by Philip Roth
Faunia was sitting up on the grass now, downing the last of her drink while one of the boys—the youngest, thinnest, most boyish-looking of them, incongruously bearded at just the chin and wearing, with his brown uniform, a red-checkered bandanna and what looked like high-heeled cowboy boots—was collecting all the debris from lunch and stuffing it into a trash sack, and the other three were standing apart, out in the sunshine, each smoking a last cigarette before returning to work.
Faunia was alone. And quiet now. Sitting there gravely with the empty soda can and thinking what? About the two years of waitressing down in Florida when she was sixteen and seventeen, about the retired businessmen who used to come in for lunch without their wives and ask her if she wouldn’t like to live in a nice apartment and have nice clothes and a nice new Pinto and charge accounts at all the Bal Harbour clothing shops and at the jewelry store and at the beauty parlor and in exchange do nothing more than be a girlfriend a few nights a week and every once in a while on weekends? Not one, two, three, but four such proposals in just the first year. And then the proposition from the Cuban. She clears a hundred bucks a john and no taxes. For a skinny blonde with big tits, a tall, good-looking kid like her with hustle and ambition and guts, got up in a miniskirt, a halter, and boots, a thousand bucks a night would be nothing. A year, two, and, if by then she wants to, she retires—she can afford to. “And you didn’t do it?” Coleman asked. “No. Uh-uh. But don’t think I didn’t think about it,” she said. “All the restaurant shit, those creepy people, the crazy cooks, a menu I can’t read, orders I can’t write, keeping everything straight in my head—it was no picnic. But if I can’t read, I can count. I can add. I can subtract. I can’t read words but I know who Shakespeare is. I know who Einstein is. I know who won the Civil War. I’m not stupid. I’m just an illiterate. A fine distinction but there it is. Numbers are something else. Numbers, believe me, I know. Don’t think I didn’t think it might not be a bad idea at all.” But Coleman needed no such instruction. Not only did he think that at seventeen she thought being a hooker might be a good idea, he thought that it was an idea that she had more than simply entertained.
“What do you do with the kid who can’t read?” Lisa had asked him in her despair. “It’s the key to everything, so you have to do something, but doing it is burning me out. Your second year is supposed to be better. Your third year better than that. And this is my fourth.” “And it isn’t better?” he asked. “It’s hard. It’s so hard. Each year is harder. But if one-on-one tutoring doesn’t work, what do you do?” Well, what he did with the kid who couldn’t read was to make her his mistress. What Farley did was to make her his punching bag. What the Cuban did was to make her his whore, or one among them—so Coleman believed more often than not. And for how long his whore? Is that what Faunia was thinking about before getting herself up to head back to North Hall to finish cleaning the corridors? Was she thinking about how long it had all gone on? The mother, the stepfather, the escape from the stepfather, the places in the South, the places in the North, the men, the beatings, the jobs, the marriage, the farm, the herd, the bankruptcy, the children, the two dead children. No wonder half an hour in the sun sharing a pizza with the boys is paradise to her.
“This is my friend Coleman, Faunia. He’s just going to watch.”
“Okay,” Faunia says. She is wearing a green corduroy jumper, fresh white stockings, and shiny black shoes, and is not nearly as jaunty as Carmen—composed, well mannered, permanently a little deflated, a pretty middle-class Caucasian child with long blond hair in butterfly barrettes at either side and, unlike Carmen, showing no interest in him, no curiosity about him, once he has been introduced. “Hello,” she mumbles meekly, and goes obediently back to moving the magnetic letters around, pushing together the w’s, the t’s, the n’s the s’s, and, on another part of the blackboard, grouping together all the vowels.
“Use two hands,” Lisa tells her, and she does what she is told.
“Which are these?” Lisa asks.
And Faunia reads them. Gets all the letters right.
“Let’s take something she knows,” Lisa says to her father. “Make ‘not,’ Faunia.”
Faunia does it. Faunia makes “not.”
“Good work. Now something she doesn’t know. Make ‘got.’?”
Looks long and hard at the letters, but nothing happens. Faunia makes nothing. Does nothing. Waits. Waits for the next thing to happen. Been waiting for the next thing to happen all her life. It always does.
“I want you to change the first part, Miss Faunia. Come on. You know this. What’s the first part of ‘got’?”
“G.” She moves away the n and, at the start of the word, substitutes g.
“Good work. Now make it say ‘pot.’”
She does it. Pot.
“Good. Now read it with your finger.”
Faunia moves her finger beneath each letter while distinctly pronouncing its sound. “Puh—ah—tuh.”
“She’s quick,” Coleman says.
“Yes, but that’s supposed to be quick.”
There are three other children with three other Reading Recovery teachers in other parts of the large room, and so all around him Coleman can hear little voices reading aloud, rising and falling in the same childish pattern regardless of the content, and he hears the other teachers saying, “You know that—u, like ‘umbrella’—u, u—” and “You know that—ing, you know ing—” and “You know I—good, good work,” and when he looks around, he sees that all the other children being taught are Faunia as well. There are alphabet charts everywhere, with pictures of objects to illustrate each of the letters, and there are plastic letters everywhere to pick up in your hand, differently colored so as to help you phonetically form the words a letter at a time, and piled everywhere are simple books that tell the simplest stories: “. . . on Friday we went to the beach. Saturday we went to the airport.” “‘Father Bear, is Baby Bear with you?’ ‘No,’ said Father Bear.” “In the morning a dog barked at Sara. She was frightened. ‘Try to be a brave girl, Sara,’ said Mom.” In addition to all these books and all these stories and all these Saras and all these dogs and all these bears and all these beaches, there are four teachers, four teachers all for Faunia, and they still can’t teach her to read at her level.
“She’s in first grade,” Lisa is telling her father. “We’re hoping that if we all four work together with her all day long every day, by the end of the year we can get her up to speed. But it’s hard to get her motivated on her own.”
“Pretty little girl,” Coleman says.
“Yes, you find her pretty? You like that type? Is that your type, Dad, the pretty, slow-at-reading type with the long blond hair and the broken will and the butterfly barrettes?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to. I’ve been watching you with her,” and she points around the room to where all four Faunias sit quietly before the board, forming and reforming out of the colorful plastic letters the words “pot” and “got” and “not.” “The first time she spelled out ‘pot’ with her finger, you couldn’t take your eyes off the kid. Well, if that turns you on, you should have been here back in September. Back in September she misspelled her first name and her second name. Fresh from kindergarten and the only word on the word list she could recognize was ‘not’ She didn’t understand that print contains a message. She didn’t know left page before right page. She didn’t know ‘Goldilocks and the Three Bears.’ ‘Do you know “Goldilocks and the Three Bears,” Faunia?’ ‘No.’ Which means that her kindergarten experience—because that’s what they get there, fairy tales, nursery rhymes—wasn’t very good. Today she knows ‘Little Red Riding Hood,’ but then? Forget it. Oh, if you’d met Faunia last September, fresh from failing at kindergarten, I guarantee you, Dad, she would have driven you wild.”
What do you do with the kid who can’t read? The kid who is sucking somebody off in a pickup in her driveway while, upstairs, in a tiny apartment
over a garage, her small children are supposedly asleep with a space heater burning—two untended children, a kerosene fire, and she’s with this guy in his truck. The kid who has been a runaway since age fourteen, on the lam from her inexplicable life for her entire life. The kid who marries, for the stability and the safeguard he’ll provide, a combat-crazed veteran who goes for your throat if you so much as turn in your sleep. The kid who is false, the kid who hides herself and lies, the kid who can’t read who can read, who pretends she can’t read, takes willingly upon herself this crippling shortcoming all the better to impersonate a member of a subspecies to which she does not belong and need not belong but to which, for every wrong reason, she wants him to believe she belongs. Wants herself to believe she belongs. The kid whose existence became a hallucination at seven and a catastrophe at fourteen and a disaster after that, whose vocation is to be neither a waitress nor a hooker nor a farmer nor a janitor but forever the stepdaughter to a lascivious stepfather and the undefended offspring of a self-obsessed mother, the kid who mistrusts everyone, sees the con in everyone, and yet is protected against nothing, whose capacity to hold on, unintimidated, is enormous and yet whose purchase on life is minute, misfortune’s favorite embattled child, the kid to whom everything loathsome that can happen has happened and whose luck shows no sign of changing and yet who excites and arouses him like nobody since Steena, not the most but, morally speaking, the least repellent person he knows, the one to whom he feels drawn because of having been aimed for so long in the opposite direction—because of all he has missed by going in the opposite direction—and because the underlying feeling of rightness that controlled him formerly is exactly what is propelling him now, the unlikely intimate with whom he shares no less a spiritual than a physical union, who is anything but a plaything upon whom he flings his body twice a week in order to sustain his animal nature, who is more to him like a comrade-in-arms than anyone else on earth.
And what do you do with such a kid? You find a pay phone as fast as you can and rectify your idiotic mistake.
He thinks she is thinking about how long it has all gone on, the mother, the stepfather, the escape from the stepfather, the places in the South, the places in the North, the men, the beatings, the jobs, the marriage, the farm, the herd, the bankruptcy, the children, the dead children . . . and maybe she is. Maybe she is even if, alone now on the grass while the boys are smoking and cleaning up from lunch, she thinks she is thinking about crows. She thinks about crows a lot of the time. They’re everywhere. They roost in the woods not far from the bed where she sleeps, they’re in the pasture when she’s out there moving the fence for the cows, and today they are cawing all over the campus, and so instead of thinking of what she is thinking the way Coleman thinks she is thinking it, she is thinking about the crow that used to hang around the store in Seeley Falls when, after the fire and before moving to the farm, she took the furnished room up there to try to hide from Farley, the crow that hung around the parking lot between the post office and the store, the crow that somebody had made into a pet because it was abandoned or because its mother was killed—she never knew what orphaned it. And now it had been abandoned for a second time and had taken to hanging out in that parking lot, where most everybody came and went during the course of the day. This crow created many problems in Seeley Falls because it started dive-bombing people coming into the post office, going after the barrettes in the little girls’ hair and so on—as crows will because it is their nature to collect shiny things, bits of glass and stuff like that—and so the postmistress, in consultation with a few interested townsfolk, decided to take it to the Audubon Society, where it was caged and only sometimes let out to fly; it couldn’t be set free because in the wild a bird that likes to hang around a parking lot simply will not fit in. That crow’s voice. She remembers it at all hours, day or night, awake, sleeping, or insomniac. Had a strange voice. Not like the voice of other crows probably because it hadn’t been raised with other crows. Right after the fire, I used to go and visit that crow at the Audubon Society, and whenever the visit was over and I would turn to leave, it would call me back with this voice. Yes, in a cage, but being what it was, it was better off that way. There were other birds in cages that people had brought in because they couldn’t live in the wild anymore. There were a couple of little owls. Speckled things that looked like toys. I used to visit the owls too. And a pigeon hawk with a piercing cry. Nice birds. And then I moved down here and, alone as I was, am, I have gotten to know crows like never before. And them me. Their sense of humor. Is that what it is? Maybe it’s not a sense of humor. But to me it looks like it is. The way they walk around. The way they tuck their heads. The way they scream at me if I don’t have bread for them. Faunia, go get the bread. They strut. They boss the other birds around. On Saturday, after having the conversation with the redtail hawk down by Cumberland, I came home and I heard these two crows back in the orchards. I knew something was up. This alarming crow-calling. Sure enough, saw three birds—two crows crowing and cawing off this hawk. Maybe the very one I’d been talking to a few minutes before. Chasing it. Obviously the redtail was up to no good. But taking on a hawk? Is that a good idea? It wins them points with the other crows, but I don’t know if I would do that. Can even two of them take on a hawk? Aggressive bastards. Mostly hostile. Good for them. Saw a photo once—a crow going right up to an eagle and barking at it. The eagle doesn’t give a shit. Doesn’t even see him. But the crow is something. The way it flies. They’re not as pretty as ravens when ravens fly and do those wonderful, beautiful acrobatics. They’ve got a big fuselage to get off the ground and yet they don’t need a running start necessarily. A few steps will do it. I’ve watched that. It’s more just a huge effort. They make this huge effort and they’re up. When I used to take the kids to eat at Friendly’s. Four years ago. There were millions of them. The Friendly’s on East Main Street in Blackwell. In the late afternoon. Before dark. Millions of them in the parking lot. The crow convention at Friendly’s. What is it with crows and parking lots? What is that all about? We’ll never know what that’s about or anything else. Other birds are kind of dull next to crows. Yes, bluejays have that terrific bounce. The trampoline walk. That’s good. But crows can do the bounce and the chesty thrust. Most impressive. Turning their heads from left to right, casing the joint. Oh, they’re hot shit. They’re the coolest. The caw. The noisy caw. Listen. Just listen. Oh, I love it. Staying in touch like that. The frantic call that means danger. I love that. Rush outside then. It can be 5 A.M., I don’t care. The frantic call, rush outside, and you can expect the show to begin any minute. The other calls, I can’t say I know what they mean. Maybe nothing. Sometimes it’s a quick call. Sometimes it’s throaty. Don’t want to confuse it with the raven’s call. Crows mate with crows and ravens with ravens. It’s wonderful that they never get confused. Not to my knowledge anyway. Everybody who says they’re ugly scavenger birds—and most everybody does—is nuts. I think they’re beautiful. Oh, yes. Very beautiful. Their sleekness. Their shades. It’s so so black in there you can see purple in there. Their heads. At the start of the beak that sprout of hairs, that mustache thing, those hairs coming forward from the feathers. Probably has a name. But the name doesn’t matter. Never does. All that matters is that it’s there. And nobody knows why. It’s like everything else—just there. All their eyes are black. Everybody gets black eyes. Black claws. What is it like flying? Ravens will do the soaring, crows just seem to go where they’re going. They don’t just fly around as far as I can tell. Let the ravens soar. Let the ravens do the soaring. Let the ravens pile up the miles and break the records and get the prizes. The crows have to get from one place to another. They hear that I have bread, so they’re here. They hear somebody down the road two miles has bread, so they’re there. When I throw their bread out to them, there’ll always be one who is the guard and another you can hear off in the distance, and they’re signaling back and forth just to let everybody know what’s going on. It’s hard
to believe in everybody’s looking out for everybody else, but that’s what it looks like. There’s a wonderful story I never forgot that a friend of mine told me when I was a kid that her mother told her. There were these crows who were so smart that they had figured out how to take these nuts they had that they couldn’t break open out to the highway, and they would watch the lights, the traffic lights, and they would know when the cars would take off—they were that intelligent that they knew what was going on with the lights—and they would place the nuts right in front of the tires so they’d be cracked open and as soon as the light would change they’d move down. I believed that back then. Believed everything back then. And now that I know them and nobody else, I believe it again. Me and the crows. That’s the ticket. Stick to the crows and you’ve got it made. I hear they preen each other’s feathers. Never seen that. Seen them close together and wonder what they’re doing. But never seen them actually doing it. Don’t even see them preen their own. But then, I’m next door to the roost, not in it. Wish I were. Would have preferred to be one. Oh, yes, absolutely. No two ways about that. Much prefer to be a crow. They don’t have to worry about moving to get away from anybody or anything. They just move. They don’t have to pack anything. They just go. When they get smashed by something, that’s it, it’s over. Tear a wing, it’s over. Break a foot, it’s over. A much better way than this. Maybe I’ll come back as one. What was I before that I came back as this? I was a crow! Yes! I was one! And I said, “God, I wish I was that big-titted girl down there,” and I got my wish, and now, Christ, do I want to go back to my crow status. My status crow. Good name for a crow. Status. Good name for anything black and big. Goes with the strut. Status. I noticed everything as a kid. I loved birds. Always stuck on crows and hawks and owls. Still see the owls at night, driving home from Coleman’s place. I can’t help it if I get out of the car to talk to them. Shouldn’t. Should drive straight on home before that bastard kills me. What do crows think when they hear the other birds singing? They think it’s stupid. It is. Cawing. That’s the only thing. It doesn’t look good for a bird that struts to sing a sweet little song. No, caw your head off. That’s the fucking ticket—cawing your head off and frightened of nothing and in there eating everything that’s dead. Gotta get a lot of road kill in a day if you want to fly like that. Don’t bother to drag it off but eat it right on the road. Wait until the last minute when a car is coming, and then they get up and go but not so far that they can’t hop right back and dig back in soon as it’s passed. Eating in the middle of the road. Wonder what happens when the meat goes bad. Maybe it doesn’t for them. Maybe that’s what it means to be a scavenger. Them and the turkey vultures—that’s their job. They take care of all of those things out in the woods and out in the road that we don’t want anything to do with. No crow goes hungry in all this world. Never without a meal. If it rots, you don’t see the crow run away. If there’s death, they’re there. Something’s dead, they come by and get it. I like that. I like that a lot. Eat that raccoon no matter what. Wait for the truck to come crack open the spine and then go back in there and suck up all the good stuff it takes to lift that beautiful black carcass off the ground. Sure, they have their strange behavior. Like anything else. I’ve seen them up in those trees, gathered all together, talking all together, and something’s going on. But what it is I’ll never know. There’s some powerful arrangement there. But I haven’t the faintest idea whether they know what it is themselves. It could be as meaningless as everything else. I’ll bet it isn’t, though, and that it makes a million fucking times more sense than any fucking thing down here. Or doesn’t it? Is it just a lot of stuff that looks like something else but isn’t? Maybe it’s all just a genetic tic. Or tock. Imagine if the crows were in charge. Would it be the same shit all over again? The thing about them is that they’re all practicality. In their flight. In their talk. Even in their color. All that blackness. Nothing but blackness. Maybe I was one and maybe I wasn’t. I think I sometimes believe that I already am one. Yes, been believing that on and off for months now. Why not? There are men who are locked up in women’s bodies and women who are locked up in men’s bodies, so why can’t I be a crow locked up in this body? Yeah, and where is the doctor who is going to do what they do to let me out? Where do I go to get the surgery that will let me be what I am? Who do I talk to? Where do I go and what do I do and how the fuck do I get out?