again, they heard the foghorn more clearly, felt the rain more precisely, smelled the salt air and the general marine decomposition, heard the screaming gulls craving the loneliness each felt to be its due. Silhouetted against the sea was a sort of small, square arched building of yellow fire brick, about the right size for a playhouse—“The kiln,” Peter said. And next to it, an open shed for the forklift on whose seat an elderly man sat smoking the stump of a cigar.
“Milan,” Peter said.
“Fred,” Fred said, walking over to shake the old man’s hand.
“What can I do for you?”
Peter, shaking his head almost imperceptibly at Fred, told the old man, “Fred’s the new guy. Teacher. I’m giving him the tour.”
“Nice day for it,” Milan encouraged them, replacing the cigar stump afterwards. His dress was black jeans with suspenders under an open jacket of stained, faded canvas. He’d set his black sou’-wester hat aside on the forklift’s gear shift. Big square head with mottled, weathered features, and a full head of hair gone gray. He blew smoke at them that hovered in the wet air, neither rising nor dispersing.
“He’s in her pocket,” Peter said once they were out of earshot. “Some people, if they don’t want much anyway, and they already have it, they get their entertainment making trouble.
“Not that she’s likely to fire him, if she even thinks about anybody that far down the line. Because who else knows how the lights work? And the furnaces, the water, the rest of it? Who fixes the toilet some asshole dropped clay in?”
Their walk was taking them in the direction away from the admissions and administration building. “Even though she went out for lunch, I feel like her office is watching all the time. Like Nazis in some movie about that war they had back then.”
“You’ve seen combat?” Fred asked.
“Not to talk about.”
Fred asked again, “How do I find these two people, Rodney Somerfest and Lillian—what’s her name?”
Chapter Twenty-one
“You could ask Tom Meeker if you want to, but I wouldn’t. He’s a decent printmaker but he’s a good-time boy. I wouldn’t trust him. He’ll do anything for a joke. Also I don’t trust the girl at the desk right now,” Peter said. “She’s a part-timer, she’s new, she’s dumb, and she let Harmony scare her into dressing up like a secretary, even though she’s a student. I’ll get you the info later if I can. I mean, I
can,
but only if it’s there. Krasik is her last name. I heard someone had seen her here in town.”
They’d reached a headland from which it was possible to see the lighthouse through the wreathing veils of whatever this precipitation was—fog? Rain? Steam rising from the gray surface of an ocean that could barely bring itself to lift the occasional modest swell. The birds were louder, and more varied, here.
A silence developed while they watched the weather.
“Since I’m a veteran,” Peter said after a few minutes, “I’ve been around more.”
“You know where I’m staying?” Fred asked.
“Sure. Everyone does. If they care. Flower and that girl. The first-year student…” He let the opening extend.
“Right,” Fred said finally. “I’ve heard about that. Is there anything to it?”
“Them together, you mean?” Peter asked. He lifted his shoulders. A bead of rain dropped from the tip of his narrow nose. “I’ll go back to Stillton B now and write your assignment. I’ll stop by this evening if I can get something for you. The map…” he gestured to the chest of the poncho under which he was carrying his earlier work…“I’ll fill in some more. Fred, whatever you’re here to do I figure it can’t make things worse. This place goes up in smoke, I’m out three years, all that tuition, and my grant. So, whatever you’re doing…” He turned and walked swiftly in the direction of Stillton B.
“Tell the gang to leave their work in the classroom where I can find it, in
“Milan,” Peter said.
“Fred,” Fred said, walking over to shake the old man’s hand.
“What can I do for you?”
Peter, shaking his head almost imperceptibly at Fred, told the old man, “Fred’s the new guy. Teacher. I’m giving him the tour.”
“Nice day for it,” Milan encouraged them, replacing the cigar stump afterwards. His dress was black jeans with suspenders under an open jacket of stained, faded canvas. He’d set his black sou’-wester hat aside on the forklift’s gear shift. Big square head with mottled, weathered features, and a full head of hair gone gray. He blew smoke at them that hovered in the wet air, neither rising nor dispersing.
“He’s in her pocket,” Peter said once they were out of earshot. “Some people, if they don’t want much anyway, and they already have it, they get their entertainment making trouble.
“Not that she’s likely to fire him, if she even thinks about anybody that far down the line. Because who else knows how the lights work? And the furnaces, the water, the rest of it? Who fixes the toilet some asshole dropped clay in?”
Their walk was taking them in the direction away from the admissions and administration building. “Even though she went out for lunch, I feel like her office is watching all the time. Like Nazis in some movie about that war they had back then.”
“You’ve seen combat?” Fred asked.
“Not to talk about.”
Fred asked again, “How do I find these two people, Rodney Somerfest and Lillian—what’s her name?”
Chapter Twenty-one
“You could ask Tom Meeker if you want to, but I wouldn’t. He’s a decent printmaker but he’s a good-time boy. I wouldn’t trust him. He’ll do anything for a joke. Also I don’t trust the girl at the desk right now,” Peter said. “She’s a part-timer, she’s new, she’s dumb, and she let Harmony scare her into dressing up like a secretary, even though she’s a student. I’ll get you the info later if I can. I mean, I
can,
but only if it’s there. Krasik is her last name. I heard someone had seen her here in town.”
They’d reached a headland from which it was possible to see the lighthouse through the wreathing veils of whatever this precipitation was—fog? Rain? Steam rising from the gray surface of an ocean that could barely bring itself to lift the occasional modest swell. The birds were louder, and more varied, here.
A silence developed while they watched the weather.
“Since I’m a veteran,” Peter said after a few minutes, “I’ve been around more.”
“You know where I’m staying?” Fred asked.
“Sure. Everyone does. If they care. Flower and that girl. The first-year student…” He let the opening extend.
“Right,” Fred said finally. “I’ve heard about that. Is there anything to it?”
“Them together, you mean?” Peter asked. He lifted his shoulders. A bead of rain dropped from the tip of his narrow nose. “I’ll go back to Stillton B now and write your assignment. I’ll stop by this evening if I can get something for you. The map…” he gestured to the chest of the poncho under which he was carrying his earlier work…“I’ll fill in some more. Fred, whatever you’re here to do I figure it can’t make things worse. This place goes up in smoke, I’m out three years, all that tuition, and my grant. So, whatever you’re doing…” He turned and walked swiftly in the direction of Stillton B.
“Tell the gang to leave their work in the classroom where I can find it, in
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