Ruth had been watching while I talked to Martin on the phone and listening to my side of the debate, grimacing, making faces, frowning and shaking her head no when I made a point for confrontation and vigorously nodding yes when she was able to infer from my remarks and demeanor the general tenor of my brother's argument. Now her relief was obvious. I was glad for her. But I could not share completely her sense that the problem was soon to be resolved. For the rest of the afternoon and evening I reviewed again and again every detail of what had so far transpired. Though I had indeed made up my mind about what I was going to do and had committed myself to doing it, my painful inner wrestling with my decision continued on until dawn. I lay down in bed, I closed my eyes, I forced myself to imitate the deep, slow rhythms of breathing in sleep, I turned, I tossed, I rolled onto my back, I tried to meditate, I recited mantras and counted my breaths for relief, I prayed, off and on I think perhaps I snoozed, but I did not rest. Looming over me and my life all through the long, dark night was the question of the morrow. Against my will my mind, denied the release of sleep and the cathartic images of dream, instead imagined awkward scenes and rehearsed shameful, apologetic speeches to fellow teachers, to sullen, disapproving administrators, and to frightened, vulnerable clerks.

In alternate theatres of my mind, Wyatt popped out at me like a jack in the box, in one version shouting and cursing, in another reciting once more his harangue at my desk, in a third knocking me down and beating me up, in a fourth stabbing and shooting me, and in another ignoring me altogether while he denounced the college and sprayed my students and associates with hot bullets. I imagined myself striding down the hall to my classroom like the high school principal in a popular recent movie, a bullhorn in one hand and a baseball bat in the other. Okay, Wyatt, come get me if you dare! I was not sure what if anything I should say about this matter to my class. Should they be told that their teacher was a marked man? That a former student, psychotic and enraged over his final grade, had promised to kill his teacher—me—and everyone else in the building? Did they not have a right to know this? To be at least informed? It seemed to me they did. To decide for themselves if they were indeed at risk? If I did so inform them, what then? Could this knowledge incite panic? Would students go or stay? Should they stay? If some did choose to leave, would they then relay the threat to students in other classes? Or should I keep them in the dark, pretend that nothing was wrong, call roll, move forward, and do my job? Ignorance is bliss. In such a situation, what constitutes liability, what negligence? If Wyatt proved to be a homicidal maniac and slew a dozen or two, how might this slaughter affect my students' evaluations of my instruction? My numerical score would almost certainly fall below the college average. I could only imagine what my students might write on the back of the printed forms by which the college solicited anonymous comments.

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INSANITY to be continued