Learning Curve

Imagining middle-aged Patsy Velasco viewing any of Joe’s less public places was doing something nasty to the butterscotch in Emily’s stomach. “Go back to the part about Ginny Krubek.”

“Oh, yes. Well,” Kay said, crossing her arms on the table, “like I said, rumors were flying fast and thick that there was something going on between Wiz and Ginny, too. Ginny was sure talking it up around town, at any rate.”

“Wasn’t there a Krubek in Jack’s class?”

“Yes, Steve Krubek. And the principal back then, Mr. Rockman, was fit to be tied. He threatened to withdraw Wiz’s contract. After all, Ginny’s husband was a school board member back then. I’m sure the poor man was putting a lot of pressure on Mr. Rockman, behind the scenes.”

“I knew there was something weird going on.” Emily drummed her fingers on the table. “I figured there had to be more than one reason Dad was always getting so upset about that new teacher.”

“Your father liked Wiz just fine, in spite of all their political disagreements. I think those two rather enjoyed arguing with each other. Dad used to say Wiz was one of the few intelligent life forms this side of Seattle. He did think Wiz could have been a little more discreet, though. Or at least discouraged Ginny’s attentions. I always thought she was inventing most of what she was spreading around. Maybe even all of it. Who knows for sure?”

Emily finished off the broken cookie. “Why would Wiz put up with Ginny’s big mouth? Or Patsy’s, for that matter?”

“I got the impression that Joseph P. Wisniewski wasn’t the kind of man who would give a hoot what other people said about him. Or thought about him, at any rate. That’s one of the things the women found so exciting.” Kay shook her head and laughed. “Lord, we were all so jealous of Ginny and Patsy back in those days.”

“Even you, Mom?”

Kay straightened in her chair and brushed at the front of her dress. “You forget I’m married to a hunk of my own. I have neither the time nor the inclination to notice anything about another man. Even if he does look like a gypsy with the very devil in his eyes.”

Emily grinned. “That’s still a pretty good description.”

“Oh, I imagine he’s even more attractive now. Men get that chiseled look to their faces when they get a little older. Unless they go doughy. I can’t imagine Wiz ever getting doughy, though. He was already a little chiseled to begin with, and besides, he had plenty of room for some more meat on those bones.” Kay twitched a wrinkle out of the tablecloth. “Is he going gray? Losing his hair?”

“I don’t think gray hair or male pattern baldness are in the picture yet.”

“Oh, that’s right.” Kay shook her head and settled back. “He’s only about ten years older than you, if that. He always did seem so much older, even back then. Some people do, you know.”

Emily thought for a moment about all she’d heard of Joe’s unconventional lifestyle and his reckless choices in women. Living like that would probably age anyone—and not the way a fine wine aged. “Well, he’s had an interesting life.”

“Yes, he certainly has, hasn’t he? Up to and including the moment he decided to settle down to teach at that tiny school in this speck of a town. Why a man like that would ever choose to live in a place like this has always been a mystery to me.”

Kay nibbled a bit more on her cookie and stared out the window. Emily studied her mother, certain now that Kay had just pulled off another fast one. This afternoon’s meandering conversation had ended up precisely where she’d meant it to end. With a subtle warning to steer clear of any involvement with a man who was completely wrong for her daughter under any circumstances.

Emily had already figured things out for herself: Joseph P. Wisniewski was bad news. As a master teacher…well, she was prepared to give him another chance. Or two. After all, he hadn’t wanted her in his classroom. But as a prospect for a romantic relationship outside the classroom? There was no evidence he was capable of anything resembling romance or a relationship.

Not that she should be entertaining thoughts about a romance or a relationship in the first place. Either one would jeopardize this assignment. And she couldn’t disappoint her family again, not with another failed attempt at a professional career, and not with a questionable choice for her personal life.

She flicked a glance at the pig and tried not to wince. Half past time to drag her mind away from tattoos and tackle tonight’s university assignment.

If there was one thing Kay could field like a major league champ, it was a social cue. She peeked at her watch and gasped. “Look at the time! I’ve truly overstayed my welcome. And I’ll be lucky to make it back to the city before that awful rush hour traffic starts up.” She stood to smack a little air kiss near Emily’s left ear. “You’re such a gracious hostess, dear, putting up with this interminable visit from your mother.”

“I enjoyed every minute.”

“Yes, the gossip was delicious.”

“So were the cookies. Thanks.”

Kay turned at the door. “Don’t be a stranger, Em. Let’s get together again, soon.”

“Okay.” Emily gave her mother a quick squeeze. She was pumped up on butterscotch and gossip now, ready to take on Piaget. She could even face the prospect of a discussion on decorating. “How about a shopping trip the weekend after next?”

“Call me.”

“I will.”

Emily stepped out on the crooked little porch and waved as the silver sedan backed into the county road. “I will,” she promised them both.

JOE HEADED THROUGH the main doors of Caldwell High the following week and made an immediate about-face, hoping to escape Volunteer Friday before anyone noticed. No such luck.

“Hey, Wiz!” Sophomore Lindsay Wellek waved him toward a card table wrapped in gaily painted butcher paper and stacked with pamphlets in more somber, politically correct recyclable shades. “A lot of people have been checking us out. I think the Garden Project is really going to take off this year.”

The Garden Project—the sole survivor of his misbegotten attempts at service learning, and the one extracurricular commitment he’d kept to ward off the possibility of a more strenuous assignment. “That’s good to hear,” he said.

He recognized the light in Lindsay’s eyes, that heady mix of altruism and activism that fired the soul with strength and confidence in cause and self. He’d seen it in the mirror, not that many years ago. But now, surrounded by all this energy, with the scent of pledges and possibilities wafting through the corridor and the bustle at the tables humming like the soundtrack for Norma Rae, he felt as if the last embers of his fire had gone cold a lifetime ago.

When had he become more concerned with logistics and permission slips than with the basic joy of being a part of something good? When had he lost the ability to bask in the contentment of counting for something, of mattering to someone?

At what precise moment had he turned into one more member of the establishment?

Hell, he wasn’t even a good bureaucrat. He’d forgotten about this morning’s activities.

“This looks great,” he said. “Did you paint this sign yourself?”

Lindsay’s blush clashed with her red hair. “Yeah.”

“Hey, Wiz.” Matt stopped at the table, shrugged his backpack higher on his shoulder and reached for one of the pamphlets. He studied the information with great care, ignoring Lindsay’s wistful glances.

Joe rolled his eyes at the teen angst tableau. He wanted to say something, to shove Matt off the curb and into the rush of oncoming female traffic, but he reminded himself that matchmaking was against one of his religions.

Besides, he’d nearly been sideswiped himself recently.

He settled a hand on Lindsay’s shoulder. “You need to get yourself into Mrs. Mazza’s art class next semester. I’m sure she’d appreciate having a student with some natural talent for a change.”

Lindsay’s blush deepened, and he gave her shoulder a tiny squeeze before straightening to level a long stare at Matt.

“What?” Matt asked.

“Get your nose out of that pamphlet and enjoy the scenery.”

He turned and started a zigzag path through the crowd, checking in with the club officers stationed at other tables. And noting Emily’s bold, spiky signature on far too many of the sign-up sheets. She was probably deep in chirp heaven this morning, spreading enthusiasm like pepper spray at an Earth First protest. Spreading way too much of her energy far too thin.

She’d learn her lesson soon enough. Extracurricular activities were education’s answer to Chinese water torture. They wore teachers down, drip by time-consuming drip.

He hoped she wouldn’t cry on his shoulder when the going got tough, or expect him to bail her out when she started to sink. One more reason he didn’t want a student teacher.

There she was now, pausing at the table advertising winter term cheerleading tryouts, scribbling in the bulging organizer that seemed to be a detachable part of her anatomy. There was no way in hell he’d help her with a cheerleading commitment.

“How’s it going, Wiz?”