George recalled the Doc’s announcement over the public address system. ‘Would the student who set fire to the wastebasket in the boys’ washroom upstairs come immediately to the office, please?’ The culprit, unsurprisingly, had not heeded the call. George smiled.
‘The graduates of Mike Harris High can rest assured that they have had the benefit of the talents of one of Ontario’s most able and far-sighted administrators at a time of turmoil and change in our province’s storied history. Like all ages, ladies and gentlemen. All ages,’ he emphasized, ‘are ages of turmoil and change. Ours,’ he added unnecessarily, ’is an age of turmoil and change. Great turmoil and change. I cannot recall an age as full of turmoil and change as this one…’
George leaned forward to rest his head against the seat-back in front. I must stay awake, he thought, but Royce’s drone was soporific. It merged in his mind with Jinkinson’s voice. The man was sitting in the basket of a hot-air balloon which was rising inexorably above an audience of stupefied sheep in a field, powered upward entirely by the hot air of his own words. Some sheep were unaccountably and uncomfortably sitting at desks, clumsily holding pens, and trying to write down his words, straining to catch them as the balloon disappeared into the empyrean, the hectoring voice becoming fainter and fainter.
The music had begun. Pachelbel’s Kanon was playing again. George rubbed his eyes. Most of the mourners had dispersed. Two or three were doddering out on canes. One was in a wheelchair. At his elbow, he was surprised to see Jinkinson’s widow.
‘I didn’t want to disturb you, seeing that you were at prayer. I like to see a prayerful man. It shows strength of character. It was good of you to come, but I am at a loss to account for how few of my husband’s other colleagues wished to avail themselves of the opportunity for a Final Encounter with him. I know he was much admired, as Dr. Royce was at pains to demonstrate,’ she added stiffly.
‘Perhaps they didn’t see the obituary,’ said George, searching for charity. ‘We have all…sustained a great loss.’
‘Yes,’ sniffed the widow, ‘we have.’ She dabbed her impressive nose with a tissue. ‘But I am having his research articles on educational theory bound for publication. Would you care for a presentation copy?’
‘Oh, thank you, no,’ answered George. ‘It would simply arouse–ah– painful memories.’
‘I understand perfectly. I appreciate your delicacy.’ She inclined her head.
George bowed out, released. Detention was over.
