Plainsong Read Online Free

and took out the blue-backed lesson book, reading through the notes he’d made for the day. Then he removed an examination ditto from a desk drawer and went back out into the hallway, carrying the ditto.
    When he entered the teacher’s lounge Maggie Jones was using the copy machine. She turned and looked at him. He sat down at the table in the center of the room and lit a cigarette. She stood at the counter watching him.
    I thought you quit that, she said.
    I did.
    How come you started again? You were doing okay.
    He shrugged. Things change.
    What’s wrong? she said. You don’t look good. You look like hell.
    Thanks. You about done with that?
    I mean it, she said. You look like you haven’t even slept.
    He pulled an ashtray closer, tapped the cigarette into it and looked at her. She turned back to the machine. He watched her working at the counter, her hand and arm turning rapidly with the crank of the machine, her hips moving at the same time and her skirt jumping and swaying. A tall healthy dark-haired woman, she was dressed in a black skirt and white blouse and wore considerable silver jewelry. Presently she stopped cranking the machine and put in another master.
    What brings you here so early? she said.
    Crowder wanted to talk to me.
    What about?
    Russell Beckman.
    That little shit. What’d he do now?
    Nothing. But he’s going to if he wants to get out of American history.
    Good luck, she said. She cranked the machine once and looked at the paper. Is that all that’s bothering you?
    Nothing’s bothering me.
    Like hell it isn’t. I can see something is. She looked into his face, and he looked back without expression and sat smoking. Is it at home? she said.
    He didn’t answer but shrugged again and smoked.
    Then the door opened and a muscular little man in a shortsleeve white shirt came in. Irving Curtis, who taught business. Morning one and all, he said.
    He moved up beside Maggie Jones and put his arm around her waist. The top of his head came up to her eyes. He stood up on his toes and whispered something into her ear. Then he squeezed her hard, drawing her toward him. She removed his hand.
    Don’t be such an ass, she said. It’s too early in the morning.
    It’s only a joke.
    And I’m just telling you.
    Oh now, he said. He sat down at the table across from Guthrie and lit a cigarette with a silver lighter and snapped it shut and then played with the lighter on the tabletop. What’s the good word? he said.
    There isn’t any, said Guthrie.
    What’s wrong with everybody? Irving Curtis said. Jesus. It’s the middle of the week. I come in here feeling good and now look what you’ve done to me. I’m depressed already and it’s not even eight o’clock in the morning.
    You could shoot yourself, Guthrie said.
    Ho, Curtis said. He laughed. That’s better. That’s funny.
    They sat and smoked. Maggie Jones stopped the machine and gathered up her papers. Your turn, she said to Guthrie, and left the room.
    Bye-bye, Irving Curtis said.
    Guthrie rose and fed the ditto master into the slot on the drum and closed it and cranked the machine once and once more to see how the exam looked.
    No shit, though, Curtis said. Just once I’d like to get her in a dark room.
    You want to leave her alone, Guthrie said.
    No. I mean, think about it.
    Guthrie cranked the machine and turned the damp exams out into the tray. There was the sharp smell of spirits.
    I told you what Gary Rawlson said about her.
    You told me, Guthrie said.
    Do you believe it?
    No. And neither does Rawlson when he hasn’t been drinking. When it’s in the daylight.

Victoria Roubideaux.
    At noon she came out of the noise and crush at school and walked over to the highway and then up a block to the Gas and Go. In her purse she had three dollars and some change and she wanted to think she could eat something now and keep it down. Thinking anyway she ought to try.
    Approaching the store she passed two high school boys leaning together at the gas pumps,