Even the fellows at school didn’t know. He made sure of that. Some of the boys used to say, “Hey, that Lattimore is some chick, huh? All teachers should have her looks.” Charlie would smirk and tell them they were loony. He cut up in her class, shot paper airplanes across the room, dropped aspirin in inkwells, and whistled La Cucaracha when she read poetry. One day she kept him after class.
“Charlie,” she said, “why can’t we get along?”
He wanted to cry right then and there.
He said, “What difference does it make!”
“It makes a great deal of difference to me,” she answered quietly, “You know, Charlie, I’ve read your compositions carefully. I think we both know you don’t act the way you feel inside. You’re quite a sensitive young man, Charlie. You write beautifully about beautiful things.”
He thought, if she doesn’t stop saying my name that way I will cry; if she doesn’t stop saying things like that I will cry — I just won’t be able to help myself.
He said gruffly, “I’ll be late for Latin.”
“Please think it over,” Miss Jill Lattimore said.
The truth was, she understood him and no one else really did. “You’re quite a sensitive young man, Charlie. You write beautifully about beautiful things.” And what else had she said? That he didn’t act the way he felt inside. He should have said, “Yes, Miss. Lattimore. ‘All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.’ ” He should have said something adult and intellectual — like something Shakespeare had written. She was a bug on Shakespeare and Charlie was too now. He had thumbed through the pocket-book Shakespeare he kept under his pillow until the pages were worn and marked...
This term it will be different, Charlie thought as he strolled along Fort Washington Avenue, past the drug store where the gang crowded in booths, listening to the juke box and drinking cokes. He didn’t want to go in the drug store and hear all that kid talk. He wanted to be by himself and think about how different it would be this term. He was grown up now and he would act grown up. Jill would notice it immediately because he wasn’t going to clown around any more. The very first morning of class he would go to her and say, “You know, Miss Lattimore, I was something of a buffoon last year.” Buffoon was a good word. And then he would quote, “My salad days, when I was green in judgement.” That would do it. Short and to the point, with a peppering of Shakespeare and a sincere smile. He had been practicing sincere smiles all summer.
Charlie thought it was a lucky thing she taught both Junior and Senior English. He might never have seen her again, or heard her voice, or watched the proud way she walked with her head held high, the tilt to her nose giving her face a saucy look. He was a lot taller than she was, and really, when he thought about it, she seemed younger than he. It was a fact she didn’t look 27 — she didn’t look that old at all.
There was a moon up over the Hudson and dots of light on the Jersey side. Charlie walked slowly and he made his hands into fists. He had not seen her for three months. He remembered she had said that she would spend the summer in Colorado with her folks. School began in three days and she should be back. He turned and walked down Cabrini Boulevard. “How like a Winter hath my absence been, From thee.”
He stopped before the building where she lived, and when he looked up, he saw the lights there. She was back! There was a drum in his stomach and he could feel his knees weaken. He did a strange thing. He kept walking toward the rear of the building until he could touch the brick with his hand. He touched it very gently... When he saw the fire escape, he said in a whisper to himself, “Don’t be crazy, Charlie. Hey, don’t be crazy!”
It was easy because he wore sneakers on his feet and he went up the iron steps like a cat. He was afraid too. He had never done anything like this in his life and the moment had no reality for him. The moon was bright and big, and when he looked down he felt dizzy. He kept thinking “Go back” — but he wanted to see her.
He kept going until he came to the fourth level. At the windows of 4B he crouched, lifting his head slowly to stare into the room. She was not there. He saw the bookcases, the wide gray rug, the modern lamps and low tables, and the black vase of flowers. Her room. Her living room. He just kept looking at it, trying to imagine her there.
Then everything happened.
He remembered the sudden flash of light, the sound of a harsh voice ordering him to halt. He remembered running up the steps of the fire escape to the fifth floor and the sixth, his hands shaking, his legs like lead under him. He thought he would fall, he wished he could jump, and after he had gone three flights up, he stopped and held on to the wall of the building.
Two shots rang out in the night and he screamed, terrified. He stood clutching the brick, sobbing, saying “No!” aloud. A dark figure came stealthily toward him, grabbed the back of his sweater, jerked him forward. He felt the rough material of a policeman’s coat. Again, he looked down and the scene made him dizzy. He felt himself buckle and the voice grew faint...
“He’s a good boy, a good boy,” his mother was crying. Charlie sat slumped in the wooden chair at the Police Station, hearing his mother defend him, his father question him. A fat Police Captain in shirtsleeves stood next to Charlie, his face kindly, his eye dark and serious.
“Try to explain, son,” Charlie’s father said, “What made you go up there? Try to explain before Miss Lattimore comes.”
Charlie couldn’t answer. He kept thinking that he was very nearly killed.
“Were there any other boys with you?” the Captain asked. “We got a report saying there was only one.”
“He’s an Eagle Scout,” his mother said to no one in particular. Her eyes were tired and red.
“Don’t you like Miss Lattimore?” His father’s tone was patient, soft. “Chuck, did you really go up there to look in her window?”
The officer interrupted, “That’s where he was, all right — kneeling right outside her window.”
Charlie knew he would cry out again any moment. There was a knot in his throat.
“I fired over his head,” the officer said, “but it was dangerous just the same. He could have got it if he’d kept on running.”
“What about it, Chuck?” his father said. “Try to tell us, son.”
He had almost been shot down, Charlie thought, like a criminal. He was dreaming, he would wake up...
When he heard Miss Lattimore’s voice, his hands went cold. His lips quivered and he could not have spoken if he had wanted to. He sat shaking.
“He’s a good boy,” his mother repeated, and he thought, “Aw mom, dear mom,” and he kept his head lowered to keep them from seeing that his eyes were filled.
“I know he is,” he heard Miss Lattimore say.
“We’re sorry about this,” his father apologized.
Charlie could not look up at her, and he could not stop his shoulders from heaving with the great sobs inside him. He was just a kid after all, he told himself, just a big sissy.
“I should have asked-the janitor,” Miss Lattimore began, “but I never thought he’d be hurt doing me that favor.”
“You mean?” Charlie’s mother cried out.
“My television wires. The nails were loose. It’s attached to the window on the ledge outside and I didn’t think he’d hurt himself. I certainly never thought he’d be reported for being a peeping Tom.”
Then Charlie looked up. He stared at her. She looked little and delicate, standing there in the sky-blue linen dress with the sweater, the same color as her hair, over her shoulders.