“. . . indeed there are some surprises more ‘unexpected’ than others. And discovering that Violet Rue Kerrigan is one of my better students has been one of these.”
Violet Rue Kerrigan. The name suggested wonder, in Mr. Sandman’s voice. As if referring to someone, or something, apart from me of a significance unknown to me.
Upper Craigmont Avenue was a residential neighborhood of older, large houses. Tall plane trees with bark peeling from them, like flayed skin. Storm debris lay scattered on expanses of cracked sidewalk and broad front lawns. If there had not been (dim) lights in the windows of houses we passed I might have thought that Mr. Sandman was driving me into an abandoned part of the city.
At last Mr. Sandman turned into the driveway of a stone house, bulbous gray stone, cobblestone?—with dark shutters, and a ponderous slate roof overhead.
Crabgrass stubbled the front lawn. A plane tree lay in ruins as if it had been struck by lightning. The long asphalt drive was riddled with cracks. My father would have sneered at such a derelict driveway though he would have been impressed by the size of Mr. Sandman’s house. And Craigmont Avenue looked to be a neighborhood of expensive properties, or properties that had once been expensive. “I am the ‘last scion’ in the Sandman family,” Mr. Sandman said, chuckling. “Since my elderly infirm parents passed away years ago my life is idyllic.”
Idyllic was not a word with which I was familiar. I might have thought that it had something to do with idle.
As Mr. Sandman parked the large heavy car at the top of the driveway, some distance from the street, I managed to stammer, “I—I want to go home, Mr. Sandman. Please.” But my voice was disappointingly weak, Mr. Sandman seemed scarcely to hear.
(By this time I needed to use a bathroom, badly. But this I could not tell Mr. Sandman out of embarrassment.)
“Well, dear! Why are you cowering there like a kicked puppy? Get out, please. We’ll have just a little visit—this time. Just a few minutes, I promise. And then I will drive you home to—did you say Ontario Street?”
“Erie . . .”
“Erie! Of course.”
A subtle tone of condescension in Mr. Sandman’s voice. For the east side of Port Oriskany was not nearly so affluent as the west side nearer Lake Ontario.
My legs moved numbly. Slowly I got out of Mr. Sandman’s car. It did not occur to me that I could run away—very easily, I could run out to the street.
At the same time thinking—Mr. Sandman is my teacher. He would not hurt me.
“We’ll have just a little ‘tutorial.’ In private.”
Badly wanting to explain to Mr. Sandman—(now nudging me forward, hand on my back, to a side entrance of the darkened house)—that I was concerned that Aunt Irma would wonder where I was for she often worried about me when I was late returning home from school . . . And this afternoon I’d lost time, might’ve been a half hour, forty minutes or more, in my stuporous sleep in a car I had not realized was Mr. Sandman’s. . . . But I could not speak.
Inside, Mr. Sandman switched on a light. We were in a long hallway, my heart was pounding so rapidly I could not see clearly.
And now, in a kitchen—an old-fashioned kitchen with a high ceiling, the largest kitchen I’d ever seen, long counters, rows of cupboards, a large refrigerator, an enormous gas stove, a triple row of burners and none very clean . . .
“I was thinking—hot chocolate, dear? At this time of day when the spirit flags, as the blood-sugar level plummets, I’ve found that hot chocolate restores the soul.”
In the center of the room was an old, enamel-topped table with solid legs. On it were scattered magazines, books. A single page from the Port Oriskany Herald containing the daily crossword puzzle, which someone had completed in pencil.
Shyly I agreed to Mr. Sandman’s offer of hot chocolate. I could not imagine declining.
Daring to add that I needed to use a bathroom, please . . .
Mr. Sandman chuckled as if the request was endearing to him. “Why, of course, Sleeping Beauty. It has been a while since you have peed—eh?”
So embarrassed, I could not even nod yes.
“Even Sleeping Beauty is required, sometime, against all expectations, to pee. Yes.”
Humming under his breath Mr. Sandman escorted me to a bathroom at the end of a dim-lit corridor, fingers on my back. He reached inside the door to switch on the light, and allowed me to close it—just barely.
My heart was pounding rapidly. There was no lock on the door.
It seemed to me, possibly Mr. Sandman was close outside the door. Leaning against it. The side of his head against it, listening?
Trying to use the toilet as silently as possible. An old, rusted toilet, with a seat made of dark wood. Stained yellowed porcelain at which I did not want to look closely.
Was Mr. Sandman outside the bathroom? Listening? I was stricken with embarrassment.
And then, flushing the toilet. A loud gushing sound that could have been heard through the house.
Washing my hands was a relief. Though the water was only lukewarm I enjoyed scrubbing my hands. Several times a day I washed my hands, took care that my fingernails were reasonably clean.
Noticing now that there were books in the bathroom, on the window sill. Crossword Puzzles for Whizzes. Favorite Math Puzzles. Favorite Math Puzzles II. Lewis Carroll’s Math Games, Puzzles, Problems. The books were small paperbacks with cartoon covers, that looked as if they’d been much used.
When I left the bathroom it was a relief to see that Mr. Sandman was not hovering outside the door after all.
In the kitchen he awaited me with his wide, wet smile that made you think of meat. He’d placed two large coffee mugs on a counter and was preparing hot chocolate on the stove, shaking powdered, dark chocolate out of a container and into simmering water.
In my hands the mug of steaming hot chocolate was consoling. Shyly I lifted it to my lips since Mr. Sandman expected me to drink it; he would observe closely, to see that I did.
The liquid chocolate was thick, slightly bitter. Almost, I’d have thought there was coffee mixed with it. But I was weak with hunger, and with relief that Mr. Sandman had not followed me into the bathroom. And now that I had used the bathroom and washed my hands I could see that Mr. Sandman meant to be kind.
“Would you like to borrow these, Violet? Of course.”
Mr. Sandman was leafing through Lewis Carroll’s Math Games, Puzzles, Problems. Many of the problems had been solved, in pencil. On some pages there were enthusiastic red asterisks and stars.
“See here, Violet. This section isn’t too difficult for you. Shall we do these together?”
Mr. Sandman sat me at the kitchen table. Gave me a pencil. I puzzled over the (comical, far-fetched) cartoon problems as he leaned over my shoulder breathing onto my neck. My head began to swim. “Careful, Violet! Let me take that cup from you.”
Could not keep my eyes open. Would’ve fallen from the chair except Mr. Sandman caught me.
Light was fading. Small spent waves lapped at my feet. Whispers, laughter at a distance. My eyelids were so heavy, I could not force them open . . .
Waking then, some time later. Groggy. Confused. Not in the kitchen but in another room, and on a sofa. Lying beneath a knitted quilt that smelled of moth balls, my sneakers removed. (By Mr. Sandman?) Across the room, in a leather easy chair, Mr. Sandman sat briskly grading papers by lamplight.
“Ah! At last Sleeping Beauty is waking up. You’ve had a delicious little nap, eh?” Mr. Sandman laughed heartily, indulgently.
My neck was aching. One of my legs was partially numb, I’d been lying on my side. Still very sleepy. A dull headache behind my eyes.
“Dear, it’s late—after six P.M. Your aunt will be worried about you, I will drive you home immediately.”
How long had I been asleep? My brain could not calculate—an hour? Two hours?
Mr. Sandman set aside his papers. He seemed anxious now. His breath smelled pleasantly of something sweet and d
ark, like wine.
When I stumbled getting up Mr. Sandman gripped me beneath the arms, hard. “Oops! Enough of ‘Sleeping Beauty.’ You need to wake up, immediately.”
Walked me into the kitchen, turned on a faucet and splashed cold water onto my face, slapped my cheeks—lightly!—but enough to make them smart. Bundled me into my jacket and walked me outside into the fresh cold air. My knee had begun to ache, I was limping slightly. Quietly Mr. Sandman told me in the car, “This is our secret, dear. That your math teacher has given you—lent you—the Lewis Carroll puzzle book. For others would be jealous, you know.”
And, “Including adults. Especially adults. They would assuredly not understand and so you may tell them ‘Math Club.’ It’s quite an honor to be selected.”
Cautiously Mr. Sandman drove along Erie Street. When I pointed out my aunt’s and uncle’s house he drove past it and parked at the curb several houses away.
“Goodnight, my dear! Remember our secret.”
Lights were on at the house. An outside porch light. I feared that Aunt Irma would be looking out the window. That she’d seen the headlights of Mr. Sandman’s car pass slowly by.
But when I went inside Aunt Irma was in the kitchen preparing dinner. She asked where on earth I’d been and I told her without a stammer—“Math Club.”
“Math Club! Is there such a thing?”
“I’m the only girl who has been elected to it.”
If Aunt Irma had been about to scold me this declaration intimidated her. “They’d never have let me in any math club, when I was in school.”
And, “Oh, Violet! Did you go out this morning with your shirt buttoned crooked? Look at you . . .”
I did. Cast my gaze down on myself, seeing that indeed my shirt was buttoned crookedly. Shame.
But why would you go back with him again, Violet? Why—willingly?
5.
Soon then, announcing to Aunt Irma that I’d not only been selected for Math Club but elected secretary.
Which was why I was often late returning home after school. In winter months, after dark.
(And it was true. True in some way. From his several classes Mr. Sandman had “elected” eight students to comprise Math Club. Six boys, two girls. Boys were president and vice president and I was secretary.)
Uncle Oscar seemed impressed, too. When I showed him Lewis Carroll’s Math Games, Puzzles, Problems he leafed through the little paperback with a wistful expression.
“. . . once, I could probably figure these out. Now, I don’t know . . .”
Later I would find the little book on the kitchen counter where he’d left it.
Living with adults you live with the husks of their old, lost lives. Like snakes’ husks, or the husks of locusts underfoot. The fiction between you that you must not allow them to know that you know.
How many times Mr. Sandman drove me after school to the stone house on Craigmont Avenue. When I was asked I would say truly I did not know, could not remember for always it was the first time and not ever did I seem to know beforehand what would happen nor even, in retrospect, what had happened.
How many times do you dream, in a single night? In a week? A year?
Snowy nights. The heater in Mr. Sandman’s car. Windshield wipers slapping. Sheepskin jacket, boots. Mr. Sandman taking my hands in his and blowing on them with his hot, humid breath—“Brrrr! You need to be warmed up, Snow White.”
Hot chocolate, with whipped cream. Spicy pumpkin pie, with whipped cream. Jelly doughnuts, cinnamon doughnuts, whipped cream doughnuts. Sweet apple cider, piping-hot. (Mr. Sandman’s word which he uttered with a sensual twist of his lips: piping-hot.)
One evening he had a favor to ask of me, Mr. Sandman said.
For his archive he was taking the measurements of outstanding students. All he required from me was a moment’s cooperation—allowing him to measure the circumference of my head, the length of my spine, etc.
“An archive, dear, is a collection of facts, documents, records. In this case, a very private collection. No one will ever know.”
I could not say no. Already Mr. Sandman was wrapping a yellow tape measure about my head—“Nineteen point six inches, dear. Petite.”
The length of my spine—“Twenty-nine point four inches, dear. Well within the range of normal for your age.”
Height—“Five feet three point five inches. A good height.”
Weight—“Ninety-four pounds, eleven ounces. A good weight.”
Waist—“Twenty-one inches. Good!”
Hips—“Twenty-eight inches. Very good!”
As Mr. Sandman looped the tape measure about my chest, brushing against my breasts, I flinched from him, involuntarily.
He laughed, annoyed. But did not persist.
“Another time, perhaps, dear Violet, you will not be so skittish.”
So many books! I stared in wonderment. I had never seen so many books outside a library.
Proudly Mr. Sandman switched on lights. Bookcases of elegant dark wood lifting from the floor to the ceiling.
Many of the books were old, matched sets. On the lowermost shelf were Encyclopedia Britannica, Collected Works of Shakespeare, Collected Works of Dickens, Great British Romantic Poets. There was an entire bookcase filled with books on military history with such titles as A History of Humankind at War, Great Military Campaigns of Europe, The Great Armies of History, Soldat: Reflections of a German Soldier 1936–1945, Is War Obsolete? In an adjacent bookcase, The Coming Struggle, Free Will and Destiny, The Passing of the Great Race, Racial Hygiene, A History of Biometry, The Aryan Bible, Adolf Hitler’s Mein Kampf: A New Reading, The Dark Charisma of Adolf Hitler, Origins of the Caucasian Race, Is the White Race Doomed?, Eugenics: A Primer.
On a special shelf were oversized books of photographs. More military history: US, Germany. Tanks, bomber planes. Fiery cities. Marching men in Nazi uniforms, swastika armbands. Saluting stiff-armed as Mr. Sandman saluted the flag in our classroom.
On the shelves of other bookcases were boxes of old, photocopied records, documents. Mr. Sandman gestured toward these with an air of casual pride—“Transcripts of meetings of the Race Betterment Society, 1929–1943. A photocopy of the original manuscript of The Bible of Practical Ethics and the ‘Final Solution.’ And other rare materials I’ve acquired through antiquarian dealers.”
On a table were unframed photographs of local landscapes, skies of sculpted clouds, the mist-shrouded Niagara Falls, which Mr. Sandman had taken himself. And one, apart from the others, that had begun to slightly curl, depicting a girl of about my age lying on a four-poster bed, partly clothed, hands clasped over her thin chest. Long straight pale hair had been spread about her head like a fan. Her eyes were open and yet unseeing.
A girl I’d never seen before, I was sure. I felt a pang of alarm. Jealousy.
Mr. Sandman saw me staring at the photograph and quickly pushed it aside.
“No one you know, dear. An inferior Snow White.”
I would not recall the part-unclothed girl afterward. I don’t think so. Though I am recalling her now, this now is an indeterminate time.
Against the windows of Mr. Sandman’s cobblestone house, a faint ping of icy rain, hail. An endless winter.
“It is a fact kept generally secret in the United States that Adolf Hitler acquired his ‘controversial’ ideas on race and on the problems posed by race from us—the United States. Our history of slavery, and post-slavery, as well as our ‘population management’ of Indians—on reservations in remote parts of the country. How to establish a proper scientific census. How to determine who is ‘white’ and who is ‘colored’—and how to proceed from there.”
Mr. Sandman spoke casually yet you could hear an undercurrent of excitement in his voice.
Adolf Hitler was a name out of a comic book. A name to provoke smirks. And yet, in Mr. Sandman’s reverent voice Adolf Hitler had another sound altogether.
I’d left my mug of apple cider in the kitchen, half-empty. I
had not wanted to drink more of the hot sweet liquid that was making me feel queasy. But Mr. Sandman brought both our mugs into the library, and was handing mine to me.
“Finish your apple cider, Violet! It has become lukewarm.”
Helplessly I took the mug from him. Shut my eyes, lifted the mug to my lips, to drink.
Sweet, sugary apple juice. A taste of something fermented, rotted.
They would ask—But why would you drink anything that man gave you? Why, after what happened the first time?
There’d been no first time. All times were identical. There was not a most recent time, and there was not a present time.
“Some of us understand that we must archive crucial documents and publications before it’s too late. One day, the welfare state may appropriate all of our records. The liberal welfare state.” Mr. Sandman spoke with withering contempt.
Entire populations were falling behind others, Mr. Sandman said. The birthrates of those who should reproduce are declining while the birthrates of those who should not be allowed to reproduce are increasing—“Mongrel races breed like animals.”
When I stared blankly at him Mr. Sandman said, “Violet, you’re a smart girl. By Port Oriskany standards, a very smart girl. You understand that the Caucasian race must preserve itself against mongrelization before it’s too late?”
I had heard that a mongrel dog is healthier and likely to live longer than a pedigree dog. But I did not often reply to Mr. Sandman’s questions for I understood that he preferred silence.
“‘Mongrelization’ is the natural consequence of the slack, liberal illogic—‘all men are created equal.’ For the obvious fact is, in human nature as in nature itself, all men are created unequal.”
This seemed reasonable to me. I did not feel equal to anyone and certainly not to any adult.
My legs were growing weak. Mr. Sandman took the mug from me, and seated me on a sofa. In his kindly lecturing voice, which was very different from his classroom lecturing voice, he told me that there are hierarchies of Homo sapiens, the product of many thousands of years of evolution.
The Best American Mystery Stories 2019 Page 21
