Four Spirits (35 page)

THERE THEY ARE, GLORIA THINKS, PALE BROWN HAIR IN
the wheelchair. Thin woman pushing. Blond. How can Arcola just go up to people like that. Broken leg I reckon but no cast. Can't look anymore, but they right in front of me! Sound pleasant. I want to look again. I got to look. There! I must of said “Hello.” Short boy-hair and blond shoulder-flip. We got your groups ready. Go there! Go there! You can't hear the crippled one move, her chair just roll so silent. She roll over to the science area. Arcola gonna help her. Yes, she does. Arcola pulls down the wall chart: human body, skin all gone; some muscles pulled back, heart showing, naked eyeball.

Gloria wishes she was home practicing the cello, or had it here to hide behind. She makes herself begin to teach the small group whose chair-desks encircle her.

“I want you to study these history dates. See how much you can remember. I wrote it out for you. Each got a page to study, but I want it back. Just start learning.”

(Because I've got to listen and my heart thumping so bad: This is integration! Here it is in this room. This is what they all talking about!)

 

“I'M MISS STELLA SILVER—”
(Gloria listens to her prissy white voice) “—and I'd like to know who you are. Would you sign this page, and also, please introduce yourselves.”

“My name Charles Powers.”

“I'm Mrs. Agnes LaFayt. It's spelled
F-A-Y-T,
but said
Fate,
like our Fate is in
his hands.”
So gentle and kind, Mrs. LaFayt, near 'bout fifty. Comes every night. Good influence on the young students.
Mrs. LaFayt reminds Gloria of her grandmother in the country.

“My name Samuel Powers.”

Teacher says, “Oh, you're brothers then?”
But they're not and his name isn't Sam Powers.

“Yes, ma'am,”
they both say, and she don't know any better.

“I'm Michael Powers.”

“Really?” she says.
My group starting to listen in, too. Let 'em.

“We all brothers.”

Next boy, number four—
I ought to learn their names
. “I'm Charles Powers.”

“I thought
he
was Charles Powers.”

“We first cousins. Our mothers was identical twins.”

“You sure do have a pretty name, Miss Silver.”
That's Agnes LaFayt. She trying to help out.
“My niece's named Stella.”

“How many nieces you got, Sam-Man?”
Don't you mock Mrs. Agnes, smarty boy.

“Miss Silver, you want to know my nieces' names?”
Smarty, he's going nasty
. “They named Denise, Carole, Cynthia, Addie Mae…. You ever heard of my nieces?”

Agnes says, “That's not true, and you know it.” She sounds so sad. “Don't do dishonor.”

Miss Silver just says she'll get the names off the paper, but they won't stop.

“Truth is we all kin,” one says
like he's doing her a favor to explain it.

“Yeah, we one big family,” another says,
but Miss Silver is through with all their nonsense.

“My job is to help you to be able to pass the high school equivalency test in English.”

“How can this be a school when they don't give us no books?”

She scoots her chair up closer to them. She's not going to let on scared. No. She move closer, her knee just about touching his.

“I wish there were books, but the program can't afford them. We just have to cope.”

Mrs. LaFayt nods her head in agreement. “When Jesus taught the multitude, he didn't use any book. I don't think we need books, necessarily, to learn.”

“That's right. Least I hope it's right.” Miss Silver gives Mrs. LaFayt a little
smile. Gloria thinks that Miss Silver isn't stupid; she knows who's on her side. “Would you all please move in closer so we don't disturb the other groups.”

“It most too hot to sit close together,” Charles says, but the others give their chair-desks a little scoot up. Charles rocks his desk, but it doesn't go anywhere. Charles demonstrated in May, got knocked down by the fire hose.

Mrs. LaFayt acknowledges Charles's point: “It sure
is
hot. Maybe I can bring us some fans one day before too long.”

Charles glares at Miss Silver like everything's her fault.

“Bring yourself close. I don't bite.”
Miss Silver wants them to like her, be in with her.
She takes one big breath, sits up straight and tall—maybe she's done this before—and she's going to just pitch in:

“A lot of people say, ‘He
don't
do this or that' but that's not correct. You're supposed to say, ‘He
doesn't
do this or that.' Let's each make up a sentence using ‘he doesn't' properly. For example—I'll start—‘He doesn't chew gum in class.' Now, Agnes—”

“He doesn't…understand the lesson.”

Agnes is trying to tell her something more than grammar, but Miss Silver she's going to just go ahead, after a little nod to Agnes. Then she nods to Mr. Next-to-Agnes.

“He doesn't like…the heat.”

And who would? My dress sticking to my back; sweat balls rolling down between my breasts. Windows jammed down 'cause there ain't no screens, and one billion mosquitoes waiting outside. You be outside in the dark, you looking in, you see us here, all our little groups, light on, working away.

“He doesn't like the fuzz.”

Ulna, radius, humerus
—the science group with the crippled girl, all in unison. Suddenly Gloria remembers where she's seen Cat before—at the funeral. Sitting outside the church in the crowd. In her wheelchair. Yes, Gloria remembers the girl in the wheelchair.

“He doesn't like to work on no Bessemer Highway.”

“Good,” Miss Stella says, like she's breathing out a balloon. “Good grammar is the highway to a better job.”

“He
don't
like the teacher,” Charles Powers says.
And the house of breath pops just like a pin pricks a balloon.

But she says, “Doesn't. He doesn't like—”

“The teacher,” Charles insists.

“Right. He doesn't like the teacher,” she says, like it was any old sentence. “You say it.”

“He doesn't like the teacher.” But Mr. Smarty-Pants Charles mumbles because he's embarrassed.

“But we
do
like the teacher,” Mrs. LaFayt says. So calm.

“Thanks. Now let's try the positive side: ‘He does work hard.' ”

Mrs. LaFayt catches the ball: “He does like school.”

“He like to have a cigarette. You mind if we smoke?” Sam West trying to follow the leader.

If she lets hers, then mine sure tell me what to do. All my students want to leave off important dates in American history and go smoke.

“Not supposed to smoke in school,” she says. “I'm sort of allergic to smoke. Now, if you were describing someone smoking a cigarette, what would you say? ‘He smokes Winstons,' or ‘He smoke Winstons'?”

“He smoke Winstons.”

“No, that's not correct. It's ‘He smokes Winstons. I smoke;you smoke;he, she, or it
smokes
.”

“I burning
up
in here,” Charles says, tugging at his shirt collar. His clothes look like he's slept in them a week.

“Miss, you mind if I be excused to get a drink of water?” Sam West asks.

“ 'Course not. You don't have to ask about that sort of thing. You know. Just go get a drink when you want one.”

Wrong answer, Miss Stella Silver. Give an inch they take a mile. There they go! One, two, three, four, five. Ain't but Mrs. LaFayt left. Oh-oh. Here's Christine steaming through the classroom door like a late battleship.

“Just where do you guys think you're going?” She so mad she could spit.

“Our new teacher say we can go get some water.”

“You get back in your seats!” And they go back.
Sure wish I could boss like that.

Miss Silver tells Christine, “They're right. I did say they could have a drink.”

“They don't need no drink. You get back in your seat now.”

“Ah, Mrs. Taylor, can I go to the bathroom,” Sam whines.
Little-boy acting. He ain't got a prayer.

“You just hold it. I said sit down!”

Miss Silver she's walking up to Christine with her hand held out, says, “I don't think we've met. I'm Stella Silver.”

“Hi,” Christine says, but she doesn't shake hands, and she's sure enough going to ignore her. Not much shorter you can say than
hi
. “You kids bring pencil and paper like I told you to?”

“I brought a half-sheet.” Said respectfully, subdued. And another: “I got a pencil—if he lend me one.”

“Shut your lip. Either you got your own pencil, or you not got one. How y'all expect to learn anything you don't come prepared? You want to spend the rest of your lives on the highway picking up white folks' litter? Huh? That's what's going to happen to you if you don't get a high school diploma.”

“We were talking about subject-verb agreement,” Miss Silver tells Christine,
but she don't pay no attention. Doesn't. I know better. When I'm scared, I think bad grammar.

“I want you to learn some new words,” Christine says like Miss Silver is just an insect. “But you didn't even bring any paper to write them down on. Your vocabulary is pitiful. You don't know the words for
nothing
.” Christine's face is all scowled up. “If you don't know words, how you going to express yourself? Tell me that.”

“We all gots to work on our vocabulary,” sweet Mrs. LaFayt says. “I know I do.”

“Now you show Miss Silver what you remember.” (Miss Silver looks interested. She keeps her mouth shut.) “
Perseverance
,” Christine calls out.

Guess I better let my group recite some.

“Turn your fact sheet over. What happened in 1776?”

Mrs. LaFayt is unclasping her black patent leather handbag. She gets out her word definition paper from last time so she can read. A voice in Gloria's history group startles her: “Declaration of Independence,” her smart student answers.

“Perseverance,” Mrs. LaFayt says. She checks her slip of paper again. “You got to
stick
to what you're doing. If you're going to accomplish it.”

“You got that?” Christine asks them all. “What does
perseverance
mean?”

“Hangin' in there.”

And Christine is pleased. She laughs a little. She wants to be nice. She's just got too much on her. She calls out another word.

“
Vindicate!”

And Mrs. LaFayt is back in her purse, looking.

“Don't use your notes,” Christine instructs. “You're supposed to know this. Your mind isn't inside your bag, Mrs. LaFayt.”

But Mrs. LaFayt goes right on looking. “Well, I just need a little reminder. Let's see.
Vindicate
is to get revenge.”

“Well, more like to clear yourself. ‘He was accused of stealing, but when the truth comes out, he will be vindicated.' ” Christine smiles more; she looks like a cannibal about to eat somebody up.

Christine goes on. “What you going to say, Charles, when somebody accuses you of a crime?”

“Not guilty.”

Now he's in a good mood again. He's got his teach back. Charles probably wouldn't have demonstrated if Christine hadn't said she was going. Across the room, Arcola laughs (she's listening in, too) at clever Charles, who's tall as a basketball player and not really mean. Even Christine is amused.

“Mr. Parrish said for you to go help Arcola with her group,” Christine says all of a sudden to Miss Silver.

“Really? I thought this was my group.”

“This is my group.”

I go, you go, he, she, or it goes; we go, you go, they go.
That's Arcola's group.

“I don't think they need me,” Miss Silver says, lightly.

I come, you come, he, she, or it comes; we come, you come, they come.

“Hey, Sam, do you come?” Charles punches his friend, real hard, on the arm.

“You shut your foul mouth,” Christine tells him in words like knife blades. “I hear something like that out of you again, and you're going out.
O-U-T
.”

“I wish you would
both
be our teachers,” Mrs. LaFayt says.

The break bell sears through the heat.

WHEN CAT LAY ON HER BED THAT NIGHT, HER FIRST NIGHT
in the classroom, she couldn't sleep. She was too happy to even want sleep. They'd learned it; she coaxed them to learn the names of the bones in the legs and arms. They'd liked the Latin words. She'd told them about the humerus, the funny bone. She'd watched the glow of pride spread from face to face with the acquisition of a smattering of Latin and the knowledge of the invisible bone structure inside each human being. Lying flat on her back, Cat knew she smelled bad, but she'd been too tired to bathe. Her body soaked up the cool from the bedroom air conditioner like a sponge. So what if her armpits reeked. The classroom was a closed oven. Maybe tomorrow night, if the windows at school could be opened just a crack….