anecdotes. In fact, I already felt that I knew “Danielle.” His twin children had also become familiar to me: sulky Cole and dutiful Catherine, who attended the same coed middle school. It seemed almost perverse that I should know anything about them—I, who had so many impure thoughts about their father. Although it would’ve made more sense to interpret such references as evidence of his love for them, I turned them to my own advantage: as I saw it, he was catering to me , indulging my curiosity, at the expense of their privacy.
I saw further evidence of indulgence in his approach to teaching, which encouraged rapt listening over reading and note-taking. On the rare occasions when he did assign us work during class, he would prowl the room with his hands in his pockets, moving between the desks with a swish of corduroy or chino cloth. Once a suitable amount of time had elapsed, he would come and crouch by our desks, looking over our shoulders at the skimming of eyes under fluttering lashes, or the scratching away of mechanical pencils. “That’s an interesting point,” he would murmur with a smile, or “What do you make of that couplet, there?” (pointing to the line in question with a hardy index finger, which I instantly imagined being touched by).
He was an indulgent teacher. He joked with his outgoing pupils and was kind and courtly with his timid ones, so that he seemed to favor anyone he spoke to. It was an honor to be the focus of such tact, such charisma—especially as I felt myself to be sorely lacking in both. If I imagined that he was more tender, more attentive with me than the others, however, I doubted it a moment later: listening to him lower his voice with shy Sally Flores, who sat alone in the row behind us, or conversing in Italian with Graziella and Christina on the other side of the room.
He knew Italian. Where he had learned it, I didn’t know. I did know, for he had mentioned so in passing, that he had briefly attended the Perelman School of Medicine, dropping out after a year or so to study literature. I had the notion that his wife was also a doctor; that they had met while only students. This was confirmed a fortnight later when I heard that Kaitlin Pritchard had become chummy with Dr. Danielle Steadman while volunteering at the children’s hospital the year before, had even been invited over for dinner. I would have given anything to hear her describe the interior of their home, the manners of the lady of the house, and whether the handsome schoolmaster had made a pass at her while driving back to boarding school that night, but couldn’t think of a polite way of asking.
The most trivial details of his life excited me. The mugs of milky coffee that he brought back from morning break and nursed, lukewarm, until lunch hour. The flowers that presided over the anarchy of his desk, larkspur and narcissus, plucked from his very own garden. His singular, left-handed scrawl, indecipherable in red ink, hopeless in white chalk. The outfits, teachers’ outfits, paraded before me day after day.
There were beige chinos, cornflower shirt. Beige chinos, navy sweater-vest. Tweed suit, white shirt. White shirt, camel corduroys. Navy sport coat, slung over the back of his chair. On cooler days, he sometimes sported a sweater over his shirt and tie in charcoal, burgundy, or chocolate brown. Around the end of the month, he acquired a pair of gray herringbone trousers. Ties came in maroon, royal blue, gold and brown, patterned with paisley, fleur-de-lis, lozenges, and prancing Flemish lions. He wore brown wingtips, carried a brown leather briefcase. His wristwatch had a brown band and golden fixtures.
I had little desire to see him dressed otherwise. His buttons and buckles, his collars and cuffs, his taupe trouser socks, all filled me with a sweet, bright admiration. The desire to see him undressed was something else entirely: it was a desire that was almost too physical to entertain. Now and then,
I saw further evidence of indulgence in his approach to teaching, which encouraged rapt listening over reading and note-taking. On the rare occasions when he did assign us work during class, he would prowl the room with his hands in his pockets, moving between the desks with a swish of corduroy or chino cloth. Once a suitable amount of time had elapsed, he would come and crouch by our desks, looking over our shoulders at the skimming of eyes under fluttering lashes, or the scratching away of mechanical pencils. “That’s an interesting point,” he would murmur with a smile, or “What do you make of that couplet, there?” (pointing to the line in question with a hardy index finger, which I instantly imagined being touched by).
He was an indulgent teacher. He joked with his outgoing pupils and was kind and courtly with his timid ones, so that he seemed to favor anyone he spoke to. It was an honor to be the focus of such tact, such charisma—especially as I felt myself to be sorely lacking in both. If I imagined that he was more tender, more attentive with me than the others, however, I doubted it a moment later: listening to him lower his voice with shy Sally Flores, who sat alone in the row behind us, or conversing in Italian with Graziella and Christina on the other side of the room.
He knew Italian. Where he had learned it, I didn’t know. I did know, for he had mentioned so in passing, that he had briefly attended the Perelman School of Medicine, dropping out after a year or so to study literature. I had the notion that his wife was also a doctor; that they had met while only students. This was confirmed a fortnight later when I heard that Kaitlin Pritchard had become chummy with Dr. Danielle Steadman while volunteering at the children’s hospital the year before, had even been invited over for dinner. I would have given anything to hear her describe the interior of their home, the manners of the lady of the house, and whether the handsome schoolmaster had made a pass at her while driving back to boarding school that night, but couldn’t think of a polite way of asking.
The most trivial details of his life excited me. The mugs of milky coffee that he brought back from morning break and nursed, lukewarm, until lunch hour. The flowers that presided over the anarchy of his desk, larkspur and narcissus, plucked from his very own garden. His singular, left-handed scrawl, indecipherable in red ink, hopeless in white chalk. The outfits, teachers’ outfits, paraded before me day after day.
There were beige chinos, cornflower shirt. Beige chinos, navy sweater-vest. Tweed suit, white shirt. White shirt, camel corduroys. Navy sport coat, slung over the back of his chair. On cooler days, he sometimes sported a sweater over his shirt and tie in charcoal, burgundy, or chocolate brown. Around the end of the month, he acquired a pair of gray herringbone trousers. Ties came in maroon, royal blue, gold and brown, patterned with paisley, fleur-de-lis, lozenges, and prancing Flemish lions. He wore brown wingtips, carried a brown leather briefcase. His wristwatch had a brown band and golden fixtures.
I had little desire to see him dressed otherwise. His buttons and buckles, his collars and cuffs, his taupe trouser socks, all filled me with a sweet, bright admiration. The desire to see him undressed was something else entirely: it was a desire that was almost too physical to entertain. Now and then,
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