by Keigh Ahr

It was April 1975, and Crosby Stanton was responding to another summons from a concerned parent. A high school teacher of biology, earth sciences, and science fiction in the rural town of Bark Bay, Crosby had received a call last evening from Alexander Bronson. “Is this about Simon and the chess club, Mr. Bronson?” Crosby had asked. “Call me Alexander, please,” the retail-store manager had replied. “And yes, this is about my son and the chess club you supervise after school.”

Crosby drove into the gravel parking lot of Jimmy’s Place, one of Bark Bay’s two pizza restaurants, and thought how Alexander hadn’t mentioned Crosby’s science fiction class. Crosby hoped this meant he wouldn’t have to defend his professional judgement once again. Vanessa Light, a bank teller who wore horn-rimmed glasses and an auburn beehive wig the size of a layered cake, had that afternoon been the latest parent to ask why the high school would offer a class in, as she called it, “silly stories about robots and Martians.” Crosby had explained the stories he taught were far more sophisticated, and he used them to introduce lessons on science, history, and culture. When she asked how that was possible, he’d asked if she’d read Robert Silverberg’s “To See the Invisible Man,” and wasn’t surprised that Vanessa had no idea what he was talking about.

“It’s about a man in a utopian society who’s convicted of the crime of coldness, of being indifferent to other people,” Crosby explained. “For punishment, he’s branded with a symbol that designates him as invisible, meaning no one is allowed to interact with him in any way for a year. After reading the story, the class had a lively discussion about whether his punishment fit his crime.”

Vanessa had responded with a frown as pleasant as curdled milk. “If my daughter takes your class next year, will she read other stories about invisible men?”

The bells over the entrance to Jimmy’s Place rattled as Crosby walked inside. The oppressive mélange of marinara, grease, and cigarette smoke reminded Crosby why he rarely ate here. He’d offered several meeting locations last night but Alexander had dismissed them all in favor of Jimmy’s. Crosby scanned the hazy interior of the restaurant until a head rose from a booth along the wall to the right. Crosby had only met Alexander a few times, but his bulging cheeks and prickles of hair surrounding the large bald spot on his head made him unmistakable. Crosby raised a hand in greeting and Alexander smiled, showing teeth as large and white as piano keys.

“Thank you for meeting with me,” Alexander said as Crosby approached. Alexander’s handshake was powerful; he was taller than Crosby and broader at the chest. His spartan hairstyle also reminded Crosby of the ponytail he’d shorn off before starting at Bark Bay High School four years ago.

“It’s no problem,” Crosby said as the two men sat at opposite sides of the booth. A briefcase lay on the bench next to Alexander, and a folded newspaper on the table. A photograph on the newspaper showed an image Crosby recognized from last evening’s Walter Cronkite broadcast: Americans boarding a helicopter on the roof of a Saigon hotel. The country’s hesitant withdrawal from Viet Nam had suddenly transformed into a panicked evacuation. “It’s terrible, what’s happening over there,” Alexander said as he shoved the newspaper aside.

“I agree,” Crosby replied. He’d thought the war was a mistake from the start but took no satisfaction in seeing it end in such humiliation. He also knew the futility of discussing Viet Nam with any Bark Bay citizen. “How’s Evangeline?”

“Quite well,” Alexander replied. Evangeline Bronson had been a junior in Crosby’s Advanced Biology class his first year at Bark Bay. Crosby’s letter of recommendation had accompanied her college application. “B’s and A’s in all her classes last semester. She’s keeping away from the parties as well. But I asked you here tonight to discuss Simon, not Evangeline. I’m glad to see how much he enjoys chess.”

“He has a real talent for the game.” Crosby had formed the chess club, apparently the first ever at the school, in his second year. “Simon always thinks two or three moves ahead. He’s eager to learn, always asking questions about strategy.”

“A few weeks ago Simon showed me a sheet of notebook paper with strange markings on them,” Alexander said. “He told me it was a record of moves in a chess game, like a baseball scorecard, and that you’d shown him how to make that record.”

“I demonstrated how to record moves to everyone at the club, but Simon’s been the most active with it. I don’t think it’s a coincidence his game has improved even more since then.”

A waitress with a large mole on her left cheek came to their table. Both men declined menus, saying they already knew what they wanted. Alexander ordered a meatball sandwich and a Coke, and Crosby asked for a Caesar salad with an unsweetened iced tea, the only food and drink at Jimmy’s Place he found tolerable.

“Simon finding an activity he enjoys was important for him,” Alexander said when the waitress left. “The first year in high school has always been difficult for my children. Such a different environment from grade school. So many new temptations. Even Elijah had problems. And we all know about Zeke.” Crosby had heard stories about Alexander’s oldest son Elijah, a star athlete and compassionate leader who’d been killed in Viet Nam a year before Crosby arrived at Bark Bay. Ezekiel, Evangeline’s twin brother, had been expelled from high school a year later; Zeke’s trial for heroin possession and narcotics trafficking was scheduled for June. “I was especially worried about Simon because he’s never committed to any activity. He’s tried all the sports – baseball, basketball, football, just like every boy in Bark Bay. But soon after starting, he’d lose interest and quit. I don’t see that happening with chess, though. Which is why I hope nothing happens at your club meetings to ruin his experience there.”

The waitress returned with their drinks before Crosby could respond. When she left, Alexander lifted his briefcase and placed it on the table. He opened the briefcase and retrieved a manila folder, which he set on the table in front of Crosby. “I noticed Simon reading this last night and asked him where he got it. Simon said his friend Todd loaned it to him at chess club.” Todd had been a chess club member since taking Crosby’s science fiction class last fall, and he and Simon had formed a close friendship. Crosby often thought how the two teens made for an odd pair, Todd’s long-haired cynicism seeming out of place next to Simon’s crew-cut sincerity, yet their friendship was as strong as it was unusual.

Alexander flipped open the front cover of the folder, and Crosby saw what lay inside – a comic book. The letters of its title, Adventures into Horror, filled the upper third of the cover. “Simon loves these things,” Alexander said. “My wife and I won’t buy comic books for him, but we don’t mind if he borrows them from his friends, so long as they’re appropriate. And most are. Superheroes, cowboys, astronauts. Trite and insipid, but harmless.”

“I agree,” Crosby replied. Several chess club students were avid comic book readers, much as Crosby had been during his youth before discovering far more interesting stories in science fiction magazines. “Harmless. Hardly worth anyone’s attention.”

“I could tell by the cover that this one was different,” Alexander said, tapping the cover of Adventures into Horror. Beneath the title was an image of a car’s interior, drawn from the perspective of the back seat. The profile of the driver’s face was etched in fear as he looked at the rear-view mirror, which showed the reflection of another man in the rear seat wearing a tall hat, his face mummified and gray, grinning evilly. “After Simon finished reading I decided to see exactly what it was. It’s a collection of stories, each four or five pages long.” 

Alexander turned the cover to display the opening page, which showed the same gray-faced man from the cover. He wore a Gothic butler’s suit and held an oil lamp above his head as racing cars sped along a track behind his gaunt body. A word balloon hung above the butler’s head, but Alexander turned the page before Crosby could read the words. “There’s nothing special about the first two stories.” As Alexander continued turning the book’s pages, Crosby caught images of a man in a racing jacket, a woman, another man kissing that woman, then the first man in a prison cell. A second story flipped by, this one about astronauts and green-skinned aliens. “But the third – probably the only good thing I can say is that it won’t take you long to read.”

At the top of the right-hand page, in large block letters of red and black, were the words Dark Safari. “And why, exactly, is it important for me to read this?” Crosby asked.

The short hairs on Alexander’s head bristled. “Because you need to understand what your chess club students are reading.” Frowning, Crosby began to read.

A large panel took up most of the first page and showed three men riding in a jeep travelling towards the reader, clouds of sandy dust trailing the vehicle. Two white men in the back seat were dressed in khakis and safari hats, with rifles lying across their laps; Crosby smirked at the casual disregard for safety. The jeep’s driver, black and wearing a white t-shirt, stared intently forward. Several text boxes lay along both sides of the panel. Skimming the words, Crosby learned the hunters had hired the driver to lead them on a hunting safari in Africa.

Crosby then read the bottom left panel. The hunter seated to the right pointed outside the jeep.

FIRST HUNTER: Say, what are those guys doing over there?

The hunter next to him was bearded, his head turned to where his companion was pointing.

SECOND HUNTER: I think they’re natives. Let’s pull over and find out what they’re up to.

The panel to the right showed the driver standing in the front seat and holding binoculars to his eyes.

DRIVER: No bother dem, boss. Poachers!

Crosby heard the bells rattle above the entrance as he turned the page. The top left panel showed the hunters reclining in the back seat, with the clean-shaven hunter appearing agitated while his bearded companion seemed concerned.

FIRST HUNTER: We haven’t seen a damn thing all day! You suppose those hooligans are having any better luck?

SECOND HUNTER: We should listen to our driver and steer clear of those poachers. I heard in the village that they’re pretty rough customers.

“‘Rough customers’?” Crosby snickered. “Somebody got paid for writing this?” He continued to the next panel, which showed the clean-shaven hunter’s face contorted in fury as he pulled on his rifle.

FIRST HUNTER: I didn’t pay all this money to admire the scenery! I say we follow those poachers and finally bag us some skins!

RIFLE SOUND EFFECT: KA-CHUCK!

“A fine work of literature,” Crosby sneered.

“I’ll spare you the middle,” Alexander replied, flipping a page forward. “The hunters order their driver to follow the poachers at a safe distance. The poachers find a herd of gazelle, but then one of the hunters shoots wildly at it, scattering the herd.” Alexander then tapped a panel firmly, like he was squishing a bug. “There. You can pick up the rest of the story there.”

The clean-shaven hunter loaded a shell into his rifle as the bearded hunter, terror on his face, leapt into the back seat of the jeep. The driver sat calmly in the front.

FIRST HUNTER: Dammit! Those dolts are getting in the way of my shot!

SECOND HUNTER: We need to get out of here, before the poachers get to us!

The panel to the right showed a close-up of the driver’s placid face.

DRIVER: No, boss. It too late.

The next row of panels showed the jeep surrounded by the poachers, each armed with a rifle aimed at the jeep. 

POACHER: You two, get out now!

The hunters then stood with hands raised outside the vehicle as their driver remained seated with hands resting on the steering wheel. The clean-shaven hunter scowled at the driver.

FIRST HUNTER: What’s going on here? Were you in cahoots with these poachers all along?

DRIVER: No. Dese men from my village, but I no know dem. I try warn you boss, but you no listen.

The next panel showed the clean-shaven hunter, hands still in the air, glaring defiantly at one of the poachers.

FIRST HUNTER: What do you thugs want? Money? We have money!

POACHER: No want money. Food cost too much. We kill for food, no money. Dat herd, whole village eat, one month.

The next panel contained the only creative image Crosby found in the story: A close-up of the poacher, his magnified eye visible at the end of his rifle’s scope.

POACHER: My people hungry. You take their food away. Now – you must give it them.

“No.” Crosby looked up at Alexander, who nodded grimly. More out of obligation than curiosity, Crosby read the next panel, an overhead view of Africans dressed absurdly in animal skins and grass skirts. They gathered with happy faces in a village composed of straw huts, with large slabs of meat roasting over an open fire at the center of the village. Offended by the crude images, Crosby refused to read the text boxes. The next to last panel showed two thin African boys eagerly tearing meat from large bones with their teeth. Each child wore a safari hat.

The final panel showed the face of the mummified butler, now wearing a feathered hat and a bone through his nose. “I’ve seen enough,” Crosby said, folding the comic book closed.

Alexander’s unpleasant smile greeted him. “I’m curious to know what you think of this… entertainment.”

“What do I think?” Crosby asked. “It makes the adventures of Tarzan read like the works of Shakespeare. The writing is juvenile, the illustrations drawn by someone who must’ve flunked out of art school, and the whole thing is shockingly racist.”

“I agree. This thing is disgraceful, so I expect you won’t have any issue with my request. I’ve indulged Simon’s interest for too long, and I need your help in removing this temptation. You need to tell that boy Todd to stop bringing comic books to chess club. All comic books, even the harmless ones. They’re a disease, and the only way to stop it from spreading –”

“All riiiight.” The waitress with the mole on her cheek glided up to their table with a large brown tray. After unloading their food, she pointed to the comic book. “Are those your funnies?” she asked Crosby, who shook his head. Alexander returned the comic book to the manila folder, then closed the folder and placed the newspaper on top.

Crosby began eating his salad and considered Alexander’s demand. It wasn’t outrageous; Todd’s obsession with comic books had become a distraction at chess club. The lurid story he’d just read was also the reason Crosby had turned away from comics in his teens. Crosby had started his science fiction class to introduce better quality fiction to the youth of Bark Bay. He filled his syllabus with classic stories he’d read the past two decades: Bradbury’s “There Will Come Soft Rains,” Ballard’s “The Subliminal Man,” Clarke’s “The Nine Billion Names of God,” Sturgeon’s “Slow Sculpture.” Crosby had just read Le Guin’s “Direction of the Road” and planned to include that story when he taught the class again in the fall.

If, indeed, he did teach science fiction again at Bark Bay. Or any class at the school.

Crosby didn’t want to leave this small town with the peculiar name. Bark Bay’s cleaner air eased his chronic asthma, and the tranquil rhythm of rural life pleased his innate introspection. He believed he’d made the necessary adjustments: cutting his hair, keeping his political views private, accepting the lack of conveniences and services he’d taken for granted in Boston, where he’d been raised and went to college. But today’s conversations with Vanessa and Alexander had demonstrated that his progressive ideas on education would meet continued resistance in Bark Bay. Indignant parents, armed with outrageous hair and provincial attitudes, would never stop demanding him to compromise.

He felt his mood sink at the prospect of further battles. His family, as well as his college friends who now taught in Boston, continually encouraged him to return. It might be easier to find a school district in or around Boston that would welcome his teaching a science fiction class or supervising a chess club. Moving back to urban life wouldn’t be as good for his asthma, but might be better for his psyche. Maybe it was time to move on…

“Mr. Stanton?”

Crosby hadn’t noticed the long-haired teen approaching his table. “Todd? What are you doing here?”

“Eating pizza with my friends.” Todd pointed his thumb at a table on the other side of the dining area, where three other teens sat. “I saw you and wanted to let you know that I thought about your science fiction class last night.”

Crosby’s eyes widened. “What made you do that?”

“I was bored, so I looked at the TV Guide. Star Trek was on and I decided to watch it.” A UHF station in a not-so-near city broadcast reruns of popular shows from the previous decade. “It was the episode where Captain Kirk fights the lizard guy, and I remembered you telling us in class how it was based on that story we read.”

“Why that’s…” Crosby had assigned Fredric Brown’s “Arena” in conjunction with a history lesson about the launch of Sputnik and the fears it raised of a war in space. Crosby’s request to show Star Trek in class had been denied, so he’d only been able to reference the episode verbally. “I’m glad you remembered, Todd. How did you like the show compared to the story?”

“They were really similar. There was more action in Star Trek, but I thought the Outsiders in the story were cooler, how they rolled around on round bodies but had those long tentacles too.” Todd spread his arms and waved his fingers like tendrils. “They should’ve used the Outsiders in the show, rather than some guy in a stupid lizard suit. Didn’t you say the story came out first?”

“Yes, about twenty years earlier.”

“Huh. Funny how Star Trek changed the ending. The Outsiders were all killed in the story, but Captain Kirk let the lizard guy live.”

Crosby would’ve focused on this difference if he’d been able to show the episode in class. “Why did you think Star Trek made that change, Todd?”

Todd seemed surprised at the question. Crosby had seen this expression many times over the last four years, the look of a Bark Bay teen unaccustomed to being asked to share an opinion. “Maybe… maybe they changed it because by the time Star Trek came out, people were starting to get tired of war. Or maybe it was Star Trek’s way of saying that even though you sometimes have to fight, it doesn’t mean your enemies always need to die. Maybe our enemies have as much right to live as we do. Or maybe they were saying we just can’t keep killing each other if we want to survive. Could that be it?”

Crosby smiled. “I don’t know if there’s any one answer, but your analysis sounds as good as anyone else’s.”

“Huh.” Todd’s face blossomed. “Thanks, Mr. Stanton. It’s cool seeing you here. Oh, and hi Mr. Bronson. Is Simon around?”

“He’s at home. Studying.”

A voice called to Todd from his friends’ table; he glanced over and waved before turning back to Crosby. “I gotta get going. See you next week at chess club, Mr. Stanton.” Crosby wished Todd a good evening as the teen went back to his friends.

“That young man seems enamored of you,” Alexander said.

“I’m surprised,” Crosby replied, “that you didn’t return the comic book to him.”

“I believe that’s your job.” Alexander moved the newspaper and reopened the manila folder. “Your chess club is where this problem started, so you’re the one who needs to make this right. You can even take care of your responsibility now, by taking this comic book and handing it back to your little fan while telling him they’re now banned from chess club.” Alexander then picked up the remnant of his sandwich. “You don’t like these things any more than I do, Crosby. You don’t need to thank me.”

As Alexander’s piano-key teeth bit into his sandwich, Crosby collected his red tumbler of iced tea and drank. After setting the tumbler back down on the table, he waited for Alexander to make eye contact with him. “Todd loaned the comic book to Simon,” Crosby said, “so it’s actually your son’s responsibility to return it to his friend. And I’m not banning comic books, Alexander. I won’t allow reading during chess club because that’s a distraction, but so long as students follow that rule, they can continue bringing and sharing comic books.”

“Really?” Alexander said, his mouth full of half-chewed sandwich. He drank his Coke and waved in the direction of Todd’s table. “You’re going to let them continue reading that garbage?”

Crosby tapped a small white rectangle in the upper right corner of the comic book’s cover. “This has the seal of approval from the Comics Code Authority, one of many institutions charged with keeping our youth safe. The last thing my students need is more censorship.”

“Censorship? We’re doing them a favor, not violating their rights.” Alexander picked up Adventures into Horror and held it up to Crosby like a prosecuting attorney. “These things are juvenile and offensive – your words, Crosby, your judgement, not mine – and provide no value to our children.”

“And if we let them reach that conclusion on their own, they’ll be better off. We shouldn’t be afraid –”

“This isn’t about fear, Crosby. This is about eliminating a threat.”

“What threat? That your son will read bad literature?”

Alexander held the comic book closer to Crosby’s face. “You’re a science teacher, yes? Then you must be familiar with the studies that have proven comic books cause criminal behavior in children?”

“I’m familiar with those studies.” Crosby took the comic book from Alexander and set it back into the manila folder. “As well as critiques of those studies which have questioned their methodologies and conclusions.” He closed the folder and placed the newspaper back on top. “Simon’s too intelligent to let poor fiction corrupt him. He’ll forget this comic book as soon as he reads his next one – unless you decide to make an example of it.”

Alexander scoffed and looked away. Crosby realized their argument was unresolvable, that reconciling his opinion with Alexander’s would be like mixing oil and water without a surfactant. Alexander cast his eyes down, scanning the table as if searching for something important. “Terrible, just terrible,” he said as he picked up the newspaper, his thumb pressing the photograph of the helicopter on the Saigon rooftop. “So many men lost their lives in Viet Nam. Good men, like Elijah. Sacrificed to preserve our freedom. And now we’re running away. It’s like my son died for no reason.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, Alexander.” Crosby was disappointed at being unable to think of any words more meaningful.

“We stopped the Nazis, but now that it’s time to save the world from Communism we’ve lost our will to fight.” Alexander set the newspaper next to the manila folder and continued, his voice growing soft. “Where did we go wrong, Crosby? What’s happened to our values? We don’t believe in decency anymore. You see it in our entertainment. Our television shows are violent, our movies pornographic, our music celebrates the drugs that ruined Zeke. Nobody reads, Crosby. And what we do read –” he waved at the manila folder – “is filth.”

“I don’t like the story Todd shared with Simon any more than you,” Crosby said, deciding not to point out the absurdity of linking the Viet Cong’s military victory with a five-page comic book story. “I just don’t think we’re doing either of them a favor by discouraging their curiosity. That’s the one trait every student in the chess club demonstrates, especially Simon. Curiosity. I see it when they play, as they try to improve their game. When they get frustrated, I tap into that curiosity and encourage them to explore new tactics. That’s the reason I showed them how to record their moves, to make it easier to recreate the board at the point they made a mistake and examine what they could’ve done differently. My job as an educator is to encourage their curiosity, not suppress it.”

“Curiosity also kills the cat,” Alexander replied. “Zeke’s curiosity about drugs led him to addiction and crime. I’m not letting Simon’s interest in drivel ruin his mind.”

Crosby felt empathy for Alexander, yet returning to a time when Elijah and Zeke were still part of their father’s life was as impossible as Dark Safari winning a Pulitzer. “Simon won’t lose his way so long as you stay with him on his journey,” Crosby said as their waitress returned with their bill. “Don’t just tell him that comic books are bad, but ask him why he likes these stories. Explain to him why you find them so objectionable. Take this as an opportunity to start a discussion, Alexander, not end it. Simon’s curiosity may lead him to read some bleak stories, but he’ll appreciate your helping him find his way through them.”

Alexander shook his head as he retrieved his wallet. “The world of comic books is not worth anyone’s visit.” Leaving cash on the table to pay for his meal, he then rose from the booth. “Simon’s an impressionable boy and needs protection from his naiveté,” Alexander said, picking up his briefcase and looking down at Crosby. “I appreciate how you helped my daughter, and for encouraging Simon’s interest in chess. You’re a skilled teacher, and Lord knows we need to keep the ones we find in this town. But a good friend of mine sits on the school board. The board approves the classes offered at the school, including that science fiction class your little fan enjoyed. The school board also decides which extra-curricular activities to sponsor. You need voices speaking on your behalf to the board, Crosby. I advise listening to your potential allies.”

Crosby rose from his seat. “I prefer to speak on my own behalf, and would enjoy discussing the chess club with your friend on the school board.” He smiled as he shook Alexander’s hand. “Almost as much as I’d enjoy having Simon in my science fiction class this fall.”

After wishing Crosby a perfunctory good evening, Alexander exited the restaurant, leaving Crosby alone in the booth with his half-finished salad. Seeing the newspaper Alexander had left on the table, Crosby noticed the manila folder containing the comic book. He then saw Todd was still sitting on the other side of the dining area. The teen laughed as one of his friends crafted fangs with two straws stuck into his upper lip.

“Todd.” Crosby followed his call by waving the teen over. He wanted to thank Todd for reminding him why he’d become a teacher, for giving him a reason to remain in Bark Bay, for enabling him to abandon any thought of returning to Boston. But when Todd arrived, Crosby simply handed him the folder. “I believe this is yours.”

Todd opened the folder and raised his eyebrows. “Where’d you get this?”

“Mr. Bronson gave it to me tonight.”

Todd blinked. “Is Simon in trouble? Is that why his dad was here with you?”

“Of course not,” Crosby laughed. “Mr. Bronson wanted to tell me how much Simon enjoyed chess club. He also said Simon had finished this comic book –”

“Simon always returns the comic books I loan him, usually at school the next day,” Todd said. “I thought it was strange when he didn’t have it with him this morning. And his dad wouldn’t have brought the comic book here unless he had a reason for showing it to you. Like if he saw Simon reading it and got mad at him.”

“Simon isn’t in trouble, Todd.”

“So who’s his dad mad at? You? Me?”

“You’ve got nothing to worry about. Neither do I.” Crosby felt he should congratulate Todd for his insight, but instead pointed to the copy of Adventures into Horror in Todd’s hands. “Your choice of reading material was a bit of a surprise to me. You’re usually into superheroes. I didn’t know you liked horror.”

Todd shrugged. “The good guy/bad guy stuff in the superhero comics gets old. Lately I’ve been into stories about good and evil. Usually this title’s alright, but not this issue,” the teen said, closing the manila folder. “I wouldn’t have cared if Simon kept it or threw it in the trash, because all the stories kinda sucked – sorry Mr. Stanton, I shoulda said they stunk.”

“That’s all right, Todd.” Crosby placed his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “If you want more complex stories, I have a suggestion. I’ve read a couple novels from a new author I think you might like. Have you heard of Stephen King?”