The only class that was less than sympathetic was my last—ninth graders tired and irritable at the end of the afternoon. They had made life miserable for the substitutes. More than most classes, this one tested constantly, always trying to see what they could get away with. Even with me, even this late in the school year. They are especially good at hiding their phones, which they are supposed to leave in their lockers. I told the class they would have quizzes if they didn’t do the work and get caught up, and the grades would count. “You know what they say about payback time,” I grinned when they moaned. As the day ended, and the much quieter ninth graders filed out, Ashley stopped in again to give me a ride home.
“Just about ready. Want to come for dinner?” I asked.
“You know I’d never turn down Linda’s magic masterpiece, whatever it is, and besides, I’m starved.” I phoned Linda to tell her. She told me she needed some stuff at the store, and I wrote down her list. At the supermarket, Ashley bought a chocolate cream pie for dessert.
“Funny, you don’t look hungry,” I said. Ashley loves to eat but never gains a pound. He doesn’t cook much when he’s by himself; he reads and munches. As we left the store, I called Linda to tell her we were on the way. She told me to hurry.
“Hi Ash. Put those things on the counter.”
Depositing the bags on the no-longer-new granite, he asked what we were having that went with chocolate pie.
“Everything. Now set the table.” She stirred in some of what we’d brought. “It needs to simmer.”
Dinner was a treat for both of us, especially Ashley. It always is. Linda had made spicy chicken and pasta. She added garlic bread, and we left only the crumbs. We ate in the kitchen at our oversized hardwood table, the site of lots of conversation over the years. We’ve watched the seasons change in our garden from the large bay window and window seat. Linda asked how the day had gone. I told her I was a little tired. “And I have a little headache,” I added, eliciting a glance. I never have headaches.
Ashley said, “Probably a storm coming.”
After Ashley’s chocolate cream pie and coffee, conversation turned to the school day. I told them that the kids had been predictable for once. They wanted to know what it was like to be hit by lightning. But I couldn’t really answer. “It happened so fast, and I was out cold. All I really remember was holding the door for you.”
“Then you don’t remember that I was beating you,” Ashley said. “Too bad.” Then he told me I owed him three bucks. “My last shot was swish.”
“Yeah, but I was standing by the door,” I argued. “What do you mean, ‘Too bad’?” We’d been tied when the lightning hit.
As we began to clean up, I noticed a package on the counter. Linda had gotten a new book to edit from the publisher she works for. There was also a pile for a project for her marketing class at Wharton. She was analyzing the bicycle industry and opportunities she could explore when she finished her MBA. Linda has always loved bikes: riding them, fixing them, and writing about them. Her time in Manhattan created her hatred for commuting, although she loved her part-time job at Bicycle Habitat. She likes being her own boss. Bikes and books. I call her a vocabularian. Masterful at choosing the exact word to fit a treasured phrase. She doesn’t edit; she nurtures.
The first time she met Ashley, we’d gone to a Knicks-76ers game at Madison Square Garden. She cheered as loudly as he did. She’d gone to the gym to watch her brother play ball when they were in high school, and she knew her stuff. She, though, was a bike racer. Early on, she and I would go riding. But it wasn’t the same for her with me trailing along.
Ashley began our ritual after-dinner discussion of the world. He’d read a story about oil companies trying to undermine negotiations in the Middle East. He also asked for Linda’s recipe, ‘though he rarely cooks. I think he takes the directions home, hoping someday he’ll try them out on someone. Evening was passing, and after a few laugh-filled stories, Linda told Ash it was time for him leave. “I’ll pick you up in the a.m.,” he said.
“Sure, thanks, see you then,” I yawned.
Linda stared at the door Ash had just closed. “I’m worried about him.”
PERFECTLY FITTED white dinner jacket, red carnation boutonniere, his prom night had begun perfectly. Pulling the wrist corsage from the fridge . . . how could she leave with another guy . . . who was that guy . . . didn’t know she was leaving, but she didn’t come back with the gaggle gone to the girls’ room . . . Mom said, “There’s more than one fish in the sea.” . . . But she wasn’t a fish.
Ashley laid the book down, glanced at his watch, and went to bed. He had to be at work in four hours.
Chapter Four
I WAS WORRYING about how Friday would unfold when I heard Ash honk. I felt wobbly as I walked under the ancient maple, which was still dripping from overnight rain. It must have shown because when I got in the car, Ashley had ruts between his eyebrows, his concerned look. I told him I still had a headache.
“You could take the day off, you know.”
“No. It’s Friday, so I’ll have the weekend to gather steam.” I closed the door gently because Ash babies his car. “I’ll be ready by Monday.”
Twigs rocked like a miniature armada in the parking lot’s puddles, reflecting the turbulence above. A gust of wind overturned a trash can and sent its contents our way. We hurried inside. Ashley went to his class; I went to the principal’s office. When George McAllister came out to the anteroom, he asked, “How are you feeling, Fritz?”
“Not as good as I’d like, still have a slight headache. George, I just wanted to talk about half-days. Is that possible until I get up to speed?”
“Today?” George asked. I think irritated is his middle name.
“I don’t know. I’ll try to get through today. I was just checking if you had been serious yesterday, in case I’m still shaky on Monday.”
“Well, let me know as soon as you can.” He has a quiet bark.
“Okay. Thanks.” I headed for my classroom. On the way, I passed Walt Houston, who said, “Fritz, you don’t look too good” and Helen Green, who asked, “Are you feeling okay?”
Do I look that bad? I wondered. I stopped in the boys’ bathroom and looked in the mirror to see if I could see what they were seeing. What I saw looked pretty normal to me, but with hairs beginning to cover my ears, I knew it was time to visit the barber.
“When you’re that good-looking, anything less is bound to be bad” came from the corner. Joe Rosenberg, the chem teacher, had a paper towel crumpled in his hand.
“Thanks Joe,” I said. “Glad you’ve learned to read minds. Seriously, do I look sick to you?”
“You look tired, but that’s chronic with teachers.” He tossed the towel in the trash. “I’ve been tired for ten years.” Checking his watch, he headed out the door, and I followed.
As first period began, it was raining again, with thunder and lightning as complements. “Settle down, everyone.” I knew I wasn’t on top of my game. At the crack of thunder, I looked at the drops tapping on the window and said softly, “April showers.”
Voices through the class responded, “bring May flowers.”
I turned to them and asked, “And what do May flowers bring?”
“Pilgrims!”
I thought, Pavlov was right. Smiling at them, I knew they were on top of theirs.
“Let’s talk about your homework. Who didn’t do the reading?” Bill Carlson’s hand went up. “Any excuses?” I asked.
“No,” said Bill, shaking his head.
“Not even a little one?”
“Nope.”
Before my accident, we had been talking about the changes taking place in Europe, especially Germany, in the 1870s. I asked the class how far they had gotten. The First World War, someone said. So I asked how the war started. No hands, dead silence. “Okay, choose sides. World War I baseball. Bill, pitch. Janet, you’re one captain and,” looking for the least enthusiastic face, “Louise, you’re the
other one. I’m the umpire.”
As the class split up, the kids moved the desks to create our diamond, and I extracted a paper-clipped, dog-eared sheaf of questions from my desk. Bill took the list. I sat just behind him. “Batter up,” I announced.
Up stepped Janet. Teachers aren’t supposed to have favorites, but she’s special: attentive, inquisitive, and kind to everyone. And polite. “May I have a single, please?”
“Whose assassination started the war?” Bill asked.
“Archduke . . . I know it starts with an F. Freddy?”
“I’m calling that a foul ball,” I said. I asked myself later if I’d been playing favorites. “Give her a new question, Bill.”
“OK, Mr. R. Which general commanded the U.S. Army?”
“General Pershing.”
“Take first base,” I said. I’m a great umpire. She went to the first-base desk.
“Next batter.” Up stepped Dana Goldsense. “Double, please.”
Bill asked, “What was the American military force in France called?”
“The army?” Dana offered.
I said, “Wrong. American Expeditionary Force. You’re out. Next batter.” Louise’s team cheered.
The next batter was Steven Chew. “Single, please.”
Bill asked, “Who was the president of the United States during WWI?”
“Franklin D. Roosevelt,” said Steven.
“Are you all reading ahead?” I asked, shaking my head. “Wrong war. Woodrow Wilson. You’re out. Two down. Next batter.” Steven frowned.
Harry James was next up. “Triple please.”
“Trying to drive in a run, Mr. James?” When we play baseball, I also offer both play-by-play and color commentary.
Bill found the list of triples and asked, “What future U.S. president was an artillery officer in WWI?”
“Eisenhower?”
“Nope, he was in charge of training the army’s tank corps. Never left the country. The answer is Harry Truman. You’re out. That’s three outs. Louise’s team is up.”
The first batter for Louise’s team was Dylan Lake. “Home run.” Dylan is a sponge. I think he hears every word I say and remembers them all.
“Swinging for the fences,” I said. Dylan took a fake swing.
Bill’s next pitch, “Who were the primary signers of the Treaty of Versailles?”
“England, France, Germany, and the United States,” said Dylan without a hesitation.
Bill looked back at me. “Hmm, that’s technically right, but we were looking for Lloyd George, Clemenceau, Woodrow Wilson, and the German, Mueller. Umpire huddle.”
I leaned over to Bill. “Home run?”
“I think so, Mr. R,” said Bill.
“Home run.” His team cheered as Dylan touched each of the desks, his other arm raised above his head in celebration.
Next was Vicki Ann Brothers. “Single, please.”
“When the war was over, what did people call the last day?”
“Susan,” shouted Harry James. We all laughed.
“Wrong.” Harry was still laughing. “Besides your team’s not up. So you guys only get two outs next at bat.” Dana punched Harry on the arm.
“Ouch,” he grumbled.
“Your answer, Vicki Ann?”
“Decoration Day?”
“You are all warriors,” I said, “but for the wrong wars. Armistice Day. You’re out. Next batter.”
Sherry Steinberg asked for a double.
“What country quit fighting WWI?”
Sherry hesitated. “All of them?”
“Good answer but wrong. The Russians actually left the war in 1916 at the beginning of the Russian Revolution. The rest didn’t quit but surrendered. Or won. You’re out, Sherry, but like I said, smart answer.” Sherry went to the back of the line, but smiling.
“Thanks, Mr. R,” she said.
The next batter was Johnny Autumn.
“Single,” Johnny said.
“What rank was Adolf Hitler in the German army during WWI?” asked Bill.
“He was a private.”
“That’s three outs. He was a corporal.”
The game continued through a couple more at bats for both teams. When the bell rang, the score remained 1-0. Louise’s team won. The kids put the desks back.
With a bright flash of lightning and a sharp crack overhead, the classroom briefly looked like a Phillies night game. I walked out and let the door close. Ashley was outside his classroom, two doors down on the opposite side of the hall. I waved and opened up for the next class.
“How’s it going,” Ashley called.
“Easy, played baseball,” I answered.
Ashley said, “Isn’t it great to have a trick up your sleeve for those bad days?”
“Yup. Wanna come for dinner? I’ll call home.”
“Sure,” he said.
As my next class started to enter, I waved to Ash. Going through the door, I thought about how the room exuded boredom. Straight rows of desks, walls painted what you might call institutional blah. Sometimes that’s how I feel. I keep two maps hanging on the front wall: the U.S. and the world. And I still use the blackboard and chalk, which helps keep everyone awake. Four large windows look out onto the school’s semi-circular driveway and main entrance. The kids watch the cars and the weather. I watch the sky.
My second period class is Twentieth-Century World History, all seniors. Good, I thought, the Sixties. The class entered with more than the usual chatter. They had spring fever and senioritis.
“OK, class. We didn’t do anything yesterday. Let’s get caught up, okay? Where did the substitute leave off?”
Melissa Nicholas raised her hand and said, “Kennedy’s assassination” before I could call on her.
“And did you all do the reading?” Heads shook yes, and hands went up. “Everyone? You suddenly start to do your homework while I’m out?”
“The sub scared us,” said Marjorie Cousins.
“I’ll have to try that,” I grinned. “Okay, let’s back up a bit. What about 1963 was most important beyond the president’s assassination?”
The first hand up was Susan Adams’s. “Mr. R, I don’t think there was only one thing. The Civil Rights Movement was very active, but there were a lot of events that mattered.”
“Which ones did you have in mind, Susan?”
“Well, President Kennedy signed the Equal Pay Act, you know equal pay for equal work, but that’s still an issue, Mr. R. Why do women still get paid less if there’s a law?”
“Susan, that’s a good question. I don’t know the answer. But here are some of the pieces. For one thing, many jobs aren’t covered by federal law. Also, most employers don’t post their pay scales publically. They offer a job and wage, and if someone accepts it, that’s what it is for that person. But studies show that women don’t bargain as hard. Maybe they expect to be shot down, and bosses prefer to save a dollar rather than offer them as much as the men. But we all know that pay discrimination is still with us. Even today, women make only seventy-five percent of what men are paid for the same job.” Three girls and two boys booed. “That’s a government statistic. Thanks for asking, Susan. Maybe we’ll have a chance to discuss it more. Back to 1963. What happened in the Civil Rights Movement?”
Walt Bridges raised his hand. “March on Washington, Mr. R.”
“What about it, Walt?”
“Every year there’s something about it on the news. Thousands of people went to Washington to protest discrimination. And Martin Luther King gave his big speech at the Lincoln Memorial.”
“Have you all heard Dr. King’s ‘I Have a Dream’ speech?” I looked around at mostly blank faces. “No one?”
Peter Panzoni raised his hand. “I’ve heard parts of it, Mr. R. Lots of us have. But it happened more than fifty years ago. Why does it matter today?”
“Does anyone want to answer Peter’s question?” I looked around for volunteers, and some kids looked almost ready. I waited.
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Dick Powers spoke up. “Mr. R, first of all, I read somewhere that it was one of the greatest speeches in American history. And it affected lots of people. But I think it matters now because there’s still discrimination. Maybe not like the fire hoses and police dogs in Alabama back then, but what about with Hispanics and most immigrants. And gay people. And Native Americans. That speech was about all men are created equal, including women.”
“Good, Dick. Did you forget African Americans? The issue is still with us, isn’t it?”
“Sorry, Mr. R. I didn’t forget. African Americans too.”
“Can someone tell me how we know that we are still waiting for Dr. King’s dream to come true?” I could tell this was a difficult discussion for these mostly middle-class kids, almost all of whom were white.
Susan raised her hand. I nodded to her to go ahead. “Mr. R, African Americans make less money than white people. They have higher unemployment rates. Fewer of them finish high school. It seems every time there’s a bad statistic, minorities lead the bad things.”
“Good answer, Susan. Class, we don’t have enough time today to discuss all the issues you’ve brought up. But I want you to think about what makes your freedom so special and which of YOUR freedoms other people shouldn’t have.” There was a murmur, an undercurrent at my loaded question. “In 1963, President Kennedy also gave a speech on civil rights. He said we should all want the equality for everyone that we want for ourselves. His speech was two months before Dr. King’s. In 1963, another speech, by Governor George Wallace . . .”
Susan interrupted. “He’s the one who stood in the doorway to keep students from entering the college, wasn’t he, Mr. R?”
“He was, and in his inauguration speech, he said, ‘Segregation now, segregation tomorrow, segregation forever.’ That was the world then, and that was the context when President Kennedy proposed a federal law to end discrimination in public accommodations, like hotels and restaurants. The Justice Department began to play a bigger role in lawsuits to make sure it happened. He also talked about desegregating public schools and protecting voting rights. Does any of this sound familiar? Class, I’m not going to preach about this. But for homework, I want you all to read President Kennedy’s Civil Rights address and Dr. King’s ‘I Have a Dream’ speech. There’s video of both on the class website. Watch them. Pay attention to how they frame the issues and the rhetoric. We’ll talk more about all this next week.”
Storm Portal (Quantum Touch Book 1) Page 2
