6
The teachers' lounge was empty. Most of the teachers regularly ate in the cafeteria with their students, even though they were allowed a duty-free day once a week. Today was no different. It was 12:24 p.m. The fourth and fifth grades were at lunch working their way through potato barrels, oily green beans, and oven-fried chicken. It wasn't Kate's duty-free day but she'd hastily traded with another fourth grade teacher, Benita Little, who didn't care one way or other because she not only ate in the cafeteria with her students every day, she actually sat with them instead of at the teachers' table by the stage.
Kate had eaten lunch with her students every day for the first two years. But not this year.
This year teaching had dissolved into a shadow of most everything else in her life. Dull and uninspired. A set of motions which did little but spin circles around each other.
Through the lounge wall was muffled cafeteria commotion, the buzz of one hundred twenty-some students and occasional ping of the bell from the teachers' table, indicating the noise level was too high. In the corner of the lounge, the Pepsi machine hummed. The photocopy machine in the office down the hall chunked and clunked as it plagiarized a coloring book for one of the kindergarten teachers.
But the most insistent noise came from Kate's head.
Mr. Byron and Willie's father will talk with you tomorrow morning at seven thirty.
Kate closed her eyes, took her head in both hands and shook it like she shook the Pepsi machine when it ate her quarters. The humming in her mind rattled a-rhythmically, and then settled down again to the excruciating clamor.
Mr. Byron called Willie's father because Willie cut his face on the leg of a desk when you knocked him down and he needed stitches. We have a serious situation on our hands. Willie's mother and father will be tomorrow at seven thirty sharp. You must have that accident report filled out and everything in order before they get here.
The principal, Mr. Byron, had come to the classroom a few minutes after the incident, with Marion Kiddel bouncing beside him, her teeth chewing her lower lip, her eyes huge. "Here he is, Mrs. McDolen," she'd said in case poor Mrs. McDolen had gone so crazy that she could no longer recognize her superior. Willie was shrieking that he was dying, that Mrs. McDolen had killed him, and the rest of the students in the class, amazingly, were too stunned to do anything but stare at the wreckage and wait to see what was going to happen. Willie had been escorted by the principal back to the office, but right before lunch, he had returned to Kate's room.
"Willie’s family is going to require more than an apology," Mr. Byron had said, taking her aside as her students lined up to go to lunch. In one hand he had clenched a blank accident report form, the other hand was drawn up around a pen and shaking like a bad Bob Dole impersonation. "They've been waiting to take us to task on something serious, Mrs. McDolen. I think we just handed it to them on a silver platter."
I don’t need this. This is wrong, completely wrong.
“Damn it all."
"Say what, hon?" It was the secretary, Miriam Calhoun, peering into the lounge. She was waiting to use the women's restroom across the hall, a popular meditation spot. She was young, with fluttery eyes and Pentecostal hair. Today, her vest and pants ensemble was a dark green Christmas thing, with red threading through the fabric that made it look, from this distance, like a little blood vessels all over the material.
"Oh, nothing," said Kate, trying a smile. "Just muttering to myself." But of course it wasn't nothing, and of course Miriam knew it wasn't nothing. Without a doubt she'd heard what had happened in Kate's classroom this morning. Every staff and faculty member would know by now. Word of mishaps and confrontations circulated the school as quickly as a case of chicken pox in kindergarten.
Miriam grinned, a pseudo-sympathetic and knowing grin. Kate sat straight to belie her panic, crossed her legs and drew her short auburn hair up behind her ears. On the center of the table were piles of educational magazines. She picked up one, Elementary Education Today, and let it fall open to where it would, which was a blow-in ad for sets of no-fail, individually-paced cards for reluctant readers called "Ready-To-Read."
She stared at the happy multi-cultural cartoon students, boys and girls, making a rainbow border around the card, assuring any interested teacher that yes, Asians and Caucasians and Afro-Americans and Hispanic children alike will find this program so inspirational that it makes them want to hold hands in a circle and smile.
"How are you going to get them to read your cards when the biggest thrill in their lives is a puddle of urine on the floor?" she whispered. She shoved the magazine away.
No, she thought. I refuse to sit there with the parents and try to be professional while they cuss me out, demand my head on a platter, and tell me they pay my salary. Well, I don’t need the damn salary. And I won't lower myself to fight their battle in court to redeem myself. I know how that works. It doesn't work, that's how it works.
Her lungs ached. Tears tickled the backs of her eyes, and angrily she dug them away. She wouldn’t lose tears over this.
I won't go through with it. I will not do this.
Outside the window was the parking lot. Teachers' cars, a bus on the far side, getting gas at the single pump near the dumpster, an UPS truck by the mailbox, waiting to pull back on the road. Stray bits of white cotton fiber, blown here from the vast, harvested fields near the school, clung to the base of the hedges like lost baby ghosts.
Take it in, Kate. As Romeo said, "Eyes, look your last." They are going to fire you. It doesn't matter who you are, they are going to bring you down like wolves after a deer. Kiss this place good-bye. So typical, Kate. What have you accomplished lately? Yes, please, do tell.
"Cut it out, Kate," she said, catching her chin in her hand and squeezing it just enough to make it sting. "Stop it, I can fix this. There is nothing that cannot be fixed. I'm college-educated, master's degree, for Christ's sake. Willie's father didn't finish grade school. I just have to think it through. They cannot have the best of me." She got up, plugged a couple coins into the Pepsi machine then returned to her chair with can in hand. She popped the top and took a drink.
"I tripped and bumped into Willie. I may have looked like I pushed him, but I bumped him."
Yeah, sure. And that second grader Mistie Henderson isn't being abused in spite of her bruises and behavior and Mr. Byron isn't sneaking down to the nature trail after school with our sweet school secretary Miriam and Susan Jansen, our music teacher, didn't have a nose job over the summer.
"This is ridiculous," she whispered.
Her face fell into flat palms.
"Lord, girl, what went on in your class today?"
One palm slid away enough to reveal Deidra Kirtley, second grade teacher, standing by the table with her arm around a set of dog-eared science workbooks. Deidra was the closest thing Kate had to a friend at school. She was an attractive, chunky lady of fifty-something, dark-skinned and quick-witted. She was loud, abrupt, and confident. And she didn’t seem to care that Kate was a McDolen.
A number of the Pippins Elementary teachers silently and sometimes not so silently resented Kate because she didn't have to teach, she did it because she had wanted something to do when her son had gone off to a private school in Pennsylvania. Kate had come in three years ago at the age of thirty-eight, with a brand new master's and all sorts of shiny and bright teaching concepts. And they had rolled their eyes. Oh, all over the school did the eyes roll.
Kate had tried to ignore it, to laugh it off. She could sometimes even see herself from their vantage points - a thin, plain-faced woman who dressed just a bit more formally than they, who didn’t have their disillusionment but didn’t have their experience, either. Most of the teachers in Pippins were natives of the area. They’d attended Franklin State College thirty miles to the east, and had returned like salmon to their place of birth to marry, reproduce, grow old, and educate subsequent generations. They knew the territory, knew the ropes, knew the populace and its intricate weavings of love and war. They knew why a child from the Via family shouldn’t be seated next to a child from the Spradlin family. They knew not to sing happy birthday to any of the McCaffrey kids because they were Jehovah’s Witnesses and not to ask much about the absences of certain fathers at parent conferences because they were in prison over in Mecklenburg. They knew which mothers baked the best cakes and cookies for the Spring Fling, and knew which mothers not to ask because their offerings were often embedded with dog hairs or mealy bugs.
Kate did not know these things instinctively. She tried to absorb what she could, she listened in on teachers’ lounge banter, she tried her own brand of humor out on her fellows when the chance arose, but found herself always at the periphery, always not quite in the inner educational circle, never invited to the small gatherings on Fridays at one of the restaurants in Emporia, gatherings which were heralded by little computer printed announcements and stuck into certain mailboxes on Thursday afternoon, gathering which were referred to as “BMW Meetings.” Bitch, moan, and whine. The sounded like fun. There wasn’t much going on at the McDolen home recently, what with Donnie gone off the school and Donald finding myriad reasons not to spend much time at home.
Most often, however, Kate didn’t have the time to ponder her lack of complete acceptance at Pippins Elementary. She was too tangled up with the day-to-day of teaching. Mothering had been hard; teaching was no easier. She tried to follow student I.E.P.'s to the letter. She tried to focus on the weekly fourth grade team meetings in which the team leader, Patty Ryder, constantly wasted time by telling boring stories about her on-the-side career of raising purebred miniature poodles. She spent untold hours hunting down science equipment which never was in the storeroom and grading homework papers which were more often than not a waste of pencil lead.
But other times, being on the outskirts hurt. Other times, it just seemed like the latest on the failure hit parade that was Kate’s recent life.
Deidra, however, would talk to anybody.
"You've heard, every agonizing detail," said Kate.
"I've heard all right. I just thought your take on it might be…interesting."
"It was an accident. I tripped on my heels. The caught in the carpet."
"You don’t have carpet.”
“I tripped on a crack in the tile floor.”
“Yep. Tripped with your fist balled up and swinging. I can see that right now.”
Kate felt her toes begin to dance inside her shoes. “Don't you have students somewhere?"
"They're in music. Got another twenty minutes."
"I really don't care to talk about it."
Deidra sat next to Kate. She placed her elbows on the table and put her folded hands beneath her chin. "It's not like you'll be fired or anything."
"No?” said Kate. “This could become a mother of a legal battle. Did you teach Willie Harrold?"
Deidra nodded. "I did at that."
"He peed on the floor," Kate said. "Peed, Deidra. Stood there and just let it go.”
“Pee washes up, you know.”
Kate groaned.
“Okay, so he peed?”
“And I punched him. He sliced his face on a desk edge and bled like a stuck pig. Let's add some blood to the equation, and see how it adds up."
"Call the Southampton County Education Association rep yet? That’s what they’re there for. You are a member."
"I’m a member. But I haven’t called. I'm not sure how to explain it. It's bad, it’s really bad."
"There’s worse things in life."
Kate rubbed her eye. “Possibly. But you know the bottom line of this whole thing? I don't want to explain it. I shouldn't have to explain it. This was Willie Harrold, Deidra. Saying his name should be enough."
"You could quit." Deidra perked up. "Turn in your resignation. You don't need this do-do, pardon my French. I were you, I'd quit in a heartbeat. It's not like you…." She stopped herself and then got up to get a pack of Van-O-Lunch cookies from the machine by the Pepsis.
"Not like I what?" asked Kate.
"Kate," Deidra sat and dumped out two of the little rock-hard cookies, “you never seemed to really enjoy this place very much, is all I'm saying. You work so hard and yet you seem so miserable. You could be doing anything else. Having teas for the socially elite of the county. Golfing in Emporia. Raising horses or poodles and showing them in New York. Painting, quilting, learning to stain antiques. Getting all prettied up for your lawyer husband when he comes home. He’s a great-looking man, hon. Why you think this is the place to spend free time is beyond me."
“I got a teaching degree because I wanted to help people. I wanted to make a difference.”
“What did you do before you were a teacher? You did something with your time.”
“I have a son, don’t forget. And I did some charity work. Giving cans of food to the food bank, giving clothes to the Salvation Army, that kind of thing. I was active. I like to make a difference, Deidra.”
“Is teaching the only way to make a difference? You have to ask yourself if it really is the path for you.”
Kate took a sip. The soda was as bitter as dandelion juice.
“Your husband’s family has been in Southampton County forever,” said Deidra. “Hell, some of my great-greats were slaves to his great-greats.”
“Sorry.”
Deidra shrugged. “I’m not looking for that. What I’m saying is that the McDolen’s owned most of this county one hundred fifty years ago. They’ve sold off a good amount, but still, in the minds of the locals, they are the lords of the land. You married into that. You married into money, honey. Hell, if I were you, I’d be doing something else.”
Kate took another drink, and held it in her mouth until it warmed. She put her can down. “I’m not a quitter.”
Deidra chuckled. “Quitting is in the eye of the beholder. Chose your battles. I wouldn’t chose to go down in a brawl with the Harrolds if I had other options.”
"I care about kids."
"I didn't say you didn’t.”
"Kids cuss constantly, Deidra, in case your ears have stopped up. And they aren't just randomly cussing. They cuss us. They don't do homework. They won't do class-work. They sit there in their own little worlds, with God-knows-what brewing inside those heads. Sure, there are a few who listen, who do what I asked, but it's few and far between. Nine-year-old girls dressed like twenty year olds on the make. Eight year old boys already spouting racist rhetoric."
"Yes," said Deidra. "Whatever. I'd quit if I were you."
"It wouldn't matter if I did. They can still stick me for assault."
I ought to quit. I ought to get the hell out of Dodge. She’s right. I don’t need this job.
Deidra seemed to consider this. Then, "Call your husband yet? If anyone can find pull to get out of something like this, you can."
"No.”
"Damn, girl, get on that phone now while you can. He'll get it fixed. Not many of us here in this poor little county have someone in the family who has the power to clean us messes for us. Hey, your kids leaving lunch in couple minutes? No problem. I'll watch them for you. I'll take them back to your classroom if your call runs over. Go on, now."
"I…," Kate said. Why not? She thought. Call him. Let him do something for her for once in his life. Then, "Sure, yes, thanks." It was a worthless effort, but at least it would get her out of the conversation with Deidra and give her a few extra minutes.
In the office, Miriam was back at her desk, typing something into her computer with a tidy little clickety-clack of her polished nails. Mr. Byron's office door was shut. On the bench near the teacher mailboxes, first grader Mistie Henderson, dressed in a thin gown with a cardigan sweater, squirmed and played with her fingers. Kate knew this child. She'd heard Mistie's teacher discussing this girl before school in the lounge. Mistie stuck crayons up her vagina. Mistie rubbed herself against tables and chairs and had been discovered several times in the girls' bathroom, benignly watching her face in the mirror as she squeezed her own neck with her hands. Twice, she had grabbed the crotch of Vernon Via, the school’s physical education teacher. Joe Angelone, the guidance counselor, had promised to schedule a conference with Mistie's parents, but so far, hadn't quite gotten around to it.
"Why is Mistie in here?" Kate whispered to Miriam.
Miriam kept typing, but her lips pursed. "Wearing a nightgown. Got no panties on. Joe found a sweater and some clean underwear in lost and found. Called her parents. Her mother said she’d bring out a dress. It’s been twenty minutes. No mother. I wouldn’t be surprised if she doesn’t show. She never does. I’ll send her back to class in a few minutes.”
"Oh."
There were only two phones available to teachers. One was on Miriam's desk and the other was in the guidance counselor's office. Kate didn't want to talk in front of Miriam, so she knocked on Joe Angelone's door. He called her in. He was a man in his mid-thirties, with a thinning brown hair and wire-rimmed glasses. He was seated at his cluttered desk, examining a brightly painted wooden mask, turning it over in his hands and sighing.
"Our new artist-in-residence," he said, holding up the mask. "Isn't she wonderful? Her family is from Kenya, and we have her for a whole month. All grades except fourth and fifth, sorry. She's going to teach mask design. We’ll have the best display at the Southampton Schools Art Fair."
"I need to make a call."
Joe rubbed his thumb on the mask’s blue nose. "I found her. She's from Norfolk. Has work in galleries all over the United States, I understand. I'd pat my own back if I could twist my arm that far.” He chuckled and his eyes winked behind the lenses. “I've always been able to get the best artists to come to Pippins Elementary. I beat out the middle schools and high schools every year. I bet they wish they had my connections."
"I bet. I need the phone."
"Yes. Well. Please make it short. I’ve got a lot of work to do." Joe pushed back from his desk and stood. He went out into the office, carrying the mask with him. He stood within earshot still admiring the mask with such awe that it looked as if he thought he was holding God in his hands.
Kate turned her back to the door, lifted the receiver and for a moment, considered actually calling Donald. Maybe Deidra was right. Maybe he would help her.
A brief fantasy played in her mind. Donald, leaving his office in Emporia and driving all the way to school to take her in his arms, give her a hug and tell her it would be all right. Donald, pouring her coffee in the teachers’ lounge and listening with a sympathetic ear, then telling her he understood and he would do everything he could because she was his life partner, his love.
Keeping her finger on the cradle's button, she punched in her home number, pretended to let it ring, and put the receiver back down.
Kate went back to the lounge. Deidra was still there, grading science workbooks.
"Call?"
"Mmm. He wasn't in his office. Left a message." Kate sat, rolled the base of her Pepsi can around on the table.
“Doesn’t he have a pager?”
“No," said Kate.
“Cell phone, then, surely?”
“Yeah, but he never remembers to turn it on.” She grinned suddenly and broadly. It hurt her cheeks to smile this hard. "Don't worry about me. I'll figure out what to do. It's probably not as big a deal as I’m making it."
Deidra looked back at the workbook. Her voice cooled. She knew she was being brushed off. "Call SCEA. They have strategies. Maybe something will fit in your case."
"You bet."
When Deidra left the lounge, Kate opened the window and poured the rest of her Pepsi out onto the grass. It sizzled, fizzled, and went flat in the grass. A well-bundled mother, crossing the parking lot to her car, turned at the sound of the opening window and squinted through the winter sunlight. Her perfectly round shades made her look like Little Orphan Annie.
With Donald’s income and the mortgage-less house on the hill, what was the point of continuing to teach? True, the Harrolds could and probably still would pursue legal avenues to hold her feet to the fire and make her pay for the attack on their sweet little child. But if she quit, she could spend the daylight hours hiding out in her sunroom, reading Anne Tyler, drinking Pepsi, and gazing at the collection of Patricia Spilman watercolors over the fireplace.
"Indeed," Kate said to the Little Orphan Annie mother, who was now in her car, turning over the engine. The car coughed, sputtered black exhaust, and then coasted away, out to the main road. "What's the point of staying, indeed? My illusion of doing something worthwhile has yet again been blown to the sky. Kate has failed once more. Big, fat, whooping surprise."
Went across the hall to the restroom. As she pushed open the door to go in, she glanced back toward the office, past Miriam who continued to pound delicately at the computer keys, to the little girl Mistie on the bench in her nightgown and borrowed cardigan sweater.
Alone, trembling slightly but seeming unaware of her discomfort. Her eyes flicking back and forth from the door to the ceiling to the floor to her hands. Her feet, wiggling in the cheap little shoes. She reminded Kate of a puppy she’d encountered once when she was in college, a puppy she’d watched shiver in the rain behind an apartment complex, no doghouse, no shelter, a chain so heavy it could hardly move, a collar so tight it was embedded in the flesh. But so accustomed to neglect that it didn’t even whine.
By the time Kate had to return to the cafeteria to gather the masses and take them back to class for math, a strange little seed of thought had found its way into Kate's mind. A painful seed, taunting, insistent, frightening. A course of action, a course of deliverance, void of the SCEA and Donald and Mr. Byron and Willie Harrold's parents.
Do it.
Don’t be ridiculous.
It’s not ridiculous. Do it. What the hell have you got to lose?
The students - sans Willie, for Willie had gone home with his daddy to plot the course of Ms. McDolen’s impending doom - were surprisingly somber and quiet as Kate wrote the first of the division problems on the board.
Of course it’s ridiculous. You’ve never had such an absurd idea in your life.
Maybe. Maybe not.
As the rest of the afternoon stumbled along, the seed set out its probing web of rhizomes, irrevocably linking her to what she was going to do when the last bell of the day rang. Her heart lurched; her arm hairs stood at attention.
Do it. If you lived in Nazi Germany and had a chance to rescue one life, you would do it. You could be that hero. You will be that hero.
She forced herself to focus on the math problems, but beneath it all she'd never been so excited in her entire life.