| Lunch recess is over, and the students have filed back into
their seats. Harland Navis stands before them, legs apart in a wide stance,
and fixes them into their places with a stare. He wears a pale blue
suit tailored well over his generous proportions. "The Fat Bald Eagle"
is what Peter Muller, two rows over, calls him -- never in his presence
of course. Mr. Navis is the principal of Shannon Heights Christian
School, and guardian of the spiritual and mental growth of the 7th grade.
He has a paddle in his office, a piece of driftwood with a smooth side
and a rough side, which is the stuff of legends.
His face is made of wet plasticine, simultaneously hard and lumpy, with a high polish glistening off his shiny forehead and hook nose. His teeth are small, white and even. It's his eyes, though, that you notice first. They're a cold and brilliant blue, and burning with some secret fire. I understand that last year, after lunch, Mr. Pilon would read to the class from a book for half an hour. I can't say I approved of his selections. His voice has a nasal twang that speaks of the south. He lifts up a small booklet off his desk and presents it to the class. In this class I will using something more uplifting, a book of devotionals called `Daily Gems' He reads from the lesson of the day, then discusses at length the importance of accepting Jesus Christ as your personal Lord and Saviour. The students learn that their place in heaven is far from certain without this crucial step. He has them close their eyes and put their heads on their desks. The room is deathly quiet. He sings a hymn in a rich baritone voice: Into my heart, into my heart, into my heart Lord Jesus. Come in today, come in to stay, come into my heart Lord Jesus Then he invites those in the class who sincerely want to forsake Satan and follow the path of righteousness to join him in singing the refrain again. 30 preadolescents squirm in their seats and keep their eyes tightly shut, trying to avoid attention. The hymn is repeated, a solo once again. The students hold their breath. When they raise their heads and open their eyes, he is looking at them sorrowfully. I'd just like to say that I'm disappointed with each and every one of you. |
| I don't know what substance I ingested at that party, but I
arrived home afterwards to find Mr. Navis sprawled on my bedroom floor,
leaning against the side of my dresser. It's a small piece of furniture,
about a foot and a half square, and a little taller than it is wide, painted
flat black with two drawers on one side. It looked tiny and frail
next to the
untidy bulk of the man leaning against it. He looked terrible, unshaven and smelling of bourbon and dried sweat, with his combover hanging askew. A vast stretch of belly poked out from under the tails of his shirt, and his pale blue suit was stained with a yellow crust of vomit. His right arm was pushed against the items on the dusty dresser top: a black lamp with a thin neck and hemispherical top, an artificial woodgrain clock radio, the dregs of a candle with used matches entombed in milky wax, and two small stuffed animals, a bear and a pink flamingo. Without warning his eyes snapped open, watery blue and indistinct. He managed to flip on the lamp and direct the halogen bulb unsteadily in the direction of my face. What's the square root of 36? he asked blearily in his southern twang. I just stared stupidly. ``You died years ago Mr. Navis. What are you doing on my bedroom floor?'' His head lolled back on its thick neck and he mumbled something incoherent. The lamp fell to the carpet and lay crazily, its light now picking up the sheen of sweat on his wet plasticine forehead and casting a giant's shadow in sharp relief against the white plaster walls. He squinted, pushed at the lamp irritably until it faced the floor, then groped to turn the clock radio where he could read the red LED display. In the process he turned it on, and Whitney Houston warbled out, singing something about The Greatest Love. He opened his mouth, letting loose a bubble of saliva and started mumbling again, something that ended with the words ``secular humanism.'' He flung the radio angrily to the side. It lay upside down, and continued to play cheerily in the background. His eyes went glassy for a second, and then focused on the remainder of my dresser top still-life. The bear and the flamingo lolled against each other and the base of the candle, goofy grins sewed onto their cloth faces, as if they too had been caught up in the night of revelry. His hand shot forward and grabbed the bear, clutching its smiling head in the thick fingers of one hand, while the other hand slowly twisted its soft pale brown body. The pink flamingo lay on its side, looking on in blissful merriment. Mr. Navis leaned back against the corner with his victim, panting heavily, and suddenly his eyes were lucid. He opened his mouth, exposing small white teeth, and his voice was harsh and clear. God damn it all he said in his loud southern twang. God
damn the whole motherfucking thing and then he yanked his hands apart.
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