teacher,
Michael."
"Hi, Michael," they chorused.
I felt as if I were in an AA meeting. I nodded stiffly. "Michael was the first person I ever knew who struck a
blow for gay lib," she went on. "God, that impressed the hell out of me! You were a real role model, Michael."
I shook my head, stunned at this sudden testimonial. "Monica, I—"
She waved a hand at me dismissively. "Oh go ahead and belittle it, but I was there, remember? And I knew it was against the law back then. So don't shake your head at me!" She laughed, the same laugh that used to disrupt my classes on numerous occasions. Even then, I didn't really mind. "We're getting a mailing out for the latest fundraising appeal for Allegra House. Most of these people live there, or have lived there somewhere along the way, when they needed it. Let's go upstairs. I left the printer spewing out more letters."
She thumped up the carpeted stairs in front of me, talking all the way, her Birkenstock sandals slapping her bare feet smartly. She made me feel as if I had been slothful my entire life and I had only a little time to make up for my past unsatisfactory performance.
The small hall was made smaller with cardboard boxes of stationery piled in one corner. Ahead, her office overflowed with paper and files. Bits and pieces of computer equipment crowded shelves, cheek to cheek with books and boxes of labels and envelopes. A stack of banker boxes leaned perilously in one corner. On the end of the desk, her printer spewed forth a jumbled pile of letters. Monica collected them as she talked.
"Damn machines are a godsend when they work. McDuff, get out of here. Go! Nothing to eat here." The dog hung his head and slouched out to the hall, where he lay down, head between his paws, and looked up at her soulfully.
"Christ," muttered Monica, refilling the printer with paper. "To look at him you'd think I clobbered him regularly."
"Somehow I doubt that," I said, smiling.
She laughed and pushed the hair away from her face. "Damned air conditioner isn't working very well. Or maybe it's just me," she added, wiping her forehead. "Millie! Come get the rest of these letters!" she bellowed down the stairs. A young woman in jeans cutoffs and a tiny T-shirt ran up, gathered the papers in her arms, and disappeared again without a word.
"Poor thing has had three abortions," Monica said, shaking her head. "So many people afraid of the Pill these days. Okay, let's say we take a break. It's cooler out front."
I followed as she led the way through what appeared to be her bedroom, stopping en route to get two Coronas from a bar fridge used as a bedside table, and then going out sliding doors to a deck on top of the front porch. The dog followed, sniffing all around the area before skittering down stairs to the back garden, his toenails clicking against the painted wood.
Monica flung herself into one of the deck chairs and put her feet up on a big empty flowerpot. "Shits Hall," she said with a smile. "I actually liked that place, can you imagine? I guess there are no places like that anymore."
"I don't expect so. Don't need cram schools when there aren't any provincial matriculation exams to worry about anymore."
"There were some damned good teachers in that place, though. Remember old Harcourt? What a dynamite teacher! I don't understand why he stayed there."
"He didn't have an Ontario teaching certificate. None of us did, though some had pretty impressive credentials from other places. Harcourt had taught for years in England and didn't want to go back to school at his age."
"I don't blame him. What could they teach him? And there was Ms. Lard Ass, as we called her. Poor Miss Bates. She was potty over you, you know. We used to watch her waylaying you in the parking lot, on the stairs, in the hall. You had no clue, did you?"
"Miss Bates?" I said, perplexed. I remembered her as being breathy and disorganized, her briefcase always overflowing with papers to mark. But if she was "potty" over me, it was
Michael."
"Hi, Michael," they chorused.
I felt as if I were in an AA meeting. I nodded stiffly. "Michael was the first person I ever knew who struck a
blow for gay lib," she went on. "God, that impressed the hell out of me! You were a real role model, Michael."
I shook my head, stunned at this sudden testimonial. "Monica, I—"
She waved a hand at me dismissively. "Oh go ahead and belittle it, but I was there, remember? And I knew it was against the law back then. So don't shake your head at me!" She laughed, the same laugh that used to disrupt my classes on numerous occasions. Even then, I didn't really mind. "We're getting a mailing out for the latest fundraising appeal for Allegra House. Most of these people live there, or have lived there somewhere along the way, when they needed it. Let's go upstairs. I left the printer spewing out more letters."
She thumped up the carpeted stairs in front of me, talking all the way, her Birkenstock sandals slapping her bare feet smartly. She made me feel as if I had been slothful my entire life and I had only a little time to make up for my past unsatisfactory performance.
The small hall was made smaller with cardboard boxes of stationery piled in one corner. Ahead, her office overflowed with paper and files. Bits and pieces of computer equipment crowded shelves, cheek to cheek with books and boxes of labels and envelopes. A stack of banker boxes leaned perilously in one corner. On the end of the desk, her printer spewed forth a jumbled pile of letters. Monica collected them as she talked.
"Damn machines are a godsend when they work. McDuff, get out of here. Go! Nothing to eat here." The dog hung his head and slouched out to the hall, where he lay down, head between his paws, and looked up at her soulfully.
"Christ," muttered Monica, refilling the printer with paper. "To look at him you'd think I clobbered him regularly."
"Somehow I doubt that," I said, smiling.
She laughed and pushed the hair away from her face. "Damned air conditioner isn't working very well. Or maybe it's just me," she added, wiping her forehead. "Millie! Come get the rest of these letters!" she bellowed down the stairs. A young woman in jeans cutoffs and a tiny T-shirt ran up, gathered the papers in her arms, and disappeared again without a word.
"Poor thing has had three abortions," Monica said, shaking her head. "So many people afraid of the Pill these days. Okay, let's say we take a break. It's cooler out front."
I followed as she led the way through what appeared to be her bedroom, stopping en route to get two Coronas from a bar fridge used as a bedside table, and then going out sliding doors to a deck on top of the front porch. The dog followed, sniffing all around the area before skittering down stairs to the back garden, his toenails clicking against the painted wood.
Monica flung herself into one of the deck chairs and put her feet up on a big empty flowerpot. "Shits Hall," she said with a smile. "I actually liked that place, can you imagine? I guess there are no places like that anymore."
"I don't expect so. Don't need cram schools when there aren't any provincial matriculation exams to worry about anymore."
"There were some damned good teachers in that place, though. Remember old Harcourt? What a dynamite teacher! I don't understand why he stayed there."
"He didn't have an Ontario teaching certificate. None of us did, though some had pretty impressive credentials from other places. Harcourt had taught for years in England and didn't want to go back to school at his age."
"I don't blame him. What could they teach him? And there was Ms. Lard Ass, as we called her. Poor Miss Bates. She was potty over you, you know. We used to watch her waylaying you in the parking lot, on the stairs, in the hall. You had no clue, did you?"
"Miss Bates?" I said, perplexed. I remembered her as being breathy and disorganized, her briefcase always overflowing with papers to mark. But if she was "potty" over me, it was
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