XXII

By the middle of April of 2007, it was readily apparent to me that the Spam forces which had originated on the barrier islands on the Gulf Coast we going to make their way steadily north until they had at least reached the Fall Line. Nevertheless, we had to hold them off just long enough to get supporters of the United States’ government out of the area. For this purpose, I corresponded a good deal with President Bush, the result once again being the neglect of my students at Catholic High. I had been away from Montgomery for extended periods of time that year, and it didn’t seem quite fair to the first Latin students in fourteen years, but that couldn’t be helped. I just supposed Latin would be dropped from the curriculum again after only two years. Nevertheless, I managed to get in some teaching time, time which was precious to me.

I was giving tutorials after school one day in the room I shared with Madame Crowley when Jacob Weatherly, one of my junior Latin II students asked me if I was willing to chaperone the Prom that year.

“Of course, Jacob, I’d love to,” I said. One must bear in mind that it is impossible to say “no” to Jacob. “When and where?”

“Oh, it’s at the RSA Plaza on Saturday.”

“Thank you Jacob, I look forward to it.”

“Well, I’m going to go now, Mr. Herge.”

“See you tomorrow, Jacob. And don’t forget to use the present tense in those workbook pages.”

“Thank you, Mr. Herge.”

“No, no, ‘Gratias.’”

“Vale, Mr. Herge.”

“Vale, Jacob.”

Jacob walked out in his typical marching band style; that is, his entire body was still and the only things moving were his legs. The strangest part was that he wasn’t in marching band at all! I was also perpetually amused by his at times nervous, apologetic, and very polite voice. Overall, I’d say he was a very nice young man, worthy of imitation. His manner was completely antithetical to that of the seniors. They tended to be quite, well, let me say that they were characters. It was another forty minutes before they were done with their Latin II make-up tests. I ushered them out of my room, for my bags were already packed to get out of there (the afternoons at Catholic High can be very tiring).

“Gratias, Mr. Herge,” the last one said.

“Vale, Michael.”

“Vale,” he responded as we exited the foreign Language center and entered into the main hall of the Belke Building, which smelled of formaldehyde thanks to the zoology class.

“Looks like we’re going the same way, eh?” I remarked as we walked between the Belke and “classic” buildings where my voice echoed.

“I suppose so, Mr. Herge,” he said, obviously intrigued that we had not yet parted ways as both of us had expected.

“So, Mike, where are you going to school next year?”

“Huntingdon.”

“Nice place. I considered it once upon a time.”

“Why didn’t you choose it?”

I opened the door to the breezeway and we went inside. The lights were out and the custodial staff was closing down the school. I greeted the custodian and continued down the hall toward the parking lot.

“I decided that I wanted to get away and that Huntingdon was too close for comfort.”

“Nice work at staying away.” I laughed. His sarcasm always made me laugh. It was always lighthearted. You could tell by the smirk.

“Thanks,” I said

“No, no, ‘Gratias.’” He had managed to do it again.

“Vale, Michael!”

“Vale,” he responded and we parted ways in the lot.

The following day, I was discussing my future at MCPS with Mr. Weber. I was perhaps more concerned for my students’ ability to continue Latin than for my ability to continue teaching, but I certainly hoped I could get both. Somehow, for the first time, I was completely at ease near him. As tall as he was, he was certainly intimidating, but I had never been scared out of my wits like other people; to the contrary, I liked him very much, but one can rarely get over his presence of character. Now, though, I was thoroughly comfortable.

“So, are you on for next year?” he asked. I had waited awhile for this question which was the subject of our meeting.

“About that…” I was still rather uncertain about what was coming. I always was, I suppose.

“Yes?” He did seem genuinely concerned. I am sure he was.

“If, now this is if, the Spam retakes Montgomery, I may not be safe, and I may be needed by President Bush.”

“That’s if. You are the expert on these matters; what are the odds?”

“Reasonably high”

“Do I need to get your mother in here to interpret that?”

“It means that I wouldn’t sign a contract for next year, but if I ever came back, I’d want the job.”

“What would I do with the Latin teacher when you would come back?”

“Find someone who teaches other things, like choir or theology.”

“That would be fine if we had a chaplain or were Lindsay still alive.”

“I don’t know if she was qualified to teach Latin.”

“Well, you taught her.” It almost sounded like he was blaming me, but I don’t think he was. If I had had even a hint that it sounded that way at the time, I would have gotten up and left.

“Try to figure out something for me. You’ll probably have a few years of changing teachers.”

“Well, alright. I hope you get this war over with, then.”

“Thank you, Mr. Weber.”

With that I left the president’s office and walked down the hall to the parking lot. It was blazing hot for the first week of May, even for Alabama. I unlocked my truck with my keychain and waited a few seconds after opening the door to let it cool. I could barely touch the windshield screen to fold it. I rolled down my windows and turned up the radio as I got on Vaughn Road. I was not going home, however. I was going to the “advanced” medical research center in Hope Hull. Being just south of Montgomery and near the airport, it was particularly vulnerable in the case of an attack. The ugly white building loomed as I got off the recently repaired interstate which still did not go all the way to Mobile. I followed my accustomed route through spotless white halls to the deeply embedded lab where, much to my amazement, I saw the body of Jason Burleson laying in pristine condition next to what was little more than a stump.

“Ve separated dee Colonel’s brain from hees sensory receptors so daht he may not die from dee shock of dee pain,” the Doctor Snider explained.

“And you mutilated him in the process?” I asked, perturbed.

“It should aid us in the transfer process which we should begin experimenting with this evening.” I found the doctor’s assistant irretrievably naïve, but he was the only means by which I could communicate with the engrossed doctor.

“And how, just how, do you mean to perform this transfer process?”

“Well, we plan to hook up electrodes at strategic locations, starting with the medulla. We think that it would be catastrophic to have his consciousness—

“Doctor Jones, go geet dee electrodes from dee varehouse,” the doctor interrupted in his ignorance of the real world. “Mr. Herge, eef all goes vell, denn, dee Colonel vill be out und ebout in seex veeks.”

“Doctor Snider, if we are here six weeks from today, we will all be dead. I need you to finish as soon as possible. Not that it matters, but I don’t want you to die for this foolishness.”