teaches up at Shelton Academy for Boys in Portland. I think he comes down to our school to teach a course in history on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Is it history? I can’t remember. He isn’t from this area originally, I think he was always a summer resident, came up from Boston or somewhere with his family. Then he took a job up here and he bought himself a little farm. I don’t think he’s married, but I really don’t know that much about him. Would you like me to introduce you to him later?”
“Oh, God,
no,
” Dale said, horrified. “I just wondered who he was, that’s all. There aren’t that many attractive men wandering around here this time of year, as you know.”
“I know,” Carol said. “Believe me, I know.” But her voice did not carry any emotional weight; she was firmly engaged to her childhood boyfriend, who was in Massachusetts finishing up his D.V.M. He was smart and capable and calm like Carol, and no one doubted that eventually they would marry and be pillars of the community.
The meeting had started and carried forth into the September night—it was raining, and everyone was eager to accomplish as much as possible on this damp evening so that other, crisper fall evenings could be free. People talked, put forth proposals, made suggestions, made objections. Even Dale talked, discussing the idea for a film series, reading figures she had found, answering questions. She was pleased that so many people thought her idea a good one, and they voted unanimously that she should work up a definite schedule with realistic cost figures, and they asked her if she wouldn’t be the chairman of the committee, since it was her idea. Several people volunteered to be on her committee, to assist her, but Hank Kennedy was not one of them. Throughout the evening, Dale was very aware of herself, especially when she was standing up in front of the group, talking. She could not keep herself from doing sexually suggestive things: tilting her head to one side as she spoke, so that her long light-brown hair fell silkily about her shoulder, like a light cloak; slowly licking her lips (she hoped people would think she was nervous); leaning forward, hands on the table—as he had been doing when she first saw him—so that her high large breasts were emphasized against her sweater. She was dismayed at herself, but could not control her body; she might as well have been a peafowl in heat. But because of her excitement she did speak eloquently for the film series, and so she refused to feel guilty about what she felt was her almost wanton display.
So she was devastated when at eleven-thirty the meeting ended, and Hank Kennedy went out the door without a backward glance at her. The room closed in, was suddenly a bleak gray cafeteria with stale cigarette smoke circling up toward the fluorescent lights and all the metal and plastic chairs in disarray. Carol was busy gathering up her papers and folders, and was so thoroughly involved with the meeting that she had completely forgotten Dale’s interest in the man.
“Come on,” she said. “We’ve got to teach tomorrow. Let’s go home and get some sleep. God, these meetings. They should pay us extra for them.”
“Umm,” Dale said, and followed Carol out the door.
Somehow she had gotten through that night, and then through several long weeks with no sign of Hank Kennedy. She was too cautious to ask Carol about him again; she knew Carol, knew what Carol would do—she would insist that she introduce Dale to Hank, or she would carelessly mention to another teacher, “If you ever run into Hank Kennedy, tell him Dale Wallace would like to get to know him.” Dale decided there was nothing she could do about it but to forget him, and after three weeks, it seemed that forgetting him would be easy. She had seen him only for a few hours across a large cafeteria, after all; she was beginning to lose the outlines of his body in her mind’s eye. Still the feeling, the glorious rush
“Oh, God,
no,
” Dale said, horrified. “I just wondered who he was, that’s all. There aren’t that many attractive men wandering around here this time of year, as you know.”
“I know,” Carol said. “Believe me, I know.” But her voice did not carry any emotional weight; she was firmly engaged to her childhood boyfriend, who was in Massachusetts finishing up his D.V.M. He was smart and capable and calm like Carol, and no one doubted that eventually they would marry and be pillars of the community.
The meeting had started and carried forth into the September night—it was raining, and everyone was eager to accomplish as much as possible on this damp evening so that other, crisper fall evenings could be free. People talked, put forth proposals, made suggestions, made objections. Even Dale talked, discussing the idea for a film series, reading figures she had found, answering questions. She was pleased that so many people thought her idea a good one, and they voted unanimously that she should work up a definite schedule with realistic cost figures, and they asked her if she wouldn’t be the chairman of the committee, since it was her idea. Several people volunteered to be on her committee, to assist her, but Hank Kennedy was not one of them. Throughout the evening, Dale was very aware of herself, especially when she was standing up in front of the group, talking. She could not keep herself from doing sexually suggestive things: tilting her head to one side as she spoke, so that her long light-brown hair fell silkily about her shoulder, like a light cloak; slowly licking her lips (she hoped people would think she was nervous); leaning forward, hands on the table—as he had been doing when she first saw him—so that her high large breasts were emphasized against her sweater. She was dismayed at herself, but could not control her body; she might as well have been a peafowl in heat. But because of her excitement she did speak eloquently for the film series, and so she refused to feel guilty about what she felt was her almost wanton display.
So she was devastated when at eleven-thirty the meeting ended, and Hank Kennedy went out the door without a backward glance at her. The room closed in, was suddenly a bleak gray cafeteria with stale cigarette smoke circling up toward the fluorescent lights and all the metal and plastic chairs in disarray. Carol was busy gathering up her papers and folders, and was so thoroughly involved with the meeting that she had completely forgotten Dale’s interest in the man.
“Come on,” she said. “We’ve got to teach tomorrow. Let’s go home and get some sleep. God, these meetings. They should pay us extra for them.”
“Umm,” Dale said, and followed Carol out the door.
Somehow she had gotten through that night, and then through several long weeks with no sign of Hank Kennedy. She was too cautious to ask Carol about him again; she knew Carol, knew what Carol would do—she would insist that she introduce Dale to Hank, or she would carelessly mention to another teacher, “If you ever run into Hank Kennedy, tell him Dale Wallace would like to get to know him.” Dale decided there was nothing she could do about it but to forget him, and after three weeks, it seemed that forgetting him would be easy. She had seen him only for a few hours across a large cafeteria, after all; she was beginning to lose the outlines of his body in her mind’s eye. Still the feeling, the glorious rush
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