Long After Midnight (25 page)

 
          
"I'm
comfortable, however," she said.

 
          
"That's
good news."

 
          
They
said little else during the afternoon.

 
          
"This
is all wrong," he said, later. "And I can't figure why it should be.
Just walking along and catching old butterflies and crayfish and eating
sandwiches. But Mom and
Dad'd
rib the heck out of me
if they knew, and the kids would, too. And the other teachers, I suppose, would
laugh at you, wouldn't they?"

 
          
"I'm
afraid so."

 
          
"I
guess we better not do any more butterfly catching, then."

 
          
"I
don't exactly understand how I came here at all," she said.

 
          
And
the day was over.

 
          
That
was about all there was to the meeting of Ann Taylor and Bob Spaulding, two or
three monarch butterflies, a copy of Dickens, a dozen crayfish, four
sandwiches, and two bottles of Orange Crush. The next Monday, quite
unexpectedly, though he waited a long time, Bob did not see Miss Taylor come
out to walk to school. But discovered later that she had left earlier and was
already at school. Also, Monday night, she left early, with a headache, and
another teacher finished her last class. He walked by her boarding house but
did not see her anywhere, and he was afraid to ring the bell and inquire.

 
          
On
Tuesday night after school they were both in the silent room again, he sponging
the board contentedly, as if this time might go on forever, and she seated,
working on her papers as if she, too, would be in this room and this particular
peace and happiness forever, when suddenly the courthouse clock struck. It was
a block away and its great bronze boom shuddered one's body and made the ash of
time shake away off your bones and slide through your blood, making you seem
older by the minute. Stunned by that clock, you could not but sense the
crashing flow of time, and as the clock said five o'clock, Miss Taylor suddenly
looked up at it for a long time, and then she put down her pen.

 
          
"Bob,"
she said.

 
          
He
turned, startled. Neither of them had spoken in the peaceful and good hour
before.

 
          
"Will
you come here?" she asked.

 
          
He
put down the sponge slowly.

 
          
"Yes,"
he said.

 
          
"Bob,
I want you to sit down."

 
          
"
Yes'm
."

 
          
She
looked at him intently for a moment until he looked away. "Bob, I wonder
if you know what I'm going to talk to you about. Do you know?"

 
          
"Yes."

 
          
"Maybe
it'd be a good idea if you told me, first."

 
          
"About
us," he said, at last.

 
          
"How
old are you, Bob?"

 
          
"Going
on fourteen."

 
          
"You're
thirteen years old."

 
          
He
winced. "
Yes'm
."

 
          
"And
do you know how old I am?"

 
          
"
Yes'm
. I heard. Twenty-four."

 
          
"Twenty-four."

 
          
"I'll
be twenty-four in ten years, almost," he said.

 
          
"But
unfortunately you're not twenty-four now."

 
          
"No,
but sometimes I feel twenty-four."

 
          
"Yes,
and sometimes you almost act it."

 
          
"Do
I, really!"

 
          
"Now
sit still there; don't bound around, we've a lot to discuss. It's very
important that we understand what
is
happening,
don't you agree?"

 
          
"Yes,
I guess so."

 
          
"First,
let's admit we are the greatest and best friends in the world. Let's admit I
have never had a student like you, nor have I had as much affection for any boy
I've ever known." He flushed at this. She went on. "And let me speak
for you—you've found me to be the nicest teacher of all the teachers you've
ever known."

 
          
"Oh,
more than that," he said.

 
          
"Perhaps
more than that, but there are facts to be faced and an entire way of life to be
examined, and a town and its people, and you and me to be considered. I've
thought this over for a good many days, Bob. Don't think I've missed anything,
or been unaware of my own feelings in the matter. Under some circumstances our
friendship would be odd indeed. But then you are no ordinary boy. I know myself
pretty well, I think, and I know I'm not sick, either mentally or physically,
and that whatever has evolved here has been a true regard for your character
and goodness, Bob; but those are not the things we consider in this world, Bob,
unless they occur in a man of a certain age. I don't know if I'm saying this
right."

 
          
"It's
all right," he said. "It's just if I was ten years older and about
fifteen inches taller it'd make all the difference, and that's silly," he
said, "to go by how tall a person is."

 
          
"The
world hasn't found it so."

 
          
"I'm
not the world," he protested.

 
          
"I
know it seems foolish," she said. "When you feel very grown up and
right and have nothing to be ashamed of. You have nothing at all to be ashamed
of, Bob, remember that. You have been very honest and good, and I hope I have
been, too."

 
          
"You
have," he said.

 
          
"In
an ideal climate, Bob, maybe someday they will be able to judge the oldness of
a person's mind so accurately that they can say, This is a man, though his body
is only thirteen; by some miracle of circumstance and fortune, this is a man,
with a man's recognition of responsibility and position and duty; but until
that day, Bob, I'm afraid we're going to have to go by ages and heights in the
ordinary way in an ordinary world."

 
          
"I
don't like that," he said.

 
          
"Perhaps
I don't like it, either, but do you want to end up far unhappier than you are
now? Do you want both of us to be unhappy? Which we would certainly be. There
really is no way to do anything about us—it is so strange even to try to talk
about us."

 
          
"
Yes'm
."

 
          
"But
at least we know all about us and the fact that we have been right and fair and
good and there is nothing wrong with our knowing each other, nor did we ever
intend that it should be, for we both understand how impossible it is, don't
we?"

 
          
"Yes,
I know. But I can't help it."

 
          
"Now
we must decide what to do about it," she said. "Now only you and I
know about this. Later, others might know. I can secure a transfer from this
school to another one—"

 
          
"No!"

 
          
"Or
I can have you transferred to another school."

 
          
"You
don't have to do that," he said.

 
          
"Why?"

 
          
"We're
moving. My folks and I, we're going to live in Madison. We're leaving next
week."

 
          
"It
has nothing to do with all this, has it?"

 
          
"No,
no, everything's all right. It's just that my father has a new job there. It's
only fifty miles away. I can see you, can't I, when I come to town?"

 
          
"Do
you think that would be a good idea?"

 
          
"No,
I guess not."

 
          
They
sat awhile in the silent schoolroom.

 
          
"When
did all of this happen?" he said, helplessly.

 
          
"I
don't know," she said. "Nobody ever knows. They haven't known for
thousands of years, and I don't think they ever will. People like each other or
don't, and sometimes two people like each other who shouldn't. I can't explain
myself, and certainly you can't explain you."

 
          
"I
guess I'd better get home." he said.

 
          
"You're
not mad at me, are you?"

 
          
"Oh,
gosh no, I could never be mad at you."

 
          
"There's
one more thing. I want you to remember, there are compensations in life. There
always are, or we wouldn't go on living. You don't feel well, now; neither do
I. But something will happen to fix that. Do you believe that?"

 
          
"I'd
like to."

 
          
"Well,
it's true."

 
          
"If
only," he said.

 
          
"What?"

 
          
"If
only you'd wait for me," he blurted.

 
          
"Ten
years?"

 
          
"I'd
be twenty-four then."

 
          
"But
I'd be thirty-four and another person entirely, perhaps. No, I don't think it
can be done."

 
          
"Wouldn't
you like it to be done?" he cried.

 
          
"Yes,"
she said quietly. "It's silly and it wouldn't work, but I would like it
very much."

 
          
He
sat there for a long time.

 
          
"I'll
never forget you," he said.

 
          
"It's
nice for you to say that, even though it can't be true, because life isn't that
way. You'll forget."

 
          
"I'll
never forget. I'll find a way of never forgetting you," he said.

 
          
She
got up and went to erase the boards.

 
          
"I'll
help you," he said.

 
          
"No,
no," she said hastily. "You go on now, get home, and no more tending
to the boards after school. I'll assign Helen Stevens to do it."

 
          
He
left the school. Looking back, outside, he saw Miss Ann Taylor, for the last
time, at the board, slowly washing out the chalked words, her hand moving up
and down.

 
          
He
moved away from the town the next week and was gone for sixteen years. Though
he was only fifty miles away, he never got down to Green Town again until he
was almost thirty and married, and then one spring they were driving through on
their way to Chicago and stopped off for a day.

 
          
Bob
left his wife at the hotel and walked around town and finally asked about Miss
Ann Taylor, but no one remembered at first, and then one of them remembered.