Kent Haruf - Plainsong

Who wrote this? Mrs. Beckman said.

The secretary made it out, based on the information provided by Mr. Guthrie. She applied the necessary language.

Then I can tell you what this is, Mrs. Beckman said. This is a pile of shit.

Guthrie looked across the corner of the table at her. Do you think so? he said.

Yes, I think so, she said, glaring at him. It is to me. He told us about you. You just don’t appreciate him. That’s what this is about. You got your favorites and he’s not one of them. You haven’t never been fair to Russell since the first day of school. This paper here with these fancy words on it is a pack of lies, and if you want to know what I think, I think you are too.

Here, the principal said. We’re not going to have this.

But this is just his side of it, Mrs. Beckman cried. She swung back to face the principal. She picked up the paper and shook it disgustedly in the direction of Tom Guthrie. It’s only what he says. Why don’t you ask Russell what he has to say? Or don’t you care about telling the truth either?

Careful now, the principal said. You don’t want to say something you’re going to regret tomorrow. I intend to let the boy say his piece. How about it, Russell?

The big high school boy sat stonelike between his parents. He neither moved nor spoke. He eyed the principal.

Go ahead, his mother said. What are you waiting on? Tell him what you told us.

He looked at his mother, then he stared ahead. I never said nothing to her. I don’t care what he says. I was talking to somebody else. He don’t have no proof. He don’t even know if I said anything or not.

He said something, Guthrie said. Everybody heard it. And after he said it the girl stopped reading and looked at him. Then she ran out of the room.

What was it? Ask him that. He don’t know.

Do you, Tom?

No. I didn’t hear it clearly, Guthrie said. But I can about guess what it was. I asked the other students, but none of them would repeat it. Whatever it was, it caused her to flee the room.

How does he know that? Mrs. Beckman said. That’s just his assumption.

No, Guthrie said. It was more than an assumption. Everybody in the room knew it. Why else would she run out?

Well my God, Mrs. Beckman said. There’s lots of reasons. She’s pregnant, isn’t she? The little bitch got herself knocked up. Maybe she had to run out and piss in the toilet.

Lady, Tom Guthrie said, looking at her, you’ve got a filthy mouth. You’re about as ignorant as they come.

And you’re a dirty liar, she cried.

Here, the principal said. I already warned you. We’re going to keep this civil and orderly.

Tell him, then.

I’m telling both of you. I’ll stop it right now.

Mrs. Beckman glared at the principal, then she peered at her husband and lastly at her son. She pulled the sweater down tightly over her chest and stomach. All right, she said. What about out in the school hallway? What about that? Tell him your side of what happened there. See how he weasels out of that.

The high school boy sat as before, sullen and rigid, staring silently across the table.

Go on, his mother said. Tell him.

What for? It won’t make no difference. He already made up his mind.

Tell him anyhow. Tell him like you told us. Go on now.

He sat looking ahead, looking at nothing, then he began to talk in a flat monotone, as though what he was saying was some indifferent and irksome rehearsal. He called me out of the room out in the hall, he said. I went out there with him. We were talking. Then all of a sudden he grabs me by the arm and twists it up behind my back and shoves me against the lockers. I told him to stop it. Told him he couldn’t touch me. Then I got loose and went outside and went home.

The principal waited. And that’s all? That’s it. That’s all that happened?

Yeah.

You didn’t hit him?

No.

You didn’t say anything else?

Like what?

You tell me.

No. I never said nothing else.

That’s not what it says here, the principal said.

So. The boy stared sullenly forward. That’s just his bullshit anyway.

The principal looked at the boy for a long moment. Studying him, thinking. Then he appeared to have made a decision. He began to put the papers and pamphlets before him into order and to slide them into a manila folder. The others at the table watched him silently. When he finished collecting his papers, he looked up. I think that’ll about do it for today, he said. I think I’ve heard enough. I’ve made up my mind. Son, I’m going to suspend you for five days starting tomorrow like the rules call for. You’ll get zeros in all your classes for that period of time, and you’ll be required to stay completely away from school; I don’t want to see you anywhere near this building for the next five school days. Understand? You might just manage to learn something yet even if it doesn’t come out of a book.

As soon as he finished, Mrs. Beckman jumped up violently from her seat, knocking her chair over backward. It clattered on the floor. Her entire face had turned red and her sweater had risen again, showing a little of her soft stomach. She whirled on her husband. Well, my God, she cried. I never thought I’d see this. Aren’t you going to say something? You heard him. You heard what he said. You’re his father. Are you just going to sit there like nothing happened?

Her tall thin husband, sitting next to her in his satin athletic jacket, was not even looking at her. He was looking at the principal across the table. When you think you can shut your goddamn mouth, he said quietly, and can keep it shut, I’ll say something. His wife glared at him. She started to say something more but thought better of it and pinched her lips shut. He continued to look across the table at Lloyd Crowder. After a moment he spoke again. I don’t know nothing about this referral and suspension happy-horse-shit, he said. I don’t care about it. It don’t concern me. But this better not mean my boy can’t play basketball this weekend.

That’s exactly what it does mean, the principal said. He can’t practice. He can’t dress out. He can’t play in any basketball game of any kind for the next five school days.

You know there’s two games this weekend, Beckman said. You know that. It’s a tournament.

I ought to know it. I’ve been on the phone all day about it.

And now you’re telling me you won’t let him play.

Not till five school days have passed.

On account of what Guthrie here claims my boy said to some little knocked-up half-breed schoolgirl.

That. And what happened out in the hallway.

And that’s your final word. You made up your mind.

Yes.

Your final decision.

That’s right.

All right then, you fat son of a bitch, Beckman said. There’s other ways to deal with this.

The principal leaned heavily forward across the table toward Beckman. You want to hold up right there, he said. Are you threatening me? I want to know.

Take it how you want. You heard what I said.

No, by God. I don’t have to take this. I’ve been here a long time. I’m going to be here till I’m ready to quit. And you nor nobody else in this room had better think otherwise. Now this meeting is over.

Beckman stared at him. Then he rose up from the table and made a violent backward motion at his wife and son. They started out of the room and he followed, but at the door he turned back. Just remember, he said, you fat tub of guts, there’s always ways. I’m not forgetting this. I’m going to remember. I won’t forget none of this. Then he turned and shoved his wife and boy out of the room and the three of them went down the hallway.

When they were gone the principal sat for a moment musing, gazing distractedly at the open doorway. After a while he shook himself and turned toward Tom Guthrie. Well, he said. You see what you got us into. This here has got me upset and I wasn’t going to let it. I told myself I wouldn’t. I didn’t plan on it. It’s not how I like to conduct my business. But I’ll tell you something. You better be careful now.