Educating Simon

by Robin Reardon

  Slowly, person by person, the laughter abated, with the occasional upsurge of giggles and snorts. Persie must have been waiting for things to quiet down, because as soon as they did she smiled at Brian again. “Please?”

  Brian had to cough and clear his throat before he could reply. “Not tomorrow, no.”

  Persie looked at me for a microsecond, her eyes telling me that she knew just what to do. She would ask again Monday.

  After dinner, when Persie headed up to her rooms, I followed and knocked on the open door. “May I come in for a few minutes ?”

  Without a word, she sat on a chair, and I sat on a nearby one after turning it to face her. “Sorry this is out of position. I’ll move it back before I leave.” No response. Persie wasn’t likely to benefit from preamble, so I plunged in. “You asked your father for a cat. Can you tell me why?”

  “Of course I can.” Silence.

  Right. Literal. If I were to ask her if she knew what the time was, she’d say either yes or no and leave it at that. “Will you tell me why you want a cat, please?”

  “Cats obey rules. They make rules based on their environment, and they follow them. When the environment changes, they make new rules. I understand cats. I always wanted a dog, but Daddy always said no. They need to be walked. They bark. They need to be bathed. They’re big enough to knock things over.”

  “Where did you find that information about cats?”

  “On the Internet. And in my book about cat behaviour.”

  “You have a book about cat behaviour?”

  “Understanding Cat Behavior. Roger Tabor. David & Charles, April 30, 2003. One hundred forty-four pages. Roger Tabor lives in Cressing, Essex. Northeast of London. I looked it up.”

  I did my best not to look shocked, or flattered, or any of the other emotions she might not understand. “What are you going to do if the cat acts in a way you don’t like?”

  “I’ll figure out what rule it thinks it’s following.”

  I was not expecting that level of insight, or of understanding, or something. “And if you can’t, or if you can’t arrange things so the cat changes its behaviour?”

  “I’ll keep trying to understand why it made the rule it made and look for ways to influence the rules. I might change the environment a little.”

  There was no way to poke holes in that plan. “What kind of a cat do you want?”

  “One nobody else wants. I want you to take me to MSPCA-Angell. Kindness and care for animals.”

  That sounded like their slogan. And yet another job for me. “Well, keep in mind that your father still might say no, Persie. You need to be prepared for that. This isn’t like asking him to allow you to go to museums. A cat would change his environment, too, not just yours. So this isn’t just about you, and you’ll have to accept his decision. Any questions?”

  “No.”

  I stood and returned the chair to its proper position. “Good night, then.”

  “Good night, then.”

  I chuckled all the way upstairs.

  Boston, Sunday, 2 December

  I’m just realising that I neglected to record something that happened at my last session with Dr. Metcalf, on Friday. There was so much to write about in the last entry that it wasn’t top-of-mind.

  First, I gave him an update on what was happening with Kay, adding that I’d resume coaching sessions as soon as she was ready. He was suitably horrified to hear about the incident, but seemed satisfied that Kay was being seen to appropriately.

  Next I also told him something I’d been terrified to admit to myself, and even more terrified to admit to him. “With everything that’s been happening, I’m concerned that I won’t be able to meet the due dates for reports that are coming up and study for exams.”

  Before I could get as far as asking what leniency I might beg for, Dr. Metcalf agreed that there had been sufficient extenuating circumstances to warrant granting me an extension on the drafts. It’s going to mean working more over the Christmas holiday than I might otherwise have done, but what else would I do with my time?

  Just before lunch today I was in my room, doing schoolwork (as usual), when my mobile rang. It was Brian, and he asked me to join him in his office. He needed my opinion about something.

  Well, that was mysterious. I barely know where his office is, and I’ve never been inside it.

  The door stood open, and as I walked through Brian said, “Please close the door behind you, Simon.” He was in there with Maxine. And this was Sunday, part of her standard weekends-off arrangement. Curiouser and curiouser.

  They sat on the other side of the room from the desk, she on one end of a short couch and he on a chair across from her. Brian indicated a chair between them for me. “Maxine,” he said, “would you tell Simon what you’ve told me?” I could tell nothing from his tone of voice.

  Her posture—back straight, head erect—made it look as though she was determined about something. “I think Persie should be allowed to have a cat.”

  As though expecting contradiction, she went on, words tumbling over each other. “I’ve been in touch with Anna Tourneau, and it seems to both of us that Persie has made significant progress in terms of her ability to adjust to her environment. She’s less rigid, she speaks more often and more easily, and she’s shown herself to be able to consider others to a much greater degree than in the past. Going out into the world, even in the controlled way she’s been doing, has helped even more. And while continuing these outings should result in more improvement, I think that having another creature to care for, one that is at least to some degree dependent on her, will allow her to take a very large step forwards.”

  She paused for breath, and when no one contradicted her or asked any questions, she continued. “I’m not altogether sure what started this progress. Anna thinks Persie’s interactions with Simon have had a lot to do with it, and then of course having Anna leave and a new person come in forced some adjustment. But many of Persie’s adjustments have been voluntary. And the fact that she asked for this change, asked for something to care for, and the fact that she’s taken it seriously enough to do quite a bit of research into it, makes me think it would be very good for her.”

  Brian turned to me. “Simon?”

  He’d said he wanted my opinion. So I gave it. “I agree.”

  “Can you provide a little justification? Something Maxine hasn’t said?”

  “Persie told me she understands about cats forming rules. She’s already laid a plan, one that shows she understands cats, for what to do in the event the cat behaves in a way she doesn’t want it to.” I shrugged. “I have to say, it seems to me that working with a cat could give her insight into her own thought process.”

  I’m sure it helped that all morning I’d been writing about Persie and cats for my TOK paper.

  I added, “When we teach someone something, we learn more about it ourselves. If Persie can teach a cat—that is, influence how it forms rules—she might be able to teach herself about herself. Meta learning, if you will.”

  “Meta learning?”

  “Learning about learning would be the best way to think of it. Another thing. She told me she wants a cat no one else wants. So I think she identifies with a creature on the fringe. And one thing I know about being on the fringe is that it can be a lonely place. I think she’s asking to be less lonely.”

  Brian sat back and scowled, thinking, peaking the fingers of his hands together. Maxine and I sat still. We’d done all we could.

  Then he said to me, “If we do this, what does it mean to have a cat no one else wants? What kind of cat would you recommend?”

  “My guess is it would be something that puts the cat outside the norm. It might be ugly; it might be missing part of an ear or the tail, something like that. So that probably means a cat, not a kitten; almost all kittens are adorable. And, besides, kittens haven’t formed rules yet, so Persie would be looking for something that wasn’t there. I’d go with an adult.”

>   “And you’d be willing to guide her?”

  “Yes, as long as we all understand that it’s a major responsibility to own a cat, and a bigger one to choose one for someone else. I’ll do the best I can, and I’ll help get the place ready. What to buy, where to put things, how to comb it, that sort of thing.”

  He exhaled audibly. “I need to think about this. Maxine, thank you for your insight, and for taking so much initiative.”

  Maxine and I took this for our dismissal, and we stood and moved towards the door. I opened it and waited for her to exit, but I turned back to Brian before I walked through. “It seems to me you chose very well with Maxine.” I didn’t wait for a reply.

  Brian was waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs when I came down for dinner. Persie had already gone by.

  “Simon, would you have time on Tuesday afternoon to go to Angell with Maxine and Persie? I know Tuesdays are fairly open for you.”

  I was ahead of him. “Not only that, but I’ve given some thought about how to work animal care into my City course. The way a society treats its animals parallels many other aspects of its development. So I was already planning to go over there. If it’s for Persie’s cat, I’ll just identify the best person to talk to and set up an appointment to go back.”

  He closed his eyes for a second as though holding emotion in. “Thank you.”

  “Maybe Mum could go shopping for supplies and things?”

  He smiled. “I’ll go with her. I wish I could go on Tuesday, but I trust you.”

  At dinner, he asked Persie if she’d like to go meet some cats on Tuesday. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her face light up the way it did just then. She actually looked right at her father, then at me, and back to Brian. “Yes, please.”

  Brian reached for a handkerchief to blow his nose, and Mum had to excuse herself for a moment. I only wished Maxine could be here right now. I would make sure to tell her about this scene tomorrow.

  Boston, Tuesday, 4 December

  We have a cat. Well, Persie has a cat. It’s not here, yet; they’re careful at Angell about who adopts pets, and because neither Brian nor Mum was with us, they need more information, and more formal authority. But they’re holding Arria for Persie. Mum will pick her up tomorrow.

  Brian had a car drive us over there this afternoon, and the driver was to wait. But as soon as we entered the building, the smells and sounds and general unfamiliarity were too much for Persie.

  “I need to leave. I need to leave. I need to leave.”

  Maxine wrapped a protective arm around her shoulders and turned back towards the door. To me, she said, “I was afraid this might happen.”

  “Persie?” I said. She stopped, but wouldn’t look up from the floor. “Do you want to wait in the car and I can pick out a cat for you, or do you want to reconsider getting one at all?”

  “You do it. You pick my cat. One no one else wants.”

  I got the name of someone who could meet with me next week for my City research and went to look for Persie’s cat. Not many people were in the adoption rooms. There were several cages with kittens, but we had agreed on an adult. I went from cage to cage, wanting to hold every one of them, even the ones that cowered in the backs of their cages and hissed at me. But when I saw Persie’s cat, I knew it immediately.

  The tortoiseshell calico shorthair, probably three years old, had been found in an alley, although she was not feral; she was spayed and had obviously been someone’s pet. But during her days on the street something horrible had happened to her front left paw. It had healed fairly well, but it was obviously mangled. She hobbled a little when she walked, the attendant told me, but she was a good-natured cat. They’d been calling her Callie for want of a better name.

  With that paw, she’d be more sedate, less of a jumper. Perfect. She allowed me to hold her, scratch gently under her chin and around her ears, and within a few minutes she was purring. It was a delightful purr, more musical even than Tink’s, almost as though she were singing.

  And this is how she got her name. When I described the cat and showed Persie the photos I’d taken with my phone, she approved of my choice. And when I mentioned the singing purr, Persie told me she’d been researching names and said that one she’d considered was Arria.

  “It’s a woman’s name from ancient Rome. It’s like aria, from an opera. It reminds me of arrhostia, because it has two rs.”

  I scowled, stretched my mind, and finally landed on the word I’d nearly missed in my placement exams at St. Boniface. Arrhostia. More red in it when spelled correctly. Arrhostia, which had prompted Persie to ask me to colour her name out for her. Arrhostia, which had led to the Clyfford Still art. I had to explain it to Brian and Mum, of course. Brian shook his head, amazed, and I’m sure it was because here was yet more proof of how much his daughter has grown, how much more she considers other people than she used to do.

  I’ll have to be careful not to get too attached to Arria.

  Boston, Friday, 7 December

  Michael rang me last night. At first I was sure it would have something to do with his grandmother, but no. Not exactly.

  “You never did get that dinner at Nonna’s,” he opened. “And you read those letters anyway. She really enjoyed that. So, I was wondering if maybe I could thank you with dinner, even if it’s not at Nonna’s.”

  I took a few seconds to try and wrap my brain around that. Was he asking me out on a date? “You mean, a dinner out? At a restaurant ?”

  “It won’t be really fancy or anything. But there’s a nice family-style Italian place out my way. Good food, atmosphere’s not bad. Tomorrow night, maybe?”

  What did I want to do? I’d pretty much left Michael behind. Graeme hadn’t had to distract me from thinking about him for a while, now. Luther, yes; Graeme was still helping to distract me from Luther. But not Michael. So, should I accept because it wouldn’t mean anything in particular? Or should I turn it down for the same reason?

  Before I could stop my voice, it said, “Sure. Where do you want to meet?” There was no way he was picking me up.

  He gave me the name and address of the restaurant, and we agreed on seven o’clock.

  I was maybe five minutes late. I’d dithered with what to wear; I was determined to make him see what he had lost out on by not admitting he was gay and therefore not getting me, without making it appear as though I wanted him to do anything about it. It was a fine line. I did not use my eye pencil, but I did spray on just a bit of fragrance, more for me than for him.

  He was right about the restaurant. It was pretty unremarkable, but the food was decent. They used canned mushrooms in my chicken marsala, but the uncooked tomato sauce on my appetizer, wafer-thin eggplant rolled around a thick ricotta filling with nutmeg and pepper, was fresh and delightful. And the tiramisu, perfection.

  We chatted about his grandmother’s health for a bit, and he said he’d picked up where I’d left off, reading letters, starting the day he’d appeared on my doorstep after the apple-picking outing. “I figured, you know, my Italian wasn’t up to yours, but she knows Italian, and it was supposed to be good for her. I do think it helped her recover.”

  I was feeling generous. “It might have been even more helpful; if the Italian sounded a little off, she’d have to work harder to wrap her brain around what was being said.”

  “The thing is, though, she still needs a lot of help. I don’t know when she might be able to cook again. I’m not sure you’re going to get that dinner.”

  He talked about his classes, about some art he was working on. I told him a little about my Oxford trip. Then he asked about Luther. “I know you saw me that night, when you went to see that play with that guy. You probably thought I was stalking you again.” Deciding on discretion, I took a mouthful of tiramisu and didn’t respond. “Are you, y’know, still seeing him?”

  I didn’t see any point in lying. “Probably not. We have different styles.” Let Michael wonder what that means.

  As
we left the restaurant, he said, “My place isn’t far from here. And there’s . . . well, there’s something I’d like to ask your opinion about.”

  “Etchings?” I asked playfully, but he didn’t seem to get the old joke about asking someone in to see your etchings. “Never mind. Sure. I can’t stay too long, though. I’m behind in a lot of my schoolwork.”

  “Still with the schoolwork.”

  “Yes. Michael, I have a very demanding course load. And I have to have excellent marks for the rest of the year, even if I get an offer from Oxford.”

  “Fine. Don’t get so defensive.”

  I nearly told him to go fuck himself, but I was kind of curious about what he wanted to show me, ask me, whatever. So we walked together in something less than companionable silence to his place on Aberdeen. As we climbed the stairs, he said, “My roommate’s gone for the weekend.”

  I almost asked after Chas and Dick, but thought better of it.

  He closed the door behind me and took my leather jacket. “This is a nice piece,” he said. “You’ve changed.”

  “How so?”

  “I’m not sure. You’re just different. I mean, partly it’s the clothes; you look really good.”

  Uncharitably, I was thinking that maybe the difference was that I couldn’t care less about him as romantic potential. Though I had to admit that I still found him extremely attractive.

  Michael gestured for me to sit on the small couch in the corner of the front room, and from a small fridge on the other side of the room he fetched two bottles of beer and offered one to me. I stared at the thing in my hand, wondering how long anything between us would have lasted if Michael had been willing to start something with me. He sat beside me and took a swig. I sipped some of the cold, tasteless stuff and waited.