Kent Haruf - Plainsong

She herself was sitting up in the bed in a square-necked winter nightgown with a sweater pulled over her shoulders, a schoolbook and a blue notepad propped up in her lap, while the lamp beside the bed cast yellow light onto her clear face and her shining dark hair.

I just was wondering, he said. If you was warm enough in here.

Yes, she said. It’s fine.

They’re saying how it’s suppose to get kind of cold tonight.

Is it?

And this old house ain’t very warm.

I’m fine, she said again. She watched him. He was standing just inside the door, his hands poked into his pockets, his weather-blasted red face shining in the lamplight.

Anyhow, he said. He peered around. You think of something, you can let us know. We don’t know much about this sort of thing.

Thank you, she said.

He looked at her once more, quickly, as some shy country animal might, and closed the door.

In the dining room Raymond sat at the table waiting, curious, the newspaper held up captured in his hands. She all right? he said.

I guess so.

She need more blankets?

She never said she wanted any.

Maybe we ought to get her some anyhow. In case.

I don’t know. You about done with that paper?

It’s going to be a goddamn cold night tonight.

I told her that. She knows. Why don’t you let me have the front page. You’re done with that much.

Raymond handed him the newspaper, and he took it and shook it out and began to read. After a while Raymond said, What was she doing in there? When you was inside her room.

Nothing. Reading. Working over her schoolbooks.

Was she in bed?

Harold looked up at him. I don’t know where else was she going to be.

Raymond stared back at his brother. Then Harold began to read again. The wind blew and whistled outside. After a time Raymond spoke again. She didn’t eat very much supper, he said. I don’t think she did.

Harold didn’t look up.

I reckon maybe she just don’t like steak.

Oh, she ate enough. She’s just a small eater.

I don’t know if she did. She didn’t hardly touch none of what I give her. I had to scrape most of it to the dog.

Did he eat it?

Who?

Did the dog eat it?

What in hell do you think? Course he did.

Well, Harold said. He looked up again now, peering at his brother from above the top of the newspaper. Not everybody likes their beefsteak covered in black pepper.

Who doesn’t?

Victoria, maybe.

He bent back to the paper and Raymond sat at the table watching him. His face took on a disturbed and arrested look, as though he’d been caught in some sudden and disquieting act. You think she didn’t like my cooking? he said.

I wouldn’t know, Harold said.

The wind howled and cried. The house creaked.

An hour later Raymond stood up from the table. I never considered that, he said.

Considered what?

About peppering her steak.

He started upstairs. Harold followed him with his eyes.

Where you going?

Up.

To bed already?

No.

He went on. Harold could hear him walking on the pine floorboards overhead. Then he came back down carrying two thick wool blankets that smelled of dust and disuse, and he carried them to the front door and stood in the open doorway in the howling gusts of snow and wind and shook them out. Afterward he crossed to the door and tapped lightly, not wanting to wake her if she were asleep. There was no sound from inside. He stepped in and found that the girl was lying deep under the covers and that the light from the high purple farmlight outside was shining palely onto the bed. He stood for a quiet moment looking at her, at the room and all its new disturbances and the things in it, and then he spread the two blankets over her in the bed. When he turned to come back out, Harold was standing in the doorway watching. They came out together and left the door slightly ajar.

I didn’t want her to take a chill, Raymond said. Not on her first night.

Much later in the night she woke up sweating and shoved the blankets aside.

All parties seem to be present, Lloyd Crowder said, so we can get started.

The five of them were convened in a small room next to the school library, seated at a square table in the middle of the room and Lloyd Crowder, the principal, was presiding. Russell Beckman sat opposite him with his parents on either side. His mother was a short heavy woman who wore a pink sweater that was too tight on her arms and chest, and his father was a big dark-haired man in a shiny white-satin athletic jacket that had HOLT HAWKS lettered across the back. Off to the side of the Beckmans sat Tom Guthrie. He had looked at the Beckmans once when they came in and had then sat waiting silently for the meeting to begin. On the table in front of him were the duplicates of the forms he’d signed, and more forms and more papers were spread out in front of the principal. It was late in the afternoon, two hours after school had been let out for the day.

I believe you already know one another, Lloyd Crowder said. So I’m going to begin without introductions. And we’ll have this over with. He put his big meaty hands out on the table on top of the papers and leaned forward. What we’re doing here today, as you have been duly informed of, is because a discipline referral has been filed in regard to your son — he looked across the table at the Beckmans — and once that happens, when a referral has been filled out, I’m required by statute to do something about it and I’m going to do that. He surveyed the four faces watching him. I’ll just put it simple. Russell here, the other day in school during the hours that school was in session, acted wrongful and inappropriate, and so we’re here to discuss what all he’s done and to decide what the consequences should be.

You can stop right there, Mrs. Beckman said, interrupting him. What you just said, that’s a bunch of crap. Her cheeks had turned pink and her sweater was starting to inch upward. Because that’s like you already convicted him without a trial. What’s he done? He never did nothing. What do you say he did?

I’m going to get to that, Lloyd Crowder said. In due time. If you will let me proceed. He spoke evenly to her, looking directly at her. He held up a small pamphlet and went on: But first, I’m going to read to you from the Student Handbook. On page nine. Where it reads, Following are the behaviors that may result in suspension or other disciplinary action. Then I skip down to Level Three Violation. Where it says, Repeat of any Level Two Violation. Use of or possession of tobacco or drugs on school grounds. Fireworks in school. Harassment. Insubordination. Fighting. Physical and or verbal assault on a staff member. Intimidation or confrontation of a student. Theft. Damage or destruction of school property. Possession or use of weapons. And so on. He looked up. That’s the pertinent regulation. The one Russell here violated.

How come it is? Mrs. Beckman said. Russell never had his weapons at school. What damage did he ever do to school property?

Wait, the principal said. You haven’t let me finish. I’m not done yet. Now then, you will want to look at this. He handed her a copy of the discipline referral. She looked at it suspiciously and spread it before her on the table. Her husband and son leaned forward with her to look at it.

Look it over with me, Lloyd Crowder said. That’s his name at the top and the date of the occurrence. Under that it reads in detail what he did and said. Under that you can read what the recommended punishment is and the consequences for what he did. Which in a case like this one here is a period of suspension up to five days. What it says in so many words, it states that Russell has said something injurious and profane to one of his classmates which caused her public harm and humiliation, and after that, when he was called out into the hallway to discuss it, he cursed and acted in a violent manner against his teacher. Which refers us back to the paragraph in the Student Handbook I just read you. Intimidation and confrontation of a student. Physical and or verbal assault on a staff member.