Matt & Zoe (3 page)

I retrieve my insurance card and stand back up. “Here. And you’ve got yours?” I dig out my driver’s license and hand both to her.

She hands me back an expired driver’s license. Not recently expired either, but expired more than a year ago.

Who lets their license expire for more than a year?

I write down the insurance information and her license number. The address is in South Hadley, right around the corner from the school. That gives me pause, but not long enough to make me shut up.

The insurance card, of course, is in her parents’ names.

“Out for a spin in your mom’s van, huh? With an invalid license? That’s grown up, about what I’d expect from a college kid.” I’m working myself up into a near rage.

She looks at me with a vicious expression and says, “You’re an asshole.”

“Well, that’s mature, too,” I mutter. I’m frustrated and stressed. The meeting with the school board is happening right now and I’m supposed to be representing the union. And I can’t if I’m here dealing with some twenty-something-year-old who was probably texting and didn’t see me as I entered the traffic circle.

The police pull up. Not one, but two Amherst Police sports-utility-vehicles, blue lights flashing. One comes to a stop on the grass behind me and the other parks behind the college girl’s van. I go back to writing down her information.

Zoe Welch. College Street, South Hadley. She's 24 years old--older than I thought. 413-555-1200.

Where do I know that name from? Welch? I’ve only been in South Hadley for two years—it’s a small town, but not so small that everyone knows everyone. Whatever, it doesn’t matter where or if I know her from. What matters is that we get this over with, that I get the meeting rescheduled, and that I move on from this as quickly as possible. I am so frustrated.

Police officers descend upon us. I hear one of the cops say, “Zoe Welch? You’re back? I’m so sorry about your parents.”

The girl’s response is too quiet for me to hear. I’ve got a sick feeling in my stomach.
I’m so sorry about your parents.
What does that mean? Where is she back from? And what happened to her parents that the local police know both her and them?

I let those questions roll around my head while one of the cops walks me away from the scene and asks me my version of the accident. I follow, my brain still on the girl and the
I’m so sorry about your parents.

I give my name and particulars to the police officer, who introduced himself as Officer Cavendish. He’s chewing gum, wearing mirrored sunglasses, and wouldn't look out of place on a football field.

“You want to tell me what happened?” Cavendish says. It must be a slow law enforcement day because I’ve got his full attention. His partner is wandering over too.

I want to stay silent. I start to say, I’m not sure what happened, it’s possible she was going too fast. I want to shift blame away from me, because my life experience hasn’t taught me to trust the police, but my mouth, as always, has a mind of its own. Instead of saying something sensible, or asking for my lawyer, or remaining silent, I gawk at myself as I say the words, “It was my fault.”

What?
Seriously?
Who says that?

“I was late for a meeting and got distracted when my phone rang, and I rolled too far into the intersection. I didn’t see her until it was too late because I wasn’t looking.”

Cavendish stops chewing his gum and looks at me under raised eyebrows. “Your fault?”

“My fault. I pulled out right in front of her.”

He grunts. “All right. Stay here, I’ll be right back.” He started to walk away and I put a hand out. “Quick question… one of the officers said sorry about your parents to her… what was that about?”

Cavendish shook his head. “I think you need to mind your own business,” he grunts. He’s cranky. I wait as he walks off.

I call Tyler. He answers on the first ring. “You all right, Matt?”

It’s an indicator of how concerned he is that he doesn’t butcher my name. “Yeah, I’m fine. Listen, any chance you can take a ride up toward Atkins Farm? I’m going to have to get the car towed, it’s not going anywhere.”

“Yeah, yeah. After I told them about the accident, Barrington rescheduled the meeting.”

“Well, that’s a minor miracle.”

Tyler chuckles. “You aren’t kidding Matty. All right, I’ll be there sometime tonight.”

“Tyler…”

“Twenty minutes.”

“Thanks.”

We hang up just in time for me to get a ticket for improper entry into the traffic circle. The girl is getting back in her van as a female UMASS cop talks with her. All the local jurisdictions getting in on the act. Must be a slow day. I want to walk over there and apologize, though I’m not sure what for. I’m too late. She starts the undamaged minivan, fastens her seatbelt and drives away.

Thirty minutes later a tow truck is hauling my Toyota away and I’m in Tyler’s car, headed back home.

“So who hit you?” Tyler asks. “Was she pretty?”

Tyler’s real subtle.

“Yeah,” I say. “A real knockout, she ran me right over.”

He gives me a strange look, then it hits him. He lets out a surprised guffaw. “That’s pretty good! Matty, when did you get a sense of humor? And more importantly, did you get her number?”

“Shut up, Tyler.”

“You did! High five!” He raises his right hand for a high five, even as he steers up the winding road with his left. We’re halfway up the hill to the Notch, a pass just east of Bald Mountain and the primary road from Amherst to South Hadley. I see another car coming down the highway as Tyler swerves.

“Tyler, watch the road for Chrissake!”

He laughs and returns his right hand to the wheel. “Christ. Always serious. Is this why they appointed you to do the negotiations with the school board?”

“Yeah. It’s because I have no sense of humor, Tyler. You know that.”

“What’ll you do if people ever learn the truth about you, Matty?”

“What truth?” I ask.

He laughs. “Like I’d know. I do know one thing though.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“I know we’re going out for drinks tonight! Nine o’clock at McMurphy’s.”

I frown. McMurphy’s Tavern is tiny and often packed full of college kids from Amherst and UMASS on the weekends.

“Tyler, we’re not twenty-one anymore,” I say. Never mind the fact that tomorrow is the first day back at school for teachers.

“Who cares? The girls are!” He laughs and I shake my head.

Chapter Three

What are your plans? (Zoe)

“Are you sure she should even start school yet? It seems so soon.” Nicole’s voice sounds a little tinny on the phone. She’s out on patrol I think, so she’s probably using a headset. The sun glares off the glass in the minivan, right into the house—it’s going to be another hot, humid day. The light streaming through the windows looks wavy where it lights up uneven rectangles on the bare floor. Some of the windows are original handmade glass. All of them are dirty. Mom and Dad were both always too busy with academics or their personal pursuits to worry about the fine details of housework.

I sigh. In some ways Nicole is right. Maybe. Part of me feels like it is too soon for Jasmine to go back to school. But there is no right answer for Jasmine. “I’d agree, but she asked to go back. Which is a lot coming from an eight-year-old. I think she needs some normality in her life.”

“I get it,” Nicole says. “I just wish I could go back in time a week, and … well, you know.”

“I know,” I whisper. “I do too.”

“What are your plans?” She asks.

I shrug, even though she can’t see me. “I don’t know. I’ve got a meeting with the Veterans Services office at UMASS tomorrow. It’s too late for this semester I’m sure, but maybe I’ll go back to school.”

Nicole’s response is predictable. “You know, there’s an opening in the department. I’m sure you would be a shoe-in for the academy.”

“Nicole, I’m not interested in being a cop.”

“Why not? You were a great MP.”

I snort. “Bullshit. I went along with it because that’s what you wanted to do. I liked the civil affairs work. Riding around in a patrol car and dealing with traffic violations and drunk college kids? No thanks.”

“So what’s your plan then?”

“I don’t know,” I snap. “Right now it’s to get settled and get Jasmine back into school. I haven’t even buried my parents yet, all right?”

“Jesus, Zoe, I’m sorry.” Nicole’s voice is low and repentant.

“It’s going to take me a little while. Three days ago I was expecting to have a career in the Army. I liked what I was doing. Tokyo was gorgeous, and I was good at what I did and it just… everything's turned upside down, all right?”

Nicole’s sigh is drawn out. “I get it, Zoe.”

“Anyway,” I say. “I’ve got a meeting with the counselor and her second grade teacher in about an hour. Jasmine’s going to come, so she can see the classroom and get a little comfortable before school starts.”

“It’s a good idea. You want the school to be paying attention to her.”

“Yes.”

“Okay, now—I won’t nag you about your plans. Talk to me, okay? Why don’t we go out and grab some drinks tomorrow night?”

I feel relief settle on me at the thought. That sounds wonderful. “I’d love to, where?—wait—”

“What is it?” she asks.

It hits me there, yet another way my life has irrevocably changed. “I don’t have a sitter, and … Jasmine needs me here. She hasn’t slept through the night yet. How about you come over here for drinks?”

I can hear the hesitation in her voice. Or maybe I can’t. Maybe I’m just imagining it. She says, “Sure, that sounds great. Should I, uh… bring anything?”

“No! Unless… maybe something to drink.”

“You got it. And Zoe?” She sounds tentative.

“Yeah?”

“Get some rest. I know you’re taking care of Jasmine. But you gotta take care of yourself too. She’s not the only one who lost her parents.”

I close my eyes. She’s right, of course. I do need to take care of myself. I need to rest. I need to find time to grieve. But I don’t have that kind of time. Right now Jasmine’s needs override everything else.

Mister P (Matt)

The dream always begins the same, with the sound of the crowd. The screams and catcalls, the rising applause, the rise and fall like the breath of a dragon, an organism all on its own. There’s a certain lifecycle to that sound. It’s born in relative quiet, with the bleats of the animals and the trainers, the managers and dancers the only accompaniment.

The sound of creaking ropes, palms slapping the bars, and the shouts of my father as he counted the rhythm…
One two three four five One two three four five
.

The quiet doesn’t stay long, because the birth is coming with the opening of the gates. First dozens, then hundreds, then thousands stream into the arena, and the voices rise and rise and rise. The smell changes, no longer the smell of oil and sweat, now it’s the smell of tobacco, body odor, perfume. The crowd is alive, waiting for the show to begin, and in a rush quiet the labor pains begin. The lights go down, followed always by the roars of approval. In the dream I’m swinging in the trap, my legs wrapped around the bars, hands outstretched. The anger is still rushing through me, pulsing in my veins. I can still hear father’s shouts in my ears.

You’ll do as I tell you, boy! For three generations our family has flown. You’ll do the same, as long as you live under my roof.

I shouted right back.
You don’t control me! You don’t own me!

The fight was loud. Everyone heard. Well everyone but Carlina and her father, Nick, but that was because they weren’t with the circus anymore, thanks to my dad. Papa was the star of Ringling Brother’s Circus, and we were his satellites. You don’t cross the star. Except maybe I was wrong. Maybe Papa had nothing to do with it at all.

I’d been dropped back in the ring kicking and screaming, but even I didn’t dare cross him once the show had begun.

So there we were, swinging back and forth, as my father began his most difficult cross, a quadruple forward somersault. In the dream I still feel the sickening terror as his hands slipped out of mine.

My eyes jerk open. I’m bathed in sweat, the bellows of my lungs expanding and contracting painfully. I sit up.

Oh, man.
That was a bad one.

I continue to sit there, breathing, trying to get a handle on my surroundings. I’m not on the road. I’m in my apartment in South Hadley.

I look at the clock.

Almost 5 am.

I’ll be getting up soon anyway. Might as well get started with the day.

***

The day before school begins is always hectic. You spend your summer in continuing education courses, or working another job to cover the permanent pay shortage, or trying to write a PhD thesis, and suddenly you have to shift gears. This is my fourth year teaching, and the setup is the same. Come in, get your classroom. If you’re lucky, you’re assigned to the same room as the year before.

I wasn’t lucky this year. Just the opposite, in fact. They moved me from second to third grade—not a bad move—and down the hall to the third grade pod. That is where the good news ended. Principal Blunt assigned me to the least desirable classroom in the school, the only one in the entire building which has the windows partially blocked off by a not-well-thought out addition to the building. Lauren Blunt is a thoughtful boss, but
somebody
had to get “the cave”, which is what the other teachers call this room. Naturally it would be the newest third grade teacher. Why would the others move?

The room is clean, at least. In fact, it’s so clean that the scent of ammonia stings my nostrils a little. I walk to the back of the class and open my one functioning window in hopes of getting some fresh air into the room. I wonder what it will be like in here once it starts getting cold.

It’ll be fine. Because what choice do I have anyway? I haven’t been here nearly long enough for tenure. I walk back to my new desk and open up the backpack into which I’d stuffed as many classroom supplies as I could. Without the car, I’d walked to work this morning. Luckily, it isn’t all that far, a little bit less than a mile going south past Mount Holyoke College. I carried Mabel Stark in her cage, the tiny hamster running around, nose twitching, as she checked out the surroundings during the walk.