Chapter 17

(here's another extra-long chapter at readers' request)

"I hope some of you guys finished reading The Red Badge of Courage over those snow days. Here are some study-guide questions, and you can have the rest of this period. Tomorrow I will assume that everyone's read it. It's a short book."

He principal walked in and then led him from the room and out into the hall, silent, motioning with his head.

"The PTA wants to give you an award, a plaque probably. You surely deserve it. I don't think they give medals. For bravery, understand? Above and beyond, that sort of thing. Special assembly I guess."

The teacher shook his head. "Tell 'em thanks but no thanks. I'd be embarrassed. Besides, well, say they can give Harrison an award. He's out there everyday checking the doors and bathrooms, policing the halls, keeping the peace. Good man. He deserves it. I just happened to be there."

'They they won't like that. Lot of talk going around, might have to do a locker inspection. After all there was a gun involved. You know how it is, stories multiply."

"Haven't seen anything in the paper, on TV. One radio guy did call me."

"They've got a good lawyer, the Porters do."

"Anyhow, tell them no, make it emphatic. I really do not want to be singled out." He grimaced. "I'd look like a fool, kids would hoot."

"You found a center?"

"Working on it. Maybe. Got one work-release kid maybe."

"Good luck," the principal said, smiling.

He had looked up Marcus Jones' schedule so knew where he would be just before lunch.

He met the big youngster at the classroom door and introduced himself. He was very surprised to see that the boy had a disfiguring harelip, a cleft palate that twisted his mouth. He had not seen one for several years. But he was happy to see that the young man was at least six-four.

"You hear about Jim Lucas, broke his leg?"

The boy nodded. "Uh huh, shame 'bout that. Good shooter, only one hand, but good."

"We need a center, and you sure are plenty big enough. Everybody I ask says you can play the game, ought to be on the team."

The young man nodded. "I gotta work, down at the Giant, every day."

"I talked to Mr. Murphy, your boss. He says you are a real good worker, and he'd hate to lose you."

The young man nodded and smiled. "Uh huh, they want me full time, but I'm planning on college, junior college anyhow." He sniffed. "Probably work there this summer, good pay, union scale."

"Mr. Murphy says, he told me, that if you want to play, you can take Wednesday off. That's when we have games, Wednesday and Saturday."

"No kiddin'?"

"No kidding, and the best thing is, they won't dock your pay. You'll be the only kid in high school that gets paid to play. They really want you. So do I."

The boy shook his head. "Gotta think about this. Talk to Mr. Murphy. Come down and see me after school. Okay?"

The teacher gobbled his lunch and found the principal out in the hall. "You know Marcus Jones, big black kid, junior?"

The man nodded. "Think so."

"He had a cleft palate when he was born, and they did a sloppy job of fixing it."

"And."

"Well, if the PTA wants to do something useful, they can finance an operation for the kid. Don't know what it would cost. He's on free lunch isn't he?."

"Probably. Most of those work-release kids are. I'll look into it."

"Anyhow, just an idea. Hope you'll pass it along."

He told Meg where he was going and then walked down to the Giant, disappointed that he hadn't seen or heard from the McGonigal boy. He wondered if the kid had decided to go to one of the private schools.

Mr. Murphy greeted him effusively and sent for Marcus. The three sat in his crowded little office as shoppers milled about them and the automatic scanners binged.

"He says he's never been on a real team," Murphy said. "You practice don't you?"

"Of course, Tuesday and Thursdays usually, three to five." Thompson felt a bit uncomfortable as the three sat with their knees almost touching. Murphy was a small, bald, middle-aged man with a good smile.

Murphy sniffed and nodded. "Well, if we are going to do this, and I think we should, we'll do it right. You need him and so do we. He wants to go to college, but he can work here, join the union when he graduates from high school. Then, if he's going to play, he ought to practice, a least once a week. He's working here this summer."

Thompson nodded and looked at Marcus who smiled.

"Anyhow," Murphy said, "he and I think he ought to practice on Tuesdays, before the games, until the season's over, say four to five, one hour." He sniffed again. "That enough?"

"Same deal, won't cost him?" asked the coach.

"Yep, his pay's not much, but he's such a good worker he gets more done in an hour than some of my people do in a day."

"That OK with you?" the coach asked the young man.

Marcus nodded and smiled.

"OK, good. I've got three big uniforms that ought to fit you, 22, 33 and zero. Which one do you want?"

The boy smiled. "Kareem wore thirty-three."

"You're got it," said the coach, shaking the boy's hand. "See you tomorrow. Thanks Mr. Murphy, think we'll be shopping here instead of the Safeway from now on."

"Bingham," said the teacher, "what's a mogul?"

The boy sniffed, licked his lips and smiled, now used to being called on first. "It's a bump on a hill, a snow covered hill."

"Very good. It's also a Mongolian and a locomotive. But for us, we who are studying the Progressive Era, what's a mogul?"

"A really big businessman, a leader, the boss," said the boy. "Rich and powerful man, never heard of a woman mogul, at least back then."

"Very good, me neither. I'll take that; do you think 'mogul' has faint overtones of evil? That it's negative? Let's think about it. What's a robber baron? Eve?"

"A crooked, rich businessman. I mean, that's really negative isn't it?"

"Sure is. Robber barons got filthy rich and didn't really care about how they got rich, who they stepped on and ruined or cheated." He paused, decided and added, "Weren't many laws in fact, business laws. The term's very old, back to the time of real barons in England, but we use in the 19th century for businessmen, tycoons, very wealthy businessmen."

"Ah, there's another term." He wrote tycoon on the board under mogul and robber baron. "What's a tycoon? Is it positive or negative? Sydney, what do you think?"

"Neither, just a rich businessman, a leader."

"OK, I'll buy that, subject to later revision. Name some. Nancy?"

"Rockefeller, we talked about him the other day, Standard Oil. A monopoly."

"Good, some more? Ralph?"

"How about Andrew Carnegie; he's in the reading, steel business, right?'

"Absolutely. Sold it and then started giving away money, building libraries. There's one in D.C., lots of them around, twenty-five hundred I think."

He paused and looked round. Some people were taking notes. "Come on, give me another. How about a railroad man?"

'What's-his-name Vanderbilt," said a boy sitting in the back.

"Cornelius I think," said the teacher.

"Yeah, right."

"You could raise your hand. Any more, maybe a money man, a banker?"

'Oh," said a girl, raising her hand, "I saw his picture, his awful nose, something Morgan, J. P. was it?"

"Yep, he was America's number one banker, J. Pierpont. He probably controlled more money than the government did, could lend it money."

"You're exaggerating." someone said.

"Are you sure? He probably saved our economy more than once, propped up the gold on which it was based and helped combine several mega-businesses or trusts. Remember Teddy Roosevelt, the trust-buster. We're getting there. One guy called it the Gilded Age; Mark Twain was the guy."

The same girl raised her hand. "What was wrong with his nose? Why does it look so ugly?"

Several people laughed. "They didn't know until he was dead. I think he offered a hundred thousand to anybody that could cure it."

"And?" she asked.

"Rosacea, a skin condition, makes the skin red. I don't think there is a cure, even now, no matter how rich you are."

On the white board, he wrote 'entrepreneur.' "I think that's probably a French word. Maybe Ford was one or the Dodge brothers. What does it mean?"

A boy raised his hand and said, "It's a magazine. My father subscribes. It just means businessman, doesn't it?'

"A bit more. What's your father's business? Did he start it?"

The boy shook his head.

"OK, tomorrow I'd like a good definition and some current examples. And here's another word for you, "laissez faire." He wrote that on the board. "That's probably French too, it looks French doesn't it? Plus, find out what you can about two guys, two rich, wise guys, robber barons, named Jay Gould and Jim Fisk." He wrote their names on the board. "Oh, and Black Friday, add that to your list."

He smiled and put down his marker. It had been a good lesson even if they had not reached the anti-trust laws, his real goal. Amazing, not one foul thought, not one aching memory.

Someone knocked at the classroom door, which was unusual - people came in and out, but seldom knocked. He opened it and there stood a tall, blonde young man wearing a smile, Levis, chucks and a Redskin warm-up jacket. He stuck out his hand. "McGonigal," he said, "Phillip the third, but most call me Butch. Just signed in, and they put me in this class for history."

"Welcome. Where've you been?"

"St. Johns, Gonzaga, and Landon. Word's out I guess. Nobody was interested. Oh, and you're suppose to get me a locker. I'm in your homeroom."

"OK, no problem. But I've found a center, a good one. We'll give you a try-out. That OK?"

Wordlessly the boy came in, looked around, smiled at a couple of girls, found an empty desk, and the teacher gave him a textbook. "Chapter eleven, Progressive Era."

The whiteboard was clear, clean as it usually was after Miss Collins' classes. No assignments, yet.

"OK, Anthony, let's start with you. How did you like The Red Badge of Courage? You did read it, didn't you?'

The boy nodded, small smile quickly swallowed.

"So, what's your verdict? Let's assume you'd never heard of it, just picked it up in the library, not something a teacher made you read. Would you have read it?"