The Saint Read Online Free Page B

Strickland.”
    Claire leaned back in her chair. “Of course you do. I’m sorry.” She’d swallowed her pride in this job so often she’d almost gotten used to the bitter taste. “Then of course you know it isn’t incest with the same connotations we might have today.”
    â€œI don’t believe any of that word’s connotations are socially acceptable,” Mrs. Straine said. She was sitting up so straight her back wasn’t touching the chair. “I honestly would have thought you understood that vocabulary like that has no place in an HGA classroom.”
    Claire tried one more time. “But this is Hamlet, Mrs. Straine. This is Shakespeare. Hamlet is taught in classrooms all over the world every day, and—”
    Mrs. Straine waved her hand. “We do not judgeourselves by everyone else, Miss Strickland,” she said. “At HGA, the standards are far higher.”
    Higher than Shakespeare?
    â€œI’m afraid we must insist that our teachers meet those standards. Every teacher, every day.”
    So was this it? Was this where Claire would be told to take her copy of Hamlet and go home? She realized suddenly that she didn’t care very much. Since Steve died, she hadn’t cared about much of anything. But she tried to look earnestly concerned. She did have to earn a living, and HGA at least had the virtue of paying well and recruiting bright, well-behaved students.
    â€œHowever,” Mrs. Straine went on, “I don’t think we need to overreact. Overall, your performance since coming to HGA has been exemplary. I think it will be adequate merely to place you on probation.”
    â€œProbation?”
    Mrs. Straine folded up the letter and placed it in a file marked Strickland, Claire. “Yes. It should not be construed as punitive. It’s merely precautionary. I’ll be keeping a close eye on your work. I’ll need to see your lesson plans daily, of course. After six months, we’ll review the matter and see where we stand.”
    Claire understood she’d been dismissed. She stood and nodded—though she drew the line at thanking Mrs. Straine for her tolerance. She looked at the other woman—at her high, tight, extremely sophisticated French braid, her severe Armani suit, her Tiffany-set diamond wedding ring—and she wondered whether there really was no Mr. Straine, as the other teachers sometimes suggested.
    It was possible. Claire’s own mother had pretended she was a “Mrs.,” and she undoubtedly wasn’t the only woman who did. Mrs. Straine’s reasons would be different, of course. She wouldn’t be trying to protect her two illegitimate children. But whatever the reason, living a lie took its toll.
    As she left the school, Claire thought how much nicer it would be if she could go home and tell Steve about all this. What fun they’d have parodying Mrs. Straine’s Victorian syntax and ridiculous whisper. If Steve were there, this would seem hilarious in no time. They’d laugh away any sting, and then they’d sit around and think up absurd new meanings for the school’s initials. She could almost hear him now. Humongous Growling Amazons. Hippos Gathering Acorns. Hot Greasy Aardvarks.
    But Steve wasn’t there, of course. Her half-furnished apartment would be empty when she finally got home later tonight. She had a meeting after school, which she would go through like a robot. Then she’d stop by the grocery store, and then drive to the apartment.
    When she got in, she’d ignore the five or six messages on her machine—it was easier to ignore an invitation than to turn it down, and the result was the same in the end. She’d read a little. And then, as soon as she possibly could, she’d go to sleep.
    To sleep. Perchance to dream. Yes, Hamlet knew where the real dangers lay. Claire still dreamed about Steve at least once a week. They were cruel