The school bus slows to a stop. Rob, Danny, and Jack tumble out while I blink my eyes and whisper good-bye to Ethan and Yram. Jack, three strides ahead, yells out, “I’ll race you!” He doesn’t wait for an answer, and I don’t give him one. Our driveway is long, I have plenty of time to catch up and pass him. Rob stays behind. He could beat us all if he wanted, but he never tries because of the wheezing.
I dash through the kitchen. I never stay too long in the kitchen before Mom comes home because otherwise I’ll remember Lipton tea and become very sad. I rush out the back door toward the lake. Midway down the hill, I grab on to the thick rope with a knotted end dangling down from a fat branch. I sprint across the dirt-packed ridge, fling myself over the hill, and fly. Over and over I swing, imagining myself flying with Yram the way Ethan did.
I gulp down a glass of water and meet Mom just as her green station wagon pulls into the driveway. I squeeze my arms around her waist and decide next to look for frogs. I hear the phone ring. I go inside and fill up my glass with more water and pause in the doorway to see who’s calling.
“Mrs. Zinc?” Mom answers. I freeze. Why is my teacher calling? I stand halfway in the kitchen and halfway out, pretending to slowly drink the entire glass, but I can’t swallow another drop. She must have a lot to say, because Mom has stretched the phone cord so she can sit on a kitchen chair to listen. She holds the phone pressed against her face. Should I run down to the lake or keep sipping my water? I choose water while I remember all the things I do wrong at school.
At last, Mom says something: “I see.”
Looking at her, I can’t tell if she’s angry or sad. Her lips are pressed together; she squeezes the phone so hard her knuckles turn white. Then she speaks in a voice I imagine her using at work, not at home with us. “Yes, we do need to talk more about this.” It must be the spelling test. Or all those times I didn’t pay attention. Should I run down to the lake or stay? In that moment, I’m not able to do either. I stand stuck at the sink with my full glass of water.
“I understand. We’re also concerned.”
Oh no.
“I’ll get back to you after I have a chance to talk with my husband.”
My body takes over and pulls me right to my room. I don’t want to hear anymore. Except maybe I do, because I don’t slam my door shut; I leave it open and hear the last sentence.
“Sure, that would be fine. Whatever might help.”
Help? What is Mrs. Zinc telling her?
Saint Rita, please don’t let this be bad news. I promise to say an extra Hail Mary tonight. I need to know just how serious this is. I wander back to the kitchen to peek at Mom’s face. She’s sitting at the kitchen table the way Mrs. Zinc likes us to sit, still as a statue, gazing at something so far away no one else can see it. When she sees me, her eyes droop. I give a weak smile.
“Maddie, honey, come here.”
Oh no. I scuff jelly-legged to the table.
Her arms are open; I snuggle right in, bracing myself for the bad news.
“That was your teacher who called.”
“Why?”
“Well, she has an idea that she wants your father and me to think about for next year, and she wanted to know if we would let you see a special teacher who knows some ways to teach reading to kids who . . .” Her voice goes weak, like she doesn’t know what to say.
“What do you mean?”
“. . . kids who need a little more help.”
“Like kids who have something wrong with them?”
“That’s not what I mean.” She kisses my forehead. “Mary Madelyn, there’s nothing wrong with you. You are as smart as all the others; but you know that reading’s been hard. You wouldn’t mind getting extra help from someone other than Mrs. Zinc, would you?”
“No . . .” What I really want to know is the idea that needs to be discussed. I can tell from the look on Mom’s face that she’s not going to share that, and I’m not so sure I want to know after all.
~CHAPTER 15~
1967
I AM THE FIRST to hear Uncle Joe’s truck, right after Rob asked if he could be excused. I was still picking through my pile of peas and corn. We don’t get many visitors, especially during dinnertime. “It’s Uncle Joe!” I shouted, even before I saw his rusted brown Chevy truck that used to be red rumbling down our driveway. Father said Uncle Joe knew how to keep an automobile running no matter how bad off the body was. Uncle Joe is smart.
We all got up at once and ran outside, waiting for the Chevy to pull to a stop.
Uncle Joe doesn’t look anything like my father. His face is used to smiling; I see smile lines even when he’s not smiling. My father’s lines are only serious. It’s hard to believe they’re brothers. Uncle Joe isn’t short, but my father still towers over him. They have the same short haircut, but Uncle Joe’s hair is the color of Jack’s, not as blond as Paulette’s but not brown either. My father wears shirts that are crisp and tucked in; he never wears jeans or boots. I’ve only seen Uncle Joe in blue jeans, which I think are cool, and tee shirts with a front pocket where he keeps his cigarettes. Another big difference between Uncle Joe and my father is that Uncle Joe has a tattoo.
When I discovered this difference, I didn’t know the word tattoo. Uncle Joe probably had the tattoo a long time, but it wasn’t until last year when he was doing his Popeye the Sailor Man trick that I noticed it. He put his thumb in his mouth and pretended to blow through it, and his arm muscle popped up like a balloon. Jack and Danny were fooled, but I knew that he could make his arm muscle big anytime he wanted. I had spotted something red at the edge of his shirtsleeve. I asked to see. When he pulled up his sleeve, I could hardly believe my eyes—it was a beautiful picture of a red rose.
“Uncle Joe, I didn’t know you’re an artist. That’s a beautiful picture.”
“Why, thank you.” He looked at it as if for the first time. “I wish I could take credit for that drawing, but I actually paid an artist to draw it for me.”
“It’s a rose,” Jack said.
“That’s right. It’s a rose for Rosemary Harmon. She’s the woman I almost married.”
“What happened?” When I saw his face, I knew it was the wrong question. He looked away, and the corners of his mouth no longer curved up. Jack, Danny, and I stood still, saying nothing.
“Sometimes, things just don’t work out the way we wish. God had another plan in mind for Rosemary. He wanted her to be with him.”
Jack and Danny didn’t say a thing. They simply slipped off together. I stood still, feeling sad even though I know Heaven is the best ever place to be. All at once, I hugged Uncle Joe without asking another question about Rosemary.
I kept thinking about how smart it was of Uncle Joe to have an artist draw a picture of Rosemary’s name. He could have spelled her name, but he understood that a picture is much nicer to look at than letters.
Weeks later, I don’t even remember when or where, I heard a word that sounded funny, and I began to repeat it over and over: tattoo. I sometimes do that with funny-sounding words, like the word bingo, which I know how to spell: “b-i-n-g-o, and Bingo was his name-o.” I kept hearing it in my head, and Mom and Father were both in the living room when I asked, “What does tattoo mean?” I had imagined it had something to do with cartoons, not the beautiful rose picture on Uncle Joe’s arm.
“It’s like the ink picture Uncle Joe has on his arm,” said Mom.
“That’s a taboo?”
“Tattoo,” Father said. “It’s ink that will never come off. In fact, it’s a very painful process and downright foolish.”
I looked over at Mom.
“Your father’s right. Uncle Joe is stuck with it for life.” I was curious about how to make an ink picture on skin last forever and about how painful, but I didn’t like the way they were talking about Uncle Joe. It made me wonder if they even knew about Rosemary, because I was sure Uncle Joe was very happy to have this picture of her name on his arm for the rest of his life.
> Uncle Joe’s truck roars to a stop. We gather around, and Uncle Joe hops out dressed the way I always imagine him, tee shirt and jeans. I’m the one he turns to first.
“Sister Bard, how are you?” He rumples my hair and grins. I want him to lift me up and swing me around like he used to, but now I’m too old for that. I throw my arms around him; he has the same sweet, sweaty smell tinged with cigarettes.
“Why do you call her that?” asks Danny.
“You mean, you don’t know what a bard is?”
“No,” Danny says, looking over at Jack, who I can tell by his smirk is pretending to know.
“Oh, my dear jester.” And he winks at me. “Just like a jester is necessary for any royal family, to keep things light and funny”—he squats down and gives a quick tickle to Danny, who erupts in a squeal of laughter—“a bard is indeed a very talented person. Bards are the original storytellers from ancient days. You must agree—your big sister is one heck of a fantastic storyteller.”
“Yeah, she’s good. She’s been telling me the story of The Fairy Angel’s Gift. What about Jack and Rob?”
“Well, of course they’re important members of the royal family too. All royal families need a knight, someone willing to protect those who might be less able, someone strong but also wise and smart.”
“Rob!” yells Danny.
“That’s right.” He turns and winks at Rob, who is smiling.
“And all knights have an indispensable helper known as the squire, someone who models themselves after the knight, willing to run errands and generally be helpful.”
“That’s me,” Jack calls out. “I’m the squire, and Rob’s my knight.”
“And we, your parents, are the king and queen,” says Father with a lightness in his voice. “We’re about done with dinner, but there’s plenty if you’re interested.”
“No, thanks. Grabbed me a burger on the way over.”
Even with the excitement of Uncle Joe, like an early Christmas, as soon as we step back into the house, our mom reminds us that it’s a school night, and there’s homework to be done.
“I did all my homework in school except for math,” I report.
“Okay, let’s take a look at your math papers.”
Reaching into the depths of my book bag, my hand lands upon a crumpled paper, and I’m sure it’s the math homework, but as I pull it out and take a look, I see that I am wrong.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing.” It’s something that belongs in the wastebasket. I start to shove it back in, but I’m too late. In plain view, before I can hide it, is the spelling test I failed, with a big F written on the front. At first, Mom says nothing. Then she squints and leans forward, snatching it from my hand.
“Mary Madelyn, I don’t remember practicing these words with you this past week.”
“I’m sorry, Mom. I forgot to bring them home, and then the next thing I knew, we were having a test.”
“No one can expect to do well if they don’t study.”
I look over and notice her hand holding my paper is trembling, her face reddening. I bring home at least one F every week, but this time something’s different.
Her voice rises loud and angry as if I had spilled paint all over the carpet. “How can I help you if you don’t bring the work home?”
I stare, my mouth hanging open. She shoves her chair back and stands up. This isn’t my mother.
She turns, and I catch her eyes thick with tears. I want to tell her that at least I didn’t cheat and don’t have to confess this, but the words stay stuck in my throat. She leaves the kitchen, heading for the hall bathroom. She’s right. I forgot on purpose because I hate spelling.
I pull out the math worksheet that I could have finished in school if someone had read it to me, but now I don’t feel like doing math. I just want to go to bed.
I sit in the kitchen alone. I hear Uncle Joe and Rob talking in the living room. It’s not fair. The bathroom door opens and closes, but I don’t turn toward Mom.
“Get your pencil ready. I’ll read, and you work out the problems.” Mom begins reading in a voice like Mrs. Zinc’s instead of my own mother. I take a quick look; her eyes are red and puffy. When we’re halfway through the page, Father walks into the kitchen with Jack trailing behind him, hopping up and down like a kangaroo.
“Jack has good news to share.” Father’s face looks a little like Uncle Joe’s as he holds up a spelling list of words with a big letter A written on it. I turn away but not soon enough to miss Jack’s smiling chipmunk face. When I look up again, his masterpiece is taped to the fridge.
After kissing Jack on the cheek, Mom continues to read the math problems in Mrs. Zinc’s teacher voice, making the heaviness inside me turn into an anchor. Down I sink; down to the sadness of remembering that Mrs. Zinc is almost done reading The Fairy Angel’s Gift. My heavy head drops to the table.
Mom raises her voice, sinking me further. “Madelyn, how do you think you’ll pass third grade if you don’t even try to finish your homework? I’m doing all I can to help you, but you need to do your part.”
I can’t move; too heavy. She finally takes my arm and leads me off to bed.
Even with all the heaviness, I can’t settle myself down to sleep. My rooms are too messy to visit—all I can do for now is close doors. Still, the messiest one figures out a way to grab and twist my stomach. This is the room with the phone call from Mrs. Zinc. I see Mom’s face, over and over, while she holds the telephone with Mrs. Zinc’s voice pouring into her ear, telling her how horrible I’m doing in school.
Then I remember. Mom said she’d discuss it with Father. I sit up in bed, look over at my window, where a small strip of light has found its way into my room past the tree. Do I want to hear? I tiptoe to my door, crack it open, and listen to voices short and choppy, like Mom grabbing my arm and leading me to bed. Her kiss good night was a quick touch to my cheek, nothing more. Father’s voice rumbles like thunder moments before the loud bang. I stand in my doorway as if on the end of the dock making up my mind whether or not to jump into the cold splash of water. I can’t hear what they’re saying; I only feel their voices, thick like a storm moving in. If I return to my bed, I’ll never know what’s going on . . . but I’m still not sure I want to.
I need to use the bathroom. As I step lightly down the hall, the voices turn into words. I duck into the bathroom and no longer feel the urge, only the churning of my stomach. I stand in the doorway and listen.
“She’s going to turn out like Joe if we don’t do something,” Father says in his thundering tone. Hearing this, my stomach reels, as if this is something terrible. But I want to be like Uncle Joe; he is smart and funny. I even want a tattoo.
Mom’s voice has turned soft again, not the one she used on the phone today or the one that sent me to bed. It’s a tone she uses to win us kids over, but it’s Father she is talking to. “I know she’s as smart as her brothers. Why, just the other day, she played me an elaborate story she had recorded on her tape recorder. She made it up herself along with sound effects. I know she’s smart.”
“She can barely read,” he says. My knees tremble; he knows I’m still a Sparrow.
“Last year, Mrs. Smith said she just needed more time, and that’s what Mrs. Zinc said at the beginning of this year. I agree, what’s needed is more patience and time.”
More time for what?
“That’s what you said when she left kindergarten and only knew the letter m. Extra time is not working. You’ve got to face it, there’s something wrong with her. Jack can read more than she can, and he’s just in second grade—that’s where she belongs.”
My legs go weak, and I grab on to the bathroom counter.
His voice continues like a clap of thunder. “Dora, Madelyn has a problem. She’ll never be successful next year. Never.”
My stomach lurches; I crawl to the toilet, gasp for breath, and instead of breathing out, a churned-up smelly sickness gushes from my mouth. My eyes bl
ur up with hot tears.
~CHAPTER 16~
2005
“DR. MEYERS!” Diane Adams calls out to me as I step into Room 11. She’s aglow. Her wispy strands of blond hair appear windblown; her forehead shines under the fluorescent lights. Diane holds a child’s fragile hand. Clayton, who has a tendency to buckle his legs and flop down while his arms fling spastically in all directions. She turns to the grimacing boy and supports his chest while his upper body moves in jerking motions, his lower collapsing like Jell-O.
“Show Dr. Meyers how you can say your phone number,” Diane instructs.
Clayton arches his back and twists his head, gives a high-pitched squeal, and then barks out a set of numbers only Diane seems able to interpret.
I high-five him; he tumbles into ecstatic joy.
This is why I entered through the back door of Milton Elementary, into the far reaches, where Room 11, like too many self-contained special education classrooms, was purposefully placed—hidden from the hub of activity. For me, its location is a convenience, since my office is also located toward the end of the hall—we’re practically neighbors. This morning, admittedly, entering through the back had more to do with arriving a good hour late and not wanting to parade past the office staff.
Diane works as an instructional assistant with Kelly, a talented special education teacher. Everyone loves Diane. She’s a mom figure for more than her four children. If that were not enough, she’s PTA co-chair, and a foster parent for the Humane Society, which means she often brings a four-legged ward to work. The children in Kelly’s class love to take turns walking the orphaned pups.
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