The Schooling of Claybird Catts

by Janis Owens

  I was disappointed, of course, had been nursing this private fantasy of Mrs. McDonald calling me to the front of the class the next morning and informing me in this clear, ringing voice: “Clay, gather your things. You’ll need them in GIFTED.”

  Instead, I was just sent back to special-ed, where my fellow underachievers couldn’t quite understand my sudden new success in the classroom, a few of the more conspiracy-minded ones speculating that my rich deddy had made a few phone calls, greased a few palms.

  “My rich deddy is dead as a doornail,” I told them plainly, for after five years with these guys, we’ve grown way beyond sensitivity and tact, will really stop at nothing when it comes to shutting someone up. But aside from that little unpleasantness, The Test, as I came to think of it (as if it was the only test ever taken in the history of man), served other purposes as well. Most importantly, it brought a new warmth to our home and hearth, Mama positively charmed when she heard how Gabe had gone to bat for me with the school board, suddenly less suspicious of his godless Yankee ways and much more wifely and loyal, just as I’d dreamed.

  I couldn’t help but think that I was responsible for this miraculous transformation, that I was the Shirley Temple who’d stepped in and made this marriage work, everything around the house suddenly more normal and chipper, Gabe even putting aside his magnum opus to attend church on Sunday with the rest of us. He even let Brother Sloan talk him into taking on the men’s Sunday-school class, which was made up mostly of old boys from the Hill, none of them under seventy, who kind of reminded me of Mama’s old redneck uncles from Slidell, with the same wiry frames and hand-rolled cigarettes and equally contemptuous opinions of Gabe and his liberal Yankee ways.

  They were so cantankerous and hardheaded that no teacher would hang with them for very long, though as soon as Gabe laid eyes on them, he recognized his enemy and did everything but dress in drag to get their goats. As far as I know, he never read one Scripture in the whole life of the class, but just stood up there for a half an hour every Sunday and berated them like a drill instructor for their backwoods, racist ways.

  At first, me nor Missy or Sim could figure out what was going on in there, for we’d never had much contact with the old boys in the men’s class till Gabe became their teacher, when they started going out of their way to approach us in Winn-Dixie or the post office, fix us with a grievous eye and go off on some nutty, irrelevant rant about God knows what: politics or the Civil War; Jesse Jackson’s latest outrage. We didn’t have a clue why they were suddenly so focused on us, till me and Sim finally got curious enough to press an ear to the door of their class one Sunday, and gosh, you should have heard them in there, ranting and shouting, Gabe lifting his voice to inform someone at the top of his lungs: “Yeah? Well, you’re a g-d Nazi, that’s why—”

  We were horrified and fascinated, as was everyone at Welcome, with the possible exception of Grannie, who didn’t give a diddle about the old men, but was increasingly embarrassed about Gabe. Not about his public exhibitions (that she seemed to pretty much expect), but his complete lack of ambition in finding a job once he’d settled into his new role as stepfather. I mean, Grannie is of the old work-till-you-drop school of thought, with a pathological horror (worse than Daddy, even) of shiftless, no-’count men lolling around the house in the middle of the day: trifling, sorry, good-for-nothing.

  In her eyes, there was no more detestable a creature, and after a month of waiting for Gabe to make a move, she began dropping all these hints about the value of a good day’s work; how it was good to pay in all your Social Security when you were young; stuff like that. On a few occasions, me or Sim or Missy went to bat for Gabe, pointed out that we were rich enough as it was, but God knows that didn’t satisfy Grannie, who seemed intent on turning him into this Father Knows Best figure who went to work every morning in a suit and tie, dropped by her house every Friday for lunch, just like Daddy used to.

  All winter long she kept at him, though the real blow fell in March when he gave up his Sunday-school class after a fight with Brother Sloan (not over doctrine, but the Civil War), and returned to his book on Sunday mornings with no apologies to anyone. By then, he and Mama were getting along so well that she didn’t bat an eye, though to Grannie, it was clearly the straw that broke the camel’s back.

  After that, she went after him with a missionary fervor, bringing along a newspaper to the Steakhouse every Sunday at lunch and casually glancing through the Help Wanted section during dessert, reading aloud any good leads, with no job so low that it fell beneath her notice.

  “What’s lawn care?” she asked one week. When Simon told her it was mowing yards, she just sniffed: “Ain’t nothing wrong with thet. Git you a nice tan.”

  Gabe was used to Grannie and her nutty Grannie-ways and didn’t take her jabs too personally, but gave it back as good as she sent (would tell her with a solemn straight face that he already had a job: that he was a Trophy Husband and it was a full-time position), their little sniping war going on for most of the spring, till sometime in March—or no, April: the day of the April Fool’s dance. That’s why me and Kenneth were in the school office that afternoon, we’d left the dance early (ever been the only white kid on the dance floor at a black school at an eighth-grade dance?), were waiting in line to use the phone, when Erica Harper ran up with this incredible news: Mr. Nair had gotten in a wreck on I-10 on the Tallahassee side of the rest station.

  Now, Mr. Nair was our American-history teacher, a fossil of an old guy who was due to retire in May and had left school early that day to go to a doctor’s appointment in Tallahassee. In the twenty-minute space between the news about the wreck and the last bell, all kind of rumors flew: that he was hit by a semi; that he ran into a tree; that he flipped his car three times and had his head cut off. It wasn’t till we got on the bus with the high-school kids that Kemp (who was an office aide and heard all the gossip) straightened us out, told us that no, Mr. Nair wasn’t dead, but his leg was broken and his shoulder shattered, that they’d airlifted him to Tallahassee and chances were, he wouldn’t be back. He said they’d hired Miss Dales to sub till a replacement could be found, and that was the real tragedy of the thing because she was one picky, goofy old woman, who lectured seven hours a day nonstop, sent home piles of homework.

  Kenneth and I just listened impassively till he finished, then turned and looked at each other, said one word: Gabe. We didn’t even discuss it, just piled off the bus and ran all the way to the house, rattling up the stairs to the old apartment and bursting in on Gabe, who was writing at his desk as usual, surrounded by his legal pads and maps and big fat old reference texts. He looked up when we burst in, but we’d run so fast we were out of breath, me pointing at Kenneth, gasping: “Tell ’im. Tell ’im.”

  “Tell me what?” Gabe asked, though Kenneth couldn’t get it out, just stood there slumped against the desk, fighting for air.

  “Mr. Nair,” I finally managed, “got in a—wreck.”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Nair,” I gasped. “History teacher. Hurt bad, won’t be back.”

  You could tell he didn’t have a clue in the world what I was talking about, just sat back in his chair and looked back and forth between us. “Oh,” he said after a moment. “Well, I’m sorry, Kenneth. Was he some kin of yours?”

  “No,” I said adamantly, shaking my head. “He teaches history”—I pointed at him—“like you.”

  Kenneth finally got ahold of himself then, wheezed: “Kemp had the sub. She’s a jerk.”

  “That’s right,” I told him, “and Mr. Nair’ll be out all year. Come on, Gabe, they’ll give the job to someone else. History’s the only thing I like in school. I need you.”

  I must have hit the mark on that because Gabe chewed his lip thoughtfully a moment, asked who was hiring? The school board or the local school? Me and Kenneth hadn’t thought to ask, just danced around in this jig of impatience as he slowly came to his feet and went downstairs to the kitchen phone and made a fe
w phone calls. He finally connected with the school-board office, where a secretary told him to come in and fill out an application, that the position was definitely open, and if he was qualified, he could interview that very afternoon.

  “Wear your wedding suit,” I told him, me and Kenneth about flipped out by then, though Gabe wanted it to be a surprise, made us keep it to ourselves.

  All afternoon, we loafed around the house, till we heard the car in the garage and dashed out to meet him, Gabe very cool about it, just getting out of the car and calmly holding a finger to his lips till he saw the coast was clear, when he quietly nodded yes.

  Me and Kenneth went nuts, high-fiving each other and dancing around, though he swore us to secrecy, insisted that he wanted to tell Grannie himself. So we just followed him back to the house, showered and changed while he formally invited everyone to supper at the Steakhouse—me and Kenneth, and Mama and Sim and Missy, and last but not least, Grannie.

  Once supper was under way, I knew why he’d kept it a secret, for he toyed with her mercilessly the whole time we ate, commenting in this languid, drawling voice about how much work he was getting done on his book, how well it was going, till Grannie finally took the bait, asked him how long he figured it’d take him to finish it.

  “Oh, I think I can tie it up in five, maybe six years,” he answered with an idle little swish of his tea glass. “I could go faster, you know, but I get so damn sleepy in the afternoon that I just have to take a nap—which is, you know, good for you. Winston Churchill was a great believer in naps. That’s how he won the war for the British.”

  And boy, you should have seen Grannie’s face. I mean, DISGUST was written on her forehead, me and Kenneth laughing so hard we were about to pee in our pants when Gabe finally stood, tea glass in hand, and announced in this formal little voice that after careful examination of career options in North Florida, he had accepted a position of enormous responsibility shaping young minds at Lincoln Park Middle School. He did it as a joke, I guess, though Mama stood and publicly kissed him, right on the mouth, and poor old Grannie actually broke down and cried. I mean, she had to blow her nose on her napkin, she was so moved and relieved, filling me with this sanctimonious little glow of satisfaction that I, Clayton Michael Catts, had brought it all about.

  I was the one who’d landed the bad boy back in the lap of his family, back into relative masculinity, surrounded by his adoring wife and children, indistinguishable from any other man in the Steakhouse that night, though Mama seemed kind of nervous about him taking a job at Lincoln Park.

  All evening long, she warned him to go easy on us, to remember his manners, even walked us out to the car the next morning, left him with one last piece of advice: “Don’t give homework the first day and don’t talk above their heads—and listen, Gabriel, whatever you do, baby, don’t use the f-word in class. Remember, Clayton’ll catch it if you get anybody mad.”

  Gabe just nodded sagely, assured her that he knew how to comport himself in a classroom; that what did she think he’d been doing up north all these years?

  Mama just sighed a big Louisiana sigh. “Those were Yankees,” she said. “These people know your phone number.”

  He smiled at that, paused to kiss her lightly on the mouth in that lingering, openmouthed way that still kind of threw me, though I was too nervous to ponder it, me and Kenneth both were. It wasn’t that we were afraid he’d slip and use the f-word or insult someone, but quite the opposite: we were worried that someone would make something of his bad hand—or worst still, that rumor of his irregular life would leak out and he would be reviled and persecuted, beat up in gym or something.

  I don’t know why we were so protective, but we were, meeting for a brief conference in the hallway before lunch, Kenneth (who had him third period) assuring me that everything was cool; that he was funny and interesting and everybody liked him. I was relieved, but still a little nervous because Kenneth was way up on the gifted track with the other school brains, who could understand and appreciate the likes of Uncle Gabe. I was down with the bottom feeders in sixth period in a lower-track class made up mostly of special-ed kids, along with a scattering of dopers and slackers and half a dozen overgrown jocks who sat slumped in the back row in a daze of inattentiveness, their jaws slowly grinding gum, their big old size-twelve Nikes stretched out into the aisle in front of them.

  Even the presence of a new teacher only drew a few curious glances as we shuffled in and took our seats that day, no one giving Gabe as much attention as they did a huge, computer-generated sign he’d cooked up with Sim the night before, that he’d taped above the chalkboard, that read: OUR HERITAGE CONSISTS OF ALL THE VOICES THAT CAN ANSWER OUR QUESTIONS.

  In smaller letters beneath was inscribed: André Malraux, though the name didn’t seem to ring a bell with anyone in fifth-period remedial history, Bobo Crain doing a double take when he saw Gabe at his desk, turning back and asking me in this high, incredulous voice: “He yo deddy?” because we did kind of look alike, had the same color hair, the same cowlick, even the same dimple.

  I told him no, that he was my uncle, rumor of the relationship making the whisper circuit till the bell rang, when Gabe slid on his reading glasses and called roll with this professional briskness, not calling anyone by their first names, but Mr. Catts and Miss Ross, etc. He’d warned me on the way to school that he wasn’t going to publicly acknowledge me, so I wasn’t expecting anything, just took out my notebook (so I’d look like I knew what I was doing) as he introduced himself as Dr. Catts, the new American-history teacher.

  And it’s just as well that he formally presented the official title of the class in that, his first hour, because I do believe it was the last we heard of it, the whole time he was there. I mean, he didn’t forsake history altogether, but instead of the worn old path of memorized dates that Mr. Nair had vainly tried to march us down, he began class by coming around to the front of his desk and leaning against it, his arms folded across his chest, and asking how many of us were Americans.

  Well, obviously, all of us were, though no one seemed interested in giving up their afternoon nap to discuss so obvious a subject, about half the class bedding down on their book bags in preparation for a nice little rest that Gabe interrupted by strolling down the aisles, roll book in hand (to help him with the names) and asking everyone, point-blank: “Where were you born, where were you born?”

  As predicted, almost everyone was from Florida, mostly just down the road at Sinclair. When he finally completed the circuit, he pointed out that we were, indeed, all Americans. Then, without even explaining this pointless exercise, he began wandering around again, spent the remainder of class asking about our families, our histories—or at least he tried, for none of us dumbos were very fast on the uptake and we really didn’t understand what he meant by history.

  The very word seemed to give us brain-freeze, and try as he might, he couldn’t draw anyone out, especially the special-ed kids, whose biggest fear in life was that in some moment of misplaced enthusiasm, we’d raise our hand in one of our regular classes and show the world just how far we were beneath them; how we couldn’t read; could hardly write at all. We’d long ago learned that it was safer to just sit there and keep our mouth shut, look cool and superior, if nothing else, and after fifty minutes of fruitless digging, even Gabe must have realized the uselessness of his task.

  For he glanced at his watch, then returned to his desk and felt around in his pocket for his reading glasses, told us: “Before you leave today, I have a poem I want to read to you, one of my very favorite poems in the world by a man named James Emmanuel, called ‘Emmett Till.’”

  He thumbed through the book a moment, finally found his spot, and in a ringing, singsong voice, read a short, rhyming poem that was pleasant enough, though I can tell you frankly that I didn’t hear a word of it except for the phrase fairy river boy that rang out loud and clear, just public as heck. And I tell you what, I could have fainted I was so embarrassed, thinking: Goo
d God, does this idiot know what he’s doing? Mama was right: he’d been up north too long. He had forgotten everything he ever knew about being Baptist or keeping a job or holding his mouth right. He was committing social suicide and taking me with him.

  He looked up when he was done and scanned the room for reaction, and my face must have been a sight. For he seized on it immediately, boomed: “Mr. Catts? You look properly moved and provoked. We only have a few minutes left of class. Care to share your enlightenment with the rest of us?”

  I just stared at him in horror, thinking that Daddy had sure enough hit the nail on the head when he said his brother was strange, though Gabe didn’t seem to grasp my predicament, but tried to coax me along, offering: “Mississippi Delta? Tallahatchee River? Jet magazine?”

  He could have been speaking Swahili for all I knew, a few people gathering their book bags and purses in preparation for the bell that rang almost immediately to my everlasting and eternal relief. I didn’t even tell him good-bye, just got the heck out of there, hurried to the bus circle, where I pulled Kenneth aside, asked him if Gabe had read that poem in third period.

  Kenneth said, yeah, sure; though he admitted that even the school brains hadn’t been able to make much of it. In a whole class-worth of discussion, they hadn’t gotten much past the fact that Emmett Till was some dude who’d been killed in Mississippi a long time ago.

  “Well, what the heck does that have to do with American history?” I demanded with some heat.

  “Beats me,” Kenneth said. “Maybe he was George Washington’s nephew or something.”

  “Well, why’s he reading poetry, in history class?”

  Kenneth just shrugged. “Gosh, Clay, I don’t know. He’s your uncle.”

  It was the one and only time Kenneth ever ventured to reproach me for favoring my own suspect uncle over his safe and much-loved Uncle Lou—one that cut deep, making me sigh hugely, and hope to God that was the last we heard of that crazy little poem.