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Two years later, on the last day of the school year, I was sitting in that very same teachers’
room and reading my way through a batch of final essays my American Poetry honors seminar had written. The kids themselves had already left, turned loose for another summer, and soon I would do the same. But for the time being I was happy enough where I was, enjoying the unaccustomed quiet.
I thought I might even clean out the snack cupboard before I left. Someone ought to do it, I thought.
Earlier that day, Harry Du
“I just want to thank you for everything,” he said.
I gri
“Yeah, but this is my last day. I’m retiring. So I wanted to make sure and thank you again.” As I shook his hand, a kid cruising by—no more than a sophomore, judging by the fresh crop of pimples and the serio-comic straggle on his chin that aspired to goateehood—muttered, “Hoptoad Harry, hoppin down the av-a- new. ”
I grabbed for him, my intention to make him apologize, but Harry stopped me. His smile was easy and unoffended. “Nah, don’t bother. I’m used to it. They’re just kids.”
“That’s right,” I said. “And it’s our job to teach them.”
“I know, and you’re good at it. But it’s not my job to be anybody’s whatchacallit—teachable moment. Especially not today. I hope you’ll take care of yourself, Mr. Epping.” He might be old enough to be my father, but Jake was apparently always going to be beyond him.
“You too, Harry.”
“I’ll never forget that A-plus. I framed that, too. Got it right up beside my diploma.”
“Good for you.”
And it was. It was all good. His essay had been primitive art, but every bit as powerful and true as any painting by Grandma Moses. It was certainly better than the stuff I was currently reading. The spelling in the honors essays was mostly correct, and the diction was clear (although my cautious college-bound don’t-take-a-chancers had an irritating tendency to fall back on the passive voice), but the writing was pallid. Boring. My honors kids were juniors—Mac Steadman, the department head, awarded the seniors to himself—but they wrote like little old men and little old ladies, all pursey-mouthed and ooo, don’t slip on that icy patch, Mildred. In spite of his grammatical lapses and painstaking cursive, Harry Du
As I was musing on the difference between offensive and defensive writing, the intercom on the wall cleared its throat. “Is Mr. Epping in the west wing teachers’ room? You by any chance still there, Jake?”
I got up, thumbed the button, and said: “Still here, Gloria. For my sins. Can I help you?”
“You have a phone call. Guy named Al Templeton? I can transfer it, if you want. Or I can tell him you left for the day.”
Al Templeton, owner and operator of Al’s Diner, where all LHS faculty save for yours truly refused to go. Even my esteemed department head—who tried to talk like a Cambridge don and was approaching retirement age himself—had been known to refer to the specialty of the house as Al’s Famous Catburger instead of Al’s Famous Fatburger.
Well of course it’s not really cat, people would say, or probably not cat, but it can’t be beef, not at a dollar-nineteen.
“Jake? Did you fall asleep on me?”
“Nope, wide awake.” Also curious as to why Al would call me at school. Why he’d call me at all, for that matter. Ours had always been strictly a cook-and-client relationship. I appreciated his chow, and he appreciated my patronage. “Go on and put him through.”
“Why are you still here, anyway?”
“I’m flagellating myself.”
“Ooo!” Gloria said, and I could imagine her fluttering her long lashes. “I love it when you talk dirty. Hold on and wait for the ringy-dingy.”
She clicked off. The extension rang and I picked it up.
“Jake? You on there, buddy?”
At first I thought Gloria must have gotten the name wrong. That voice couldn’t belong to Al.
Not even the world’s worst cold could have produced such a croak.
“Who is this?”
“Al Templeton, didn’t she tellya? Christ, that hold music really sucks. Whatever happened to Co
“You sound like you got the flu.”
He laughed. He also kept coughing. The combination was fairly gruesome. “I got something, all right.”
“It must have hit you fast.” I had been in just yesterday, to grab an early supper. A Fatburger, fries, and a strawberry milkshake. I believe it’s important for a guy living on his own to hit all the major food groups.
“You could say that. Or you could say it took awhile. Either one would be right.” I didn’t know how to respond to that. I’d had a lot of conversations with Al in the six or seven years I’d been going to the diner, and he could be odd—insisted on referring to the New England Patriots as the Boston Patriots, for instance, and talked about Ted Williams as if he’d known him like a brudda—but I’d never had a conversation as weird as this.
“Jake, I need to see you. It’s important.”
“Can I ask—”
“I expect you to ask plenty, and I’ll answer, but not over the phone.” I didn’t know how many answers he’d be able to give before his voice gave out, but I promised I’d come down in an hour or so.
“Thanks. Make it even sooner, if you can. Time is, as they say, of the essence.” And he hung up, just like that, without even a goodbye.
I worked my way through two more of the honors essays, and there were only four more in the stack, but it was no good. I’d lost my groove. So I swept the stack into my briefcase and left. It crossed my mind to go upstairs to the office and wish Gloria a good summer, but I didn’t bother.
She’d be in all next week, closing the books on another school year, and I was going to come in on Monday and clean out the snack cupboard—that was a promise I’d made to myself. Otherwise the teachers who used the west wing teachers’ room during summer session would find it crawling with bugs.
If I’d known what the future held for me, I certainly would have gone up to see her. I might even have given her the kiss that had been flirting in the air between us for the last couple of months. But of course I didn’t know. Life turns on a dime.
3
Al’s Diner was housed in a silver trailer across the tracks from Main Street, in the shadow of the old Worumbo mill. Places like that can look tacky, but Al had disguised the concrete blocks upon which his establishment stood with pretty beds of flowers. There was even a neat square of lawn, which he barbered himself with an old push-type lawn mower. The lawn mower was as well tended as the flowers and the lawn; not a speck of rust on the whirring, brightly painted blades. It might have been purchased at the local Western Auto store the week before . . . if there had still been a Western Auto in The Falls, that was. There was once, but it fell victim to the big-box stores back around the turn of the century.