by J. J. Murray
Perfect!
“Who?” Kendra asks.
I am now in my element. Teaching history to me is really telling stories in the past tense about the past.
“Medusa was a gorgon.”
“A what?” Kendra asks. She loves to ask questions, and at times, I think she’s the only one in the class listening.
I spell “gorgon” for them, but only some of them write it down. “A gorgon was a monster with snakes for hair whose look turned the beholder to stone.” Lots of blinking. Hmm. “Beholder” isn’t in their vocabulary. “That means, if you looked at her, Angie, you would turn to stone.”
“This isn’t real, then,” Angie says.
“You’re right, Angie,” I say. “This isn’t real. It’s a myth. Do we all remember what a myth is?” Please, for the love of God, please nod your heads!
But we all don’t remember what a myth is because I didn’t tell them what a myth is on Monday, and Mrs. Wine is writing furiously, and I look like a fool, and—Ah, screw it. If you’re going down in flames, at least have some fun.
“Then I must have made a myth-take,” I say.
“Boo,” I say aloud. But it’s cute.
No one giggles.
“Thith ith information that you’re myth-ing.” A few smiles. “We must put this myth-ing information about myths in your notebooks, no myth-ing around.”
I go to the board and write “Greek Mythology,” then return to the hub. “Mythology is a collection of stories that have been passed down by word of mouth for hundreds, even thousands, of years. Most myths have supernatural beings, monsters, and powerful heroes in them. One Greek myth is about Medusa.”
I pause and cut my eyes to Mrs. Wine. A few kids notice and smile at me. They understand.
“Medusa was one of three sisters, but only Medusa was mortal, meaning that she was somewhat human.”
The same could be said for Mrs. Wine. I think there’s a human being in there somewhere.
“Perseus is our hero in this story. It is his task to kill Medusa, but if Perseus looks at her, he’ll be turned to stone. How can Perseus kill Medusa without looking at her?”
For the next few minutes, my students give me every possible method from throwing a running chain saw at her to dropping an atomic bomb on her.
Time to refocus.
“This myth is over three thousand years old. All you have to kill Medusa are some armor, a sword, a shield…and some magic.”
Mrs. Wine coughs—or is she gasping?—and toddles out of the room, and the class and I relax.
“Whew,” I say, wiping imaginary sweat from my forehead, “it’s about time she left. I was scared she would turn me to stone!”
Those kids will never forget the story of Perseus and Medusa.
Jack had to have been a wonderful teacher. I wonder if he misses it.
Later, however, at my evaluation conference, I have to look Medusa in the eye as she rags my ass.
“Absolutely no organization, Mr. Pace. None. Your lesson was sheer bedlam….”
Like that “office” of his downstairs. It’s not “bedlam,” but it’s getting close.
My God, she can blather, can’t she? Does she use that Botox stuff? Maybe she secretes it naturally, her face is so tight. Her ears must have little hands holding them onto her face.
HAAAA!
“And you must re-rearrange your room to something that resembles an approved diagram from Instruments for Instruction….”
Is “re-rearrange” a word? How does she get her hair to loop up at the ends like that? The rest of her body doesn’t defy gravity, so how can her hair?
HAAAA! Jack, I mean Dan, has a wonderful sense of humor. Why did the editor cut out so much of his humanity?
“As you know, this is the year during which either you earn tenure or we’ll have to let you go….”
This is my last year here anyway, Medusa. There’s nothing to keep me here in Roanoke, no one to keep me here. I have no friends, only colleagues. I am the oldest member of the single’s Sunday school class I sometimes attend when I’m looking for someone a lot purer than me. Yeah, I’m trolling for purity, but I’m sure not the right man for a righteous woman.
So, maybe this was before he met Noël. That means…that she kept him from moving away. If it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t have ever met him.
“Your handwriting is atrocious. I’m surprised they can read anything you put on the board. And lisping? Really, Mr. Pace. I know you can enunciate better than that. And why begin with that horrible, violent story? I’m sure I’ll get phone calls this afternoon from parents who are up in arms….”
I have to face facts. The tread on the boots of my life have gotten thin, my laces are frayed, I have scuff marks, even gouges. I could maybe get a retread on life, get that new-hiking-boot smell. It wouldn’t take much to start over. I’d just load up my books in a little U-Haul trailer and go on a one-way trip to where snow is snow and not this ice storm stuff, where Ansel Adams skies take my breath away daily.
I wonder if he’s thinking these very things right now. I have to call him, but I’m afraid to. Maybe later.
“And bringing magic into your lesson? I thought I was very clear about any reference to magic for this grade level….”
Maybe Alaska? I’ve had plenty of offers from school systems in Anchorage. Six months of darkness…That would be magic. It would move me closer to Dysfunction Junction (San Francisco), but then I might be able to help my sister.
His sister? She didn’t appear in the first book.
“Are you following the Standards of Learning, Mr. Pace? I hardly think so. And another thing, Mr. Pace, I know you know we have a dress code here….”
I’m too much of a free spirit, I guess. Maybe I’ll be a mountain guide, an American sherpa, or I’ll work at a wilderness camp for kids. Despite what Medusa says, I can probably teach anywhere because male elementary teachers are in demand. So are male administrators. Nah. I’d have to get a suit, a tie, and an attitude. I’d quit and work at Blue Ridge Outdoors before that ever happened.
“Do you understand everything I’ve said to you today, Mr. Pace?”
Is she talking to me? I squint at her. She isn’t talking anymore, so it must be my turn. “Uh, yes, Mrs. Wine.”
“I’m marking ‘needs improvement’ for your overall preliminary evaluation.”
I nod.
“Sign here.”
I sign the form, nod again at Mrs. Wine, leave the office, then drift down the hall to the cafeteria. Watching students play “chew ‘n’ show” always makes me forget just about anything horrific.
“Mr. Pace?”
I look at Laverne, one of the lunch ladies, polishing the table in front of me. “Yes?”
“Don’t you have a class to teach?”
“Oh, yeah.” The bell has rung. The cafeteria is emptying. Thirty fourth-graders are sitting in a wagon wheel waiting for me to introduce them to Greek mythology and a lady with snakes for hair.
I am always late for class, and the kids think it is so cool.
I know I would have liked this version of the novel much better. This is four-star material at least.
“The man can write,” I say to my library. “If they will just let him write.”
I have to call and compliment him. I dial his number, and it rings ten times before he answers.
“Hello?”
He sounds sleepy.
“Jack, it’s me, Diane.”
“Hey.”
Hey? “Um, I’ve been reading your real book here, and I just wanted to tell you how wonderful it is.”
“Thanks.”
“I, uh, I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“Nope. Haven’t been to sleep.”
“Oh.” So, what has he been doing? “Are you watching any of the games?”
“Nope.”
Nope and hey? What’s going on here? “Are you writing, then?”
“Nope.”
Another “nope” and
I’m hanging up. “Is anything wrong, Jack?”
“Nothing this eggnog can’t cure.”
He’s drunk. The man left me on my nice soft sofa, went home, and got drunk. “I’ll, uh, I’ll let you go, then.”
“No, no, don’t hang up yet.”
“Why?”
“I’ve been meaning to tell you about the new book.”
“But you’re not writing it.”
“It’s in my head, and you’re still in it.”
In his head or his book? I don’t say anything. I might confuse him.
“Anyway, Arthur and Diana…Her name is Diana. I hope you don’t mind.”
I smile, despite Jack’s drunk voice in my ear. “I don’t mind.”
“Well, Arthur and Diana will meet in the library where he’s researching his family tree, and she’s helping in the gynecology room.”
“The what?”
“You know what I mean. I overheard you at the library that day. That old man gave me the courage to talk to you.”
“He did?”
“Yeah. I was afraid to approach you.”
Alcohol—the greatest truth serum. “You were?”
“Uh-huh.”
Silence.
“Jack?”
“Hmm?”
I have to ask while he’s being so excessively honest. “Did you want to make love to me last night?”
“Yep.”
That was a quick answer. “Then what stopped you?”
“I told you why.”
“Tell me again.”
“Okay. I still feel married to Noël, and if I had made love to you, I would have felt guilty about it.”
I blink.
“Not guilty about making love to you—not at all. You’re beautiful. It’s just that I would have felt like I was cheating on Noël, you know?”
No, I don’t know. “Well, thanks for telling me that, Jack.”
“Sure thing.”
“Um, do you still want to see me?” I sound so desperate!
“I still want to see you.”
Whew. But I have to be sure. “To help you get over her?”
“Yep.”
My heart sinks. “That’s all?”
“No, I mean, I don’t know. We’re just starting out, you know? It’s like I’m riding a bike for the first time all over again. I want to go, my body wants to go, and your body seems to want to go.”
It does. It still does.
“But I can’t seem to make the pedals work, you know?”
“I think I understand, Jack.”
“So, we can take it slow, just like you said, right?”
Despite my better judgment, I say, “Sure. Sure, Jack. We’ll take it slow.”
42
Jack
Well, we should take down the tree. It’s time to put the tree at the curb for the wind to send the tinsel into our neighbor’s lawn.
You just hurt her, Jack.
No, I didn’t. She’s a big girl.
She cares about you.
I know, I know.
Call her back and apologize.
I’d rather take down the tree. It has too many memories hanging on it.
You’ll save all the ornaments, won’t you?
What for? They’ll only open the wound again next December. And anyway, I thought you wanted us to have a new life.
Call Diane. Apologize. Have her help you with the tree.
But I’m drunk.
Then sober up! Stop drinking. Take a long walk. Take a shower. Drink some coffee.
Maybe I’ll just…sit here for a while….
When I wake up hours later with a Kris Kringle hangover, I check my messages. Diane has called several times, and Noël’s mother, Sandra, has called once. Why would she be calling me?
I dial Sandra’s number. “Hi, it’s Jack.”
“How are you, Jack?”
“Okay.”
“I’m calling about Noël’s and Stevie’s clothes. I’d like to take them to Goodwill.”
Sandra is still in mourning, too. “I already took them all to the Salvation Army.”
“Oh. That’s good. Uh, good, Jack. Do you still have all those photo albums?”
“Yes.”
“What about the pictures in the hallway?”
Where is this going? “Yes, they’re still up on the wall.”
“Well, if you decide to take them down, please keep me in mind.”
Why would I take them down? “I will.”
“Um, who was that woman you were with at church last night?”
This is really why she called. “She’s a friend who’s helping me write my next novel.”
“She’s, uh, just a friend?”
Though it’s none of her business, I say, “Yes, Mrs. Wilcox.”
“Well, uh, don’t you think you could have had a little more respect for Noël and Stevie than by showing up at the church like that, even with just a friend?”
Geez, my head is on fire and now this. “What is it you’re trying to say?”
“I mean, really, Jack, a black woman?”
Ah. Now I get it all. “Mrs. Wilcox, Diane—that’s the name of my good friend—Diane and I have just started dating.”
“You’re…dating?”
“Yes. And it is out of respect for Noël and Stevie that I go on living, as they would want me to.”
“But with a black woman? How do you think Noël would feel if—”
“Noël’s dead, Mrs. Wilcox, so I don’t think that matters much to her.”
I hear Mrs. Wilcox crying. “You’re ruining her memory, Jack!”
I close my eyes. “I could never do that, and I will never do that. I still love your daughter very much. I just need…to get on with my life without her.”
“And this…black woman is going to do that for you?”
“No. This woman is going to do this for me.”
Mrs. Wilcox hangs up.
Maybe I was too harsh.
You were.
But she focused only on Diane being black!
Jack, if you had dated another blond-haired, blue-eyed girl, Mrs. Wilcox would have had the same reaction.
I don’t know. She kept saying “black” as if it were a curse.
Mrs. Wilcox is still healing, too. You and Diane have to be a shock to her.
Yeah. Maybe I should have let Mrs. Wilcox take the clothes back.
No. It was your job, not hers. You could go visit their graves, though, you know, to make sure they’re being tended properly.
I’ll take them some flowers in the spring.
You could…take Mr. Bear to Stevie.
Not yet.
I throw some water on my face and try to brush the sour eggnog taste from my mouth. Then I call Diane to apologize, but she doesn’t answer the phone. I wait for the beep and leave a message: “Diane, I’m sorry about leaving you last night and I’m sorry for…for drinking myself to sleep today. Please call me back.”
I hang up, staring at the tree.
And then I get the ornament boxes from downstairs.
43
Diane
Let’s take it slow, he says.
Let’s take it silent is more like it.
I called him four times, and he didn’t answer because he was stone drunk. When he wakes up, he calls me to apologize. I could have picked up, I could have talked to him, but I’m too angry. He could have known me—in the biblical sense—yet he would rather drink until he passes out. That’s hard for my self-esteem to take.
The phone rings for the third time. I check the Caller ID. Jack again. I don’t pick it up. After it stops ringing, I wait a minute until the “message waiting” light starts flashing. I dial for my messages and hear, “Diane, will you please come over to my house and help me take down my tree?”
“No,” I say aloud.
Though it’s more reasonable than the second message he left. He actually wanted to know if I would go out with him for ice cream! On New Year�
�s Day! What kind of a…
I like ice cream, mind you, but I’m still mad at him. It’s also far too cold, and I doubt that anything’s open. We’d probably end up at some convenience store and pay way too much for a pint of Ben & Jerry’s.
I like Ben & Jerry’s, but…
No. I am going to be strong, and he had better come stronger and with better messages if he expects me to speak to him again.
Hmm. I could call him back to tell him no. That would be the proper thing to do. Just, and politely now, tell him he’s crazy for asking any woman out for ice cream on New Year’s Day and for asking any woman to take his Christmas tree down.
Wait. Hold on, Diane. Jack is asking you to help him take his Christmas tree down. Who else has ever helped him do that? Noël. Okay, she’s not around anymore, you’re in his life, and if you want to stay in his life, you’re going to have to take her place…even for something as simple as this.
I dial Jack’s number, and it rings ten times before I hear, “Leave a message at the beep.”
I hang up.
Oh, now he’s screening his calls and waiting for me to leave a message. Well, I’m not going to give him the satisfaction. I’ve heard of people playing phone tag, but message tag? No. That’s not a game for me. I don’t play games.
Okay, I didn’t answer the phone when I could have, but…I’m allowed to be mad. I’m allowed to be hurt. I’m allowed to be stubborn. I am the wounded party. He is the one who has to grovel. He is the one who has to—
The doorbell rings.
I jump up and look through the drapes.
It’s Jack, and he’s holding a pint of ice cream.
Part of me says, “Girl, he’s only using the ice cream to lure you back to his house to work on that tree,” and the other part of me is saying, “He’s so sweet!” I look more closely at the ice cream. Häagen-Dazs. Chocolate. Oh my.
The doorbell rings again.
I tell the first part of me to shut up and open the door.
Jack holds out the pint of ice cream to me. “I’m sorry, Diane.”
