Story of Lola Gregg Read online

  “Always a French doughnut?”

  He spoke from the bathroom, and while he was speaking, Lola began to doze again. “Why change? I like things the way they are. I like my breakfast the way it is. I like you the way you are. Just the way you are, baby. Grow no older and no different, and tonight I’ll bring you home a gallon of beer and we’ll have a party. I know what Doc Fremont’s daughter is thinking—she’s thinking that she’s married a lout who don’t know better than to ride up to the stars with a gallon of beer. But I come down easy, easy come and easy go. Should I buy the kid that two-wheel bike he wants? I can buy it on time. Your eminent friend, Professor Sam Feldberger, he holds that a smart man buys on time and rides around in a Buick, even if he can’t pay his rent. But do you want the kid riding around the streets on a two-wheel bike? I don’t mean in the park. You won’t be able to keep him in the park, once he gets his hands on a two-wheeler. That’s a question for you to decide, Lola——”

  He came out, through with shaving, through with dressing, and looked down at her. She was asleep again, or half asleep, smiling comfortably to herself, her small, child-like face content with herself and hers; but she felt his kiss, as it brushed her cheek, light as a feather.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE TEACHER

  ON their way to school, Roger said to Lola and Patty, “What I want to be is a G man, bang, and a smuggler’s dead. They hide diamonds in their teeth and take dope. Law and order, always on the side of law and order, and crime don’t pay——”

  “Doesn’t,” Lola said, hearing only that word. The rest of it was the buzzing, humming echo of a record that was repeated everywhere, in the papers, on the television, on the radio, and as a noise from the street where the children played.

  “Doesn’t. I didn’t mean don’t anyway. You know about a six-shooter, the long ones, they call them the frontier model colt, and that’s law and order in the lawless West, only before the Lone Ranger comes, and a six-shooter is something you can shoot like a machine gun only you never miss unless you pull the trigger.”

  “How can you shoot it if you don’t pull the trigger?” Patty asked him.

  “You got no sense. You don’t pull the trigger, you file it off, and then you fan it, zing, you don’t hear the shots, it sounds like a machine gun. I like machine guns, I’m going to be a marine.”

  “You’re going to be late if you don’t walk,” Lola said. Her mind was full of why Roger’s teacher wanted to see her, and there was no reason for her to be apprehensive; but she lived through so much of her own o childhood with the children. Her own mother would have been equally apprehensive, but then a generation ago a teacher wanted to see a parent only because the child was bad. Roger wasn’t bad. “He’s gentle as a lamb,” she told herself. “All this insane madness goes in and out of him. He’s gentle as a lamb.”

  Things had changed, Lola told herself, and these days a teacher could be alert and intelligent about problems children had. She wasn’t completely sure that Miss Cullen was intelligent, having spoken to her only once and having found no sure impression of anything particular in Miss Cullen; but perhaps that was because Miss Cullen was a tired and plain woman in her middle thirties. Even the note which Roger had brought home the day before said nothing very specific, only that there were problems he had that ought to be discussed. When she showed the note to Gregg, he had shrugged his shoulders and said:

  “Who hasn’t got problems? Why don’t you go to see her?”

  “Of course I’m going,” Lola answered.

  When they reached the school, Roger was pleased and excited that Lola and Patty were going inside with him. He wanted to know whether Patty was going to school. His opinion was that she was too small and would only get into trouble, and Lola agreed with him. “No, I have to see Miss Cullen,” Lola explained.

  “About what?”

  “Some things we have to talk about.”

  Roger was no more curious than that, but in the classroom, Miss Cullen expressed her disappointment that Lola had brought Patty with her. She had a student teacher observing this week and so she could spare a half hour to talk to Mrs. Gregg, but what was she to do with Patty?

  “I had no one to leave her with,” Lola said. “She won’t be any trouble. She’ll just sit quietly and listen until I return.”

  And Miss Cullen couldn’t help saying, “What a strange child!” the way Patty stood so wide-eyed and entranced and smiling and silent. “She won’t be any trouble, you see,” Lola repeated, and Miss Cullen said helplessly, “But where will she sit?” Every seat was taken and four straight-backed chairs placed at the side of the room were also full. “Thirty-six children,” Miss Cullen sighed. “Where will she sit?” and then seemed shocked when Lola said that Patty would be happy to just stand there, and that if she got tired, she could just as well sit on the floor with her back against the wall. Lola would not suggest that she sit with Roger, and hoped that Miss Cullen would not suggest it. Knowing Roger, she knew that it would be an ignominious thing for him to have to sit next to a girl.

  “It’s very irregular,” Miss Cullen said uneasily, “but I guess it will be all right for a little while. We can talk in the waiting-room outside of Mr. Hammond’s office. He’s the principal, you know—a wonderful man. The waiting-room is very nice. Do you know him?”

  Lola said that she did not, told Patty to be very quiet and very good and that she would be back in a little while, and then followed Miss Cullen out of the room. Roger grinned at her and winked as she left, and suddenly all her apprehensiveness went away and her whole heart went out to her son. “I’m very happy,” she thought, and thereby puzzled Miss Cullen with her placid, unworried face. Miss Cullen had difficulties understanding people in general, but at least when they fell into categories that were familiar, she could convince herself that she understood them. Since Lola did not fall into any of those categories, Miss Cullen defined her as she had defined Patty. Lola was one of those strange persons who avoid the expected and become exasperating without providing a source for the annoyance.

  They went into Mr. Hammond’s waiting-room, which had a leather couch, two leather chairs, some side chairs, and on the walls pictures of George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, Harry Truman and Socrates; and Lola couldn’t help wondering how Socrates had found his way there and what strange area of daring in Mr. Hammond’s character that represented. Mr. Hammond’s secretary came out to meet them, but Miss Cullen explained that she had arranged with Mr. Hammond for the use of the waiting-room. Then she had to explain once again to Lola that while Mr. Hammond was the soul of generosity, he did insist upon certain formalities. “A principal has a tremendous responsibility,” she sighed. “You can’t imagine how much responsibility”

  Lola nodded and seated herself opposite Miss Cullen, not entirely able to shake off the feeling that Miss Cullen was her teacher: Could she have been like Patty, Lola wondered—a very quiet and inoffensive little girl, and always very respectful of her teachers? Lola remembered sitting at home once and listening to her mother tell a neighbour, “Miss Herring told me that there are so few girls like Lola—Lola listens. Miss Herring told me that if half the class were like Lola, teaching would not be a profession but a pleasure.” It was Miss Herring’s name that made Lola remember. Lola smiled at the memory.

  “I don’t think it’s anything to smile about,” Miss Cullen remarked.

  “I’m sorry,” Lola apologized. “I’m afraid I wasn’t listening. I’m terribly sorry. But, you know, it almost seemed as if I were a schoolgirl again myself. Won’t you forgive me, Miss Cullen?”

  “I was saying that Roger makes things very difficult and presents certain problems to us. We like to talk over the problems with the parents, rather than to proceed arbitrarily by ourselves. That is why I asked you to come and see me.”

  “I don’t understand that at all,” Lola said. “Roger’s a good boy, isn’t he? He doesn’t misbehave, does he?”

  “No, his behaviour is satisfa
ctory.”

  “And he’s not stupid, is he? Mr. Gregg and I have always been very proud of the way he thinks—of course it’s impossible for children not to have some wild ideas these days, you know with television and movies and just what they pick up on the street, but I don’t think Roger is any worse than the average, do you?”

  “I wasn’t referring to that, Mrs. Gregg. Roger is a bright boy, but he does do things that are most strange. He contradicts me.”

  “Good heavens,” Lola said with as much restraint as she could manage, “it is only the first grade. I don’t think it’s a good thing for children to contradict a teacher, but surely that isn’t so serious?”

  “I think it is,” Miss Cullen said coolly. “Last week we had a question from one of the children about communists. I try to answer all questions simply and directly, unless they are questions that should not be answered. I told them that communists were subversive people and traitors to the United States of America—people who were against our American way of life. Roger, in front of the whole class, said I was lying and that communists were good people.”

  “I know—he told me,” Lola answered slowly. “I’m very sorry that had to happen, Miss Cullen, but I’m afraid I must tell you that I think you had no right to say what you did. Not to very little children, children who cannot possibly understand such things but must take the word of some adult.”

  Miss Cullen stared at Lola and breathed deeply, as if she could not fill her lungs with enough air to sustain her. “Do you mean,” she said slowly, “that I am not capable of doing my job here?”

  “Of course I don’t mean that. I only think you were in error to allow the question to be answered—in any way.”

  “And you don’t think your son is in error?”

  “He was in error. He should not have contradicted you before the entire class. But Roger is only seven years old, Miss Cullen. What can you expect from a little boy? He evidently was very upset by what you said, and he blurted out what he felt.”

  “And called me a liar. Miss Gregg—in front of the whole class.”

  “I’m terribly sorry about that, but I still feel that the whole incident was unfortunate and that the best thing to do is to forget about it.”

  “And the other incidents—did he tell you about them?”

  “He tells me everything that happens in school, Miss Cullen—everything that disturbs him. It’s very difficult, for me as well as you.”

  “Difficult? Indeed. But I do think, Mrs. Gregg, that I have an apology coming to me.”

  “From me? I told you how sorry I am.”

  “From Roger, Mrs. Gregg.”

  “Oh, no,” Lola said, “really, Miss Cullen. We’re dealing with a little boy. I can ask him to apologize to you and to say he’s sorry, and he’ll do it because I ask him to. But it seems so pointless.”

  “I don’t mean that kind of an apology,” Miss Cullen said stiffly. “I mean some sense of what is right and what is wrong.”

  “But, Miss Cullen, a little boy can’t be expected to decide what is right and what is wrong in such cases.”

  “He can if he’s taught properly, at home as well as in school.”

  “What do you mean?” Lola whispered.

  “I mean that the child parrots what he hears, and I think this is very serious indeed, Mrs. Gregg, far more serious than you make it out to be.” Miss Cullen was angry, but unsure of herself. She did not like quarrels with parents. They were just barely a part of the official area of people—so many people—whom she feared. Two bright spots had appeared on her pale cheeks, but her voice trembled, and she licked her lips. She stared at Lola with great intensity and there was also a note of pleading in her tone.

  Lola felt anger growing inside of her, slowly, slowly enough to grasp and hold back, but her own voice came surprisingly and unfamiliar. “How dare you,” she said. “You are a school teacher, Miss Cullen, and your wages come from taxes which I pay as well as others. Your job is to teach children, not to sit in judgment over our home and what we believe—not to teach children politics, parties, creeds, but to teach them to read and write and to understand something of the world about them.”

  “I won’t be drawn into such a thing,” Miss Cullen said quickly. “I won’t, Mrs. Gregg. I won’t be talked to like that. I think this is for Mr. Hammond. Really for Mr. Hammond. Now please wait here, Mrs. Gregg.” And with that she bounced up and practically fled into Mr. Hammond’s office.

  Lola sat there, asking herself, “Well, what do I do now? Or rather what does Roger do?” She waited for about three minutes, and then decided that she would get Patty and go home. Roger would be all right—for today anyhow; that was an advantage of being seven years old; and Lola had already gotten up when Mr. Hammond entered, with Cullen behind him, peering around him. Lola was not terribly disturbed and not at all frightened, but there was a sense of unreality about everything that had happened since she came to school this morning.

  Mr. Hammond smiled at her, and said, “Good morning, Mrs. Gregg,” in a hearty, high-pitched voice. “I am always gratified to meet parents. It keeps one in touch. It keeps one in touch.” He was a short, dumpy man, his vest tight as a drumskin over a round, protruding belly, pincenez on his nose, with long, thin side-hair combed up and over his bald skull. He pursed his moist, small lips and said, “These little misunderstandings—so many of them every day in a complex institution like a large city school. Miss Cullen told me about this. I think her intentions were of the purest, but school goes so far, only so far, Miss Cullen.”

  “Yes, Mr. Hammond,” Miss Cullen said.

  “Of course, we might desire a certain kind of home training to supplement what we do in the school hours, but we have no right to demand. I hope this settles the matter, Mrs. Gregg, and with no hard feelings. None at all, I hope.”

  “No hard feelings,” Lola sighed. “My child has to go to school, and I trust he will not be made to suffer for whatever his parents may choose to believe.”

  “Of course, of course—this is a free country, Mrs. Gregg. One believes what one desires to believe. You were mistaken to take the attitude you did, Miss Cullen—well intentioned, but mistaken.”

  “Yes, Mr. Hammond,” Miss Cullen said.

  “On the other hand, Mrs. Gregg,” Mr. Hammond went on smoothly, but with a new and interesting note of ice in his voice, “you must not think me a complete fool. While I am principal of this school, no child will be made to suffer for what his parents choose to believe. But when those beliefs, subversive, dangerous beliefs, beliefs which threaten the very foundations of this nation are brought into school and used to infect other students, then I will commend my teachers for fighting them—even as I would commend a soldier for fighting for his country on the battlefield!”

  Lola stared at him, swallowed the words that rushed to her lips, and then reappraised him. She spoke coolly and carefully. “That is very dramatic, Mr. Hammond, but not to the point. I don’t think your function is political instruction for parents or children—yet.”

  “Do you separate patriotism from politics, Mrs. Gregg?” he asked with a smile.

  “No.” Lola shook her head. “Nor do I separate public servants from the taxes I pay, since we are being frank with each other, Mr. Hammond.” Her voice was very soft. “I seem to be a very mild person, don’t I, but I assure you that I can also be a very determined person.”

  “I think you can,” he nodded, still smiling. “Perhaps neither of us will have cause for such determination. Let us hope so. Good-bye, Mrs. Gregg, and thank you for calling. I always enjoy little chats with my parents. And thank you, Miss Cullen.”

  He stood with his hands clasped, smiling at them as they left the waiting-room.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  AN INTERESTING EVENT

  THIS is a composition of something about myself, and also an interesting event. My name is Lola Fremont. I am twelve years old and live in Hagertown, New Jersey, where I was born in the year 1918. We are
Presbyterians, but my mother was a Methodist before she married my father who was a Presbyterian. Our teacher suggested information about ourselves and some description of a general nature before the description of an interesting event.

  I will try. I have two brothers. Robert is 14 years old. Thomas is only 9 years old. My father is Dr. Max Fremont, who almost everybody in the town of Hagertown knows about, and some people say that I resemble him but I think that I look more like my mother, Sarah Fremont. It is interesting to have a father that everybody knows about and almost everybody likes, but not everybody. There are some people who do not like my father for the things he thinks, but he says that he will think what he pleases, otherwise a man could better be dead.

  There are some people who say that he is an atheist, which is a person that does not at all believe in God; but that is only because he does not go to church. He says that with the sun in the blue heavens, it is a sin for a man to lead his soul into a dry and musty church. He says that as for God, if there is one He will take care of things well enough without the assistance of pious hypocrites who live in Hagertown, but my mother gets very angry when he says this. She believes in God very truly. Robert and Thomas and I are allowed to make up our own minds. I have not really decided yet.

  But most people in Hagertown like Doc Fremont and they say he is a little eccentric but a good doctor. Hagertown is a small town with a population of 1654 people and is steadily increasing. Its principal industry is the canning factory for tomatoes mostly and ketchup. It also has a First National Bank and a new Post Office. I think that even if I was not born in Hagertown, I would rather live there than anywhere else.

  We live in the white house on the corner of Elm Street and Union Avenue and the house looks bigger than it is because a wing of the house is Dr. Fremont’s clinic and examining room. He says that the situation in Hagertown is no better than anywhere else in America as far as medicine is concerned, because they just let things happen, and if a town has a good doctor it is a lucky town or it can have a bad doctor or no doctor at all. I think Hagertown is a lucky town.