Thus it’s difficult to concentrate on the grammatical problems of his little class. Tonight one of his students hands in a gem: “We can take it for granite that the red gorillas will destroy Western civilization if they can.” Jim shudders to think of the student’s conception of the wars in Indonesia and Burma: Marines being hunted down by giant crimson apes … And take it for granite! It’s perfect, really; the way the student has heard the phrase even makes sense, as metaphor. Solid as granite. Jim likes it. But it’s one more sign among many others that his students don’t read. Thus writing is completely foreign to them, a different language. And it’s impossible to teach a language in one short semester. They’ve all got an impossible task. Why even try?

Class over, Jim collects the papers on the table. Turns off the room’s light, walks into the hall. The door to the room across from his is open, which is unusual. Inside it a black-haired woman is lecturing vigorously.

Wild black frizzed-out mane, flying behind her.

She’s big: tall, bulky, big-boned.

Army fatigue pants, frumpy wool sweater rucked up over the arms.

Boots.

Working at an easel: ah. An artist. That explains it, right?

Wrong. Brake light. A poem is a list of

Things To Do.

Jim moves to one side of the doorway, to try and see what’s on the easel. Black lines. She sketches with careless boldness, sometimes looking at the class while she does it. “Try that,” she commands. Try drawing while looking the other way?

While they try she comes to the door. “You lost?”

“No! No, I just finished teaching across the hall here.” Though, still, I may be lost.… “I was just watching.”

“Come in if you’re going to watch.”

Jim hesitates, but she’s back at the easel, and just to disappear seems impolite. So he slips in and sits at a desk by the door. Why not?