by Dave King
Ryan grins. “That was fun.” He seems to think we’re Batman and Robin. Well, we are. I nod, tapping the bill of his cap, and he says, “How’d you like my teacher?” I nod again, though I have mixed feelings about hip young things.
Ryan nods, too. “She’s pretty.” He sounds satisfied. “So what do you wanna do now?”
I shrug. I hadn’t thought about it. I’d expected him to return to class once the concert ended, but it’s clear there’ll be no more teaching today. The hallways are emptying out, and buses are picking up kids who didn’t leave with their folks. Ryan says, “So, ya wanna split? I mean, I’m done.”
We turn again down the cool, dark hallway, but at the door to the classroom we falter. The other families have gone, and our group and Ryan’s teacher are the only ones left. Laurel’s folded herself into a little green chair and the boys are on desks, but the teacher leans against the windowsill, one hand buried in her clump of chestnut hair. For an instant her eyes flick to the doorway, but she offers no acknowledgment. In her cool gaze there’s only a look of appraisal. And though she still smiles that sly smile, suddenly it’s impossible for me to enter that room. The four attractive young people, bound by their ordinary educations and easy, inconsequential body language, form a band that’s impervious to invasion. I don’t even try. Ryan murmurs, “You could like show me where you work,” and moves from the door.
At this, I feel like racing him to the truck. I want to vamoose before he rejoins that other society, to participate in the gossip and the cracking of jokes. In the parking lot, Ryan pauses by Nit and Nat’s white van. “Hey, look,” he says, and prints WASH ME on the side panel with his finger. He’s still wearing the pale blue robe, though he was certainly expected to turn it in, and I reach for the fabric and rub it with my fingers. He says doubtfully, “Think I could keep it?” Why the hell not? I stole the ugly kid’s drumsticks. I open the door of my truck, and Ryan rolls down the window. As we leave the elementary school behind us, he’s experimenting with the wind billowing at his sleeve.
26
IN THE GARDEN SHED, I change back into my work clothes, making a small square pile of my better shoes, my shirt, and my slacks. When I’m down to my socks and undershorts I catch Ryan eyeing me covertly. It strikes me that a grown-up body’s probably an interesting phenomenon to a boy, so I stand there a minute, turning the T-shirt inside out. I don’t meet his gaze, but I let him look. It’s been a long time since anyone looked closely at me.
At last, I arch my back and pound my chest, Tarzan style, and give a Tarzan yell. It’s not so different from my other sounds, but it’s loud and echoey in the little wood shed. Ryan says, “You’re crazy,” and I wink at him as I pull on my overalls. When I’m all covered up, I give the nape of his neck a rub, then tug at the blue choir gown, and he says, “Oh, yeah,” and pulls it over his head. I fold it and add it to my stack of clothes. We open the two shed doors, and sunshine streams over the shovels and cultivators and bags of grass seed, the garden stakes and the spare hose coiled on the wall and the little red push jobbie and the big green-and-yellow John Deere mower.
The John Deere’s a pretty thing. Nothing but the best for these nuns. Up top there’s only the single seat, but it’s built wide for all size asses, so I climb on and give Ryan my hand. He settles between my thighs with his hands on the wheel. I reach down to turn the key, and he gives the horn a couple of beeps. He looks up and grins toothily.
A lawn mower’s a slow ride, but he seems to like it. His back rumbles as he leans against me, and I realize he’s making motor sounds to accompany the tractor noise. He’s like a little kid. We chug past the Contemplation Garden and pick up the Long Field, then stop at a stand of immature firs. Some of the trees have gone brown on top, so I stop the mower and grab a pair of loppers from under the seat. I top one tree, then scoop up the clipped bough and examine it for signs of a borer. I show Ryan the brown hole. I cut a little more from the tree, going down to the green, and this time it looks like we got the bastard. I point—see? No hole—and Ryan nods. At the next tree I hand him the loppers and lift him high so he can reach, and moving from tree to tree, we clip off the brown. He scampers around, checking that the stems are clean of bores, and when we get back on the mower I let him steer.
An hour passes. Alain arrives and discharges a covey of nuns, and a little while later a FedEx truck arrives. Ryan and I share a bottle of water from the toolbox, then finish the open land and turn to a grove of birches. The trees here are tight together, and after he takes one a little close, I resume steering. I’ve just about decided to call it a day when we emerge from the grove, and there’s the ha-ha.
I hadn’t planned on taking him over the ha-ha. Threading the mower among the birches, I was wondering what was on TV and thinking of what I’d make for supper. But when the green slope rises like a wave before us, with four little pearly clouds above, I desperately want to give him the full ride. I want him to feel how we seem to lift, while the cars pass earthbound down below, and I put an arm tight around his tummy.
We trundle forward, Ryan making his putt-putt noises, and when we get to the berm, the mower tips. A moment later, the trench falls open at our side. Ryan lets out a cry and reaches for the wheel, but I pull his hands away. It’s okay, it’s okay! He struggles, and I hold him tighter; if you fall down to where the blades are, that’s some real danger, but up here with me he’ll be perfectly fine. And I want him to feel the fun, so I let out a whoop. This is better than any go-cart; it’s euphoria, it’s weightlessness, and if Ryan relaxed, he’d feel it, too. Look up at the sky, I want to say! This is wild! But he’s clutching at me, grabbing my shirt, and now there’s a sting as he rips out some chest hairs. I’ve got my arm around him, and I give him a nuzzle to say easy, but he grips an overall strap, then he’s kicking, thrashing in all directions as I steer. We pass the high point, and I turn down. Shh! It’s over now! I expect him to calm down, but he knocks my leg aside in his struggle. “Howie!” he shrieks, and breaks my hold. Then he steps back and falls from the mower.
It’s the incline that saves him. In slipping from the vehicle, he tumbles away, out of the path of the blades. And of course, I cut the motor immediately. I leap down to where he’s landed and place a trembling hand on the mound of his small chest, and though he’s had the wind knocked out of him, I think he’s okay. I still think that little journey is the best I can show him, but my heart pounds as he gasps for breath. Then Sister Amity’s barreling across the lawn, her skirt held high. She bellows my name and charges toward me, and I get up, still light-headed. I spread my hands to explain no one’s injured, but as soon as she gets to me she slaps me hard across the face. She utters a choked, throaty noise, like crushed gravel.
Sister Amity’s strong, and the slap hurts. I step back and see her bared teeth and the blur of sweat on her lip. For a moment she can’t speak, and she glances at Ryan, now watching with a stunned expression, but she glares at me. “What on—Howard!” she gasps. I bet she’d love to hit me some more. But Ryan’s fine! It was all just a bit of fun, and I’m shrugging my shoulders when she explodes. “With a child! Who could be hurt! And we’ve been through this over and over, Howard! Our grounds are not your . . . Not your playground. You work here, you understand? You work for me. And you’ll do as you’re told, or you’ll—Irregardless of what happened to you overseas, Howard, nothing excuses such plain stupidity—stupid, foolish behavior, which I’ve told you again and again and . . .”
She breaks off, tears glittering on her short lashes, and grips the hems of her sleeves in her fingertips. Again I have the sense she’d do better with her fists, but she goes on more primly. “As your supervisor I’m telling you I make the rules here. You can’t seem to credit that.” She quivers defiantly and turns to Ryan. “Little boy, are you hurt?”
Ryan shakes his head. He sits up, eyeing her warily, as if no one ever told him there were nuns here; and maybe no one did. I put a hand on his shoulder and speak as carefully as I can.
“Hai-wen,” I tell Sister Amity. “Hai, Hai. Hai-Wen.” It’s as close as I’ve gotten to saying his name. Then I lose that, too.
Sister Amity ignores me. “That was a very irresponsible thing for Mr. Kapostash to do,” she announces. “He ought to be ashamed of himself. Where are your parents?” Ryan shrugs, and Sister Amity stares beadily at him. She wipes her face with her sleeve, then smiles unconvincingly. “Would you like me to contact your mother and dad?”
Ryan mumbles something, but I turn away. I’m feeling much less frisky, and I stare at the green ha-ha, where the four pearl clouds have now dispersed. Sister Amity says, “Hmm?” and when I turn back, Ryan’s put on his skeptical face.
At last he looks at his shoes. “I liked it,” he says, speaking barely above a whisper. Sister Amity leans closer, and he raises his voice. “That was fun!” he announces defiantly. Without a glance at me, he throws back his head and cries, “It was bad! We went right to the edge! It was cool! Ha! Ha! Ha!” He takes off the Indians cap and tosses it in the air, and it lands behind us.
Sister Amity says, “Howard, who is this child?” She seems to expect an answer, so I pat my heart. She gives an irritated look. “Put the mower away, please.” I climb aboard, but as Ryan steps forward, Sister Amity grabs his arm. “I don’t want you on that machine.” Ryan’s eyes bug out, but Sister Amity says, “Howard, we’ll meet you there,” and I can only drive off. I put the mower away, then close the big doors and stand by the shed. I’m holding the stack of our clothing in my hands, and I can see the two figures crossing the mown field. Sister Amity tromps along in her customary athletic fashion, but when she offers a hand, Ryan pretends not to notice. A moment later the hand is withdrawn.
When they’re not far away, I step forward to meet them. She’s right, of course. He’s a little child and could so easily get hurt. I drop to my knees and put out my arms, and the square pile of clothing topples to the grass. Ryan continues toward me, step by step, but when he reaches me, he doesn’t hug me. He slaps my palm, then pulls the choir robe on over his head. I gather my own clothes, and we head back to the truck, three individuals spaced out in a small line.
“Howard—” Sister Amity lowers her voice. “Howard, Ryan and I have had a little discussion. I think it’s fine what you’re doing. Very kind and very—” She breaks off meaningfully. “Nevertheless, I’m truly provoked by what occurred here today, and you put all of us—why, what kind of lawsuit would this institution face if someone should get hurt? So I need to reach a decision, and I think you, too, should consider the example you set. Especially for a child.” She shoots me a hard look, but now I’ve had it. She’s got some nerve, treating me like a schoolboy.
It is fine what I’m doing—it’s fine and admirable and more generous than anything I’ve attempted before—and the wiry bitch slapped me! I give a pfft of contempt at her lack of contrition and remember how much fun we were having. How Ryan helped with the borers and steered the mower, how he asked to come and see where I work. Why, without Sister Amity’s interference, we’d have put this behind us already!
“Come and see me once you’ve given it some thought,” Sister Amity says. “I think at least a week. I’m sorry to say it, Howard, but if you can’t grant me my authority, then perhaps this isn’t the convent for you. You may simply need to find another place to work. But let’s communicate once we’ve both cooled down, and we’ll decide if, and under what circumstances, you may return.”
This I don’t dignify with acknowledgment. I step off, putting Ryan between us, and the three of us march in silence to the truck. Sister Amity opens the passenger door and gives Ryan one of her awful grins, and he picks up the ugly kid’s drumsticks and beats furiously on the dashboard. She and I exchange last glares before I pull out.
27
BEYOND THE CONVENT GROUNDS, traffic is slow, as if every car and truck’s united in a private underwater ballet. I’ve no patience for this, and I join in like an interloper, switching lanes, tapping the horn. If I could shout curses I’d do that. Jerking my way through the clogged intersections, I replay my grievances. Getting slapped; getting slapped in front of Ryan; having my livelihood toyed with and my fitness questioned and a simple tumble blown out of proportion. I think it will be a cold day in hell before I return for Sister Amity’s verdict, and I give the finger to a teenager in an Audi. Then there’s a crack as Ryan snaps one of Little Uglyfuck’s drumsticks. He mumbles, “Sorry.”
I stop at a red light. Ryan’s picking splinters from the pleats of the choir robe, but he looks up, and I do my best: a miserable smile. He stares back noncommittally. Now that it’s just us, his team spirit’s evaporated, and as I recognize that old defensiveness I’m filled with remorse. Bloodshed, broken bones, a mangled hand, a severed foot: these are the disasters I haven’t wanted to consider. If I could get out of this traffic I’d pull to the curb and apologize for having frightened him, and I’d tell him I’m sorry things turned out as they did. I wish he’d enjoyed it. We seem now to have reached the limit of what I can communicate with nods and gestures, and to explain myself, I’d need to discuss that day in the jungle. How it had been wet, but the sky was for once blue. The patches of sunlight on the path where we walked seemed just like the light in the woodlands of my childhood, and for the first time I recognized the planet as my own. Then the LT saw something blooming and stepped to his right. To communicate anything to Ryan I’d have to explain how I long for those last minutes when life was good. Sometimes I imagine I was thinking of Sylvia—how she’d have loved the flowers and the foliage and the light—and sometimes I think I only think I was thinking of her, that this is a detail I’ve added in the years since. It doesn’t matter. What I’d say to Ryan is that life exists in moments of floating, of rising high to find joy and glory, not living earthbound. He sees me mowing lawns and frying eggs and shuttling my truck around, but there’s more I know, and I’d tell all if I only could. I’d tell him that behind the brittle scenery of everyday life lie other existences in which our outward lives are strangely secondary. Maybe I could explain why his mother likes drugs. And the ha-ha is my discovery, a modest gateway to something bright. It’s a compression of that day in the jungle, and of my whole eighteen years of freedom before, into one or two moments of breathless grace.
I turn down my street, and the leaves make camouflage patterns on the vehicle. I’d like to slip in and take to my bed, but Nit and Nat are standing in our driveway. One of them aims a squirt of liquid at the barbecue grill, and when flames leap up they jump back in terror. Dummies. As we crunch over the gravel they flash sparkling grins, and Nat calls, “Heyyy! The guest of honor at last. Where you been, man?” At the entrance to the old stable building stands a wooden table with a platter of chicken, a glass pitcher of barbecue sauce, and a house-painting brush for applying the sauce. They’ve assembled a dinner to celebrate the end of school, and Nit lifts a frothy drink in salute.
The screen door slams, and Ryan edges behind the boys. “What’s Ms. Monetti doing here?” I look, and the pretty elementary school teacher is crossing the lawn. She’s changed from the dress she had on in school to nice jeans, a cream-colored top, and sandals—a little yuppieish for Nit and Nat, but what do I know? We watch her set a salad bowl on the picnic table, then she waves gaily. I glance at Nat, who has the sense to blush.
“She wasn’t doing anything. Year’s ending for her, too,” he says, then claps me on the shoulder. “Howard, my man, let me get you a piña colada.” He picks up a pair of cooking tongs and gives Ryan’s nose a pinch—“Wonk, wonk!”—then hands Nit the tongs. “Watch the grill, okay, Stevie? Don’t squirt no more of that shit on it, neither.” We watch him saunter to the picnic table and say something to Ryan’s teacher, then they go into the house together. Nit shrugs at Ryan.
I stare at the graying coals until the screen door opens again and Ruby bursts out, followed by Ms. Monetti with a tall glass and a short one on a tray. She offers me the tall glass, garnished with a hunk of pineap
ple and a cherry on a toothpick. I’m not feeling sociable, but I take a sip.
“Call me Logan,” Ms. Monetti says with a dimpled smile. “You’re sweet to include me.” If she remembers the look we exchanged at the school, she’s putting it behind us. She stoops and offers Ryan the half-sized cocktail, and he stares skeptically, as if it’s a pop quiz. “Go on. I left the rum out of yours, silly guy. Nice choir getup.” She rubs his ear with her thumb, then glances at me, and I nod at my glass. “My specialty,” she says. “Just about the one thing I make. Don’t I envy your household, though, with all these cooks.” You should come for breakfast sometime, I think.
Nat reappears and fusses noisily with the grill. Ms. Monetti saunters back to the kitchen. I don’t offer to pitch in. I take my piña colada and drift around the back yard, looking at the catalpa bark and the caulk on the stable windows as if I’ve never seen them before. For once, I’ve no complaint with the housemates, and even Ms. Monetti’s presence is nothing to be disturbed about. But the afternoon’s shaken me more than I suspected. I find a stick and pick a mud wasp’s nest from a window frame, and when Nat starts singing in the driveway my problems seem mine in isolation. My lack of speech can render me not merely unheard, but unseen also, and as Laurel ribs Nat about his un-Texas barbecue sauce, as Nat sings and Ms. Monetti passes around drinks, as Nit asks Ryan if he paid for that blue robe, I feel how fluidly life continues without me. During dinner, I stew about Sister Amity, but the talk is of their world, beyond my reach. Ms. Monetti announces that for her everything’s different this time of year, then she adds confidentially, “I take off my spectacles and let my hair way, way down.” Perhaps this is more revealing than she intended, because she changes the subject. “So, Ryan, any summer plans?”