Teacher (a Short Novel Under Construction)
Copyright© 2015 by Bill Offutt
Chapter 11
Since there was no faculty meeting that Monday, he had told both teams that there would be a one-hour practice.
Joe Shorts was waiting for him at the gym door, his uniform washed and neatly folded in a paper bag. He handed it to the teacher, looking down, sniffed and said, "I have to quit. My mother does not want me to play. I'm sorry." He turned away.
The teacher stopped him with a hand on his thin shoulder, led him over to the stands, and they sat beside each other as other players soon appeared and began shooting baskets.
"Why?" the flustered teacher asked.
"She noticed the crusty blood in my nose."
"That all?"
The boy nodded. "I think she hates sports, all sports. Waste of time is what she says, could be studying, practicing piano."
"Where do you live?"
"Edgemoor, near Wilson Lane."
"What's the address? Oh, it's on your permission ship isn't it?"
The boy nodded, looking like he was about to start crying.
"Joe, I'll talk to her, today if I can. And I hope she changes her mind. You are a good shooter, and you can be a good player."
He nodded. The teacher hoped he was not going to cry. He had decided what to do with the young player very late the night before as he lay listening to Meg breathe.
It wasn't far, six blocks or so, so after practice he walked to Joe's house and rang the bell. It was a big, old house, half-timbered, in a very fashionable neighborhood with lots of trees and shrubbery, million dollar homes, an area where, the teacher was sure, no Jews lived before the war.
A thin woman opened the door.
The teacher smiled. "Mrs. Shorts?"
She nodded.
"I'm Mr. Thompson, from the high school. I'm a teacher, and Joe's basketball coach."
She nodded and blinked, taking a breath, hand to her throat, unhappy.
"May I come in?" He paused and watched her hesitate. "I'd like to talk with you."
She held the door open and then led him to the living room, and he sat on a very old sofa and she on a high backed wing chair. He put his briefcase down by his feet. She took a deep breath.
"May I get you something?" she asked.
"No, thank you, I wanted to talk with you about your son and basketball."
"Did he quit, return his suit? I told him he couldn't play. It's too rough. Joseph's our only child. I don't want him hurt."
"He told me. And you are right. It can be rough and a lot of the boys are bigger than Joe."
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