Daddy Dearest

Chapter Twenty

I couldn't, in good conscience, lie down with my wife, when all I could think about was Melody in Harry's office. It took everything I had not to pluck her out of the chair, put her on the desk, and open her legs to make room for myself before slaking my lust on her nubile, willing body. She was the shy, young lady I'd always known, but her deep brown eyes, the color of milk chocolate, conveyed what her mouth couldn't say. She wanted to be held and kissed. I couldn't tell if she wanted more than that. I was afraid that once I started, I wouldn't be able to stop. I would devour her alive.

"Melody," I repeat more firmly. "Everything is fine. You had a little shock, baby bird, that's all. It was an unusual day."

She frowns, putting her hand on my arm as I turn to leave me. "Why did you call me that?"

I look around to see if anyone is paying attention to us, but everyone appears caught up in their own business, looking at their mobiles or chatting with their circle of friends. "What do you mean?"

She takes a step away from me. "That's what Harry used to call me. 'Baby bird.' Nancy calls me that, too."

I sigh. "I'm sorry, Melody. It's what my father used to call my younger sister and Harry thought it was adorable. He probably got the idea from my dad."

The suspicion in her eyes clears and she smiles at me again. "Oh, okay, Mr. D. Sorry to bother you. I'll see you later, I guess."

"You're never a bother, Miss Plum," I tell her. A lie. She bothers me a lot. "Take care of yourself today and mind how you go. If you run into any problems, you know where to find me."

She reaches out to squeeze my forearm. "Thank you, sir."

Her hair swishes behind her, catching the rays of the sun, as she turns away to join her friends again. In the light, her hair looks like black silk, and I ache to grab a handful of it to bring to my nose. I take a deep breath and tell myself to keep going. I still have the rest of my day to get through.

I manage to make it all the way down to the teachers' lounge, though I wouldn't be able to tell you who or what I saw on my way there. My feet automatically take me, as they have Monday to Friday, every morning for five years now. I nod at the colleagues I see there, all battle-weary warriors at the frontline in the war against the American aversion to intellectualism. I've never been able to understand it. Why shouldn't one want to be an "elite"?

I head for the wall of cubbies where we receive interdepartmental mail and memos. I locate mine and pull out the stack I have there, looking over it as I walk over to a free table, so I can set down my stuff and get myself a decent cup of coffee and a donut. I skip over the usual administrative jetsam for later perusal until I come across a red envelope the size of a four by six index card. Written on the front in metallic silver ink and a girl's loopy script is "To Sir, with Love."

My eyebrows go up on their own. I set the rest of my stuff down and stick the envelope in the inside pocket of my blazer. It is too early for me to deal with such rubbish. I need coffee and a donut to fortify my system first.

I go up to the coffee station and fill up a white "Jesus Loves Me" mug. Next to me, Ted Hodges shuffles up, yawning and looking half-dead himself. I mutter a greeting to him and step aside to allow him a turn at the coffee machine.

I stir one packet of sugar and a serving of Half and Half into my mug. "All right, Ted? You don't have that blasted cold that's taken out half the staff, do you?"

The journalism teacher scoffs and pours himself a cup of coffee. "No, man, I'm from Georgia. I'm made of sterner stuff. I do need to talk to you about something, though. Got a minute?"