At last he did. “You did pretty well in there, I thought.” She kept her eyes straight ahead. “Oh, sure I did-they think I’m dirt.”
“They know the truth when they hear it. And they know somebody with guts when they hear them, too.” He smiled. “Myrtle got a kick out of it, anyway.”
She looked at him for the first time, jaw set. “So, did you stay behind and have a good laugh?”
He didn’t get it. “About what?”
“About me, about last night?”
“You know I didn’t.”
She turned away. “I don’t know anything.”
“I know what you all think of me. You’re all the same.”
He pulled over to the side of the road and set the brake. She stared straight out the windshield, afraid to look at him, afraid to hear what he would say. If only he would yell. She wasn’t afraid of yelling. She wasn’t afraid of a fight. But this was different. He was so maddeningly calm, so infuriatingly pleasant. She hated it, hated him.
“Hey,” O’Connel said, voice a purr.
No. She was not giving in. She was mad and she would stay mad. She would not look at him and most of all, she would not cry.
He ran a finger lightly down the curve of her ear. “Hey.” Annoyed, she twisted away.
He did it again, and the teasing touch sent an electric shock through her. She swatted his hand. “Stop it!”
“Not until you look at me.” He said it as if he had all the time in the world. “Come on, look at me. I’m waiting.” She turned to face him. “You are a pest, aren’t you! Now, what? What do you want?”
“I’m not everybody else.” She closed her eyes, the fight going out of her. Damn! How did he do that? Take the best she could dish out, and somehow turn it around so she felt disgusted with herself for being angry? Her car upside down in the creek, frame exposed, her lovely car ruined. She might have been inside it. She did not want to think about that. She looked down at her hands on her lap, teeth clenched, eyes filling. “I know, I know you’re not.” It was true—he was like no one she had ever known.
“Look at me! I’m wearing your wife’s clothes, my car’s under water, last night…” She slapped her forehead with both hands in a fit of frustration until he captured them, holding them pinioned on her lap.
“Hey, hey, hey.”
“I don’t know what I’m doing, what I’m saying anymore. And tonight…”
He shrugged. “Tonight’s tonight.” He pushed the hair from her face, and she didn’t pull away this time. “It’s all right, you look fine. Now let’s just patch your mom’s roof, okay?”
Calmed by his stroking, by his voice, she wiped her eyes with the heels of her hands. It was no use, she was too weak to hate him. “Okay, then,” she said, defeated. “Let’s go.”
• • •
Outside her mother’s house, she was suddenly anxious.
Oh, Mae, please, please be good.
Solange had told her over the phone they wouldn’t be staying long, but she knew she wouldn’t listen. Now she came out the front door stepping stiffly down the steps, worn apron tied about her.
She’d been cooking, of course.
Trembling, Solange looked over at O’Connel, tried a brave smile.
“Your mother, she’s dead?” He nodded.
Her mother, hands folded across her apron, waited smiling on the crumbling walk. Oh, God. “You’re lucky.”
“You don’t mean that.” He smiled easily. “Look, don’t worry, I know all about mothers. We give them hell for the first twenty years, and they give us hell for the next twenty. It all works out.” Solange smiled, shut her eyes for just a moment, dreading what was coming, then opened the door. “Here goes.”
The sky hung dark above them as she introduced him among the shriveled ghosts of hollyhocks, small mongrel dog dancing about them just out of reach.
Her mother took his hand demurely, exhausting her arsenal of English by saying hello. Smiling pleasantly, she lapsed into the vernacular.
“And who is this? Why have you never told me about this one?” Solange smiled uncomfortably at O’Connel, unsure how much he might understand. “Mae, I told you, he’s just a friend.” She turned up the voltage in her eyes. “Now don’t embarrass me. You promised you wouldn’t.” She turned to O’Connel. “She says it was very nice of you to come.” He seemed embarrassed by this, and said he’d better get to it.
Taking the ladder off the rack, he scrambled up on the roof to try to beat the next wave of showers, as they stood below watching him work.
Her mother tapped the toe of one worn flat-heeled shoe, mouth pursed in concentration. “Is this his work, fixing roofs?” she said in a gravelly baritone.
“He’s a teacher, Mama, I told you that.”
“Hmm— A handsome man. How is it he is not married?”
“He was.” She turned, pursing wrinkled lips in curiosity. “And now?”
“She was killed in a car accident two years ago.”
“Ah,” she said mournfully, “sad, and now he is lonely for a woman.” She shrugged humped shoulders. “Such is the way of it.”
What was the use of telling her anything if she refused to hear? “Mama, please—”
Her mother frowned, looking her over. “What are you wearing? These clothes are not well on you.”
“They’re not mine, they’re his wife’s.”
“His wife’s?” This sank in. “How is that?” Her face became stern as she pinched seed heads off hollyhocks with strong stubby fingers, spreading them over the ground. “Well do I know you are a girl no longer, minha pequenina,” she said, voice an adamant whisper. “But no one buys the hen who has eggs for free. This you must have learned by now.”
Solange sighed deeply, regretting her decision to come. She should have known it would be like this. Nothing ever changed. Not here, not with her mother.
Solange called up to him, and he came to look over the edge of the roof. “How are you doing up there?”
“Okay, she’s got some pretty bad cracks. I just hope I have enough of this stuff”
“How long will it take?” He shrugged, returning to work. “Fifteen, twenty minutes.” Solange closed her eyes. That long?
“Yes,” her mother said, “a handsome man. How long have you known this one?”
Solange sighed, giving herself up to the ordeal. “A week really, just a week,” she said, hoping the understatement would cool her interest.
Her mother’s eyes grew wide. “What? And you make him work on my roof in the rain? A husband does this, a lover perhaps…. What are you thinking? Are you trying to scare him away?”
She didn’t know if she could stand another fifteen minutes of this. “Mama, it was his idea.”
Wrinkles grew about her mother’s eyes the way they did when she was confused. “His idea?” Then growing enlightenment. “Ah, meu deus, this one must be in love.”
“Mother, I told you, “ she paused to gather her will to press on, “he’s just a friend.”
Her mother laughed, a deep, throaty laugh, a laugh with wings, a laugh that rolled up into the air like startled birds. “Oh, es tola! You are a fool if you think a man climbs a ladder for an old woman. Oh, no, no, no, no. For friendship? Ha. The question is only what he wants.”
O’Connel came to the edge of the roof smiling, eager to hear the joke.
Pointing to the black curtain sweeping over the hills to the north, Solange waved him back to work, promising to tell him later.
“So,” her mother said, “what is it he wants?”
Solange traced the cracks in the cement walk with her eyes. “I don’t know, Mae, I don’t know what he wants.” Raindrops slapped the walk, more every second.
Her mother lay a calloused hand on her shoulder, smiling knowingly. “Then you are a fool, little one.”
O’Connel came down and they went inside to escape the downpour. In the cramped kitchen, her mother led him to a place at the head of her small table and went to st
ir a big pot.
“Mama, I told you, we can’t stay.” Her mother slammed down the lid with a clang. “And what am I to do with this?”
O’Connel shook the rain from his jacket and hat. “Sweet Jesus, that smells good, what is it?”
Knowing at once from the smell, she didn’t bother to ask. “It’s feijoada—black beans. I told her we couldn’t stay to eat.”
His face fell. “Why’d you do that?”
“Why?” she said, hope for his support fading.
“Yeah, why? We just got here, and anyway, that smells way too good to be beans.”
Solange smiled hopelessly, warming herself in front of the wall heater. “There are pig’s feet in it, too, and linguica, that must be what you smell.” He went over and her mother lifted the lid of the enamel pan so he could smell the simmering beans. He nodded, smiled, licked his lips.
Her mother beamed, sending Solange a smug look. “You go, and I feed to the dog.”
O’Connel looked at her. “Did she say something about a dog?”
Solange hung her head, beaten. It was no use, they could never leave now until they had eaten. “We’ll stay, Mama.”
She served them each a bowl and came to sit with them, waiting eagerly for him to taste his food. He ate with exaggerated gusto, making her smile.
“Tell her it’s wonderful.” Solange told her, and she puffed up with pride before them.
“So, you are a teacher.” Her mother looked to Solange to translate.
Solange set her spoon in her bowl, dreading what must come next.
O’Connel watched her expectantly. “What’s wrong?”
“She asked if you are a teacher,” she said, wondering if she would be sick again. Would the nightmare ever end? She was tired—so tired.
“She doesn’t know,” he said, guessing. “You didn’t tell her, did you?”
“She thinks you’re madly in love with me. Am I supposed to tell her I’m firing you in a few hours? Is that what I’m supposed to tell her?” She was trembling again, and she could see by her mother’s face she knew something was wrong.
He reached over to lay a hand on hers. “You don’t have to tell her.”
She pulled her hand away, eyes tearing. “I don’t lie to her, I never lie to her.”
“Then don’t, just tell her what I say.” He spoke to her mother. “I’m a teacher, but I may not be for long.” He waited until Solange told her, then went on. “There are some people who are not happy with me, right now, and I may have to find something else to do.” Solange translated, and knew from her mother’s expression that she had guessed the rest. Her mother looked at once very old, her mouth set with disappointment. Solange had to look away.
“And you still care for my daughter after all this?” Feeling numb, Solange translated, keeping her eyes on the far wall of the long room.
He nodded. “I care for her very much.”
Solange met his eye then closed her eyes, clenching the rough lace tablecloth in her fists on her lap until her hands ached. She told her mother what he’d said. Then, feeling their eyes on her face she sat mortified as tears scalded their way down her face to drip on the backs of her hands.
She felt her mother’s hands on her face and over her hair. “Come, querida, come.” Her mother led her down the narrow hallway to the chilly bedroom in back and her great humped feather bed, where she allowed her mother to lay her down as a torrent beat overhead.
“You are tired, now sleep.” Solange tried to protest, but her mother’s rough hands on her face and hair were so comforting, so warm.
The bed swallowed her in warm oblivion.
• • •
Awakening to the sound of her mother’s laughter, she panicked.
It was twilight—morning or evening—which she couldn’t tell.
Had she slept through the meeting? Still doped from sleep, she wormed her way out from under the heavy mound of covers and pulled on her shoes. Trying to focus on her watch, she staggered down the hall to blink in the light of the living room.
O’Connel sat with her mother at the kitchen table playing cards.
A stack of family albums lay before them. Not those! She pulled on her coat. “It’s after five, why’d you let me sleep so long?” She tossed him his coat and hat. “Come on, we’ve got to go.” O’Connel thanked the her mother and went out. Scooping up her bag, she leaned down to kiss her mother’s cheek. “So, have you taken all his money?”
The old woman shrugged, gathering the nickels on the wood close under protective arms. “Only to pass the time, sweetheart. After he had seen all your pictures, still you slept. What was I to do? I’m too old to dance.”
Solange shook her head, smoothed the woman’s wiry hair, pressed her face to her mother’s lap. Desperately, she pressed her mother’s hands, looking up into her eyes. “Ah, Mae, what should I do?”
The old woman took Solange’s hands in hers. “This one is not like the others, little one. Try to trust him—just a little bit. And, querida—trust yourself.”
Solange kissed her forehead. “I’ve got to go, Mama.”
Outside, he stood gazing up at the stars through gaps in the clouds. “I think the worst of it’s over, now.”
Climbing in, she slammed the door.
He was wrong about that.
• • •
The trip passed in silence, Solange grateful for darkness. She didn’t want him seeing her face. They arrived at Elk River at ten past seven and he parked in front of the school, away from the thirty or so cars already there. In the silent cab they looked out over valley spread before them. Elk River was at home tonight.
Lights shone from the windows of a hundred small homes.
“Well, that’s it, then,” he said. A moment passed. He looked at his watch, then at her, eyes puzzled. “You’re late, aren’t you?”
She felt as if she were frozen into the blue ice of a glacier, being slowly ground to paste against the rock face. “Yes, I know.”
“I’ll let you go in first so they don’t see us together.” Frozen in the bucket seat, she sat, unable to move, heart stopped.
She wanted to scream, to smash her head through the window, to drag her wrist across the jagged edge. “Does that matter?”
“I thought that’d be the way you’d want it.” She nodded, making no move to get out. “Yeah, sure.”
He laughed.
“My, but you’re jolly,” she said, annoyed. “What’s funny now?”
He flashed a wry smile. “I was thinking this is when the cavalry shows up, when all the screaming supporters flood into the meeting. That’s the way it always happens in the movies.” He wiped fog off the windshield with his sleeve, looking out on the deserted parking lot. “Looks like they’re late.”
She watched him, and something broke inside of her. “I won’t do it.” She whispered it, barely said it out loud.
He cocked his head. “What?”
“I said I won’t do it.”
“Won’t do what?”
She opened her bag, found what she was looking for, offered it to him in the dark cab. “Take it.”
He looked at her as if he thought she might be joking. “A disk? What’s on it?”
“The letters, everything I have on you. I’m giving it back. I won’t help them.” She held it out. “Take it.” She fought the quaver in her voice. “It’s the original. I’ve deleted the copies. The hard copies are at home, I’ll get rid of them later. Without this they’ve got nothing.
Take it.” He looked from her to her hand and back. “That wasn’t part of the deal. I was kidding when I said that.”
Could he be so stupid? “Don’t you know what this is? It’s your job, your career. Does that mean anything?”
He nodded. “Yeah, it means something to me.” Still he hesitated.
He was making her mad, now. “Well, then, will you just take it?”
“It’ll cost you too much.”
Now that was good. As if she did
n’t know what it would cost. “Tell me about it.” Her eyes never leaving his face, she slipped it in his pocket, buttoning down the heavy leather flap. “I’ve got to tell Hugh what I’m doing. I owe him that much.” She opened the door, got out. “You don’t want to be here tonight, it won’t be pretty.”
She slammed the door. “Go home,” she said as she walked away across the deserted lot.
• • •
Alone, O’Connel walked down the road to the creek.
Sweet Jesus, she’d given him back his job.
He reached up to feel the hardness in his pocket, reassuring himself it was still there. She’d given it back. He closed his eyes, resting a foot on the guardrail post. The night was dark under an overcast sky. No moon, no stars, but the wind was up and sometimes the sky changed pretty fast along the river.
He was used to that, those quick changes. It didn’t surprise him any more. Not any more. It was just a part of the place, the way things were. You got used to it.
He took the disk out and held it up to catch the light from the school behind him-no name, no nothing, just a blank disk. Below, the rain-swollen creak ran black and fast. It would be so simple, so quick, so easy just to let it go. It’d be in the river in an hour or two, the sea by morning. So very easy.
Taking the disk by a corner, he wound up for a backhand toss, but instead let his hand fall. He’d be back at school Monday, but what about her? Where would she be? What would his job cost her? Too much. But she’d given it to him, given him back his life. She knew what she was doing, didn’t she? Again he brought his arm up, tensed, faltered.
Well didn’t she? He let his hand drop to his side.
No.
Not that way.
He slipped the disk in his pocket, turning back up the hill.
• • •
The hallways stood empty.
Somewhere upstairs a vacuum droned. Without knowing why, he found his way up to his room. The door propped open, inside, Genaro hummed to himself in his clear bass as he cleaned the chalkboard with a long suede eraser.
“Hey,” O’Connel said.
The man’s round, dark face brightened into a smile. “Hey, what are you doing here?” He offered a beefy hand.
A Terrible Beauty: What Teachers Know but Seldom Tell outside the Staff Room Page 18
