Game two: Annie 97! Gus 109
Gus switched to bowling left-handed, and I filed my thumbnail down to the skin. I told him a bunch about David leaving and how I felt like a real asshole for not acting as sad as my mother thought I should have. David and Gus have met only a few times. Most recently, we all hung out last month when Gus’s dad hosted a little welcome-home-Gus barbecue at his house. I could tell that Gus liked David alright after the soldier held his own in a Nietzsche conversation and said that cricket is a completely underrated sport. Cricket is something Gus pretends he picked up in the Caribbean.
“So you sent him Beanie Babies and Play-Doh?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Oh, Annie. Sweet, sweet Annie.” Gus shook his head slowly back and forth.
“What? I think it’s a good idea.”
“Iraqi kids don’t need Play-Doh. Their backyard is a sandbox.”
“But, but Play-Doh is gooey and fun. All my students like it.”
“Yeah, and it also looks and smells like magic bread batter.”
“So?”
“So. Those Iraqi kids might try and eat it.”
It was a stupid argument. There’s no way of proving whether or not, if introduced to Play-Doh,15 Iraqi children are going to consume it. But it is nontoxic. Kids eat it all the time. Eating Play-Doh is just a universal impulse of children. But for my whole drive home I couldn’t stop thinking about fretting Iraqi parents rocking their children to sleep, concerned about bombs, raids, money for shoes, and a strange bout of neon pink vomit.
I still haven’t told my class where David is. Caitlin hasn’t asked any more questions, and everyone is all wrapped up in making new friends and playing on the new plastic playground unit that was installed over the summer. We’re starting a science unit about space next week, which I love. I love the giggles when I say “burning balls of gas.” I love flipping the light switch on and off and on and off while trying to explain the speed of light and the concept of a light-year. I love discussing infinity and teaching the kids to draw the symbol for it. Someone always wants to talk about aliens. And I always ask if anyone has ever encountered one before. And some little liar or show-off always has a story. I let him tell it for as long as he can manage, before everything just gets too absurd to be remotely believable. The alien eats the kid’s younger sister and spits her back out as a boy. A whole swarm of aliens zap away the house and ask for maple syrup. How old are we when our imaginations sour? I say this like I’m some old hag teacher who’s been at it for aeons. But really, it simply doesn’t take long to notice patterns in children. Or grown-up humans, for that matter.
On Tuesdays I drive one of my students, Max Schaffer, to his violin lesson after school. It’s just a few miles away, but his parents work and can’t do it. We had to sign all these official school district papers to make it legal, and the Schaffers have decided to pay me (bimonthly) in gift certificates to upscale restaurants. This is only the second week, but I’m taking my parents out to some oyster bar this evening. The Schaffers said that teachers probably can’t afford fine dining. Naturally, they are correct. I only wish David was around to be my date, because he’s really good at faking knowledge of expensive wines.
This Tuesday as we drove to his lesson Max asked me if I had any books on teleportation.
“Teleportation?” I said.
“Yeah. You know, Miss Harper—the process of moving stuff from one place to another by taking it apart and making it into a code, then using that code to put it back together somewhere else.” He adjusted the shoulder strap of his seat belt from rubbing him in the face.
“No, Max. I don’t think I have any. But I could probably help you find some, or at least some articles on the Internet.”
“Really? Because that would be totally awesome, Miss Harper.”
“Okay then. We’ll do that sometime.”
Max started banging his knees excitedly against the violin case between his legs. “You know, Miss Harper, they’ve already successfully teleported particles of some atoms.”
“Wow, Max. You seem to know a lot about science.”
“Yeah. It’s pretty much my favorite subject. You know, if teleportation worked for humans, they could bring your boyfriend back every night then teleport him back to Iraq in the morning.” I almost ran a red light whipping my head over to face Max and then leaving it there for too long. The violin still bouncing back and forth between his knees.
“What? How did you . . . ?”
“My mom told me.”
“I barely know your mom. How did she . . . ?”
“I don’t know. Maybe she teleported into the future and found out somehow?” Max smiled, picked his shoulders up to touch his ears. I sighed.
“Then maybe you should ask your mom for books on teleportation.”
“Nah. I was just kidding. She just always knows things. And gives me lame books for like, music stuff and The Canterbury Tales for Kids.”
I dropped Max off at his lesson and went home. I purchased The Canterbury Tales for Kids online and Teleportation: The Impossible Leap. I read Chaucer years ago in high school. I remember hating it because Gus loved it so much and took to speaking in Middle English for weeks. I can’t have my students knowing more than me!
Subject: Who put the bag in Baghdad?
Date: Monday, October 15, 2003 21:23:06
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
hey there A-star. how are things back in T-town? i must say, the baghdad air actually beats the tacoma aroma. even on a hot day, a deep breath isn’t as rank as that nasty pulp mill scent. I can’t believe I’ve been here a month already. the guys we’re replacing are leaving in a few days and then I guess all the real work starts. how are the booger-pickers? giving their hottie teacher any trouble yet? oh, before I forget, you know that digital camera I bought before I left, well, I forgot to get a flash card for it and I can only hold like thirty pictures at a time, and it’s sometimes days before I can get to a computer and download pics. could you maybe buy me one and send it? it’s a Cannon PowerShot 8.0. just tell that to someone at Best Buy and they can show you the right card to get. I think I might want at least 64MB. I’d buy it myself online, but I’m not sure exactly what I need, so if you could do it that would be awesome. and I’ll pay you back with four hundred sexual favors and a trip to Mexico when I get back. so yeah, things here are pretty good. I’m just now getting used to everything being loud all the time. the first few days we were all pretty jumpy, but now a big boom in the night hardly phases [sic] me. you just get used to it. like how I used to freak out at first when you’d twitch in your sleep like a puppy. now I never even wake up when it happens. Ahhhh, I miss your puppy twitches and faces. maybe I could adopt a puppy here to remind me of you! ha! there are plenty of mangy mutts wandering around. how is your mom doing? my parents have been writing me like every day. my mom tells me that everyone back home is always asking about me and praying for me and stuff. she’ll say, “yes, David. Gwen Robinson says she keeps you in her prayers.” I don’t even know who Gwen Robinson is!?! I can’t help but feel kind of bad given that she’s praying for me and all. she might be my sister’s old ballet teacher or something. Or maybe someone from church. oh and also, I wanted to tell you. this guy I work with Henderson, his wife and some of the other wives in our company have started this group thing where they get together and knit and talk about how their [sic] coping with us being gone. I know you don’t knit, babe, but maybe it’d be a good way to make friends and deal with it all. you know what I mean? Henderson’s wife is named Angela and her email is [email protected]. you should totally write her and hook up with them. I’ll tell Henderson to tell her you will. ah shit, I’ve been on this computer for too long and I need to write my parents and confirm my status as not dead before I let the next guy use the computer. I miss you, Annie! I’ll try to call in the next few days. I love you!
Later,
; David (that hot guy from your dreams)
I just read this e-mail, and now I feel pretty lousy. I haven’t prayed for David once. Prayer doesn’t exactly align with my quiet atheism, but in these circumstances maybe it’s worth a shot? Fucking Gwen Robinson has prayed for him. Probably more times than I manage to cuss daily outside school hours. AND I don’t want to join any knitting group either. Doesn’t David know I already have friends? Gus is back now. And there are a few friends from college who live in the area that I could hang out with more. What would I do with them? Sit around and talk about the State of the Union? How cheap a gallon of milk is at the on-base commissary? Our lovers can’t even benefit from snuggly warm knitted goods. They are in a desert! I guess I better e-mail her; David seems to think it’s a swell idea. Maybe it will make him feel better about leaving me here all alone. Perhaps it’s a way I can help him. I’ll e-mail Angie Spice tomorrow.
I just got back from the bathroom. Since David lived in a jail cell, mini-apartment before he left, he spent most nights over here. He’d wake up long before Teacher Annie, and I’d barely lift out of consciousness as he stealthily left for his five-thirty PT16 exercises on base. Sometimes I’d murmur at the sound of his dog tags clinking back around his neck. The jingling reminder that he first belongs to Someone Else. It’s worse than any alarm. But anyway, he’d always leave the bathroom so tidy for me. The seat never up. No splashes of water, licks of shaving cream, nor the coffee grinds of his beard. He’d place a hand towel gently by the sink, and best of all, he’d fold the corners of the toilet paper’s edge into a perfect little point. Just like they do in fancy hotels. And of course he did this the day he left, and even though I don’t like to admit it, I am a sort of a schmaltz-face. So I left it just that way.17 The neatly folded ass-wipe. Almost pointing to the toilet seat like a message from its careful creator. “I’m coming back here.”
So in honor of Gwen Robinson and her prayer chains, I’m going to try something prayerlike in bed tonight. Just for the fucking sake of it.
“Please keep First Lieutenant David Peterson safe tonight. Amen.”
Or
“I hereby send all the positive energy from my chakras to David Peterson’s heart so he can sleep soundly and wake with a clear mind.”
Or
“Think again, suicide bombers! Think of your children! Think of your mother!”
Or
“Bad health to George W.! Worse health to Dick Cheney!”
Or
“Be kind, sweet fate. Be fleeting, bad luck. Don’t be absurd, you nasty bitch circumstance.”
Or
“David, I wish you morning wood, and the privacy and time to tend to it.”
Or
“All we can do is spoon the air. Spoon the air. Big fat dripping spoons of air!”
3
If I exclude the following story, perhaps I can call my book Grace in His Absence.18
It was lunch time. I was simultaneously correcting spelling tests and eating leftover spaghetti. Just multitasking with my bad self. I do it all the time. Max Schaffer got 100 percent. Caitlin Robinson missed seven out of ten. I laughed out loud at her attempt at delicious. Dilishus. Phonetically, I guess that’s not too bad. I can fly through these tests pretty quickly. Some schools don’t use traditional spelling curriculum anymore, and I worry about that a little. Creative, touchy-feely spelling should not be encouraged. I cringe every time I drive by the Kwik N Kleen car wash. Caitlin Robinson just might pencil that down some day.
I don’t even remember what I was doing when it happened. I had my red pen and my fork in the same hand. Each resting in a different finger slot, traveling back and forth from mouth to paper to plate. I thought I was pretty deft at it. Like how hairstylists twirl scissors and combs in the same hand. I must have been flipping the pen over to the eraser side or trying to catch a defiant noodle from falling on a test. And I don’t even know if it was the fork or the pencil, but it gets me straight in the eye. I shout some crass profanity and I yelp. I yelp pretty darn loud. Like I’m a puppy with my tail smashed in a sliding glass door. It doesn’t bleed, but it hurts like you wouldn’t believe. My contact lens quickly assumes some advanced yoga pose and I pluck it out, bringing my napkin straight to my eye. Carrie, the teacher next door, comes busting in. She must have heard my cries.
“Annie, what the . . . ?”
“Shit, Carrie. I stabbed myself in the eye.”
“Oh, ick. That looks bad.”
“Fucking hurts,” I whimper.
“Watch your mouth, Annie. The warning bell just rang. I’ll call for a sub. You should really go home.” Carrie leaves. I start crying. It’s not a sob, but a modest, contained weep. I’m still weeping when the first kids start to trickle in, glistening from freeze tag and fall sunshine. Miss Harper, what’s wrong? Miss Harper, what happened? Look, Miss Harper’s crying. It’s hot. My eye is hot hot hott! The room is blurry, and the kids blend together in clumps of twos and threes as they shuffle chaotically to their seats. What happened? Why is she . . . I drop my head to my desk and close the wounded eye. The good eye focuses and unfocuses on Caitlin Robinson’s test below me. Dilishus. Dilishus. Pain swirls like noodles on a fork. I groan, but I don’t even know if it’s audible. Carrie’s back and I hear her announcing to the class that Mrs. Blake will be in for the rest of the day. I hear, Awww, Mrs. Blake. Miss Harper, are you okay? I think she’s going to puke. Why is she crying? And somewhere in all the noise—Carrie trying to hush my kids, noisy nylon jackets being yanked off, a pencil being sharpened, someone humming a Jay-Z song—I hear a small but pestilent voice, I bet her boyfriend was shot.
I stand up and go, leaving the tests, the fork, the pen, my dignity, and the remaining hunks of my spaghetti. Looking oh so dilishus.
From the teacher’s lounge, I call Gus to pick me up. All nine of the admin staff are fussing over me, bringing cooling creams in paper packets and those blue fake-ice pouches. Each of them has offered to drive me home. “Oh, Annie, even with one good eye, your peripheral vision will be all sorts of crazy.” But I don’t think I can handle it. Gus works for a linen service, swapping bags of bleached, pressed aprons and towels for soiled, nasty ones from restaurants and bars. Because he’s so charming and scrawny he gets free food everywhere he goes, and I’m pretty sure that’s why he took the job as his first employment back in the diverse USA. He’s eating sushi one minute and Ethiopian food the next. He drives a sweet van and maintains a flexible schedule conducive to philosophizing and taking power naps. He agrees to pick me up. With the blue ice to my eye, I wonder what David will say. I wonder if this is a story worthy of precious phone-call time or if I should simply type it out in an e-mail. If I should even tell him at all. Will it seem completely absurd compared to his stories of shrapnel in skulls and lower-body lacerations?19 But I don’t care. I just want him to be home when I get there. Maybe dumping fruit in the blender for smoothies. Or finding a nice animal program on On Demand cable for me to watch with one eye. He’d say, “Oh, Annie,” but not in the way my mom says it. He’d say it in a way that tells me that whether I stab myself with a fork or a pen or a gold-plated letter opener, it doesn’t really matter.
“Well now, matey. Hop in.” Gus’s van smells like bleach and Chinese food.
“Thanks for coming, Gus.”
“No problem, kiddo. I was around this area anyway. Mind if I make a stop at Pete’s Kitchen before I take you home?”
“No. But can you score me some gravy fries?” I ask, half meaning it. Defeated, I slump over to the window and press the closed lid of my busted eye against the cool glass.
“I’ll try.” We pull into the parking lot of the diner and Gus jumps out with a sack of laundry over his shoulder like some sort of sanitation Santa Claus. He turns around and motions for me to roll my window down. I moan and do it anyway. “Hey, look in the glove box, Annie. I think there might be something in there you could use.” He turns and runs into the building.
I rummage through
papers, a spilling bag of sunflower seeds, Ovid’s Metamorphosis, a box of condoms (gross!), and then I fi nd it. A black felt eye patch, the cheap, costumey kind with the elastic stapled on. I laugh for a moment and put it right on. I tilt my head to see my reflection in the rear view mirror. The good eye even looks awful. Smeared makeup. Streaks of red like lines from my teacher’s pen. I make a tough, grimacing face that starts as forced but becomes real as the weeping resurrects in my lungs. A voice in my head says, Arrr. Poor wench! Her man be shot in a nasty skirmish! I just want to go home.
So I told David a Reader’s Digest Condensed Version of this story tonight. He called on a “chow break” (I hate it when he talks that way) and I gave him the quick, embarrassing facts. Scratched cornea. At least one week of a beige medical eye patch. I could tell that he felt really bad for me. Sympathy dripped from his voice that usually sounds so scratchy from what I imagine is sand or damage from shouting. “I’m sorry, babe. You taking any time off school to rest?”
“No, I’m fine. It’s really not that bad. I can still see and everything. Not like I have glaucoma or anything.”
“What’s glaucoma?”
“You don’t know what glaucoma is? Never mind, I’ll tell you later,” I said. “How are things with you and the U.S. Army?”
“The same. We might be getting some more phones in soon. And then I can call more. I think my great-aunt had glaucoma. Wait, maybe it was her cocker spaniel.”
“Don’t worry about it, hon. Just tell me a story or something. Did you get my package?”
Long Division Page 3