Lily, Mr. McDavid, and Shakespeare

Paper clips and manila folders in her left hand, Lily walked the tiled hallway towards her classroom. She listened to her flats slap the tile floor and caught scents of coffee from the counselors’ offices. She looked at the trophies inside cases lining the hallway. Wrestlers twisted and taut, frozen in positions of agonized struggle, gripped her. She studied them. Musing, she saw her own reflection in the glass and students’ fingerprints on the sliding, but locked, glass.

Hamlet an insufficient match, my young friend? Taking up wrestling, are we?”

It was Thomas McDavid.

Lily smiled to see Thomas. He wore loafers, a tan shirt with a coffee stain above the third button from the bottom, just above his navel, full coffee cup in his right hand.

“Hardly,” Lily said. “How are you, Thomas?”

“Handsome as ever, don’t you think?” Mr. McDavid laughed, and spilled another drop of coffee on his shirt.

“Did you ever wrestle, Thomas?”

“Of course—but only when I tried to read Gibbon’s Decline and Fall.” Mr. McDavid and Lily laughed together.

“If I had had this belly when I was young,” Mr. McDavid said, “I’d look like a bowling pin trapped in a spandex balloon. That would have made for quite the impression.”

Lily laughed again and asked, “Where are you now with your students?”

“Still with Caesar. Having the students read the play, you’ll be glad to know, and research lessons we might draw from the first triumvirate,” Mr. McDavid said.

“You’re having them read the play looking for that?” Lily asked.

“No, no, my young friend. Having them read the play to understand people’s psychology. Your field, Ms. Rood, does a better job of that than mine. When they read the play, students grasp these historical figures as real men and women with conflicts and ambitions and fears—not just as figures on a timeline.”

“Sounds like the literary bug has bitten you, Thomas,” Lily said.

“You stay in Sweden with Othello, Ms. Rood. I’ll cross the Rubicon with my cohorts,” Thomas said laughing.

“Hamlet is a Dane, Thomas McDavid. Othello is a Moor,” Lily protested in laughter. But Thomas had taken his leave.

Lily saw two drops of fresh coffee on the tile floor where Thomas had stood.

She laughed at herself, looked again at the trophy cases, and walked on towards her classroom.

“Oh, Miss Rood. I almost forgot,” Mr. McDavid said. He had turned around in front of his classroom door and turned his head towards Lily.

“Forgot what?”

“Beth has not gone gently.”

“What do you mean?”

“Her replacement, I hear, is a close friend of hers.”

“How do you know?” Lily asked. “Who is it?”

“Someone from here, of course,” Mr. McDavid said.

“What do you mean by here?” Lily asked. “From this town?”

“You said it. She’s not Beth, but close.”

“Thomas, what are you saying? Am I still not safe?”

“Was Caesar? Was Hamlet? No one is safe, Ms. Rood. Hasn’t literature taught you that?” Thomas asked, only partly in jest.

(To be continued)

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