to his head in an even, militaristic fashion, like the bristles on a brush, the way he’d worn it all through college. It added to his secretive, little-boy appearance, and she wanted to hug him to her breast, and she thought, God, I really am getting the maternal urge .

“Why couldn’t you?” she asked, playing along with the game, still standing in the doorway, waiting for him to break the surprise.

“My hands are full,” he said. “Voilà,” he popped, and he pulled one hand from behind his back, and there was a bouquet of red roses in that hand, six of them, with ferns and crisp green wrapping.

“And voilà !” he popped again, and he pulled the other hand out, and she saw the bottle of champagne, and she could read the delicately scripted Domestic , but that didn’t matter to her at all.

“You got the job!” she said ecstatically, pretending surprise, not having to pretend vast joy because she was truly excited, the way she had only been excited on several occasions in her lifetime.

“Did I get it? Did I get it?” He pushed through the doorway and scooped her into his arms, lifting her off her feet, with the champagne and roses clutched tightly behind her back. “Did I get it, honey? Did I get it?”

He swung her around, and she shrieked girlishly and squealed, “Rick, your son and heir!” and he answered, “Nuts to my son and heir.”

But then — remembering that she was six-months pregnant, remembering that you don’t go swinging six-months pregnant women around in the air, even if you did get a job at Manual Trades, and even if this was the first goddamned break you’d had since you got out of school, even so, you did not go swinging pregnant women around in the air, not if you indeed wanted a son and heir, or a daughter and heiress, though he would have vastly preferred a son and heir — he put her down.

He put her down, and when her feet touched the asphalt tile floor covering, he kissed her resoundingly on the mouth, thinking how sweet her lips were, and thinking there was no one on earth he would have rather come home to with the news that he had got the job at Manual Trades. No one on earth, and that included Hedy Lamarr and Rita Hayworth and anyone else you might care to name, sir.

“Oh, Rick,” she said, “that’s wonderful, truly wonderful!”

“And are you going to worry about money anymore?”

“No,” she said softly, pleased, smiling.

“And are you going to call me a lazy loafer anymore?”

“Rick, I never...”

“And are you going to love me?”