“Really?” Amanda says, delighted.
“Swear to God,” Jessie says. “Play it really loud today. It will drive him crazy.”
Amanda laughs and pushes open the door of the locker room, refusing to think about the ocean, about the wave that knocked her down, the silence that takes the place of sound.
Linda Gleason is still in her office when gymnastics practice is long over. She has a constant dull headache somewhere near the base of her skull. Only the initial five children have been withdrawn from school, which is not as bad as it could have been, but there are still meetings nearly every night at which Linda is supposed to calm the hysteria, which is fiercer than ever.
Linda has always been something of a workaholic, she’s often still at school at suppertime, and she usually takes work home with her. She has never looked forward to the weekend more than she does now. On Saturday Martin calls her sleepyhead and brings her coffee in bed, but she’s not sleeping late, she’s just savoring her time alone, time when there are no visits from the superintendent of schools or from parents, panicked by the wrong-headed idea that AIDS can be spread by mosquitoes or fleas.
When she’s out of bed and dressed, Linda starts right in on cleaning out the kids’ closets, which are so booby-trapped a whisper can start an avalanche of clothes and toys. The job turns out to be a pleasure. Cleaning the closets allows Linda to take control of something she can really fix, unlike her little sixth-grader. Linda knows some of the teachers and parents would love to see her right now, surrounded by junk, sweating, sorting out sweaters, roller skates, and boots. It’s tough for her kids to be the children of the principal sometimes, especially for her daughter, Kristy. Teachers either favor her or expect too much. Linda herself doesn’t have the patience she might have if she didn’t work so hard; she spends so much time being authoritative, she tends to act that way at home, too. Right now Kristy prefers her father so obviously that it would be laughable if Linda didn’t feel so left out. Linda tells herself it’s because Martin, who teaches English at a junior college in Beverly, has an easier schedule than she does and can spend more time with the children; he’s free to make cookies and play softball, while Linda is embroiled in budget problems or a search for a new music teacher.
He’s out there with the kids, painting the fence in the front yard white, as Linda arranges what she finds in her daughter’s closet into piles of garbage, laundry to be washed, and toys to be put away. After Linda fills two green plastic garbage bags, she finds a Valentine Kristy made for her years ago. A doily cut into the shape of a heart. I LOVE YOU is printed carefully, followed by a shaky exclamation point.
Linda Gleason saves the Valentine, rehangs some clothes, then goes downstairs. It’s almost noon and she takes out some ham and cheese for sandwiches. She goes to the back door to call everyone in for lunch and sees that only Martin and their little boy, Sam, are painting now. Kristy is sitting on the porch steps, hunched over, her elbows on her knees. Linda goes outside and sits next to her. For the past few months she and Kristy have not had conversations; they’ve had accusations and interrogations.
“I did your closet,” Linda says.
“Big deal,” Kristy says.
“It wouldn’t be a big deal if you ever put anything away,” Linda snaps.
“I hate you,” Kristy says. “Everybody hates you.”
“Such as?” Linda Gleason says archly.
“Such as everybody in school. Dorie Kiley says it’s your fault if we all die!”
“Kristy!” Linda says.
“We’ll all get AIDS. No one uses the bathroom. We hold it in until we can’t stand it. Dorie pees in the bushes at recess.”
“Listen to me,” Linda says. “You cannot get AIDS from a toilet.”
She grabs Kristy and pulls her close. Kristy, still furious, struggles, but then gives up and sits slumped beside her mother. Linda realizes now how little Kristy understands, how little all the children at school understand.
“Amanda Farrell got AIDS through a blood transfusion before blood banks were screened. You can get it only two ways now, through using needles that someone with AIDS has used, or through sex with someone who has the virus.”
“So you can get it from hugging,” Kristy says.
“No,” Linda says. “You can’t.”
“You said sex!” Kristy says. “That’s sex.”
Martin and Sam are still working; they both have white paint in their hair. Two young women are running their Newfoundlands, who lumber past like huge, black bears. Linda can feel her daughter’s thin shoulder blades through her T-shirt. She probably thinks sex means holding hands. She’s a child who keeps her fears to herself, and this must be pretty bad for her to blurt it out. Linda imagines all the fourth-grade girls afraid to use the toilet, whispering as they duck behind the bushes on the playing field, rushing to pull down their underpants, afraid a teacher will catch them. It’s not just Kristy who needs to know more about sex, it’s all of them. Linda has always intended to tell her children the facts of life slowly, explaining first how cows and horses conceive and give birth, waiting at least until they were in junior high before she told them any details about human sexuality. It’s not that she’s a prude, she just thought there was plenty of time to learn those details. But that was before, before little girls began to equate holding hands and using public toilets with death.
She will call an assembly. She’ll invite Ed Reardon to come; she’ll find a speaker from an AIDS organization who specializes in education. She will not put this issue up for the school board to debate; their discussion of the assembly might drag on for weeks and her students need to know now what AIDS is and how they can and cannot be exposed. She will not let another week go by with those little girls too afraid to use the toilet. She will not think about whether or not the school has a right to call children into an auditorium and tell them about sex a little too soon. A little too soon is better than a little too late. And if someone calls her on the carpet and tells her she has no right to make this decision, she will simply tell them that, in this instance, they are all her children.
The letters go out on September 15. Addressed to three hundred eighty households, the letter is brief, belying the many long hours Linda Gleason has slaved over it, searching for words that will not seem threatening. Included with the letter is a permission slip each child is to deliver to his or her teacher. Some of the letters reach their destination overnight; Linda Gleason knows this because by two the following day the calls begin, and by two-thirty both secretaries in Linda’s office are in tears. Linda takes the phone for a moment and feels paralyzed by the hate coming out of the receiver, something about the fiery hand of God, something about sinners and those who deserve to die. Linda hangs up the phone and wipes the palm of her hand on her skirt.
“If they’re rude, hang up on them,” Linda Gleason tells both secretaries.
Linda Gleason has already refused calls from the Morrow Chronicle and The Boston Globe. Now she goes into her office and locks the door so she can hastily type up a statement for the newspapers. She wonders if she has made a bad situation worse, if she has let herself in for it. She stops typing and lights a cigarette. She’s shocked by the reaction to the coming assembly. This is not some rural school district where battles over sex education have been impassioned and vicious. This is Morrow, she can see the town common from her window. She can see the coffee shop where Martin takes the kids for breakfast on Sunday so she can get some extra sleep. She can also see several of her teachers in the parking lot, standing in a close circle, heads down. Linda leaves her half-written statement in the typewriter and puts out her cigarette in a coffee cup.
In the parking lot, six teachers argue. It is an awful situation, on this they can all agree. They tell each other that Linda Gleason doesn’t even seem like the same person anymore. Two of them are elected to write the petition asking for Linda’s resignation, and they will begin to circulate it in the morning. Linda grabs her jack
et and tells the secretaries she’s going over to the stationery store to buy manila envelopes. The secretaries nod, even though there’s a boxful of envelopes in the supply closet.
Linda walks to the town green. At this time of day it is nearly deserted, except for a few mothers and toddlers. The old basset hound that belongs to Jack Larson, who owns the little market, is patrolling the pathways, stopping every few feet and plunking himself down so that strollers have to step over him. The broad elms that used to line the common all fell to Dutch elm disease, but the maples that have taken their place are so tall now they meet and their limbs entwine.
Linda sits down on a bench, reaches into her jacket pocket, and pulls out rubber bands, a spider ring that belongs to her son, and her cigarettes. She’s going to quit today; she doesn’t even enjoy it anymore, it’s just a bad habit. She lights one last cigarette and smokes it slowly, then crushes it on the path and starts to walk back to school. It’s easier for her to breathe now, her face doesn’t feel quite so hot. She doesn’t think about betrayals or cruelty, she thinks about ordering next month’s lunch supplies from the food service; she considers hot dogs and beans, English-muffin pizzas, Jell-O with fruit.
Two hundred sixty signed permission slips are sent back, and Linda Gleason feels some consolation when she finds out that only thirty-two teachers and parents have signed the petition against her, not enough to put her job in jeopardy, just enough to make her uncomfortable each time she walks down the halls. The Community Action Coalition people have stopped leafleting, but Linda has heard they’re still holding small, solemn meetings in rec rooms and basements. A few of the members of the Coalition stand outside the school on the morning of the assembly; they mill around near the bicycle racks, and those with school-age sons and daughters hold their children by the hand, making it clear they won’t allow them inside the school today.
Charlie’s class is one of the first to file into the assembly hall. He has sneaked a science book under his sweater and the binding feels hard against his chest. As far as Charlie is concerned, this is just another boring assembly, only this time it’s Amanda’s fault that they all have to sit here and listen to a bunch of doctors. Charlie sits down on a metal chair and pulls his book out of his sweater. He starts reading right away, but it’s so noisy when the older grades arrive that it’s hard for him to concentrate. He dogears a page of his book—he’s up to the section on butterflies and he thinks he’s sighted a rare species at the pond—and when he looks up he suddenly realizes that he’s flanked by empty chairs. For a moment, Charlie is confused, he wonders if he’s supposed to move down a seat. He looks over at Barry Wagoner, who’s one seat away. Barry quickly turns to Judd Erickson, who’s sitting next to him, and they both crack up, but they seem kind of nervous and weird as they’re laughing and Charlie understands, all at once, that no one wants to sit next to him.
The art teacher, Miss Levy, walks past, then stops at the end of the row and motions for the boys to move down.
“Come on, guys,” she says when she’s ignored. “Make some space.”
No one moves. Charlie feels himself getting hot; kids in his class are staring at him. Miss Levy comes up behind them and puts one hand on Barry Wagoner’s shoulder.
“Let’s all move down,” she says.
Barry shakes his head. “I don’t have to sit next to him,” he says to Miss Levy. “You can’t make me.”
“You really are a fat, stupid slob,” Charlie says to Barry.
“Charlie,” Miss Levy says.
Charlie gives her the meanest look he can, even though he’s always liked her, and Miss Levy kind of shrinks away from him. That’s when Charlie knows she won’t do anything to stop him. He gets up, pulls his chair out so he can slip into the row behind him, and heads toward the door. Miss Levy calls to him, but he just ignores her and walks out of the auditorium, past a class of fifth-graders. He goes down the hall, past classrooms, past the cafeteria, toward the front door. Something inside him is exploding with little pops of fury. He’d like to strangle Amanda. He knows this is all her fault. She’s the reason why everyone was staring at him, and he didn’t even do anything; she’s the sick one.
No one stops him. He just walks out the door. He holds his book so tightly that his fingers hurt. He realizes he’s forgotten his jacket, but he doesn’t care. When he passes the playground he sees someone is out on the swings. It’s Amanda and she’s not really swinging, just moving back and forth slowly with her sneakers scraping against the earth. Charlie stands there watching her; even from this distance he can hear the creak of the chain as the swing moves. And then, for no reason at all, Charlie is afraid that his sister will look up and see him. He takes off, as fast as he can, and even though he feels certain he’s heading in the wrong direction, he doesn’t once stop until he’s all the way home.
NINE
NEARLY EVERY NIGHT AFTER dinner, when the children are in bed, Ivan goes back to the institute. None of his colleagues asks him any questions, they’re used to what anyone else would consider odd working hours; last year there was one graduate student from California everyone called the Vampire—he worked only from nine at night until dawn, no one had ever seen him during the day. Once, Ivan walked right past him outside the hardware store, not recognizing him in the daylight.
Polly never asks Ivan where he’s going. She’s pulled out the pieces of a quilt she started years ago, although Ivan suspects she doesn’t really work on it. Tonight Ivan makes a pot of strong coffee in the outer office, pours himself a cup, then goes into his office and locks the door. He dials the hotline and, while the phone is ringing, adds Cremora to his coffee. A man answers the phone on the second ring, but Ivan doesn’t recognize the voice. He’s had to wait for Brian to get off other calls before, so he’s prepared to hold on. Tonight he wants to ask Brian more about interferon, a drug Brian used to go to Mexico for when he was in California last year, but tonight Brian isn’t there to answer his questions. It’s only when Ivan refuses to get off the phone that he’s told how sick Brian’s been all along. For the past few weeks he brought a canister of oxygen with him when he answered phones, and over the weekend, while Ivan was fixing the broken radiator in the living room, Brian had a recurrence of pneumocystis. He is not coming back.
Later, Polly notices that Ivan’s face is puffy, he seems folded in on himself, as though he’s shrunk. They’ve been taking turns getting up with Amanda; she’s so hot at night that her sheets have to be stripped and her nightgown changed at least once before morning. Tonight it’s Polly’s turn, but Ivan tells her to stay in bed. He follows Amanda’s voice down the hallway; she’s half asleep, she always is, and in the morning she won’t remem ber being lifted out of bed. When he changes her, pulling the flannel nightgown over her head, Ivan thinks about changing her diaper when she was a baby. He thinks about the smell of powder, the silky feel of her bare skin. Now, when he picks her up so he can strip the bed, Amanda smells bad, there’s a sulfury scent on her skin. She has pink nail polish on her fingernails, but her hands don’t seem much bigger than they did when she was a baby.
“All right?” Polly says when Ivan comes back.
Ivan pulls off his sweater and his slacks. He twists the buttons on his shirt heartlessly and two pop off and fall to the floor.
“I’m going into Boston tomorrow,” Ivan says. “A friend of mine is dying.”
Polly sits up in bed and watches him as he finishes undressing. He looks breakable to her; he’s all hones. “Is it someone I know?” Polly asks.
“No,” Ivan says. “But he has AIDS. Do you want to come with me?”
Polly stops looking at Ivan; she reaches for the clock on the night table and sets the alarm. Ivan takes off his shoes and socks last. He sits heavily on the bed; he can feel Polly turning away from him.
“I’m too tired to go anywhere,” Polly says. “If you want to take flowers, you should buy them here before you leave. They’ll he much more expensive in Boston.”
Her voice breaks as she speaks, but other than that Polly doesn’t give herself away.
“All right,” Ivan says as he turns out the light. “I’ll do that.”
He chooses daylilies, yellow ones, even though they’re three dollars a stem. The flowers are wrapped in thin green tissue paper, and when Ivan parks on Marlborough Street, they slide onto the floor of the Karmann-Ghia. This morning he talked with the supervisor of the hotline, who phoned Brian and got permission to release his address. The college students are back from summer vacation and there are U-Haul vans double-parked up and down the street. The brownstone where Brian lives is broken up into three condos. Once it was a single-family mansion; there are crimson and blue stained-glass windows just above the door, the floor of the hallway is a circular pattern of white and black marble. The building is a formidable one; lawyers live on the first and third floors. Brian spends a great deal of time looking out his window, which has black iron bars. When he watches Marlborough Street he’s glad he never let the guys in his band talk him into moving to Los Angeles permanently when their first album took off. He was born in New Hampshire and he always wanted to live in Boston. He has sworn that he’ll never let himself just lie in bed and watch TV, but he’s started to watch game shows. He cannot bring himself to listen to records or CDs, although he dreams of music. He has a collection of songs he’s written in the past few months, music far different from anything he ever wrote for the band; he’s been composing for instruments none of them could play. Bassoon, oboe, violin. Black-and-blue music with a line of pure white fury through the middle, a line of stars, a line of desolation as cold as the moon. He’s just begun to realize he’s been writing dirges. He keeps them in a folder; no one will ever hear them, except for Brian, who hears the music in his mind. At night it helps him fall asleep. It helps him separate himself from his anger. No one could stay as angry as he was and survive; he would implode, ignite his clothes with a butane lighter, jump out a twelfth-story window.
At Risk Page 12
