A teacher wards off the advances of
a student while dealing with his impending divorce.

Electra


I roll out of bed long before the twangy guitars on KLFM Country can shatter my frayed nerves. Must be a Pavlovian reflex, since I dread that Hee Haw sound more than I do waking.
Coffee made, I hunker down on the porch settee, listening to the sloshing sounds from the Mississippi. Can't see much. It's that time of year when the opposite shore is shrouded in fog. I hear a chugging sound. My neighbor Wally out there in the mist, the Ancient Mariner trawling for the ideal fishing hole. Never seen him catch a fish. Must be the Wedding Guest he's after.
My stomach gurgles and there's a sharp pain. Only thirty-five and already I've got an ulcer. Must be the job. Teaching is the second most stressful occupation, after air traffic controller. Or it could be the wife. Been waiting for the ax to fall for the last six months. That's when she bolted from our marital bed. She'd begged for another try at a baby, but after three miscarriages, I wasn't game. Hated for her to have to go through all that hell again.
Too lazy to use a safety razor, I shave with my electric, forgetting about the burn from pressing too hard, the reason I usually endure the blade. I hear a Martina McBride song, "There You Are", coming from the bedroom. Forgot to turn off the alarm again. The wife'll scold me about that, since she likes to snooze until nine or so. I can't fathom how anyone can stay under the covers that long.
I brush with the new toothpaste my dentist recommended, the kind that's supposed to help with sensitive teeth. My last checkup, I'd complained of a cavity he couldn't locate. As I shower, I think about my newest dilemma. Amanda Enberg. The girl's been staying after school now for about a month, and I don't know how to break it to her that the lounge lizards are starting to talk. It began when she asked my opinion of a poem she'd written. It was about the Electra complex. Mom was too ill-bred for dad. That sort of thing. Certainly a notch above most of the claptrap I get about the family dog, boyfriends, and suicide. I jotted a few suggestions regarding rhythm and imagery, told her to skew the mother a bit to make her more human, and handed it back. Since then she's inundated me with sonnets, villanelles, and haiku, along with the occasional attempt at Ginsbergesque free verse. And she's started dressing like a poet. Cape, snap-brim hat, dark lipstick, boots. I've created a monster.
The wife is up. Yes, she does have a name. It's June, as in June Cleaver. Before we got married, I'd razz her about the sitcom name, ask her if she had any brothers named Wally and the Beav. She married me anyway.
She's frying eggs out there, and I can hear the toast pop. It's good to be able to eat eggs again. She tells me she's read an article claiming that cackle fruit actually helps prevent Alzheimers. I dry off and in the process get a hard-on the size of a chin bone. I don't know if the erection has to do with Amanda or the wife. How shall I say this? Amanda has a certain mystique. She's tall and willowy, with dark eyes that seem to penetrate the facade we all project. Obviously I've got some sort of lead shield, or she'd've realized by now that I'm just as big a phony as anyone. I'm a tall guy myself and Amanda reaches to my eyebrows wearing flats. The problem is the girl has made it plain she wants my bod. When she approaches the podium after class, she'll stand so goddamn close I can smell a mixture of Ivory soap and pheromonal perfume.
Let me just say right here that I'm not a damn fool, but I do need to make a case for all of the horny single guys and married fellows like me who ain't getting any. Middle school girls are not your father's middle school girls. Some of them could pass for twenty-four. I've been tempted over the years but always remember that "Scared Straight" documentary we were shown in seventh grade.
There's a rap on the door. "Can I come in, Don?" the wife says. I don't know why the hell I do it but I growl, "No, I'll be right out." The wife is a endomorph compared to Amanda's ectomorph. She's short and chunky, but she's got jugs like Dolly Parton. That's why I have to bite my lips so hard I can taste blood in order to keep from jumping her when she sashays around in the morning wearing nothing but that damn see-through teddy.
But, no, when I get to the breakfast nook, she's dressed. Ski sweater and slacks. "Called Tom Stone last night," she says.
Stone is the lawyer who handled our law suit against the previous owner when the sewer backed up. "Do you want me to move out?" I say.
"No. I'll move in with my sister. I do need some money, though."
"How much?" I say, forking up a helping of scrambled egg.
"I don't know. A thousand? I need to pay tuition for my design class and my end of expenses at Laura's while I look for a part-time job."
"Take it out of checking," I say. "I didn't mean to snub you before."
She shows the dimple I tried so often to kiss off her face. "You're staring at my breasts," she says. "Horny again, aren't you?"
"Can you blame me?" I say.
"We could do it once for old-time sake."
I'm a half-hour late for work, but my stomach has stopped hurting and I sail through the day, sounding like an Oxford don.
Thankfully, Amanda doesn't show up after school, but when I check my mail, there's a letter in my box. Mrs. Mulvany is clattering away at her computer. She raises an eyebrow at me. She's the biggest gossip at Lindbergh Middle, and if Amanda put the note in my box, she saw her do it.
Once out in my car, I tear open the note. "I love you, Don," it says, signed with an ornate "A" in passionate purple.
I've got a ton of compositions to grade, but instead I rent a couple of movies that I've wanted to see but was too embarrassed to rent: Fried Green Tomatoes and Shakespeare in Love. I'm gorging myself on hot buttered popcorn when the doorbell rings.
Amanda.
"May I come in?" she says. Her hair is up and she's actually wearing a dress. "I brought back a book you loaned me."
Leaves of Grass. Can't recall ever loaning her that. Why would I? Hate Whitman worse than the Brontes.
"Ah, Amanda, I've been meaning to tell you–-"
"Did you get my note, Don?"
"Don't call me Don. I'm your teacher, and I'm also a good twenty years older than you–" She pushes by me like an Ohio State fullback crashing through the Northwestern line. "Hey, you
can't–-"
By the time I catch up, she's sprawled on the sectional, sans coat, rivaling Winona Ryder in one of those come hither poses. Sleeveless, low-cut dress. The girl's got cleavage that would tempt a castrato.
Before I can say a word, a key rattles in the lock and the wife is standing there, her jaw gaping like a snake charmer's cobra.
"This is Amanda, one of my students," I stutter. "She's come to return a book."
Leaves of Grass is lying on the coffee table in plain sight. She knows I burned all my Whitman long ago.
"Mrs. Berg," Amanda says. "Don and I love each other. You'll have to give him up."
Remarkably, the wife strolls over, like a therapist dealing with a multiple personality, and perches on the edge of the coffee table. "Amanda," she snarls. "If you don't leave right now, I'm going to jam you down the trash compacter."
Amanda's dark eyes dart from the wife to me and back to the wife. Her complexion has gone from Lugosi white to tomato paste red. She jumps up, shrugs into her coat, presses the noxious book of verse up against her chest, and flees into the night.
"You're not jealous, are you?" I say.
The delicious dimple is back. "You're not an idiot," she says. "I've been such a fool. I don't know why I blamed you, but after this morning, I just knew I didn't want it to be over.
She spots the movies on the coffee table. "Fried Green Tomatoes?" she snickers. "That's a chick flick."
"It's not as good as the book," I say.
The dimple disappears, replaced by frown lines. "She must be terribly ashamed. Do you think she'll hurt herself? I could call her mother."
"Nah, my bad. I'll do it."