The Swallows

by Lisa Lutz

  Ms. Witt

  The cottage felt like an icebox when I woke up early Wednesday morning. I dialed up the space heaters, filled the kettle, and turned on the electric hot plate. It wasn’t until I flipped the switch on the nightstand lamp that I realized I had no power. I searched briefly for an electrical box, but my heart wasn’t in it. I grabbed a duffel bag, stuffed it with a change of clothes and my shower kit, and left my blacked-out cabin.

  Trudging through the woods, I held my phone up to the morning light, looking for reception. Once I had two bars, I hit the second number on my speed dial. I knew his phone would be off, so I left a message.

  “Hey, asshole. Where do you get off making life decisions for me? Stay out of my business, Dad. And don’t call me back.”

  I heard the sound of a grumpy engine, then spotted an ATV slicing through the woods. An old guy was driving the thing. He had a head of thick brown hair with specks of gray that blew back like wings. I waved because we were the only two people out there. He braked and quieted the throttle. His hair flopped flat on his forehead.

  “Good morning. You must be the new one,” he said.

  “Yes. I’m Alex,” I said.

  “Rupert, at your service,” he said. “I take care of things around here.”

  “What kind of things?” I asked.

  “How much time do you have?” he replied, making a point to look at his watch.

  “The power went out in the cabin,” I said.

  “Sure.” He sighed. “That was inevitable.”

  I thought he would offer to handle it. I waited. He didn’t.

  Then Rupert started shaking his head and said, “I don’t know. I don’t know, Alex.”

  “I don’t know either,” I said, which was as true a statement as I’ve ever made.

  Rupert nodded as if I’d said something wise, gunned the engine, and drove off.

  The drawbacks of the cottage had begun to pile up. I suppose I knew about all of them when I made the deal, but you start to feel it when you’re out of cellphone and Internet range and even local television is a prohibitive notion. I had just returned from three weeks at Sun Ra Monastery and Meditation Center with none of the above. I’d tricked myself into believing I was beyond all that. If only I were half as good at bullshitting other people.

  I took Stoker Lane around Headquarters to Beckett Gym. I rushed down the stairs and entered the door marked NO STUDENTS ALLOWED, NO EXCEPTIONS. My second visit to the Wilde Bathhouse was decidedly less enticing. I hadn’t fully considered the notion of communal bathing or the quarter-mile trek to do so.

  Everything in Wilde was behind a layer of steam. It was like being in a fogbank that smelled of eucalyptus. One could glimpse a warren of shiny lockers through the haze. On the opposite wall was a row of vessel sinks. On the middle wall, you couldn’t miss the decorative fountain backed by a tile portrait of Oscar Wilde himself. I think he might have approved of the gauzy filter the steam provided.

  I thought I was alone, but it was hard to tell. I dropped off my duffel bag and grabbed a thick cotton towel near a metal stand by the shower stalls. As I was debating the appropriate location for disrobing, a man appeared—out of the mist. He wore a towel wrapped around his waist. He was lean and tan, like beef jerky. I hadn’t been in a coed bathroom since college. I assumed the code of conduct for professional peers must be different, but the etiquette eluded me.

  “You’re the new teacher, right?” he said, as he dropped his towel.

  I had never seen a sharper contrast in a tan line. In a way, I found it comforting to know that he was typically covered from his mid-thigh to his waist.

  “Yes. That’s me.”

  “I’m Keith,” he said.

  “Hi, I’m Alex,” I said, averting my gaze. Then I caught the reflection of his bare ass in one of the mirrors above the sink. I turned my attention to the image of Oscar.

  “How’s that cabin treating you?” he said.

  “It’s—I don’t know,” I said.

  I was too surprised by his casual nudity to elaborate.

  “Those space heaters still working?”

  “No.”

  “Huh.”

  “Do you know why?” I said.

  “The generator must have run out of fuel.”

  “There’s a generator?”

  “Not much of one. I think it’s only a thousand watts. That cabin was intended as a warming station or a place to recharge equipment for the groundskeeper. It wasn’t meant for habitation.”

  “It looked like someone lived there once,” I said.

  “Maybe in summer,” Keith said.

  The next time I accidentally glanced over, he was wearing jeans.

  “What do you do here?” I said.

  “I coach most of the team sports. Speaking of, we’ve got a few kids interested in fencing, if you ever want to pitch in,” Keith said. “I’ve watched some videos and try to offer some suggestions. But it’s not my bag.”

  “It’s not my bag either,” I said, retreating to one of the shower stalls. “See you around, Keith.”

  Even though I was showering in an individual stall, it felt like someone was going to join me any second. I made it quick and, to avoid another awkward encounter, dressed behind the curtain. By the time I stepped out of Wilde, my clothes clung to my skin like I had just finished a long hike.

  I rushed over to Headquarters and entered Agatha Christie Admin to collect my anonymous assignments. By then my damp clothes had cooled and I had the chills.

  Ms. Pinsky, the secretary, sat alone at the front desk, nibbling on a Danish. As I collected a thick stack of papers from my box, I heard clomping behind me.

  A high-pitched voice said, “Is that you?”

  I always hated that question.

  I turned around to find a woman standing just one foot away, popping up like the genie in that old sitcom I sometimes watched with my dad. A few pages slipped out of my arms and floated onto the floor.

  “You’re Alex Witt. Who else could you be?” she said, as she picked up a wandering page.

  She introduced herself as Martha Primm, guidance counselor and school psychologist. She said she’d heard all about me and was excited to finally make my acquaintance.

  Martha Primm was like a human strobe light. There was just too much to take in. She wore her long, highlighted hair in perfect ringlets. Her kelly-green wrap dress was cinched at the waist with a sparkling gold rope belt. There were bracelets clanking and synthetic fabrics rustling. Her perfume seemed to camp out inside my nostrils. Even her footwear—blue clogs adorned with daisies—was aggressively cheery.

  “My goodness, would you look at all of those papers. And so early in the year. The students were filing in all day long yesterday to turn in these assignments. A few of them started poking around and looking at each other’s work. I sent them on their merry way, I’ll have you know. Let me get that for you,” she said, bending down to pick up a few more wayward pages. “Most teachers use the Blackboard system for delivery of homework. If you would like a tutorial on Blackboard, please let me know. I’d be happy to arrange it.”

  “That’s okay,” I said. “We used something similar at—”

  Primm glanced down at the paper she had retrieved.

  “Now, this one didn’t even write down their—” She broke off as she peered over the next page.

  “This one also didn’t put down—”

  Primm’s smile flatlined as her eyes tracked past the nonexistent name and down to the body of the paper. She cleared her throat and dropped the pages on the top of my stack. I glanced down and read the first few lines.

  What do you love?

  Pussy

  What do you hate?

  Dry pussy?

  If you could live inside a book, what book?


  The Kama Sutra

  “Oh my,” she said, returning the paper.

  “Sorry,” I said, feeling uneasy.

  I had to admit, it looked bad. And who wants to read that shit first thing in the morning? I tried to explain.

  “It’s a word-association type of assignment. I try not to censor them,” I said.

  “Well, I don’t know anything about creative writing, so I can’t comment.”

  “See you around,” I said.

  “You will,” Primm said, followed by a quick pivot and the sound of her clogs, like hooves, on the marble floor.

  * * *

  —

  In class, while my students exchanged texts and pretended to write their origin stories, I began to annotate the Q&A’s with tentative gender assignments. I’ve found a few telltale markers. For instance, if the answer to the hate question is a body part (other than abs or biceps), I promptly slip the sheet into the girl pile. If the answer to the hate question is a person, gender becomes irrelevant, although I see it as a solid marker for volatility and future conflict. Unless the object of hatred is Hitler, Stalin, Pol Pot, Chris Brown, or Kid Rock.

  Likely male:

  What do you love? The Darkroom

  What do you hate? Snitches and douchebags

  If you could live inside a book, what book? The Picture of Dorian Gray

  What do you want? Absolute power

  Who are you? The boss man

  Likely female:

  What do you love? Neko Case, banana bread, the smell of Pine-Sol

  What do you hate? BJs, editors, and agents of the Darkroom

  If you could live inside a book, what book? The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo

  What do you want? An invisibility cloak and cyanide

  Who are you? I’m not who they think I am

  Probably male:

  What do you love? Bright Eyes, Reservoir Dogs, PB&J sandwiches, CS

  What do you hate? The Darkroom

  If you could live inside a book, what book? Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy

  What do you want? For my real life to begin

  Who are you? I’m a coward

  I took note of the Darkroom reference. Whatever it was, my students either loved or hated it.

  As a diagnostic tool, I’ve found the Q&A’s to provide some valuable information. But it’s not a lie detector or an X-ray machine. I’ll never get the answer to the question that I’m ultimately trying to ask:

  What are you capable of?

  Gemma Russo

  It started last year. Every now and again, the showers in the boys’ dorm would run hot or cold. Direct evidence of sabotage was never found, but the boys became convinced it was the act of some kind of vigilante. I was thrilled that the shower saboteur had struck again so early in the school year. Without fail, it ruins the boys’ day and totally makes mine. I wish I’d thought of it.

  There’s a certain look they get, post–shower chaos: shoulders hunched, hair askew, with a vague aura of depression. Except Jonah, who would insist that the unpredictability of the temperature invigorated him.

  In class, the boys huddled together in disgruntled knots, grumbling about their rough morning. I had to wonder if it was a salvo by an unknown comrade or comrades. I searched the room for a possible candidate. The obvious choice was Kate Bush, but I couldn’t see her being that reckless so soon after her humiliation.

  As the class settled in to first period, Witt paid us no mind. She sat at her desk, studying our Q&A’s, sorting them in stacks. Her hand propped up her head, as if she’d collapse without it. She had the expression of someone who hates math trying to graph a quadratic equation.

  Ms. Witt didn’t look up until Carl Bloom blew his nose, making a sound like a poorly played trumpet. The poor guy has a buffet of allergies. Don’t get him started.

  Witt told us to work independently on our origin stories.

  Sandra Polonsky immediately raised her hand: “I already have five hundred and fifty words and I’m only at age seven and that’s with editing out my first day of kindergarten.”

  “I want you to write your origin story. Not your memoir…Sandra,” Witt said, after consulting her seating chart. “Think about who you are, how you got to be you. Is there a single event that helped form your identity?”

  “What if I don’t have an origin story?” Sandra said.

  “Everyone has at least one origin story,” said Witt.

  “What if mine hasn’t happened yet?” Sandra said.

  “This is a creative-writing class,” Witt said, dipping into a whisper. “You’re not beholden to the truth.”

  “So, our origin stories can be total bullshit?” Gabe asked.

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself. I’m sure your whole life hasn’t been bullshit,” said Devlin.

  “Except for that one magical night with your mother,” said Gabe.

  Most of the class howled. It might have been funny if some variation of I-fucked-your-mother wasn’t the only joke he ever told. Last year I found Comedy for Dummies at Mo’s for two dollars. I left it in Gabe’s mailbox, hoping to elevate the quality of his material. Two bucks, lost forever.

  Okay, Witt said.

  It was remarkable how efficiently she could quiet the class with a single word. I think she scared some students, especially the boys. Gabe, like a skittish dog, couldn’t even look her in the eye. That dead rat really backfired on him.

  Announcements

  Good morning, students of Stone. Wainwright reporting on Friday, September 11, 2009.

  Breaking news: Our plumber, Lester, has fixed the hot-water heater in Dickens House. We apologize to all of the boys who suffered the frigid waters again this morning. Other matters: If anyone is missing a half pack of grape bubble gum, come see me. Lunch today you have a choice of Hungarian goulash or vegetarian pad thai. We’ve got a beautiful sunny day ahead of us. A comfortable seventy-two degrees, dipping to a crisp fifty-nine at night. That’s Fahrenheit, not Celsius. If it were Celsius we’d be dead. I remember the days we thought we’d switch over to the metric system. Didn’t happen….What? Okay. Today’s news: The first meeting of the A/V Club will be in Milton Studio, Saturday, at 5:45 A.M. I repeat—5:15 A.M. Don’t be late. [sound of a record scratching, static, music] This morning’s tune. A little Charles Mingus to send you off into that dangerous world.

  Ms. Witt

  “Who is Wainwright?” I asked my class. “A teacher or someone in admin?”

  “Who isn’t he? That is the question,” said Mick Devlin.

  “No. That isn’t the question,” I said. “Seriously, who is this guy?”

  “He’d prefer we didn’t know his true identity,” said Adam Westlake.

  “We’ve decided to respect his wishes,” said Amy Logan.

  “But don’t rely on his weather reports. Ever,” said Jonah.

  My phone buzzed.

  I glanced at the screen. It was a call from Annie, a friend and fellow teacher from my Warren Prep days. Annie never called. She said texting was the best thing that’s happened in modern communication. I assumed it was important and stepped outside.

  “Everything okay?” I said.

  “Sorry to bother you,” Annie said. “But I thought you should know. Barbara got a call yesterday from someone at Stonebridge. At first, the caller said that he was just confirming your references, but then he started asking about you, about what happened.”

  “What did she tell him?”

  “Nothing. Don’t worry.”

  “Did she get a name?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Hang on. I got it here somewhere. Um…Jim Stark. Yes. Jim Stark. Why does that sound familiar?”

  “Because he’s a character in one of my father’s books.”

  * * *

  —

 
During my office hours, I swung by AA. There was a message slip in my inbox informing me that I had a message.

  “I have a message,” I said to Ms. Pinsky, dropping the slip onto the counter.

  “Coach Keith would like to see you,” Ms. Pinsky said.

  “Did Coach Keith tell you why?” I said.

  “Oh. I don’t know. It’s not really any of my business, is it?” Pinsky said.

  Her message-delivery system was so impressively inefficient, I refrained from comment.

  “Where could I find him?” I said.

  Just then a woman in her forties, freckled and tan, entered the office.

  “I’m not sure where Coach would be right now,” said Pinsky.

  “I’d check the gym,” the freckled woman said.

  “Maybe the gym?” Ms. Pinsky echoed, as if it were her own idea.

  The woman to whom I hadn’t yet been introduced smiled and extended her hand. “You must be Alex. I’m Evelyn Lubovich. History, social studies, and welding.”

  “Welding?” I said, as we shook hands.

  “Dean Stinson likes to call it ‘metal arts.’ Welcome,” she said. “See you later. At Hemingway’s.”

  “Yes,” I said, remembering. “See you later.”

  I left Headquarters and followed the stone walkway to the gym.

  Voices echoed throughout the corridor. I approached Keith’s office and looked inside. It was empty. I followed the voices to the end of the hall.

  “How is it possible you only have one ball?” said a young female voice.

  “I don’t know what to tell you, Linny,” said Keith.

  “This is ridiculous,” said, I assumed, Linny.

  “The person who loses the point gets the ball,” Keith said, as if for the hundredth time.

  I entered the gym. Inside, a Ping-Pong table stood in the center of a basketball court. The young girl, who bore a remarkable resemblance to Tatum O’Neal in Paper Moon, scowled aggressively and tossed the ball to Keith, who attacked the serve without any regard for the skill of his opponent. The ball whizzed past Linny, who threw her paddle into the air.