“I’m tired of listening to you,” he said.
“Please let go of me.”
“Not before I teach you a little lesson, teacher.”
Just then, Professor Bible came into the room. I was against the wall, and Meeker still had the front of my shirt and Bible said, “Did you call the police?” in a very calm voice.
Meeker looked at him.
Bible leaned down as though he were trying to look out the window to his right, behind Meeker. “Isn’t that a police car out there?”
Meeker let go of me and patted his jacket down in front, then walked to the window.
“Oh no,” Bible said. “That’s just a cab. I thought it was a cop.”
Meeker turned to him, flustered. “You’re—you’re—aren’t you …”
“Professor Bible.”
“Oh yes.”
“Sorry to interrupt your beating,” Bible said. “But it’s a lovely day out there, isn’t it? Not the kind of day for blood, what do you think?”
Meeker looked at me, then back to Bible. “Couple of wise guys.”
“Sir,” I said. “I really was trying to make a point here.”
“You were.” He remained over by the window. Bible stood in the doorframe and I was still against the wall behind Mrs. Creighton’s desk.
“If you could just think for a minute about what you’re trying to do …”
Professor Bible came further into the room. He towered over Meeker and was almost as broad, but he was paunchy in the middle and stooped forward a bit in his posture. His head was every bit as large as Meeker’s, but his age was apparent. He had small sores on his broad, pale forehead, and his white hair stood up on top of his head like wild pampas grass. He gestured to the chair Mr. Meeker had been sitting in. “Mind if I sit down?”
“Go ahead,” I said. Meeker met my gaze, then dropped his eyes to the floor.
“Don’t you want George to be a successful man?” I said.
He wouldn’t look at me, would not even acknowledge that he’d heard what I said. Bible said, “I’m sure he does. Every father does.”
“Why not try to motivate him like your salesmen? Incentives instead of punishment?”
“I don’t need to be taking advice from you,” Meeker said. “You’re just a kid yourself.”
“Sir, please listen to me,” I said. “Our only interest is your son’s welfare.”
“Yeah, well,” Meeker said. He started to withdraw, but then he stopped. “You write that letter. If I don’t have that letter in my hands by this time tomorrow, I’m going to take George out of this school and sue you bastards for every penny I paid to this place.”
I nodded. Bible said nothing.
“Tomorrow,” Meeker said again.
“Should I just send it home with George?”
“What?”
“Will he be here tomorrow?”
“He’ll be here.”
“I’ll put it in a sealed envelope,” I said.
Meeker waved his hand and went out into the hall. I heard him slam the back door.
Professor Bible said, “Nothing anybody can do with a man like that.”
“We got to do something,” I said.
The next day it rained again. This time a steady, cold, damp drizzle that went right to your soul. No coat was capable against it. If you went outside, you shuddered in it, unable to keep warm. It made the air in the building, even the warm air, feel cold and bleakly damp. George waited for me at the end of his driveway when I picked up my gang. He got on the bus without saying anything. He wore a light blue raincoat, clearly not warm enough, and held his arms wrapped tightly around his body to keep warm. When he got up to the top step, he put his hand on the railing to balance himself and one of the boys in the first row of seats covered his hand and held it there.
“Don’t,” George said.
“Hey date monster,” the other boy said. His name was Nicholas. He was one of those California types that the girls love: a dark thicket of hair, tan skin, muscular and tall.
“Don’t,” George said again.
“Leave him alone,” I said.
“How many girls you ask out now, Georgie?” Nicholas asked. He let go George’s hand. “This little date monster has hit on every girl in the ninth, tenth, and eleventh grade.”
“His mommy calls him Gay-Org,” one of the other boys said. The whole bus erupted in laughter. George seemed to grow shorter, as he found his way to the back and sat down. People were starting to enjoy the idea of having a “Gay-Org” to pick on. All of them stared at him.
I drove the bus to three other stops, hoping we’d pick up somebody who might distract the vipers in our little group—my bus was small, only room for thirty seats. It was, in the common parlance of the game, a “short bus.” But it was all Glenn Acres could afford. (They had three of them, and Mr. Creighton spent much of his time during the day, when he wasn’t selling furniture, keeping them running. They were pretty old buses.) Our short bus was not for “special students,” as it so often is in the big public schools. Still, these kids were special in their own way.
They were not very special in the method and means of their crowd mentality, however. They had found a weak link and they were all happy to pick at it. I knew I couldn’t do much to forestall their torment because that would only further alienate George, and it wouldn’t do me any good with the other students either. They were all singing in unison, “Cheer up, Gay-Org, the girls won’t all say no,” to the tune of the funeral march. Still, I ended up yelling at them to be quiet, and I did say, “You’d think you could find something more worthwhile to occupy your time.” A few of them snickered, but it got them off George temporarily, and before long I was pulling into the driveway at school.
Gay-Org. Why would his mother use that name so loudly at Parents’ night? Why would she insist on using a name for her son that would guarantee him pain and isolation, not to mention utter humiliation in the face of every one of his peers? Some philosopher once said there are people who would not be capable of love if they did not know that it existed. I think a lot of people know it exists and they’re still not capable of it.
13
Feints and Stratagems
So concerned about George’s troubles at home, I completely missed what was going on right under my nose. He was tortured in school as well—not physically, but mentally. I began to watch for it, looking for an opening to take some sort of effective action. I felt so impotent against his father and mother.
I wrote the letter Mr. Meeker asked for. In the first draft, I said what I really wanted to say:
November 16, 1985
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Meeker:
I am profoundly sorry for interfering in your wonderfully efficient scheme to destroy your son’s sense of well-being, and utterly ruin his personality. Lessons on cruelty are so hard to come by these days, what with all these folks on television and in the movies talking about love and all. This is a cold, hard world, and what better preparation for your son than introducing him to brutality as soon as possible. I know you will completely demolish any possibility that George will begin the ugly path toward sensitivity and compassion. My only concern is that we find a way to persecute him here at the school as well, so we can insure that he won’t trust anybody, at all, ever. Perhaps you two, who have demonstrated such worthy skills along these lines, could suggest ways we can make George suffer here. Would you prefer that only the adults here smack him and beat him up, or could we enlist the help of some of the older students? We have several seniors that I’m quite sure could smash him in the chest every bit as hard as you do, Mr. Meeker, and we could always have one of the older girls watch him do it so it would be like having his mother there, approving. I’m open to suggestions.
Sincerely,
Ben Jameson
I had fun writing it, and when I showed it to Professor Bible, he begged me to send it to the Meekers. But I knew I couldn’t.
For one thing, I didn’t
want to do that to Mrs. Creighton. I promised her I would try to smooth things over, and that was what I was determined to do. I would not let the torture go on—I was still committed to getting George to recognize what dizzying assholes his mother and father were, but I couldn’t just go at them the way I wanted to without causing them to withdraw their boy from the school. If that happened there would be no way I could keep my eye on him.
What I wanted to do, all the time, was tie George’s mother and father to a bedpost with a bungee cord and make them hold a phone book against their chests while I beat the living shit out of them. That’s what I wanted to do.
In the final draft of the letter, I wrote:
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Meeker:
I am profoundly sorry that I offended you. I was misguided in my attempts to interfere in your family’s methods of dealing with discipline and for suggesting that I might know better what is best for your son. I am sorry that I implied any abusive situation exists, although I am certain if abuse were taking place, agencies of the state are better equipped to deal with it than I am. Please forgive me for being so impertinent. I am new at my job and perhaps a little too enthusiastic about my duties toward my students. I take their welfare very seriously, so I hope you will forgive me for overreacting to injuries I noticed on George. As I am sure you will agree, it is George’s well-being and overall health and development that should govern all we do.
Sincerely,
Ben Jameson
I hated myself for writing it, and even more for giving it to Mrs. Creighton the next day. But I didn’t hate myself for long. I was in for quite a surprise.
When I handed Mrs. Creighton the letter, she smiled slightly, her eyes blinking in a slow sort of knowing way, as if she could understand more about me by this little capitulation than I might want or allow. I smiled back.
“We’ll keep at it,” she said. “Don’t you doubt it.”
“Meanwhile,” I said, but I didn’t finish the thought. She knew, and I knew, George would continue to suffer.
“Do me a favor,” she said, holding my letter on the edge of her desk so I could see it without getting up. She pointed her pencil at the penultimate sentence. “End this sentence with the word ‘overreacting.’ ” Her voice was so soft it sounded like seduction. “Don’t mention the injuries.”
I took the letter back to my classroom and did what she asked. When I had the new, tamer version, I brought it back. She was typing, but when I came in she lifted a piece of paper from her desk and handed it to me. “Here,” she said. “Read mine.”
Well, she sure surprised me. This is what her letter said:
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Meeker:
Enclosed please find Mr. Jameson’s apology for his inexcusable behavior on Parent–Teacher night. I assure you, he has made amends with me and he will be a much more professional and restrained teacher and colleague from now on. I hope he will perform to our standards in the future and that we will have no more brash judgments or rude behavior.
One of the reasons I cannot have my faculty making such allegations against parents who have enrolled students in this school is that such activity is irresponsible. As I told Mr. Jameson only this morning, reckless accusations like that make this school subject to libel, and rightfully so. I asked Mr. Jameson to consider what might happen to your business, Mr. Meeker, if such scandalous accusations were ever made public.
I looked at her. “This is pretty strong.” I didn’t know what to make of the last paragraph. I wanted to ask her if she intended to threaten the Meekers, but then she lifted another sheet of paper from the typewriter in front of her. “Here’s the second page.”
Mr. Jameson was very wrong to confront Mrs. Meeker on Parent–Teacher night and that is why he is apologizing. But he is the second teacher to notice significant and troublesome abrasions on George’s person—especially about the neck and upper body. Also, two other teachers, Mrs. Gallant last year, and Miss Corrigan of our current faculty, have questioned me concerning George’s overall welfare. If there is one more incident like this, or any noticeable injury of any kind, I will enlist all the power and influence at my command to insure this situation is as well-publicized as any Labor Day sale you’ve ever had, Mr. Meeker. As I’m sure you know, people with even modest sensitivity would not want to do business with one who brutalizes a child. If you wish to withdraw George from this school, there will be no refund of tuition this year. Also, if you withdraw him, please be assured that we will do everything in our power to insure that all of his records, including these various issues concerning his physical welfare, are speedily forwarded to his new school.
Sincerely,
Elizabeth Creighton
I wanted to kiss her. She was not looking at me, but her eyes glittered with a kind of self-assurance and contentment. I think she knew I wanted to kiss her. She put the two pages together, folded them neatly and placed them in the same envelope with my apology.
“He’ll take George out of the school,” I said.
“He might.” She was not smiling.
“I’m sorry.”
She licked the envelope, sealed it, put two stamps on it and handed it to me. “You mail it.”
I looked at it, feeling so grateful you’d have thought there was money in it.
“Here’s what I want you to remember from this,” she said. “You meet parents on Parent–Teacher night to shake hands and let them know what you’re doing in the classroom. You answer questions. And that’s it. You have nothing else whatever to do with any parent unless I request it.”
I nodded.
“Any other problem will be taken care of privately and I’ll do it.”
“Okay.”
“Let’s hope Mr. Meeker cares about his business a little more than he does his son,” she said.
I didn’t know what effect Mrs. Creighton’s letter might have on George’s home life or even if he’d remain in the school. I couldn’t change what George’s parents were doing at home, but I could do something about what was happening to him in school, and as long as he was there I was not going to let the others torture him if I could help it. As the days went by, I realized he was not going anywhere.
What I finally did was not so subtle as my Nazi extravaganza, but I hoped (and believed) it might work out in some glorious way.
The idea for it came from a long conversation with Doreen about how to win back George’s confidence. Since my conversation with his mother and the “bout” with his father, he had been reticent and totally uninterested in anything I had to say outside of the curriculum. He still did his homework, still took copious notes in class, and occasionally when I got discussion going a bit, he’d chime in with something. But when class was done, he’d get up and walk out without a glance back. He did not speak to me in the hallway unless I spoke to him. Polite and respectful whenever I addressed him, he greeted me with a look of utter disdain when I didn’t.
So during a lunch break one day, shortly after the Thanksgiving holiday, I got to talking to Doreen about it and she said, “As long as he does his work, what do you care?”
I shrugged. I knew it was not in my job description, but something about George’s predicament drew me to him. It was not a desire to be a better teacher. It had nothing to do with teaching. But it was, I think and still believe, a sincere desire to help another person. What causes that? Hasn’t everybody experienced it to some degree? Everybody who is not a serial killer, or one of those awful, pea-brained people who claim to like and trust animals more than human beings? Isn’t there a need for charity in every heart? Is all kindness insincere and born out of a desire to manipulate and control what happens to the people around us?
I’d asked Doreen these questions, but I realize now I should have addressed them to Annie. I even told Doreen what I thought Annie’s answer would be.
“You have a Christ complex?” Doreen laughed. “Really.” She was eating a tuna fish sandwich and sipping a Coke.
“What?”
/>
“It’s not news to anybody, believe me.”
“Oh, what, now you’re accusing me?”
“All men have a Christ complex,” she said.
“Very funny.”
We were sitting in my classroom, looking out on a dazzling array of green shadows and sun that filtered through the dead leaves on the oak trees. It was December, but you’d never know it from the weather. Sporadic breezes carried a slight hint of hard ice, but mostly the air was balmy and still. Just about everyone but Doreen and I had gone outside.
“Kindness is what you believe it is,” Doreen said. “But true kindness, as far as I’m concerned—or at least sincere kindness—is done anonymously, for no credit or thanks.”
“So if you get caught being kind, it’s an attempt to get credit or manipulate?”
“What manipulate? Who said manipulate?”
“That’s the nature of a Christ complex, isn’t it?”
“You’re his teacher. Why don’t you pay attention to that?”
“But don’t you see?” I said. “It isn’t about teaching him, it’s caring for him. Don’t you care what happens to him?”
“Of course I do.”
“Well?”
“I don’t care if he has affection for me,” Doreen said. I could tell she really thought she’d hit the nail on the head with that one.
“I don’t either, but if he doesn’t like me, even a little bit, how can I keep track of what is happening to him? How can I help him?”
“It isn’t your job to do more than what you’re doing right now. Anyway, he hasn’t been beaten lately.”
“Maybe the old man has found a way to disguise his brutality better.”
“You’ve done what you were called to for the job. There’s nothing more.”
“I’m not talking about my job.”
“Well,” she said. “He’ll come around. Just keep being kind to him.”
And then she got to talking about a friend of hers who had won her over by throwing her a surprise party, and I got the idea. I didn’t tell her about it then. I went into the office after school that day and looked up George’s enrollment form. His birthday was, as you might expect if you believe the world is governed by a sadistic bastard, December 24th, the absolute second-worst birthday date ever.
In the Fall They Come Back Page 11
