HiLobrow is proud to present the sixteenth installment of Robert Waldron’s novel The School on the Fens. New installments will appear each Saturday for thirty-eight weeks. CLICK HERE to read all installments published thus far.
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HiLobrow is proud to present the sixteenth installment of Robert Waldron’s novel The School on the Fens. New installments will appear each Saturday for thirty-eight weeks. CLICK HERE to read all installments published thus far.
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16
Mary O’Leary ordered us to wait for the headmaster in his suite. I advised Ed never to underestimate the importance of school secretaries, who often wielded more power than assistant headmasters and invariably knew all school-related dirt. He laughed, assuming I was being facetious, but I was deadly serious.
“Take a seat,” she commanded,” pointing her plump index finger toward two wooden chairs, “Mr. Farrell will be along in a few moments.”
The office was a big square room situated in the northwest corner of the building, receiving little sunlight during the day. Bare white walls and stark wooden furniture made the room look larger than it was. Dozens of gold and silver trophies collected dust on a shelf running the perimeter of the room just below the high ceiling, awards for every high school sport, including chess. At the north end of the room stood a long seminar table before a window through which Simmons College and the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum were visible.
We sat in front of the headmaster’s immaculate mahogany desk.
“What’s that?” Ed asked, pointing to the shelf behind the desk.
“An eighteenth century bronze.”
“Of what?” Ed stood up for a closer look.
“Romulus and Remus, suckling a she-wolf. It’s the school’s symbol.”
He grimaced.
The sound of Farrell’s jangling keys announced his arrival. When he challenged my presence, I recited section seven of the contract guaranteeing Ed’s right to a union rep at any meeting with an administrator. He slammed his keys down on his desk and sat down, “Goddamn contract!” His complaint was ritualistic, a well-rehearsed scene.
Failing to elicit any response from either of us, Rell finally said, “I’ve called this meeting for several reasons. First, Mr. Horgan, why did you access Timothy O’Donnell’s transcript?”?
“To check his grades,” Ed said quietly. “Timothy received a failure in English on his first term report card, but he insists he had an honor grade when Mr. Thompson died.”
Farrell stared at Ed, and Ed unflinchingly stared back.
“Mr. Thompson was a scrupulous man,” Farrell said, as if he revered Bill. “If he flunked O’Donnell, then he deserved it.”
“Timothy thinks it’s a computer error,” Ed said.
“As I said, Mr. Thompson was a scrupulous teacher about his grades. Have you any proof O’Donnell passed?”
“Miss Murkin couldn’t locate Mr. Thompson’s IBM grade sheets,” Ed said.
A long silence followed.
“Couldn’t I retest Tim on the first term literature?” Ed said, offering the fairest solution.
“It would be unfair to the other students who worked hard for their grades,” Farrell said, assuming his Solomon-like voice.
“But Timothy’s telling the truth,” Ed said. “His records prove he’s an honor student, and he’s never before received any grade below B- in English; the failure jeopardizes his chances for early decision to an Ivy.”
“Ivy League won’t accept him anyway,” Farrell said, sneeringly. “He’s a mediocre hockey player. I grant that his academic record is good, but if you examine his transcript, you’ll notice he’s never joined any clubs or involved himself in our school council.”
“Timothy’s S.A.T. scores are excellent,” Ed added, “and he’s a talented writer.”
Before Ed’s shining integrity, the headmaster seemed to shrink into his dark suit. Picking up his keys, Farrell flipped them in and out of his palm.
“Bring me proof that he passed Thompson’s class, otherwise the
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