You Don't Know Me

by David Klass

  “So, John,” he says, “you are the one.” And he lets out a long, tortured sigh. “I don’t mind telling you that this is the part of my job that I like the least. You know, young John, this may come as a surprise to you, but I went into education because I actually like children. Treat them well and they will treat you well, I always say. Never mind all these books, that’s my educational philosophy in a nutshell. And then something like this happens. Oh, I know what I should do. I know what I have to do. But still, it is painful for me, and I hope you appreciate that. I am in pain right now.”

  I do not have much sympathy to offer Dr. Whitefield because I have just experienced a total meltdown, and there are still tears wet on my cheeks, and I believe I am still trembling. I also cannot speak, because my vocal cords are tied in knots. So I just nod.

  “Nod your head at me, will you?” Dr. Whitefield demands, panic audible in his voice for a split second. “Well, you are an impertinent one! Do you think you can intimidate me with a little head movement? Do you see this button here on my desk? I have only to press it and Mr. Kessler and Mrs. Friendly will be in this room in five seconds to restrain you. And if they can’t handle you, they will summon Mr. Waterman, the wrestling coach. So if I were you, young fellow, I would dispense with the arrogance and insubordination and just sit there and listen. You might learn something.”

  I sit very still and wait for Dr. Whitefield to speak. He is, after all, the only person at our entire anti-school with a Ph.D., and no doubt he has some important truths to share with me. We sit in silence for a long time. As he studies me, his forehead wrinkles toward the center, so that his eyebrows appear in momentary danger of tangling with one another, in which case I believe a landscape gardener would have to be summoned with hedge clippers to shear them apart. But gradually his face unfurrows and he opens his learned mouth. “I am in pain,” he tells me again. “I hope you appreciate that. I feel personally wounded and put upon.”

  He waits for a response. I dare not nod my head. So I just sit very still and look back at him.

  “Ice me, will you?” he asks angrily, slamming a palm down on the great oak desk. “All right, then, I’ve dealt with surly, incommunicative students before. This is a bad business, young John. Let’s have an end of it. But you should know something. I grew up with Kitty Bradford. Bradford was the maiden name of your algebra teacher, Mrs. Gabriel. We all called her Kitty in those days—I can’t remember exactly why.”

  A tiny blush of color appears in Dr. Whitefield’s cheeks for a moment. When he speaks again, his voice sounds slightly softer in tone. “She was a lovely, gentle girl,” he remembers. “We both went through this school system from kindergarten through high school. I was a few years ahead of her, of course, but I certainly knew who she was. I daresay most of the young men of this town took notice of Kitty Bradford.”

  He pauses, and licks his lips. Dr. Whitefield, were you sweet on Mrs. Moonface? Was she your Glory Hallelujah? Let me assure you, I meant her no harm. You and I are on the same side here, Dr. Whitefield. Even though I have had a meltdown and am nearly incapable of rational thought, you must believe that I would give my right arm if I could undo what has been done. Even though you have a Ph.D., you may not fully grasp that private thoughts are occasionally blurted out as spoken words without the necessary editing process. Harmful words occasionally force their way out of innocent mouths like floodwaters through dikes and dams, spoiling the best efforts of good people to contain them.

  “Kitty Bradford was as smart and sweet and lovely a girl as I have ever had the pleasure of meeting,” Dr. Whitefield informs me. His fingers drum on the desk for a moment, as if counting back through the years. “Lovely and brilliant. She was a math prodigy, who won a partial scholarship to a famous college and probably could have gone on to make a significant contribution in her field. We stayed in touch, by occasional letter, during her college years.” His fingers stop drumming on the desk and the office is suddenly very silent.

  “I was a bit surprised when, upon graduating, she forsook more advanced mathematical training and chose to come back to this town and teach algebra, and to marry one of her high school classmates who was a noted athlete in his day, but perhaps not her equal in the intellectual sphere. At the time, and even more strongly when I later returned to this school system myself, in a high administrative capacity, I felt it was an unfortunate choice.” He pauses, and I see him swallow and clear his throat. “But I suppose she loved him.”

  Again the fingers drum on the desk, I believe to mark the loss of years that could have been spent more happily. “Time passes,” Dr. Whitefield muses sadly. “Day follows night. The best hopes of men and women are dashed. It’s not for me to tell you, of all people, Mrs. Gabriel’s trials and tribulations. But I will share with you that her marriage broke up several years ago, and that I believe it ended very painfully for her. And it’s certainly no secret that she has a relatively serious medical condition with an attendant skin malady—which she has battled against bravely, but which has certainly affected both her health and her appearance.”

  Dr. Whitefield suddenly frowns at me, and jabs a finger in my direction as if ordering his eyebrows to go out and get me. His massive eyebrows obediently uncoil from atop his eye sockets, slither across the polished oak desk, wrap themselves around me like two anacondas from the Amazon basin, and hold me there so that I can barely breathe.

  “Mrs. Moonface, wasn’t it?” Dr. Whitefield demands. “Who can compete with teenagers for cruelty? Well, your outburst today in math class appears to have been the final straw. I was summoned to the ladies’ faculty bathroom, where Mrs. Gabriel—Moonface to you—was having a breakdown. I fear she will not be teaching at our school for a while. I have relieved her of her duties so that she may recover.”

  He stands, and paces in front of the window. “And I am relieving you of your duties also. You are now suspended from our school. I would, if given half a chance, recommend expulsion to the Board of Education, but since no physical violence was involved, I believe they would not support it. So I shall have to settle for a week’s suspension, to be followed by daily afterschool detention and certain other penalties that I shall arrange as I have time to consider the matter.”

  He stops pacing and turns to face me. I believe our little session is almost at an end. “I must say,” he adds, “that one of the most puzzling aspects of this particular case is that you seem to come from good people. I just got off the phone with your father, who impressed me. He is on his way here to pick you up. He was not at all pleased with what I had to tell him. He assured me that he will deal with you with a firm hand. And that’s about all I have to say to you, John. Now do me a favor and get the hell out of my office.”

  22

  Floating

  It is a strange thing to be suspended from school for a week. It really does feel like I have been upended and uprooted and that my feet are no longer on solid ground. I get up every morning, programmed by years of training to go to school, only to realize that school will not have me. The hours pass by slowly, with no school bells to kick them forward. I go for long walks through my town that is not a town, and through other nearby towns, and of course see no other kids my age. They are all in their classrooms, at their desks, rooted to their lives. I alone am suspended, hanging upside down like a bat left behind in an out-of-the-way corner of a dark cave, blind and isolated.

  Every morning I wake up early and fix breakfast for the man who is not my father. And every evening I microwave dinner for him, and then clean up afterward. If he does not like what I prepare, or if my serving or cleaning skills are not up to par, he lets me know with a good hard WHOP.

  You do not know me, so you cannot possibly know how I loathe this man. I hate his comings and goings, the way his boots thud on the floor when he enters or leaves our house that is not a house—I hate every mean or sly or angry word out of his mouth, and I even hate his silences.

  The man who is not my father has fol
lowed up on his promise to Dr. Whitefield to deal with me with a firm hand. I am not certain whether the hand in question is his left hand, which he holds me with, or his right hand, which he WHOPS me with. A new form of punishment was introduced on Tuesday, which also required a firm hand. When he brought me home from school after my meltdown, he took me down into the basement, and he whipped me with his belt. His belt is broad and made of leather, and while it stung and reddened long bands of skin on my sides, arms, and legs, it did not cut or draw blood, so I believe the lashing left no permanent scars.

  If you have never been whipped, let me assure you that it is more painful and far more humiliating than an occasional angry blow from a hand or kick from a boot. It is actually something that should probably only be done to vicious animals, and even then only as a last resort. You hear the person who is whipping you breathing deeply, because it is hard work to lash someone. You sense their arm drawing back and up. Then you can actually hear the belt whistling down at you, till it makes a loud WHAP sound as it stings your back or side. You do not think of resisting or running away, because that will only intensify the beating. All you can do is try to protect yourself, and wait for it to end. I took the blows crouching over, nearly kneeling, my hands in front of my face.

  “If you’re trying to screw up on purpose, to make trouble for me with your mother, I’m way ahead of you.” WHAP. “You will never, ever, ever, screw up in school again, you little turd.” WHAP. “You’ll go back next week and be a perfect little scholar, and not a word of this to your mother. Or you’ll regret it the rest of your miserable life.” WHAP. “Do you hear me?”

  “Yes sir.”

  WHAP. WHAP.

  Since then, not an hour goes by, whether I am lying in bed reading, or watching TV, or walking through the streets of our town, when I don’t suddenly remember that belt descending on me in our basement. I recall how my eyes, which I thought my school meltdown had drained of tears, squeezed out new ones as I held up my arms to protect my face. I remember how my vocal cords, which I thought were too tangled to produce loud sounds, produced loud, fearful whimpers. Most of all I remember the voice of the man who is not my father, and how much I hate him, and how completely powerless I was to stop him.

  I am ashamed to admit that at least twice in the days since that beating I have had the clear thought that perhaps the frog who pretended to be my tuba was right after all. Perhaps an end to pain is better than pain.

  On the outskirts of my town there is a five-story water tower. I climbed it on Wednesday afternoon and stood at the top, all alone. The wind blew and I put my arms out like a sail, and the sun shone and I thought, “Why not? Why not now?” I imagined with some pleasure sailing out high over our town. Perhaps I would land on the roof of my house that is not a house, and crash in through the bedroom shared by my mother and the man who is not my father, hopefully bringing the whole house down with me. Or perhaps I might sail in through the window of my anti-school, streaking like a comet into the office of Dr. Whiteheld to come to rest in a crater right in the middle of his oak desk.

  There are some detergents and cleansing products in the cabinet below our sink that, according to their labels, are highly poisonous. I am ashamed to admit I also considered mixing up the old witches’ brew and taking a long, final gulp. That would get Mom home from Maysville on the first bus available. That would show Mr. Kessler and Dr. Whitefield that I am sorry for what happened to Mrs. Moonface. That would show all of them!

  But I did not jump and I did not drink. Both of those are not honorable ways out—they are surrenders without terms. I hold this truth to be self-evident: An army has to keep resisting, even if the tide of the war has turned against it. Even if it is winter in Valley Forge. Even if it is dangerous, and painful, and so very, very lonely. One must go on fighting—it is the only honorable thing to do.

  No one has called from school. No one has stopped by—no friends, or friends who are not friends, or even enemies. As I say, no one has stopped, but twice I believe I have seen Mr. Steenwilly pass slowly by my house that is not a house in his old blue Chevrolet. I do not know why he keeps driving past. Perhaps my house is on his way home, and he always cruises by for a little sightseeing, but I have just never noticed it before. Or perhaps he has my house under some kind of personal surveillance.

  My mother called on Wednesday night and again on Thursday. She knows nothing about my meltdown in school, or subsequent suspension. She is still out in Maysville, five hundred miles away. ‘Aunt Rose is getting worse” was the ominous news on Tuesday night. And on Thursday, “The doctors say she may not survive the night.”

  At four o’clock on this cold and bleak Friday afternoon, she calls a third time, with sad news. Poor old Aunt Rose has died. “She didn’t suffer too much at the end,” my mother tells me. “I’m glad I was here for her, to hold her hand. I was the only one. Poor Rose. Such a sweet woman, such a lonely life. I just have to wrap up some loose ends. We’re going to have the funeral tomorrow, and there are some final legal matters to attend to, and then I’ll be home.”

  The man who is not my father takes the telephone and exchanges a few final words with my mother in a sympathetic tone. If she could just see his face as he hangs up and mutters, half to me and half to himself, “Jackpot! Who would have thought the old gal had five thousand tucked away! I bet I’ll find a way to enjoy it more than old Rose ever would have. I just hope your mom buries her cheap.” And with those kind and respectful words, off he drives in his truck.

  The man who is not my father has been away every day since my mom went to Maysville. I believe he is making use of my mother’s absence to participate in an increased number of short hauls. He is, as they say, making hay while the sun shines. This is fine with me. The more he is away the better.

  I seriously consider going to the police with my suspicions. It is possible, however, that the man who is not my father will temporarily give up all illicit activities, whatever that means, now that his wife-to-be is about to come into an inheritance. If I tipped off the police, and they placed him under surveillance and found nothing sinister—which seems more than likely, since he is a very clever man—I would become the villain. No doubt even my own mother would turn against me for telling tales to the police about the man she apparently loves and intends to marry.

  This is the awful position the man who is not my father has placed me in: I know exactly who he is and what he is, but I have not a shred of evidence and no sure way to convince anyone else. For all I know, he is now off in his truck on a nature drive or an ice-fishing expedition. The only thing I know for sure is that he will be home sometime between eight and ten o’clock tonight, demanding his dinner as if he is some lord to whom I owe allegiance.

  Four-thirty passes. I lie in bed trying not to think. Shadows change on my wall. Trees become clouds. Poor old Aunt Rose. But perhaps she is better off. Perhaps an end to pain is better than pain.

  Five o’clock comes and goes. And then, at about five-fifteen, I hear a loud BZZZZ. Someone is at my door. I choose not to answer it. It cannot be good news. “Go away. I am in a state of suspension.” BZZZ. Whoever it is is very determined. But I am more determined. “Go away. You are wasting finger energy pushing that buzzer.” BZZZZZ. Whoever it is leans on the buzzer for ten long seconds. And then I hear a girl’s voice calling me. “John, are you in there?”

  It is a voice that I recognize, although I am surprised to hear it. So I get up off my bed and descend the stairs to the door.

  Violent Hayes is standing there. “Hi,” she says.

  “Hi,” I say back.

  “I brought you some chocolate chip cookies,” she says, holding out a package. I notice that the package has been opened, and two or three of the cookies appear to have mysteriously vanished. Still, it was a nice gesture.

  “Thank you, but I am not hungry,” I say.

  “Well, you may get hungry,” she points out. “Anyway, I brought them for you, so you may as well take them.�
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  I take the package. “Thanks.” Violent Hayes, what are you doing here? You have never come to my house before. I did not know you even knew where I lived. And, if I am not mistaken, you have even dressed up a bit. Are those earrings in your ears? Are you wearing a little makeup? What is going on? Don’t you know that I am in a state of suspension?

  “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

  Violent Hayes, the man who is not my father may return home at any moment. For that reason, I do not do much entertaining at my house that is not a house. In fact, it has been more than a year since I have had a friend over. I believe the last person to come over to my house was Billy Beezer, long before we went to war. “Umm—let’s take a walk,” I suggest.

  “Great,” she says. “I like walks.”

  Violent Hayes and I walk for a long while in silence. She is a big girl and she takes big steps. It is a cold, bleak Friday, and the sun is setting, and I can feel winter coming on. We walk side by side down my block that is not a block, and I like it that she does not say anything. We turn right, and soon we are climbing Overlook Lane. There are more trees and fewer houses up here. My town that is not a town spreads out beneath us in a patchwork quilt of houses that are not houses and streets that are not streets.

  “I’ve been worried about you,” Violent Hayes finally says.

  “I’m okay.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Sure I’m sure.” There is a bit of anger in my voice, and she wisely drops the subject of how I am.

  “We really miss you in band. Mr. Steenwilly is going crazy without you being there to practice your tuba solo.”

  “I don’t play the tuba anymore,” I tell her. “I gave it up.”

  “Are you kidding? I love the way you play the tuba. It’s so soulful. You’re the best.”

  “My tuba is dead,” I tell her.

  Violent Hayes looks at me like she has just discovered that I am from Pluto. Didn’t you know that before, Violent Hayes? Girls are supposed to be intuitive about such things. Did you have to see my green skin and the antennae in my head? “John, are you sure you’re okay?” she asks.