A Terrible Beauty: What Teachers Know but Seldom Tell outside the Staff Room (15 page)

“I’ve been given a hard time before. I said I’d get
you home and I will.”

She took a deep breath. “When I mentioned
families—”

He cut her off with a raised hand. “Just don’t… don’t
say you’re sorry.”

He drove and the tires sang on asphalt.

“Okay,” she said, looking at the road ahead.

Damn. It was going to be a long drive. He regretted
being harsh with her. “Look… I got to where I dreaded seeing
people. I couldn’t stand to hear them say it.”

“I wasn’t going to.” She kicked off her shoe, dangled
it on her toe, watching him appraisingly with those incredible dark
eyes. She was thinking something over. At last she spoke.

“You know… you may be alone, and I’m sorry… but
they’re not. They don’t have the luxury of thumbing their noses at
everyone the way you do. That doesn’t make you better than they
are. It makes you one of those spoiled brats you talk so much
about. Don’t get confused. It takes a hell of a lot more guts to
stay and put up with all of it than it does to throw a tantrum and
get yourself fired.”

It hurt and he knew why—because she was right. He
downshifted into a long curve. “Okay, I get it. I’m a jerk.”

She sighed long. “That wasn’t my point.”

The rattling of the old truck relaxed him. The road
he loved. It was familiar. In the rig it was warm, cozy almost.
“You know, when I was in college, I spent a month bumming around.
One rainy night in London I met this guy. He seemed old to me at
the time—he was maybe…” He blew out a breath. “I don’t know… forty.
We got to talking on the bus. He had lived in Argentina for a
while. Now he was in London. He had no family, no friends, nobody.”
He looked over at her. “When my stop came up, I shook his hand,
stepped off the back platform, and watched him disappear down
Kensington High Street.”

In front of the bakery, he parked, killed the engine.
It seemed unnaturally quiet with only the sound of traffic muffled
by snow.

He had no idea why he should be telling her this.
“And now, twenty years later, here I am. I’m that guy.”

She said nothing as he unbuckled, went inside,
returned with a big box. Tossing it into the back the smell of
freshly baked bread and toasted sesame seed filled the cab.

She told him how to get to her place, and he found a
spot not too far from the front of her apartment under the branches
of a century old London plane, parked, let the engine run. His
hands he kept on the wheel, his eyes on the street. It seemed
easier that way.

“Thanks for the ride,” she said.

He looked at his hands on the wheel. Why didn’t she
just get out? “No problem.”

She tried to open the door, but had trouble with the
latch, and he leaned across her to work it. He could feel her warm
breath on his neck as he jiggled the stubborn lever, and a rush of
cold as the door swung open. Quickly, he moved back to his side,
and a moment passed in awkward silence as the wind blew exhaust
into the cab.

“Come up. I’ll brew some tea.”

Oh no. No. That was not happening. He wanted to be
alone, in the woods, by the river—anywhere but in here apartment.
Sipping tea? Uh uh. He forced a smile. “Thanks, anyway.”

She reached over, turned off the ignition, and it was
quiet.

“I asked you up for a cup of tea. Are you really
going to say no?”

He looked over at her and felt suddenly numb. He took
out the key, reaching for his buckle. “I guess not.”

• • •

He followed her up the wide stairs to the second
floor, and waited, hands jammed in his jeans, ill at ease, as she
cleared papers from the kitchen table.

“I’ll have this mess cleared in a sec. I don’t do
this a lot—have people over.”

For something to do, he opened a beveled glass
bookcase door, tilting his head to read the titles. “Okay if I look
at your books?”

“Go ahead.” Surprised, he slipped one out, held it
up. “You read Buck?”

“What’ve you got?” She laughed, looking up to see he
held The Good Earth. “Oh, yeah, isn’t she great?”

He nodded, not sure he could picture her reading
about women who walked ten paces behind their men. “Sad,
though.”

She shrugged, filled the kettle, turned the flame up
high, “Life is, sometimes.”

In the kitchen, she motioned him to a seat at the
table, got two cups and saucers down from the cupboard, and set a
sugar bowl in front of him on the table.

Unsure whether or not she’d made a mistake by
inviting him, she leaned back against the counter while the kettle
sputtered and hissed. Head down, he ran a finger around the lip of
the sugar bowl.

She frowned, watching him. Could he be shy away from
the classroom? She searched for spoons, watching him. She couldn’t
imagine him afraid of anything. Not her, anyway. Least of all
her.

As teachers went, he was one of the best she’d ever
seen. But with every right, every reason to hate her, he didn’t
seem to. Why not?

“About what you said— “ He set the sugar jar lid
gently back into its place, as if trying not to disturb a single
grain of sugar clinging to the rim. “I said what I did today
because I respect them—so much. I know they’re just doing what they
have to do. So am I.”

“Oh, yeah?” She got down a box of tea and folded back
the foil. The tea smelled good, solid. “And what’s that?”

Eyes on the sugar, he answered, voice low. “Tell the
truth, do what’s right, teach, really teach.” He smiled, laughed at
himself. “I know it sounds corny. I’m no crusader, I’m just tired
of all the lies. So many years I went along, never believing any of
it. One stupid, inane reform after another.” He tilted his head to
look closely at the sugar bowl, shook his head with finality. “No
more.”

She dumped in a measure of leaves, covering them to
steep. “What about the kids, what’ll happen to them…” She couldn’t
finish the thought. Her throat refused to carry the sounds, her
tongue refused to form the words.

“What, if I’m canned? I don’t kid myself. I’m easily
replaced. Somebody once told me, stick your fist in a bucket of
water, pull it out and see what kind of hole you leave.” He smiled.
“The good kids’ll do okay, they always do. The others will be glad
to see my back.” He looked down and far away. “I’ll miss some of
them, though.”

She watched him, lead in the pit of her stomach. This
was her doing.

Suddenly, he laughed, breathed deep. “It’s pleasant,
this ritual, this steeping of leaves,” he said, toying again with
the lid of the sugar. “It’s really the culmination of human
culture, isn’t it? Hasn’t changed in what…five, ten thousand
years?”

She shrugged, pouring out the tea. “What’s to change?
It works. Care for yak butter with that?”

He smiled, warming his hands over the steaming cup,
eyes focused somewhere far away. “You know, it’d be hard to give
up. When it’s done right, it’s the most challenging job in the
world, addictive as any drug. So much happens at once, so many
decisions to make, so many lives in your hands, minds too. Anything
else would be sensory deprivation. I’d miss it, I really
would.”

She remembered, and went to get a carton of milk and
he watched her, thinking.

“Do you? miss it, I mean?”

She shut the refrigerator door, sat down across from
him, looking thoughtful. At last a smile came into her eyes. “You
know, I do.”

She watched him as he added a dollop of milk to his
tea. “You expected to hear that.”

It was obvious she would be a great teacher. He
nodded, shrugged. “Had a feeling is all.” He noticed her watching
him stir his tea. “I know it looks awful, doesn’t it. Like mud.
Grandma was Welsh, mother too. Da was Irish. They taught me to like
it this way. That’s how I ended up with a name like Dai O’Connel.
Sort of leaves me straddling St. George’s Channel, doesn’t it?”

“What’s it mean—Dai?”

“Oh.” He laughed. “Short for Dewi—David, makes it
Dave, I guess. And it’s not die, it’s a softer D than that, like a
cross between thigh and die, maybe—more like Dthai.”

“Dai—” She tried it. “Dai— Like that?”

“Yeah, that’s more like it, sure. Ah, djou, djou, but
you’re a natural, you are.”

“Oh, right,” she said, face reddening. She topped off
their cups, propping her chin on her hands. “What will you do?”

There it was: The question. He laughed under his
breath. “Oh, uh… I don’t know, raise some cattle, some lambs, maybe
do some selective logging off the mountain, I don’t know.”

It was quiet in the apartment now but for the patter
of rain outside. He couldn’t look too long at her. There was
magnetism in her eyes that pulled so hard at him it almost hurt.
How stupid was that? He looked around the apartment. “You know what
this reminds me of? My Aunt Jesse’s apartment in Portland. Used to
watch me after school. She’d bring out one of those boxes of fancy
cookies, you know, and let me choose one. I think those were the
hardest decisions of my life. Those chocolate ones, and the ones
with jam and pecans— Man! They all looked so good, I mean, good
grief— how’s a kid to choose?” She was smiling at him. “What’s so
funny?”

She went to reach high up into a cabinet and her
blouse pulled free of her skirt as she stretched, exposing flesh at
her hip.

• • •

Turning back, she caught him watching and he lowered
his gaze. Not like the men she caught looking at her breasts. She
felt an upwelling of compassion for this man at her table, and
nearly reached out a hand to smooth his hair. Shaking off the yen,
she lay a box of cookies on the table before him. “Like these?”

He laughed and she realized how much she enjoyed
hearing it.

“Ah, I wasn’t begging.”

Slitting the cellophane with her nail, she unwrapped
it, folding back the lid. “I know you weren’t. Choose.”

He leaned close, inhaled deeply. “Mercy, what a
smell! Can I finger them all while I decide?”

“No!” She snatched the box away, enjoying teasing
him. “Just the one you want. Touch it and it’s yours.”

“Boy, you’re as tough as Aunt Jesse. Just one? Come
on, I’m bigger now.” He cocked an eyebrow at her, giving her his
teacher look. “I think maybe two or three would be more
appropriate, don’t you?”

She drew the box out of his reach once more. “Nope.
One. That’s all.”

“Holy Moses! They ought to put you in charge of the
district’s money.” She clamped down the lid, giving him a stern
frown.

He raised his arms in surrender. “Okay, okay, I give
up, madam assistant superintendent. I’ll take the shortbread.”

She laughed, appalled. “The shortbread? Not the
chocolate? Not the one with the raspberry jam in the middle? But
it’s so plain, so… ordinary.”

“Ordinary, huh? Yeah, well, that’s me. I always used
to pick the shortbread. I just liked to drool over the fancy ones
first.” He dunked it in his tea, and for a while neither spoke and
she suddenly realized how much she enjoyed having him here. The
thought frightened her.

Neither spoke for a long moment as the rain
pattered.

“It’s really pouring out there,” she said. Was that
really the best she could do?

He nodded.

She wanted to talk about it, but didn’t know how—or
even if she should. But she had to. “You’re not making this week
easy for me, you know.”

He smiled out the window, not looking at her. “Good,
I don’t see why I should be.”

She took a deep breath, warming her hands on her cup.
“Easy or not, I’ve got to do my job, you know that.”

He met her eye, nodded. “We both do.”

Now she’d started, she couldn’t seem to stop. “In
spite of how I may feel, or what I think of your talents as a
teacher, I’ve got to do what the superintendent directs me to do.
You understand that.”

“I understand.”

Well, she would be damned if she did. She slapped the
table top hard enough to hurt her hand. “How can you be so damned
understanding about the whole thing?”

He shrugged.

“Why don’t you get mad, yell, do something?”

He looked at her, eyes maddeningly calm. “I am doing
something…I’m teaching.”

She looked down at her hands, feeling sick. It was
true. He was.

He pushed away from the table, picked up his jacket.
“Look, I’ve been thinking— You’ve got all you need, why waste any
more time out there? Just forget the deal we talked about.”

Fear pricked at her insides. He wasn’t doing this to
her, not now. She realized that was the last thing she wanted.
“What? You’re reneging on me? No way, a deal’s a deal.” She wasn’t
sure what she saw in his eyes—relief, disappointment, or something
else? “And I’m not missing this feast.” She went for her purse.
“How much do I owe you, two dollars?”

He waved the money away, laughing that low key way of
his, mostly with his eyes, “Na, my treat.”

“You’re sure?” This was too much.

“Yeah, I’m sure, okay?” He went to the door. “I got
to go. “

She remembered. “Wait! My car, how do I get to
school?”

“I’ll phone Helvey have her pick you up on her way
out. That okay?”

She did her best to smile. “That will be fine.”

And he was gone. She watched from the window as he
pulled away. It was snowing again. After her shower, she dropped
into the deep leather chair to read, but her book held no interest
for her tonight. For a long time she stared at the pendulum on her
clock, ignoring the book held before her. She felt his arms
sheltering her in the hall where she’d fallen and imagined herself
reading what she’d written at Thursday’s dismissal hearing. The
thought made her squirm in the chair’s embrace.

The floor heater clicked on, ignited, sputtered,
ticked.

The apartment had always been quiet. As long as she’d
lived here she’d liked it, needed it that way.

But not tonight. Tonight it was too quiet.

• • •