Home Song (7 page)

After a question-and-answer period, Mrs. Berlatsky said, “We're going to turn you loose now. Each of you here will be paired up with a student who'll act as your personal guide and will give you a tour of the building. We've established the partner program to help new students feel less like newcomers and more like a part of the school community right from the first day. Your partner will help you not only today, but throughout your first month. Could I ask all those who volunteered as partners to stand, please?”

Chelsea stood, glanced around at the others who'd risen to their feet, and discreetly wagged two fingers at some of Robby's friends.

Mrs. Berlatsky went on. “If all of you new students would pair up with one of the volunteers, we'll let you get on with the school tour. Now, all you guides, remember to make sure you give them a copy of the student handbook, and take special time acquainting them with the media center, though it'll be a little crowded if you all start here. So some of you go on out to other parts of the building first, then come back here.”

Shuffling sounded in the room as students began rising. Tom took the microphone. “Kids, remember . . . Mrs. Altman's and my doors are always open. We're your principals, but that doesn't mean we're unreachable. Feel free to come to us or your counselor with any concerns, at any time. Now,
enjoy your tour and we'll see you bright and early on Tuesday morning.”

When Kent Arens stood, Chelsea said, “Well, I know I'm not a senior, but I'll be your partner if you want.” She rushed on. “I mean, most seniors want a senior, but not enough of them volunteered, so I was recruited. And I'm not a boy, so I can't take you into the locker rooms, but I can show you everything else.”

“I've already had a tour of the locker rooms, so thanks. Lead the way.”

Tom Gardner saw his daughter leading Kent Arens from the library and felt a ripple of panic. She waggled two fingers at Tom in goodbye, and he waved back. But his hand lowered slowly to his side as he watched them go out the door.
It's nothing
, he thought.
Joan recruited her, and she just happened to approach me when I was talking to him. And they just happened to sit together. She's always been school-minded, and this is just one more extracurricular duty she's taken on because she knows it pleases her mother and me
.

It's nothing
.

But the panicky feeling persisted.

 

“Your dad is nice,” Kent said as he followed Chelsea from the library.

“Thanks. I think so too.”

“But it must be weird, having your father be the principal.”

“Actually, I kind of like it. He's got a mirror inside a cupboard door in his office, and he lets me keep a can of hair spray in there and a curling iron, and I can go in there whenever I want and fix my hair. And we get refrigerator privileges in the kitchen for after-school activities. I mean, sometimes I might have practice for something right after
school, then another activity in the evening, and I don't have time to go home between. So I bring a sack lunch and get to put it in the lunchroom cooler. But the neatest thing is, we always know what's going on around the school building because both Mom and Dad talk about it at home.”

“Like you talked about me last night?”

She cast him a sideward glance as they walked down the hall. “It was all good, I assure you. Dad was very impressed by you.”

“I was impressed by him, too.” After a pause he added, “But don't tell him. I wouldn't want him to think I was brownnosing.”

“I won't.” She led him through a doorway. “Now this is your first-period classroom. Hi, Mr. Perry.”

“Well, Chelsea . . . hello there.”

As they went from room to room, Kent said, “Everybody knows you. You must do this kind of stuff often.”

“I like doing it, and my parents like us to be really involved in school. We're not allowed to have jobs until after we graduate.”

“Neither am I.”

“Scholarship first.”

“Yeah, that's pretty much what my mom says.”

“So you like school too.”

“Everything comes easy to me.”

“Are you going to college?”

“Stanford, I hope.”

“I haven't picked one yet, but I know I'll go.”

“Mom says Stanford's got the best engineering program, and I want to play football, too, so it seems like a logical choice.”

“You're going to be an engineer?”

“Yeah, same as my mom.”

“How about your dad?”

Kent paused a beat before replying, “My mom's never been married.”

“Oh.” Chelsea tried not to show her surprise, but she felt it inside. She'd been hearing the term “nontraditional family” for years—her parents tended to talk in terms that the counselors used at school—but the idea of a mother who'd never been married sent a shock through her.

An awkward moment passed before Kent said, “She made sure I had everything I needed, though.”

The reassurance left Chelsea with a heavy burden of pity: how awful it would be to have no father. She'd heard so many sad stories at home about various students whose broken or single-parent homes had torn them up or made their lives miserable; about how divorce had a negative effect on students' emotional and scholastic well-being; about how some kids cried in the counselors' offices about sad situations at home.

What could be sadder than a home without a father?

“Hey, listen,” she said, stopping Kent with a light touch on his arm. “Maybe I shouldn't say this, but my dad meant what he said about his office door always being open. He's really a fair man, and he loves the students. If you ever need a guy to talk to, you can talk to him. And what I said before, about how he and Mom talk about school stuff at home—well, that doesn't mean they tell us confidential stuff. You could talk to him about anything personal and he'd keep any of that stuff just between you and him. My friends think he's just great.”

She thought she saw a brief defensive expression touch Kent's dark eyebrows.

“I told you . . . my mom made sure that one parent was enough.”

There was a change in his voice: she was right . . . he was naturally defensive about his family. As she looked up at him she had the oddest sensation that she was looking at someone she knew from long ago, someone she'd known very well. From elementary school, maybe. Yet no name came to mind. She'd never had any classmates who looked like him, never played with any boys who looked like him, not even when she was little. But she liked his looks a lot, and it sounded as if he really had his head on straight.

“Well, then you're lucky. Come on, I'll take you to my mother's room, and I'll warn you only one thing about her. Lots of the teachers don't care if you use their first names, but my mom does. She's Mrs. Gardner to all her students, and don't you ever forget it.”

Claire Gardner looked up from her desk when Chelsea brought the new student in, and she was struck with the same thought:
Who is this boy? I've met him before
.

“Hi, Mom. This is one of your new fifth-period students, Kent Arens.”

“Of course. Tom spoke about you at supper last night. Hello, Kent.” She rose from her desk and came forward to shake his hand.

“How do you do,” he said.

“You're a transfer student from Texas.”

“Yes, ma'am, Austin.”

“What a beautiful city. I've been down there to attend a seminar. I liked it a lot.”

While they went on talking, Chelsea wandered away and walked the perimeter of her mother's classroom, stopping as she always did at the gallery of framed photos on a credenza just behind her desk. These were all her former students, some of them posing in their caps and gowns with their arms around her shoulders, some in costumes at class plays, some
showing their college diplomas, others in their wedding gowns and tuxedos, some even holding babies. Her mom was one of those teachers kids loved and never forgot, and these photos—her prizes—she kept on display with a pride and love that went beyond teaching certificates and paychecks. Of all her accomplishments, these pictures rated right up there at the top, just as the photos of her own children were cause for pride at home.

Leaving her mother's room, Chelsea said, “Bye, Mom. See you at home.”

In the hall, Kent said, “Well, hey . . . what can I say . . . your mom's nice, too.”

“Yeah. I'm lucky,” Chelsea replied. They walked for some time while she dwelled on their conversation of earlier. “Listen . . .” she said, “I think I upset you before when I asked about your father. I didn't mean to. I just assumed, you know? And if there's one thing I should know after living with parents who work in the school system, it's not to make assumptions about families, 'cause there are all kinds of families these days, and I know a lot of single-parent families work better than a lot of regular ones. I'm really sorry, okay?”

“It's all right,” he said, “just forget it.”

As they continued their tour, she felt better. She showed him the media center, the nurse's office, the lunchroom, and the arboretum, where students were allowed to eat at picnic tables on nice days.

When the tour was done they walked together to the front doors, which were propped open, letting a warm draft waft through the building. They stopped on a metal grid and stood with the incoming wind tugging at their clothing and riffling their hair.

“Well, listen . . .” she said. “I know it's tough changing schools, but I hope everything goes okay for you here.”

“Thanks. And thanks for the tour.”

“Oh, sure . . . no problem.” A pause followed. The silence said quite clearly that they'd enjoyed being together. “Have you got a ride home?” she asked.

“Yeah. I took my mom to work, so I've got her car.”

“Oh. Well then. . .” There was no reason to linger. “Where does she work?”

“3M.”

“Where do you live?”

“A new subdivision called Haviland Hills.”

“Oh, it's nice up there.”

“Where do you live?”

“That way.” She pointed. “A couple of miles. Same house I've lived in just about my whole life.”

“Well. . .” He pointed out at the sunny parking lot. “Guess I better get going.”

“Yeah, me too. I'm going to stop by Dad's office and say goodbye.”

“Well . . . see ya Tuesday maybe.”

“I'll come by your homeroom before first period and see if you need anything.”

“Okay . . .” He smiled. “Yeah, that'd be great.”

“Well, have a nice weekend.”

“You too. And thanks again.”

She watched him turn away, felt the vibrations from his heels as he crossed the metal grid and went out onto the sidewalk on the shaded side of the building. Her eyes followed his tall, sturdy form into the sunlight and way off into the parking lot, where he unlocked and got into a car of very bright aqua. She heard the engine start in the distance, then
saw the car back out of its parking spot and head slowly away.

What was it about Kent Arens that kept her standing there watching him drive off? That face. What a face. She couldn't get it out of her mind, nor the ridiculous feeling that she'd known him before. What was she doing, standing here drooling over a boy she'd known exactly two hours and fifteen minutes when just last night she'd admitted how lucky she was to be free of teenage infatuations that could get in the way of her goals?

Putting Kent Arens from her mind, she turned toward the office to say goodbye to her dad.

T
HE
image of Kent Arens walking away, immersed in conversation with his daughter, was fresh in Tom's mind when he returned from the library and walked into his office to find the boy's cumulative file lying on his desk.

He looked down at it, drew a huge breath, and let his cheeks puff out, feeling the emotional drain of the situation even before he opened the file. He rested four fingertips on the crisp manila cover, then glanced up and saw Dora Mae working at her typewriter within clear view of his desk.

He crossed his office and closed the door, then returned to his desk and, standing behind it, opened the file.

Lying on top of a thick stack of papers was his son's kindergarten picture. It caught him by the heart and squeezed, this color photo of a smiling little boy in a striped T-shirt, with tiny teeth, big brown eyes, and long bangs that twisted apart in the center, exposing the cowlick at the hairline.

Tom dropped into his desk chair as if he'd taken a load of buckshot in the knees. For a good thirty seconds he stared at the picture before finally picking it up. The face was so much like his own at that age. He tried to imagine the child
charging into a kitchen to report that he'd found a caterpillar or picked a handful of dandelions. What had he been like then? He was so polite and directed now that Tom found it difficult to equate the child in the picture with the grown senior. Regret came, immense regret at never having known him as a little boy. Guilt, too, for having been an absentee father.

He turned the picture over to reveal some long-ago teacher's printing on the back:
Kent Arens, Grade K.

Next came a sample of Kent's own printing, crooked but legible, done with a blunt lead pencil:
Kent Arens, Kent Arens, Kent Arens
—all the way down the left side of a blue-lined tablet sheet. It was followed by a sheet on which his kindergarten skills were listed in flawless printing, again by his teacher:

 

Knows address

Knows phone number

Knows birth date

Knows left and right

Can name days of the week

Can tie shoes

Can recite Pledge of Allegiance

Can print name:
Kent Arens

(This name was again written by Kent himself.)

 

Next came his kindergarten report card, whose header read:
Heritage Elementary School, Des Moines, Iowa
. A series of check marks were all entered under the “passing” column.

After that came a card showing remarks from his teacher/parent conferences—two of them that year. His mother had attended both. The remarks read: “Can recite the alphabet
and print it. Printed numbers up to 42. Good number knowledge. Doesn't know an oval. Incident with chewing gum.”

Tom wondered what the incident had been and felt cheated that he'd never know. It was probably forgotten by both Kent and his mother by now, as was much within this file.

There were other school pictures, and each time Tom came to one he felt a jolt of recognition, regret, and a paternal reaching within that closely resembled the love he'd felt for his legitimate children. He lingered longest over the photographs. The haircuts changed over the years, but the cowlick remained constant.

Throughout the file there were test results—the Otis Test in sixth grade, The California Achievement Test in seventh grade, a career test in ninth, clearly showing his interest in science and math. Also included were physical-fitness reports listing how many sit-ups and push-ups he'd done, the length of his long jump. His fifth-grade teacher had written: “Good sight reader,” and at the end of the year, “May the Lord watch over you. We're all going to miss you.” (He was in an elementary school called St. Scholastica by that time, and his teacher's name was Sister Margaret.)

His high school records showed the history of a student well liked by his teachers. The year-end remarks were all similar: “An exemplary student. A fine young man liked by his peers. A hard worker who is very goal- and task-oriented. Real college material.”

His report card marks were consistently A's and B's. His sports record showed that he was a true competitor and had lettered the previous year in football, basketball, and track.

It was apparent, too, that not only was Kent an exemplary student, his mother was an exemplary parent. The file was
peppered with verification that she'd attended parent/teacher conferences throughout his school career. Also, there was a photocopy of a note from her to a teacher named Mr. Monk that spoke volumes about the positive reinforcement she had given the school system.

Dear Mr. Monk,

As the school year ends, I thought you should know how much Kent has enjoyed having you as a teacher. He not only learned a lot from you about geometry, he also admired you as a person. Your handling of the situation regarding the Mexican boy who was consistently being discriminated against by the other track coach made you a hero in his eyes. Thank you for being the kind of role model young kids need in today's world of fading values.

 

Monica Arens

As an educator, Tom Gardner knew how rare such positive feedback was. Most times parents emitted a river of complaints against a slow trickle of compliments. It struck him again that Kent Arens had scored himself one darned fine mother.

The thought nevertheless did little to cheer him.

When he'd gone through the entire file, he returned to Kent's last class picture and sat for a long time staring at it, feeling increasingly forlorn, as if
he
had been an unclaimed parent rather than Kent an unclaimed child. He propped an elbow on the open file and stared out the window at the bright green grass in the arboretum.

I should tell Claire right now
.

The thought terrified him. He'd taken another woman to bed one week before his wedding, while Claire was pregnant with their first child. It would decimate her to learn that, no
matter how strong their marriage was now. And once revealed, the truth could never be retracted. Suppose she couldn't live with it, couldn't trust him again, what would happen to their marriage then? At the very least a period of great emotional stress would result, and how would he explain it to the kids? Admit his guilt and work through it: that was the logical answer, for he could tell already that his conscience would make him an emotional mess until he bared it.

On second thought, now was not the best time to tell Claire. He'd do so this weekend. What better time than when the two of them were off on a romantic getaway by themselves? Might she accept it better in a situation that reinforced the strength of their marriage, and how much he'd grown to love her?

Tom's gaze shifted from the grass to the framed photos on the windowsill. From this distance the images were indistinguishable, but he knew them so well, the details of the smiling faces were clear in his mind. He lingered over those of Claire, wondering—if she found out, was there even the slightest chance she'd be so hurt that he'd lose her?

Don't be silly, Gardner. Is that all the faith you have in your marriage? You tell her, and do it quick
.

But what about the wishes of Monica Arens?

He stared at Kent's picture again. The boy deserved to know who his father was. There were dozens of reasons, ranging from practical to emotional, from future health questions to future children. Kent, after all, had two half siblings, and their relationship could extend for years. His children would be cousins to Robby's and Chelsea's. They'd have aunts and uncles. Kent himself had a grandfather, alive and well and with a lot to give
all
his grandchildren by way of friendship, the passing on of family lore, paternal support
such as that he was giving this weekend by staying with the kids. And what about when Kent was an adult faced with losing his only acknowledged parent? At times like that the support of siblings mattered so much. Was it fair to rob him of the knowledge of the existence of a brother and sister when it appeared he had little chance of ever getting one through his mother?

While Tom was still doing inner battle, his telephone rang. It was Dora Mae.

“Someone from the Rotary Club is on the phone and wants to know if they can use the school gym next spring for a fund-raiser.”

“Doing what?” Tom asked.

“A celebrity donkey basketball game.”

Tom withheld a sigh. Politics again. Saying no to the Rotary Club was courting criticism, yet the last time he'd allowed animals in the gym it had been the American Kennel Club, and the dogs had made a mess, leaving not only a bad smell but permanent raised spots on the wood floor that had brought complaints from the athletic director and custodians alike.

Tom closed Kent Arens's file and picked up his phone to handle one of the hundreds of administrative duties that sometimes tried his patience and had nothing whatsoever to do with education.

 

The new Arens home was slowly coming to surface beneath the boxes that had been piled shoulder high the day the moving van pulled away. On Thursday afternoon, after she and Kent arrived home, Monica set a sack of Chinese carry-out food on the kitchen counter and went to her bedroom to change clothes. When she returned to the kitchen dressed in a loose cotton peasant jumper, Kent was standing at the
open French doors with his hands in the rear pockets of his jeans, staring out at the grassless backyard and the house under construction in the distance.

“Why didn't you get out some plates?” she asked, glancing through the doorway that connected the kitchen with the dining room.

He acted as if he hadn't heard. She opened cupboards and got out dishes, silverware, and two raffia place mats and set them on the dining room table, which held a new bouquet of cream silk flowers. In the living room, furniture was set in place and the labels had been removed from the new windows.

“The house is starting to get into shape, isn't it?” she remarked, returning to the kitchen for the white cardboard containers and taking them to the table. She flipped open the boxes, releasing the aroma of cooked meat and vegetables into the air. Still Kent stood with his back to her, staring outside.

“Kent?” she said, puzzled by his reticence.

He took some time before turning around, doing so slowly enough that she knew something was bothering him.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing,” he said, and sat down in the loose-jointed, dissociated, teenage way that often said,
Read my mind.

“Something go wrong today?”

“No.” He scooped out a mountain of lo mein, then handed her the container without meeting her eyes.

She helped herself and spoke again only when their plates were loaded and Kent was eating.

“You missing your friends?” she asked.

He shrugged in reply.

“You are, aren't you?”

“Just drop it, Mom.”

“Drop what? I'm your mother. If you can't talk to me, who
can
you talk to?” When he went on eating without giving her so much as a glance, she reached out and covered his left hand on the tabletop. Quietly she said, “You know what the hardest thing is for a parent to hear? That answer—
nothing
—when I know perfectly well it's something. Now why don't you tell me?”

He got up abruptly, brushing around the back of his chair and heading for the kitchen to pour himself a glass of milk. “You want some?” he called.

“Yes, thanks.”

Her eyes followed him while he brought back two glasses and sat down. He drank half his milk, then set the glass on the mat.

“I met this really nice girl today . . . actually it was Mr. Gardner's daughter. She acted as my guide for the school tour, and you know how it is when you meet somebody—you sort of ask each other questions to be polite. She asked if I was going to college and I said I wanted to be an engineer like my mother, and one thing led to another and pretty soon she asked about my dad.”

Monica's fork paused in the air above her plate. She stopped chewing and fixed her eyes on Kent with a peculiar look of alarm. When she finally swallowed, the food seemed to have trouble going down.

He went on speaking while studying the lo mein on his plate. “It's been a long time since I went to a new school and had to make new friends. I sort of forgot how hard it is to answer kids when they ask me about my dad.”

Monica began moving again, becoming immersed in her food. For a moment Kent wondered if she was trying to avoid the issue, then she spoke quite calmly. “What did she ask?”

“I don't even remember, just what my father did, I guess. But this time I found it really hard to say that I didn't have a father. And I could tell she felt like a jerk for asking.”

Monica set down her fork, wiped her mouth, picked up her milk, but stared out the window instead of taking a drink.

Kent said, “I guess you don't want me to ask anything about him, do you?”

“No, I guess I don't.”

“Why?”

Her gaze flashed back to him. “Why now?”

“I don't know. Lots of reasons. Because I'm seventeen, and all of a sudden it's starting to bother me. Because we're living back in Minnesota, where you were living when I was born. He's from here, isn't he?”

She sighed and turned her gaze out the French doors again but gave no answer.

“Isn't he?”

“Yes, but he's married and has a family.”

“Does he know about me?”

Monica rose to her feet and carried her dishes away. Kent followed, continuing to pressure her. “Come on, Mom, I've got a right to know! Does he know about me?”

She was rinsing her plate under the running water as she answered. “I never told him when you were born.”

“So if he found out now, I'd be an embarrassment to him, is that it?”

She swung around to face him. “Kent, I love you. I wanted you, I always wanted you from the time I found out I was pregnant. Getting pregnant never even slowed me down. I went on working toward my goals and I was happy that I had you to work for. Hasn't that been enough for you? Haven't I been a good mother?”