The Moons of Jupiter - Alice Munro [42]
Frances is directly opposite the door of the science room. That transom is open, too, and she can hear clinking sounds, low voices, shifting of stools. He must have them doing an experiment. Absurdly, shamefully, she feels the sweat in her palms, the hammering in her chest, that she has felt before a piano examination or recital. That air of crisis, the supposed possibilities of triumph or calamity that she could manufacture, for herself and others, now seems trumped up, foolish, artificial. But what about this, her affair with Ted Makkavala? She is not so far gone that she cannot see how foolish that would seem to anybody looking on. Never mind. If foolish means risky and imprudent, she does not care. Perhaps all she has ever wanted was a chance to take chances. But the thought comes to her sometimes that a love affair can be, not artificial, yet somehow devised and deliberate, an occasion provided, just as those silly performances were: a rickety invention. That is an idea she can’t take a chance with; she puts it out of sight.
A student’s voice, a girl’s, puzzled and complaining (another thing about high-school girls—they whine when they don’t understand; boys’ grunting contempt is better). Ted’s low voice answering, explaining. Frances can’t hear his words. She thinks of him bending attentively, performing some ordinary action such as lowering the flame of a Bunsen burner. She likes to think of him as diligent, patient, self-contained. But she knows, word has reached her, that his classroom behavior is different from what he has led her or anyone to believe. It is his habit to speak rather scornfully of his job, of his students. If asked what sort of discipline he favors, he will say, oh, nothing much, maybe a knuckle sandwich, maybe a good swift kick in the arse. The truth is, he gets his students’ attention by all sorts of tricks and cajolery; he makes use of props such as dunce hats and birthday whistles; he carries on in a highly melodramatic way over their stupidity, and once burned their test papers one by one in the sink. What a character, Frances has heard students say of him. She does not like hearing them say that. She is sure they say it of her, too; she herself is not above using extravagant tactics, tearing her fingers through her bushy hair lamenting no-no-no-no when they sing badly. But she would rather he did not have to do such things. She shies away sometimes from mention of him, from hearing what people have to say. He’s very friendly, they say, and she thinks she hears some puzzlement, some scorn; why does he take such pains? She has to wonder, too; she knows what he thinks of this town and the people in it. Or what he says he thinks.
The door is opening, giving Frances a shock. There is nothing she wants less than for Ted to find her here, listening, spying. But it isn’t Ted, thank God, it’s the school secretary, a plump, serious woman who has been secretary here forever, since Frances was a student herself, and before that. She is devoted to the school, and to the Bible class she runs at the United Church.
“Hello there, dear; getting a bit of air?”
The window Frances is standing beside is of course not open, has even been taped around the cracks. But Frances makes a humorous assenting face, says, “Playing hooky,” to acknowledge being out of her classroom, and the secretary goes calmly downstairs, her kind voice floating back.
“Your glee club sounds lovely today. I always like the Christmas music.”
Frances goes back to her classroom and sits on the desk, smiling into the singing faces. They have got through “The Holy City” and all by themselves got on “The Westminster Carol.” They do look silly, but how can they help it? Singing is silly altogether. She never thinks that they will notice her smile and mention it afterward, sure she has been out to meet Ted in the hall. It is in imagining her affair to be a secret that