Long Division

by Jane Berentson

  “He is, actually,” I say and try to smile back. Who is this woman? Since when do the mothers of Max Schaffer’s peers get the hots for goofball Gus Warren? Did she see the paint stains on his pants? Does she know they do not match her designer handbag? I always feel a little guilty for the shock that I feel when women express romantic interest in Gus, but it is perplexing to me. It’s not the interest itself, but more the types of women it comes from. Really? I want to say. Are you sure? Are you sure pistachio ice cream is your favorite flavor? Are you sure you want to watch the Dune movie on a Saturday night?

  Max loves the cactus and thanks Gus and me in his adorably proper fashion. We tell him that he was awesome and that we are really glad we came. On the way home we stop by a strip mall so Gus can pick up a half gallon of eggnog and some whiskey. I drop him off at Gina’s because they have plans to build a gingerbread Taj Majal. It was Gina’s idea—she loves Eastern cultures—and I can tell Gus thinks it’s totally cool. And I agree. I thank him for coming to the recital with me and warn him not to eat too much frosting.

  At home I am bored. And I hate to say I’m bored, because whenever my kids say it, I chide them with “Only boring people get bored,” and I like to think that I actually believe that. It’s uncomfortable to admit that I am a boring creature, quietly shuffling through the world with my heavy, lolling head chock-full of lackluster thoughts and ideas. I check my e-mail and go to the post office Web site to track the Christmas package I sent David41 three weeks ago. The site offers little information, and I find myself staring blankly at the screen, twisting my hands in my lap and imagining the package toppling out of the back of some large truck and getting run over by a tank. Sand grinding into the soft cotton of the black size-large boxer-briefs. The shattered screen of the mini DVD player. The shitlike smudge of my homemade fudge destroying the flawless white of the brand new, tag-less undershirts. I also included a small chapbook I made with cutout pictures of food products from grocery flyers, scenery images from travel magazines, and clippings from high-quality linen catalogs: a promise to David of all the caring and nurturing I’ll do when he gets back. I told him to circle all his favorite items. I even pasted in several pages photocopied from an encyclopedia of dog breeds. Pick a puppy, I told him. And I’ll time everything right so it’s potty-trained but still perfectly perky by the time he gets back. We’ll name it Georgie, G.I. Puppyface, Tony Fucking Blair, whatever he wants.

  All this package disaster fantasizing isn’t helping me at all. The anxiety of his smashed gift evolves into the anxiety of his smashed body and then dips into a series of guilty waves because I’m worrying about a stupid package and not the future of a tumultuous country. Or all countries. Or innocent slaughtering. Or the future of democracy. Or all the women in the world who will lose their lovers tonight. But isn’t there still such a chance it could be me?

  Oh, how the holidays stink of self-absorption! So I decide to give in. I pour myself a glass of wine and light a pine-scented candle. I’m sitting here at my desk with a box of fine chocolates gifted to me by Max Schaffer’s parents, and I’m going to fucking indulge by recounting the lovely holidays that I, Annie Harper, have shared with my darling lover, David Peterson. And it’s going to make me feel so lavishly consoled. I just know it.

  Our First Christmas, Senior Year of College

  David and I had only been dating for a few months. All my girlfriends warned me that my gift idea was a little too much for a first holiday together. They had said it was more of a second- or third-year gift and that it’d be better if I just gave him some CDs or a sweater or something. But I was set on it. One of the reference librarians had made one for her high-school-aged son, and I saw her working on it in the basement lunchroom.

  “Yeah,” she said, “I got all the gym shorts for under ten dollars at the thrift store, and fleece is always on sale in the fabric store this time of year.” I ran my fingers across the cool smoothness of the mesh fabric, and it instantly reminded me of how David liked to come to my apartment after his morning ROTC workouts and slide into bed with me. The briskness of his cold skin and slinky mesh workout wear was always invigorating and delightful. I wanted him to know how nice it was. So I made the blanket. It was a simple pattern of squares cut from the gym shorts. A few with the logos of local teams and the cheap plastic lettering of recreational leagues made things a little more interesting visually. The back was all a snuggly red fleece, and the librarian showed me how to simply tie the quilt with yarn rather than actually quilting it.

  He loved it. Right away he commented on the contrast of textures and how the bold colors made it seem enticingly capelike. I was so pleased and even more pleased that he too opted not for a safe CD bundle or a lame scarf/hat/mitten set from Banana Republic, but instead surprised me with a shiny chrome blender and a bottle of expensive tequila. “You mentioned once that you wanted to have a Cinco de Mayo party,” he said. “I thought you could use this to mass-produce margaritas.” We exchanged enthusiastic gracias in the form of giggly hugs and kisses. I didn’t gloat to my girlfriends about how the gym shorts blanket42 was received fantastically. I knew that being in love was vindication enough.

  Second Christmas, Mountaineering

  David surprised me with a weekend trip to Whistler, this fancy ski village in British Columbia. He made reservations for Martin Luther King, Jr. Day weekend and arranged to have a few days away from the base. It was my first year of teaching, and he told me that I’d needed a getaway after the winter break withdrawal. Neither of us had ever skied, and that made it so awesome. It was like discovering a foreign land together, tightening the straps of our rented goggles and fumbling our gloved hands to affix the funny clasps of our lift tickets to our parkas.

  David was a natural, slicing graceful lines down the beginners’ slope on his first run, while I managed to biff it three times in fifty meters. The third time wasn’t my fault, because a bunny—an actual fluffy bunny whose tush was lifting in adorable ways as it hopped along the tree line—had distracted me from heeding my attention to all four pieces of ski equipment at once. David is wonderful because he always takes this kind of thing as legitimate and logical. Like it could have easily been him tumbling from the effects of a serious bunny leer.

  The skiing lasted just a few hours before I succeeded in breaking my wrist. He was so concerned and so kind as he carried43 me to the edge of the slope, where he waved down the medic who later snowmobiled me to the village’s small clinic. While I was getting my wrist set, David returned all of our rental equipment and upgraded our suite to one with a more striking view and a real Jacuzzi. Even though I was on heavy painkillers, that night we drank beer and ordered room service nachos while watching crappy movies on the TV and recounting the hilarity of all my various wipeouts. David even invented a way to cradle my wounded wing in a hammock of towels he rigged around the faucet of the Jacuzzi so we could both comfortably bask in its luxury and engage in some pleasant underwater snuggling. “I don’t think you can get out of this tub without my help,” David said. “I could boil you in here like a lobster.” I pulled my good hand above the bubbles and flicked away the pools of water that had gathered in the dips of his collarbones. “This claw still works,” I said, and stuck my index finger playfully into one of his nostrils. It’s something I do because it’s supposed to be gross and shocking, but if you ever really look inside a nose, or better, feel around a bit inside, it’s no less revolting than your average bodily orifice. It took David a while to understand this, but eventually he got it and didn’t shriek like a baby when I chose to sneak attack his nose with my pinky.

  Third Year, Into Adulthood

  David was bound to spending a whole week in his hometown of Port-land, Oregon, so we celebrated the holidays together in mid-December. I remember thinking it all felt so grown up and because of that, borderline lame. But really, it was a fantastic day. We drove up to Seattle and spent the morning in the aquarium 44 and the afternoon touring his favorite microbrewe
ry. We were already tipsy when we settled down for a steak dinner, a meal hearty enough to induce the sort of food coma where sitting for two hours during the Pacific Northwest Ballet’s The Nutcracker was both welcome and almost necessary. Our seats were close enough that I could see the sinewy lines in the arms of the lithe dancers as they flapped and waved with a grace not unlike that of my new octopus idol. Retrospectively, though this outing was pleasant, it was kind of a boring thing to do. See the f-ing Nutcracker? I probably won’t be due for another session of waltzing gumdrops for a good decade at least.

  This Year, With Mountains and Oceans and Deserts Between

  Annie: Will fix her hair to suit the tastes of her sweet mother and convince her parents that smothered enchiladas is a traditional Christmas Eve dish in Mexico and a great idea for their own holiday feast. Did Annie mention she’s an only child?45 Her parents will warmly and eagerly go for the plan o’ enchiladas, and they will eat at their kitchen table. It still has four chairs.

  David: will spend as much time as possible on the telephone spouting well-wishings to his parents, his grandparents, and six brothers and sisters. And hopefully his girlfriend!

  I wonder what Gus and Rex (his dad) and I guess, maybe Gina are doing.

  11

  Today I’m calling my book Pins and Fucking Needles for reasons that are very obvious.

  Talk about tumultuous. The first day back from winter break is always messy. The kids are nonstop bragging and sharing and practically buzzing inside their new oversized sweaters. There are always fresh haircuts and a couple of boys who seem to have grown several inches over the holiday. Like all the ham and candy canes stimulated the production of growth hormones. But this year when I stumble into the teacher’s lounge, the secretary immediately tells me to stop by Gene’s office. She says it in a way that reveals nothing as to why the principal needs to see me first thing. So of course I get nervous, rolling through any potentially questionable words or actions I’ve committed that could merit a talk from the school’s top dog. The kids call him Mr. Barkley, or Mr. Barfley when they think I can’t hear. Barfley has an air about him that makes one suspect he was once hip and attractive—nice clothes, good hair—but like anyone, age has betrayed him, and he just can’t wear the paunch belly and falling jowls with the kind of frat-boy confidence it seems he used to possess. He’s always saying one-word sentences like Absolutely! and Awesome! with more enthusiasm than anyone can believe. He coaches JV girls’ basketball at one of the high schools in our district, and I swear every time I visit his office, he’s poring over catalogs for uniforms and snazzy warm-up gear. It’s a bit disturbing.

  “Harper,” he says this morning. “You’ve got a new kid today.”

  My natural reaction is pure glee. A newbie! Another story, another personality, another potential friend for the few seemingly friendless shy kids. My brood of twenty-eight bumped up to twenty-nine, which sucks for partner assignments, but is a prime number and somehow that makes it feel like a more cohesive bunch. An indivisible group! I’ve had new kids before, but usually a few weeks into the school year. Never halfway.

  “Lacey Atkins. Here’s the file from her last school. Looks like a bright and easy-going kid. Let me know if you need anything.” Barfley doesn’t give me a chance to talk and really, there’s no need to. I head for my classroom and prepare myself for an even bubblier first day back.

  “Class, this is Lacey Atkins. She just moved to Tacoma from California and she’ll be with us for the rest of the year.” I give the standard Let’s all help Lacey feel at home here speech, which basically means No crap or I’ll kill you. Lacey is a doll. Is she a doll, Principal Barfley? Absolutely! Long, skinny braids pulled up into a thick ponytail. Real stylish clothes and dangly gold hoop earrings that have a delicate scrawling cutout of her name cradled in the bottom curve. She’s wearing a belt encrusted with plastic gems, and I can almost smell the cherry ChapStick-scented envy from the eight or nine prissy girls in my class. As Lacey walks to her desk, I almost feel intimidated myself. The sort of ridiculous inferiority I felt as a college sophomore at parties, surrounded by sorority girls and their perfect, shiny everything. It’s silly how an eight-year-old can remind me that I’m inarguably a huge dork, but Lacey just radiates coolness.

  The day goes well. By lunch recess, Lacey seems to have attached to the trio of girls led by Lizzie McDonnell, and I’m relieved to hear them talking about tetherball rather than hip-huggers as they shuffle out of the room. A few minutes after the final release bell rings and the troops46 have all departed, I hear the sound of sneakers slapping and heels clacking in the hall. Lacey bursts through the door panting, followed by a woman a little older than myself with the same gold name earrings (though I can’t read them from a distance), the same long braids, and the same big, dark eyes.

  “Mom! And this is my teacher, Miss Harper.” Lacey yanks her mother’s arm so that she flies forward a few steps and is standing so close to my desk that she could be turning in a math test. I stand up and come around. I’m about to open my mouth when she beats me.

  “Hi, Miss Harper. Lacey wanted me to come in and say hello. I’m Charese, Lacey’s mommy. Looks like a really great classroom you have here.” Charese sounds very sincere. Not patronizing and skeptical like many of the other moms.

  “Oh. Thanks. I like it.” I don’t know how to gracefully receive the compliment. It’s not like it’s a sweater and I can say, Oh, it was on sale or Just a hand-me-down from my old roommate. The classroom, with all the wild animal posters, the beanbag chairs by the Book Nook, the fourteen spider plants and six cacti along the windows, and the giant butcher paper collage of the water cycle,47 it actually is genuinely mine. And theirs, of course. But theirs under my guidance. Tutelage. Leadership. Mentorship. Awesomeship. I notice I’ve been taking too long sweeping my glance around the classroom, but when I look back Charese is smoothing Lacey’s hair and smiling. Her casual compliment is the nicest thing anyone has said to me in a very long time. I say thanks again and that I hope Lacey will like it here.

  “Sure, she will,” Charese says. “We weren’t too hot on leaving San Diego, but Lacey’s daddy was a bit too hot on his buddy’s little sister. So we had to get out.” I can start to feel my shoulders curl forward because that’s what I do when I’m socially uncomfortable. In my three years teaching, the personal lives of my students have stayed conveniently out of the classroom. Yeah, there are always the ones who wear stinky clothes and who complain about weekends at their dads’ houses, but I’ve never had such a fresh family dysfunction spewed in my face.

  “Well, if you have any questions about the Tacoma area, I’ve lived here most my life.” Yes. I can show you the grimy diners of my youth and shortcuts along South Tacoma Way.

  “Yeah, me too. Met Lacey’s daddy while he was stationed at Fort Lewis. We moved down south four years ago.” Charese’s directness is killing me. I suddenly feel like one of my eight-year-old slackers stuttering to give an oral book report on something he didn’t read.

  “Oh. Well. I bet it’s kind of nice to be home.” I’m trying so hard to remove the goofiness from my smile and replace it with compassion. I mean, I think I’m feeling compassion. It should look authentic.

  “Right. My mother’s house really beats a day at the beach. Anyway, nice to meet you, Miss Harper. We better hit the road.” Charese reaches down to Lacey and fixes a twisted shoulder strap on her daughter’s backpack. Turning it over causes the purple pack to shift and align in the middle of Lacey’s back, distributing the weight of her first day at a new school into a uniform, manageable burden. And there’s something about the way Charese does it that’s so natural and mature. Like she wasn’t even thinking about it but subconsciously knows that the simple act will save her daughter from any risk of scoliosis. I am in awe of Charese. It’s obvious that she’d been with Lacey’s father for years—probably since she was a teenager herself—and here she is back in her hometown, wounded and probably tired. But her makeup
is perfect, her demeanor pleasant, and her child obviously adoring. This woman has got her shit together.48

  So I know that it’s kind of lame, but I spend Friday night with Loretta. Gus had invited me to the opening gala of some art exhibit, and even though it promised nude photography and free wine, I passed. By Friday night I’m usually so tuckered out, and I knew I just didn’t have the wit to clink glasses with Gus’s hip friends. If I’m not super aware of myself at those kind of events, I end up spitting wine down my shirt when one of them says, It’s like totally neo-cubist fundamentals under the auspices of bourgeois sentiments. Or something like that.

  I’ve brought three surprises for my evening with Loretta: an AM/ FM clock radio,49 the backgammon set Gus gave me, and a plastic tub of sugar-free spice drops I bought at the drugstore. I figured old people love spice drops; they’re classic, like Ovaltine and Preparation H. I even called Jean to ask if Loretta could eat the candy, and she answered me with her typical exhausted/exasperated tone. Like I’d asked the most obvious thing in the world.