A Terrible Beauty: What Teachers Know but Seldom Tell outside the Staff Room (23 page)

Karl whistled long and low.

Lott snapped his fingers overhead in front of the
intercom speaker. “You getting this okay up there in the office?
That was Aurora Helvey speaking.”

“Well, it irks me,” Aurora said. “She turns on the
charm, and you, babe in the woods that you are, make it easy for
her to slip in the knife.”

“Yeah, seriously, O’Connel,” Lott said, “have you
talked to Hersh about what you can do?”

“I don’t want a thing from NEA.”

“Okay,” Helvey said, “how about getting your own
lawyer?” O’Connel dug around in the fridge, found a juice he’d
forgotten, checked the date, shook it up. “Look, I’ve taught here
twenty years. I don’t know what’ll happen tonight, but they’re just
going to have to judge me on my teaching if they don’t want me
here, I don’t want to be here.” Lott leaned back, crossing his
ankles on the edge of the table.

“Anybody on the board ever seen you teach?”

“She has.”

Karl laughed. “Oh, well, then, I wouldn’t worry about
a thing...everything’s copacetic. Hey, guys, the angel of death’s
seen what a good teacher he is.”

O’Connel smiled. Karl was right, it was stupid.
O’Connel liked these four, liked their banter, their sarcasm. He
would miss them. “I don’t blame her…she’s just doing what she has
to to keep her job.”

“I’ve got to hand it to you, Dai,” Karl said, “you
sure don’t let the little things bother you.”

Myrtle looked up, wrinkled face concerned. “If they
fire you tonight, what’ll you do tomorrow?”

“I don’t know. I guess I’ll just wait and see.”

“Oh, yeah,” Lott said, “that sounds like a hell of a
plan.”

“Uh, huh, that’s what I thought,” Myrtle said. “You
can’t let them do it.” O’Connel tossed away the can, wanting to
change the subject.

“Ah, something’ll turn up.” Karl sang, drumming with
his hands on the table top. “Sha la, la la la la, live for
today.”

“That’s right, it will,” agreed Aurora. “Don’t you
worry about it. Things’ll turn out all right. I’ll pray for you,
Dai.”

Solange came in and O’Connel could feel the room
chill. “You ready?” he said, eager to get her out of the room.

Aurora said, “Well, Solange, another career down the
toilet. You’ll be going back downtown, now, won’t you?”

Solange faced her. “I do what I do for the same
reason you do we owe the kids the best we can give.”

Helvey slammed the jar of nuts down on the table.
“And will the rookie they get to replace him on Monday be
better?”

Solange met her eye, answering, voice low. “You know,
this isn’t about the way things ought to be; it’s about the way
things are. We can work with it, or we can get out if it helps you
to despise me for what I do, go right ahead, but my job has to be
done, too. Any time you want to try it, just let me know.” She took
up her bag and went out.

Myrtle went on with her pearling, lips pursed with
enjoyment. “Well, I guess somebody got told, didn’t they?”

It was time to go, and O’Connel was lousy at
goodbyes. “See you,” he said as he followed her out.

• • •

She waited for him in the truck.

“You’d better buckle up.” She did as he suggested,
saying nothing of her anger, of the sense of having been betrayed.
Her face grew hot as they drove. She bounced a crossed leg
anxiously, determined not to speak first.

At last he did. “You did pretty well in there, I
thought.” She kept her eyes straight ahead. “Oh, sure I did-they
think I’m dirt.”

“They know the truth when they hear it. And they know
somebody with guts when they hear them, too.” He smiled. “Myrtle
got a kick out of it, anyway.”

She looked at him for the first time, jaw set. “So,
did you stay behind and have a good laugh?”

He didn’t get it. “About what?”

“About me, about last night?”

“You know I didn’t.”

She turned away. “I don’t know anything.”

“I know what you all think of me. You’re all the
same.”

He pulled over to the side of the road and set the
brake. She stared straight out the windshield, afraid to look at
him, afraid to hear what he would say. If only he would yell. She
wasn’t afraid of yelling. She wasn’t afraid of a fight. But this
was different. He was so maddeningly calm, so infuriatingly
pleasant. She hated it, hated him.

“Hey,” O’Connel said, voice a purr.

No. She was not giving in. She was mad and she would
stay mad. She would not look at him and most of all, she would not
cry.

He ran a finger lightly down the curve of her ear.
“Hey.” Annoyed, she twisted away.

He did it again, and the teasing touch sent an
electric shock through her. She swatted his hand. “Stop it!”

“Not until you look at me.” He said it as if he had
all the time in the world. “Come on, look at me. I’m waiting.” She
turned to face him. “You are a pest, aren’t you! Now, what? What do
you want?”

“I’m not everybody else.” She closed her eyes, the
fight going out of her. Damn! How did he do that? Take the best she
could dish out, and somehow turn it around so she felt disgusted
with herself for being angry? Her car upside down in the creek,
frame exposed, her lovely car ruined. She might have been inside
it. She did not want to think about that. She looked down at her
hands on her lap, teeth clenched, eyes filling. “I know, I know
you’re not.” It was true—he was like no one she had ever known.

“Look at me! I’m wearing your wife’s clothes, my
car’s under water, last night…” She slapped her forehead with both
hands in a fit of frustration until he captured them, holding them
pinioned on her lap.

“Hey, hey, hey.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing, what I’m saying
anymore. And tonight…”

He shrugged. “Tonight’s tonight.” He pushed the hair
from her face, and she didn’t pull away this time. “It’s all right,
you look fine. Now let’s just patch your mom’s roof, okay?”

Calmed by his stroking, by his voice, she wiped her
eyes with the heels of her hands. It was no use, she was too weak
to hate him. “Okay, then,” she said, defeated. “Let’s go.”

• • •

Outside her mother’s house, she was suddenly
anxious.

Oh, Mae, please, please be good.

Solange had told her over the phone they wouldn’t be
staying long, but she knew she wouldn’t listen. Now she came out
the front door stepping stiffly down the steps, worn apron tied
about her.

She’d been cooking, of course.

Trembling, Solange looked over at O’Connel, tried a
brave smile.

“Your mother, she’s dead?” He nodded.

Her mother, hands folded across her apron, waited
smiling on the crumbling walk. Oh, God. “You’re lucky.”

“You don’t mean that.” He smiled easily. “Look, don’t
worry, I know all about mothers. We give them hell for the first
twenty years, and they give us hell for the next twenty. It all
works out.” Solange smiled, shut her eyes for just a moment,
dreading what was coming, then opened the door. “Here goes.”

The sky hung dark above them as she introduced him
among the shriveled ghosts of hollyhocks, small mongrel dog dancing
about them just out of reach.

Her mother took his hand demurely, exhausting her
arsenal of English by saying hello. Smiling pleasantly, she lapsed
into the vernacular.

“And who is this? Why have you never told me about
this one?” Solange smiled uncomfortably at O’Connel, unsure how
much he might understand. “Mae, I told you, he’s just a friend.”
She turned up the voltage in her eyes. “Now don’t embarrass me. You
promised you wouldn’t.” She turned to O’Connel. “She says it was
very nice of you to come.” He seemed embarrassed by this, and said
he’d better get to it.

Taking the ladder off the rack, he scrambled up on
the roof to try to beat the next wave of showers, as they stood
below watching him work.

Her mother tapped the toe of one worn flat-heeled
shoe, mouth pursed in concentration. “Is this his work, fixing
roofs?” she said in a gravelly baritone.

“He’s a teacher, Mama, I told you that.”

“Hmm— A handsome man. How is it he is not
married?”

“He was.” She turned, pursing wrinkled lips in
curiosity. “And now?”

“She was killed in a car accident two years ago.”

“Ah,” she said mournfully, “sad, and now he is lonely
for a woman.” She shrugged humped shoulders. “Such is the way of
it.”

What was the use of telling her anything if she
refused to hear? “Mama, please—”

Her mother frowned, looking her over. “What are you
wearing? These clothes are not well on you.”

“They’re not mine, they’re his wife’s.”

“His wife’s?” This sank in. “How is that?” Her face
became stern as she pinched seed heads off hollyhocks with strong
stubby fingers, spreading them over the ground. “Well do I know you
are a girl no longer, minha pequenina,” she said, voice an adamant
whisper. “But no one buys the hen who has eggs for free. This you
must have learned by now.”

Solange sighed deeply, regretting her decision to
come. She should have known it would be like this. Nothing ever
changed. Not here, not with her mother.

Solange called up to him, and he came to look over
the edge of the roof. “How are you doing up there?”

“Okay, she’s got some pretty bad cracks. I just hope
I have enough of this stuff”

“How long will it take?” He shrugged, returning to
work. “Fifteen, twenty minutes.” Solange closed her eyes. That
long?

“Yes,” her mother said, “a handsome man. How long
have you known this one?”

Solange sighed, giving herself up to the ordeal. “A
week really, just a week,” she said, hoping the understatement
would cool her interest.

Her mother’s eyes grew wide. “What? And you make him
work on my roof in the rain? A husband does this, a lover perhaps….
What are you thinking? Are you trying to scare him away?”

She didn’t know if she could stand another fifteen
minutes of this. “Mama, it was his idea.”

Wrinkles grew about her mother’s eyes the way they
did when she was confused. “His idea?” Then growing enlightenment.
“Ah, meu deus, this one must be in love.”

“Mother, I told you, “ she paused to gather her will
to press on, “he’s just a friend.”

Her mother laughed, a deep, throaty laugh, a laugh
with wings, a laugh that rolled up into the air like startled
birds. “Oh, es tola! You are a fool if you think a man climbs a
ladder for an old woman. Oh, no, no, no, no. For friendship? Ha.
The question is only what he wants.”

O’Connel came to the edge of the roof smiling, eager
to hear the joke.

Pointing to the black curtain sweeping over the hills
to the north, Solange waved him back to work, promising to tell him
later.

“So,” her mother said, “what is it he wants?”

Solange traced the cracks in the cement walk with her
eyes. “I don’t know, Mae, I don’t know what he wants.” Raindrops
slapped the walk, more every second.

Her mother lay a calloused hand on her shoulder,
smiling knowingly. “Then you are a fool, little one.”

O’Connel came down and they went inside to escape the
downpour. In the cramped kitchen, her mother led him to a place at
the head of her small table and went to stir a big pot.

“Mama, I told you, we can’t stay.” Her mother slammed
down the lid with a clang. “And what am I to do with this?”

O’Connel shook the rain from his jacket and hat.
“Sweet Jesus, that smells good, what is it?”

Knowing at once from the smell, she didn’t bother to
ask. “It’s feijoada—black beans. I told her we couldn’t stay to
eat.”

His face fell. “Why’d you do that?”

“Why?” she said, hope for his support fading.

“Yeah, why? We just got here, and anyway, that smells
way too good to be beans.”

Solange smiled hopelessly, warming herself in front
of the wall heater. “There are pig’s feet in it, too, and linguica,
that must be what you smell.” He went over and her mother lifted
the lid of the enamel pan so he could smell the simmering beans. He
nodded, smiled, licked his lips.

Her mother beamed, sending Solange a smug look. “You
go, and I feed to the dog.”

O’Connel looked at her. “Did she say something about
a dog?”

Solange hung her head, beaten. It was no use, they
could never leave now until they had eaten. “We’ll stay, Mama.”

She served them each a bowl and came to sit with
them, waiting eagerly for him to taste his food. He ate with
exaggerated gusto, making her smile.

“Tell her it’s wonderful.” Solange told her, and she
puffed up with pride before them.

“So, you are a teacher.” Her mother looked to Solange
to translate.

Solange set her spoon in her bowl, dreading what must
come next.

O’Connel watched her expectantly. “What’s wrong?”

“She asked if you are a teacher,” she said, wondering
if she would be sick again. Would the nightmare ever end? She was
tired—so tired.

“She doesn’t know,” he said, guessing. “You didn’t
tell her, did you?”

“She thinks you’re madly in love with me. Am I
supposed to tell her I’m firing you in a few hours? Is that what
I’m supposed to tell her?” She was trembling again, and she could
see by her mother’s face she knew something was wrong.

He reached over to lay a hand on hers. “You don’t
have to tell her.”

She pulled her hand away, eyes tearing. “I don’t lie
to her, I never lie to her.”

“Then don’t, just tell her what I say.” He spoke to
her mother. “I’m a teacher, but I may not be for long.” He waited
until Solange told her, then went on. “There are some people who
are not happy with me, right now, and I may have to find something
else to do.” Solange translated, and knew from her mother’s
expression that she had guessed the rest. Her mother looked at once
very old, her mouth set with disappointment. Solange had to look
away.