Kent Haruf - Plainsong

In the high school office Judy, the secretary, stood over a desk talking on the telephone and making notes on a pink pad of paper. The short skirt of her dress was stretched tight over her hips and she was wearing hose and spike-heeled shoes. Guthrie stood behind the front counter watching her. After a while she looked up at him and for his benefit rolled her eyes at what she was hearing.

I understand that, she said into the phone. No. I will too tell him. I know what you’re saying. She put the phone back roughly in its cradle.

Who was that? Guthrie said.

That was a mother. She made another note on the pad of paper.

What’d she want?

About the school play last night.

What about it?

Didn’t you see it?

No.

You ought to. It’s pretty good.

What’s the matter with it? Guthrie said.

Oh, there’s this place where Lindy Rayburn walks out in a black slip and sings a solo by herself. And this person on the telephone doesn’t happen to think a seventeen-year-old girl ought to be doing that kind of thing in public. Not in a public high school.

Maybe I should go see it, Guthrie said.

Oh, she had everything covered. You couldn’t see anything that counts.

What’d she want you to do about it?

Not me. She wanted to talk to Mr. Crowder. But he isn’t available.

Where is he? I came in early to see him.

Oh, he’s here. But he’s across the hall. She nodded in the direction of the rest rooms.

I’ll wait for him in his office, Guthrie said.

I would, she said.

He went into the office and sat down facing the principal’s desk. Photographs of Lloyd Crowder’s wife and his three children in hinged brass picture frames stood on the desk and on the wall behind it was a photograph of him kneeling in front of Douglas firs holding up the antlered head of a mule deer. Against the adjacent wall were gray filing cabinets. A large school-district calendar hung over them. Guthrie sat looking at the photograph of the deer. Its eyes were half-open, as though it were only sleepy.

After ten minutes Lloyd Crowder entered the office and sat down heavily in the swivel chair behind the desk. He was a big florid man with wisps of blond hair drawn in exact strands across his pink scalp. He set his hands out in front of him and looked across the desk. So, Tom, he said. What’s this about?

You said you wanted to see me.

That’s right. I did. He began to consult a list of names on a paper on his desktop. Under the light his scalp shone like water. How’s the boys? he said.

They’re fine.

And Ella?

Fine.

The principal raised the sheet of paper. Here it is. Russell Beckman. According to what I see here you’re failing him this first quarter.

That’s right.

How come?

Guthrie looked at the principal. Because, he said. He hasn’t done the work he’s supposed to.

That’s not what I mean. I mean how come you’re failing him.

Guthrie looked at him.

Because hell, Lloyd Crowder said. Everybody knows Mr. Beckman isn’t any kind of student. Unless he gets struck by lightning he never will be. But he’s got to have American history to graduate. It’s what the state mandates.

Yes.

Plus he’s a senior. He don’t belong in there with all those juniors. He should of taken it last year. I wonder why he didn’t.

I wouldn’t have any idea about that.

Yes, well, the principal said.

The two men studied each other.

Maybe he ought to try for the GED, Guthrie said.

Now, Tom. Right there we got a problem. That kind of thinking, it makes me tired.

The principal leaned heavily forward onto the hams of his forearms.

Look here. I don’t believe I’m asking too much. I’m just saying go a little easy on him. Think about what it means. We don’t want him back next year. That wouldn’t be good for anybody involved. Do you want him back next year?

I don’t want him this year.

Nobody wants him this year. None of the teachers want him. But he’s here. You see my point. Oh hell, give him a downslip if you want to. Scare the young son. But you don’t want to fail him.

Guthrie looked at the framed pictures on the desktop. Did Wright put you up to this?

Wright? the principal said. How come? On account of basketball eligibility?

Guthrie nodded.

Why hell, he’s not that good of a player. There’s others can bring the ball down. Coach Wright never mentioned a thing about this to me. I’m just saying to you, as someone who has to consider the whole school. You think about it.

Guthrie stood up.

And Tom.

Guthrie waited.

I don’t need somebody else to put me up to something. I can still do my own thinking. You try and remember that.

Then you better tell him to do the work he’s supposed to do, Guthrie said.

He left the office. His classroom was at the far end of the building and he went down the wide hallway that was lined with student lockers that had sheets of colored paper taped to the metal doors with names and slogans written across them, and above the lockers attached to the walls were long paper banners bearing extravagant claims about the athletic teams. This early in the morning the tiled floors were still shiny.

He entered the classroom and sat down at his desk and took out the blue-backed lesson book, reading through the notes he’d made for the day. Then he removed an examination ditto from a desk drawer and went back out into the hallway, carrying the ditto.

When he entered the teacher’s lounge Maggie Jones was using the copy machine. She turned and looked at him. He sat down at the table in the center of the room and lit a cigarette. She stood at the counter watching him.

I thought you quit that, she said.

I did.

How come you started again? You were doing okay.

He shrugged. Things change.

What’s wrong? she said. You don’t look good. You look like hell.

Thanks. You about done with that?

I mean it, she said. You look like you haven’t even slept.

He pulled an ashtray closer, tapped the cigarette into it and looked at her. She turned back to the machine. He watched her working at the counter, her hand and arm turning rapidly with the crank of the machine, her hips moving at the same time and her skirt jumping and swaying. A tall healthy dark-haired woman, she was dressed in a black skirt and white blouse and wore considerable silver jewelry. Presently she stopped cranking the machine and put in another master.

What brings you here so early? she said.

Crowder wanted to talk to me.

What about?

Russell Beckman.

That little shit. What’d he do now?

Nothing. But he’s going to if he wants to get out of American history.

Good luck, she said. She cranked the machine once and looked at the paper. Is that all that’s bothering you?

Nothing’s bothering me.

Like hell it isn’t. I can see something is. She looked into his face, and he looked back without expression and sat smoking. Is it at home? she said.

He didn’t answer but shrugged again and smoked.

Then the door opened and a muscular little man in a shortsleeve white shirt came in. Irving Curtis, who taught business. Morning one and all, he said.

He moved up beside Maggie Jones and put his arm around her waist. The top of his head came up to her eyes. He stood up on his toes and whispered something into her ear. Then he squeezed her hard, drawing her toward him. She removed his hand.

Don’t be such an ass, she said. It’s too early in the morning.

It’s only a joke.

And I’m just telling you.

Oh now, he said. He sat down at the table across from Guthrie and lit a cigarette with a silver lighter and snapped it shut and then played with the lighter on the tabletop. What’s the good word? he said.