The Headmaster's Wife by Thomas Christopher Greene Page A
Authors: Thomas Christopher Greene
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automatically, and from somewhere else. I hear them linger in the air, and it feels like magic that they keep coming. Someone else is in control of my mind.
I am grateful for the committee reports, which drone on and on, but at least it is the board members talking and not me. Finally, it is over. Back at the house, I collapse on the bed, and the last thing I remember before I fall asleep is seeing Elizabeth getting dressed in the shadows near my closet, putting on her tennis clothes. No doubt heading back to the courts to hit another hundred or so serves. At least she has left the bed, but what is she playing for?
In the week that follows, I suddenly see Betsy everywhere. In class she is sullen and doesn’t participate unless called upon, but it seems not to matter where I walk on campus, I see her smiling, knowing face. Standing in a pack of students outside the dining hall, she beams as she looks up at the tall Russell, and when I walk by I see that their hands are clasped.
She is torturing me. It is as if nothing ever happened between us. In fairness to her, she was clear with me about not falling in love with me. Drinking in my study late at night, I find the images coming to me, and I want both to turn them away and to invite them in. I see Betsy and Russell entwined on the wrestling mats in one of those back rooms in the gym, long a chosen place for illicit lovers. Russell is on top of her. Her hands are up in his hair; her hands are all over his long, sinewy body. Betsy takes him in her mouth. She gives him the gift that is her. She gives it to him over and over and without a care for what it all means. I hate her for it. I hate him for it. I hate both of them.
I am a teenager again. You think this door is closed to you. You think you will never feel the hurt of first love again, and then here it is, a kick to your groin so swift it takes your breath away. Now, I am not a violent man, but I will confess that I have some awful thoughts. I want Russell to disappear. I take that back—I only want Betsy, the promise of what we started that night in the hotel room. I want to make love to her again, to taste her skin on my tongue, to feel the warmth of her breath, her mouth.
So it is not that I want Russell to disappear, though it is hard to see how I can have Betsy while he is around. Late at night, with a head full of scotch, I have this macabre fantasy. There is Russell floating facedown in the river, his body caught in a small eddy, being repeatedly thrashed against a fallen tree on the riverbank. It will be tremendously sad for our community, but when the school grieves, the head of school must lead. There will be services to preside over. Individual students to console. Most of all there will be Betsy. She will need to heal, of course, though healing can require a guide. I could be there for her. I could commiserate, lift her through this tragedy. A shoulder to cry on, a warm embrace to take away the chill of the dark nights.
The macabre fantasies fueled by scotch and the lateness of the hour give way eventually to the reality of the day. One morning I ask Mrs. LaForge to pull Russell’s file and, in my office while a cold rain falls outside the window, I open it and dive in.
Russell Hurley is from Great Barrington, Massachusetts, though not from the money that has moved into that Berkshire town in recent decades. His father is a plumber; his mother works as a secretary at the high school where Russell was a relatively average student. Certainly not Lancaster material, except for one thing.
Russell Hurley shattered every scoring record for boys’ basketball in the western part of the state. While Western Massachusetts is hardly a basketball mecca, the sheer numbers are impressive even for those who, like me, have a halfhearted understanding of the game. In his file is a DVD. I take it out and put it into the television. It contains the footage of Russell scoring his two thousandth point in his junior year.
I am grateful for the committee reports, which drone on and on, but at least it is the board members talking and not me. Finally, it is over. Back at the house, I collapse on the bed, and the last thing I remember before I fall asleep is seeing Elizabeth getting dressed in the shadows near my closet, putting on her tennis clothes. No doubt heading back to the courts to hit another hundred or so serves. At least she has left the bed, but what is she playing for?
In the week that follows, I suddenly see Betsy everywhere. In class she is sullen and doesn’t participate unless called upon, but it seems not to matter where I walk on campus, I see her smiling, knowing face. Standing in a pack of students outside the dining hall, she beams as she looks up at the tall Russell, and when I walk by I see that their hands are clasped.
She is torturing me. It is as if nothing ever happened between us. In fairness to her, she was clear with me about not falling in love with me. Drinking in my study late at night, I find the images coming to me, and I want both to turn them away and to invite them in. I see Betsy and Russell entwined on the wrestling mats in one of those back rooms in the gym, long a chosen place for illicit lovers. Russell is on top of her. Her hands are up in his hair; her hands are all over his long, sinewy body. Betsy takes him in her mouth. She gives him the gift that is her. She gives it to him over and over and without a care for what it all means. I hate her for it. I hate him for it. I hate both of them.
I am a teenager again. You think this door is closed to you. You think you will never feel the hurt of first love again, and then here it is, a kick to your groin so swift it takes your breath away. Now, I am not a violent man, but I will confess that I have some awful thoughts. I want Russell to disappear. I take that back—I only want Betsy, the promise of what we started that night in the hotel room. I want to make love to her again, to taste her skin on my tongue, to feel the warmth of her breath, her mouth.
So it is not that I want Russell to disappear, though it is hard to see how I can have Betsy while he is around. Late at night, with a head full of scotch, I have this macabre fantasy. There is Russell floating facedown in the river, his body caught in a small eddy, being repeatedly thrashed against a fallen tree on the riverbank. It will be tremendously sad for our community, but when the school grieves, the head of school must lead. There will be services to preside over. Individual students to console. Most of all there will be Betsy. She will need to heal, of course, though healing can require a guide. I could be there for her. I could commiserate, lift her through this tragedy. A shoulder to cry on, a warm embrace to take away the chill of the dark nights.
The macabre fantasies fueled by scotch and the lateness of the hour give way eventually to the reality of the day. One morning I ask Mrs. LaForge to pull Russell’s file and, in my office while a cold rain falls outside the window, I open it and dive in.
Russell Hurley is from Great Barrington, Massachusetts, though not from the money that has moved into that Berkshire town in recent decades. His father is a plumber; his mother works as a secretary at the high school where Russell was a relatively average student. Certainly not Lancaster material, except for one thing.
Russell Hurley shattered every scoring record for boys’ basketball in the western part of the state. While Western Massachusetts is hardly a basketball mecca, the sheer numbers are impressive even for those who, like me, have a halfhearted understanding of the game. In his file is a DVD. I take it out and put it into the television. It contains the footage of Russell scoring his two thousandth point in his junior year.
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