by Aimee Bender
If the school had been a restaurant, I would’ve quit by now. Hung up my apron and washed my hands and walked off. More time to worry, to find a new job, the whole day free to torture or injure myself.
But instead, I stood myself up, tired and heavy, shoved the 50 out of my mind for the moment, and drew a big < on the board.
Good morning second grade, I said. Let’s do something different today.
Bird beak! called out Lisa.
It’s like a mouth, I said. Here we go. 1 < 2. What do you think that means?
The mouth is talking to 2 because it’s mad at 1, said Lisa.
The mouth is talking to 2 because 1 is so boring, said Ann.
The mouth kisses 2 because 1 ignores him, said Elmer.
1 is number one, muttered Danny, miffed.
I smiled. I’d missed them. I’d almost been absent today.
Well, I said, breathing out, no. The mouth is always hungry, and 2 is more than 1. The mouth always wants to eat the greater one.
That’s it? asked Lisa.
I wrote another: 55 > 23.
John raised his hand. The mouth eats 55 because it’s more, he said.
Right, I said.
I erased the board.
You missed part of the 5, said Ann, pointing. There was just a little chalk line left. I wiped it off. Ann couldn’t concentrate unless the board was cleared of fragments.
Next door, one of the third-graders in science class let out a long moan.
These are called Greater Than and Less Than, I said, louder. I put up 44 and 90. Brought Ellen to the front. I put up 2800 and 2300. Danny did that one. >, he wrote, in a dark slash. Mimi goofed on 11 and 111, but as I was explaining the difference, someone next door let out a cough so rip-roaringly loud I thought he’d expelled a lung. There was a smattering of applause from the science classroom.
Then I did something I probably shouldn’t have done. I wrote on the board: Fake Sick Real Sick.
I gave that to Ann, who walked up and did a bored < between the two. But the minute I’d written it up there, Lisa’s energy had tripled, and she started hopping up and down in her chair.
I want to make one up! she said as soon as Ann was done. Can we make up our own?
I looked at the clock. We still had eleven minutes. The room had several chalkboards so I said okay, and told each kid to go ahead and stake out a space and write some numbers on the boards and we would all decide which was Greater, which was Lesser. Lisa pushed out her chair in a flash and the class followed suit. John wrote 5 and 1,000,000, and Mimi wrote 2 and 4, and Elmer was just starting to write when Lisa scrawled, in her big fast lopsided writing: Sick and Car Crash. Which is Greater Than? she announced to the class.
Everyone looked over.
Real Sick or Fake Sick? asked someone.
Real, said Lisa.
I’m tired of Lisa, said Ann, stuck with nothing on her board. Can we have free time?
I walked to Lisa’s board, and picked up the eraser. That’s different, I said. You can’t compare these two. Try something else.
Outside, a girl slumped down the hall, crying for lemons.
I get scurvy this week, I heard Ellen whisper to Elmer.
Why not? Lisa said. She wrote a huge > on the board. Can-cer, she said. Woo-woo. She held her arms high in the air like the winner of a boxing match.
This upset Danny, who marched over to her board and swiped a chalk from the metal ledge and put War next to Sick. He made a mouth facing War so now it went War > Sick > Car Crash.
War beats cancer’s butt, he said.
Lisa tried to grab the eraser from me. No way, she said.
I could feel the flutterings of helplessness in my chest.
Kids, I said.
Mimi piped in. I don’t think car-crash people would like what you wrote, she said primly.
Cancer doesn’t have a butt, said Ann.
Butt cancer does, said Danny.
I was in a car crash once, said Ellen.
John looked at her. No one else paid any attention.
By now Ann had walked to Lisa’s board and written Old Age below the others. Put a > facing it.
Bo-ring, sang out Lisa. Pressing hard with the chalk, she wrote some huge thick letters to the left of War. And put a gigantic > by them. Now it said BLOODY MURDER > War > Sick > Car Crash. Old Age hovered quietly below.
Bloody Murder wins first place! said Lisa.
Now Ann tried to seize the eraser and so did Danny. Across the room, Elmer was fidgeting and squirming at the mention of bloody murder.
Sit down! I said, holding the eraser over my head. No one sat. I wrote Second Grade next to First Grade and made a > between the two. Elmer smiled again.
Sit down! I said. No one sat.
How do you spell hand-to-hand combat, asked Danny, urgent. Can I have the chalk?
We’re about to finish up, I said. Sit.
Danny pointed to the flag in the corner of the room. His hand spluttered in the air. You wouldn’t even be here, he said to Lisa.
Who’s doing Numbers and Materials Friday? I asked.
I win! Lisa said.
Danny and Ann both glared at her.
You win nothing, said Danny.
The rest of the class slipped notebooks and papers into their brightly colored backpacks. The clock clicked back.
Me, said Mimi. I’m making something.
The class waited, poised, tight and hunched, until the bell rang, and then half ran out. Lisa walked straight to Danny and Ann and pushed them both with the spring of her fingertips, then Danny shoved her shoulder, and Elmer squealed, Fight! and for a second the air congealed into circus-alarm air. Lisa was closing her hand around Ann’s ponytail but I walked over as Ann’s face was imploding and Danny’s knuckles were folding and grabbed Lisa away and held her back but I didn’t quite do it right. She was out from under me in a second.
Bench time all week for the three of you! I said, catching Lisa’s wrist. She struggled against me. No! she said. Right before Danny left the room, he went over to the flag and said something quiet to it, as if he were in church.
All week! I said, writing on the board. All of you!
Lisa broke out of my hand and ran straight to Ann’s chalkboard where she wrote Lisa and Ann and then put a > between the two. Ha! she yelled, dashing through the door.
Ann erased the board in two swipes and looked at me square-on before she left. You should have better class control Ms. Gray, she said. Her eyes were cold.
When she was gone, I sat on the table and looked around. On Elmer’s board was Good Me > Bad Me.
I started shaking. And laughing a little. My hands were shuddering and a few tears shook out. I was wiping my eye when there was a tap at the door and in walked my boss. I went straight to Lisa’s board and began erasing, fast.
Good morning Mona, she said, eyeing the remains of BLOODY MUR as they swept off the chalkboard.
She took a look around the classroom, taking in the spilled box of crayons, the leaking button drawer. She didn’t seem to notice the ax.
The students seem to be enjoying your class, she said.
I waited for her to fire me for firing the science teacher on Friday.
What is it you were teaching today? she asked.
Oh nothing, I said, blowing dust off the eraser. I wiped off War > Sick. Just today I was teaching Greater Than and Less Than, I said.
The boss sat in one of the kid chairs, where she looked odd in her beige suit, the perfect clothing item for a Monday.
I’d like to ask a favor of you, Mona, my boss said.
I waited, at the chalkboard, dust swirling. I would not apologize for firing the science teacher. That is impossible, I would say. I practiced in my head.
I want you to keep an eye on Lisa Venus, she said. Her mother is worried about her but can’t be around as much as she’d like and you seem to be Lisa’s favorite teacher (I blushed at this even though I knew it was true) and we’re concerned. Last week
, she apparently brought cigarettes in her lunch.
Oh, I said, perking up a bit. But not to smoke.
You knew about this? my boss asked.
It was her theme lunch of the day, I said. Bologna and margarine and a saccharin drink and cigarettes.
My boss smiled, thinly. Mmmm, she said. Cute.
Do you get the theme? I asked.
Mona, she continued, you should always alert me when you see a child bringing cigarettes to school.
I’ll keep an eye on her, I said.
Good, she said, seeming relieved. Good. Good. And Mona? she said.
She walked to the door and shut it.
Lisa’s a very troubled little girl, she said. We’re quite concerned about her.
I nodded about five times. The clock clicked back again, paused, clicked forward. I said: We?
People at the hospital, she said. Doctors. Her mother. They say she’s behaving oddly.
She reached over to the table, and began putting the loose crayons back in their slots. She was careful to arrange them in color order. Blues next to greens, reds next to oranges. This irritated me.
Her voice dropped a decibel. You’re of course aware of the situation with her mother.
I nodded. I am of course aware, I said.
She looked vaguely disappointed that I already knew.
They think sometime this spring, she said.
I felt like ripping her hair out in fistfuls now.
Now is it my imagination, she said, or did it say Bloody Murder on the chalkboard?
I pretended to dust chalk off my clothes. Never mind, she said. Glad we’ve had our discussion. You have a good afternoon now Mona. I’ll see you later for Back-to-School Night.
Back-to-School Night? I asked.
She pursed her lips.
Tonight, she said. I put a note in your cubby. I’ve put several notes in your cubby in fact, she said.
I have a cubby? I asked.
Her voice was clipped. Seven P.M., she said. See you then.
12
That evening, before Back-to-School Night, I walked the three blocks to my parents’ house to see if my father was worse. My mom’s car wasn’t in the driveway, which meant she was working late, making brochures, but I went in anyway. The house was dark, TV off, and no one seemed to be home, but then movement caught my eye and I looked through the living room window which was clear in the darkness and through it I saw my father planted in the backyard, standing alone on the grass, his face concentrated and serious, left leg extended behind him in a hurdle stretch.
Hi, I yelled through the glass. What’s going on?
He jumped when he heard my voice, startled, but didn’t turn around to face me. He was doing some trick with his arms, pushing outward from his chest, then reaching down to touch his foot.
I went outside.
It smelled more like fall than it does in fall, and I couldn’t figure out why, and then I saw that he’d burned a circle into the grass, like a brand, a circle with a break in it, a shape something like this:
And he was standing smack in the middle.
Hello, I said, louder, worried, wondering what was happening. What’s going on? It’s Mona.
He turned around a bit then. He looked deeply embarrassed.
I’m just stopping by before Back-to-School Night, I said. Are you feeling okay?
He stayed in the circle. I’m just trying something out here, he said. I read about it in a book; it’s written by a Harvard medical professor. I know it looks ridiculous. It’s called The Shape of Health, he said, indicating the burnt grass around him. It’s a reliable book. It’s for athletes, he said.
I walked closer.
Don’t come in, he said, voice urgent. There’s only room for one.
I stopped right where I was. He carefully replaced his left leg with his right. See, they say the disease goes out that way, he said, pointing to the gap. You’ve got to push it outward. Push it off. It seems worth a try. There have been studies. According to the book, Olympic athletes who are ill use it. For some reason it has helped a fair number of people. He exhaled, breath slightly ragged, and pulled in his right leg, reaching down to touch both his feet. His back made a crooked curve in the air. I have to stay in the circle for just a few more minutes, he said, speaking to the ground. Did you say you’re going downtown? Could you do me a favor? he asked.
I was standing there and watching him. I felt clearly that I should not have come over. There was something so terrible and private about this act of hope and it made me feel sickened to see him out there, stuck inside a circle doing running stretches, alone, before his wife came home from her job greeting tourists, when she herself had not left town in ten years.
He didn’t look over. I can go by downtown, sure, I said. I leaned my hand out to a potted plant and knocked the thin spindled branches.
Could you pick up some more of that plant food at Jones’s store? Your mother isn’t going to be too happy about the state of the grass here. That other package was terrific but I already ran out.
Sure, I said, knocking. I’ll go do that right now, I said. Sorry to interrupt. Are you doing okay? My voice was a notch higher than usual.
He leaned his head toward me but kept his eyes outward, looking out the opening of the hole.
Thanks honey, he said. I’m just trying to keep an open mind here, he said.
I turned around, ready to leave him in there and get out the front door because I thought I might suddenly shake into tears, when he let out a deep breath, stood straight, stepped free of the circle, and walked over to me, face ashy. I backed into the living room.
Look at that pretty dress, he said to me. How’s teaching?
Do you want the same grass food as before? I asked. Are you worse?
He sat down on the living room couch and pulled a tissue from a box, using it to wipe his brow. I didn’t want to look at him so I stared at the backyard, empty now, wondering where the illness was supposed to go once it left the circle. I pictured the entire backyard teeming with locusts. Crusting leaves and holed petals. A swish of darkness. But everything outside looked green as ever. Everything inside remained tepid and beige.
It’s for athletes, he had said.
My father shifted on the couch. Any kind is good, he said.
He didn’t answer my second question.
I heard my mom’s car pull into the driveway and I told him, talking too fast, that I’d drop by with it as soon as I could. He was gone again, distracted, and sat on the couch, leaning forward to turn on the TV. I said good-bye and he said have fun, and both of us seemed embarrassed and uncomfortable, and I mumbled something about Harvard being a school of good studies and he nodded into the TV. His face was sallow as usual but the hope hanging around it made him look worse than ever. I went outside and waved at my mother, who was settling her things together in the car, and she waved back and smiled out the car window at me. She liked seeing me in a dress. I wanted to go tell her everything in the safe small space of the car but also I knew my father had done it while she wasn’t home and finished before she returned and that this was not something that I should share.
I checked my watch. I had just enough time. I walked fast, touching the rough bark of trees. As I passed lawn after lawn, I thought about my mother—closing the car door, entering the house, going to hug her husband whose brow is murky with sweat and he is saying: Honey, I’m going to lick this thing I tell you, I’m going to lick it, and she nods, nodding, because it gives her something to do with her head. She wears nightgowns to bed now and dreams about airplanes. He dreams of racing along the desert, all knees and blur, sand kicking up, the wind making his eyes tear, and he wakes with a start, three A.M., his heart beating fast, and thinks: Is it death? Is it life? And she wakes up too, a light sleeper, and her fingertips are cool as they check the beat inside his neck. It’s dark and quiet, two people in the house, lying flat, only two left now, two until one, and they both fall asleep again with their fing
ers clustered together on his throat like plain pink jewelry. By morning, he has forgotten. She remembers, alone in the morning bed, eyes blinking at the wall, but he’s out and about pouring cereal. The circle is dewy and the yard is the same. He is the same. She is the same. I walked and thought about that hole marking up the backyard, thought of going inside my own apartment, kneeling on the living room floor and carefully drawing a big circle in the carpet with the point of a high heel:
There. I’d go over the curves again and again until the carpet stems were beaten down and the circle was clearly defined. Then I’d tuck up my knees and curl up within it. Push it outward. Push it off. The same as my father, except my circle would be complete, arc finished, with no break in it at all.
I’d had no intention of going downtown but I barreled straight into the hardware store and found the same green plant food on Aisle Four. Jones was, once again, absorbed in the newspaper on his stool by the cash register. There were stacks of new tools on the floor—bright wrenches just out of the box, piles of big blue buckets against the wall with warnings about children drowning written on the outside. How awful to die in a bucket, what an embarrassingly small way to leave.
I took the plant food up to the counter.
Good thing I’m open late, was all he said.
Good thing, I echoed. I looked down, then back up, but he had resumed reading by then, pages rustling. His fingers moved expertly into the bins of the cash register, handing over my change. The newspaper was covering my view of the lump under his shirt, and so I couldn’t even guess if it was a bad day or a good one, neither revealed by the neutral expression across his face. I needed to see the number, right then, to adjust mine according to his; if I ever wanted desperately for him to recognize me and notice something, it was now, but he didn’t even look up.
I crossed the street and walked through the park. When I reached my mother’s tourist office, and turned to look back, the lights in the hardware store had gone out, and the sign on the door was moving slightly, and read CLOSED in big simple black letters.
13
Back-to-School Night was swarming with people by the time I arrived, lights buzzing bright and yellow. I put the plant food in my classroom and stood by the table of cookies with rainbow speckles. Within seconds, Mimi’s mother with the smooth blond hair came up to me. I wasn’t sure she even knew who I was when she shifted the toddler in her arms, leaned in, and said: It’s so fabulous how Mimi sees numbers in everything now! She calls her green beans ones, and makes her noodles into eights. Mrs. Lunelle beamed. Do you know where that new science teacher is? The toddler was squirming but she just held on tighter. I shook my head. Bye now Mona, Mrs. Lunelle said. Keep up the good work.
