I pull the Snow White image from my clutch. “Jack.” I hold the sheet as if its scribbles carry the wisdom of the Bible. “Those kids can learn to sing, and dance, and read, and do math. Not that they should be abandoned otherwise—they deserve an education. But Jack, they need this opportunity.” I go on and on, blubbering until I can hardly understand my own words. I am like a child myself, flailing my limbs and gushing snot and tears. Only my final statement comes out clearly.
“Jack.” My eyes implore him to understand. “If Hildegarde or Nurse Recht or my mom had quit, I would be dead.”
* * *
—
Nighttime, and Jack and I both lie restless and awake.
“Jack?” I speak into the darkness.
“Stella?”
“I’m sorry if my going to the city scared you. You must have been worried sick, and I wasn’t exactly gentle about it. And then you showed up anyway.”
A slight rustle; his head turning on his pillow. I wish I could see his hair spread across it: curly and golden like the perfectly crisped edges of a cake.
My own hair, and Hattie’s too, is similar. Any child of Jack’s and mine will grow hair like a crown, thick and bright and dripping with ringlets. Our child, I think, will be adorable.
“Our child?” The bed shifts as Jack sits abruptly.
“My damned mouth,” I laugh weakly. My throat is still sore from crying. “I didn’t realize I’d said that aloud.”
Jack eases back onto his pillow. “I won’t press it, then.”
The smile of his voice pushes through even in the darkness. Our child.
“But I will press on this,” he continues. “Don’t feel guilty, Stell. You needed to be there.”
“I’m not sorry I went,” I amend. “I just wish I’d talked to you about it more. Not left the way I did.”
“You’re here now.” His fingertips brush my face, and I turn to meet his eyes. He kisses me softly and then pulls back. “Do you need me to tell you, Stella? About France?”
I’ve burned for a year and a half with the frantic desire to know exactly what Jack saw and heard and did overseas. But now that he offers, I’m not sure I need to hear it. His words about me reassert themselves now—what does it change, really? Whoever birthed me, I am still Stella. Whatever he experienced, he is still Jack. I know he saw things that changed him. I suspect he did things that scarred him. But whether he’s reliving his own actions or others’, I know he would never become anyone but himself. I know he would overcome any scars he needed to for my sake. He came to the city when I needed him, after all, the same city he’s feared since his discharge in ’44.
Yes, I know he’s Jack. My goofy, good, beautiful Jack.
I kiss him again.
“Stella.” He pulls back. “I mean it.”
“Shh.” I bite his lower lip. “I don’t care.”
And truly? I don’t.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Stella Wright, January 1951
Jack and I spend Saturday morning at Vassar’s library collecting newspaper articles and publications about special education laws. I wanted to march into Principal Gardner’s office kicking and screaming on Friday, but Jack convinced me otherwise. I’ll go on Monday with a plan—and with well-written letters to the county seat and the governor, citing several laws and research studies. I’m determined that Gardner’s going to let me start back up with my students, and he’s going to give us a full day and real supplies. If he doesn’t, I already have the envelopes addressed.
Now, Jack is distracting me in the cocktail lounge at Arlington Lanes Bowling Alley. We’ve both been scoring too high to make the game exciting, so we’re hoping to become tipsy enough to throw off our aim. It’s a ridiculous plan and an utterly frivolous date. Jack’s not been subtle about its goal: to cheer me up. To give me a treat, a night of pure fun, after all the emotional turmoil of the last days. With Jack’s characteristic zeal, he’s been successful, and the date has been simple and fun.
Until now. Jack must have had one too many cocktails, because he turns to me with a look more serious than I’m used to seeing on his face.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s foolish.”
“Tell me.”
“I was afraid when you were gone. Afraid you’d decide not to come back. I’m just so afraid that—one day—I’ll run you off with all my problems. The phobias, the nightmares.”
Jack’s eyes glisten, and I take his drink from his hand.
“Jack.” I cup his face in my hands. “You are so much more than the war, just like I’m so much more than an incubator baby. I am the spunky girl raised by a mom who loved me so much she broke the law for it. You’re the sweet boy raised by a woman who loved you so much she ventured out alone because of it. That’s who we are. That’s who you are.” I lay my head on his shoulder. “And Jack . . . when you’re a father, you’ll see that that’s what really matters. That you know how to love.” We are both silent for a moment before I speak again. “And maybe . . .” Oh, Stella. I’d meant to bring this up tactfully . . . and in private. The topic I’m about to broach is anything but casual. But, even with all I’ve learned, some things never change. I can’t stop the words from bursting out of me as they come. “Maybe,” I repeat, “you’d like to start thinking about becoming one soon?”
Jack looks up sharply. “Becoming one what?”
“A father.”
“Stella, really?” Jack leaps from his spot beside me and wraps his strong arms around my chest. “You think we’re ready? You think I’m ready?”
I roll my eyes. “I think you’ve always been ready. I suppose I wasn’t.”
Jack lifts me so my toes are just brushing the floor and spins me around. “But wait.” He thumps me inelegantly back to the ground. “You’re just getting back into teaching again. Surely you aren’t ready to be done?”
“Ah . . .” Complications like this one are part of the reason I should have saved this conversation for later. “Well. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to be done.”
“But—” Jack hesitates. “Is that . . . possible?”
“Well, I can’t work once I’m visibly with child. Obviously. I’d be fired on the spot. But I thought that maybe . . . once the baby was born . . .” I say the rest of it in a rush. “I thought I could go back. Your mom could probably watch the baby a couple of days a week. And I’ve gotten to be friendly with some of my kids’ moms—I think that if we babysit some weekends, they’d be happy to look after an infant during the day. Carol’s mom, maybe—she asked me to let her know if I ever needed anything, and she could watch a baby for us while I had Carol at school. And”—I take in a great breath of air—“speaking of school, I’d like to go to school this summer. College. There are special education credits I can take, Jack. It will be so much better for me and for the kids, too, if I really know what I’m doing. I’ll meet people. People who know what it’s like. People who will appreciate the work I do.”
“I appreciate the work you do.”
Not a no. He’s just piecing it all together.
“Of course. But it’s different. I am so grateful for you; it means so much to have you on my side. I need people who aren’t just understanding but who understand. Who know exactly what I’m up against in the administration and the district and the state. What if—imagine if they even had ideas for reform? New schools, different eligibility requirements, trained teachers?”
“Ah.”
I nod eagerly. I know my husband takes time to make decisions, but I need to hear his response. Is this fanciful life I describe a possible one? Could I be a woman with a job and a child? Could I continue to work in the school and learn from my babies?
I’m waiting for his answer when a sharp cry pierces the thin walls of the cocktail lounge. “Strike!”
I laugh slightly, but Jack rolls fro
m the sofa to the floor and covers his head, his movements crisp and rapid.
Shit. I squat next to him as I have in the past to mitigate the damage. “Jack.” I place my hand on his back.
His face is twisted in panic, and I think of my own turmoil on Coney Island when I found out my mother wasn’t who I’d thought she was. It wasn’t the betrayal that hurt me as much as the fear that I didn’t know myself anymore. Could Jack feel the same way?
Rather than accost Jack with my usual questions—what are you remembering, how can I help?—I say his name. “Jack.” I rub my hand in firm circles along his spine. “You’re Jack Wright. You’re safe, in Poughkeepsie, with your wife. Stella. I’m Stella. You’re kind to me. You make me laugh. You’re patient.” I repeat it again and again. “You’re Jack. You’re kind. You’re patient. You’re Jack. You’re kind. You’re patient. You’re safe here.”
His face floods with color as his body finally relaxes. I pull him up to standing, and he grits his teeth. “Let’s get out of here.” The other men and women look away quickly, but Jack isn’t stupid. He knows they’ve been watching.
“Let’s get out of here,” I repeat. “Of course.” I grab his arm and lead him outside to the car. We climb in, and he rests his forehead on the steering wheel.
He breathes deeply for a few minutes, and I give him time. I turn my head to look out the window and watch the couples coming from the bowling alley, expecting the pang of envy as girls cling to their boyfriends and laugh. It doesn’t come, though. I love my husband. Episodes and all. I wouldn’t trade him for anyone.
“Do you still think I’m ready to have kids?” Jack finally lifts his head, bitterness in his voice.
“Oh, Jack. You know what a big hug Mary Ellen would have given you after that? Jack, kids are kids. They won’t judge you. At least”—I chuckle slightly—“not if you don’t judge them.”
“But what if I . . . hurt them?” He recoils from his own question.
Hattie’s face looms large: her purple-clouded eye, her twisted arm, the chain of thumbprints at the base of her neck.
“Jack, you would never. I’ve slept next to you every night for more than a year, and you’ve never so much as shoved me away from you. Not when you have nightmares, not when you wake up. You’ve never hurt me when we fight. You’ve never hurt me when I’ve provoked you.” I try to laugh. “You’ve never come close or even threatened it. And Jack . . . I wouldn’t let you.” Hattie’s bloody lips, Hattie’s fine knotted hair. “If you touched our child once, we’d be gone.”
“Where would you go?”
“Your mother would take us in. Even Dr. Morrison probably would. And I have a degree, Jack, I could find work. I would find a way.” Like my mother did.
“You promise you’d leave?”
My heart breaks for my husband, who one minute ago feared my leaving him and now is begging for me to promise I’d do just that. “Yes, Jack. I promise.”
* * *
—
Thank you again for being here.” I smile sideways at my husband. He’s taken the Monday off from work to stay with me, and he’s making a great show of being “sick,” staggering around dramatically and speaking in a low rasp. Uncharacteristically nervous, I’m grateful for the excuse to laugh. On cue, Jack swoops in to kiss me, and I push him away playfully. “No, sir, not when you might be contagious!”
“I was miraculously healed.” He shrugs. “Amazing.”
I roll my eyes. We’re approaching the school building: red brick and wide windows. Different from out here than from within the basement, that’s for sure.
“Good luck.” Jack grasps my hand and brushes my cheek. “I’ll be right here.”
And in I go.
“Ah.” Principal Gardner looks up from his desk as I enter. “Stella Wright.”
I don’t waste any time. “I hear Miss Dickerson quit?”
A short nod.
“Where are they now? My kids?”
“I do not have psychic powers, Mrs. Wright. I imagine most of them are at home with their mothers.”
“But it’s a Monday.” Foolish, Stella. That is his point. I recover: “You could get fired.”
“Alas, not if there are less than ten students in our region. The few we have can travel to other schools in the district if they must.”
Hours away? It’s impossible. Especially without buses. “There are eleven. Nancy, Stanley, James, Judy, Robby, Carol, Mary Ellen, Giovanna, Patricia, William, and John.”
“Hmm.”
God, how I loathe this man.
He continues. “I’m afraid not. There are just nine now. Giovanna has been tested, and her IQ does not fall below the seventy-five maximum for your class.”
“Surely you don’t mean to say she hadn’t previously been tested.”
“She’d failed.”
“Was the test given in English?” His silence is all the answer I need. “For God’s sake, the girl had just moved to America!”
“And as for Robert,” Gardner continues as if I haven’t spoken, “his IQ has been determined to be at the imbecile level. So, he does not qualify for class. A shame.”
Robby: scruffy red hair, freckles, a permanent coating of milk dried atop his upper lip. “Robby . . .” I am speaking as if around stones. “Robby is nonverbal. And he can’t write.”
“Exactly.”
“No. No, you aren’t getting it. Those are physical disabilities. They have no bearing on his IQ. But they keep him from being able to answer the questions, even if he knows the right responses.”
“That being said, he tested below a fifty.”
“Yes.” I gritted my teeth. “Because he couldn’t give his answers.”
Principal Gardner shrugs lightly. “Slow classes are for children with IQs between fifty and seventy-five. Robby does not qualify.”
“Who tested him? I’ll talk to the psychologist, I’ll—”
“I’m afraid you won’t change the psychologist’s mind, as I tested Robby myself.”
A principal testing a student’s IQ is not procedure. I have a sneaking suspicion it might not be legal. He’s just given me more leverage.
I slap the two addressed envelopes onto the principal’s desk and pull out the letter. “I’ll have to revise this now,” I say. “It described all the laws you were breaking before: not providing bus service, only allowing my students half days, withholding public funds . . . I could go on, but now I suppose I need to add that you administer your own IQ tests, keep immigrant children out of regular education, and are currently denying services to ten deserving district children.”
“You wouldn’t,” he scoffs. “Imagine the pushback. You know the other parents resent the resources your children take away from the others, and with my connection to the superintendent, I could turn every school in the district against you, too. I’m sorry, Mrs. Wright, but who’s going to listen to a flighty, hysterical woman over a seasoned principal?” He shrugs, not at all sorry. “When it comes down to it, you’d never dare send those letters. Not unless you wanted to be out of a job for good.”
Speak up, Mom always told me. I think of “The Gift of the Magi,” the way Mom equated sacrifice and love.
If risking my own career is what it takes to show these students I love them, it’s what I’ll do.
“I’ll send the letters on the first of next month,” I tell Gardner. For the first time, I’m glad I quit. He knows I’ll uphold my end of the bargain just as I did before. “I’ll be back with my kids next week. And if you haven’t fixed these problems by the end of the month . . .” I nod to the envelopes. “Well. You don’t need me to remind you that I keep my promises.”
* * *
—
Robby’s mother swings open her door at my knock. “Mrs. Wright?”
Accusation and relief war in her face when she rec
ognizes me. I am the woman who let her son down, but also—I am here.
“Mrs. Givens. Is Robby inside?”
Her face softens slightly. “Yes.”
“Lunchtime?” I grin.
“Yes.” The word is the same as before, but her voice turns sheepish. Glistening beige goop drips slowly down the front of her blouse, and her cheek is smudged with puréed peas.
“I know how that can be. Do you want a hand?”
“I—are you certain?”
I nod.
“Please, then, come in.”
I can’t blame her for being surprised. Likely, she’s not often offered help with her son. We find him in the kitchen, secured to his seat with layers of zippers and straps. Puréed food dries in crusty lines across his face, and the room stinks of peas.
“Here.” I take a washcloth, wet it, and gently scrub the boy’s face while his mom feeds him. To my surprise, Robby lets me. When I have finished, he smiles widely. He dips his fingers in the green gook of his peas. And then he smears the liquid slowly and intentionally across the curve of my cheek onto my chin.
“Ack!” I choke on the smell. “I suppose I did deserve that.” I crouch by his side. “I’m sorry, Robby.” And to think Gardner denies this boy’s intelligence. “I never should have left.”
* * *
—
We’re back in our musty basement by eight a.m. the next Monday. Ten kids sit in a circle before me—six on the carpet, two in wheelchairs, two sprawled separately on the hard tile. “We’re going to be doing things a bit differently now,” I tell them. I post my Snow White drawing on the chalkboard to remind myself.
Not that the change is an easy one. God, no. The kids are conflicted, uncertain whether to be excited I’m back or insulted I’d gone. Their routine has been interrupted, and if there’s one thing they all agree on, it’s a love for structure. We muddle through four hours and then stand aside as the choir class files in at twelve o’clock. Twenty-five little bodies press into the room, and I line my ten in a row in front of them. For those who can’t sing, I pass out the instruments Jack bought according to the list I gave him last week: a tambourine for Carol, a drum for Robby, a triangle for Mary Ellen, and maracas for William.
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