The Spell Book Of Listen Taylor

by Jaclyn Moriarty

  “Doing no more than exploring the boundaries of the admittedly nebulous notion of sense, of course.”

  And of course, I wouldn’t WANT him to leave his wife! That makes no SENSE. Because, see, if he’s the kind of guy who leaves his wife, he’s not a nice guy, and why would I want a not-nice guy? Plus, I would never want to hurt another woman like that. I’m at Feminist Discussion! If I had an affair with Warren, I would betray my own KIND!

  “What we still have to do, you know, is to pin down the power/knowledge paradigm, and colonize Foucault, make him our own. Keeping in mind the Balkanization of the issue, of course,” finished Leonie.

  “Hmm,” agreed Cath, nodding along with the others.

  In the last week of the school term, Cath sat on her living-room floor, wrapped in her quilt, and played with the hole in her tooth with her tongue. It was so cold that the windows had fogged over, and her small electric heater did not know what to do. It made hysterical hissing noises.

  Cath had to make a dentist appointment. She leaned out of her quilt to write in her Filofax, choosing the second Tuesday of the holidays to insert: Make dentist appointment. Then, efficiently, she closed the Filofax. So, that was done.

  “Now, I’m sure you will all have noticed that Sydney is experiencing record-breaking lows even for winter—and this is only autumn!” the weatherman interrupted her. She looked at the TV and nodded her agreement.

  “And you might also have heard some buzz around that snow might come to Sydney. You know what? I’m going to put my eggs in that basket too.”

  “Snow!” said Cath scornfully. “It doesn’t snow in Sydney!”

  But still, imagine if it did! The weatherman was waving an arm over his map, and talking about ground temperatures, a cold front, and moisture on its way. “Or,” he was saying, “let me go out on a limb here—I would not be at all surprised if this turned out to be freezing rain!”

  “Freezing rain,” wondered Cath, imagining a sky filled with long streaks of ice. Dangerous. But what was “freezing rain”?

  “If you don’t know what that is,” the TV was saying obligingly, “take a look at these shots from the film The Ice Storm—see the ice and the icicles everywhere? Turns out they used hair gel for those shots. But if it happens here in Sydney, it won’t be a result of film tricks—no, it will be the result of these zero-degree temperatures we’ve been having. See, rain falls from the warmer sky, hits the colder surface of the earth, and instantly freezes. That’s any surface—cars, mailboxes, rooftops, trees, you name it.”

  “Zero degrees!” said Cath, “No wonder I’m so cold!”

  “Brrrr,” agreed the weatherman.

  She changed the channel to MTV, and waited for a song that would make her cry. Crying would warm her up. She had an apple, but eating made her feel unbalanced, her left cheek aching from all its chewing, and the right side begging for some apple. But if she relented, let the right side of her mouth have some apple, she was sure to hit the tooth with the hole and make it shriek.

  She set the apple on the carpet.

  There were Things-To-Do clumped all around her, and her cat, Violin, trod from Thing to Thing—disrespectful, indiscriminate, like the weather. She took Violin beneath her arm, the bell on his collar jangling, and surveyed her Things-To-Do.

  1. A pile of egg cartons for arts and crafts at school. (Cut out the eggcups so that the kids can glue them to Popsicle-stick rafts. Think up a reason why.)

  2. Cases and Materials on Torts. (Read Chapter 7: Trespass and Assault.)

  3. Letters from her staff-room pigeonhole. (Open.)

  She decided to begin with the letters from the staff room. The first envelope was addressed in elegant gold:

  Cath Murphy, Teacher, Class 2B

  Redwood Elementary, Castle Hill Road

  Kellyville

  Dear Ms. Murphy,

  You may be pleased to know that my daughter (Cassie’s) loose tooth has come out. And the tooth fairy has come and gone.

  I hope you will forgive me for writing again so soon, but I have a small favor to ask. I have just learned that Cassie’s “cousin” will be “attending” Redwood next term—she is one of the Grade Seven students from Clareville Academy, where, as you may have heard, there has been a flood! Apparently, there was a faulty connection that caused a water pipe to burst. So, after the holidays, she and her classmates are being “shipped out” to your school for a month or two.

  I say “cousin,” by the way, rather than cousin, for this reason—I have a sister, Marbie, who lives with a man named Nathaniel, along with Nathaniel’s daughter. Do you see? And it is this daughter—Alissa Taylor, better known as “Listen” Taylor—who is the “cousin” of whom I speak.

  In any case, I am wondering if you might keep an eye on Listen for us? She is beautiful, but perhaps not in the way that young people understand. And she seems to us a very quiet little thing. If you could just look in on her, once or twice—make sure she is not lost in the system—I would be so grateful.

  Again, thank you for being such a delightful teacher to our Cassie, and again, I am longing to meet you at parent-teacher night!

  Best wishes,

  Fancy Zing

  Well, said Cath, rereading the part about what a “delightful” teacher she was. She had heard something about seventh-graders using the new portable classrooms at Redwood next term, but she had only thought, wisely, Billson would never have allowed this if it wasn’t that he’s distracted because he’s so in love with Lenny.

  Now she drafted a polite reply to Fancy Zing, agreeing to look out for “Listen,” and pointing out (for the sake of something to say) that she herself had a toothache today, and wished it was a matter for the tooth fairy! (Who ARE you, Cath Murphy? she scolded, as she wrote.) Then she turned to the next letter in her pile.

  Cath Murphy

  c/o Redwood Elementary

  Re: The Harvey K. Whatsmeyer and Dorothy P. Ruckleman Scholarship in Part-Time Law

  Dear Ms. Murphy,

  It is with great pleasure that we inform you that you have been awarded the Harvey K. Whatsmeyer and Dorothy P. Ruckleman Scholarship in Part-Time Law.

  This scholarship covers the full cost of tuition for your part-time law degree, and offers a textbook and photocopying allowance each term.

  It is awarded to students at the Barhill University School of Law, who are studying law part-time, and seem to be particularly brilliant. Congratulations! We are very glad to have you join the “prestigious” and “exclusive” club of Harvey K. Whatsmeyer and Dorothy P. Ruckleman Scholarship in Part-Time Law holders!

  Your tuition will be paid directly on your behalf, and we now enclose your first textbook check.

  Kind regards,

  The Trustees

  Harvey K. Whatsmeyer and Dorothy P. Ruckleman Scholarship in Part-Time Law

  Cath read the letter over again, noting that the paper was thick, the font elegant, and that a bank check was pinned to the back. Her cheeks began to ache from the smile of it all. She turned the TV loud, danced with her cat, and danced into the kitchen to make celebration chocolate-chip cookies. This is wonderful, she danced, wonderful!

  Still, she thought, in a more reasonable voice, it’s not all that surprising.

  Chocolate chips spilled in a shower to the floor. What did she mean by that? Why should it not be surprising? Certainly, she had never applied for the Harvey K. Whatsmeyer and Dorothy P. Ruckleman Scholarship in Part-Time Law. She had never even heard of such a thing. But she had to admit that she had won a scholarship like this every year of high school, and every year of teachers college. So that, even the other day when she was talking to Warren and Suzanne about how worried she was about the cost of tuition—even then, she was more impatient than actually concerned.

  Violin skidded among chocolate chips as Cath reflected that this sort of attitude—impatient to win a scholarship!—was both conceited and spoiled. Furthermore, such an attitude—unsurprised when she actually won one!�
��was likely to ruin the excitement of almost any happy event. So she collected her excitement about her again, danced the chocolate-chip cookies onto the top shelf of the oven, and danced back to the TV.

  There was one last letter waiting for her, an internal letter, a two-word CATH MURPHY envelope, in handwriting that she knew. She had known that it was there all along, and partly, the careful piles of Things-To-Do and the chocolate-chip excitement at her scholarship letter—partly all those things were nothing more than self-imposed suspense.

  Cath,

  This is just something ridiculous that I made for you. It’s to say thank you, because you helped to make my birthday so special the other day.

  How about we have dinner this Thursday night? In honor of the end of the term. I have a favorite Moroccan restaurant that would do the trick. The 442 takes us to the door, if you don’t want to take that Merc of yours.

  Warren

  Cath looked at the letter as a rectangle of paper. She looked at the handwriting as angles and curls, and finally, she looked at the enclosure. It was a cross-stitched bookmark, stitched with a crescent moon and three stars, all in midnight blue.

  No, well, of course I cannot go. A Moroccan restaurant! The idea! This Warren Woodford had such long, skinny legs that his head was stuck up in the sky. She grew angry at him for a moment, because what did he think he was playing at? What was he doing to her face and her cheeks, and her forearms and the space behind her knees, WHAT DID HE THINK HE WAS DOING, when he sent her the moon and the stars?

  She would, of course, say NO. Sternly and firmly: NO.

  But Warren Wishful Woodford had long, skinny legs and wishful flecks of gold in his wistful eyes. Warren Wishful Woodford was as good as gold can be, and his long, thin fingers had taken up a needle and some cloth. These long, thin fingers had taken her, Cath Murphy, and threaded her, like cotton, through the needle. He had thrust her (Cath Murphy) straight into the cloth (her eyes closed tight against the shock)—then gently, his long, thin fingers had tugged her through the other side. Then down again, and gently, up above the cloth, these fingers had taken Cath Murphy and transformed her into Moon and into Stars.

  Cath Murphy had a beanbag and a slender cat. She had the Harvey K. Whatsmeyer and Dorothy P. Ruckleman Scholarship in Part-Time Law. She was delightful, she was brilliant, she was lucky as a cat, and everything was sewn in midnight blue.

  She took up her pen to reply.

  On Thursday night, at dinner with Warren, Cath leaned forward and told him it was her destiny to be a lawyer. He poured her another glass of wine, and she explained that each year in high school she had received a special award, and it had always turned out to be a book about justice or the law.

  “Every single time?” said Warren.

  “Every single time.”

  “Well,” said Warren. “Who chose the books? It was probably the legal studies teacher or something.”

  “I don’t know,” said Cath, confused. “I don’t know who chose them, but listen to this!”

  “Listen to what?” He poured himself some wine, and held the bottle above the glass, allowing it to drip, drip, drip, until a waiter saw and said, “Shall I bring you more?”

  “Yes, please,” they both said together.

  “Every single career guidance counselor I ever had told me I had to study law!”

  “Hmm,” said Warren.

  “And once. Once! A palm reader told me I was going to be a lawyer. And my star sign often tells me that. And Chinese fortune cookies—no…But once I had a swimming coach, Ella her name was I think—she was some former Olympic champion or something—anyway, Ella told me I did backstroke like a lawyer. ‘Forget the swimming,’ she said, ‘you go straight to law school, little one.’ I was only ten or eleven at the time. And plus, I just remembered, I got offered a scholarship to study law in my last year of high school! Without applying for one! What do you think about that?!”

  She ate a mouthful of couscous.

  “But you still became a schoolteacher,” said Warren admiringly. “You know what you are? You’re a destiny fighter.”

  “Thank you,” she blushed.

  “So what happened? How come you started law this year, Cath Murphy?”

  “That doesn’t count,” she explained. “I had a broken heart. And then I got this leaflet in the mail about a new law school, and the classes were at convenient times, and it was easy to fill in the application form. But, you know, I had a broken heart so it doesn’t really count.”

  “You can’t fight destiny if your heart’s not in it,” agreed Warren. “But what I want to know is, what brain-dead moron broke your heart? Look at you! Would you just look at you? And tell me, who could break that heart?”

  She laughed and looked down at her food. “You know, this afternoon, Suzanne and Katie both tried to get me to go out with them tonight. Suzanne had some theater tickets and Katie had some gallery opening. They were both really persuasive too.”

  “But you chose me,” Warren smiled.

  “Well, I’d already accepted your…Do you believe in omens?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Don’t you?”

  Their eyes caught for a moment, and held, and continued to hold, until Cath felt her whole body tremble.

  “Why?” said Warren.

  “I don’t know. It’s just that we got the 442 tonight, and the Friendly Bus Driver was driving.”

  “The friendly bus driver?”

  “Yes, didn’t you notice him chatting to me when we got on the bus?”

  “Cath, I’m sorry, but who is the friendly bus driver?”

  “You don’t know the Friendly Bus Driver! He comes by Redwood every afternoon—he drives the Glenorie bus? And he always leans out and chats to me while the kids get on board, and he is so friendly, Warren.”

  “And so,” said Warren, gazing at her. “And so, it’s an omen that he drove us here tonight. An omen of what?” He leaned forward on his elbows and stared at her, waiting, while she stared back.

  “Guess what,” she panicked suddenly. “I’m always cutting competitions out of magazines!”

  “Are you?” said Warren archly, leaning back into his chair again and straightening the napkin on his lap.

  “Yes, and guess what else? I practically always win.”

  “Like what? Like what competitions?”

  “Like, I won a free flight to go see my parents in Perth last year, and that’s from a coupon I cut out of a magazine. Always cut them out, Warren. Okay? I don’t mean from big newspapers like the Herald—I never win those competitions, but small ones, like Travel Schmazzle.”

  “Small ones like Travel Schmazzle?”

  “Right,” she said, nodding excitedly. “Or Cat Nap.”

  “Never in my life have I heard of a magazine called Travel Schmazzle.”

  “Or Cat Nap?”

  “No, not Cat Nap either, as a matter of fact.”

  “The Journal of Dreamy Window Boxes?”

  “Cath Murphy, you are priceless. Come home with me tonight.”

  “Well, how about Elf Epistles? I won a blender from them. Just the other day.”

  “Cath, you are beautiful. Come home with me. Please.”

  The next day, the last day of term, Cath watched Warren through the window of the classroom, and felt the chill of the ice storm in her chest. Because: What if that had been her only chance?

  She had not gone home with him. She had ignored his invitation. At the end of the night, she had held her head haughtily and climbed into the taxi, while he watched her through narrowed eyes. Then he slowly pressed her taxi door closed, took one step back, turned his shoulder to the wind, and flagged down a taxi of his own.

  At first, in her taxi, she had felt proud, but she quickly found herself appalled. Her lips ached from not having kissed. She held her arms around her body to comfort it. Because the next day it would be Friday! Breanna would be down from the coast! Then two whole weeks of school holidays, during which time Cath would be
alone with the empty space where his body should be. Two whole weeks during which time Warren would forget their flirtation and remember himself and his wife.

  Cath, you are beautiful. Come home with me. Please. It had been her last chance. If she had just stepped back from the taxi for a moment, and kissed him, just that, the kiss might have held him for the holidays.

  She watched him now in the lunchtime playground, through the iced-over windows of her classroom. He seemed to have agreed to referee a game of rounders.

  Marcus Ellison took the bat, Severino lined up with a tennis ball, and then, in a whirl out of nowhere, there was Cassie Zing. She had been sprinting on the iced-over asphalt, and now she could not stop and was caught in a wildfire skid. Cath, behind the window, gasped.

  But Warren Woodford, calm as snow, took two long strides toward the wildfire. He lowered his body, caught her in her skid, and dusted the ice from her hair. Then, crouching crookedly, he spoke to the children, who moved in closer to hear. Cath saw some of them grinning. She wanted to be there herself, hearing Warren speak. Now she saw Cassie hopscotching back toward her friend Lucinda, who caught her just before she fell.

  From the window, Cath watched as Warren Woodford stood and smiled like a gentle king, and clapped his hands once, meaning: “Right! Play on!”

  Later, sharing bus duty with their shoulders close against the cold, Cath pressed her fingers together through her gloves. What could she say that would hold him until next term?

  “What are you and Breanna doing tonight?” she tried hopelessly.

  Warren cried, “Don’t tell me you haven’t heard! How could you not have heard?”

  “Heard what?”

  “Lenny D’Souza is leaving, and wait, there’s more, she’s leaving today!”