Alan Yeager sat at the hotel bar nursing his beer as most of the men around him watched the ball game on the overhead television. The twenty-six-year-old really had no interest in the game, but had come to the bar with a few new friends in order to be sociable.
The dark-haired young man was a history teacher from East Bedford. Five nine with a slim, muscular build; this was his first time at the State Teacher's Convention. It was an experience he had enjoyed immensely.
The funny thing was, it was only because of an unforeseeable series of events that he found himself here at all. Normally, only the most senior teacher at Dwight Eisenhower High got to attend the annual convention. Roger Parks, who was originally scheduled to go, had come down with appendicitis the day before he was to leave. Elizabeth Young, who was the runner up in seniority had already left with her family for a Disneyworld Vacation. After a frantic search by the school administration, there seemed to be very few people who hadn't already made plans for the three-day holiday weekend. It finally came down to Alan and Diane Yee, both of whom had started on the same day. A toss of the coin decided the issue, with Alan racing home to quickly pack a bag to catch the eight o'clock shuttle flight.
The three-day event had been quite interesting Alan had to say. Every school seemed to have a different way of picking delegates to the conference. Some went by seniority like his own school. Others used it as a merit award. Some even just held a raffle. Overall, the different systems made for an interesting mix and a chance to meet fellow educators from across the state and sort of compare notes. There was also the prospect of some really fine dining and the nightly parties that made attendance so highly coveted. Tonight was the last night of the conclave with nearly a third of the participants having already left for home.
Alan glanced down at his watch and decided that five more minutes and he was out of here. He really hadn't been that hungry when most of the delegates had gone to dinner, but he was starting to feel otherwise now. The hotel dinning room was still open for another hour so he should have no problem getting a table.
"Excuse me," a woman's voice said from behind Alan, "but by any chance would you happen to know the three major causes of the Civil War?"
The question took Alan by surprise. Even for a Teacher's Convention, that was a strange thing for someone to ask. Not so strange, however, that he didn't immediately know the answer. Back in high school, he had written his senior history paper on just that subject.
"That would've been..." he started to say as he turned around on the barstool. "Oh my God!" he suddenly said, cutting off his answer as he saw who had asked the question.
The owner of the question stood just a fraction of an inch shorter than Alan. She was wearing a modest blue dress that enhanced rather than concealed a still respectable figure.
"Hello Alan," the middle-aged woman standing behind him smiled.
"Mrs. Clarke," an excited Alan said, unsure if he should hug the woman, shake her hand or something else. "What are you doing here?"
"Well, I am still a teacher," the white-haired woman smiled, "at least until the end of the month."
"You're quitting?" he asked, the tone of his question making it one of disbelief.
"Retiring actually," she smiled.
"No, you can't be retiring," Alan said, "you're only..."
"Fifty-two years old last month," Mrs. Clarke said, finishing his question for him.
"No," Alan replied, unable to believe that she was that old.
"I was forty-four when I had you in my honors class in history," she said. "And that was eight years ago."
Alan took a hard look at his former teacher. In his mind, Mrs. Clarke didn't look that much older than she did on his last day of class. There were a few more subtle lines in her face, but that seemed to be all. Even back then, except for her hair, she really hadn't looked her age. Her hair had turned prematurely white in her mid-thirties. Rather than dye it back to its original shade, she had decided to keep it natural.
In fact, Alan remembered quite well a discussion he and a number and his friends had one night after they'd misappropriated two six packs of beer from Jimmy Smith's garage cooler. The discussion had started off familiarly enough, a comparison of all the girls in school they knew. Who was the best looking; who had the best tits, which they most wanted to fuck, that sort of thing. Eventually, and Alan never really decided if it was the beer or they were all feeling a little bit daring, the discussion had grown to include teachers as well.
That aspect of their talk hadn't gone as far, but it had been almost universally agreed that Mrs. Clarke was the third best-looking teacher in school. For an older woman, a few of his friends had quickly added. In Alan's case, he hadn't needed to add that condition to his opinion. The number one and two choices were all new teachers in their early twenties.
"This wasn't a pop quiz, Alan," his former teacher laughed. "You're not going to fail if you don't remember the answer."
Alan realized that his face had become flustered at the memory and was glad that she took it to be because he hadn't remembered the answer.
"Mrs. Clarke, I've totally forgotten my manners," Alan said, changing the subject and feeling like he was back in third period history. "Please have a seat."
"First of all, I think you're a little old to still be calling me Mrs. Clarke," she said. "My name is Maureen as I'm sure you remember. We are, after all, colleagues now."
It seemed strange to Alan to think of himself and Mrs. Clarke, no make that Maureen, as equals. Yet, that was exactly what they were. He might have moved away after college and was teaching in another town, but they were both doing the same thing.
"Can I get you a drink," Alan asked, still thinking it strange to be asking her a question like that.
