Again the first one in the office, I opened the window to let the cold air fill the room. Again, the field was covered with a thin layer of frost the color of the sky. The poplar trees were bare.
I was still at the window when I heard a great grunt behind me and turned to find Mickey Gold settling into the deep couch, his legs spread out before him.
“Oh Christ, Will,” he said clutching the inside of his right leg.
“Morning, Mickey,” I said. I was happy to see him.
“Will, I tell you, I was watching the television last night and I sprained my groin. I’ve got these slippers with the no-slip grip, great things you know, cozy as hell, but they’ve got no slide. My grandkids gave them to me. They don’t want me slipping down the stairs. I’m old as hell, Will, you know? So I sat down to watch the television and I spread my legs out like I am now and the goddamn slipper doesn’t slip and bang, I’ve got a pain tearing up my leg like you can’t imagine and now I can barely walk. What the hell? Pull your groin watching television? It’s a wild world, Will. You can’t possibly imagine. Pour me a cup of coffee? And close the damn window. I gotta keep my crotch warm.”
I closed the window and poured him a cup of coffee.
For a moment he was unusually quiet.
“So, Will, I got to ask, what the hell’s going on with you? You doing O.K.?”
“Yeah, Mickey, I’m fine.”
“Well, you don’t seem all that fine to me. You look like shit.”
I shrugged.
“You look thin. Don’t you eat? What do you do with yourself? You ever sleep?”
“It’s been a tough year. I think maybe I’m just burned out. I’ve lost something. Can’t quite seem to put it all in order.”
He nodded, squinting at me, rubbing his groin. “Christ, this thing’s killing me.”
“I’m sorry about that.”
“Forget it. That’s the way it happens, Will. You’re watching television, everything’s great, and you pull your damn groin. There was a time if I pulled my groin I’d do it playing basketball. But that’s just what happens.”
I smiled at him.
“Mind if I give you some advice, Will?”
I shrugged. “Not at all. Could use some.”
He looked at me for a long time. Then he shook his head as if answering the question before asking it. “You don’t get much advice from people, do you? Your dad’s not around? Mom?”
I shook my head. “No. Not anymore. Not for a couple of years.”
“Both of them, gone?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Both at once.”
“At once?”
I nodded. “In an instant,” I said.
Slowly he drew his legs up and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. He grimaced in pain and made a slight grunt. “You were close?”
I nodded and felt that familiar cold stillness.
“Christ,” he whispered. “Brothers or sisters?”
“No.”
He took a deep breath and blew it out hard. “Ah, Will. That’s a hard thing.” He shook his head and looked down at his hands. “Never married?” He asked, his voice softer now.
“I was.”
“What happened? I mean if you don’t mind me asking you.”
“I left. When my parents died. I left. I came here.”
He seemed so sad slumped down on that couch looking at me.
After a while, I said, “You were going to give me some advice.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Will, you ask me, you’re falling apart. I’m sorry but you look like a raccoon with those circles under your eyes. You don’t talk to anybody, you walk around here like a zombie. I’m gonna tell you, that’s more than frustration, buddy. That’s more than ‘I’m sick of being a teacher, the magic’s gone,’ that’s something else. Will, listen, don’t waste your time thinking you can do the whole thing alone. No matter what kind of shit you’ve lived through. And I can only imagine, though I’ve had my share. Don’t go it alone. Buddy, it’s a recipe for misery, you hear me? You’re what? Twenty-seven? Twenty-eight?”
“Thirty-three.”
“Then be happy you look as young as you do. I was your age I’d lost half my hair. Will, it’s disappointment from here on in, you understand me? There’s nothing interesting about you anymore. You see what I mean? You’re gonna start to bore the hell out of yourself. You’re out of surprises, you’ve squeezed what you can out of yourself. The world disappoints you, Will. Nearly always, the world disappoints you. You know that by now, don’t you,” he said nodding his head.
He took another gulp of coffee.
“Look, I don’t know what’s going on in your life, what you do all goddamn day, but I know this: You can’t do it alone. You’re young. You think you’re strong as hell. You think you can think it all out? Stare out your window and the answers come?” He shook his head. “The answers don’t come. And you know why?”
“Because there are no answers?”
“There are answers Will. And you can save your sarcasm for someone not as smart as I am. Figure it out, Will. You can’t do it alone. You understand me? Of course you do. I’d bet anything you’ve got yourself all tangled up with some gorgeous nightmare of a girl. I’ll put next month’s paycheck on it. You want in? Some girl you barely speak to? Who follows you around like a golden retriever?”
I laughed and shook my head.
“Will, listen to me. If you don’t remember anything else, remember this: Anyone you can fool isn’t worth loving. You understand me? It’s a young man’s move. You’re young but, buddy, you’re not that young. It’s a coward’s game, you understand? Teachers. We live for too long on those adoring eyes and then one day, it’s just not enough. It’s nothing at all but if you’re not careful, it’ll be all you have. You understand me? I know, I know, I sound like a song, but you understand what I’m saying?”
I nodded.
“I’m not telling you to go get married. Marriage won’t save you. Find some friends. Find some people you give a shit about. Who care about you. Who are smarter than you are. Find a woman, Will. Who laughs at you. Who’ll kick your ass out of the house. You find that woman and she’s the same woman who’ll throw herself in front of a truck for you? Well, then you’re somewhere. You’re a great teacher, Will. No question. Born natural. Good-looking too. Passionate as hell. Heart too big for your own good. You’ve got the world. For fuck’s sake, what else do you want?”
He struggled out of the couch, groaning the whole time. When he’d finally pulled himself up he walked over and put his heavy hand on my shoulder and looked down at me.
“What was her name?”
“Isabelle.”
“You ever think about going back?”
I didn’t say anything.
“I don’t know, Will. Maybe there’s a chance. Maybe she’s still around. Cowards spend their lives alone. Either with people who can’t hurt them, or with no one at all. Either way, man. Same thing.”
He squeezed my shoulder. “You be tougher than that, Will. You do the hard thing.”
He smiled.
“I got to get out of here, buddy. Take care of yourself.”
“You too, Mickey.”
I could still feel the weight of his hand, the heat of it on my shoulder as I listened to his footsteps fading down the long hallway toward his classroom.
* * *
After he was gone, I gathered my things and left the office before anyone else arrived. I went to my classroom and prepared to spend the morning teaching three sections of sophomore English.
I placed copies of the second chapter of Walden on the empty desks fanned in a semi-circle before the whiteboard. Then I wrote the day’s quotation across the board:
“If we are really dying, let us hear the rattle in our throats and feel cold in the extremities. If we are alive, let us go about our business.”
Each of my sophomores had a separate notebook in which they’d write a ten-minute response to the day’s
quotation. Those ten minutes were often my favorite part of the day, sitting on the edge of my desk, drinking coffee, watching them write, smiling at the students who looked up at me. I loved the ones who chewed on their pen caps and furrowed their brows, pretending to think hard. I loved watching the few kids who got lost in their work. The sound of the room, the pens across paper, the exaggerated sighs of exasperation.
I used to think, These are my students. I love them. I was often amazed by the closeness I felt, by my desire to protect them, to push them. I wanted to make them proud of me. I wanted never to disappoint them. As much as I loved them in those quiet minutes at the beginning of class, I also wanted them to love me in return.
After I’d written the quotation across the board, I sat at one of their desks and looked up at the board. I watched myself, book in hand, pacing, asking questions. Teaching.
There was noise in the halls—laughing, lockers slamming, familiar voices.
The ten-minute bell rang. I looked down at the packet and read:
Let us settle ourselves, and work and wedge our feet downward through the mud and slush of opinion, and prejudice, and tradition, and delusion, and appearance, that alluvion which covers the globe, through Paris and London, through New York and Boston and Concord, through Church and State, through poetry and philosophy and religion, till we come to a hard bottom and rocks in place, which we can call reality, and say, This is, and no mistake; and then begin, having a point d’appui . . . Be it life or death, we crave only reality. If we are really dying, let us hear the rattle in our throats and feel cold in the extremities; if we are alive, let us go about our business . . . The intellect is a cleaver; it discerns and rifts its way into the secret of things . . . My head is hands and feet . . . my head is an organ for burrowing . . . I think that the richest vein is somewhere hereabouts; so by the divining-rod and thin rising vapors I judge; and here I will begin to mine.
From Thoreau’s Walden, Chapter 2, “Where I Lived, and What I Lived For.”
After the bell rang, after they’d written their ten-minute responses, we began. What did he mean? I asked again and again. What did he mean by “and here I will begin to mine?” And how is the “intellect a cleaver?” And is it really? And are we really mining? And should we be? And do we “only crave reality?” And should we? And what about morality? And is there such a thing? And what are these “thin rising vapors?” And are your heads “hands and feet?” Are your heads organs “for burrowing?” And if so, what hills are yours burrowing through? And what have you found so far?
* * *
When the bell rang that last period before lunch, I was exhausted. I’d been caught up in those rotating discussions, every hour beginning again. When the last class filtered out I stood alone at my desk, collecting papers, slowly stacking extra handouts.
There was a moment then when it was as if my exhaustion were only physical. I took a deep breath and walked out into the hall, down the stairs, and along the field toward the cafeteria.
I saw in the eyes of those people passing that there were things happening around me, things beyond my control, and I was tumbling forward.
I bought a sandwich and smiled at Jean-Paul, who waved at me from the back of the kitchen. I felt a sudden tenderness for him. I wanted to put an arm around his shoulder. But I knew it was only nostalgia for my first days in Paris when Jean-Paul and his terrible food were novel pleasures.
The morning fog had burned off and the high clouds were gone, there was bright sunlight on the field. I stood at the far side, where the bare poplars lined the fence. From there I could look back at the school. Sitting on the grass, still damp from the morning’s dew and fog, I felt the cold moisture soaking through my jeans.
I ate and watched faculty and students come outside. The younger kids ran screaming out of the buildings, girls clutching each other.
Now there were kids everywhere, chasing, reading in the sun, studying for exams, all of us dreading the bell sure to ring.
I looked out at the picnic benches, and the stream of students flowing between the school and the cafeteria. And then I closed my eyes.
Soon, I felt someone touch a warm hand against the back of my neck.
Mia said, “I’ll see you at lit mag and if you want to have a beer tonight. Or whenever, I’m around.”
“Thanks,” I said, keeping my eyes closed. “I’d love to. We’ll do it.”
After a moment I opened my eyes and squinting into the sun, I watched her walk away.
The bell rang and the field emptied, the students funneled dutifully back inside as if drawn by some great magnet and I stayed there as long as I could, until my next class began fifty minutes later.
MARIE
I don’t know what happened to make him change his mind for the second time. But one day he said yes. I mean just like that. And that’s when it really started. The two of us. I mean we were a couple in our way. Lovers anyway. Real lovers.
I came after school. On the weekends. Whenever he let me, I’d come. I’d sit clutching my phone like an idiot, waiting for him to send his permission. I hated him for that but by then I was his. Long before then really. Like I said, I’d have done anything he asked.
We had a routine. I’d walk up those fucking stairs. We’d lock the door. Sometimes it was gentle. Other times it was rough. I guess like any other couple. And that’s the thing really. For a while, it felt as if we were just like any other couple. Sometimes I’d bring bread, or a bottle of wine. I liked the idea of shopping for him. I used to pretend that it was our apartment, that we lived together, like it was our normal life. It was easy to do that. For a while it was easy, anyway. We’d make love or fuck or whatever we were doing, and eventually I started to have orgasms with him. He was very patient. He was always whispering in my ear. He hypnotized me that way. He was always encouraging me to tell him what I liked. This? This? Like this?
You have to talk to me, Marie, he’d say. Just let yourself go. Tell me what you want, he’d say, like I had any fucking idea what I wanted. But, still, I felt like a queen the way he treated me in bed. He was so delicate, so precise, so, and this sounds strange but it’s right—he was elegant. He gave me so much attention and eventually I just gave in, just came unlocked, you know? I was loud and wild and happy.
Afterward, with my face all flushed, he’d tell me how beautiful I was. And I loved it. I did. Really. But I started to have the impression that I was making love to a ghost or a phantom or something. And more than once I felt that I could have been anyone. Anyone at all. As if what he was doing with me there in that apartment wasn’t much different from what he did at school, what he did in the classroom.
I don’t know. I’m not sure I really actually thought those things at the time. It was more a feeling, a sort of dark hum I didn’t want to listen to. But I do remember that feeling, that sense that he wasn’t really there, that he was just doing a job. I don’t know, it’s a strange thing to say, and yet it seems exactly right.
The best days were when there was nowhere to go, when I didn’t need to get home. When it was like that I was happier than I’d ever been in my life. He’d cook for me or play me music or we’d watch a film. Whatever it was, there was always a lesson. How to make a sauce, or why some musician mattered, that kind of thing. You can say what you want but then, at the time, it was a dream. I’d come from ISF and walk through the city all gray and cold and mean and enter that code, a number I kept thinking of as secret and magical. He took me in and fed me and made love to me. I mean through that door and up those stairs it was a warm, beautiful world. I didn’t want anything else. How anyone couldn’t understand that was beyond me.
I started to sleep there. I’d go over on Saturday night after being out with Ariel. At first I’d leave him at three or four in the morning. He asked me to stay but I couldn’t figure out how to organize all the lies. But finally I just said O.K. And when he asked me, I told him my parents thought I was sleeping at Ariel’s. And where does Ariel th
ink you’re sleeping? At home, I said. And that was that. The problem, the real problem, was Ariel. Once I stopped sleeping at her apartment she just lost her mind. At a certain point I stopped going there at all. I left some things at his place and would spend Saturday night and all of Sunday and then I’d take the RER home in the early evening.
I’d sit on the train with that late-Sunday dread, that heavy winter sadness made worse because I was racing away from him, going exactly in the wrong direction. After that, after I cut her out, Ariel barely spoke to me. Or we barely spoke to each other. That kind of thing happened all the time. We were inseparable and then it was over. Girls changed friends all year long. You were part of someone’s life. Knew their parents. And then you’d never see each other again. In that way we were prepared.
I didn’t care about anything else. My entire life for a while. I mean there was nothing else. Nothing. And one day I told him. We were in bed and I looked at him and I said it. Will, I love you, I said and he looked like I’d told him the sky was blue. We made love afterward and maybe he was sweet to me but all I could think about was that expression and how he lay there not moving looking like he was dead.
At school I started sitting outside his classroom. There was this space between where the lockers ended and his door, maybe three feet of empty wall. I used to sit there and pretend to study. I was like a dog or something, sitting outside his door. These are the things you do. I’d sit and listen. I’d stare into my book, sitting on the cold polished floor, in that awful gray hallway with my head resting against the wall, trying to hear everything, to be with him, not to miss a moment.
Those kids adored him. Unless you listened to him teach, saw him, you can’t understand. I loved listening to his voice, thinking about the things he was saying.
One day I heard him make a comment in class and it sounded so familiar to me and I realized that I’d already heard it, that he’d said it a few days before. I don’t remember exactly what it was, just that he’d said it to me. We were lying in bed and it was the same sentence, the same cadence, the same inflection.
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