The Amazing Mr. Morality features tenacious men and women whose determination to buck middle-class social convention draws them toward unforeseen challenges. A failed television producer insists upon having a woodchuck relocated from his lawn, only to receive desperate letters in which the woodchuck begs to return. An overconfident ne’er-do-well obtains a lucrative lecture invitation intended for a renowned ornithologist and decides to deliver the speech himself. An innocuous dispute over whether to rename a local street opens up racial fault lines that prove deadly.
The collection concludes with the title novella in which two unscrupulous ethicists, writing rival newspaper columns, seek to unseat each other by addressing questions such as: If you’re going to commit a murder, is it worse to kill when the victim is sleeping or awake?
The Amazing Mr. Morality features tenacious men and women whose determination to buck middle-class social convention draws them toward unforeseen challenges. A failed television producer insists upon having a woodchuck relocated from his lawn, only to receive desperate letters in which the woodchuck begs to return. An overconfident ne’er-do-well obtains a lucrative lecture invitation intended for a renowned ornithologist and decides to deliver the speech himself. An innocuous dispute over whether to rename a local street opens up racial fault lines that prove deadly.
The collection concludes with the title novella in which two unscrupulous ethicists, writing rival newspaper columns, seek to unseat each other by addressing questions such as: If you’re going to commit a murder, is it worse to kill when the victim is sleeping or awake?
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Overview
The Amazing Mr. Morality features tenacious men and women whose determination to buck middle-class social convention draws them toward unforeseen challenges. A failed television producer insists upon having a woodchuck relocated from his lawn, only to receive desperate letters in which the woodchuck begs to return. An overconfident ne’er-do-well obtains a lucrative lecture invitation intended for a renowned ornithologist and decides to deliver the speech himself. An innocuous dispute over whether to rename a local street opens up racial fault lines that prove deadly.
The collection concludes with the title novella in which two unscrupulous ethicists, writing rival newspaper columns, seek to unseat each other by addressing questions such as: If you’re going to commit a murder, is it worse to kill when the victim is sleeping or awake?
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781946684059 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | West Virginia University Press |
| Publication date: | 02/01/2018 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 180 |
| File size: | 5 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
The Children's Lottery
* * *
Some of the senior teachers gathered at Finley's Pub each year to watch a live broadcast of the children's lottery, but Oriana Hapley preferred to check the results in the newspaper the next day. She'd been teaching at Foxglove for six years, after all, and not once had their school — or any other school across the city of Creve Coeur — been among the fifty-eight public elementary schools randomly selected during the statewide sweepstakes. According to her husband, Kurt, Oriana's students had a better chance of being snatched off the street by wolves or falling into sinkholes during recess. So Oriana was unprepared to see Foxglove listed on the front page of the Sentinel and genuinely shocked, forty minutes later, to discover a crimson envelope affixed to her office door — notice that, in three days' time, a registered pedophile would be visiting her classroom.
Oriana refused to let her surprise distract her from her lesson plan. She was a professional, wasn't she? And today, being a professional meant diagramming sentences and reviewing long division exercises to prepare her third graders for their upcoming placement tests. Anyway, it wasn't as though she'd been the first teacher on the planet to receive a crimson envelope. Yet watching pigtailed Lucy Barber separate her adjectives from her adverbs, and listening as bucktoothed Walt Geiss showed Peter Pozner how to carry over remainders, Oriana couldn't resist imagining what the classroom would feel like when one of the tiny chairs stood empty, after her brood of thirty had been systematically reduced to twenty-nine.
"You look sad, Mrs. Hapley," said Walt. "Are you okay?"
"It's just the weather, Walt. I always feel sad in May." She watered the African violets on the window ledge while she spoke. "It's almost summer already, and I'm going to miss you all."
"Please don't feel sad, Mrs. Hapley." Walt had taken to bringing her flowers each morning, plucked from beds on the walk to his bus stop. "We'll come back to visit next year. Promise. And someday, I'm going to become a teacher too, and we can have classrooms side by side."
"Wouldn't that be wonderful?" agreed Oriana.
They did not inform the students in advance, obviously. Even the parents did not know which specific classroom had been chosen. Long ago, apparently, the families had been afforded an opportunity to say goodbye — but this approach placed too much strain on the children who were passed over, and was ultimately abandoned. Far better, everyone agreed, to avoid unnecessary sniveling.
* * *
Oriana's colleagues largely kept their distance. Women who'd chatted with her countless mornings in the faculty lounge now struggled to make small talk — as though uncertain whether to mention the sweepstakes. Only a few of the old-timers dared broach the subject directly. Arnold Cobb, the grizzled assistant principal, poked his head into her classroom during a prep period and said, "They all have to grow up sometime. When you think about things rationally, it shouldn't matter whether it's now or in five years. ..." Of course not, she agreed — although she didn't. "Besides," added Cobb, "the winners manage to readjust. In the end, their lives turn out fine." I know, replied Oriana, trying to sound appreciative. That is what they say. ...
Later, during lunch duty, Wilma Lindstrom confided to Oriana, "I've lost three over the years — two back-to-back — and the truth is that it never gets easier." A shudder of grief ran through the first grade teacher's voice; Oriana suspected Wilma had suffered a loss more personal than a student — maybe a nephew or a brother — but this wasn't the sort of confidence one shared at work. "Years later, one boy sent me a card. He'd moved to Albany and owned a hardware shop. The card was perfectly friendly, cheerful — not a word in it about the lottery — yet it broke my heart." She smiled pointedly at Oriana's swollen abdomen. "Of course, I never had children of my own."
By the end of the day, Oriana longed to feel her husband's embrace — to rest her face against the crook of his shoulder and to sob. Unfortunately, Mondays were Kurt's late night at the hospital, so he didn't arrive home until nearly eight o'clock. "I got your message," he said as he stashed his raincoat in the closet. "I'm sorry I didn't have a chance to call from the clinic."
And then she had her arms wrapped around him. He let her lean against his chest as though his body were a pillar, holding his attaché case in one hand. Then he steered her into the kitchen and set about preparing their dinner.
"You think I'm overreacting, don't you?" demanded Oriana.
"Honestly, yes," he said. "It's only one child. Aren't teachers always complaining about their class sizes?" He measured out pasta into a pot while he spoke. "Look at the upside. You'll have more energy to devote to your other students."
"I keep thinking about the parents. How would you feel if your child was carried off to live in a pedophile camp?"
"I'd be disappointed. Who wouldn't?" conceded Kurt. "Probably upset too. But what's the alternative?"
"I don't know. It just seems so unfair."
"Would you rather lock up the pedophiles? They did that at one time, you know. They used to put them in prisons alongside murderers and thieves."
"I am well aware of that," snapped Oriana. "And before you start lecturing me, I'm also aware of how badly that turned out. I know all the tales of children being lured in box trucks and entombed in culverts."
She had read the sociological studies in graduate school: allowing pedophiles to select a few children for their collective use appeared far safer for everyone concerned. And the evidence proved tangible: she couldn't remember the last time she'd heard about a missing toddler or an unsanctioned kidnapping.
"Better a few children and their families are inconvenienced," said Kurt, "than an entire class of innocent people are locked up. Don't forget, you could have been born a pedophile."
"I guess."
Kurt set the pasta on the stove and returned to the table armed with two glasses of Perrier — he'd given up wine in solidarity with her pregnancy. "A few weeks from now," he reassured her, "you'll hardly remember this." He wrapped his strong arms around her frame and kissed her on the forehead, then on the lips. She pushed him away.
"I'm so sorry," she cried. "I keep thinking about our baby ... about how they could come for him in another few years."
"They could," said Kurt — his voice gentle, yet firm. "But the odds are overwhelmingly against it. Trust me, Oriana. You're doing this for our baby."
* * *
At school the next morning, even the most commonplace interactions seemed whetted with intensity. The Pledge of Allegiance sounded more patriotic. Walt Geiss's peonies cast a richer fragrance than ever before. Replacing the brackish water in the turtle tank recalled the striking diversity of the natural world. By recess, when Paige Marcus scratched her knee playing tag and soon returned from the nurse with a Band-Aid over her wound, Oriana's chest welled with emotion. She tried to picture giving up each of her charges, one by one: coal- eyed Juana Jimenez, so fascinated with palindromes; Naomi Hager, who'd caroled adorably at Christmas; the fraternal twins, Max and Maya Pastarnack, one as frenetic as the other was calm. Sacrificing any of them felt unthinkable — as much as giving up her own child. Even Peter Pozner, dim and tubby and advanced only in his knowledge of profanity, appeared to her a magical creature who might someday transform the world. Maybe her ability to perceive value where others saw only dross was why the children admired her so — why Walt Geiss offered her his neighbors' dahlias and Lucy Barber asked her to deliver a eulogy at the "funeral" for her missing kitten.
Since the children knew nothing of the crimson envelope, they went about the business of being children — yet now, suddenly, every aspect of that business seared Oriana to the bone. Only the previous week, her class had embarked upon a unit exploring the Ancient World. The students worked in teams, creating replicas of the Egyptian pyramids and Herod's Temple and the Colossus of Rhodes from papier-mâché. Wendy Serspinki's father, an architect, had agreed to give a presentation the following week regarding the differences between classical and modern design. Which of her darlings, she wondered, would miss out on the talk? In college, Oriana had read an essay about a condemned prisoner who'd witnessed a spider weave a web inside his cell, and watching her own junior engineers raise the walls of Piraeus and Babylon on their desks, she finally related to his suffering. She fought the urge to hug each of her charges, to swear to protect their fragile bodies against all danger.
Wilma Lindstrom appeared in Oriana's classroom toward the end of the lesson. She'd been teaching at Foxglove for thirty-five years, since the era when pedophiles visited in groups, rather than sending representatives. She'd worked alongside teachers whose careers began in the days before crimson envelopes, men and women who remembered "amber alerts" and the photographs of stolen children affixed to milk cartons. Wilma's late father-in-law, Otto Lindstrom, had been the sole legislator to vote against establishing the original pedophile colonies. If anyone could offer her comfort, Oriana knew, it was this plainspoken widow who dropped her r's like a Bostonian.
"I thought you might want some company," said Wilma.
She settled into the plastic-backed chair beside Oriana's desk. The nearest children looked up briefly before returning to their construction.
"I don't know what I want," admitted Oriana.
She'd learned that as long as she kept her tone chipper, she could say anything while the children labored — and they'd remain oblivious to the content.
"Have any of the parents contacted you?" asked Wilma.
Oriana surveyed the classroom — taking note of how Walt Geiss was helping Peter Pozner and Max Pastarnack with the layout of their coliseum. Walt would make a marvelous teacher someday, she knew, if given the opportunity. "I haven't been checking my messages," she said. "I thought I'd wait until afterwards."
Parents had been advised not to phone, but that never stopped them.
"It's the best way," agreed Wilma. "Afterwards is more tolerable."
The veteran teacher adjusted the rings on her bloated fingers.
"I've been in your shoes before," she said. "You're choosing favorites. You're asking yourself which of them you'll miss least."
Oriana hadn't realized she'd been doing this — not until her colleague gave voice to her own thoughts — but it was true. Instantly, she recognized that she'd been appraising each of her students, weighing their value like so much meat at the butcher shop. Now the notion repulsed her. How could anyone place a value on Ernie Willoughby's lisp or the precious gap between Annie Gartner's front teeth?
"It's all right, dear," said Wilma — as though she could sense Oriana's emotional self-lashing. "Don't be hard on yourself. You're not the first girl to imagine you could bargain with a visitor. But trust me. You can't. He'll choose whomever he decides to choose and that will be that."
Wilma reached across the desk blotter and squeezed Oriana's wrist. "You will get through this, dear," she said. "But try not to think about it too much. Just do your part and move on." Wilma released Oriana's wrist and rose to her feet. "If you start asking difficult questions, you'll only be hurting yourself."
"No difficult questions," pledged Oriana. "Do my part and move on."
And she did her utmost to stick to this commitment. When her sister phoned that evening to wish her luck — her family knew not to ask directly whether she'd received the crimson envelope, but they were as capable as anyone of reading into her silences — Oriana shifted the conversation to routine matters. "Maya Pastarnack is teaching everyone to count to ten in Hungarian," she revealed with pride. "And Walt Geiss wrote this lovely poem about guppies. His gift for language is so sophisticated."
Over dinner, she recited Walt's poem for Kurt.
"It is beautiful," said her husband. "He must have a brilliant teacher."
Oriana laughed nervously. She'd never been comfortable accepting compliments, not even from those closest to her.
"I had nothing to do with it. I don't even teach poetry."
"Modesty, my fine wife," said Kurt, "will get you nowhere."
Her husband reached into the pocket of his slacks and produced a slender turquoise box. An instant later, Oriana found herself confronted with the most gorgeous lady's wristwatch — the prohibitively expensive, platinum and ivory wristwatch that she'd admired months earlier in the display window at Brigander's.
"Read the inscription," urged Kurt.
She'd expected a romantic phrase. The words World's Greatest Teacher hit her hard — more like a warning than a comfort.
* * *
The pedophile arrived at seven-thirty, in an official limousine, just as the first students were clambering down from their busses. Whichever child won the sweepstakes, Oriana understood, would depart with him in the same vehicle. During a previous era, the selection had taken a full week — with the visitors voting on their choice. Even earlier, the winner had been drawn randomly from among the top vote getters, giving the enterprise its name. Over the decades, the process had been streamlined.
"I'm David," said the pedophile, extending his hand. "Glad to meet you."
David appeared no different than numerous other strangers she might encounter in the neighborhood: a broad-shouldered, lantern-jawed fellow in his forties with a shock of chestnut hair and a neatly trimmed chevron mustache. He was handsome, Oriana acknowledged to herself — even sexy — and his voice sounded surprisingly kind. If not for the fact that he lived in a pedophile colony and would soon carry off one of her charges, he seemed the sort of person she'd welcome onto her block.
Oriana shook his hand. She did not wish to seem rude.
David followed her down the corridor into her classroom.
"Pyramids," he declared when he spotted the students' creations. "I was fascinated by the giant pyramids when I was in third grade."
"We're halfway through a module on ancient history," explained Oriana. "They're working in teams."
"I hope I won't be disrupting your lesson too much," said David — and he sounded sincerely apologetic. "I suppose it might be hard on a team to lose a member in the middle of a project."
"We'll do the best we can," replied Oriana. And for no good reason, she added, "You might be surprised at how resilient children can be at this age."
"Children never cease to surprise me," he answered.
David drifted around the classroom, examining the papier-mâché masonry more closely. Soon the children started appearing, fortified with their brown-bag lunches, their galoshes, their backpacks full of whiteout and rubber cement and paperclips. Oriana helped Lucy Barber remove her willowy arms from her windbreaker. Walt Geiss presented her with a bouquet of mangled forsythia.
"Please don't mind me," said David, sliding into an undersized chair beside the flagpole. "I'll sit here and try to be as unobtrusive as possible."
Oriana shut the classroom door, blocking out the exterior world.
"We have a visitor this morning," announced Oriana. "Mr. David."
And her charges rose for the Pledge of Alliance, as they did every morning.
* * *
The pedophile stayed true to his promise and didn't meddle with her teaching. That didn't prevent Oriana from following his eyes with her own — from speculating at the machinations behind his placid smile. Once, when Naomi Hager asked about the difference between silver and mica, he flashed a full-fledged grin, and the notion seized Oriana that she might kill him before he rendered his choice. That made absolutely no sense, of course. Not rationally. She'd go to prison, while her innocent charges would face another lottery, and a blameless man — a man whose only "crime" in life was to have been born a pedophile — would die for nothing. "Mica and silver can look the same," she explained to Naomi, "but silver is much more valuable."
At recess, the other teachers gave Oriana a wide berth. Even Wilma Lindstrom stayed clear of her, offering only an encouraging nod from a distance. Overhead, a clear white sun had burnt off the early morning haze. Catbirds and warblers sang to each other through the undergrowth. Deep inside her own body, Oriana felt the baby shifting his legs, testing the confines of his shell. Once, he delivered a solid blow, pounding her womb for his freedom. She had little choice but to talk with the pedophile, who'd accompanied her to the cusp of the playground.
"That boy with the buck teeth," said David. "What's his name?"
Her gaze trailed his across the sandpit. Walt Geiss and Luke Sestito drew diagrams in the wet earth with sticks; Peter Pozner looked on from the knee-high parapet.
"I thought they gave you a roster with photos," said Oriana.
"If only," answered the pedophile. "This is the State Board of Education we're dealing with here. It's a miracle they sent the limo on the right day."
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "The Amazing Mr. Morality"
by .
Copyright © 2018 Jacob M. Appel.
Excerpted by permission of West Virginia University Press.
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