by Derek Hayes
This is impudent of him. “Oh, all right,” I say. “You can come along as well. Just don’t make me look like an idiot, White Rawlins. Little brother’s coming with me whether you approve or not. And right now too. Not later. Right fucking now. Might as well hop on the bus, bro’.”
Karl slowly gathers his track top. White Rawlins empties his water bottle. He complains that the water has turned warm in the heat. I grab Karl by the arm and hurry him along. I can see across the park that they’re waiting for me.
When we get there, Tilley glares at White Rawlins. “What the fuck’s he doing back, James? You banished him.”
“It’s all right. We’ve got a two-for-one package. Little Karl’s going to play instead of me, ain’t you Karl?”
“Uh huh.”
“This is really exciting, right?”
“Uh huh.”
The play goes up and down the court a few times. Karl doesn’t touch the ball. Each time down he looks at White Rawlins, who is standing by the fence. I’m running the sidelines and yelling hysterically, “Get your man, Karl! Push him out of there, bro’! Take it strong to the hoop, Karl!” Towards the end of the game Karl slides across the key, does a v-cut and catches the ball. He squares to the basket, puts the ball on the tarmac and makes a sublime pass to Manny. His team wins by two baskets. They come to the sidelines for water, where I smother Karl, delineating the game play by play. Karl gets away from me and walks over to White Rawlins with his head down. “How do you think I played, Dean?”
“You played really good,” White Rawlins says.
I notice Karl’s hair is freshly cut. His tracksuit and jersey are wrinkled but clean. He looks anxious but understandably so. I’m feeling charitable toward White Rawlins so I say, “Tell you what. I’ve been thinking about Karl’s progress. Maybe you and I can sort of co-coach him.”
White Rawlins looks at the ground, shuffling his feet.
I expect my soldiers to applaud my magnanimity, but nobody seems to care.
I make eye contact. “You’ve done a nice job with Karl, Dean.”
White Rawlins hasn’t heard me. He’s pushing Karl toward the court, saying, “Get in your stance, Karl!”
I yell, “Cut your man off at the baseline, Karl!”
Karl has a serious expression on his face. He bends at the knees and, with a swiftness that I haven’t previously observed, he moves toward his check.
A GOOD DECISION
YESTERDAY, I RAN INTO RON, A MAN I almost ran away with forty years ago, at the grocery store. He asked me to meet him for coffee and for some inexplicable reason I agreed. This encounter has made me nervous and introspective. I’ve got a retired husband who deeply cares for me. I’m exhausted these days, but I still enjoy teaching. I’ve got one more semester at Norfolk Collegiate, and then we plan to downsize to a condo in central Toronto.
Why did I agree to meet with Ron? I don’t want to revisit my youth, but lately I’ve been confused: a young teacher, Charlie, reminds me of Ron. And Charlie has me evaluating whether, all those years ago, I made a good decision. I feel the same as, say, a scientist, when she’s studying a wolf in the wild. The classic wannabe alpha wolf is entering the cafeteria. Curly blond hair. Tall and thin. Charlie approaches us untucking his silk shirt from his faded jeans, the same way he does every day, as if he’s on holiday from his students and going to enjoy his lunch even if everyone else is dull. “Those little buggers in my period B keep telling me I’ve been gaining weight,” he says loudly. “I haven’t gained any fat, have I?”
I’m amazed how young male wolves can affect others, more often than not in a positive way.
Now, let’s look at Jeffrey Humphrey. Balding. Overweight. In his early thirties. He’s a carbon copy of my husband, Glen, when he was that age. He’s at my table, eating his pastrami sandwiches, cookies, drinking his milk and marking his papers. He breaks from this task, looks up from his quizzes, and catches Charlie lifting his shirt for Ms. Watson. She’s staring at Charlie’s smooth, flat stomach, a wan smile on her lips. I’m looking too. Is that so wrong? Mr. Humphrey’s face contorts and from his gaping mouth loud guffaws resonate across the room.
Arzu — I only remember her name because her histrionics in my grade ten English class have left an impression — bursts into the teacher’s cafeteria, as if she has every right in the world to do so.
She spots Mr. Humphrey and immediately crosses the room to our table.
Charlie, affected consternation on his face, hurries over. He puts his hands on his hips and says, “You don’t belong here.”
“I can come in here if I want. Nobody’s going to stop me,” Arzu says.
Charlie rolls up his sleeves, exposing the taut muscles in his forearms. “You do understand what we do in here when students aren’t around, right?” He makes a sweeping motion with his hand to indicate the twenty or so teachers in the small room. “We take off our shoes and socks and play a gigantic game of Twister.” He pauses. “But you wouldn’t know about Twister, right? How old are you, Arzu? Twelve. Twelve-year-old girls have never heard of Twister.”
Jeffrey Humphrey is laughing. His two chins jiggle and he pounds the table with the palm of his right hand.
Arzu giggles. “I’m sixteen. I just came in to see Mr. Humphrey about an assignment. Is that okay with you, Mr. Lyons?”
Charlie moves to the centre of the room where he has a larger audience. He’s repeating what he said. The freshness of his delivery has waned, but his voice is loud enough for everyone to hear.
Mr. Humphrey, with a deep, resonant voice, says, “Didn’t we play horseshoes in here just last week, Charlie?” Cookie crumbs flutter from his mouth. He gets up and quietly tells Arzu to follow him out of the cafeteria so they won’t disturb anyone.
I pour oil and vinegar dressing on my taco salad. This is today’s special, my favourite. Charlie, back at my table, wipes sweat from his brow, and the muscles in his face relax.
I tell him that Mr. Humphrey and Arzu have left.
He looks at me and my heart rate quickens, which is silly for a woman my age. “Oh — I wanted to, um, say something to Humphrey,” he says. “Horseshoes — that was kind of funny.” He looks ill at ease, but quickly recovers. “Can you believe that kid? Just comes in here like she owns the place.”
Through the curls of his blond hair, his blue eyes are staring at me.
Ron took his racquet and patted me on the behind, then sat on a plastic chair near the doubles line, and spread his legs. Not bashful at all. I wanted to take my finger and lift one of his blond curls to make him uneasy in the same way that he always made me uneasy.
“You’ve got to work on your backhand, Marla,” he said.
“Look at you. Your game is too predictable,” I said. I knew that this wasn’t a clever response, but Ron and I were at a point where I couldn’t really do any wrong.
“I’ve got a fourth set in me. You don’t stand a chance,” he said. “But if you don’t want to go another set, I’ll understand.” He pulled his sweaty shirt up, exposing his stomach. I could see the ripples in his abdominal muscles. There wasn’t any stomach hair, which was nice.
“I know what you want,” I said. “You want to play the fourth at the Spoke Club. That’s not tennis, dear.”
“How do you know what I want?”
“What?” I was walking away. Slowly.
“What if I want more?”
I was shaking. “You shouldn’t ask.” My voice was unsteady. “I can’t. You know why. You’ve actually thought about this?”
“It sounds like you have as well.”
I was crying. I hurried to the ladies’ change room. I hoped he saw my tears.
It’s lunch time again, and I’m at the same table with Mr. Humphrey. The special today is fish and chips, which are too greasy, so I’ve bought a dismal-looking tuna fish sandwich and an apple. Shirley Thompson has joined us. She looks unsettled — she’s eating too quickly and talking with her mouth open. She’s also spilled coffee
on her blouse. I don’t want to point this out. It’d just make her more self-conscious. I like Shirley a lot. She’s a very diligent, conscientious teacher, if a little nervous.
“Oh my, this is just awful,” Shirley says. “Just awful. Don’t mind me. I’ve just had a terrible teaching experience. You’ll never believe what happened.”
“What happened, Shirley?” I say.
“Well, you know how in Canadian history we teach World War Two? I wanted to show some footage of the war so, you know, my students could see what war is all about. Anyway, someone recommended the movie Saving Private Ryan. Oh — I really wish I hadn’t shown that film. Do you know how graphic it is? In the first ten minutes all you see is men getting killed. Someone’s hand gets shot off. I mean, he actually picks it up from the beach. Some of my students started to laugh because it is so . . . awful. Oh, their parents will think I’m such an awful person.”
From out of nowhere, Charlie is at our table. His arm is around her. “Show them The Sound of Music. A classic World War Two movie. This will put them in better spirits. They’ll forget all about the horrific violence.”
He winks at us. There’s something contradictory about Charlie: his innate curiosity, his playfulness, and his need to turn every discussion into mockery.
“What?” Shirley says.
“Your students could sing along to the songs,” he says.
She ignores him. “Oh — I’m such an awful person. What am I going to do tomorrow?”
Charlie shuffles a deck of cards in his long slender fingers. Every few seconds he plucks cards from the top, and whips them back inside the deck. “No one gets any body parts blown off in The Sound of Music.”
“Show them another video?” she says. “Why?”
Mr. Humphrey’s large hand grabs Shirley’s shoulder and pulls her gently away from Charlie. “You don’t want to show another movie, Shirley.” He says this dismissively. “The best thing you can do tomorrow is to be you.”
Shirley smiles and says, “Oh thank you, Jeffrey. You’re so nice. I still can’t help feeling terrible about what happened today.”
Mr. Humphrey wipes his red nose with his sleeve. “What I mean is — you are an extremely warm teacher. You really care. What can you do tomorrow? I think the most important thing you can do for your students is to be yourself. You give them so much every day. You’re probably not even aware how much you do for your students.”
“Oh — that’s so nice,” Shirley says.
Charlie looks embarrassed by Jeffrey’s lovely remarks. “You guys should probably embrace,” he says, then goes back to his table. When he picks up his sandwich, his face betrays irritation, but only for a second.
On my way out of the cafeteria, I walk over to his table. “Jeffrey wasn’t trying to upstage you, Charlie,” I say.
“You don’t understand. Really, you don’t. Shirley needs to be herself. You need to be yourself. Mr. Humphrey needs to be himself. This may surprise you but what I want is to be Jeffrey Humphrey.” He says this absentmindedly. “Does this surprise you?”
“You’re fine just the way you are, Charlie,” I say.
“Do you think Jeffrey and I will ever be chums?”
I look over at Jeffrey — his eyes are too close together and his skin is dry and pink.
Glen was crying, his large body hunched over, his bald head in his hands. He lifted the bottom of his shirt to wipe his eyes. This made it more difficult for me to do what I had to do. I saw the tangle of black, curly hairs on his stomach. His belly button jiggled as he shook with grief. The sight of this made me feel worse. I felt vain and shallow and totally alone in the world. I didn’t deserve to be loved.
“I will always take you back,” Glen said. “Even if you go out with someone else and it doesn’t work out. I’ll take you back. I don’t care.”
“There’s no one else.” I began to cry. Not because I didn’t love him. I did. But because he’d just inadvertently referred to the truth. Or part of the truth. I wasn’t sure.
I tried to hug him. He warded me off with his big, meaty hand and said, “I can’t right now.” His eyes were steady and dignified. “I’m sorry. I want to be alone.”
I didn’t. I wanted to stay with him. I wished he’d say something so angry that it would make this easier.
I’m enjoying the special today, lasagna with a garden salad and milk. Mike Fryer and Julian Middleton, both science teachers, are at the next table, huddled around Charlie. “There’s nothing more important than having a bit of fun in class, right? Nothing worse than a dull class,” Charlie says. “During a work period, just when the kids are completely silent, I walk around and make sure they’re on task. I stop beside one of the shyer students, just like this.” Charlie squats next to Arnie Wilson, an older geography teacher, and lowers his mouth to his ear. “I say, ‘What was that, Shu Dong?’ When Shu Dong says nothing, I say, ‘That’s a great idea, Shu Dong.’ One of the rowdier kids asks me what’s a great idea. I say, ‘Shu Dong just brought something to my attention. Apparently, we haven’t had much homework over the last few days. Shu Dong loves to study. He’s just asked me to assign an extra reading assignment for everyone tonight. This isn’t my idea. It’s Shu Dong’s.’ The kids in class boo Shu Dong, who is truly mortified by now. It’s all in good fun.”
Arnie Wilson pulls his chair back, so that he’s away from Charlie. He’s smiling though.
“Kids need comic relief,” Charlie continues. “This is most important. If not, what tedium. I can’t stand a boring class.”
A deep voice interrupts Charlie. “Get them to believe in themselves.”
Everyone turns to see who has spoken.
“What?” Charlie says.
“I differ in opinion,” Mr. Humphrey says. “I think a vital part of my job is getting students to believe in themselves.” He rubs his nose with his index finger.
“What do you mean?” Charlie says. His cheeks are suddenly pale. He turns away. Nobody notices except me, and within two or three seconds he has recovered.
“My job as a teacher,” Mr. Humphrey says, “is to get my students to believe in themselves. The students at this school are all wonderful people, and they need to know this.” I look closely at Mr. Humphrey. He’s chewing slowly, a concerned look on his face that isn’t at all self-righteous.
Charlie wants to say something. This impulse dies and he quietly sighs.
Everyone smiles politely.
After I eat, I still have twenty minutes before next class. I tuck my arm under Charlie’s arm, and gently pull him out of his seat. I whisk him to a corner of the room. “Mr. Humphrey wasn’t trying to make you look bad. He was merely saying something that he really believed. He wasn’t trying to contradict you in any way. He’s a nice guy if you get to know him.”
“I know he’s a nice guy. I know what he’s all about. I don’t think that he really understands me, though.”
“Really?”
“There is this one project,” Charlie says, “that I created in my grade eleven English class. I get the kids to read their own poetry. I bring in candles and dim the lights. I think he’d like it.”
We both look at Mr. Humphrey, who is sitting at the other end of the room, marking his papers, eating his pastrami sandwich and scratching his sideburns.
“Go on — why don’t you tell him?”
“What if he doesn’t like me?” Charlie laughs nervously.
“He’ll like you. Go over there. He won’t hurt you.”
“All right.”
Charlie crosses the room (I’m reminded of Peter, my grandson, approaching another boy on his first day of kindergarten). Mr Humphrey is deeply concentrating on what he’s marking. For a moment I’m worried that he might dismiss Charlie, or even worse might react to him with irritation. A few, maybe three, seconds pass. Mr. Humphrey finally glances up, his face breaking into a smile. He asks Charlie to sit with him and right away the two are having an intimate conversation. Mr. Humphrey’s head nods
vigorously from time to time. Ms. Thompson is talking to me, so I’m distracted, but when the bell rings and it’s time to get to class, I’m privy to part of their conversation.
“The problem in this place is that nobody really believes in themselves,” Charlie says.
Mr. Humphrey, his voice flat and solemn, says, “You know what my problem is — you don’t take me seriously. You always poke fun at me.”
There’s an uncomfortable silence and Charlie looks distraught.
Mr. Humphrey gently pokes him in the ribs. Deep from his diaphragm erupts a bellow, surprising at first, but it allows Charlie and me to breathe relief.
Charlie laughs too and I’m really quite astonished — not by his laughter but by something else. There is a puppy-dog, eager-to-please expression on his face.
I meet Ron at the coffee shop. He’s sitting at a table. I walk over, my hand patting down an unwieldy clump of grey hair. He’s still sort of nice-looking, but his features have bloated and he’s gained weight around his stomach. I tell him about my youngest daughter — how she’s studying fine art at Queen’s. He interrupts me to remind me again about how I was lucky to beat him at tennis all those years ago.
“Are you still playing?” he says. He strokes my arm, which gives me the willies. He has a wayward look in his eyes that suggests he wants to rekindle some of the same feelings that we had for each other, but I don’t want this. I suppose Ron would always be trying to impress me, or even worse, trying not to impress me — too much effort, I now understand.
“Glen is fine,” I say, unsolicited, “He’s been taking wood-working classes for about a decade. I’ve relied on him. He’s very insightful. I’ve come to learn that I’m an anxious person, which is okay because Glen listens to my worries. He sits in his big old armchair and listens to every word that I say. It’s been nice.”
I’ve said too much, and I worry for an instant that Ron thinks that I’m a foolish old woman. He probably isn’t thinking this, though. His eyes are watery.