Henry continued to poke in the boxes. ‘They say they’re for the “needy”. They never said which needy.’
As he was talking I spotted a navy blue sailor dress in one of the boxes. I nudged it a little, considering. Would it fit Hannah? Would it be a good idea to find her a dress? Would it matter if it was secondhand?
The dress had a square white collar and a red tie. There were gold stars in each corner of the collar. The stars made up my mind.
‘Can I take the sailor dress, too?’ I asked.
He lifted it out of the box. It was wrinkled, with a small tear on the sleeve, but the material itself was soft and clean. Henry smoothed it out with his rough, gnarled hands. Working with flowers is not so different from working with children. ‘For the girl,’ he said.
‘Yes, I think it’ll fit. I can mend it tonight.’
I put the dress in a paper bag on the closet shelf of our room. I gave the caps and mittens and scarves to the children, and we were dressed and ready and off to the graveyard across the street before it was time for Circle. The cemetery was quiet and protected and made a perfect play yard for the children.
The snow was only a few inches deep, but it changed the world. Trees were intricate ice sculptures, glinting in the sun. The pebble paths and brown grass were gone. It was a monochromatic scene, white and hushed.
At first the children were cautious, walking carefully, looking at each separate footprint they made, silent in a silent world. But I didn’t want them moving with such prudence, I bent and scooped up a loose handful of snow, packed it together lightly, and tossed it over the top of Brown’s mausoleum, then another over the Johnson monument, one more above the Ewing tombstone.
The children watched in awe, but snow is meant for fun and within minutes they forgot to be careful and began making their own snowballs, tossing them in the air, bombarding each other, laughing, running, hiding behind tombstones, pushing, tumbling in the snow with each other.
I stood still watching them. There is nothing in the world like play. If children can learn to play, they can learn to do almost anything.
The skirt of Hannah’s long dress got wet and soggy and dirty and I tied it up, remembering with pleasure the sailor dress on the top shelf of the closet.
My sewing skills are primitive, but that night I found some navy blue thread and darned the tear, opened the seams and let out about two inches, and then rinsed out the dress and blocked it on a towel in the bathroom. In the morning before I left for school, I pressed the dress and folded it in tissue paper and put it back inside the paper bag.
I waited all morning looking for the right moment, but it never came. Finally, after lunch, the boys asked if they could ride their bikes in the driveway where the snow had already melted and disappeared.
Hannah had never learned to ride a bike. When she tried, her long dress tangled in the wheel chains, making it impossible. So now she stayed inside with me.
I left the outside door open so I could hear the boys, but my eyes were on Hannah as I lifted down the paper bag and laid the dress out on a table. ‘This is for you,’ I said to her. ‘A dress that’s shorter, so that it will be easier for you to run and you can learn to ride without getting all tangled up.’
Hannah came and touched the dress, not lifting it from the table, just poking it here and there. Then, looking at me for permission, she picked it up and took it into the closet, where she inspected all new things. After a few minutes, she came back and put the dress in my hands. ‘No good,’ she said gravely. ‘I too big. Too fat.’
‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘But I don’t think so. Here, let’s try.’
I moved as gently, as slowly as I could, knowing how difficult it would be for her to take off the long housedress in which she even slept. It must by now be like a second skin. Without it she would be uncovered, bare and vulnerable.
Hannah stood absolutely still as I unbuttoned her dress until it was entirely open and then eased it off her shoulders, over one arm, over the other. She was naked now except for cotton underpants that hung on her hips below her bulging middle. A scar, three inches long, ran across her stomach.
Suddenly Hannah began to talk, words tumbling out faster than ever before. She pointed to the scar. ‘See. That from operation. That what made me funny. Had operation when I baby. They give me too much sleep stuff. Sleep stuff make me retard. Carl say that why I have to go to retard school.’
Tears stood in her eyes, but she continued.
‘Carl say that every morning, but Mama say no. She say I lucky be alive.’ Hannah gave a long sigh, nodding her head as though to convince us both. ‘Better than dead.’
I gathered her up, forgetting to be careful, caring only about her fears and the draught from the outside door.
‘Listen, lovey,’ I said. ‘You’re no retard. Carl’s the one that’s dumb if he can’t see that. Look how you’re reading, making your own books. You’ve always been smart, never dumb. You just haven’t been bothering to learn. Come on now, try your dress on.’
She put it over her head and I pulled it down over her middle. (It did stick a little and I was glad I’d let out the seams.)
‘Ah,’ I said, ‘you’re beautiful. You are absolutely beautiful. Come see.’
I led her to the long mirror I’d brought from home and watched as she smoothed the soft wool down across her front. Her exposed legs were round and pretty. Her blue eyes seemed even bluer. ‘Nice,’ she said. ‘It really nice, teacher.’
‘All right now. Let’s go show off. Let’s show the Director and the boys.’
But Hannah had her own ideas. ‘Now go bike riding.’
I got our heavy jackets from the closet and then we went down to the Director’s office, which among other things served as a garage for our donated bikes during the winter.
‘Look at you, Hannah! A regular fashion plate,’ the Director said, and to me, ‘Where’d it come from?’
I pointed upward, meaning the church.
The Director assumed more, or pretended she did, and raised her eyebrows. ‘… in mysterious ways His wonders to perform …’
Hannah tugged impatiently at my arm. ‘Bike. Teach bike riding now.’
‘Ah, you. Okay. Here we go,’ and I began to disentangle a small two-wheeler equipped with training wheels.
‘No,’ Hannah said. ‘Not that. That I baby bike.’ She pointed to the full-sized red bike I usually rode. ‘That one. I ride that one. I big. I smart. You say I smart. I not ride retard bike.’
I helped her on and then ran beside the bike holding on to the handlebars while she pedalled; pedalled with her lovely, beautiful, free bare legs.
Henry and Zoe and the Director came and stood in the driveway and cheered as we passed them, and the boys, hearing the noise, circled back to us shouting, ‘Hey, Hannah! Look at Hannah!’
Within another week Hannah was riding by herself, and the boys formed a vanguard for her as she rode up and down the driveway.
Chapter 12
The Board of Directors of the school gave a cocktail party for the staff the second Saturday of December. I was less than eager to go, but when I told the Director that I thought I’d skip it, she frowned slightly and said, ‘It’s important that you go, Mary.’
This same Board of Directors had spearheaded the fund drive for the new school. They had done a magnificent job rounding up wealthy friends and getting in touch with influential people in foundations and had contributed generously themselves. The money was in now, the architect’s drawings complete; ground would be broken in another few months. The Director’s dream, a school of her own, was close to reality. No more borrowed church buildings or ancient houses. She would have a new building designed to her specifications, complete with kitchen and swimming pool, built particularly for emotionally disturbed children. Her dream of more than fourteen years would materialise. No wonder she wanted us all to be as supportive and appreciative of the Board as possible.
But it was more difficult for me t
han for some of the other teachers. The Huntingtons’ house, where the cocktail party would be held, was a familiar one to me. Jean Huntington was an old friend. In fact, it was she who had called me years before, when I was placement chairman for the Junior League, to suggest I look into the school for volunteer placement jobs for the members. Larry and I had gone to their house many times for dinner, as they had come to ours. I knew that our divorce had been difficult for her to understand. I knew, too, that the fact that I taught full time at the school and lived alone (except when Elizabeth and Rick were home from college), in a small apartment, seemed even more strange, more peculiar to her.
I had tried to explain it once, telling her how the children were all-absorbing to me, how their hurt and rage and fear seemed magnified versions of what I felt in all of us, how the desire to understand and do something about it drove me, making each day exciting and worthwhile, and, finally, how working at the school had changed me, had somehow stripped off my outer layers so I no longer fitted easily into her world.
I had thought Jean would understand – she was, after all, our Board Chairman and had worked hard for the school for many years – but she’d looked at me uncomprehendingly and said as gently as she could that yes, of course, she understood, but that it wasn’t necessary for me to spend my whole life at it.
I had nodded, acknowledging her. There seemed to be no way to say it, but I knew that it was necessary, more than necessary. It was the only way that I could live, at least for now. I had lost too much time. I was too far behind. I needed to understand, to learn, to do.
The party was in full swing when I arrived. Jim Huntington greeted me at the door, saying, ‘Mary, how good to see you! You look marvellous. Come in.’
Jean met me as I crossed the broad foyer and kissed me on the cheek. ‘How good of you to come. Put your coat in our bedroom. You know where it is.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Of course. Thank you.’
I could feel formality wrapping around me, covering me like plastic wrap on leftover roast. I shook my head. I had forgotten how it was, how I was.
Patty, the teacher next door to me at school, was just coming out of the master bedroom, looking clean and breezy and young in a peasant blouse and long skirt. ‘Boy, am I glad to see you! Something about this much class makes me nervous. How about getting out of here as soon as we can and going back to my place for a beer and some leftover stew?’
‘Sounds good,’ I said. But I resolved to do better while I was here at the party. After all, this was a game I’d once played with ease.
Light and easy. Move and smile. Accept the drink and linger just long enough with this group. Look up. Catch an eye. Let that group move closer. Scan the room. Someone’s alone. Move to them. Start a new group. Ah, now the talk’s moving well here. Get a cigarette, accept the light. Enquire about the children (not too deeply). Keep it general. Underline the positive.
Bright and quick. A little laughter, not too much. Accept a refill. Move to the right. Bend to the left
I looked around the large, beautifully proportioned room: the Oriental rugs, the fine old mahogany and cherry pieces, and the attractive, intelligent faces, all burnished by the fire that burned brightly in the wide fireplace. My thoughts flickered like the fire.
I wished I’d known these people better when I had had the chance. I wish I’d said; talk to me about what is important to you. Tell me your dreams, your hopes, your sorrows. Maybe they’re the same as mine, or, if not, perhaps we can at least understand each other. Why did I only say, ‘You look great tonight. I love that colour with your tan,’ or, ‘I’ll try six spades,’ or, ‘How about being programme chairman for the Cotillion?’
The Director, suddenly beside me, said, ‘Regrets?’
I turned to her, startled, but I was pleased that she looked exactly as she always did, plain and competent.
‘No, not really. None at all about the school. Thank you again for letting me teach there, for hiring me …’
‘No business talk tonight,’ Jean Huntington said, moving between us. ‘Have you been in to see the tree yet? We put it up early, just for the party. It’s in the library. Why don’t you bring the children over from school sometime to see it?’
‘Thank you,’ I said, thinking about the children, remembering our tree at school last year, the paper chains, the popcorn strings. I was suddenly homesick.
Patty must have sensed it. She appeared at my side from across the room. ‘Getting hungry?’ she asked, as a maid passed a silver tray of canapes.
‘How’d you know?’ I answered. ‘I’ll get my coat.’
Jean followed me upstairs. What was it? Was there something she wanted to tell me? She stood quietly watching as I extracted my coat from the pile on the bed. Then she asked, ‘Are you still taking courses? The education courses?’
‘Yes, three nights a week over at the state college.’
‘Oh. Well, then, you’ve almost got certification.’
‘I’m afraid not,’ I said. ‘For some reason, they’re incredibly stingy with undergraduate credits, only two credits for three hours. They did give me partial credit for my two years at Wellesley, even though that was a long time ago. You were wise to finish college, Jean.’
I smiled at her, remembering how long we’d known each other.
‘Anyway, I need a hundred and twenty credits to graduate and I have sixty-eight so far. Even going three nights a week, I can only manage to get twelve a year, plus summer credits if I don’t open the cabin for Liz and Rick. It’s going to take a while.’
Jean frowned. ‘Well, take as many as you can …’
A group of women entered the room and there was no more time to talk. I said thank you and goodbye to Jean and then hugged her. ‘Come see me when you can.’
‘I will,’ she promised. Something unsaid still hung in the air, but four other people were waiting impatiently to speak to her. I buttoned my coat and headed downstairs.
I sat at the table in Patty’s kitchen watching her stir the stew, add more basil, and sip her beer.
‘Do you like lamb stew?’ she asked. I had my shoes off, my feet on another chair, and a beer of my own.
‘Mm-hmm. Especially the second day. More flavour.’
‘Good. Me too. Listen, Mary, is it true you really lived in a house like that?’
‘Sort of,’ I said, not wanting to talk about it, not wanting our friendship disturbed by something that had been over long ago.
‘Doesn’t seem possible,’ she said, pushing up the sleeve of her peasant blouse, amazement colouring her voice.
‘Yes – well, our house wasn’t quite that large.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t mean that. Not the house. Not the money. It’s just that you don’t seem old enough to live that way.’
With her quick intuitive clear vision, Patty had seen through the money, through the elegance, to what was missing – vitality, excitement. She had sensed the encroachment of boredom. I tipped my beer bottle towards her. ‘Thank you, Patty.’
The kitchen door opened and Ted came in carrying two more six-packs. He was in his late twenties, medium height, medium build, brown hair, eyes bright behind steel-rimmed glasses. Patty and Ted lived together, saying someday, maybe someday, they might get married, but probably not; they didn’t really believe in marriage. Yet it seemed to me they lived together with more love and commitment than most married couples I’d known.
Ted squeezed Patty’s bottom as he went by the stove and sat down at the table inspecting me.
‘Fancy duds. How was the party?’
‘Okay. Fine. Not as good as here, though.’
I realised as I said it that it was true. I loved the warmth and friendliness of their small kitchen. Ted was going to journalism school at Columbia and drove a cab between classes to earn money. He was warm, intelligent, and suddenly, sharply, I missed being part of a couple, part of something bigger than just one.
Patty, immediately sensitive to a mood, paus
ed as she put the plates down on the table. ‘Listen, when are we going to make this a foursome? This assistant professor over at college stopped by the other night …’
‘No, you don’t,’ I said. ‘No matchmaking. This is a single’s part, at least for now.’
They both nodded, accepting, not pushing me. I tried to explain a little more.
‘As you two would say, I gotta get my own act together first.’
Chapter 13
‘Of course we’re going to see Santa Claus,’ I said. ‘Whoever heard of a Christmas without visiting Santa Claus?’
Friday was trip day, and our last trip before vacation was going to be a visit to Santa Claus. I had scouted the various stores and found the one that suited us best, a gentle giant of a kid, home from college, earning some extra money.
I had watched him through the late afternoon and then talked to him on his supper break, explaining about our school, our kids, wanting him to understand that they should be treated like other children, but that they might startle easily or react differently.
‘Can you bring’ em in around twelve o’clock?’ he asked. ‘Store’s pretty empty then, or at least my floor is. I guess the mothers take the kids home for lunch.’
His red hat, white beard, and wig were stashed on a chair beside him, his own blond hair tied back in a ponytail so that it could be stuffed up beneath the Santa Claus hat. He had taken his hamburger out of the bun and was cutting it up and eating it with a fork.
‘A nose like a cherry is one hell of an inconvenience, I wanta tell you.’
‘You do fine,’ I said. ‘I’ll bring the kids in on Friday around noon. There’ll be eight children, my class and another. I haven’t any idea what they’ll ask for Christmas, but whatever it is, act like it’s okay. Don’t give them any big reaction.’
‘Had a kid today, asked for a daddy. His parents had just gotten divorced.’
‘Mm. Well, I don’t know what these kids will say. They may not want to sit on your lap, and that’s okay too. It takes a little longer sometimes for them to get used to being touched.’
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