5
rancesca came to the house with Rob for Thanksgiving. It had been rainyF and cold all morning, but the sun had come out right before they showed up and the kitchen shone with sunshine. The house smelled of cooked turkey and sweet potatoes, and a few pots on the stove had steam coming from them.
Through the window the water sparkled; all the boats—except for two fishing boats—had been taken out long ago, and now it was mostly just buoys in the bay, including Artie’s bright blue one.
“Come in, come in,” Evie said, standing at the door in brown slacks and a pale blue sweater. She kissed them both, and Artie, behind her, stepped forward to do the same.
After Artie had taken their coats, and after Rob had followed his mother into the kitchen, Francesca said, holding her hand out toward the piano, “Have you composed anything new, Artie?”
“I did,” he said. “Just a few weeks ago.”
“Can I hear it?”
So Artie sat down and played his recent composition for her. Then he stood up and said, “Now you add your flourishes.”
But she looked at him with solemn earnestness and said, “Artie.
Seriously? That’s beautiful.”
“It’s for Rob,” he said quietly, tilting his head toward the kitchen. “And also for the world.”
“Yeah” was all she said, still watching him.
“Now you add your flourishes to it,” Artie said to her again.
And Francesca sat down at the piano and began to play the little piece that Artie had just played, only she added her flourishes, and he was delighted. Up and down the keys she went, slowly and then more quickly; the piece now had a grandness to it. When she finished, she smiled at him with great openness; Evie and Rob had come to the kitchen door to listen. “I want to record that,” Rob said, and Francesca said, “Your father wrote it!” Rob was amazed, and Artie said, “No, no, no, only the melody, Francesca’s the one who’s made it great.” Francesca played it again while Rob recorded it on his phone. After Rob and his mother had gone back into the kitchen, Artie said quietly, “Francesca, what do you think about when you’re playing at a concert?”
She looked at the keys for a moment and then back up at Artie. “I’m just trying to get inside the music,” she said, giving a small shrug.
“Yeah, yeah, okay.” He nodded.
But as she rose and walked toward the kitchen, she put her finger to her mouth to indicate a secret, and she said very softly, “I’m looking for God when I play.”
Artie found that to be astounding. “Do you find him?” he asked.
She winked. “Sometimes.”
They gathered in the dining room, Francesca helping Evie bring in platters of food, and they spoke of the election until Evie said, “Can we please talk about something cheerful?” Artie asked Francesca about her career, and she told him that she had six weeks off before going to Europe again.
“Where’d you get the name Francesca?” Artie asked her. He knew that it was an Italian name and yet she was not Italian.
Francesca wiped her mouth with her napkin before answering. “My father died when my mother was pregnant with me, and she went to the local doctor, a man called Dr. Frank, and said that she wanted an abortion, and Dr.
Frank said to Mom, ‘I’m not going to do that for you. I believe you will be very happy to have this child someday.’ And the moment I was born my mom said that she loved me so much that she wanted to call me after Dr.
Frank, so she called me Francesca.”
“What a story!” Evie said, cutting a piece of turkey.
“I know,” Francesca said.
When they were done eating, they placed their napkins on the table and Evie said “Don’t clean up a thing!” as they all pushed back their chairs. They moved into the living room with coffee. And the two kids (as Artie thought of them) lingered for a long while; it began to get dark, and Evie turned on a lamp. Francesca recalled the Thanksgivings of her youth that she had spent only with her mother and an aunt who would come over; she spoke of how little money they had had, and yet her mother had managed to buy a used piano after Francesca sat down one day at the age of four and played in someone else’s house, and then her mother had seen to it that she had lessons, and Francesca’s teacher, a retired music professor at the local college, had seen to it she got into Juilliard— “I had no real idea of any of that,” Evie said.
Rob recalled Thanksgivings here in the house; he had never, till he went off to college, lived anywhere else. He remembered his mother’s parents, but Artie’s parents had died before Rob was born. “Dad, what was your father really like?” He asked this now, turning toward Artie. “I mean, tell me more
about him.”
“Nice man,” Evie said.
And Rob’s expression stayed on his father as if to say, You tell me more what he was like. And so Artie recalled to Rob that his father had been hardworking (Rob nodded, he knew that), that he had had his hands full with Artie’s mother, and that he was a kind man, and Artie told of the woman in the hospital who had been smoking with her half a tongue, how nice his father had been to her.
“Oh, man,” said Francesca. “That poor woman!”
“She sounds like an idiot to me,” Evie said. “Smoking with half her tongue gone?”
And then Rob said to Francesca, “You know why our name is Dam with one m and not Damm with two m’s, don’t you?”
Francesca shook her head. “You never told me.”
Taking turns, Artie and Rob told Francesca how Artie’s grandfather, when he arrived from northern Germany right after World War I, dropped one of the m’s from the name. “He didn’t want to sound German,” Artie explained. “Even though he had an accent,” Rob added. On they talked.
Evie got up and went around turning on more lights and then sat back down.
Artie told Rob and Francesca about his sister, Maria, who had (also) died before Rob was born; he had told Rob about her before, but he felt now, as Rob was listening, that his son had a hunger for what was being said. Artie spoke of finding his sister in the cellar, eating the confectionary sugar, when they were young. “A sweet girl, just looking for sweetness,” Artie said. Rob reached over and squeezed Artie’s hand.
—
AFTER FRANCESCA and Rob left, Evie said, “Why are they splitting up? They seem like such a couple these days, much more than they used to.”
“I know. I agree,” Artie said.
For Artie, it had been a very special day; he knew he would never forget it. The privacy of his secret with these kids felt like a warm cocoon around him, and yet it was easy to wear the cocoon, not stifling at all; a strange sense of—of what? almost safety?—seemed to envelop him.
“She told me that they’ve decided that Rob will stay in the apartment and she’s the one who is going to look for a new place before she goes to Europe,” Evie said. “She says she thinks it’s important that Rob stays, that he has always liked the apartment, and she doesn’t care. She told me that in the kitchen.”
“She did? I don’t believe that. They’re a couple.”
“I’m just telling you what she said, Artie.”
Yet Artie could not—or would not—believe it. He whistled quietly as he helped his wife clean the kitchen.
RACHEL SHOWED UP again with Rob the Saturday after Thanksgiving. It was a cloudy day and windy, and as the two of them walked into the house the smell of autumn was on them. Evie had placed her collection of little boxes on the tabletop in a particular way. Rachel stayed seated in her chair by the window near Rob. She spoke of her family in Oklahoma, saying that she had had a wonderful Thanksgiving. To hear her, you would have thought that her perfect family was something out of a children’s book. Rob sat back and watched her.
“My mom’s great. You know, like, she’s just a real mom.” Rachel stuck her head slightly forward as she said this, her hands clasped in her lap.
Evie was sitting with her legs crossed. She uncrossed them and crossed them again the other way. “How nice,” she said.
Rachel nodded. “Yeah, it’s, like, so cool. You know.”
And this went on; it got slightly better as Rob talked more, but the girl— the young woman, Rachel—was an enigma to Artie. Today she wore a long- sleeved white jersey and black leggings over her very thin long legs. At some point Rob mentioned that his father had been Teacher of the Year five years ago, and Rachel said, “You already told me that.” But she turned to Artie then and said, with apparent interest, “Why did you become a teacher?”
Artie was happy to answer that. “Because of Mr. Stepinac.” He sat back in his chair and told them about his junior high school social studies teacher, who had been a wonderful man. Artie tried to think of what precisely had made the man wonderful, and he could only say, “He kept me after school one day and asked if I was going to college and I told him probably not, and he looked at me, really looked at me, and said, ‘Why not?’ And I shrugged.
And he said, ‘Artie, I wish you would take yourself seriously. You have gifts.’ And I said, ‘Me? Gifts? What in the world kind of gifts do I have?’ And he said, ‘That’s for you to find out.’ ”
Artie could have gone on about Mr. Stepinac—how the man had befriended him and given him books to read, how he had taken an interest in Artie and encouraged him. “He was the gift,” Artie said. But he could tell that the others were not interested anymore—Rachel looked at Rob, and then
around the room—and so he stopped talking about this man who had changed the course of his life.
After Rachel and Rob left, Evie went to the tabletop and looked over the little boxes. “I can’t believe it. How did she do that?”
“Something’s gone?” Artie asked, and he felt his face getting hot.
Evie said, “God, she is so good at this! I think we should tell Rob. Artie, that girl has a problem! We need to tell him he has a kleptomaniac on his hands!”
Artie said, “Let’s give her a little more time, a few more visits.” Evie turned and looked at Artie and sank down into her chair again.
“Artie. What the fuck?” Evie seldom swore, but when she did the word was often—to Artie’s way of thinking—like a nicely struck tennis ball, a thwack against the racquet. (Artie had never played tennis.) “I know,” Artie said. “I know, I know, I know.”
“He’s still living with Francesca.”
“I know,” Artie said again.
“Artie, what’s going on? He was so excited when he first met this dopey child.”
“Not a clue,” Artie said. “Have to just let him live his life.” His face was
cooling down.
Evie rolled her eyes extravagantly.
Artie said, “What is a kleptomaniac, really?”
“Oh Christ, Artie. It means the girl is screwed up. I know this stuff! It usually starts at a young age, and they steal because they get off on it. I mean, they can’t help it, but they usually don’t need what they steal, and they either shoplift or steal from friends, it’s an impulse control thing. We should tell him.”
Artie turned his head toward the table with the little boxes on it. “You
sure she took one?”
“Yes, Artie. She has now taken two.”
And now Artie felt slightly overwhelmed. “Let’s just wait a little bit.”
“Until they say they’re getting married?”
He stared at the toes of his black sneakers, then looked up. “Well, he’s not even divorced yet.”
—
THAT NIGHT, after Rob and Rachel had left, Artie felt a particular sense of being married to Evie, joined as they were in their concern for their son. And so he thought, I am going to tell her I know about Reginald being Rob’s biological father, I am going to tell her. As they cleaned up the kitchen together, he kept thinking: Just say the words, right now, say them. He opened his mouth, and he could not do it.
Why not?
He thought about it, and he could not figure it out. Only on a very small, almost hidden level was Artie aware of his anger. That by not telling her, he felt he had some power. He thought, almost without thinking it: This piece of knowledge is mine, and no one will take it from me.
But as he watched Evie go through her ritual of getting ready for bed, applying her face cream, he was amazed that he was living with a woman who had lied to him profoundly for twenty-eight years and continued to do so. How could she do it? Easily, apparently. She got into bed beside him.
“Good night,” she said.
AS HE DROVE through the early morning fog to school on Monday, Artie thought again about Mr. Stepinac, and he thought about how the man would be puzzled and distressed that Artie had shoplifted a comb and then tried to shoplift those two shirts. He wished that Mr. Stepinac had been alive when he got the Teacher of the Year award, but the man had long been dead. Artie wondered about him, maybe the man could have told him what to do with his knowledge of Rob. Except (Artie sighed quietly as he thought this) he was no longer the kid that Mr. Stepinac had encouraged, he was a grownup who had to make his own decisions, live his own life.
When Artie got to school, he parked in his usual spot; he could not see the water through the trees today because of the fog. He went straight to his classroom and, sitting alone, googled kleptomania, and he understood that he did not have that. Then he googled “reasons for shoplifting,” and that was more worrisome. “Emotional problems” came up right away, and then he tried to cancel the searches because this was his school computer he was using, and just thinking about this made him break out in a sweat. When he faced his students, he thought he must look guilty to them.
—
NOT SURPRISINGLY, every year Artie had a class that was his least favorite, and this year it was his second period class, which did not meet always during second period (as the classes rotated) but today it did. He had taught long enough to know that the collection of personalities in a classroom always resulted in a kind of final personality for the class as a whole, and this class— as happened occasionally—simply did not have a good one.
Standing there that morning, feeling guilty, Artie was surprised when one student asked him how he had reacted to the election. Artie crossed his arms and said, “Tell me how you feel about it.”
“Okay,” said the kid—his name was Rick Roper—“I think it was great.”
A few other students in the class made mocking faces. Artie said, “Tell me
why.”
“Because the guy is great!”
“Okay, tell me why.”
The boy sat back, stretching his long legs in front of him. “I know you hate him.”
Artie said, “And why do you think that?”
Rick just shrugged. “You can tell.”
“How can you tell?”
“Just because.”
“Seriously, come on now. Tell us why you love ‘the guy,’ as you call him. Many people do.”
And so Rick Roper said, “Because he’s going to get the country going right again.”
Artie stood for a few moments, nodding, and then he said, “Okay, let’s get to work.”
But he heard Rick say to another kid, “He’s got that faggoty pillowcase for the phones, Jesus.”
As Artie thought about this later, he realized that he had felt no control over what was about to happen, it just happened. He walked up to Rick and said, “Repeat what you just said.”
Rick looked down. “I didn’t say anything.”
“Repeat what you just said about the pillowcase.” Artie’s voice was deep
and very cold. The class was silent.
“I don’t remember,” Rick murmured.
“You do remember, and I want you to repeat what you just said.”
Rick looked up at him. Anger flashed across his face. “I said you’ve got that faggoty pillowcase for phones.” Rick looked around and then said, “It’s so dumb.”
Artie stood over the boy, looking at him. Again, there was complete silence in the room. Artie pointed to the door. “Get out of here,” Artie said.
Rick looked up at him, surprise showing on his face. “What?”
“Get out of this room.”
Rick stood up, putting his knapsack over his shoulder. “Where do I go?”
“I don’t care where you go. But get out of this room. Now.”
And Rick walked out.
Artie returned to his desk and, facing the class, said, “Okay, let’s get to work.”
THAT EVENING, at home, Artie told Evie that he had to prepare for a class, and he took his laptop and went into what they called their study, and he sat down and stared at the wall. “Let me know when you want to eat!” Evie called to him, and he called back, “Okay!”
He did not like being in the study. It was much smaller than the living room, and it had a big desk (which had belonged to his father-in-law) and a painting of an old-fashioned ship, sailing in the ocean, hanging over the fireplace, and Artie had just never liked the room. In fact, it had not really been touched for years. But as he sat there, he thought about what he had said to Evie about her father being vulgar, he had not planned on saying that, and he thought about what had happened with Rick Roper today, Artie had never planned on that either, and he thought about what had happened at the clothing store and how he had not had any sense of controlling himself. This worried Artie profoundly.
He googled: “How do I know if I’ve had a stroke.”
No. He had not had sudden numbness or trouble with speech or facial droop. He had just done these things. Said these things.
He closed the computer and stared at the wall.
He thought: No free will at all.
But then it came to him: This was his unconscious at work.
—
THE NEXT DAY he called Rob and said, “I am just a blob of unconsciousness.”
And Rob said, “We all are, Dad. We all are.”
ALSO ON THAT next day Artie brought to school a cardboard box he had found in his garage; he wrote CELLPHONES in magic marker on both sides of it and set it on his desk. Rick Roper did not show up for class, and, in truth, Artie did not give that fact much thought. Artie shoved the pillowcase into the back of the desk’s bottom drawer.
Rhonda Lazarre—when her class came into the room—said with genuine surprise, “What happened to the pillowcase, Mr. Dam?”
“I got rid of it.”
“But why?” she asked. From the looks on the faces of some of the other kids, Artie could tell that what had happened between him and Rick Roper
had made its way around the school, although some of them regarded him with slight surprise. He said only, “It was time.”
But after the bell rang and the class was leaving the room, Artie called out: “Rhonda.”
She turned, her face glowing with surprise. Artie reached into his desk’s bottom drawer and took out the pillowcase. “Do you want this?”
“Thank you! Oh, thank you so much, Mr. Dam!”
He said, “You are entirely welcome.”
As she left the classroom, he saw her briefly put the pillowcase to her face.
Darling child, he thought. You darling, darling child.
THE NEXT DAY, after the final bell rang, Artie stayed in his classroom for two hours, sitting at his desk with the door closed. There were almost three more weeks of school before Christmas. He thought about his father and his mother, and he thought about Maria too, and how she had wanted their father’s genes passed down. Many times he shook his head, starting to stand up and then sitting down once more. He thought of the incident in the clothing store, which he had never really—for more than a few minutes— stopped thinking about since it had occurred. Through the window he could see that it had grown dark outside.
As Artie finally roused himself and stepped out of his classroom, he saw Danny Marino to his left, writing on the hallway wall. Artie saw the fear— oh, it was fear!—on Danny’s face when he heard the door open and saw Artie, and Artie understood that Danny had thought that he was alone at this time in the late afternoon. Artie walked up to him slowly; he saw on the wall —a painted maroon wall—the huge letters in blue magic marker that said FUCK YO. Artie slipped his hands into his pockets and stood there, while Danny’s face turned very red. Artie said, quietly, “Come on in, Danny,” and nodded toward his classroom door.
He could see that the kid was scared to death, and Artie said, “No, no, just come on in.” Danny followed him into the classroom, and Artie closed the door. Artie sat down in a chair and gave a tilt of his head for Danny to do the same, and Danny sat down across from Artie. His face had a look of defiance on it now. Artie said, “You’re lucky the security camera is broken,” and Danny’s face opened with a kind of horror, and he said, “Oh man.” He put his hands over his face and shook his head. “Oh fuck, man. I totally forgot about the security cameras. Fuck.”
Danny looked down; his legs were apart, his elbows were on his knees, his fingers together and picking at one another.
“But the camera’s broken here on the second floor. I only know that because I overheard the janitor reporting it in the office earlier today.” And then Artie leaned forward slightly and said, “I’m not going to tell anyone that I saw you do that.” He sat back in his chair. “Just in case you thought I was going to turn you in, I’m not.”
It seemed to Artie that a very small part of Danny relaxed then. Danny glanced at Artie quickly, and then away. “Why not?” he finally asked, looking at Artie again, just briefly.
Artie shrugged. “I guess because I don’t blame you.”
Now Danny looked fully at him.
Artie added, “I don’t blame you for wanting to say fuck you to the world.”
They sat together in silence, and Artie thought this through. He tried to think it through. But it wasn’t until Danny spoke that Artie said anything.
Danny said to him, “Why?”
And Artie looked at him and said, “Why what?”
“Why do you not blame me for wanting to say fuck you to the world?”
Danny spoke this in a monotone, and Artie gave a small shrug and said, “Because I want to, too.”
Artie stood then, and he walked out the door and looked at the writing there on the wall, and then he stepped back into his classroom and said,
“Okay, we have a job to do.”
“What?” Danny asked.
“Get rid of it, that’s what.”
“Oh yeah,” Danny said, and Artie gave him a genuine smile; the boy looked down. But then Danny looked up and said, “How?”
“Watch me.” Artie went to the closet in the corner of the room and, rummaging through the shelves, pulled out a bottle of rubbing alcohol; there was dust on the top of it.
“Why do you have that?” Danny seemed genuinely to want to know.
“To tell you the truth, I barely remember, it’s been there for years. I think it’s from when I had an infection on my finger and my wife gave it to me to keep here. Well, anyway. Now it’s going to come in handy.”
“We’ll need a piece of cloth too,” Danny said. “Wait, want me to go get some toilet paper in the bathroom? Or maybe paper towels?”
Artie hesitated. “Not sure they’ll work, but let’s try them.”
But then Danny peeled off his long-sleeved sweater, and then he peeled off his T-shirt; his tiny pink nipples stood out against his very white skin, and Artie was struck with the innocence of the boy’s long young chest, as though he were looking at a baby. Danny put his sweater back on. “All right then,”
Artie said.
Out into the hall they went. “What are we going to say if we get caught?”
Danny looked at Artie with real worry.
“We’re going to say this: You came to talk to me, and when we left the room we saw this written, and now we’re removing it, and you were good enough to offer your own T-shirt to do it.”
It took a while, but it worked. Danny’s T-shirt was soaked and streaked with blue from the magic marker, and it smelled sharply of medicinal alcohol,
but the letters were gone.
“Good job. How’re you getting home?”
“Walking, I guess.”
“Do you want a ride?”
“Ah, no. Thanks, though. I’d like to walk.”
“You don’t have a jacket? It’s cold out.”
“I have a jacket, yeah, it’s downstairs in my locker, I’ll get it.”
“Okay,” Artie said. “Now listen to me. Next time you want to say fuck you to the world—and believe me, you will—you do it up here.” Artie tapped his own forehead a few times.
“Yuh. Got it.” Danny hesitated, and then he said, “Okay. Ah, thank you, Mr. Dam.”
“You’re welcome, Danny. You’re entirely welcome.” Artie spoke the words quietly, and then Danny turned and walked down the hall; after a moment, Danny turned partly to look back at him, but he did not turn all the way around.
Artie waited a while and then headed down to the teachers room to get his coat. But at the last minute he just walked out the door. He did not want to see anyone.
DANNY MARINO REMAINED in a state of private ecstasy for days to come.
Damn-dam wanted to say fuck you to the world! Damn-dam wanted to!
Why? Danny did not know, but he believed him, and he thought that no one would think that of cheerful Mr. Dam. But it was true, and in this way Danny discovered the secrets of adults: that they had them, and they were serious and sad. And this brought him tremendous comfort as he watched his parents going through their upheavals.
Even after the poignancy of the event passed—and it felt so private that for a year Danny shared it with no one—he still carried with him that knowledge, that this teacher, Mr. Dam, had ushered him kindly that day into the world of adults, and it changed him, it did.
—
ROB DAM ALSO felt a tremendous sense of relief, he was astonished at the relief he felt now that his father knew that awful secret. It made him feel that he could see the world more clearly, he could see Francesca as she sat at her piano, he could see the people he passed on the sidewalk. But he was not sure these days how he felt about Rachel. They had gone to the apartment of a
friend of Rob’s, and she had admired a small poetry book the friend had, and then, so strangely, Rob’s friend called the next day and asked if Rachel had somehow mistakenly taken it with her. When Rob asked Rachel about it, she got angry and said, “You mean he thought I stole it?” And that had made Rob feel very uneasy. He told Francesca about it, and she had been thoughtful, sighing with sympathy and saying, “Babe, I just don’t know what to tell you.” So Rob was not sure at all where his life was going, but he did not feel that deep and horrible fear he had felt before, when his father had not known the secret. When he thought about his mother, he was able to almost shrug, because—he realized this now—it was his father he had wanted to tell, his father who had been wronged, and his father had taken it so well, so well….
So well, his father had taken this news.
—
RHONDA LAZARRE SLEPT with the pillowcase by her face every night. She had to be careful that her mother did not find it, because Rhonda felt that it was the most precious thing that she—Rhonda—had ever owned. And so she finally put it in the far back of her closet, but every night before she went to bed she brought it out and held it to her face. She loved that man. Mr.
Wonderful Dam.
—
EVIE, BARELY NOTICING IT, felt a lifting of her own spirits. As though the shadows—which she had not even known she lived with—had lightened a bit. She no longer was pulled into those brief but deep pockets of grief she had felt after Reginald died. She went about her life as she had now for years, she enjoyed being with Artie in the evenings, getting into bed after putting on her face cream, pulling the quilt up and turning to him. She had found her husband not to be quite so soft these days. In fact, there were times, to her surprise, that he seemed (almost) quietly arrogant, and she was aware that she liked that. She was going to surprise him and take him to London for Christmas.
—
(IN THREE AND a half years’ time, weeks after Artie died of a heart attack in his sleep during a heat wave in which they’d lost their power—he had not been well for a number of months—Evie would find in his mother’s jewelry box in the attic all the notes from Artie’s students, and as she went through them one by one, she found a printed-out photo of Artie with two students at graduation that was dated two years before, a strange-looking girl and a handsome boy, and on the back was written “Rhonda Lazarre and Danny Marino,” and they had their arms around Artie, who had his arms around them, and they were beaming into the camera. As Evie squinted at the photo, she saw—she thought she saw—that Artie had been crying. What a man he had been! Wait!—Wasn’t Rhonda Lazarre the young woman who had approached her and wanted to speak at the funeral? She had said something like: Mr. Dam meant a great deal to me, and Evie had said: He meant a great deal to many people, and she had refused the girl’s—the young woman’s— offer to speak. Oh dear. (And then Evie picked up a folded piece of paper and, unfolding it, read the letter from Reginald written to Rob almost four years earlier, and she was stunned. She sat stunned for a very long time, and then she got up to call Rob, who was living in Brussels and had already returned there after the funeral. It was a phone call she would never forget. Her son had not taken her side; she felt an enormous devastation. (As is true with some widows who could have been kinder to their husbands during their lifetimes, Evie spoke afterward of Artie always in terms of his being a saint. He was a saint, she said this again and again as she lived the rest of her life, never marrying again. An absolute saint, she said.)
—
ANNE MERRILL DECIDED that she was just going to ask Artie to have lunch with her in her classroom. They had done that in the past, many times, and she would just ask him to do it again. She felt querulous often because of her
daughter. And there were other things as well. Twenty years ago, Anne’s husband, Ed, had had an affair, and Anne thought—at the time—that it had broken something within her. She was humiliated beyond belief, and she could see (she thought), in certain people’s eyes, their pity or, worse, their judgment. But Artie had been wonderful. He had never said a thing, he kept on acting toward her as he always had. And now her husband, Ed, seemed distracted once again, and a cold pool of quiet horror sat inside Anne’s
stomach all the time.
She was really missing Artie.
THE DAY AFTER Artie and Danny Marino had cleaned up the magic marker on the wall, Artie found another note in his mailbox from Hoover Lakeland. See me? Today please—HL. So during his free third period Artie went to Hoover’s office and, once again, was motioned in. “Look,” Hoover said.
“This beastly Roper child, what happened?”
Artie told him.
Hoover exhaled. “Well, he’s gone on social media, writing some very ugly stuff about you, and—Come on, Artie, you know when you kick a student out of class you have to submit a report on it right away. Where’s your report?”
Artie thought this through. “I haven’t kicked out a student in all my years of teaching,” he finally said.
“Well, you have now. So get a report in. And then we have to see the parents. Tomorrow at five o’clock, and, Artie, I’m going to want to kill myself after I ask you this—” (Artie was to remember this always, considering what was to happen in two years’ time.) “But after you get that kid to apologize to you, I want you to apologize to the parents and do whatever you need to do to make this go away, we don’t need it, we don’t want it.”
Hoover stood up. “Sorry about this,” he finally said, and Artie, who also stood up then, said, “Don’t worry about it, Hoover. My fault. I’ll deal with
it.”
“Tomorrow at five?”
“See you then.”
“You’re the best we have,” Hoover said, and sat down again with a huge sigh.
BUT ARTIE DID NOT tell Evie about any of this. Not an honest word did he say when she asked how his day had gone. He had not told her about Danny Marino, and he did not tell her about Rick Roper.
“Perfect. How was yours?” He said this as she sat in the dark brown velvet chair with her glass of wine.
And he did not listen to her carefully as she told him about the people she had seen that day and their various problems. And she did not mention to him the woman who had ended up telling her husband about her affair and how they were now probably headed for divorce, so unnecessary, Evie thought; the woman had wept profusely in Evie’s office.
IT WAS DARK outside at five o’clock the next day—Artie could see this through his classroom windows—and the school had an empty feeling. The cheerleaders had gone home from practice, and no whistles could be heard in the gym for basketball practice. Artie left his coat in the teachers room and walked to Hoover’s office. In the outer office Rick Roper sat, looking at the floor. “Rick!” Artie said. “Aren’t you coming in?”
Hoover stepped into the outer office. “He’ll be with us in a few minutes.
Come on in, Artie.”
What Artie saw surprised him. The parents of Rick Roper looked scared.
He had not expected that. The father was wearing a baseball cap, and he took it off as soon as Artie entered the room. “Hello!” Artie said this, walking over
to them and shaking their hands. The woman’s hand was cold; she looked exhausted; she wore bright lipstick on her thin lips but no other makeup. The man shook Artie’s hand with little enthusiasm. But they looked at Artie with real fear, and then the woman dropped her eyes to the floor.
Hoover sat down in his chair behind his desk and Artie took a seat near the couple.
“Listen,” Artie said, stretching his legs out and then immediately tucking them back under him. “So sorry about what happened.”
“What did happen?” It was the mother who asked this, looking up at him.
He saw that her eyes were green; they had once been pretty eyes, he thought.
Artie told them the story without leaving anything out, and they both nodded when he was done. “That’s what he told us.” The woman said this, and she and her husband looked at each other with (what Artie thought was) a sense of slight relief.
“But why did you throw him out of the class?” The man asked this, with no hostility, and Artie said, after considering a moment, “Well, that’s a really good point.”
“You could have—you know”—the man nodded and held up a hand —“just told him the language was offensive.”
“You’re right,” Artie said. “I could have.” He looked from one to the other, they were watching him guilelessly, he thought. “But I didn’t. I told him to leave the class. I should have just demanded an apology right there. So I have to tell you both: I am sorry. I really am.”
He glanced at Hoover, who looked at him without expression.
“Can you tell him that?” the woman asked, and she turned her head toward the outer office.
“I can and I will.” Artie stood as Hoover went to the door to indicate that Rick should come in. Rick entered the room with insolence, not looking at anyone.
“Here, sit here,” Artie said, indicating where he had been sitting. Then he said, “Rick, I’ve just told your parents that it was wrong of me to kick you out of class. And I apologize for doing so. But what you said was offensive —” Artie raised a finger and pointed it at him. “Do not forget how offensive
it was, and I do not ever want to hear you speak like that again. You should never say that word again. Understood?”
The kid looked up at him; nothing on his face moved.
“Rick,” said his father, and then Rick said to Artie, “Okay.” He said it quietly, sarcastically.
“But it was too much to kick you out for that, and I am sorry. All right then?” Artie looked at both the parents, and at Rick. “Are we okay then?”
Rick stared past Artie’s shoulder as though to let Artie know that he would not look him in the face. Artie said, “But one more thing, Rick. I need an apology from you.”
The kid looked at Artie, and Artie saw color rise in his face. After a moment Rick said, “But you just apologized to me.”
“I did.” Artie nodded. “And now I need an apology from you. That was
very offensive stuff you said.”
Rick raised his chin just slightly.
“Rick.” His father said this with a quiet fury. And Rick said, without
looking at Artie: “Sorry.”
“Okay then,” Artie said.
The parents looked at each other; the woman stood, and then the man did.
“Thanks,” the man said, and he stuck out his hand to shake Artie’s hand.
Artie shook his hand and then the wife’s hand, which was not as cold as it had been, and then he said to Rick, “You okay?” And Rick stood up and started out the door. “Rick,” Artie said. “Are we okay?”
And Rick turned and said, “I guess so.”
—
HOOVER LET OUT a sigh after they had left the office. “For fuck’s sake, Artie.”
But Artie was watching through the window as the three of them made their way to their car. The lights in the parking lot showed them dimly. They were walking in single file, and they were not walking quickly. They appeared tired. And they did not appear to be speaking to one another.
To Artie—this came to him—they seemed exquisitely lonely.
—
LATER THAT NIGHT, Artie got out the first-day essays he’d had his students write, and he found Rick Roper’s. “My dad is my hero,” he had written. “My dad is the greatest man who ever lived.”
