Bleeder (23 page)

“Excuse me, don’t I know you?” I turn around to a mother who stands with two boys swinging from her arms. “Are you Shelby? Shelby Smoak?”

“Yes, I am.”

The lady extends her hand. “Cindy. Cindy Reed. I used to work in the
Hemophilia Center at the hospital. Don’t you remember me? You were just a little boy then, probably about ten or eleven.”

I have a vague memory of her. “Oh, yes. It’s been a long time. How are you?”

“Fine, fine. Just picking up my two boys.” She lifts their hands in pride. “Do you work here?”

“Yes. An assistant in first grade.”

“Oh.” She stiffens. “How wonderful.” Pause. “And how’s your mom?”

“Fine.”

“Your dad, too?”

“Fine.”

“Sister, was it Anne?”

“And Louise and they’re both fine.”

“Well that’s good to hear.” She starts toward her car and turns around one last time, giving me a strange backwards glance. “You take care of yourself, okay.”

“I will.” And I can feel it—her knowing about me. And I feel something else, too—something unkind about that look she gives me.

But the boys are at it again and distract me from my thoughts. I rush over, force them apart, and escort them into Principal Trask’s office, where they are reprimanded and then returned to me with drawn-down faces and notes in their grip. When their rides arrive, I tell Johnny’s brother about his behavior, for which his brother gives Johnny a quick slap on the back of the scalp and a stern warning; Billy’s mother jerks him by the arm and yanks him to the car, scolding him until the car door slams and shuts out her yelling. Then eventually, only one remains, a second-grader with her hair braided and pulled into one long blonde pigtail.

“Are you sure you have a ride?”

“Yes. Mommy is usually late. This one time, she was almost two hours late.”

“Oh great,” I say.

Chelsea miffs her face. “That’s not great. That’s bad.”

“Yes, I know. I was being funny.”

“Oh.” She looks at me with befuddled eyes.

When we have waited forty minutes, I suggest that we go inside; it’s growing cold and I need to use the phone in Principal Trask’s office. There, I call all Chelsea’s numbers—home, mother’s work, father’s work, and then emergency—but only the machines are answering. I leave messages. Then I sit and wait. Chelsea reads a book while I flip through a school newsletter. Soon the teachers begin filing out, leaving. “Oh, bus duty,” one says as she passes. “There’s always one parent that just ruins it. Gotta love it.”

The assistant principal soon emerges and checks his watch with the hall clock. “Yep, they’re late.” He smiles. “Who knows? You may still be here tomorrow.”

After another half hour, I bother Principal Trask and again phone Chelsea’s numbers.

“No luck?” Principal Trask asks.

“Nope. No luck.”

I return to the hallway with Chelsea and wait again.

More time passes before Principal Trask comes out to see how things are. He stands over me and, as way of conversation, tells me the good things he’s heard about me from my supervisor. While he talks, he smoothes down his red tie and works his arms into a light gray suit-jacket, which he adjusts for a better fit. But I can’t take my eyes off of his crooked nose. Once broken, it now gives him a sinister look, no matter how often he smiles.

“Somebody’ll be here soon for her,” he encourages. “Can’t be much longer now.” He smoothes back his hair. “Wanna make a few more calls before I lock up?” he asks.

“No. I’ve left enough messages.”

“Okay then.”

He turns the key to the office and then he is gone. Later, the janitor sweeps around us while Chelsea sleeps on a wooden bench pressed against the trophy wall, scrunching up her bookbag for a pillow.

Eventually, daylight fading from the sky, a car pulls through the drive; a woman rushes in, darts her eyes around, and quickly lets out a sigh when she spots Chelsea sleeping upon the bench.

“Oh, thank God. I was sure you would have sent her home in a taxi by
now. I got caught at work and just couldn’t get away.” She advances. “Chelsea . . . Chelsea,” she calls.

Chelsea screws up her eyes, “Mommy?”

Her mother kneels down and rubs a hand along Chelsea’s back. “Oh, honey. I’m so sorry. Mommy got caught at work. I couldn’t help it, but I’m here now. Let’s go home, okay? Let’s go home and I’ll fix your favorite dinner.”

Chelsea polishes sleep from her eyes and collects her things.

“I hope Chelsea wasn’t any trouble for you,” the mother says, offering a smile.

I grit my anger. “If you’re late like this again, she’ll have to start riding the bus.”

Chelsea’s mother vilifies me with her eyes. “It happens,” she says.

Then she carts Chelsea away in a half-sleep, and I go home to rest, falling straight into bed and skipping supper, only to be awakened by the phone later: my mom. Playing the good son, I chat, venting about the horrors of bus duty and then mentioning my encounter with my former nurse.

“You ran into Cindy Reed?” Mom inquires.

“Yeah. She’s got kids at Aster.”

“Oh, Lord . . .” Mom swallows. “You know she was let go from the Hemophilia Center for talking too much.”

“Talking. About what?”

“Well, that’s when everything was just coming out, and, well, Cindy couldn’t keep things to herself. She couldn’t keep quiet is all I heard. She was young and a little immature for the situation and, well, she just liked to talk. At least that’s what I heard.”

“Well, I’m sure things have changed.”

“I hope so, Son. For your sake. I hope so. You just watch out. That’s her kids at that school.”

One Friday in the middle of October, my supervisor blocks me in the hallway and, nearly out of breath, tells me that she has been looking for me and that we’re scheduled for a meeting today.

“Oh. Okay. I didn’t know.”

“You wouldn’t have. This is an impromptu meeting. Can you meet me in thirty minutes?” she asks brusquely.

“Yes. Sure.”

And thirty minutes later when I enter my supervisor’s office, she rushes for the door with her arms strapped around a stack of paperwork.

“Are we going somewhere?”

“We’re actually meeting in the principal’s office today. He’s got some available time, and he likes to sit in on these things when he can. Also, it’s good for him to be part of the review.”

We are quiet as we walk the corridor of napping kindergarten children. My supervisor’s pants’ fabric swishes and her heels click as we make haste to the principal’s office. My gut stirs.

Reclined behind his desk and talking on the phone, Principal Trask motions for us to come in and sit at a small table near his desk. I listen as he laughs and ends the conversation, and when he hangs up, he immediately goes to close the door.

“Glad you could meet on such short notice.” He extends his hand and offers me a polite shake before adjusting his tie and settling next to my supervisor and across from me. “We get so busy around here, we have to squeeze things in when we can.” He opens a folder that I catch my name on, and he asks me to tell him how I feel things with Thomas are going.

“Okay. Thomas has definitely calmed down since the first of the year.”

“That’s good to hear.” Principal Trask leans forward, points to a sheet of paper my supervisor holds. “I’m meeting with you today because we haven’t really had time to thoroughly go over your objectives and duties for the position you’ve been hired for. We’ve just now printed out a copy of your job requirements and felt this was as good a time as any to update you on your progress. This is our way of keeping things on track and letting you know where you stand.” He gives my supervisor a go-ahead glance and she begins.

“As you know Thomas is a special case. A special boy needing extraspecial care.” She lays the paper flat, toys with her fingers. Her voice is like a tiny stream of air slipping from a balloon, weak and barely audible. “One of the first things he looks for is the attitude of others, especially his assistant.”

“You’re going to have to speak up, Mrs. Steele. If I can hardly hear you and I’m sitting right next to you, I know Mr. Smoak can’t hear you.”

“Okay. Okay.” She nervously clears her throat and begins again with a more assertive tone. Principal Trask settles back into his seat. “When George, excuse me, I mean Mr. Mitchell . . . when Mr. Mitchell worked with Thomas, they were always rolling around, laughing and cutting up, and generating the kind of connection an autistic boy like Thomas needs. Yet after talking with Mrs. Price, we feel you are not making these same kinds of connections with Thomas.”

I’m taken aback. This isn’t good.

“Oh.” I clear my own throat. I shift my feet beneath the desk and sink into the chair. “I didn’t know this was a problem. Last time we talked, you only mentioned improving communication with his mother, and I’ve tried that.”

“Yes, yes,” offers Principal Trask. “There has been improvement there. This other is a more recent observation.”

I swallow. My supervisor continues.

“Your relationship with Thomas is weak. There doesn’t seem to be that respect coming from Thomas to you.” Here I think of jumping in to defend myself, but she pipes away, not raising her eyes to notice me. “Number 3,” she continues, her voice stern and gaining strength. “You also fail to properly carry Thomas through his daily routine. For example, checking his duty board before allowing him to read a book or making sure that Thomas completes his writing assignment before taking him to bounce on his ball or swing on the playground. Again, we feel that you achieve poorly here.”

My supervisor prattles on, enumerating my poor achievements. Her hands tremble. Her voice quavers. And she does not look at me. Principal Trask also averts his eyes and only watches the supervisor reading. I give a hard stare to his crooked nose—it now appearing even more crooked—and I lower my gaze and admire the lace of my shoes, the droop of my tie, the crack in the floor, the drip of my tears on my khakis.

When the supervisor’s droning voice ends, Principal Trask speaks: “What we try to achieve here at Aster Elementary is the best teaching environment for our students. One that encourages optimal learning. And after
discussing it with Mrs. Steele and Mrs. Price, it seems to me that you may be missing that mark.” I sense their eyes probing me. “Typically after making an employee aware of their deficiencies, we reconvene in another week to reevaluate the situation. If at that time we sense no change, then we have to consider a replacement.” He leans back in his chair, throws his legs out from under the desk. “You should try to put your best foot forward because we want you to be successful at Aster Elementary and to be a part of our family, don’t we, Mrs. Steele?”

She coughs to regain her voice. “Yes, sir. That’s right.”

“But if you can’t meet that mark, then we’re going to have to let you go.”

My eyes water again. Principal Trask pushes a box of tissue toward me and I take one to clean my face.

“Is there anything you’d like to say?”

“No, sir.” I blow my nose.

“Is there anything you’d like to add, Mrs. Steele?”

“No, sir.”

He looks to his watch and shakes it around his arm to where he can read its face. “Well, it’s two o’clock now. Perhaps it would be best if you took the rest of the day off. I know you’re upset and may need to think these things through. Teaching isn’t for everyone, especially when you’re working with the handicapped.” He stands from his chair, moves to the other side of the room. “We’ll get someone to look after Thomas this afternoon.”

“I have bus duty, too.”

“Mrs. Steele, do you think you could cover that this afternoon?”

“Yes, sir. I can do that.”

“Great.”

And from his desk, Principal Trask draws out a sheet of paper that I am made to sign.

“This just validates our meeting and acknowledges your understanding of what was discussed here.”

Then he opens the door and I am let out.

When I slink home to sob, my apartment is bluer than it has ever been. The wind rustles the leaves that cling desperately to their treetops, and
through the open window the smell of dying fall drifts in. A hole inside me is now stopped up with a great sorrow.

I fall asleep, and when I wake, the day has darkened. An evening cloud covers the sun. I sit on my bedside, rest my feet on the floor, place my palms flat against my mattress, and I peer outside to the trees and a stormy sky. I turn on the porch light and sit outside while a storm starts to rage around me. Gusts bend the treetops into parabolic arches, tearing loose the last leaves, and when one catches beneath my foot, I pick it up and close my grip around it. Dry, it crumbles in my hand and is blown to nothing in the violent wind.