An Invisible Sign of My Own

by Aimee Bender

  I was twitching slightly. My father is sick, I muttered, but she’d left.

  As I stood there, eating a dry cookie with a chocolate blob in the middle, more parents came over to comment, to my surprise, on Numbers and Materials. I hadn’t implemented it as a learning tool with any other class, and during schooltime the remaining groups did look on with envy as my second-graders marched into the classroom carrying lucky 7’s cut from broken mirrors and small sailboat 4’s. The reading teacher, a bland type, had tried to make a copied version of her own called Letters and Materials, but hers failed miserably after round one, A of applesauce.

  She was here too, in her classroom, going over the sounds of the letters, b-b-b, so that parents could teach reading at home.

  I filled a cup with tropical juice and took a post in my math room next to the gallery of numbers.

  After a few minutes, Elmer Gravlaki’s father dipped his head inside. He was a muscular man, with a lustrous auburn mustache and hands as solid as wheels, an absurd contrast to his spongy son.

  He sat on the edge of the fleshy-colored table, which creaked under his weight. I am concerned about the Materials and Numbers, he said in his thick accent.

  I raised my eyebrows in surprise. Elmer’s math skills had been improving rapidly since we’d started.

  He leaned in. I do not see, he said, how it is good for my business to have the children making addresses in your class.

  Oh, they’re not addresses, I said.

  He finished his juice in a gulp, swiped red beads from his mustache.

  No one’s going to put an I.V. on a house, I said. No one is going to stick an 8 made of cough drops on their door.

  He lifted his mustache to his nose and lowered it.

  I have been making addresses in my workshop for twenty years now, he mumbled. He stood. I know where you live, he said.

  The numbers on the wall fluttered from the wind of his exit. Sadly for both of us, this I know where you live thing was no threat to me—if he came to my apartment, fine. Maybe I could get him to chop off my foot. But there were two addresses for me, and the other was my parents’ house. What if he got it wrong, poor Gustav Gravlaki, sneaking up to the window of their kitchen, storming into the living room. Oops. The house would wilt him in minutes. He’d turn into Elmer, instead of the other way around.

  I left the room. Kids were everywhere, looking short and meek without day nearby to light them. I saw Ann holding her little sister’s arm by the elbow. Lisa was getting herself a big plate of food; I waved and she shoved a red cookie in her mouth and waved back. Danny’s one-armed father, George O’Mazzi the war veteran, was in the art room, right sleeve hanging loose as a shed snakeskin, deep in conversation with the art teacher, who was doing a melted-crayon demonstration. I didn’t see the science teacher anywhere.

  I found my cubby, stuffed to the brim. Mr. Gravlaki had his eyes on me, and was almost done with his paper plate of pepper crackers and celery boats when I noticed the door to the playground was ajar.

  I walked over, brisk, slipped through.

  Outside, it was much quieter, darker, the yellow of inside turned into the soft black of outside, the silhouettes of tree trunks and the metal climbing structure, and there was only one person out there, many feet away, turned to the side, moving his arms, a tall thin shadow.

  And for a second I thought it was my father again. Still trying, still standing with his left leg behind him, still preparing to go running. And I wanted to head back in and close my eyes and get home and away instead of watching again and again as he tried, every backyard tested, the smell of burning grass on each block, the strangeness and largeness of his effort causing me physical pain, but then the man lowered his arm and the moment cleared and he became himself. A different man, younger, standing close to a mess of odd equipment.

  And in another second, I recognized his shape.

  The science teacher had a bubble wand made of string in his right hand, and a cigarette in his left. Leaning down, he dipped the wand into a bucket of soapy water, lifted it up, and pulled back on the string to form the bubble. It bloomed out, rainbowed and loose, jiggly, a belly of a bubble, and then while it wobbled in the air he brought up his left hand, sucked in on the cigarette, and, putting his mouth right to the open gap in the wand, released a puff of smoke inside. The smoke formed into a pearl within the curving pink and blue walls.

  I tried not to move. The smoke and soap trembled together.

  Attempting to keep it all balanced, he moved to seal the soap bubble around the smoke, but just at the last second his wrist twisted and the whole thing popped. The soap vanished and the pearl unraveled.

  Fuck, he muttered. I smiled.

  The air smelled like soap and ash; the liquid soap was the same brand I had once eaten in bar form, and so the clean smell reminded me of sex and vomit, but the dark smell of burnt paper and tobacco lit me up inside like gold; it was that familiar combination, illness and desire. I felt right at home.

  I took a step forward.

  He lost the wand in the bucket, fished it out, began another. The soap formed a glaze and then popped. He tried again. Pop. He tried again. A bubble cautiously emerged from the string, quivering on the wand. This one was big, a huge overweight bubble, leaning toward the ground. Raising up on his toes, he turned a bit as he lifted the wand, trying to give the bubble a chance, trying to raise it higher, and when he did that, he saw me.

  Oh, he said. The bubble bent toward the asphalt and popped. I didn’t know you were out here, he said.

  There was a small amount of light from the school on him. He was wearing a T-shirt that said GO AWAY, and he looked different than usual. I’d never seen him at night before: eyebrows keened in, mouth slow and real, large hands.

  I’d avoided him entirely since the scurvy day.

  Do you want me to go? I asked.

  No, he said.

  They’re very beautiful, I said.

  He peered at me and nodded. Re-dipping the string, he started another bubble, but the wand slipped from his fingers into the bucket again.

  I’m hiding out, he said. If anyone asks, this is a science demonstration. Spheres. Though they’ll fire me if they see me smoking.

  I didn’t say anything to that, but a bundle of laughter loosened in my stomach, twine releasing, logs falling into the fire. He looked up.

  I’m going for a record, he said, nodding. I want to see how many times I can get fired in one school year.

  He shook soap off the wand.

  I think you’ve won already, I said.

  Just wait, he said. You’re on my heels, he said. I saw that 5 made of meat the other day, that was the strangest thing I’ve ever seen.

  Holding the cigarette like a dart, he brought it back to his lips and took in the smoke.

  Last week, John had unpacked his lunch, peeled up the bread, and revealed a slab of steak from his mother’s butcher shop cut in the shape of a 5, slathered with ketchup. I’d laughed for about ten minutes, watching him eat his sandwich, saying 5 − 2 = 3 with his mouth full until he finished, swallowed, mumbled: 5 − 5 = 0. I gave him extra credit when he wiped his mouth and said: That was a prime cut of meat.

  Elmer’s dad thinks I want to take over his address business, I said.

  Mr. Smith laughed the smoke into the bubble. See? he said. You’ll be fired in no time. We can start our own school, all math and science. Now that’ll be a hit.

  I put one shoe on my other shoe. He lifted the wand, very gently, up. The bubble slithered out.

  About the other day, I said.

  He shook his head. Go, he said to the bubble. You had your opinion, he said to me.

  I pressed my heel down into my toe.

  Lisa was doing cancer, I said.

  Yeah, he said. I know. That girl just loves to do her cancer. These are actually her cigarettes, he said.

  The heel dug deeper into the toe. I could feel my heart moving around in my ribs.

  I think it’s an
awful assignment, I said.

  He tried to finish and close off the smoke-filled bubble, but right before it completed, it popped. Poof.

  Shit! he said. He put down the wand for a second and looked at me, rolling his mind back to the last thing I said.

  That’s okay if you do, he said. I don’t.

  Then he turned his attention back to the bucket. Stirred the soap mixture with his hand. I’m just learning how to do this, he said.

  I imagined draping a slow-moving rainbow of bubble around his body, and watching it surround him, an aquarium. I was thinking about him liking his assignment. Trying to understand how anyone could possibly like that assignment.

  You know her mom has some kind of new cancer, right? I asked.

  He flicked a few ashes. Sure, he said. That’s why she picks it.

  And her mother is dying, you know that too, right?

  He looked at me flat in the eye. Sure, he said. That’s why she picks it.

  He didn’t move his eyes, and shook the string in his hand. I put my foot down and started to turn toward the door.

  Leaving? he asked.

  I didn’t answer.

  I wish you could see a whole one, he said. They’re amazing. But the wand is broken or something, he said.

  I was about to walk to the door but I hadn’t moved yet. Stayed put. Nodded. I stared at him. He exhaled loudly. I nodded a second time. I nodded a third time. But I knew I could do it; that wand was not broken. I put my shoe back on my shoe, wobbling in the shadows, while burst ghosts of bubble shimmied into the air.

  Can I try? I asked.

  He blinked, cigarette/dart burning a small red circle in the air, poised to be thrown.

  It’s hard, he said.

  Just to try, I said.

  He shrugged and held forward the wand and the cigarette, which burned low, almost down to its filter.

  I have to go back in ten minutes, I said, breathing in the soap smell of the bucket.

  You can make one in ten minutes, he said, maybe.

  I have ten minutes, I said again.

  I took the wand awkwardly—it was sticky and slick—and dipped it into the soap bucket. I picked the cigarette from his fingers and let it stick out from my knuckles.

  He stood back by the climbing structure, and let me be. He didn’t do that thing that some men do, holding my elbow and guiding me through the motions, and I was so grateful that he wasn’t touching me that I wanted, suddenly, acutely, for him to touch me.

  I lifted the wand from the soap bucket and let the excess drip off. Someone inside the school broke something made of glass and there was a burst of laughter and a few murmurs of concern.

  I held up the wand, windowed by soap. I pulled back on the string and the bubble began to poke out its face, slippery and glimmering.

  My hand slacked on the wand and the bubble started to recede.

  Careful, he said, four feet away, rising up on the balls of his feet. Keep a tight hold.

  I did. The bubble stayed put. The smell swept over me. Inside, I heard apologies being made about the broken glass, and I heard the art teacher’s high voice brushing them off—It’s okay, it’s okay.

  I tensed my wrist, and taking the cigarette up to my lips with my other hand, sucked in. The smoke waited, patient, in my mouth, and I raised the swirling bubble with my arm, and released the smoke in a stream into the hole of the wand. It whooshed out of me: white, intimate.

  I got ready to seal up the bubble and he was watching, I could feel him waiting, and I felt the bubble wobbling, and smelled the bucket and breathed in the smoke and I knew right then that mine would work. Mine would seal up, take off, and rise over our heads. A beautiful shuddering pearl in a sphere.

  I felt him waiting for me, and I wrecked it.

  The bubble popped obediently and the smoke spread and thinned in the air.

  Oh, I said. Oh well.

  He was watching me closely. You had it, he said.

  Oh well, I said. I gave the nearby tree trunk a quick knock. My stomach unsettled. It’s hard to do, I said.

  He remained right where he was, by the side of the climbing structure.

  You broke it on purpose, he said.

  I didn’t look over. Was that more than ten minutes? I asked, remembering. Time for me to go. The wand was limp in my hand and I balanced it on the edge of the bucket.

  Do it again, he said. Make a quick one.

  No, I said. I have to go now.

  Hang on, he said. Tell me. Did you? Did you break it on purpose?

  I could feel the night air underneath my dress. I kept the smell of the soap close; I was afraid of him moving forward, of the smoke caving around us, of his man hands.

  He watched me closely. He had lit a new cigarette and was holding it in that same dart way, which looked even stranger now that it was full-length.

  Well, he said, if you can do it, show me how.

  The wand slipped down into the bucket. There was a faint ringing in my ears. I knocked on a tree trunk; the wood was bumpy.

  I feel sick, I blurted. It’s the soap. I have to go, I said.

  He muttered something underneath his breath.

  What? I said, holding out the cigarette to him, almost all filter now. Did you say die?

  He shook his head. He reached over and took the cigarette back, touching my fingers for a second, and stubbed it out.

  I started backing away. My stomach hurt. Thank you, I said. I’ve got to go but thanks, that was great. Sorry about the other day. I hope Mrs. Lunelle doesn’t find you.

  He kept looking at me. He fished the wand from the bucket; it slipped in; he swore, retrieved it, and started to make a half bubble—letting it poke out, pulling it back to flat.

  Feel better, he said. See you tomorrow.

  Thanks, I said, okay. You too.

  I stopped at the door. I could see the art teacher now through a window, rings alive on her fingers, a few shards of glass at her feet.

  He cleared his throat and was about to ask another question.

  But I was now through the door and inside. I was in the bright room of plastic cups and needy parents. He was outside, air dark and clarified, attempting thin brief planets. When I looked back, I could barely see him whispering smoke into the new bubble.

  He was facing the other way now and his T-shirt read COME BACK.

  I got the plant food, said good-bye to my boss and a few key parents, and a special good-bye to Lisa, who was tagging along with Elmer’s family for the night. I let her slap her fist into my open palm for a minute, but my stomach was hurting and I had to go. On the walk home, I knocked on every single tree I passed. On occasion I knocked twice, and so the walk home took twice as long. My stomach was upset and my hands were trembling. I knocked on one tree so hard I ruptured the skin on my knuckle. If I’d stayed, I thought, if I’d made more, what would’ve happened come end-of-evening? What. That lingering by the car door, or the school door, or worst: my front door. That door lingering, I couldn’t do it. I would not touch a man who disagreed, who knew when I folded; I would have to swallow the bucket to combat that. I would have to drink an entire bubble bath. I would drown in that blue bucket of lather and froth.

  That night I lay close to the potted plant, knocking up a storm. I’d finish knocking and then I wouldn’t feel finished and I’d have to knock again. I wondered what glass it was that had broken in the art teacher’s classroom. A water glass? A window. A pair of glasses? A knickknack from Finland. A glass eye? A slipper. My fingers. My skin.

  My glass watch face: break it. Fist down, smash the glass. The two hands halt. The longest ten minutes of my life. Is the ten minutes up yet? I look down. Nope, I say, even though the sun is rising now. Ten minutes aren’t up yet. I have to go in ten minutes but I still have ten minutes left. Let me make another bubble. Let me show you how it’s done. Three years later, all the soap is used and the kids are grown and the air is clear and the bucket is dry. Me and the man are sprawled out on the asphalt
—lungs deteriorated, fingers pruned, legs interlaced. Clean and tired.

  I’m hungry, I tell him, squeezing his hand. He nods, and we slip through the gate into the day.

  14

  The same week of high school that I quit track, I missed a math test. I never missed math tests but woke up that morning and something about the sun through the curtains, rolling out its smooth ivory rays, made me unable to move. The world can ask you to participate, but it’s a day-by-day decision if you want to agree to that proposal. When I didn’t show up in the rest of the house, my mother wandered into my room, put a cool palm on my forehead, declared me tepid, but said I could stay home if I wanted.

  I spent most of the day in bed. I got up once and sat outside, looking over at Mr. Jones’s backyard of dark bushes, thinking of him in front of the class, trying to convey the sweet enigma of x, nobody paying attention with me not there.

  I wanted to stay home all week. I wanted to stay in bed for the rest of my life, until the mattress fell apart and threw me to the floor. I was afraid of going to school, turning a corner, and finding the track coach in her navy blue sweatpants and slight earnest accent, recruiting coltish freshmen. The thought of it made me want to throw up. I tried to stay in bed again the following morning, but this time my mother swatted me out the door. My father drove to work, wearing a suit the color of dirty water.

  I walked the high school halls close to the wall, thinning myself, skittish, buglike, and so, when in math class that afternoon Mr. Jones told me I had to stay after to take the makeup test, I was flooded with relief. Anything to keep me out of the school at large. It’s all word problems, he said. I felt the calmest I’d felt all day in the math classroom, which had both its doors wide open to the afternoon sun. After the bell rang, I stayed in my seat and the rest of the students ran out. Mr. Jones blew his nose and came over to my desk.