Rudi squatted down beside her and smiled. “Come with me,” he said.
She followed Rudi to a shed at the far corner of the property. When he opened the padlock, she looked back over her shoulder with an edge of nervousness. From the barn she could see her house, but from this shed she could see only the barn and Rudi’s house and that of his neighbors, an elderly couple whose names Judy did not know. Rudi swung open the door on its crumbling hinges and stepped inside. With hesitating steps Judy followed him past the threshold. The shed smelled of muddy soil and a haze of gasoline, stored in a dark red tin beside the old tractor. The air within the shed was cold, with only the narrowest slivers of light knifing off the rusted ends of garden tools. Rudi waved her inside and stepped into a corner.
“What is it?” she whispered.
The door thudded shut behind her. Rudi made a shushing noise and, with a crooked finger, gestured her toward him. She followed and sank to her knees beside him, hiking her skirt to keep it from the moist ground. A movement caught her eye; she pulled in her breath. And then Rudi carefully lifted from the quivering pile a tiny animal no larger than a chipmunk. He held it toward her in both palms.
“Go on, hold it,” he said in a quiet voice.
“Is it a mouse?”
“No. Igel.”
“Eagle?”
His hands pushed toward her again. “Go on.”
She curled her fists against her stomach, afraid. It didn’t look like a bird, but in the small light it was difficult to see. Rudi extended his hands almost to her stomach and by reflex she reached out, not wanting this strange creature to crawl into her dress. At that moment he eased the animal into her hands and, sliding his hand beneath hers to support them, crouched behind her. With an arm on each of her sides, and both of his hands now beneath hers, her fears eased. The little creature snuffled, lifted its face, and she realized it was a hedgehog.
“Oh!” she cried. “Oh! Will it bite me?”
“No, no.” His breath was warm against her ear. “Very gentle. Very soft.”
She supposed he was giving her instructions. The animal itself was not very soft. Its tiny spines tickled her palm, and its squirming body seemed on the verge of sliding from her hands. But Rudy anticipated its small wiggles and kicks, tipping his hands beneath hers to ease it back to safety. Despite the need for quiet, she laughed aloud.
“Shhhhh,” he reminded her.
She looked up at his face and saw the peace that farmwork always laid over his features. When speaking of family or school, he was always animated, comical even; but the work of nature seemed to pull him back to the peace of the center, the windless sea that did not move.
She cupped the hedgehog in her hands and nestled back into Rudi’s chest. She felt the quiver of his ankles finding their balance, and smelled the hardworking scent of him, of the earth around roots and the bristled fur of animals, the copper tang of the tools he held, the rugged sweat of a grown man.
Easter passed and the daffodils bloomed, sending up green shoots suddenly to displace the crocuses that had endured the last snows. Judy was glad for the warmth that allowed her to leave her itchy tights at home, and walked home from the bus stop with her rucksack tight against her back, her skirt swinging gently against her knees. The broad fallow fields sprawled in all directions, their rugged brown soil glazed with rain; in the distance rose the smoky blue silhouette of the eastern Alps, Jagerkamp and Miesing, where her family had hiked the summer before. Through the vivid sky flew American fighter jets on practice exercises, engines whistling, leaving slim contrails in their wake. When she turned onto her own street she saw her father’s car in the driveway. Kirsten would be there, too, but Judy needed to change clothes before hurrying off to the barn, so the discomfort would have to be endured.
As she walked up the path toward the back door she ran her hand over the heads of the bright yellow daffodils that lined the walk; they bobbed and waved alongside her. She pushed open the door and stepped into the tidy living room with its maize carpet freshly vacuumed, brightened here and there by shards of sunlight from the spotless windows. The Supremes belted out a song on the radio, their voices as smooth and flawless as the ribbon of cream Kirsten poured from the pitcher onto her father’s strudel, and the whole house smelled cheerfully of pork and spiced apples, laced with a note of butter. Yet nobody seemed to be home. In the kitchen the laundry floated in the sink, unattended; next to the Dutch oven, the box of strike-anywhere matches had been left out. Judy was not allowed to touch them, but the story of Pauline had made her curious, and no one was around to see. She slid open the box and held one by its rough wooden stem, examining it closely. She struck it against the counter, the side of the stove, the metal cabinet, but it did not work. Finally she struck it against the wall and like magic it engulfed in flame. Judy smiled. It crackled so, it burned so clear, said the poem; and it was true. But Pauline had been a foolish girl who had not put it out in time, and so Judy puffed a breath of air against it. The fire vanished, and the kitchen filled with the smell of birthday wishes.
It was strange, but not unpleasant, to find the house so empty. She wandered down the hall, peering into each room: the spare bedroom her father used as an office, the bathroom, her own bedroom with its duvet fluffed high as a cloud. Standing in her doorway, she heard a muffled noise from the next room, a steady squeak like a window loose on its hinge. She turned the knob to her parents’ bedroom door, just as a fighter jet flew by overhead and drowned the creaking noise in its resonating sonic boom.
Later she would remember seeing nothing. Nothing at all: that she had turned the knob and seen nothing but the black vacuous space of blindness. Past the door the world ended. Past the door lay the incomprehensible dark.
The blackness had swallowed her father, and when he returned she recognized an impostor.
8
I dressed for College Fair night with a sense of dread. Scott had no desire to go, having already settled on the likely prospect of attending a school near Baltimore known more for its kegger parties than its academics. Yet we had no choice; it would look bad if either he or I skipped it, since I knew parents looked to our family for evidence that Waldorf kids could compete on a university level, and I needed to show up armed with enthusiastic stories about how well Maggie was doing at college. Three days had passed since the afternoon in the workshop, and in that time I saw Zach only through my classroom windows, coming and going from the parking lot. At times my mind grew nearly hysterical with questions I could not possibly answer. I feared his resentment and anger, his morning-after remorse, but most of all I was terrified he would run his mouth; even if he harbored no ill feelings, teenage boys were not legendary for their discretion. Surely he would tell somebody, and if one kid at Sylvania found out, they’d all know by lunchtime. Every time a colleague glanced at me, every time I heard my name called, my heart squeezed with fear. I had to talk to Zach, if only to emphasize to him that I was sorry, it had been a terrible mistake and it would never happen again as long as I lived.
The parking lot was crammed with cars. As Scott and I made our way down the hall, I felt a lump form in my throat as I saw the playhouse situated right in front of the main office. Parents surrounded it, making approving cooing noises. Zach stood nearby, leaning against the wall between the house and a table filled with information about the holiday bazaar. When he saw me his gaze sharpened with recognition but his expression did not change.
Vivienne, however, lit up with a smile and came toward me, a welcoming hand extended. “Judy! Have you seen it? Hasn’t he done an amazing job? I’m so impressed I can hardly stand it!”
I nodded. “He’s been hard at work.”
The shadow of a grin played at Zach’s mouth. I took that as a positive sign. When a teenager wanted to be dour, nothing could stop him.
Vivienne grasped my hand. “Thank you so much for taking so much time out of your schedule to make the workshop available. Zach can do great things when he makes an e
ffort.”
Zach rolled his eyes, absorbing the verbal stress his mother had placed on the last few words. Scott, standing impatiently beside me, said, “I’ll see you in the multipurpose room.”
A crush of parents awaited me along the way, peppering me with questions. I worked my way around the room until I caught sight of Scott near the far corner, roughhousing with his friends. Medieval Judo—that was their name for it. The game consisted of stagecraft martial arts combined with trash-talk in imitation of Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Zach was with them, having slipped through the crowd much faster than I could. As I approached I saw Temple had Zach in some sort of a kung-fu grip. Zach twisted around to release himself, then crouched into a low spin-kick, which sent Temple flying theatrically backward. Scott rushed to Temple’s aid by grabbing Zach from behind under both arms and flailing him from side to side.
“Stop, knave!” shouted Zach. “Or I will unleash my Singaporean Fart Attack!”
Scott was unmoved. “My faith will protect me, good knight!”
“Scott,” I said loudly. I tipped my head pointedly toward the semicircle of college information booths.
“In a minute,” he called, none too friendly. He locked his hands at the front of Zach’s chest and hauled him backward. Then, as if it were nothing at all, Zach got his feet under him, twisted at the waist, and threw Scott off his balance, flipping him forward and sending him skidding across the floor on his side. My eyes widened, but Scott didn’t seem hurt. He uttered a surprised laugh and got to his feet.
“Seen anything that looks interesting to you?” I asked, more or less rhetorically.
He answered with a you-must-be-kidding-me look and brushed past me to the booths, randomly swiping brochures.
I sidled up near Zach, who lagged behind as the girls wandered off with Temple. Once alone, we both looked over the noisy room, full of excited upperclassmen chatting up perky college reps. A dozen urgent questions fought for precedence in my mind. After a silence I asked, “Did you tell anyone?”
He shook his head, not breaking his focus on the milling crowd. A shock of hair mostly covered one eye, and his mouth looked brooding, serious. He hesitated, then asked, “Did you?”
I chuckled. “Of course not. Do you think I’m insane?”
A hard sigh escaped his nose, like a noiseless laugh.
“I’m sorry for what happened,” I said quietly. “Do you want to talk about it?”
His nod was slight. “We can go someplace. I’ve still got stuff in the workshop.”
“I can meet you there in a few minutes if you like.”
“All right.” He turned and disappeared out the side door. I checked on Scott, who had regrouped with his remaining friends on the opposite side of the room, and made my way toward the workshop via a door off the main hallway.
The enormous room was dark when I stepped inside, except for a single fluorescent fixture in the far corner where the playhouse had been. Zach crouched on the balls of his feet beneath the yellow light, brushing sawdust out of a power sander. He did not look up when I came in.
“I’m sorry,” I repeated.
His shoulders twitched with a laugh that held no humor. “You’re sorry. I’ve been waiting all week to get called down to Beckett’s office. I knew I was in deep shit.”
I frowned and came closer, stopping at the edge of the square of light. “Why would you be in deep shit?”
He looked up and grinned—at my bad language, I assumed. “Over what happened. You looked pissed. I didn’t mean for that to happen.”
“I wasn’t pissed. I was terrified. All week I’ve been waiting to get called down to Beckett’s office. So I could get fired.”
He dismissed days of mortal fear with a shake of his head. “I’m not telling anybody.”
“Well, I didn’t know that.”
He stood up and laid the sander on the shelf, then jammed his hands into his back pockets. “Trust me, getting Scott’s mom fired wouldn’t do me a whole lot of good here. All my friends are his friends.”
“I appreciate that,” I told him. “But it was my fault, and I promise you it won’t ever happen again. If you don’t want to work with me on the bazaar anymore, I completely understand. I’ll tell your mom there’s a senior who needs hours. It won’t be a problem.”
“Nah, I’m not worried about it. I’ll just keep away from confined spaces.”
My laugh held an edge of mortification. “I don’t know what I was thinking, Zach. I’m so sorry. I swear to you I’ve never done anything like that before. My husband has been a jerk lately, and I’ve been lonely, and—” I stopped, realizing Zach had never asked for an explanation. “I must have been in a mood. There’s no way to justify it.”
“It’s all right. I thought you were cool with it at first. But then the look on your face after—I figured you thought I took it too far.”
Right away I shook my head. “Oh, no. I didn’t think that at all.”
At first his eyes registered confusion. Then he looked to the side and grinned.
I winced at his interpretation. “Okay, let’s wrap up this conversation,” I suggested, to his laughter. “Crazy mistake. It’ll never happen again. Done.”
“Done,” he agreed, and in my earnest need to wish it away, I chose, with a bold enthusiasm, to believe it was true. I had, after all, made a career out of fairy tales.
“So, anyway,” he said in a louder, lighter voice, “the playhouse is done. Great, huh?”
I replied with a quick nod. “Beautiful. I’ll sign off on all thirty of your service hours. Wonderful job.”
“Jeez, Teach,” he said, and the sarcasm in his smile was infectious. “You’re paying me off? I don’t think that’s legal.”
My laughter bubbled over, but even as I laughed I felt a shadow at its edge, the giddy feeling brought on by a sense of hopelessness. The danger loomed much larger than I had feared.
Not because he might report me.
But because he would not.
When my students ran out our classroom door to the playground, they did not spread out like bees, as they usually did, but gravitated toward a single point. It didn’t take long for me to realize why. Zach’s playhouse had been moved to the sidewalk between the playground and workshop, left behind, evidently, on its way to storage. Around the side of the workshop I spotted two teenagers wrestling a metal trolley past the concrete parking barriers.
“Let’s move to the play area, boys and girls,” I said. “This is for the Christmas auction. It needs to be tucked away safe and sound.”
Max popped his head out of one of the shuttered windows and grinned at me. “Out, Max,” I urged. I pointed toward the little wooden bridge in the sand pit. “Look, your friends are playing Three Billy Goats Gruff.”
“They’re playing Grenade Bandits,” he corrected.
“Well, why don’t you go play with them.”
As he scurried out, I shut the Dutch doors in relief. I felt thankful the playhouse was not destined for my classroom. Watching the children run around in it was unnerving. In the days since my encounter with Zach, even—perhaps especially—after I knew my job and life would be safe, I found myself mired in uneasy guilt and gloomy self-reflection. What could have possessed me to do such a thing? I wondered. I had spent my entire adult life in the service of a single master: pure childhood. Not God. Not a messiah or a prophet. Only childhood at its most undefiled, a walled garden as big as a child’s imagination could stretch, into which no evil thing could enter. I had obsessed over the minutiae of the color of a silk square, the finish of a toy horse. With a religious devotion, I worked to ensure that the unformed mind would experience only what was natural, what was pure. Now, in my failure to control a most natural impulse, I had revealed the wildly impure.
A lapse of reason, I thought. It wasn’t his youth that intoxicated me, but the way he had of bringing my own youth to the surface; with each passing hour with him another year seemed to fall away, until the woman i
n the mirror would have appeared to me a stranger. When he kissed me, he recognized the girl radiating out from within me. But I was not that girl anymore. Any jury of my peers would be happy to remind me of that fact. And because of that, I had to find a way to stay oriented in time, not to succumb to the pull of his camaraderie. If I needed affection so badly, then I needed to find a lover my own age.
I clutched at the knot beneath my head scarf and turned my thoughts toward the choir trip coming up at the end of the week. Sylvania’s madrigal choir had won a spot in a regional competition in Ohio, and so for four days I would be away from home, supervising teenagers but also free, off and on, to do as I wanted. In a year or so that might mean the chance to find a replacement for Russ, but at the moment I lacked enough nerve. Instead I would try to think like a free woman rather than a confined one. In my mind I would be nineteen again, attuned to the undercurrent of hunger in the way men greet women. Rather than shrug it off, I would welcome it. “Teacher’s base! Teacher’s base!”
The sound of my children’s voices brought me back into the moment, and I worked to decipher their meaning as I watched them chase each other across the dampened sand that flew out behind their sneakers like brown sugar. All at once I spotted Aidan racing toward me at full speed, his small arms pumping hard, fine blond hair flying; his face bore an ecstatic smile. I grinned at the sight of it and braced for impact, knowing what Aidan knew: I was the safe zone. Small, but rock-solid.
I still had no reason to doubt it, then.
My goal for Ohio was to have a fun, enriching, self-actualized time pursuing grown-up things. Antiquing, learning about Amish life, tasting wine. In less than a year Scott would be off at college and it would be my turn to enjoy the pursuits denied to me during the thick of mothering. And if ever I needed a pep talk about the scintillating fun of adulthood, it was now.
The Kingdom of Childhood Page 8