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“When Lincoln and Douglas debated in Charleston, Illinois,
Lincoln said the following: ‘There is a physical difference between the white
and black races which I believe will for ever forbid the two races living
together on terms of social and political equality. And inasmuch as… there must
be a position of superior and inferior… I as much as any other man am in favor
of having the superior position assigned to the white race.”
He spots a
hand mid-class. Ah yes, Kevin Konker.
“Kevin?”
“Isn’t this
just another case of a bunch of liberal academics trying to rewrite history?”
From the
tone of his questions, Kevin had long ago given himself away as a fan of
conservative radio, where grand conspiracies could be constructed from whole
cloth whenever the host ran out of actual arguments. David always found it best
to begin with a compliment, the better to knock his opponent off-balance.
“That’s an
excellent question, Kevin. In fact, ne of the biggest mistakes made my
academics is to judge historical figures by modern moral standards. Imagine if
Lincoln ran for President in 2012 and made this same statement. Holy crap!”
His
low-level obscenity gets a laugh, which in a final-period class, on a sunny
day, is a major victory.
“However,
the Lincoln-Douglas debates were widely attended and recorded, so I assure you,
that is what the man said. Lincoln
saw the abolition of slavery as an unattainable goal, so he kept his focus on
stopping the spread of slavery. And
he occasionally talked like a racist. If he had tried for more – if he had
become an outright abolitionist – he would not
have become President, and we would not be talking about him right now.
“Now. I want
you to understand something else. All your lives, we have sold you an image of
Abraham Lincoln as a great and saintly figure. This is because your minds were
not yet capable of grasping the jarring complexities that make up the true Lincoln. In the end, I hope that
you will see him as I do: not that giant dull face on Mount Rushmore but a
flawed and vigorous human being, an absolutely brilliant politician and legal
thinker, and an amazing leader of men. But I leave that decision to you.”
He checks
the clock and finds he has only ten seconds.
“Chapter 16
for Monday. One week till finals. Hang in there!”
He nails the
last word at the bell, then steps away from the door lest he be trampled. In Ocean
Shores, spring fever is an actual and perilous affliction. The salmon swimming
upstream is Abigail Sparling, a gathering of strawberry blonde curls, freckled
cheekbones and hazel eyes that bend light like Einsteinian opals.
“David, I
love you.”
“Hold that
thought.” He catches Kevin by the shoulder. Kevin turns with a blank look, that
expressionless expression used by teenagers the world ‘round.
“Mister
Konker. Keep those questions coming. Makes for a lively classroom.”
“Oh. Sure.
Thanks.”
And he’s gone
with the rest. David makes certain to close and lock the door before he returns
to Abbey, who is perched provocatively on his desk.
“Now I love
you even more. First I loved you for that fucking brilliant analysis of
Lincoln. Now I love you for taking
that Limbaugh-loving punk – he who claims that it ain’t poetry unless it
rhymes, ahrr! – and planting that devious little seed of skepticism. You are a
beautiful, beautiful man, and I want to have your children.”
“Thanks. But
could you please stop the gushing before one of my children passes by?”
She twirls a
strand of hair around a pinkie. “Sorry. I’m a poet.”
“No shit.
Any other reason for your visit, Ms. Sparling?”
She hands
him a flyer. “The annual literary anthology. Tell your students. Perhaps buy a
dozen copies for your family.”
“Well, I
don’t know about…”
“Because
your son’s in it.”
“Really?”
“Two poems.
Excellent poems.”
“I had no
idea.”
“Derek’s
mind is almost as interesting as his old man’s.” She hops off his desk and
makes for the door. David’s always had a weakness for women who wear jackets
with blue jeans. She turns at the door.
“Listen. I
understand the wife thing, the professional thing. That… other thing. But I am
well acquainted with tragedy. If you want to talk sometime, I’m sure you’ll
find a way to let me know.”
Abbey opens
the door with her left arm – because it’s the only one she’s got – and slips
into the hallway. He listens to the tock of her cowboy boots until they fade
into the hum of the ventilation, and wonders if his son is in love with her,
too.
He pulls into the Beach Mall to find young people on mopeds,
running loops around the parking lot. This is both the plus and minus of
Harvey’s Bike-Rent. Plus: it brings in traffic. Minus: stupid, reckless
traffic. A teenage couple is headed right for him, legs and arms all over the
place. They wobble past his fender in a burst of Doppler giggling and turn for
the beach. It’s Derek’s friend, Toby Monamer. With a girl.
“Hi
handsome.”
Elena slides
a bowl into the sink. She may or may not have been eating from it.
“Hola,
guapa.” (?)
He leans
over the counter for a kiss and comes back with Exhibit B. Strawberry.
“How’s the
biz?” he asks.
“Sunshine!
Got a nice little after-school rush.”
“I’ve been
slipping subliminal messages into my lectures. Benjamin Franklin got the French
to send Lafayette largely by plying his wife with pistachio ice cream.”
Elena
releases her bright, rounded laugh. Her laugh is as tasty as her lips. And she
laughs at his jokes.
“One more
week, I’ll be back there with you, honey. You okay for closing?”
“I’m fine.
Could you pick up a pizza?”
“I know just
the place.”
She draws up
a simple smile. There’s something else about her that he has never figured out,
until now. Her eyebrows are perfect: dark and sharp, curving inward at an angle
that makes her seem ceaselessly witty and sexy. All these years, he has been in
thrall to something he has not actually seen.
“What?”
“Looking at
my beautiful wife.”
The smile
grows. With whiter skin she’d be blushing.
“You make me
feel like a teenager.”
“Just stay
off the mopeds.”
“Gringo
loco.”
He exits to
a warm breeze. A twelve-year-old grinds past on a skateboard.
Photo by MJV
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