A Terrible Beauty: What Teachers Know but Seldom Tell outside the Staff Room (7 page)

O’Connel put him against the wall. “Stay there,
Wagner.”

She felt cold air on her thighs. Dress awry, she
tried to cover herself— but couldn’t. Kids stared down at her,
smiling, laughing, concerned.

O’Connel dropped his jacket over her legs and the
warm satin on the inside of the heavy leather comforted her.
Kneeling among the moving tennis shoes and boots, he cradled her
head in his hands.

She had to get up, but couldn’t breathe.

“You hurt?” Panic ballooned inside her. She flailed,
pushing him away. She had to get air! He held her, fending her
off.

“It’s all right. Give it a minute. You hit the floor
pretty hard. Don’t fight it, your breath will come, it’ll come.”
His voice, a fluid whisper, calmed her.

Moaning with embarrassment, she lay in his arms
gulping air. Jesus, she must look like a carp.

He nodded, eyes reassuring. “It’s okay, relax,
now.”

Damn. Her father’s eyes.

Little by little her breath came back.

“That’s right,” he said, shielding her from the
thinning crowd with his shoulders and elbows. A boy sprinting to
class caromed off O’Connel’s arm and went down.

O’Connel looked up. “You okay, Moses?” He was, and
set off again at a run.

O’Connel smiled down at her. “Better now?” She looked
up at him through tangled hair. A rock, he shielded her. When he
might have stood off to the side in embarrassment, he stayed.

Why? She wanted—she needed—to know. Why? She tried to
think of any man she knew whom she might rather have holding her,
and—how sad— could think of none. Her father twenty years under the
black earth of the rain forest, brothers scattered—lovers—now that
was a joke. There’d been no time, and no one worth what time she
had, not for a long long, time. No, there was no one else.

But for the boy waiting, sullen, against the wall,
the hall was empty. She could see his feet pacing in place, eager
to go.

O’Connel told him to wait in the office.

“I got class!”

O’Connel turned to look at him, voice deadly calm.
“What you got, is deep trouble. Now, go.” The kid went, hissing
through his teeth.

O’Connel brushed hair gently out of her face. “Got to
watch yourself around here. It’s not the district office.

Ready to get up?”

Not sure of her voice, she nodded.

O’Connel slipped his arms to the elbows under hers,
gently drawing her to her feet. She turned her head away, feeling
the heat of him near her. How good to be standing. At least it was
over.

It was then she began to feel odd.

Finding herself on the floor again, she felt a
delicious warmth spread over her thighs, and realized to her horror
that she had wet herself. Once more, he cradled her.

Not willing to look at him, she struggled to rise, a
small whine coming from deep in her throat. This couldn’t be
happening—not here, not now.

“Take it easy. It’s okay. That didn’t work so well.
You pulled a fast one on me, I’m just glad I caught you. You better
just sit up this time first, huh?”

She did as he said, bracing elbows on her knees. God!
Why her? “Nothing like this has ever happened to me before,” she
said. “I can’t believe this.” Face on fire, she clamped her jaw
tight, tears of embarrassment welling into her eyes.

He sat, shoulder warm against hers. The hall,
deserted now, a muted sound like the hum of a hive came through the
walls from classrooms above and around them.

He looked down the hall at the stained green
carpeting. “Okay, that’s the last straw! We’re just going to have
to replace this rug.” She saw he was kidding and, despite her
embarrassment, laughed, sending mucus running.

He handed her a tissue, and waited while she blew.
Mrs. Noble left the office, pausing to frown in their direction,
before continuing out the door. They laughed again at her scowl,
and Solange felt another surge of embarrassment wash over her. God
only knew how she must look there on the floor.

“I’ll tell you a story while you rest a minute,” he
said. “When I was in college, I ran, long distance, mostly. One
meet, halfway through a ten K, I got cramps like—” He shook his
head. “I thought I was going to split wide open. I could either
quit and run to the toilet, or I could finish the race.” He stood.
“You ready to get up? Here we go.” For the second time he helped
her to her feet, and this time it was going to be okay. She looked
down to see a dark stain on slacks and was thankful for the empty
hall.

She had to know. “Well?”

He smiled his crooked smile. “I ran. People laughed
and pointed as I went by. When I crossed the line, I just kept on
running right into the showers. They never let me forget that one.
So, hey, don’t let it bother you. It happens. Life goes on, you
know?”

Did it? She looked at her watch. “You have to teach
now, don’t you? You’ll be late.”

“Lott will cover for me, it’s no big thing.”

He walked with her to her car. “You be here
tomorrow?”

She nodded, slacks clammy against the cold leather
seat. “I’ll be here. I’ll take your deal, by the way.” She started
the engine, and he tossed the door shut with just the right amount
of force, so that it shut tight, but didn’t slam. Few people got it
just right. She smiled at her foolishness. It was insane thinking
like this. She opened her window.

“Okay, first period starts at 7:30. You be late and
I’ll be on the horn to Doc asking where you are.” He smiled,
turning away.

She felt her throat tighten up, but kept her voice
steady. “Mr. O’Connel…”

He stopped, not turning.

There was too much to say, and too much she
couldn’t.

“Thanks.”

He waved it away as he went up the steps and
inside.

• • •

It was all such a mess.

In the shower, her head against the tile, she let the
scalding spray pepper her as the events of the day wormed their way
into her mind.

Even here, the memory made her cringe. What did it
matter if he thought she was a hag? She was there to terminate
him—and she would.

As superintendent, she could stop the hypocrisy she
saw today.

In the top job she could reach not just a classroom
of kids, but a whole district of them. She could help make their
teachers more effective, more compassionate. She could see to it
all Silver Mountain’s teachers held themselves and their students
to high standards.

The way he did.

Oh, Christ—

She felt like a worm on a hook—the more she squirmed,
the deeper in her flesh it set. She turned the water as hot as she
could stand it, sliding down the tile to sit, arms on knees, under
the pelting spray.

With a drop out rate pushing twenty-five percent, and
the lowest test scores in the district, Elk River was no one’s
first pick of assignment. Rookies were sent here to sink or swim.
Those that survived moved on as teachers at the larger schools
retired. A few spent their careers there—she could think of four—
Helvey, Calandra, Lott, and of course, O’Connel. They’d been there
long enough to remember when things were better. Compassionate,
caring teachers, they were stuck. Too high on the pay scale to
start over at another district, branded as troublemakers for their
outspoken manner, they stayed on, doing what they could with what
they had.

Most of Elk River’s parents worked at the mill.
Children of Oakies fleeing the dust bowl, few thought much of
school. Dropouts themselves, they did fine. If they didn’t need
school, why should their kids? Even parents who cared about their
kids’ grades had a hard time getting them to. What, after all, does
school have to offer a kid who can pull down $12.85 on the plywood
line the day he turns eighteen, diploma or no? But Elk River was
changing. Vineyards followed in the wake of raw clear cuts, snaking
the contours of the hills, gaining on retreating timberland more
each year. And vineyards brought laborers to Elk River. Labor
planted, tied, staked, trellised, pruned, sprayed and harvested.
Labor made wine, and just about all of it was Mexican.

Legal or not, when these immigrants crossed the
border, they came with respect for work, for school, for teachers.
All too soon they learned that in America only fools worked or
studied. In Mexico, those who didn’t, starved. In El Norte, all was
given.

Solange had seen the change in the faces of the older
students many times, from humble sincerity to sneering contempt in
a few short weeks. Watching men at work in the fields from behind
the fence, they taunted, sneering at such a shameless display of
ignorance.

“Ay, payasu!—what a clown! Studying was for school
boys, and they were no school boys.

They were vatos locos—crazy boys, gangsters,
banderas. Two brothers, seniors, were arrested for carjacking only
last year. Drive by shootings were becoming common, and there was
nothing anyone could do to stop it.

Her second graders practiced in crayon the script
she’d seen spray-painted on the wall of the market. They imitated
older brothers’ gang signs with tiny fingers, and no matter how
many times she stopped their small hands with hers, she could do
nothing to change the way they thought.

There were others, too—families that worked together
in the fields, some with more than a dozen children. Fathers who
came in after a long day in the vineyards to sit respectfully at
teacher conferences.

Straw hats stained with sweat and dust held in big
hands, they listened carefully as their wives asked always the same
question— ‘M’ijo, se deporte bien?’—is my son behaving himself? The
answer was always the same. Their children sat respectfully quiet,
eyes ready to learn, soaking it all up. Enrolled speaking no
English, they were immersed in it. At first they listened. Within a
year they were talking. In two or three, they spoke as well as
most.

When the time came, they graduated from high school
with high grades, speaking perfectly.

For these children, school worked.

For them it always had.

As a classroom teacher, she had seen her children’s
needs with painful clarity. They came to class having eaten no
breakfast, with dirty arms and faces, with filthy stinking clothes.
They came on frosty mornings in thin tee shirts with empty bellies.
They came yawning and nodding from too little sleep. They came with
eyes that had seen too much, needing to be hugged, listened to,
spoken to. They came needing all that parents should give but too
of ten didn’t.

One little boy, Rene, she had never been able to
forget. His mother, an attractive divorcee, had left him for days
at a time with a baby sitter while she went on with her life. She
must have loved the boy, but she wasn’t prepared to give up her
life for him. Well dressed, well-fed and washed, he wore the
unbearable pain of her abandonment in his eyes, in his face.

Solange met his sitter. She was nice enough, but had
a family of her own. Having Rene live with them for weeks at a time
was more than she’d bargained for. When she quit, the mother picked
him up only to drop him off at a new sitter the very same day. Rene
did nothing at school that day, she remembered, but sit and stare.
How must it feel, she wondered, to know your mother didn’t want
you? Could there be anything more painful than that? Solange went
to see her that night, and by a stroke of luck found her at home.
She had guests and was not at all happy to see her.

A blond with a model’s body and deep blue eyes, at
first she’d offered her business smile. When she recognized her
son’s teacher, her face soured. She came outside, pulling the door
closed behind her. “What do you want?” Solange hadn’t expected to
be met with such hostility. The woman’s eyes brimmed with hate. For
whom? Herself? “I wanted to talk with you about Rene.”

“How I raise my son is my business,” she said,
already bored.

Solange knew there was no good way to tell a mother
how to raise her child. So she just said what she’d come to say.
“He needs you so much— Today I couldn’t get him to talk to me. I
called his sitter, and she said you’d come to get him.”

“If you’ll excuse me, I’m entertaining.” She went
inside, leaving Solange standing alone on the sidewalk. A cold rage
grew inside her as she went to her car. What else could she do? He
was her son; she could raise him any way she chose. The pain she
lavished on Rene, while more painful than any blow, left no scars,
no bruises. Solange marveled that such obscene ugliness could exist
behind such a lovely face. Nearly to the street, she turned on her
heel, circling back.

The woman opened the door with a wide smile meant for
another guest. It became something ugly. “Still here?”

“If I were God,” she looked the elegant woman in the
eye, “I would reserve a special place in hell for you.” She shut
the door on Solange for the second time.

Solange could hear laughing and talking in the
apartment. She knocked again, harder.

Rene’s mother opened the door, face set. “I’m calling
your principal tomorrow! I’m sure he would like to know about this
harassment.” Solange ignored her. “In a few years you’ll be too old
to interest men,” she said, voice low.

The woman stepped back, preparing to shut the door,
and Solange pressed her shoulder to the jamb.

“I’m not finished. If I have to, I’ll raise my
voice.” The elegant blond cast a quick look over her shoulder.
“Then will you please finish?” The woman’s politeness was somehow
worse than rudeness.

“You’ll want your son, but it’ll be too late. By then
he’ll hate you, and you’ll be alone. Then you’ll understand what an
evil thing it is you’ve done.” The woman watched, eyes hard as the
diamonds at her ears.

“That the sermon?” She went doggedly on, not willing
to give up. “Don’t you understand what you’re throwing away? That
little boy loves you with all his heart.”