Matt & Zoe (6 page)

Mom had hugged me, but I hadn’t responded well. Then she looked me in the eye and said, “You know I just want you to have a good life, Zoe.”

“I
do
have a good life,” I said. Then I got in the car.

I didn’t tell my mother I loved her. Now I’ll never get the chance..

What should I say to Jasmine? How could she understand?
I
don’t even understand. I say, “That’s true. Mom and I fought a lot. I still loved her.”

She turns away, back to her task.

My shoulders sag. I need to talk to someone. A professional, or… or a
mother.
Because I don’t know how to help her through this. I don’t even know how to help
me
through this.

I blink back tears again and say, “I want you in by full dark, Jasmine. Okay?”

She shrugs.

“I mean it.”

Jasmine lets out a sigh and says, “Okay. I’ll come in when it’s dark.”

I stumble back toward the house.

Inside, Nicole has already cleaned up the table, except for Jasmine’s plate with its cold vegetables, and she’s hand washing the dishes. “Thanks,” I whisper.

“Is she okay?”

I shake my head. “No. I don’t know what to do.” After a few silent breaths, I tell her about the visit I’d received earlier in the day.

“The court’s appointed someone called a
guardian ad litem
… she came out today. Wanted to see the place, and interview me.”

“For the guardianship hearing?”

“Yeah,” I say.

“You don’t have anything to worry about.”

“I know… but… I worry anyway.”

Nicole looks out the window toward the stable.

“She’s braiding Mono’s hair,” I say.

Nicole shrugs. “Maybe that’s what she needs right now. But… Zoe? Can I suggest something without you getting mad?”

I raise my eyebrows.

“I think you should consider a therapist. Not just for Jasmine. For you.”

“What… I don’t need—”

The house phone rings, interrupting me. I stand there, mouth open, for just a moment. The phone rings again, a harsh ringing tone. My parents have had the same phone since the 1980s, an old Slimline phone mounted on the wall with a rotary dial in the handset, heavy enough you could use it as a weapon. I walk across the kitchen and snatch the phone off the wall.

“Hello?”

“Miss Welch?”

Without pause I say, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Welch passed away last week. This is her daughter Zoe.” I’ve already had to say those words to the cable company and a credit card company who called wondering why their payments hadn’t arrived on time. This week I need to sort out Mom and Dad’s personal effects and bank accounts and everything else. I’ve been putting that off for days and days. And I don’t have a clue where to start.

Not. One. Clue.

The caller coughed, then said, “I’m sorry… I know. Miss… Zoe… this is Matt Paladino.”

Matt Paladino?
Who?

One second later it hits. “Oh! Mister Paladino! Hi, what can I do for you?”

“Well, I wanted to check in with you about Jasmine.”

“Okay. How have the last few days been?”

He stumbles over his words a little. “She’s—well—she—” He takes a deep breath, almost comical. “She’s not doing well. Just… listless. She’s not playing much with the other girls, and not as animated in class.”

I breathe out. Then I speak at a near-whisper. “Same as at home. She’s not interested in anything except her horse. I can’t get her to talk or play any games or eat.”

“What is she normally interested in?”

The question makes me want to lash out in frustration.
I don’t know!
How am I supposed to say that to a complete stranger? How am I supposed to tell a complete stranger, her
teacher
for Christ’s sake, that I don’t know much of anything about my little sister?

“Miss Welch? Are you there?”

“Please,” I say, grasping for time. “Don’t call me that. Zoe is fine.”

“Zoe… can you think of anything I can do here that might engage her?”

Nicole’s face tilts in extreme concern. Because of the tears. On my face.

“I don’t know,” I whisper. “You don’t understand… I’ve been away in the Army for five years. Since I graduated high school. No idea what she likes, or what she does, or what she’s interested in. I don’t know her favorite color or ice cream or anything except that damn monster horse.”

On the other end of the line, I hear his intake of breath, his intake of
judgment.
He doesn’t say what I might have expected. “Maybe that’s the best place to start then. With the horses. You know she draws them all the time. Especially a big black one. Or at least she did last year. We haven’t had many opportunities for art the first couple of days of school.”

I nod, slowly exhaling. “Yes. You’re right, of course.”

“Do you ride?”

“Yeah. I’m not as much into it as she is, but our Mom trained horses and gave lessons. You can’t grow up in our house and not know horses.” Now Nicole looks impatient, wanting to hear whatever Mister P’s side of the conversation is.

He chuckles. “I grew up around animals too. I hear you.”

“Farm?”

He doesn’t answer the question. “I’ll talk to the Principal and the counselor tomorrow. Maybe we can change up our curriculum plans for the next few weeks. I’d like to see her more engaged. And Miss Welch… Zoe I mean…”

“Yes?”

“Don’t beat yourself up. It’s not your fault. You were off wherever you were—that’s what happens. Just take care of her now. She’s a great kid. I hate seeing her so… despondent. Can I suggest… if you aren’t busy, why don’t you stop in at 11:30 tomorrow and have lunch with her? The kids love it when parents—I mean family—” He sighs. “You know what I mean. I think it would help.”

I blink back tears. Again. Damn it. Now Nicole’s going to want to hug me when I get off the phone, and I don’t think I can take that.

“Okay. I’ll be there.”

Gravestones (Matt)

Lucas Cervone, a stout nine-year-old with bright red cheeks, looks up from the table when I speak to him.

“It’s my cat, Mister P.”

“Oh yeah?” I ask. It’s impossible to tell. The green blob on the paper seems to have three legs—from this angle it looks like a giant booger. Lucas is either sarcastic or a terrible artist. He hasn’t been in my class long enough to know which. “What’s his name?”

“Mister Willikins,” Lucas says.

“Well, that’s just great Lucas. Keep going. I want you to write three things you love about Mister Willikins.”

He grins and returns his attention to the green blob. I move on to the next student, keeping an eye on Jasmine Welch as I do so. Jasmine is sitting at the next table over with a look of deep concentration on her face. She’s sketching a picture in gray and black.

The girl next to Lucas is Beth Grice. She’s drawn a unicorn. Or maybe it’s a rhinoceros. It’s pink and sparkly, so probably a unicorn. “Beth, that looks great!”

She blushes bright red. Beth is the shyest girl in my third grade class—I don’t think I’ve heard her speak a word yet. We’re only a week into the school year, of course, so she’s got some time.

I move over to the next table.

Jasmine’s picture is remarkable for a third grader. It depicts a black and gray horse. She’s drawn the horse’s mane flowing back into the air with little ribbons tied around its braids, and a little girl is riding on the horse’s back, her own pigtails trailing behind her. It’s a third grader’s work, of course, with nothing in the way of perspective. She’s dramatically captured a feeling of motion.

“Jasmine, that’s wonderful. Tell me about it.”

“That’s my horse,” Jasmine says. “His name is Mono.”

“Mono?”

She nods. “Mom says it’s because he used to be sick. It’s a joke, but I don’t think it’s funny.”

Mono?
Maybe not belly-laugh funny, but definitely weird funny. It’s strange hearing her talk about her mother in the present tense. I met them twice, once during a parent-teacher conference and a second time during a field trip last fall. Jasmine’s father was a warm man with a ready smile and a ragged gray beard. His wife seemed a lot more uptight, and I didn’t get much of an impression from her. I got the feeling that they were people I might like.

A brief whine hisses from the speaker at the front of the room. The school secretary. They
finally
have the intercom working again. “Mister P? You have a visitor coming, a Miss Welch.”

“Thanks,” I say back to the disembodied voice. I straighten and walk toward my desk. Lunch is in five minutes.

“All right, boys and girls. Please start packing away your crayons, it’s almost time for lunch. Make sure your name is on your picture, then put it in my box.”

The kids start packing everything away, some of them scrambling to write their names on their pictures.

Jasmine doesn’t move. She has her mouth scrunched over to one side, and one eye is squeezed almost shut. She’s rubbing a gray crayon on a square in the corner of the picture.

I stand to get a better look, just as the door to the classroom opens.

“Zoe,” I say.

She’s wearing a knee length skirt today, brown and red, with matching top, and I have to look away from her very blue eyes. “Come in.”

“Mister P,” she says.

“Matt,” I respond. “Please.” I walk toward Jasmine’s table. “Jasmine, if you can put your crayons away.”

The bell for block 1 lunch rings. That’s us.

“Almost finished,” Jasmine says. That’s when I see what she’s drawing in the corner of the picture. Zoe seems to see it at the same time. A quick intake of breath and she takes a step forward.

Jasmine is drawing two gravestones in the corner of the picture. One says, “Mommy” and the other “Daddy.”

Zoe mutters something under her breath, then I meet her eyes. I quickly look away. “That caught me by surprise,” I say, quietly.

“Hey, Jasmine,” Zoe says conversationally.

“All right, please line up,” I say to the class. As always, it takes several minutes for the class to get it together, though it is definitely faster than the second grade classes are at the beginning of the year. I guess I’m moving up in the world.

I herd my class down the hall to the cafeteria, noting Zoe walking along next to Jasmine. Jasmine is talking, which is a good change… but I’ve also heard her stammer several times this week. She used to be a big talker.

My Mom’s still alive—but I never did get over Dad’s death. I know how she is feeling.

That breaks my heart. Whatever else happens this year, I want to help that little girl get through this ordeal.

Everything in the cafeteria is business as usual. Once my students are in line for lunch, or seated at their tables, I walk over to the lunch line.

Zoe is at the back of the line next to Jasmine, so I end up right next to her. I can’t help but look at her. She’s crazy beautiful. Narrow waist, generous breasts, fantastic legs. She’s smart and confident. Whoever ends up with her is going to be a very lucky man.

Shut up, Matt.
Whoever it is, it’s not going to be me. I’m her sister’s teacher, and … that’s just a bad scene.

Even so, she turns to me and in a wry tone asks, “So is this going to be as bad as Army food?”

I grin. “Maybe.” Although food served on the road and on a train, night after night, probably does compare, and not favorably. Of the three dishes available, I point out the most edible one, broiled chicken. Once through the line, we part ways. Zoe goes with Jasmine, and I head to the faculty table, where I sit with Mary Jane Reese, a transplant from Alabama who sounds like sweet-cream butter spread on toast—and Rhonda Williams, a fifty-year-old widower who lost her husband in a snowplow accident two winters ago.

Immediately, both of them ply me with questions about the union meeting tonight, the possible strike, whether or not the school committee is going to budge, and a number of other questions I can’t answer. I make it clear to both of them that they’ll have to wait in suspense just like the rest of us, then focus on my eating.

My eyes fall on Zoe again. Zack, the nine-year-old sitting next to Jasmine, shouts, “You were in the ARMY?” Zoe throws her head back and laughs, her teeth flashing white. It’s nice to see that she is capable of smiling. But then Mary Jane speaks in an unpleasant tone to Rhonda.

“Look at her,” she says. “Her Mamma’s not even been dead two weeks and she’s over there laughing. What’s wrong with that girl?”

Rhonda mutters, “She was in my fourth grade math class. Years ago. Thought she was better than everyone else because her father taught at Mount Holyoke. Then she runs off to the Army of all things.”

Mary Jane speaks again. “They should leave fighting to men. It’s Obama’s fault. Do you think she’s a lesbian? A lot of those women in the Army are.”

“All right,” I say. I lean close to them. “That’s enough. Her little sister is in my class, and they just lost their parents. Have some class.”

Mary Jane’s eyes widen and she covers her mouth with one hand in an almost comical expression. Rhonda looks indignant, her face turning the shade of a plum. I grumble and take out a paperback without saying anything else. The book hasn’t been keeping my interest, but almost
anything
is better than listening to these two.

“Well, I never,” Mary Jane mutters.

Finally, it’s time for lunch to end. My class is standing, and Zoe stands with them, stretching her arms high above her after sitting on the too short seat for the last twenty minutes. The stretch arches her back, pushing her breasts out, and I have to look away.

Christ.

My class goes to music now, and I get the next fifty minutes free for my planning period. I head back to my class alone, needing to get my head clear.

It would be a bad idea to get involved with a student’s parent—sister—whatever.

It would be a bad idea to get involved with someone who just lost her parents and is grieving.

She’s demonstrated no interest in me at all.

I don’t know anything about her.

Cool your heels, Matt.