Chapter 2

"Bingham," he said with a stern look, narrowing his eyes and putting on his super-serious look, ready for another class, the unending challenge of instruction, mind clear for a change, "tell me about Theodore Roosevelt." He made sure to pronounce it Roose and not Rose.

He knew some of his fellow social studies teachers lectured; he refused and generally played the Socratic ploy and usually enjoyed it. He suspected that the kids would have preferred if he just told them what was on the test - saved thinking, not something they did much of, except for sex of course.

The boy sniffed and said, wrinkling his forehead in thought, "Rough Rider, right?" He was one of the repeaters, hoped to graduate in June, had to pass but didn't try very hard.

Not bad for him. "Yep, very good, when, where and why was he rough riding?"

Bingham shook his head. The teacher narrowed his eyes and tried to look disappointed. He made a sound they knew: "Tsk, tsk." Exaggerated of course.

"Wilson, tell me about him, this rough rider."

"From a war, some war, ah, Cuba I think; President later, around 1900, trust buster the book said."

"Good, what's a trust? How do you bust one?"

The lean student blinked at him. They both paused. The teacher smiled, briefly.

"Very good but incomplete I guess; now we have a trust busting rough rider around 1900. Sanchez, help us out, where did he come from, where did he live?"

He shook his head. "The West?" he asked. "I don't know. Book didn't say." A reader; there were not many of those. Have to remember that, worth a B by itself. Reading assignments were an absolute waste of time and energy, just going through the motions. You could, he had decided, hide dollar bills in the textbooks, and they never would be found.

"Nope, sorry, doesn't it, really? Hm. Any of you ever visited his home. It's open to tourists, out on Long Island, interesting place, full of animal heads, lot of horns." He waited. "That's in New York. Sagamore Hill ring a bell?" More blank looks. He smiled.

"James, how did he become president?" He had gone there with her, before their baby, a century ago. It was a sunny day. He swallowed it down and licked his lips. Oh god memory, not her, not his not-long-lost love, burned to ashes.

"Suppose he was elected, wasn't he?" A non-reader, member of the majority. Even when he gave them class time, they seldom read the assignments, just turned pages. When they read they did not absorb. When they adsorbed they often got it wrong, jumbled, bits and missing pieces.

"Yep, 1904 I think it was, but his first term, he wasn't? Scott?" one of the few who usually read the assignments, he had raised his hand.

"The president was shot, and Roosevelt was his vice president."

"Very good, right on. Who was the president?"

He shook his head and looked down, pursed his lips. "I don't remember, a dead Republican." He smiled and so did the teacher.

The teacher looked around at rows of blank faces. It was time for a side trip, one of his favorite activities. He knew he was just amusing himself and that it was its reward, a lollipop from the barber. "OK, four American presidents have been assassinated. Let's name them," he nodded at big Jim Josephs, a pulling guard, thick all the way through, slow as whatever, molasses, but a nice kid, polite, probably will get a scholarship, at least an offer.

The boy sniffed, blinked and said, "Lincoln."

"Good, who else?"

Kevin Miller said, "Kennedy." He smiled, pleased with himself and grinned at the blonde in the next row. She sighed and turned away. Damn it was hard to be young and horny. Not a chance, thought the teacher, blind ambition; who was that, oh yes, John Dean with the Castro convertible wife.

"Right, he was the second youngest man to become president, TR was a year or so younger I think, youngest elected, that's Kennedy. Who else?" Good lord, John Dean, the teacher decided that his mind is full of slush. Who was the guy with the recording system, Butterfield, something like that. And she was a sleek blonde, Maureen?

Silence.

"OK, we have an assignment then, and you may use not only your book and encyclopedias but whatever you might have at home. Give me a list of presidents who were shot at, notice please, shot at, and those who were killed. By the way, Theodore Roosevelt was one of them who was shot at, thick speech saved him I think, and we'll get back to him. This is a side-track; we've done that before. Due tomorrow. Get to work." He conjured up a smile, suppressing anguished memories and scuttling Watergate for now.

Miller asked, "How many were there, presidents shot at?"

He tried to count, the four plus both Roosevelts, Ford and one other, hm, Jackson. "Eight or nine I think, but I'm not sure. You can tell me tomorrow. Get to work, a paragraph or a list will do, just where, when and by whom."

He sat and they opened their books to the index. At least they knew where to look.

Morris looked up and said, "Seven were shot at, I think There's a list in the back."

"Is FDR, Franklin Roosevelt on that list? Is Jackson?"

He shook his head.

"Read it off."

"Good, now we know, but add Franklin Roosevelt. He was shot at down in Florida, but the guy missed and killed another man, a mayor I think."

He smiled, watching them scribble. Half might do it, most won't care but might do some of it, made teaching difficult, half-done or un-done work. Here in body but not in spirit, burning days to get to college.