Samaritan by Richard Price Page B

the audience, Ruby, my old teachers, and there was something so, I don’t know, intoxicating about the whole thing, so heady . . .
    “And, you know, a year later, the Towers go down, I’m back, de-gigged, money’s not a problem just then, but I need, I really need to do something with myself. And, I remembered how good, what a rush that was, that graduation-day thing, so I went and got something going for myself over there. And it was different than teaching in the Bronx because they weren’t paying me, so all they could say to me was thanks, thank you, thank you so much . . .”
    “Money’s not a problem,” Nerese murmured with hammy envy. “Which reminds me. My guy who did the background check on you? He wanted to know how somebody goes from driving a cab to writing a TV show.”
    Ray stared at her, absorbing “my guy,” absorbing “background check.”
    “That’s for some other time,” he said flatly.
    “Whatever . . . And he also asked me to ask you how the hell someone walks out on four bigs a week in order to come back to
this
toilet and work for nothing.”
    Ray took a moment with that, too; Nerese knowing everything but his shoe size. And his assailant.
    “Also for another time,” struggling to keep his voice on an even keel.
    “Because, he had heard something about an incident, a misunderstanding . . . I can’t believe this myself, Ray, so if you say bullshit, bullshit it is, but something about something
racial
out there?”
    She saw the truth of it in his face, in the immensity of his nonreaction. “Another time,” he managed to say.
    Nerese gave it a minute, then began gathering herself, throwing out big deep sighs as she rose from her chair. “And no way you’re giving me a name here.”
    Ray, as if lost in all his “some other times,” looked right through her.
    “You’re just gonna make me bust my hump out there, old lady that I am . . .”
    Nothing.
    “Won’t even give me the name of that cha-cha you were seen squiring around Little Venice with.”
    Carefully rolling on his side, he gave her his back.
    “Well, this is intriguing, Ray, I’ll give you that.”
    And having finally collected and organized herself, she turned to leave. “OK, then . . .”
    “Hey Tweetie?” he said softly.
    Sensing a prelude to revelation in the hesitant calling of her name, she turned expectantly.
    “When I told you that was the only time I enjoyed being a teacher? You know, taking those kids AWOL? That wasn’t exactly true.”
    Nerese waited.
    “I pulled that AWOL shit with them every time we had a class trip. Year in, year out, my kids always counted on me for that.” Ray coughed, shot her a half-smile. “That was just the only time I ever got caught.”

Chapter 7
    Classroom—January 10
    “This is me and my friends at Six Flags amusement park,” the girl Dierdre read to the class from her Chinese notebook as a Polaroid was passed around the table.
    “This was taken last year. We went by bus and it took so long to get there I was a old lady with six kids and eight grandchildren by the time we got there. If you want to go to Six Flags don’t ever go by bus. Otherwise I had fun.”
    “OK,” Ray said, smiling. “Thank you.”
    What else was there to say? She hadn’t done what he’d asked: find a photo of family before the writer’s birth and make up a story about the people in the picture—but he was grateful for the stab at humor, for her doing anything at all.
    “Rashaad, what do you have . . .” nodding to the tall long-headed boy who pined for the oblivious Felicia.
    “Yeah, I wrote something.” He displayed his hands palms up. “But I forgot the book at home.”
    “No.” Ray shrugged. “Class can’t work that way. If you don’t bring stuff in, we have nothing to do.”
    “Well, I can
tell
you it.”
    “No,” Mrs. Bondo said, Ray about to say the same, resenting her butting in. “This class is a privilege,” she added, making it sound like a