Revised version copyright 2006 by the author.
I had a lot of trouble getting to sleep that night, and it wasn't just because the bruise on my head prevented me from lying in my favored sleeping position. I knew I'd gotten off lightly--there was nothing to have prevented my trick from beating me to a pulp in the empty locker room, or to have come back with a cop, accusing me of making indecent advances.
It wasn't just around the students and parents at the Institute that I had to be on guard. Even searching for quick, anonymous relief seemed fraught with danger here. I found myself becoming profoundly depressed, not only for myself, but also for the boy who had come on to, then assaulted me. I could only imagine the conflicts that raged within him.
It was probably around one when I finally fell asleep. Inevitably I was awakened around six by the high piping voices of small children going past my door on their way to breakfast. My head throbbed and I knew I'd have to take something for it. I lay in my bed and groaned at the thought of a full day's teaching ahead in my dazed and confused state. There was no point in trying to fall asleep again--I'd have to be up for real in less than an hour.
I decided to try a walk before breakfast. The cool, slightly misty morning air hit my face as I left the dorm, and in spite of myself my spirits begin to lift. The bad taste of the events of yesterday afternoon finally began to fade. Needless to say, I hadn't cum during yesterday's abortive encounter. I sighed as I realized that, despite everything, I was still incurably, ragingly horny. Would I never learn? Shaking my head, I began to walk toward the athletic fields.
I kept to the sidewalk at the edge of the large grassy rectangle that held the Stevens Point outdoor track. Even at this early hour there was already someone on it, setting a brisk pace. It was a man, dressed only in a pair of turquoise running shorts. The color seemed startlingly bright in the morning light and emphasized the top condition of his body. He drew close and I noted that the hair on his chest was peppered with gray. Not bad looking for an old guy, quite nice, in fact...
I was shaken out of my increasingly lustful reverie by a voice calling my name.
"Good morning, Mr. Hewitt!" The figure raised one arm in a friendly wave.
The runner knew who I was. I peered closely at his face for the first time and saw eyes that even at this distance were blue, the face framed by curly, graying hair and beard.
It was one of the parents in my ten o'clock master class--Molly's dad. I desperately searched my brain for his name, hoping he hadn't noticed that I'd been checking him out.
The man had stopped on the track opposite where I was on the sidewalk, breathing hard, glistening with sweat, his muscular chest rising and falling. I was very conscious of his superb physique. Even though I was probably ten or twelve years younger I felt flabby and inferior.
"Mr. Wagner." I'd finally remembered his name. It was, after all, only the second day of Institute.
"Call me Mike, please. You're out early."
"So are you. Molly still asleep?"
Mike Wagner was shaking out his legs, corded with muscle.
"No, she's eating breakfast. One of the other moms down the hall was nice enough to take her, so I could get in my daily run. I usually do it before she gets up, but today I overslept."
"You're very dedicated." Feeling bold, I added, "It shows."
Molly's father smiled. "Thanks. It gets me out of bed in the morning."
There was a pause. I found myself wanting to keep the conversation going. I said with mock severity, "I hope you and Molly did her assignment last night."
Mike nodded vigorously. "Oh yes sir. Twenty-five times on 'the jungle.'" "The jungle" was the trickiest passage in the movement of the Vivaldi Concerto Molly was playing. "Setting the metronome a little faster each time. She complained a bit, but we did it."
"Good," I said. "We'll hear that first today."
Mike grimaced a bit. "I hope I got it right. Lois--my late wife--was a musician herself. Since she's been gone I've often wondered whether I was really helping Molly. I've worried a lot that I was messing her up."
I sensed he was talking about more than violin playing. Some impulse made me answer in kind. "You're doing a great job with her. I can tell she's having the time of her life here this week. She really looks up to you." I stopped, wondering whether I'd said too much.
Mike Wagner was looking at me with an unreadable expression. "Thanks. That means a lot to me." He left the track and came toward me. I kept my eyes on his face with a conscious effort, but the impact of his presence was palpable. My breathing quickened and I felt lightheaded.
"You know, I've come to Stevens Point several years, and Molly's had a different teacher every year. None of them have been bad, and some of them have been really good. But you're the best ever." He reached out and grasped my upper arm, startling me. "Mr. Hewitt, it's a privilege for Molly and me to work with you."
"Well, thank you," I managed. "And call me Alan."
Still gripping my shoulder, Mike offered his other hand. I shook it, dazed by his smile and charisma. "Okay, Alan. But Molly's still going to call you Mr. Hewitt. I've got to finish my run. See you in class."
Something changed in our relationship after that early morning conversation, though the lessons with Molly went on pretty much the same. I worked her hard in the ten or twelve minutes I had with her every morning, and gave her an assignment for each evening, tempering my demands with humor. Molly laughed a lot, quite unfazed by my attempts at sternness.
Occasionally, though, I would catch sight of Mike, not watching his daughter or the teaching point I was trying to illustrate, but me. I should have been flattered that he was following my every move so intently, but I found it disturbing. It got so I avoided looking in his direction while teaching his daughter, not that that was easy. Mike came to class every morning dressed in a T-shirt or polo shirt, and shorts that showed off his narrow hips and long, sinewy legs. One day he wore a tank top, and I even caught one or two of the mothers of the other students eyeing him covertly. If only they knew the teacher felt the same way.
I tried to relieve my tensions in the way I usually did, by swimming. I'd thought about not going back to the Y but decided what the hell. The chances were that I wouldn't see the blond boy who had decked me, and even if I did, he probably wasn't eager for another encounter either. As it turned out, I never saw him again. So I had to content myself with Jack Gormley in his Speedos. I found myself idly speculating about my chances with him. But it wasn't in me deliberately to try and disrupt a long-term relationship, no matter what unconscious signals Jack might be sending out.
Wednesday evening of Institute week I was slated to play on a faculty recital. As I was practicing my piece with the Institute accompanist in the gymnasium that afternoon, I sensed someone sitting in the very back, listening. After casting a few glances in that direction I realized it was Mike. I didn't acknowledge him, but noticed that he stayed until I had finished playing.
Performing in public has always been a difficult experience for me, even when I know the audience is mostly children and parents, and safely uncritical. I was shaking, palms sweaty when I walked out onstage, and counted myself lucky to get through my piece without a major disaster. I bowed and left, feeling my usual mixture of relief that it was over, and annoyance that my nerves had torpedoed some of my best intentions.
I escaped the congratulations as soon as I could--I never felt I deserved them--and took refuge in my dorm room. During the year in Chicago, chilling out after a performance usually meant going out, usually to a bar, or if I were really keyed up, to one of the bathhouses. Drinking and sex were usually enough to keep me from dwelling on the performance just past, replaying the imperfections over and over in my mind like a defective CD. Of course, doing such things here was out of the question.
My moody thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a knock on my door. I wasn't expecting anybody to stop by. I fervently hoped it wasn't one of the adult trainees in the teacher development course I was doing this week--they could easily stay for an hour or more, plying me with questions I'd heard countless times before, and that could easily have been taken care of in class.
I opened the door. Mike Wagner stood there, smiling. He was dressed a bit more formally than usual, in a short-sleeved dress shirt and khakis. In one hand he held two clear plastic cups; in the other, a bottle of scotch.
"I was hoping you'd be here," he said. "I thought I'd offer to throw a little reception, in honor of your wonderful performance."
Taken by surprise, I blushed and stammered. "Aw Mike, you didn't have to do that."
"I know. I wanted to. Do you have any ice? I rented a refrigerator for the week--I can go back to my room and get some if you don't have any."
"I have some. This is damn nice of you."
"So I can come in, before someone sees me with this illegal contraband?"
Settled in with our Scotches, him in the one chair in the room, me sitting on the bed, Mike raised his drink. "To you, Alan." He swallowed.
"Thanks," I said. I raised my plastic cup in turn. "To children, and parents who care enough to give them the gift of music."
Mike said nothing, but smiled as he raised his glass. We drank again. The strong liquor started to go to my head. The top two buttons on Mike's shirt were unbuttoned, and I caught myself staring at the hair on his chest peeking out through the opening.
"Not that it's any of my business, but where's Molly tonight?"
"She's become great pals with one of the other little girls in your class--Sarah Wilkes. They decided they wanted to do a slumber party. Sarah's mom is great, she said, sure, come on over. She told me she's going to sit in the dorm lounge and watch TV until they fall asleep. Knowing Molly, she's in for a long night," Mike chuckled.
He paused, then added, "Mrs. Wilkes is a single mom--divorced. I've caught her looking at me once or twice this week as if she'd like to invite _me_ over for a slumber party." He laughed self-consciously.
