It wasn’t always this way. There was a time when I looked forward to the school year, to standing in front of a roomful of blank-faced kids inspired to inspire. I took pride in what I did, saw every day as a challenge. Occasionally, I wore a bow tie to class, talked in various goofy, foreign accents, did wild, interpretive readings that made my kids laugh. I was into things: I challenged the coach of the boys basketball team to a game of HORSE for charity (I won), and challenged the coach of the girls basketball team to a game of HORSE for charity (I purposely lost). For years I helped publish a funny student newspaper, directed the student comedy show, was the funny emcee at the annual basketball banquet. Three times I was voted most popular faculty member at Wilton Township, an honor that thrilled me.
Over time, however, gradually then suddenly, my desire to be the perfect teacher, cool and funny, faded and, more often than not, I found myself staring at the clock, waiting for the 2:35 dismissal bell. Ethan, obviously, had something to do with this. Irreverent quips about Shakespeare or Steinbeck or Principal Hegenderfer don’t fly off the tongue as quickly when your youngest child is trying to gag himself to death. And the girls leaving home, first Karen then Mindy, hastened the transformation. Once they were gone, Mary and I were left with just Ethan. No more Karen cheerleading, no more Mindy onstage. Just Ethan, my man, no distractions, no diversions, just Ethan. It took a toll. Even though I loved him fiercely, things got dimmer when the girls were gone, things got sucked out of me, and Mr. Involved morphed into Mr. Going Through the Motions. Two years ago changes were finally made, and I was dispatched to play right field, otherwise known as “roving substitute teacher,” where I bounced from class to class, gazing out windows while I sat at other teachers’ desks and waited for my full pension to kick in.
I had started my adult life, my career, with two clear and, I thought, attainable goals: be a writer and be a good teacher. The realization that I was no longer either made for a not-very-good moment in the Marriott in Knoxville on the banks of the Tennessee. So, in the quiet of my dark room, I tried to focus on something positive.
The wedding would be nice. It would be good to see some of my family again. An only child, I looked forward to reconnecting with my handful of cousins. I would work hard on my toast, be the hit of the party, dance with Karen, maybe make more headway with Mary.
But my mind inevitably broke free of my leash and scampered off to sniff out problems, worries. I wasn’t sure I liked Roger, the man my oldest baby, my queen bee, Karen, was marrying. I feared him pompous and insincere. Yet here I was, standing by while he took her away. Then, after she and my family disappeared, after all the commotion, the music, the dancing, the distraction was over, I would be left to enact the final phases of my secret and painful Overall Plan.
I pushed out of bed and returned to the computer to check the weather in Camden. Then I went to the Ocean View Web site to see what the main house was having for dinner: chicken, mashed potatoes, and carrots. I grew alarmed. Ethan hated carrots. I quickly clicked off and grabbed Stinky Bear, and propped him up on my stomach.
“You think I can go through with this?” I whispered.
Stinky stared back, button eyes blank.
*
My phone woke me sometime later. I groped around on my hands and knees in the darkness before finding it on Ethan’s side of the bed. It was close to eleven o’clock, and I had been asleep for almost two hours.
“Hello?” I whispered.
“Hi, I’m here.”
“Where?”
“At the airport. Just landed in Nashville.”
“You mean Knoxville, I hope.”
“Fuck! Hold on.” I heard Mindy saying something to someone, her voice animated, muffled. “Yeah. I mean Knoxville. I’m waiting for a cab or whatever they have down here, a stagecoach. Did you get me a room?”
“No, I guess I thought you’d just stay with us.”
“Guess again.”
“I’ll get you a room.”
“Is the restaurant still open? I’m starving.”
“I’m sure the bar is. I bet you can get something there.”
“I’ll be there soon. Can you meet me?”
I glanced over at Ethan. “I can probably sneak out for a few minutes. He never wakes up.”
“Okay, I’ll see you then.”
I checked on Ethan, and then, on a whim, picked up Red Bear and slipped out.
*