by Nancy Radke
Seeking some way to ease his pain, she asked, "Your Dad took you into the company, though."
"Yes, but reluctantly. He changed his tone when I became their best salesman. I'd meet customers, show them the finer points of the ship and sell it. I’d get them to jot down any customizing they desired. Then I would fill in the amounts and we’d sign. I had Dad's office manager, Donna, type in all the details."
"But if they questioned some part of the contract...?"
"I had Donna go over it with me the first time. Word by word."
"She never wondered why?"
"I told her I didn't want to misunderstand anything. After Dad retired, Richard became the majority shareholder. He took over as head of the company and made me his partner. Donna worked for both of us. At that time I had her go over everything with me. She got into the habit of reading the mail aloud. I made the decisions, dictated the letters, and signed them after she typed them up."
"It sounds like a workable arrangement. What forced your hand?" she asked, turning to lead the way into the library.
"Donna's leaving. She's getting married and moving north to the San Juan Islands. Her fiancé runs a charter boat out of Friday Harbor."
He had fooled many people, over many years, Ellen decided, not realizing he was building a trap for himself, an unbreakable barrier of his own creation.
He yanked out his chair and plopped down. "Donna's been trying to get me to break in a new office manager—which means I'd have to show her what to do. Once Donna's gone—" His eyes narrowed further, increasing the deeply etched lines on his forehead. "I have to learn to read, now! She's leaving in less than three weeks."
"It’s not possible. Reading—learning to read—takes time."
"Aaarah!" His fist struck the table thrice, bouncing the articles that lay on top as he beat out: "I don't have time!"
"I'm not a miracle worker!"
"Can't you do anything?" He appeared ready to panic.
"Oh, dear... let's see. I'll teach you word families. That should speed you up a little."
"Good. We'll start now."
"We might as well." She had the power to change his life. She mustn't fail. Yet already she was as exhausted as if she'd just climbed Mount Rainier.
Ellen looked over the papers he had brought home and picked out some of the more important words. Four hours later she put up her hands. "We've got to stop," she said, yawning and rubbing her face. Concentration had disappeared to where she hardly knew what she was doing anymore. "We've reached the point of diminishing returns."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes," Ellen insisted, standing up and rubbing her neck. It had been the most exhausting teaching stint she had done... ever. Maybe she should ask for more than fifty an hour. He was like a huge sponge, absorbing all she could give, impatient with delay.
He stretched, hands over his head, while remaining in the chair. "That's hard work."
Deep triangles of tiredness showed under his eyes, but she knew he would force himself to keep going. A man of iron resolve, Ellen reflected, pushing himself to accomplish whatever he wanted. He needed to take more breaks, relax a little.
"The way you go about it, it is," she said. It was ten o'clock. At this rate, he would soon learn, if she did not self-destruct. Her brain was fuzzy, yet she could see he was still fighting to keep going.
Even though his eyes ached as if they would never recover, Jared did not want to quit. He did not want Ellen to leave. But since she seemed set on going, he would bring her back soon.
"We'll plan on starting at three tomorrow," he said, tossing the statement out as if it were a reasonable assumption.
"Till when?" she asked, looking at him warily.
"Midnight."
He watched her tuck a few loose strands back into the French twist she wore. He loved the color of her hair, a beacon of auburn which demanded his attention whenever he looked up from the page. Which he did often. To bind her hair tightly like that was a shame... he wanted it released, flowing around her shoulders like water tumbling down a watercourse.
She appeared troubled by the new hours and he wondered if she did not want to spend that much time with him. "Well?" he demanded, when she did not reply.
"On one condition."
"What?" He would give her any conditions she wanted.
"We take an hour's break for supper, a fifteen minute break at eight and stop at ten."
"I don't need an hour to eat."
"You probably don't; you carry no extra weight, but that wasn't why I wanted the break. I need the rest. You might be a superman, but I'm not," she said, gathering her things.
"That's fine with me," he said, happy that her conditions would keep her with him. "I'll fix some spaghetti. Or would you rather have something else?"
"Spaghetti’s fine." She followed him down the hall.
He stopped in the foyer. "I need to pay you, too."
"Once a week is okay."
"No. I'll do it every day. The hours will probably vary so much, it'll be hard to keep track." He reached into his wallet, pulled out several hundred dollar bills and started counting.
"You don't have a check book?"
She did not sound accusing, but it touched a sore spot. "Of course not," he snapped. "I don't know how to write a check. Just one more thing I can't do."
"Jared."
"Yes?" He avoided looking at her velvet eyes. He did not want pity and whenever her voice softened, like it just had, he felt she was trying to coddle him. He did not like that. She was getting into him too fast, peeling away his protection like layers of old paint, stripped from a hull. Soon she would be down to bare wood.
She might not like what she saw.
Ellen stepped nearer. "If you still retain any thoughts about being dumb, I insist you forget them. I have never taught anyone as intelligent as you. That's not to say they aren't out there, but I've never run into them. You're probably above me in IQ."
He did not accept her pronouncement. Give it time... a few more layers stripped off. She'd find out.
"I didn't say that to flatter you," she added. "Or to give you confidence. It's a statement of fact, that's all."
"Huh! I'm glad you think so. I know I can trick people, but that's not the same."
"No it isn't. But you are highly intelligent."
"Thanks." He snapped the word out with a quiet scorn. She was humoring him, probably thinking he'd try harder if she gave him encouragement. He knew better.
"Did you know that Thomas Edison's teacher told him he was too stupid to learn? Or that Werner von Braun flunked algebra in the 9th grade?"
Edison? Dumb? "Really?"
"Really. Winston Churchill flunked out of 6th grade. And Walt Disney was fired because he didn't have any good ideas. There are others, but I'd have to find my list." She flung her hands apart in emphasis. "So you see, reading isn't everything."
"It seems like it is. I even have to memorize my grocery list."
She smiled at his comment, eyes dancing as she shook her head. "Most readers don't have a memory like you do."
"Is that so?" He wished she would smile more often; a real smile—like this one—and not just part of her professional manner.
"I've been thinking about what you said earlier..."
"Huh?"
"About football."
He frowned, wondering why she was bringing that up. "What about it?"
"You said you had trouble with the x's and o's."
"So?"
"So I'd like for you to get a complete eye exam."
Not that again. "I told you, I had one."
"Complete, complete. Tell the doctor you can't read and get a full exam, rather than just finding out how well you can see a letter."
Anger churned within him. He wished she would stop pressuring him this way. His vision was fine; he could see as well as anyone. As a kid, he'd been able to spot hawks and eagles long before any of his buddies. "I'm not telling anyone else I can't read."
>
"It's not a crime."
"No. As long as they don't know, I'm not a victim. I don't feel vulnerable. Once I tell, I turn into somebody who needs help. Someone to pity." He spoke out of the bitterness of long years of watching his every word, every action. She was talking as if it was not important to keep his secret. He hoped he hadn't made a mistake, trusting her. His secret was all he had.
"No one will pity you."
"You think so? Even you do it." He saw her eyes widen in denial, and spoke more harshly. "Sometimes you speak to me as if I am a child."
"I'm sorry. I didn't realize—"
"You may not try to, but you do it. I tolerate it because I want to learn so badly."
"I don't think of you that way, that's for sure."
"How do you think of me?"
She blushed and he wondered why. "Oh, uh...as a man. Definitely as a man. A very capable man."
"But one with a flaw. Half a man." The bitterness still chewed at him, making him almost snarl over the words. "Face it. That's why it's so easy to trick you. You want to help me so much, you go ahead and read for me."
"That's true. But that's the teacher in me. Teachers and nurses and mothers all talk the same way. You can call it my flaw. Anyway, a flaw is only as big as you make it."
"Huh!" Jared laughed silently to himself—a laugh filled with disbelief. He knew how difficult it was to survive with his handicap. She didn't.
Ellen sighed, smiled at him as if she knew better. He wondered if she knew how condescending it looked.
"Anyway, about our bet...." she said.
"I know, I know." He raised his hands. He’d tried to trick her several times—out of habit. "When do you want your sailboat ride?"
"Whenever it's convenient for you."
"How about this Saturday?"
"Fine."
"One o'clock?"
"Sure.” She walked out the door as he opened it. “I'll buy some adult education books to bring tomorrow—"
"No." The word was hard and abrupt, stopping her in mid-sentence.
She stared at him. "No?"
"I don't want anyone to know you're teaching an adult. I don't mind reading kids' stories... just as long as I'm reading."
"I thought you might feel more comfortable with books written for adults."
"No." Secrecy was more important than anything else, even his pride. "Just bring your regular stuff."
The next day, impatient to be with him again, Ellen arrived at three, starting Jared on third grade lessons sheets. To her amazement, he started off without any problem whatsoever. He read with as much haste as possible, impatient and frustrated with his "slow" progress—which to Ellen was rapid.
Then it happened again. He read the long words, but mixed up the short ones—words he already knew—so that nothing made any sense. He stopped and looked out the window, breathing deeply, teeth clenched, one hand slapping the desk top in frustration.
"Let's take a break," Ellen suggested.
"Not yet."
"Then let's alternate exercises. Close your eyes and visualize the words I say."
"I can't learn to read with my eyes closed."
"It's one of the ways I teach spelling," Ellen said, searching for a way to get past his stubborn determination. "You need to learn that, too. If basketball players can improve their game through visualization, you can improve your reading."
"They can?"
"Yes. Amazing things have been done with visualization. There was a concert pianist imprisoned in China for six years, without a piano. When he was released, he quickly went back on tour and played better than ever—all because he had played his music in his mind, every day, note by note. So give it a try. Close your eyes and visualize each word I give you. Then spell it. 'Nation.' It has a 't-i-o-n' ending."
"n-a-t-i-o-n"
"Now try carnation. Starts with a ‘c.’"
He had no trouble with it.
"Good. Try national. Nationality. International; starts with an 'i.'"
He whizzed them off.
"Good job. Now look at them written."
She had deliberately scrambled the word cards among a few others, but he picked them out easily.
By supper time she needed a break. It was after six. How she was going to make it to midnight was a big question. Apparently, except for his eyes, he did not grow tired.
He stood and stretched. "I'll get the spaghetti started." He led the way down the hall to the kitchen. Pulling out a large pot, he filled it with water and set it on the stove. "Salt," he said, throwing some in, "and oil." He looked as if he had the operation down pat.
"Shall I make a salad?" she asked, and at his nod, went to the almost empty refrigerator and pulled out some greens.
For a few moments they worked quietly, like an old married couple, intent on getting the meal underway.
"Coffee?" he asked in his low husky voice.
"Yes. Thanks," Ellen said, at the same time marveling how very happy she was at this moment. Not a laughing, "ha ha" happy, but a sense of well being and profound contentment that made her feel glowing and cherished. Peace resided in the room, accented with the spicy-sweet smell of spaghetti sauce.
Pausing, she looked dreamily out the floor-to-ceiling windows towards the lake, wondering why she felt so content. Was it the time of day combined with the simple act of making dinner? The let-down in stress from trying to teach? Or was it that, in here, Jared relaxed the incessant pressure he maintained during the reading sessions?
The sun lingered as it slowly arced towards the northwestern part of the sky, making shadows long. Its golden light gilded the tips of the tall firs around Jared's home. Colorful sailboats swung out for a last run on blue water with gold tinted whitecaps. And above all, glowing pink and cream in all its majesty, the snow-capped Mt. Rainier.
"With a view like this, how can you work or go to an office?" she asked, glancing back at Jared.
Turning off the stove, he stepped over to enjoy the surrounding scene. "My office overlooks Lake Union," he said. "No hardship there. I like watching boats."
He heated some French bread while she finished the salad. Jared had covered the spaghetti with a tomato-basil-pesto sauce that had a brisk and zesty tang, and they downed the meal hungrily.
"I'm glad you don't pick at your food," he said, stacking the empty dishes in the sink and turning on the hot water. "I hate taking women out who leave the majority of their food on the plate."
"I know. It seems such a waste. Shall I wash or dry?"
"Neither. I'll put them in the machine later. After you're gone. Come on."
Glancing at her watch, Ellen saw that fifty minutes had passed but did not have the heart to insist upon waiting another ten. If only she could bottle some of his enthusiasm and save it to use on reluctant students.
He sat down and picked up the book they were working with, the study lamp emphasizing the prominent bone structure of his cheekbones and brow. She found herself wanting to reach out and touch his forehead, easing away the strain reflected there.
To be truthful, the job—the man—intrigued her. Such a fascinating person. One she wanted to get to know better... much better. He had his hopes, to learn to read.
She also felt a hope forming; one based on the man himself and the link she felt could be formed between them. It was a vague hope. She did not know where it might lead. But it was one she was going to give free rein.
Eventually, she found herself nodding off. "Jared, it's almost eleven," she said, bringing him out of his intense study. It was time to quit... his eyes had been giving him problems for the past few hours. And she felt as if she had done a mental marathon. "Don't you think we should make these sessions a little shorter?"
"I'm sorry. We agreed to stop at ten."
"Right. Even that might prove too long."
"We'll stop sooner, if we need to. I feel like a man in the desert, finally given water. It's hard to quit."
She said a quick good-bye and le
ft, finding herself so sleepy she ended up slapping her face several times before she reached home. When she did, the light on her answering machine was blinking, but Ellen ignored it and tumbled into bed. Everything could wait until tomorrow.
She had barely gone to sleep when the phone rang. Fumbling, she knocked it off its cradle. “Hello,” she croaked out the word. She glanced at her clock. One AM.
"Where were you?" the male voice demanded, young and frightened. "I've been trying to reach you forever!"
*6*
Ellen muttered unintelligible words as she woke up, finally identifying the caller as her youngest brother, Bret. She stared at the lighted numbers on her bedside clock and knew something had to be wrong for him to call her at one in the morning. “Why me?” she asked.
“I’m in sort of a mess.”
His voice sounded worried, almost desperate. He was only fifteen; he was probably exaggerating his situation, but it effectively cleared her mind. “What kind of mess?”
“I’m with Ken. You know. He’s the one who—-”
“Who Mom told you to stay away from.”
“You knew?”
“Yes. Just finding out why?”
“Sort of. He and his friends got some coke and marijuana. They’ve been pushing me all night to try it. Dad would skin me if—“
“You haven’t, I hope?”
“No. But I did try the beer—“
“Bret!”
“Well, everyone else was. What was I to do?”
Ellen rubbed her eyes as she glanced at the clock again. Ten after one. She knew what his next request would be. “Where are you?”
“In Seattle, on Capitol Hill.”
“Oh, great.”
“I can’t ask Dad to come; I don’t want him to know.”
“Can’t you take a cab?” she asked, knowing that Bret would never spend money on cab fare if he could get her to come instead.
“No money.”
“Give me the address.” She rolled over and sat up, reaching for a notepad. It wasn’t that long a drive to Capitol Hill. She wanted Bret to feel free to call on her when he got into jams such as this. Good looking, but somewhat of a geek, he was having a hard time making friends in school. Boys like Ken searched for younger boys like Bret.
