Tag: Caribbean Fiction

                    
                He'd moved in with Satin's family on a Sunday afternoon.

               "My roommate said to me, Are you sure you want to do this? He's  a really nice
               chap. Offered to keep the apartment vacant just in case I had a change of heart.
               But my mind was made up. I was never more certain about what I was doing.

               "I packed all my stuff in my car, or as much as I could manage, and I drove across
               the bridge into the Bronx. I got lost. The roadways sort of meander about.
               Anyway, eventually I found the house. It's just off the El near Tremont  Avenue.
               It's not too bad. The trains keep rumbling by ever so often, but you get used to it."

               "I didn't know you had a car," Radix interrupted.

                  "Oh, I've always had a car. It's just that I'd rather take the bus or the train to
               school. It's much more intriguing. Actually I don't mind the subway. It's not as bad
               as people make it out to be, all the terrible things they say might happen to you. 
              
              "Right now I don't have a fully functioning car. I parked it outside Satin's place one 
               night, woke up the following morning and someone had walked off with the
               battery. Probably fellows around the block.

               "We've got these Hispanic chaps, always hanging about, with lean and hungry 
               faces, I don't think they like the idea of a white man moving into their neighbour-
               hood. I have to hear it from them every time I step outside, What you doing here
               white boy? Checkin' out the Indian girls? White pussy not good enough for you?
               One day I told them I was married to one of the Indian girls, and that I lived in he 
               neighborhood. That didn't stop them from vandalizing my car.

                    It was Satin's idea that I move in with her. They live in this one family dwelling. 
               Her parents and her brother live on the first floor; we're in the attic; and they've
               rented out the basement to another Indian family. Bit of a squeeze, as you can
               imagine. I haven't counted how many people actually occupy the house, but I'm
               sure we're in violation of some occupation code or other. Sometimes at night I get
               this feeling that there's someone right outside our door listening.

               "As things stand, Satin is no longer keen on our present situation. I'm telling you
                all this in the strictest confidence, right?"

               "Of course, of course."

               "Every morning she wakes up and she says to me, We have to move out of here,
                we have to move out of here! Now I can't help but wonder, Why did I move here
                in the first place? For her the situation has become, well, untenable. She thinks
                we need more privacy, more space.

                  "So we've started looking around for a new place. We'll probably move back to
                Manhattan; though, to be honest with you, I don't think where we are is all that
                bad.

                "I asked her one evening, Are your parents originally from India? Their curry
                doesn't taste like curry cooked in India. She didn't answer. Rather odd. There's 
                some mystery surrounding her family. It's something she prefers not talk about.
                At least not now.  Sometimes they have these dreadful rows, the menfolk
                screaming and swearing, the women answering back; then abruptly it all subsides
                and the house goes dead quiet.

                "Satin and I try go out as much as we can, but for the rest of the family, it's like a
                 siege mentality. They're truly afraid of the people around them. Those Hispanic
                 fellows I told you about? Always with something to say when you're stepping out.

                "So we come and go, and mind our own business, but it's not an easy proposition.
                It can get a little precarious in our neighborhood, if you know what I mean. All
                those popping noises in the middle of the night. Pretty frightening stuff."

                "So what is Satin doing now?"
   
                  "Well, she's at college, doing a course in Pharmacy. It's going to take many years of
                study. Then she'll be a pharmacist and maybe we'll go off and find a place in the
                world in need of pharmacists. In the meantime, we've got to survive somehow on
                my measly salary. Which is how I found myself a little strapped for cash today,
                you understand. But never you mind, I'll pay you back, just as soon as a few things
                get sorted out."

                Radix could think of nothing more to say.  There was a sense Stanley had said
                everything he wanted to say. His face was drained of intensity. He glanced at his
                watch, then started eating.

                He took a few mouthfuls, put down his fork, rubbed his knees and looked around
                the room; then he picked up his fork again. Baring his soul, it seemed, had done
                marvels for his appetite. His lunch, once cold and neglected, now swiftly, hand to
                mouth, entered and disappeared.

                              (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!", a novel by N.D. Williams, 2001)

 
               Radix was shocked when this teacher, standing behind him in the lunch line,
               an Englishman named Stanley Bagshott, leaned close to his ear and asked to 
               borrow five dollars. "I've got myself in a spot of trouble," he said bunching his
               shoulders.

               Teachers were, if nothing else, an independent self-sufficient lot. They didn't run
               out of pocket cash like factory workers with expensive habits.

               The Englishman  ̶  he quickly insisted Radix call him Stanley  ̶  tried to appear 
               nonchalant. His face was strained; he hadn't shaved recently; his pea soup green
               sweater hung on his shoulders as if, long passed over, it had been snatched 
               suddenly that morning from a drawer and pressed into service. He seemed in
               genuine distress.

               Radix, who first thought of pushing both trays to the cash register and paying for
               two lunches, passed him a five dollar note.

               Feeling he owed Radix some explanation for this unusual request he came over to
               his table, shoulders still bunched. "Mind if I join you?"  Radix gestured
               indifferently.

               "I don't mean to intrude," Stanley said; then he groaned. He got up to fetch paper 
                napkins. "Don't mean to intrude, " he resumed, "but there is something I think
                you might appreciate."  He got up again, he'd forgotten his plastic cutlery. He 
                settled down finally with a huge sigh, squirming in his chair, making airless
                remarks about the weather, and how dark the future looked for the school.
              
                Then: "What I wanted to tell you was this: I got married."

               "Good grief, congratulations! Who's the lucky lady?"               

               "Do you remember Satin? The Indian girl in Special Ed?  I'm sure you know her."  
    
               "A student? You got married to one of our students?"

               "Well, she isn't a student any longer. We got married soon after she graduated, at
                the end of the last semester."   

                Sensing Stanley wanted a sympathetic ear, Radix looked up from his plate with
                frequency. 

               "I suppose you're wondering how this all came about, " Stanley said, studying the
                other man, trying to determine how much he should reveal to him. "Or, as the
                Americans would ask, What's going on here?"

                Radix shrugged. "I don't know. I mean, I had no idea you two…" 

               "I haven't told anyone else, but I think they know," Stanley said. 

               "You think they know?" 

               "The rest of the faculty. And maybe some students. I think one of the students saw
                us together on the trains. Maybe everyone knows. This sort of thing you can't hide
                forever." 

                "It shouldn't matter. She's no longer a student, right?" 

                "Yes, yes, the times are changing and all that, I know, but I can tell you," he 
                 leaned over his plate and lowered his voice, "there are people in this neck of the
                 woods who are not too pleased with what has happened. When someone like me
                 consorts, if I may put it the way, with someone like Satin, it raises a few
                 eyebrows.  No, not just eyebrows. It raises hackles. I'm sure questions have been
                 asked about the propriety, shall we say, of our relationship. I get the feeling it
                 would be fine if Satin were my kept woman, my mistress, you know. But
                 marrying her, well, that's something else altogether. Mind you, everything I've
                 done is above board. There's nothing they can do to me, like getting me fired or
                 anything. Not that it matters now." 

                 Radix imagined battles shaping up  ̶  Stanley vs.various Administrations; and he
                 decided if push came to shove, without reservation he would side with Stanley. 

                 "You know how things are here, the strong anti-immigrant prejudice in this    
                  country. Always been that way, of course. Isn't it amazing, especially when you
                  consider the nation was built on the backs of immigrants." Stanley rocked back
                  and laughed for no apparent reason.

                 "Has anyone said anything to you?" Radix asked

                 "In this building? No, and that's precisely the point. All of a sudden they're not
                  saying as much or smiling as they used to. And the payroll secretary…" 

                 "Oh, I had problems with that woman." 

                 "…you know, she gave me the strangest look when I told her about my change of
                  address, and enquired about changing my tax deduction code. I wouldn't put it
                  beyond her to begin snooping around, get a little private investigation going." 

                 "What are you talking about? What's there to investigate?" 

                  And Stanley, feeling there was enough genuine sympathy in the other man's
                  interest, put down his fork and began to explain the length and breadth of his
                  dilemma.                             

                                     (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!", a novel by N.D. Williams, 2001)

                  
               When next Radix saw Judy Wiener Spring was rolling its portentous way down to
               the end of the semester. She was sitting with another teacher in the cafeteria,
               and attending to her face with lipstick and mirror. He waved and called to her;
               she looked up and smiled; the other woman turned in her chair to see who it was.
               Radix came over with his steaming coffee cup.

               Judy Wiener's face looked white and drained, with a pre-coffee dry tension,
               almost frightening in that bloodless way white faces sometimes turn in winter. He
               hadn't seen her in weeks.

               "How're you? Where have you been?" he asked.

               "I'm okay." 

               "You're usually free this period?"

               "Yes, but I've been hiding away. Which is why you haven't seen much of me 
                recently."

               "So what have you been up to?"

                At this point, bumbling over her lapsed manners, she introduced the other
                teacher, Amanda Blitch, from the English Department, whose broad smile was set
                ablaze by crimson lipstick.

                She'd been listening to the exchange and staring at Radix, wondering what it was
                about him that got Judy Wiener so animated. She looked Radix straight in the
                face, much to his discomfort, and she informed him that she'd been on sabbatical
                and had just come back; so she hadn't encountered the usual fresh faces of the
                Fall term.

                Her face had a scrubbed pink glow and her eyes sparkled behind her rimless
                glasses.

                Radix was struck by the hat she wore which looked like something he'd seen in
                movies on the heads of officials in Shakespeare's England (she's probably teaching
                "Romeo and Juliet", Judy Wiener explained); and the black puffy blouse which
                completed the costume look. Radix was not much good at determining people's
                age from their faces, but he thought Amanda Blitch looked fortyish. She spoke in
                gushy bursts, her double chin quivering.

                "Well, I will leave you two happy souls alone," she said, looking at her watch, 
                getting up, gathering her things. "I've been away so long I don't know if I 
                remember where everything is, so I think I'd better get reacquainted with the 
                school quickly."

                She was rotund below the waist, looking like a stout lady of society as well as a 
                high school teacher. She gave Radix a last fresh smile and hurried off, light on
                her feet despite heavy haunches; making the point she could handle her weight
                and carry herself off with some elegance.

                Judy Wiener leaned forward. "You'd better be careful…there's a gleam in
                Amanda's eye."

                 "What are you talking about?" Radix looked at the door that had closed after her
                 exit.

                "When you get to know Amanda you'll see what I mean. She has a roving eye for
                 new teachers. You're a new young teacher. You're going to hear about her
                 mentoring program. She likes to mentor, and she takes a special interest in her
                 mentorees." Judy Wiener opened her eyes wide.

                 "Well, thanks for the warning. You know, the other day I had a brush with the
                  lady in the payroll office?"

                 "With Gwen? You had a brush with Gwen?" Judy Weiner went back to touching up
                  her face, which seemed done though not entirely to her satisfaction.

                 "She sent me a note asking me to see her immediately. Turns out I'd forgotten
                  to sign my payroll card. No big deal, I told her. I promised it wouldn't happen
                  again. And she said to me, twenty lashes."

                 "Twenty lashes?"

                 "Twenty lashes! The thing is, she wasn't smiling when she said it. No, seriously,
                  she really felt that was what I deserved for my misdemeanor… twenty lashes
                  was just right for me."

                 "I don't think she meant it like that," Judy Wiener turned her head away.
                 "Everybody in that office likes cracking whips whenever you step out of line,
                  doesn't matter who you are. Gwen likes to think, because she controls  the
                  distribution of paychecks, that she wields great power. By the way, have you
                  heard? Now they're considering docking our pay for showing up late?"

                 "Wait, you mean, someone's going to sit down… and go through all those time
                  cards… checking how many hours and minutes we actually work in this
                  building? That's ridiculous."

                 "That's how they see us sometimes. But Gwen's a nice person when you get
                 to know her."

                 "Well, that's one nice person I don't plan on getting to know."

                                 (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel! a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)

                  
              On the 3rd floor (Rm. 322) the situation was more of a mystery.

              Mr. Willosong chose to decorate his classroom with enlarged photos of opera
              singers, in splendid regal dress, heads lifted, hands extended. Kathleen Battle, 
              Jessye Norman, Maria Callas, names and people Radix had never heard of. "You
              like opera?" Radix asked him once as he came in. "Oh, yes, I do…are you an opera
              buff?" Radix regretted he was not; and abruptly Mr. Willosong's face fell flat. It 
              seemed the opera was his passion; he was always ready to talk about it, but with
              seriousness; and only with fellow opera buffs.

                  More puzzling was the image he presented, if you looked in through the plexiglas 
              panel, of a teacher very much in control of his charges. No students taking 
              basketball shots. No one brazenly eating in his room.

              Mr. Willosong sat at his desk, a tall, thin black man, with a face so lean the flesh
              seemed wrapped like tinfoil on the bone. His head stuck out of a thick turtleneck
              sweater, stiff and shiny; and his eyes bulged and glowed like tiny round furnaces
              burning and sending heat to the rest of his body.

              He spoke in a slow precise manner, in a deep baritone that seemed to shovel and
              heft his words. And his students, a class of juniors, mostly girls, seemed pinned to 
              their seats on the other side of his desk, listening or reading or writing but always
              on task.

              How, Radix wondered, did he achieve this miracle of classroom management at 
              John Wayne Cotter? How did this gaunt man with his shiny cheekbones bend
              fractious student behavior to his single will?

                  And he did all this from his chair at his desk, rarely standing up. Not once did 
              Radix see him walking between the desks, or pacing, or writing on the board. A
              man severely apart, like teachers back on his island in the old days; magisterial in
              his detachment.

              It might have passed off as odd and unusual, a happy circumstance, had not Mr.
              Willosong revealed a personal obsession: at this time of year, he told Radix, he
              preferred the windows of his classroom closed. Always closed.

              It seemed an unusual request, for at times the heating system clanked and made
              the room unbearably stuffy, causing students, who liked to keep their stylish
              jackets on, to complain.

              When one morning Radix opened the windows a few cracks to release the stuffy 
              air, then forgot to close them before leaving, Mr. Willosong returning for his class
              stormed past the desk and shut them with a fierce bang. Radix looked up, startled;
              he said he was sorry, he'd forgotten about the windows. Mr. Willosong nodded,
              tightlipped. Radix could tell he was displeased, very displeased, as he turned away
              to write the objectives of the day's lesson on the board.

              Only then did Radix sense something plainly bizarre about Mr. Willosong and this
              entire situation: the students' correct behaviour, the far from standard teaching
              methods, the eerie stillness, the windows shut tight  ̶  all of this happening in a
              quiet corner on the third floor, away from the tumultuous operations of the school.

              Was any one else in the building aware of the behavior of this gaunt, cold-fearing
              man teaching English at John Wayne Cotter?

              He raised the question casually one day with Judy Weiner. She wasn't sure which 
              teacher he  meant until Radix used the words "gaunt" and "English Department".

              She smiled in recognition, and lowering her voice revealed there was a rumor
              about that English teacher. He was in fading health. In fact, he was said to be
              dying. Only in his thirties, and already dying. Of Aids, that new, body-shrinking
              incurable disease. At least this was what they were saying, she couldn't be sure.

              Radix felt mortified; he was only know finding out what everybody apparently
              knew; and hearing about it through furtive whispering.

              As for his students, had they sensed something wrong with their teacher  ̶  not
              yet a cadaver, sitting upright with a cold frightening will? Were they sworn to some
              secret student pact that helped him carry on, their heads bowed, obedient to his
              every wish, his every insistent breath?

              Primed with this information he started peering in with new interest at Mr.
              Willosong. The man sitting grim-willed at his desk now looked more ghoulish than
              "gaunt"; truly like a dying man who felt tidal waters sweeping him towards the
              precipice. A rock of defiance, though, with each passing day; his slow strange well-
              bred manner saying to the cold air frosting up his windows, Not quite ready, not
              finished yet.

                               (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!", a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)

                    
               It took Radix awhile to grasp the importance of declaring a preference for this or
               that classroom. As a newcomer he'd taken whatever room was assigned to him.
               Slowly he came to understand how having your own room mattered. For one thing,
               you didn't have to travel from floor to floor. The students came to you. They took
               their time, they dawdled and kissed, they scuffled and clogged up the hallways;
               but the burden of classroom shuttle was theirs.

               Smart or veteran teachers, who knew and worked the system of preferences, 
               stood at their desks, in their rooms, waiting for whoever cared to show up that 
               day. They locked away personal stuff in the teacher's closet and went off to 
               lunch. No travel into strange territory for them.

               As a new teacher still on probation, Radix found himself moving in and out of
               several rooms on different floors. He had to countenance the irritation of teachers
               who weren't too pleased with his dilatory manner in gathering his books and
               leaving; nor his attempt to deal with student problems at their desk minutes after
               the bell had gone for the next class.

               Some teachers chose rooms with a view. Some liked the east wing  because the 
               sunlight, what little there was of it in the Fall, made all the difference during 
               early morning periods. Lightbody was happy with his room far away in the north 
               wing. No chance his supervisor would leave his office and trek all the way over, 
               just to peer inside and determine if "learning activity" was going on.

               There was a small plexiglas panel on the door which teachers papered over (even
               though that was "in violation") to deter hallway strollers from looking in, making
               clown faces, waving to girl friends. The panels also became punching targets for
               enraged students.

               Radix kept his glass panel clear; he could put up with faces at the door. Of greater
               concern to him were teachers like Mrs. Huffman, who was obsessed with cleanli-
               ness and order. Her walls were decorated with portraits of past presidents. Her
               room looked neat and tidy. She wanted Radix, who used the room for one period,
               to maintain her standards of cleanliness and order; so she showed him the closet
               where she kept two brooms, and encouraged him to put them to good use.

               She told him about the bad habits of students. They brought orange juice and
               bread slices wrapped in tin foil into the classroom, complaining they hadn't time
               to shower and breakfast; they "balled up"  returned homework assignments and 
               made basketball shots that missed the basket near her desk and littered the floor.

               At the end of a forty-minute period, the room was "filthy". She could not teach in
               filth. No one could think clearly or work in filth. "If they're not willing to learn
               anything," she whispered earnestly, "the least we could do is instruct them in the
               virtues of cleanliness and good citizenship."

               Radix said he didn't think he'd have time to apply the broom, but he'd certainly
               make an effort to deter the basketball shots.

                  Perhaps curious to discover how well he managed in her absence, Mrs. Huffman 
               returned for her next class  and waited outside minutes before the bell. Radix
               glimpsed her peering in, making a sweeping inspection of as much of the floor as
               she could see through the plexiglas panel; and waiting.

               The bell rang, the door opened from the outside, Mrs. Huffman entered. She 
               gasped with exaggerated horror, threw a look of huge disappointment at Radix;
               then pointing at food wrappings on the floor she'd declare to the entire class (and
               its ineffectual teacher), "This is unacceptable. Totally unacceptable. There are
               people coming in here after you. They cannot possibly work in these filthy
               conditions."

               The class walked out, ignoring her, absorbed in chatter, which left Radix alone to
               offer some explanation for the deplorable state of the room (and his apparent 
               complicity). Caught in the fury of her condemnation, he focused on gathering 
               student papers; then looking back in case he'd forgotten anything he made his
               exit.

                      (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!", a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)

                Jessica did try to put the incident behind her, though with each passing day her
                shoulders looked more rounded; her demeanor stiffened, as if her stomach now
                carried a secret that must be held in check and not give her away. She had lost
                some of her sureness of things, and to her classmates she seemed less "arrogant",
                though she was still considered the senior student "most likely to succeed".

                And for awhile everything was fine, until weeks before graduation exercises when
                a chance remark, that had nothing to do with her, stirred memories of the fire
                drill incident. She was suffused again with feelings of shame and violation, and
                the troubling thought that by now everyone in the building knew what had
                happened; and in that cruel high school way everyone was sniggering behind her
                back.

                In her heart seeds of trepidation took root. When she pictured herself up on the
                stage about to deliver the valedictorian speech before parents and school
                officials, she trembled. She knew she'd freeze.

                She'd hear a snigger; she'd see hand-muffled giggles; she'd look out at the frozen
                grins of those upturned faces, the Class of '92, so subdued and different in their
                haircuts and formal dress. Worse than the fondling of her buttocks would be
                failure before their knowing eyes. Her humiliation would be complete. She could
                not got through with it.

                Could not go through with it? What on earth was she talking about? Her mother
                demanded an explanation. Jessica could not explain.

                Her mother, for whom the valedictory moment would be the crown in her
                daughter's achievement, would hear nothing of it. Nerves could be overcome,
                Jessica must go through with it.

                Jessica swore she could not. Her mother worked herself into such commanding
                frenzy, Jessica eventually broke down and disclosed what had happened many
                months ago during the fire drill.

                Her mother was stunned.  Why hadn't Jessica mentioned it before? Did she speak
                to anyone at the school about it? Had she raised her daughter to bite her lips and
                say nothing when something like this happened?

                Outraged that "something like this" had indeed happened to her daughter,
                Jessica's mother stormed into the school the following day. She demanded to
                speak to the principal. She was directed to Bob Darling's office.

                He listened with sympathy and astonishment; he shared her distress over the vile
                attack on her daughter; he directed her to the Dean of Discipline.

                The Dean sought more information about the incident from Jessica. He explained
                that since the whole thing happened so long ago, his hands were tied; at this 
                stage there was little he could do. Jessica's mother fumed and raged. Jessica sat
                with bowed head, mortified that her mother was making such a scene in the
                office.

                Her mother threatened to take the whole matter to the Board of Education, even
                if it meant taking another day off from work and traveling to Brooklyn.

                This she apparently did for word came back through the grapevine that the Board
                of Education had received a complaint about "an incident". While not calling
                names or blaming anyone in particular, they were very concerned. A parent had
                confirmed their worst fears about the number of "incidents" at John Wayne Cotter
                H.S. that had gone either unreported or uninvestigated.

                Phil Quackenbush, who had been fighting a rear guard battle through the union to
                stop the Board from closing down and redesignating the school, confided to his 
                membership his belief that this incident  ̶  or, as he put it, "this non-incident"  ̶
                was the final nail in the coffin.

                "This is like the Titanic," he said, half-seriously. "We're headed straight for
                disaster. The big iceberg is right in front of us, and there's not a whole lot we can
                do."

                 (from "Ah Mikhail O Fidel!", a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)

                    Wherever she is now, away and flourishing, Jessica Montserrat probably carries
                    the shudders of that day, for it was during this drill that she lost her innocence.
                    At least this was how her English teacher put it, adding that Jessica was a
                    strong, resilient girl and would no doubt rise "like the phoenix" and do
                    exceptionally well at college.

                          She was in truth one of the brightest prospects to come through John Wayne
                    Cotter's system of encouragement and discouragement. She had been a
                    survivor of the Program office's mishandling of freshman programs; a sopho-
                    more who did not drop out, did not get pregnant; a junior who passed all
                    her Regents exams; President of the Student Council in her senior year; and
                    from early indications destined to be valedictorian for the Class of '92

                         "An exceptional student, truly outstanding results," Pete Plimpler declared. He
                    reminded his colleagues at the department meeting that their efforts at
                    teaching literature were not entirely futile. Jessica was a fine example of what
                    could be achieved. "She's from the West Indies," he pointed out. "They've got
                    the British system of education down there."

                          Jessica Montserrat knew she was "exceptional" from the first day she stepped 
                    into a classroom. Perhaps she wore her dreams too closely stitched to her
                    pride. Something was bound to happen to someone like her, so nice, so focused
                    and shamelessly ambitious.

                          On the morning of the fire drill she was on her way to the third floor, on an
                    errand for the college office. The warning bells caught her on the second floor;
                    she blithely ignored them; she ignored everyone and everything. She was
                    on her way to deliver an important message.

                    By the time she got to the third floor the classrooms were spilling out. Still 
                    thinking drill procedures didn't apply to her, she walked on until a security
                    officer, unimpressed with her mission "from the college office", insisted she
                    turn around, take the nearest exit to the streets. She had to join a mass of 
                    rowdy freshmen, shouting needlessly, and moving like a herd down the
                    stairs.

                    On the first floor she was trapped in the stairwell; there was congestion near
                    the main entrance as classes converged from several directions. She held her
                    breath and waited, her body packed in among other bodies on the stairs. There
                    was a lull in the talk and the laughter, a moment when it seemed everyone had
                    stopped talking at the same time. She distinctly remembered that moment for
                    seconds after she felt a hand grab and squeeze the right cheek of her buttocks.

                         And before she could turn her face to catch the buttock squeezer, the bodies
                    massed in front of her moved, sucking her forward in sudden release. Fearing
                    she'd be crushed or trampled in the stairwell by the students behind her,
                   Jessica moved too.

                         Out in the hallway, angry and embarrassed, she turned to catch her violator;
                   she listened for someone's boastful laughter; but the students streamed past
                   her and the security officers were yelling and directing everyone to the doors.

                   She wanted to make a detour back up to the college office. They won't let her.
                   She found herself herded out onto the sidewalk, alone among students she didn't
                   recognize; her face burning with the knowledge of what had happened.

                        Jessica Montserrat had been grabbed by the buttock. Jessica Montserrat, who
                    had walked with confidence (and a little contempt) through the school's
                    hallways, had been violated. In the school building. In broad daylight.

                    And somewhere in that mass of students huddled on the sidewalks stood the 
                    violator, who at that very moment  ̶  the animal! the beast!  ̶  must be studying
                    her face, laughing at her anguish, maybe confiding to a friend what he had
                    done. She stood there dying slowly with embarrassment. She wished the earth
                    would open beneath her and swallow her in. She needed someone to talk to.

                    The teachers streaming back inside at the all-clear, faces strained and raw 
                    from the cold, seemed too beleaguered to listen. All except Mrs. Boneskosky
                    who had an undisturbed neat look about her, as if she hadn't been outside at
                    all.

                          "I was hurrying to my next class. I had to stop and help her," she said later.
                    "The poor girl was so upset."

                          Walking slowly, stopping at the point of Jessica's horrible disclosure, Mrs.
                    Boneskosky had just enough time to pass on morsels of advice.

                          Jessica should try to put the whole episode behind her. It was a truly painful
                    degrading thing, to be violated like that; but Jessica must try to come to terms
                    with what happened, and  ̶  Mrs. Boneskosky glanced at her watch  ̶  she should
                    come and talk to her again at the end of the day, Rm 206, okay?  Remember
                    the poems we read last semester  ̶  remember?  ̶  about courage and
                    resilience, the passing of life's cruelest season, the human spirit beaten but
                    unbowed, remember, Jessica?"

         
                           (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!" a novel by N.D. Williams, 2001)

                   The only person not impressed, not harried, truly not caring about the fire drill 
                   procedures was Pete Plimpler (A.P. English). His secretary, Felicity Rudder,
                   shared with the department his cryptic response to announcements about
                   clearing the building. "Pete says, it would take something close to Dante's
                   inferno to get him to vacate the building."

                         If he was lucky to be tipped off about the drill he placed himself, as the hour
                   approached, inside his glass cubicle. Felicity Rudder would grab her bag and her
                   coat, push her head in the door, and say, "I think this one is real. I'm leaving."
                   And Pete would respond wearily, "If it gets out of hand tell the fire people not
                   to bother with the ladders. I'll go down with the building in flames." This slice of
                   humour she also shared with the department which gobbled up every treat of
                   gossip about its enigmatic supervisor.

                         Pete Plimpler had his own procedures when these drills started. Once Felicity
                   had left he waited two minutes, listening to the din of classrooms emptying out.
                   When it seemed his third floor was clear he'd step outside his door ostensibly to 
                   move along any stragglers. Then he'd return to his cubicle, pour himself a fresh 
                   cup of coffee, turn up the volume of his radio (tuned into the classical music 
                   station).

                   He'd stand at the window, steam from the coffee cup swirling round his lips and
                   up his nostrils; and he'd look out on a somber grey world  ̶  the bareheaded
                   shuffling confusion below, the grimy sodden brick and grilled structures of Bronx
                   dwellings; aging trees, overused roadways. And for as long as the fire drill
                   lasted he'd experience a strange desire to be transported.

                   It raised goose bumps on his skin. He waited for something to happen, for some
                   force to take his soul out of its suitcase of weary flesh; lift it up and away.

                        Felicity Rudder would return to find him at the window still staring out, his
                  head at a limp angle. When she spoke to him  ̶  "I thought I'd freeze to death out
                  there!"  ̶   she noticed he didn't respond right away. Which prompted her to
                  remark once to Mrs. Boneskosky,  "You know, sometimes I wonder if Pete is all
                  there."

                       For his part Bob Meier was unusually sanguine about these drills. Depending on
                  when the bells rang he was happy to take a break, any break from the classroom.

                       On the day Principal Wamp kept everyone freezing on the sidewalk, the alarm
                  went off just as he was settling down in the cafeteria to lunch. Not the cafeteria
                  lunch of fries and oily chicken and over steamed broccoli, which he paid three
                  bucks for and shoveled in like coal in his stomach boilers. This time he'd brought
                  something from home in a Tupperware container.

                       His department's microwave was broken, so he had to travel to the first floor to
                  use the Special Ed. department's microwave. The secretary and a teacher in the
                  office who didn't know him gave him a long cold look and told him he could go
                  ahead.

                  He had to borrow (he couldn't find his) a plastic fork from the cafeteria; they
                  didn't approve of anyone using their cutlery and their paper napkins and not
                  buying anything. Finally he was able to settle down, shaking his head, 
                  wondering what the world was coming to.

                  He'd just taken his second mouthful when Bob Darling instructed everyone to
                  leave the building. Everyone in the cafeteria looked up at each other, wondering
                  if those instructions applied to teachers on their forty-minute lunch break, who
                  had taken just two or more sips of their coffee. They decided they weren't
                  leaving; and Bob Meier was opening the pages of his New York Times when this
                  burly security officer came in and shouted, "Everybody out of the building";
                  startling the teachers who were accustomed to shouting, not being shouted at.

                  They froze and stared at him and seemed to resent his manner of speaking. The
                  officer looked and sounded intimidating, with his bald head and smooth black
                  youthful face; and a football player's impassable bulk. He held his ground, but
                  amended his message: "I'm sorry, ladies and gentlemen, you have to leave the
                  building." And he stood waiting, thumbs in his belt, for the teachers to do
                  precisely what he'd said.

                  The shock of being addressed in that manner lingered in the air. The alarm bells
                  rang, the strobe lights flickered; and Bob Darling's voice now gave stern
                  warning  ̶  this drill was not to be taken lightly. The teachers got up, gathered
                  their belongings, and headed for the nearest exits; not happy, grumbling to each
                  other, food trays abandoned.

                  Bob Meier was the last to leave. The burly security officer had looked straight at
                  him when he spoke the second time, as if detecting a potential trouble-maker.
                  There was no mistaking the frustration and anger on Meier's face. He got up
                  slowly; he wasn't sure whether to pack away his wife's Tupperware with its 
                  barely touched contents; he decided to leave it on the table. If the drill was over
                  quickly he might have time to get back to it. As he sauntered off he heard the
                  footsteps of the security officer marching behind him.

                  Outside, since he had no class of students to supervise, he hung about near the
                  entrance. He was rousted again by another security officer and told to move on,
                  over to the sidewalk across the streets. Enraged, he shuffled off, mumbling an
                  apology if he stepped on the heels of a student. And during the long wait he
                  focused his stare back at the doors where the first security officer, his short
                  sleeves rolled up to reveal impressive biceps, his job done, stood with legs apart
                  sharing a joke with his pals.

                  Students standing near Bob Meier tried to engage him in banter but he wasn't in
                  the mood. His lips were clenched in a strange self-absorption. His eyes were a
                  beam of controlled fury directed at the burly security officer.

                  He wanted to catch the man's eye. The man had taken something from him when
                  he stormed in like a drill sergeant rousting everyone. Bob Meier wanted it back.

                  For the rest of the term whenever he passed that security fellow he tried to lock
                  into his eyes. The man did not engage him in the hallway, doing his job of yelling
                  and directing students; carrying on as if nothing had happened.

                         
                    (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!" a novel by N.D. Williams, 2001)

                   For all his acknowledged charm and sense of fair play Bob Darling held fast 
                        to the belief that teachers should be held accountable for their actions.
                        Consequently there was not too much to argue about once an issue was
                        brought to his attention. Still, to show he wasn't exactly the cold bureaucrat
                        in long sleeves and tie, he made small but important gestures; like, for
                        instance, leaking information there would be a fire drill during a specific 
                        period of the day.                           

                        No such warning went out when Principal Wamp entered the building one
                        morning. She didn't inform anyone until twenty minutes before it was
                        scheduled to begin. 
                                
                        She explained she'd been unhappy with the response to the last fire drill.
                        Most teachers were slow and nonchalant about vacating the building. Once
                        they got outside they tended to cluster on the sidewalk near the entrances.
                        This created a dangerous, congested situation with students still pouring
                        out the exits. Things like that left her very unhappy.

                             This time only the school's security officers were told about the fire drill. 
                        This drill, she emphasized, would be as close to the real thing as she could
                        contrive. They were to make sure everyone  ̶  students, teachers, everyone  ̶
                        vacated the building, using the designated exits and following the
                        procedures she had gone over with the staff so many times.

                        The bells went off during the fifth period. A few teachers poked their heads
                        out of classroom doors, looked at each other, asked, Is it real this time? Bob
                        Darling's voice on the school address system cast all doubt aside.

                               
                        They stood on the sidewalks hugging themselves, chattering and complain-
                        ning, while the wind whipped around them and gnawed its way through to
                        the bone. They stamped their feet, talking with fervor, as if spoken words
                        could help keep them warm.

                        Everyone assumed the drill would be over quickly. It made no sense holding
                        the entire school out on the sidewalks in this cold weather. 
                               
                        Five minutes, ten minutes. Still no signal to return inside. What had started
                        as a simple exercise now took on the proportion of something fiendish and
                        uncaring. Inside shivering hearts a strong desire raged to be gone from this
                        place, to drive or walk away from this building, never to return.    
                             
                        All eyes looked toward the doors where the security officers, their task of
                        clearing the building complete, stood around in shirt sleeves, joking,
                        enjoying what seemed a rare pleasure of officering at the gates of cold
                        duty.

                        A flurry of activity. A hint that perhaps it was over. And then Principal 
                        Wamp  stepped outside.

                        She was escorted by Head of Security, Mr. Mc Nulty. He walked with a limp 
                        from an old Vietnam war wound, and seemed to heave his bulky body
                        forward in an effort to keep pace with Principal Wamp's quick steps. She'd
                        told him she wanted to have a look, to determine how well everyone had
                        followed instructions.

                        Rarely if ever had anyone seen the school's principal walking down a Bronx
                        sidewalk. They were slightly awed and attentive. She looked radiant in a
                        black blouse, set off by a red outfit, the shoulders square; and she seemed
                        undaunted by the chilly weather, appearing coatless, as if to set an example
                        of responsibility and fortitude.

                               Since everyone had assembled on the sidewalk across the street, her walk
                        took on the appearance of a celebrity tour of the school. She walked briskly
                        half way up the block, pointing across the street, making observations; while
                        Mr. Mc Nulty, staying close, gestured and offered his evaluations. She
                        paused and nodded; she seemed satisfied with what she saw; she turned
                        back.

                                Near the entrance she gave the first sign of being aware how cold it was.
                        She rubbed her arms and gave a mock shudder. She smiled as if now she
                        understood the terrible discomfort everyone must be feeling, all in the
                        interest of fire safety. Everyone thought she was about to wave them in. 
                        Instead she seemed to be making a new puzzled appraisal of her students 
                        and staff massed on the sidewalks.

                               Then she saw Phil Quackenbush, the chapter chairman, crossing the road,
                        hurrying toward her, no doubt to lodge some union grievance and protest.
                        She turned and went inside. And at that point the security officers waved
                        the all clear.

                                           (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!" a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)