Living Witness(50)
“But then you say it’s wrong,” Mrs. Morton said triumphantly. “You say she’s wrong and those other children are right, and how is that supposed to make her feel? You take sides with those other children and then they make fun of her, they make fun of all of us. Then they call her stupid and things happen. I don’t see why you should be surprised. I don’t see why my Elaine should be the only one punished. You should punish those other children for calling her stupid. And you should let other opinions be heard and not, you know, make them seem like they’re wrong, because it’s all a matter of opinion.”
Catherine Marbledale’s head hurt. She didn’t want to call Margaret anymore. She’d only yell at her if she did, and Margaret had done nothing to deserve that. She stood up from behind her desk and tried to make it clear that this interview was over.
“It’s an in-school detention,” she said firmly, “and I really am not preventing Elaine from expressing her opinions, only from physically attacking other students.”
Mrs. Morton had stood up, too. She looked even more mulish. “It’s a matter of opinion,” she said. “You’re not God. You don’t know everything. Everybody has a right to their opinion, and nobody has a right to tell them their opinion is wrong.”
The long-range implications of this sort of policy were staggering. Catherine thought about pointing them out to Mrs. Morton, but she had the horrible realization that even if she tried, it just wouldn’t work. Mrs. Morton wasn’t interested in listening to reason; she wasn’t interested in reason at all. Catherine wondered which of the various conspiracy theories Mrs. Morton adhered to. It would have something to do with UN troops massing in Canada, or liberals plotting to fix the next election, take over the White House, and declare martial law. Catherine was sure of it.
They were both on their feet. It was only a matter of getting the woman out of her office but the exact protocol for this was eluding her. She headed for the door; Mrs. Morton followed her, still talking. She was still talking about how everybody had the right to his opinion, except she wouldn’t say “his,” or even “his or hers,” she would say their, because for the Mrs. Mortons of the world grammar was a matter of opinion, too. Catherine got the office door open and stood next to it, and Mrs. Morton went scurrying out.
“It isn’t fair,” she was saying, “it’s all a matter of opinion.”
When the door was shut and Catherine was alone again, she suddenly realized she couldn’t stay that way. She couldn’t just sit here and stare at the four walls of her office. She couldn’t eat the salad and the thermos of soup she’d brought with her from home this morning. Sometimes she thought she was going to go crazy.
Her coat was hanging on a coat tree in a corner near the door. She’d bought it the last time she and Margaret had spent a long weekend in Philadelphia. It was a good coat, with some percentage of cashmere—a city coat—not a parka or snow jacket, which was what most people wore in Snow Hill. Catherine got it down and put it on. Then she went into the outer office. Everything was quiet in the outer office. The girls were typing at their stations. No students were at the counter, looking for help or excuses. Mrs. Morton was gone.
“I’m going to run home,” Catherine said. “I think I can be away for an hour without everything getting completely messed up, but if there’s an emergency I’ll have my cell phone on.”
“Go eat something decent,” one of the women said. “I saw that salad. It looks dead.”
It probably did look dead, Catherine thought. She didn’t notice what she ate, at least during the school terms. When she and Margaret traveled, they went to good restaurants, and she noticed then. Now she just nodded at the women and went on through to the big front foyer of the school. She’d have to be fast, because she had a meeting with the rep from the teachers’ union at one thirty. For God’s sake, the teachers’ union . She wasn’t supposed to be negotiating with the teachers’ union . She wasn’t supposed to be talking to the contractors for the new school. She wasn’t supposed to be having meetings with the suppliers’ salespeople, either. Nothing was getting done. Not a thing. That’s what happened when you got somebody on the board like Franklin Hale, who didn’t care that the board’s major purpose wasn’t to set school curricular policy but to run the goddamn district.
I must not swear, Catherine told herself as she reached her car. She didn’t actually approve of swearing, because it was the kind of thing you did if your vocabulary was inadequate to the situation—and Catherine’s vocabulary was usually adequate to any situation. Her car was a shiny silver Prius she had waited six months to get her hands on. She unlocked it and got in behind the wheel. She shut the door against the cold and started up.