In the Name of God. Stephen J. Gordon

leaned over the shelf to fill it in. I noticed she wrote with her left hand — always a good sign in my book — and I also noticed she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. The fact there was no tan line where a ring would have been hadn’t escaped me either.

      As she continued to write, I tried to watch her without staring. As she leaned over, her hair had fallen slightly away from the back of her neck to reveal a thin gold necklace. It went perfectly with her tanned skin and the color of her dress. So no one would think I might be leering, I stepped back and turned to peruse the walls. There were class photos, a bright yellow flyer announcing the arrival of the yearbooks, a calendar, and two State commendations. After another moment, I looked down at my tie — for some reason I suddenly hoped it was one of my more stylish ones — only to see that it had flipped around so that seam and label were now forward. I ever-so-nonchalantly flipped it back. I looked up to see Miss Harris watching me. She was smiling at my deft maneuver.

      “It’s my natural energy,” I said. “It just spirals right off me. All my ties flip.”

      “Uh huh,” she smiled back.

      “Really.” I smiled back. After a moment I pointed to the slip of paper in her hand. “What do you want me to do?”

      “Just give this to David,” she named the student on the note. “It’s a pass to let him come to my office.”

      I took the note which had the words “The Harris Get Out of Class Pass” printed across the top.

      “Cute.”

      She smiled, not as impressed as I would have liked. “He’s not due to see me until 9:00, so that should give him more than enough time to copy down his homework.”

      “No problem.” I put the paper in my shirt pocket. “So, what does a director of Student Services do?”

      “Oh, I teach, I coordinate the efforts of tutors, our school psychologist, other teachers and administration. Basically, I’m the official advocate for the students.”

      I was thinking about asking her where her office was — in case I needed help — when the headmaster’s door opened. Out came an attractive middle-aged woman with short tapered dark hair that made her look both attractive and business-like. I recognized her as Diane, the Middle School secretary. As she emerged from the headmaster’s office, she was talking over her shoulder: “I’ll call her office and see if she can come in.” Diane sat down at her desk and picked up the phone. Before she began dialing, she looked up at me: “Mr. Aronson, hi. How are you?”

      “Pretty well, thanks.”

      “Give me a second and I’ll be right with you.” She began dialing.

      “Gidon, it’s nice to see you.” I looked up to see the headmaster coming out of his office. He was a tall man in his mid fifties, a little husky as if he could’ve been a football player in earlier years, balding and clean shaven. The knot on his Jerry Garcia tie hung an inch or two below an unbuttoned collar. He exuded warmth.

      “Thank you, Dr. Saltzman,” I said, shaking his hand.

      “So I hear you had a little excitement last night.”

      Oh God. What did he know and how?

      The headmaster turned to the two ladies in the room. “Do you know that Mr. Aronson stopped an assassination at the Beit Shalom banquet last night?”

      The women looked at me. I just looked back at headmaster.

      “It’s a small community, Gidon,” he laughed. “I have several friends who saw you.”

      I just shrugged. “I’m just glad Mr. Lev is okay.”

      “What did you do?” the secretary asked.

      Dr. Saltzman didn’t give me a chance to respond. He put his hand on my shoulder. “He flipped a waiter who was about to shoot Eitan Lev.”

      “I didn’t flip him,” I said, shifting my weight, unconsciously. “I just tripped him before he could do any damage.” I felt the three pair of eyes on me, waiting for more explanation. I shifted my weight again. “Really, it wasn’t a big deal.”

      I needed to leave. I didn’t want to talk about this.

      Katie Harris stepped closer. “Excuse me, but you’re subbing for Carol, right, in about fifteen minutes? Do you know where her lesson plans are?”

      Was I that obvious in my discomfort, or was she extremely intuitive? It didn’t matter. I took her lead. “She said they’d be in her mailbox.”

      Ms. Harris stepped over to the grid of mailboxes, located one along the top row, and pulled some papers from it. “7th Grade American History. Here they are, with your name on them.”

      “Thanks.” I took them from her. “If you will excuse me, I need to look at these and set up before class starts.” I turned to the Headmaster and his secretary. “It was good seeing you.”

      As I headed down the hallway, I could feel my shoulders slowly relax. When I paused to get my bearings, I heard footsteps behind me. I smiled as Katie Harris approached. “Bless you, bless you, bless you for getting me out of there,” I said.

      “You’re welcome, you’re welcome, you’re welcome.” There was that luminous smile again. We walked together. A moment went by then she said, “You’ve taught this class before, haven’t you?”

      “A few times.”

      “They’re good kids.”

      “All nice and rested and full of energy, right?”

      “Yup,” she smiled again. “Just for you.”

      We rounded a corner and headed down another corridor. This one was carpeted and had bulletin boards to either side. Room 235, Mrs. Cayhan’s room, was the second classroom on the right. We stopped in front of it.

      “You know, your reputation precedes you.”

      “My reputation?” I wasn’t sure what she meant. I broke a guy’s wrist last night and threw him to the ground. Did she mean that?

      “As a teacher. I’ve heard the kids love it when you substitute.”

      I laughed. “Is that a good thing? Maybe it’s because their regular teacher isn’t here.”

      “No, they enjoy your class. Really.”

      “I’m glad.” I let a moment go by. “Have you been the special services person here a long time?”

      “I started this past September.”

      “And you like it here?”

      “Very much. I love the kids.”

      As we talked, I noticed that she hadn’t asked about last night. I wasn’t sure what that meant. Maybe she just didn’t want to pry. That was refreshing and appreciated. I was sorry I hadn’t run into her before.

      “Well,” she said after a moment, “if you ever need help with any of the kids, or ideas for getting across a lesson, let me know.”

      “I will. Thanks, again, for the save,” I said.

      “My pleasure.”

      With that, Ms. Harris headed down the corridor and I opened the door to my home for the next forty-five minutes. I looked around. The room was the traditional rectangle, with the teacher’s desk in front, facing rows of students’ desks. On the far side of the teacher’s desk — opposite me as I walked into the room — was a wall of windows, some covered by Venetian blinds. Behind the teacher’s desk and facing the room was a whiteboard, with a matching one on the back wall of the room. This rear whiteboard was flanked by two bulletin boards. The one to the left had a display on the Presidents of the United States, while the other highlighted different geographic terms such as peninsula, isthmus, and basin — with matching illustrations. I took this all in and also noticed that the air conditioner