THE ENFORCER - Segment 3 (Scroll down for earlier segments)

     “My dad said I’d better behave for Miss Hatchet because she rules with an iron hand,” Jimmy informed us.   

      “Wow, I’ve never seen anyone with an iron hand,” said Tony.

      “Neither have I,” Billy chimed in.  “Maybe she’ll let me borrow it for show and tell.”  

     “I’m sure we’ll all get to see it,” I said, nervously looking over my shoulder.    

     I didn’t know why Miss Hatchet needed an iron hand.  Her piercing eyes were enough to make you grab your heart, for fear it would burst through your shirt at any moment.    

     Hanging up our coats in the cloakroom, we could hear faint scratching inside the wall and wondered if it was a student from last year, who hadn’t completed his work.    

     Reading, writing, and math were Miss Hatchet’s priorities.  Having spent considerable time with Gramps, I thought she should be instructing us in how to schedule doctors’ appointments, fill out medical forms, and how to get our pillboxes in order.  She wasn’t interested in my priorities.  According to the Enforcer, my sole purpose in fourth grade was to read, write, and figure out numbers.  It was obviously more than I could handle.  School was a long seventeen months that year.

     If Miss Hatchet left the room, no one moved, because she had a way of appearing without notice.  If you got out of your seat while she was out of the room, she would appear like she had just slipped under the door.  We never could figure out how she got the iron hand under the door, but there it was, looming over us.  You had to scoot over in your seat when she walked by, so the hand wouldn't hit you in the head and knock you unconcious.  It silenced any talk of mutiny.    

    Miss Hatchet had one student who was the apple of her eye.  No, it wasn’t me.  I was the bait.  She would feed me to the blackboard, where I would be devoured my math problems.

     I tried to stay out of her sight by sitting behind the biggest student in class, but The Enforcer would hear the beads of perspiration dripping from my forehead and splashing on the floor, creating a small pool.  “Mr. Maberry,” she would say sternly, “would you please come to the board.”  I would remove myself from inside the student’s shirt in front of me and slither to the front of the class.