Previously: Retired college teacher Lucinda suddenly starts having memories of her favorite student Vernon. He needs help on his first college essay.
“Well, let’s return to this paper. ‘What I Hope to Accomplish in Life.’”

“I don’t know,” he announced confidently, which Lucinda considered ironic in context of his statement.

She considered a different approach. “What do you want to do more than anything else in the world?”

“Git away from the farm.” His assertion of the negative intent was very positive.

“Not git, get,” she corrected. “Anyway, that’s terribly vague. Now think of something definite.”

“Make a whole lot of money?” With each reply he became less confident.

She nodded. “Earn a large income. But how do you expect to go about earning this large income?”

“Somethin’ — something — legal and honest, of course. Mama will want to talk about it at church.”

“You’re not focusing your mind on the problem, Vernon. You’re concerned with the auxiliary points, income, respectability. But the main problem is that you apparently don’t know what you’re good at.” In her mind she was mortified that she just verbalized a dangling participle, but since she was sure Vernon didn’t know what a dangling participle was she dismissed the thought immediately.

Vernon took a long time thinking about her challenge, his face scrounging up. Finally he looked up and said, “I’m good at math.”

“You are?”

“I get a big kick out of algebra and geometry. I’m goin’ — going — to take trigonometry and physics before I move on to the university.”

“Oh, Vernon, that’s it. The way your eyes lit up when you were talking about mathematics.” She reveled in the breakthrough. “That’s your field. I’m surprised your high school math teacher didn’t encourage you to major in some field of mathematics.”

“Oh. We didn’t get along,” he said in a sad confidential way. “Coach Ruggers didn’t like it when I found mistakes in the problems he did on the board.”

“I see.”

“He kept telling me I wasn’t as smart as I thought about figgers — I mean, figures.” He sounded a bit deflated.

“I hate to disillusion you, but teachers aren’t always right,” she informed him, thinking of all the coaches she had observed in classrooms through the years.

“But you are, Miz Cambridge.” He looked at her and smiled. “You’re always right.”

Lucinda diverted her eyes to look out the window. “No. I wish I were.”

“Well, get on with my paper — please, ma’am.” A surprisingly serious tone entered his voice.

“Yes.” She read the next sentence aloud. “I’m going to college so I won’t have to go into the Army.” Lucinda paused to appraise him. “Oh dear, Vernon, don’t tell me you’re a draft dodger.”

“Heck no, Miz Cambridge,” he replied. “I’d be going to college even if there wasn’t a war going on. But it’s kinda useful, isn’t it? As long as I take a twelve-hour semester load I don’t have to go to war.”

“But don’t you want to serve your country?” Reproach shadowed her face.

He paused a moment before admitting, “I just don’t want to die. I — I’d rather serve my country some other way, by living.”

“Vernon, just because you’re drafted doesn’t mean you’d be sent to Vietnam.” A knowing smile crossed her lips. “And just because you went to Vietnam doesn’t mean you’d be killed.”

“Oh no, I’d be killed. I’ve always felt that way.” He shook his head.

“Well, it’s silly to feel that way.” Her head tilted up in assurance.

“It ain’t — isn’t silly. It makes good sense. The way I look at it, war is like playing football, it’s sorta a game of strategy and running and — well, athletic things. And I’m not at all athletic — at least not when it comes to sports and things. So, I figure just like I’m the first to get struck out in baseball I’d be the first to die in a war.”

“No, I guess it’s not silly.” She realized she was not entirely forthcoming in compassion, a quality she always thought she had in abundance. “It may not be right, but it’s not silly.”

Vernon looked up and around the room. “Oh, there’s the bell.” He stood awkwardly and gathered his books together.

“I didn’t hear a bell.” Lucinda started doubting her senses again.

“Sure there was a bell. I only get to spend an hour every other day with you.”

As Vernon walked away, the room slowly faded into her boardinghouse room.

“But I’m enjoying my memories of our times together now. Why must you go away?”

“I don’t know. It’s your memory, not mine.”

“Very well.”

Vernon paused to look back. “Oh. What did I get on that first paper?”

“An F.”

“Oh.” He sounded very disappointed.

“Don’t worry. You’ll improve.”

“That’s good. See you next time.” With that Vernon disappeared into the past, leaving Lucinda alone in the present.