Chapter 5

More than anything else, Gil Horton was dumb.

Of that I was unequivocally convinced. A student in my morning English class, Gil was a senior, scheduled for graduation in June, less than two months from now. But, judging from the quality of his class participation, the total shambles of his homework, and the dismal showings he made in the quizzes and examinations given to the class over the course of the school year, the prospect of graduation being realized for him seemed dim, indeed. How he'd managed to be promoted this far in school was a minor miracle; as far as I could determine, Gilbert Horton was a functional illiterate.

I could, of course, do as all those other nameless teachers before me had done-pass him out of some mistaken sense of values. As a student, Gil was quiet, afforded no disciplinary problems, and tried hard-which would, in part, further explain his success in being promoted: basically, he was a good kid.

But he was dumb, and there was no way that could be overlooked. Not in a senior English class. And certainly not when he was scheduled to take the State's Regent's Examinations some time next month. He stood no chance, no chance whatsoever of passing it. And how would it seem if I passed him, and he failed the state exam spectacularly? The very same exam my class was to have prepared him for? It would, at the very least, make me look incompetent, and that was a charge I wasn't about to be labeled with, not for Gil Horton, not for anyone.

So, after I tried talking to Gil, who assured me he would try harder, and giving him extra private tutoring personally, which completely failed to help in any measurable way, I decided to speak to Gil's parents, to see whether we together could come up with something of a solution. And, if we couldn't, it was always a good idea to inform them of this problem well in advance of graduation. At best it would be a very sticky situation.

An appointment was arranged between Gil's mother and I for my free period on Monday of last week. I sat in my office for the entire hour, waiting for her, but she never appeared. When I asked Gil what had happened, he shamefully explained that his mother was ill and could not keep the appointment. It became obvious to me, because there had been no call to me from her, and no advance warning from Gil that she was going to break the appointment, that his parents either didn't care enough, or they didn't understand the gravity of what was to be discussed.

Patiently, I composed another note for Gil to take home, writing it in much more emphatic terms, telling his parents that if they didn't meet with me today, Gil would be failed in English, he would not be permitted to take his English Regents Examination, and he would not graduate in June. In the letter I specifically requested to speak with Mr. Horton, for the impression I'd gotten from Gil was that it was at his father's insistence that the mother failed to meet with me. My best attack, therefore, and the only sensible approach I could see, would be to go to the source of one part of the problem-Gil Horton's father.

I looked down at my wristwatch, perhaps for the twentieth time since I'd entered my office. It was twenty minutes past one, and Gil's father still wasn't here. It seemed as if I'd been ignored and stood up again. Filled with a curious mixture of anger and depression, I talked myself into waiting five more minutes. Then, if he still didn't come-well, then I would do what I had to do.

To pass the time, I picked up my worn, dog-eared copy of Hawthorne's The House of the Seven Gables. Two of my senior English classes would begin the book sometime next week, so I was rereading it again, for perhaps the tenth time in my life, to familiarize myself with the narrative-a labor of love at best. Of course, my classes would hardly share my enthusiasm I knew, but perhaps someone, one of them, would be touched and that would be reward enough. I thought for a moment of Sandi Wilson, and a surge of pride swelled in my breast. And then, paradoxically, or significantly, I found myself thinking of Gil Horton, a student in one of those two senior classes, and my mood altered abruptly. I sighed with frustration, embittered by my own impotence, knowing there was nothing at all I could do to salvage Gil, and all the rest of the Gils who filled my classes, filled our schools, from a sad and empty life.

I opened the book and began reading, trying to get Gil out of my thoughts. The page before me was a strange history of air my readings. Almost every word, every sentence, every paragraph was underlined, often two or three times, with as many different colors of ink, testifying to the many, many times I'd read the book. My eyes raced rapidly over the all too familiar words of Hawthorne's Preface, written in that January of 1851, skimmed over the introductory paragraph of the narrative, until my eye caught upon the words of the second paragraph. I read them aloud, to myself, excited by the richness of their tone:

"The aspect of the venerable mansion has always affected me like a human countenance, bearing the traces not merely of outward storm and sunshine, but expressive, also, of the long lapse of mortal life, and the accompanying vicissitudes that have passed within...."

I looked at my watch again. Five minutes was up, and still no Mr. Horton. Well, I thought, feeling somewhat magnanimous, I'll give him five minutes more. That would be a whole half hour, more than a reasonable length to wait. Besides, I'd just remembered a passage in this first chapter which had a striking significance relative to events going on right now in America. I ran my index finger down the middle of the pages until I found that quote. I read it to myself, trying to decide how I could use the passage and relate it to current events.

It read: Old Matthew Maule, in a word, was executed for the crime of witchcraft. He was one of the martyrs to that terrible delusion, which should teach us, among its other morals, that the influential classes, and those who take upon themselves to be leaders of the people, are fully liable to all the passionate error that has ever characterized the maddest mob....

A loud knock on my office door interrupted my reading, and I looked up from the page. Before I could tell the knocker to enter, and before I could do more than half rise from my chair, the door opened, swinging inward, toward me, like a great yawning mouth. There, framed in the doorway was Gilbert Horton's father.

The first sight of him sent a literal shiver of fear through my body, and it was as if he were some ghostly apparition, a demon spectre from the dark corridors of my past. His face, his build, the snarled look of obvious disdain that creased his expression in thick, cruel lines were all features I had known well in my own youth. But of course, that simply could not be. He-the particular he I recalled-was dead, for almost twenty years.

My look of shock and confusion must have registered in my expression. The sneer on his lips rippled, his mouth opened, and the man spoke:

"What's a matter with you, lady?"

The sound of his voice, the first external stimulus to have touched my senses since the moment the door swung open, a very long heartbeat ago, shattered the unreality of memory, and brought me back to the present. I shook my head, tossing my hair slightly, as if casting aside the shadow that had begun to settle across my thoughts.

"Oh, I'm sorry, sir," I said, rising, my voice distracted. "I didn't mean to be rude, it's just that-that you remind me of someone I used to know. Someone from a very long time ago."

He smiled, I think. "Oh, yeah. Hum, isn't that something. Who was he? Maybe we're related."

I brushed aside the possibility. "No, it's nothing; just a silly memory. Come in, please, though. I hope you don't think me completely rude."

Mr. Horton moved into my office, a huge rambling mountain of a man, his body and his personality filling the very room, making it seem suddenly small and closed off. He closed the door behind him, with as much force as he had employed to thrust it open, and the sound of the slam made me jump even though I was expecting it.

"No, really," he said, taking the seat beside my desk, possessing it as if it had become an extension of his physical presence, "who do I remind you of? What was his name?"

I gestured for him to be seated, but, since he'd already done that without my prompting, I sat down myself, a shudder of something cold fingering my spine.

"Just-an uncle," I answered. "His name was Jeffrey. Jeffrey Cliffords. He was my mother's brother. Uncle Jeff. He died when I was fourteen."

He shrugged indifferently. "Never heard of him. Probably no relative."

Gil's father was an incredible giant of a man, and even seated he seemed to tower over me. His face was thick and massive, with huge fistfuls of flesh for cheeks, black pin-like eyes, raisins punched into soft dough, and lips which flapped loosely up and down as he spoke, revealing yellowed, decay-marked teeth behind. His face was flushed red, as though his collar was perpetually tight, and the broken tracks of ruptured blood vessels threaded his flesh. The color of his hair was dirty blond it seemed, but it was difficult to judge accurately because it was still wet. He wore it very short, in an out-of-fashion crew-cut, so that the bristles of each hair stood greasily up into the air, reminding me of quills. He had no sideburns at all, and the hairline on either side was cut straight across, just above the ear, as though he'd taken a razor and shaved the offending hair off. Clean shaven generally, with a few clusters of wire-like hairs on the underside of his heavy jowls where the razor missed, his neck folded down in several creases of flesh, and seemed to be stuffed inside his open collared sport shirt. Beads of perspiration dotted his forehead and oozed out between the layers of fat hanging from his neck. He was the kind of man who would always seem to be sweating, regardless of the temperature. His voice was thick and hoarse, making it sound as though he were continually wheezing.

Without wanting to, that ancient memory that I had so carefully walled away from my conscious thoughts came flooding back into my awareness, triggered by the chilling similarity Mr. Horton bore to him. I consciously tried to push those thoughts away, trying to squeeze them back into those shadowy pockets of yesterday, but I was overwhelmed by the rushing flood of remembrance, and I found myself reliving, in the theater of my mind, that terrifying afternoon Uncle Jeff came to visit.

"So, Miss Heyward," Mr. Horton said, cracking his knuckles, "what's the trouble with Gilbert? God, I hate that name. My old lady give it to him; named him after her dad. So what's he doing, playing hooky or something like that? I'll break his ass for him."

I was home alone that day, I thought, remembering. Another part of my thoughts responded to his question: "Oh, no, Mr. Horton, it's nothing like that-"

"Travis," he said. "Call me Travis. Everybody does."

I smiled uncomfortably. "All right...Travis. As I was saying-

(i was home alone that day when uncle jeff came to visit...my mother was out shopping and dad was working...i'd just gotten home from school...that friday i was going to be fourteen)-it's nothing like that. In a sense it's actually much more serious...."

"He's not messing around with drugs or nothing, is he?" He balled his ham-like fists, and I found myself shrinking back into my chair. "I'll kill the bastid if he is!"

(i remember i was drinking a glass of milk in the kitchen on the sink countertop...mother had baked me chocolate chip cookies...my favorites...when the doorbell rang...i remembered how id answered it...my mouth filled with milk and cookies)

-I think I'd be capable of making matters clear to you. I see no sense really for you to be jumping to conclusions."

He glared at me, resenting my having put him down, even with such a minor rebuke.

Bristling somewhat, feeling my initial fear evolving into a generalized dislike, I took a deep breath and composed myself. Idiot-know-it-all...chauvinist...probably never listened to anyone in his life. I said:

"Gil's problem is scholastic. I have no discipline problems with him at-

(i opened the door and there was a tall heavily built man standing there...i didn't recognize him at first it had been so many years since i'd seen him...hi i'm uncle jeff he said.. . you must be little Visa)

-all. He's a well-intentioned, courteous, pleasant young man. I only wish the rest of my students were as well behaved as Gil-"

Travis Horton snorted. "Sissy. I should a known."

I felt tempted to snap back at him, but managed to keep my personal feelings in check. I cleared my throat and continued, pretending that he hadn't said anything at all.

"I teach English Literature here at Jefferson high," I explained, "and Gil is in one of my senior English classes. As you may recall, Gil received a failing-

(i didn't remember uncle jeff so well...the last time i'd seen him i'd only been a little girl...i remembered that there had been some problem and then uncle jeff had gone away for a very long time...there had been some talk about jail...i didn't understand...i was too young) - grade on his report card for the first two marking periods of this term, and there is a very definite possibility that he may fail again."

Travis Horton looked at me with disgust. "Is that all? Is that what this is all about? Shit." .

"Sir," I said coldly, "would it be possible for you to complete a sentence without dragging in (he frightened me though...oh come in uncle jeff i said...mommy's not home and daddy's at work...did you tell them you were coming...no i just got out last week...i didn't tell anybody...come in i said and i closed the door)-some form of obscenity? I find it very offensive."

"Excuse me, ladyF' he said mimicking the voice of a homosexual, flouncing his meaty hand at me, bending it delicately at the wrist. "I'm ever so sorry. To think that I've offended little old you. How sorry I am."

I glared at him with a hostility that was rapidly growing into unvarnished revulsion. I'd known men like Travis Horton before in my life. The world was full of them. Anything which didn't fit into their narrow views of life they either ridiculed or destroyed. They respected nothing, especially themselves. I said nothing about the insult, not wanting to make poor Gil suffer any more than was necessary for the insensitivity of his father.

"Thank you," I said sarcastically. "And now, if I may, I'll continue.. . . "

"Go right ahead. That's what you got me down here for, isn't it?"

"As I said, the possibility that your son will fail English is very-

(say this is a nice place you got here uncle jeff said...we walked into the living room...how 'bout offering me a drink...it'd be the sociable thing to do...i showed him where daddy's whisky was...he poured some into a glass and began to drink it down)-real. His marks just aren't good enough. He'd have to get an A on his final examination to average out to a passing grade, and I don't think that's going to happen. I've attempted to tutor him on my own time, trying to bring his grades up, but I simply-

(he took the glass and sat on the sofa...i sat in the arm chair across from him feeling uncomfortable in my own house...i wanted to go back into the kitchen to finish my milk but i was afraid...something kept me there...something i didn't understand)-haven't been successful. I've requested your presence today in the fervent hope that together we could decide upon some course of action to help your son."

He stared at me for a full ten seconds, his gross-face grimacing grotesquely as though there were something foul-tasting on his tongue.

He turned away from me with a sigh of exasperation, his eyes staring up at the ceiling, speaking as if he were addressing some invisible third person:

"Jesus Christ!" he exclaimed. "Is this why you got me here today? Is this why you asked me to take a day off from work? Holy Mother of God!"

"Surely, Mr. Horton," I began, "you must see the seriousness of this matter."

"Let him fail! Christ."

"Sir, this is no joking mat (they really got this place fixed up nice...uncle jeff drained the glass of daddy's whisky then got up and poured some more...the bottle was almost empty...i felt myself becoming afraid...there was something almost menacing in the way uncle jeff was acting...don't worry i'm not going to steal anything...that's all in the past) -ter. I'm quite serious about-"

"And I'm serious about taking a day off from work!" he thundered, cutting me off. His bloated face grew ugly with anger. "You maybe get paid when you take a day off from work, but I don't! And to me, lady, that's no joke either!"

I calmed myself. Try another approach. "Mr. Horton," I said, controlling my voice, "perhaps you don't fully appreciate the gravity of my words."

"Talk plain, lady!" he growled. "I don't like for no lady to make a fool out-a me, hear!"

I bit my tongue at the obvious temptation, then said: "Sir, Gil is a senior. As such, he will be required to take a state-wide examination in English. If he does not pass that examination, he(say lisa when is ellen coming home...he drained his glass then got up and poured the rest of the bottle into his glass...i don't know she didn't say...soon though...and your old man what's he doing now...he teaches...a teacher...i might have known...roy always was a smartass)-will not be permitted to graduate. Four years of work, sir, will have been wasted."

He looked at me with exaggerated tiredness, yawning in my face. "Who cares?" he said, shrugging.

"Mr. Horton, your son can barely read!"

"like I said, lady-who cares."

"I care!" I said, raising my voice, losing control for the first time. "I care very much. And if you were-

(i hated it when adults said bad words...it scared me when they did...daddy never said words like that...i didn't like uncle jeff...wished he would go away...i wish daddy would come home...or mommy...my stomach felt funny...what the fuck is this...no more booze...where the fuck is it...you trying to hide it on me or something)-any kind of father, you'd care too!"

He lifted his hands from the desk and made a pushing motion at the air, an expression of disgust. "And what is reading gonna do for him?" he asked. "It's bullshit and nothing more. Fuckin' bullshit!"

Images flashed in and out of my thoughts, and the past and the present began to spin and interchange. In my mind I moved backward and forward in time, fourteen years old in one breath, thirty-three in the next. Fear and anger welled up in my belly like an ancient poison. My mouth was filled with a bitter, brackish taste.

"It will get him a job," I said, spitting the words out. "A decent-

(i don't believe you said uncle jeff...you're hiding it on me...ya gotta have some more around here someplace...i have to go to the bathroom i said i got up from my chair...what...i said i hafta go)

-job!"

Travis Horton hit his chest with both hands, his balled fists pounding off the angry muscles of his barrel-like chest, reminding me of a gorilla bellowing in rage.

'I'll get him a job!" he told me.

I looked at him with total, unmasked contempt. "Doing what?"

"Workin' with me."

I laughed in his face. "I might have known."

As it somehow is in men who fear ideas, there is a tendency to use money as a compensation for their lack of formal education. Travis Horton was no exception.

"Listen here, lady," he said, his face purple in his thick-throated rage, "I made twenty grand last year. How much did you make?" He snapped his fingers in my face. "I could buy and sell you like that!"

I drew myself all the way up morally, and looked down at him. "You could never-

(he laughed drunkenly...say you know what you 117 never kissed me hello ya know that...i stepped back away from the chair...i gotta go now my friend is waiting for me...you can just wait for mommy to come uncle jeff...come and give your old uncle a kiss...he came at me from across the room moving like a gorilla from an old monster movie)-buy me, sir!"

His lips twitched spasmodically, but he kept them firmly pressed together, as if he were holding back, locking his jaws together to keep the fury burning inside of him from bubbling out. His hands remained curled fists, an unspoken threat, grinding into the edge of the desk as though he were trying to reduce the wood to sawdust. Abruptly he rose to leave.

I had to stop him. I had to get him. I had to pay him back.

"And," I said, hurtling my challenge, "if we're going to make value judgments, sir-

Ci tried to run...i swear to god i did...i ran but i fell down...i was crying and screaming...i couldn't get up...he kept coming at me)-I read several hundred books last year. How many did you read, my intellectual giant?"

He turned at me with a swiftness and grace that was surprising in a man so big. He pivoted on his heel and jabbed his finger toward me, as if in his imagination he saw us literally as fencers, and he was thrusting back at me with the death blow.

"I never read a book in my life and I'm glad."

"My God!" I said almost floored by fanaticism of his convictions. "What an incredible thing to brag about. You elevate ignorance, sir, almost as(whatsamatta he cried slapping my face because i was crying...what have they been telling you about me...they've poisoned your mind to me ....talking about me...behind my back...saying all kinds of...of...bad...things)-as highly as you praise your all so important money! Well, it's no wonder that Gil is having difficulty. With you as a parent it's a minor miracle that Gil can even find the school, much-

(stop it...stopit...stopitstopit...he slapped me on my face and i was crying...no uncle jeff don't...please don't...please) less function in it!"

His rage exploded from his mouth, with his arms flailing the air between us as if it had offended him. He spluttered and fumed spitting out fragments of words, a jumble of thoughts:

"You-all you!...All a bunch of hippie...commie...intellectual bleed-"

"My God," I said, cutting him to ribbons, "how about that! A real live Archie Bun-

(his breath smelted of stale whisky...fingers pawed at my breasts pinching nipples through bra...hand clawing at my skirt...under my skirt...ripping my panties down my legs)-ker in the flesh!"

His hand trembled as he wagged his sausage finger in my face. "You know whatsa matter with you? You know whatsa matter with you, lady? You're an old maid! You couldn't get yourself a man so you walk around the world with a perpetual rag on!"

"A man?" I said in mocking incredulity. "What would you know-

(his lips slobbered all over my naked breasts his teeth bit into my nipples until they were almost bleeding...two fingers were pushing at the lips of my cunt wedging themselves into the tight straining mouth of my canal...don't uncle jeff...don't...i'm a virgin)

-about being a man?"

He sucked his breath in. "Watch it, lady," he warned, becoming very still. "You're getting too close."

I went for his balls. "You think you're a man? Why, because you have that dangling piece of flesh between your legs instead of a cunt? Do you really think that makes you a man? A monkey has a cock! So does a gorilla! Is that what you are, Mr. Horton? Homo sapien penis erectus!"

"You can't talk to me like that," he cried, and he came toward me like a lumbering grizzly bear. "Nobody can talk to me like that!"

I pushed the chair out from under me, standing erect to greet his challenge. I spread my thighs, as if flaunting my body at him, the tight skirt of my dress straining across the broad mound of my cunt. He was like a wild, enraged animal, a charging bull, and I stood there, cool and detached, like a matador, waving my cape of goading words, piercing his ego with the sword of my femininity.

"A prick!" I cried, lashing out viciously, wanting to hurt him, hurt him, humiliate him until he begged for mercy. "A bloody prick! A walking talking muscular-

(prick between my thighs...i could feel it...hot hard long thick...pushing at the lips of my cunt...sliding up into my novice cunt...he was heavy on me pressing down...crushing me...hot breath on my face...his tongue in my mouth...don't uncle jeff...stop...don't. . , stop...don't...stop...don'tstop...don'tstop...ohgod uncle jeff don'tstop)-prickr

"Bitch!" he cried, and he slapped me across the face with every ounce of his strength. "Bitch!"

The blow rocked me and I thought I was going to pass out. Darkness came up and covered my thoughts; reality began to fade into it. I clung to my anger, my rage, my exploding hatred, and I pulled myself through. I stood my ground, with my hands on my hips, my legs spread in a defiant taunt. I spit in his face.

"Prickr I called him. "Prick...prick!...prick-"

I left him no choice. The razor was to his balls and I was slicing it across his flesh. I had even humiliated his strength, shattered the mirror of his identity. He had to act now or he would never be capable of acting again.

He grabbed me roughly by the shoulders, and threw me back against the wall. My breath gushed out, and my skull smacked with a dull thud into the plaster, shattering the sickly green paint which covered the wall. Before I could scream, he was upon me, smothering me into his arms, pressing me back against the wall with his body, kissing my open mouth with his avenging tongue.

His hands tore at my panties. I kissed him wildly back, running my fingers down to his pounding cock.

"Rape me!" I moaned, feeling the swollen head of his shaft press itself between the oozing lips of my cunt. "Oh sweet Jesus-

(his cock went in and out in and out in and out...deeper and deeper and deeper...breaking me open...filling me up with his cock...until so much blood had run down my thighs that i passed out)-RAPE ME!"