I'm staring at the brass doorknob. An exhilarating flush surges through my body. Never in my life have I felt so powerful, so consumed by my own virility.
Long, wispy clouds, stained a deep red, float just above the glowing western horizon. Even though the evening is still early, all the windows in the house are already dark. Hiding in the shadows of her front porch, I push my excitement to the back of my brain, quieting the internal noise so I can gather my thoughts and plan my next moves. A frisson races up my spine. Although I'm sure it wouldn't matter, my eyes scan the neighboring houses for anyone who might have noticed me. I pull the note out of my pocket again and check the address in the faint glow from the streetlight. A mistake right now could be tragic.
I'm not the sort of guy who would rape a woman, but she wants it. I know she does.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
It was the note from my son's fourth grade teacher that started it all.
Miss Caldwell was waiting at the front door of the school when I arrived at six thirty, as she had requested. That was terribly late for a teacher to be working, I thought. She was still young and quite attractive. I guessed that she was one of those dedicated teachers who put in the extra time to help her students succeed, often at the expense of her own social life.
This wasn't the first time we'd met, of course. There had been the obligatory orientation before the first day of school, then we'd had a few polite conversations at PTA meetings. She had never called me in for a private conference, however. Was my son in trouble?
After a simple, terse greeting, "Mr. Pierce," and a curt handshake, Miss Caldwell pulled the door shut and turned away without another word. She led me down the familiar hallways of my youth. The sharp click of her low heels reverberated against dimly lit, tiled corridors. Her knee-length skirt swished with each swing of her prim, feminine backside, which kept drawing my decadent eyes despite my efforts to control the ignoble urges.
I followed her into my old fourth-grade room, and fondly recalled Miss Whitaker, another of those special teachers. I hadn't made it easy on her, cutting up in class and concocting fantastic stories about why I didn't have my homework. In those days, corporal punishment was the norm, and her heavy-duty ruler left its signature on my backside at least once a week. Looking back, I think I actually enjoyed the special attention I got from her. She was probably my first real crush.
My son's teacher sat at her desk, and began entering scores into her gradebook. I waited, standing beside her desk. After several minutes had gone by and she was still ignoring me, I ventured tentatively, "Uh, Miss Caldwell?"
She looked up with an annoyed, "Yes, Mr. Pierce?"
"Um, did you want to see me about something?"
With a heavy, irritated sigh, she closed her gradebook. "Michael's performance has been going downhill the last few months —"
"Yes," I interjected. "His mother and I separated —"
"Please don't interrupt me, Mr. Pierce," she snapped with a stern look. "As I was saying, Michael is not meeting the school system's standards, and he is becoming increasingly disruptive."
I chuckled, recalling my own behavior when I was nine.
Eyeing me with a deep suspicion, she said, "I'm concerned that you find your son's failure so humorous, Mr. Pierce."
"I'm not laughing at him, Miss Caldwell —"
"Then I presume you are laughing at me?" she asked, growing even more leery.
"No! No, I apologize, Miss Caldwell. I just remember the way I acted at that age."
"Yes, well, I can see how well that turned out for you."
My jaw tightened at her snarky comment, but I held my tongue. As pleasing as she was to the eye, her personality was as cold and bitter as my wife's. I could understand why my son would have a hard time in her class.
Miss Caldwell opened her grade book. "If you would like to look here," she offered, "you can see the steady decline in his work."
I stood next to her, leaning on the desk, with one hand resting on the back of her chair. She pointed out the grades for the the first few months of the year, then the lower test scores and missing homework beginning around the time his mother left. My attention gradually drifted downward, admiring the pale pink curves of her impressive breasts, and the deep shadow between them. I didn't recall any of my elementary teachers dressing in such revealing clothing. I wondered what sort of bra she wore that looked like it wasn't even there.
Abruptly, she shifted her chair to the side, and my hand accidentally fell off the back of the seat and onto her shoulder. I jerked it away immediately, but she scolded, "Please don't touch me, Mr. Pierce."
"I'm sorry," I said, embarrassed by my lecherous thoughts. "I didn't mean to —"
"That sort of familiarity is inappropriate," she interrupted, still looking down at her grade book. "Everyone else in the building has gone home, and I'd hate to think that you would take advantage of this situation."
And then I saw it: a sideward glance, barely a flicker of her eyes lasting only a fraction of a second. What was that? Fear? Not exactly, I thought. It almost looked...flirtatious. It had happened so fast, I couldn't really say. Maybe it was just my imagination.
"No, ma'am," I insisted, declaring my innocence. "I would never think of causing any trouble for you."
"Yes. I didn't think so," she said under her breath. She told me, "Michael's behavior is becoming more aggressive, especially toward the girls in the class."
"What is he doing?" I asked.
"He shoves them occasionally, and I've caught him hitting them."
"He's hitting girls?" I exclaimed.
She quickly corrected herself. "He's not hurting them. No punching in the face or the stomach, or any place serious."
Curious, I asked, "Where is he hitting them?"
"On their behinds."
"Oh." I said, stifling another laugh. "I'll talk to him, and explain —"
Again she interrupted, though with a softer voice. "Every teacher meets with each student once a month, partially to build verbal skills. We start off with a few specific questions to help us understand the child's home life, such as 'what did you have for dinner last night', and 'who usually helps you with your homework'."
"I check on him frequently, to see if he needs help."
"Yes, that's what he said. It's easy to see that he loves you, and he appreciates your attention, Mr. Pierce."
I felt myself puff up a little at her compliment.
