We walked together into the examining-room and over to the big dental chair where Hannah lay, her eyes still closed.
‘I’m sorry about her dress,’ Dr Sullivan said, touching the splotches of dark red blood.
At his touch Hannah opened her eyes.
‘Hannah,’ he said, ‘you were very brave. It’s all over now and I won’t do this to you again. Do you want to get a new ring?’
Hannah shook her head. One was enough for her. She wore her ruby ring each day, her finger turning steadily greener underneath it.
‘I have her mouth packed so she isn’t able to speak much. Take it out in about an hour and let her rinse.’
I put out my hand to Hannah and she took it and followed me to the door. Then I turned back and put out my other hand to Dr Sullivan.
‘Thank you.’
‘Yes. Well, be sure you bring her regularly now.’ He touched Hannah’s shoulder. ‘You really were a good girl. The best girl ever.’
Hannah dozed beside me all the way back, her head on my shoulder. I drove as carefully as I could, while in my head the words went round: ‘The best girl, the best girl, the best girl ever …’
We were almost back to school when I changed my mind. I turned the car around and, with Hannah still asleep, I drove to my apartment.
She followed me groggily out of the car and leaned against me as I unlocked the apartment door. Up the yellow-carpeted stairs to the couch in the living-room. I sat down and put my feet up on the coffee table and Hannah cuddled down beside me.
My heart was pounding. I knew I shouldn’t be doing this. The school and Mrs Rosnic both thought we were at the dentist’s. I had no permission to bring Hannah to my home. But I wanted her there so badly. I wanted just to keep her a little longer, keep her safe.
Hannah opened her eyes briefly and stared around the room. ‘Is nice,’ she said.
I slipped off her dress, washed out the stains in cold water and hung the dress on the back porch to dry. Then I sat down again beside Hannah while she slept. I waited till her sleep was deep enough so that I could move without disturbing her, and then I got up and went to my writing desk.
I had to try again. I couldn’t leave Hannah. Not yet. She was still too vulnerable, still on the verge of becoming. There was still too much to do.
Dear Mrs Huntington,
I am writing to ask if you and the Board of Directors will reconsider your decision of last week. I know that on paper my credits are lacking, but I’m sure if I could talk to you and the Board about my position, I could explain …
When I had finished the letter I woke Hannah, led her to the bathroom, and took out the cotton packing as gently as I could. She rinsed her mouth, put her dress on, and then, feeling better, ate a dish of raspberry sherbet.
All the way back to school she held the small glass vial of teeth. When we arrived she removed Henry’s flowers from my table and set the little bottle there instead.
‘Keep tooths there,’ she said as the boys watched in awe.
I kept them there for the rest of the year and I have them still, wrapped in tissue in a small white box inside my bureau drawer.
Chapter 20
Jean Huntington called me during lunchtime at the school.
‘I’m speaking officially, Mary, as Board President. I’m only the spokesman for the Board. I hope you understand that. It’s not going to be possible for you to appear at a Board meeting. I’m sorry, but it’s against all previous precedent. There is an appointed spokesman for teachers, your Director. She is the official member of the Board who represents all teachers. Whatever business you have should be presented through her.’
‘I see. All right.’
‘Mary. Please wait a minute. Speaking now as a friend, not Board President, whatever I can do – well, I know how much the school means to you.’
‘Thank you, Jean. I’ll write something up and give it to the Director. When’s the Board meeting?’
‘Actually – uh, tomorrow night. Things are just incredibly busy … You wouldn’t believe –’
‘I know,’ I said, remembering the phrases. ‘This time of year …’
‘Exactly. Well, I knew you’d understand. And I will do whatever –’
‘Right. Thanks again.’
The floor by the telephone in the Director’s office seemed like quicksand, and I felt as if I were sinking, going under. I replaced the phone and hurried back to my classroom.
If Jean’s days were hectic, ours were chaotic. We were in the midst of a crisis and there was no time to think about anything except the immediate moment.
One of the younger children had come down with measles. Her teacher was three months’ pregnant and decided the risk of exposure was too great so she was out and the Director had taken over her class.
Yesterday two more mothers called reporting measles. Worse than that, Patty had caught the measles too and was very ill. I talked to Ted on the phone each night. He was staying home, but the doctor thought they might have to move Patty to the hospital.
With Patty out, her class became bedlam. Tina undressed not only on the bus but all day long. Wanda Gomez bit her arm and slapped her face. At lunch Barbara Lasky massaged franks and beans into her hair as if they were shampoo, and Janie laughed hysterically all day and then gouged a hunk out of the Director’s arm on her way to the bus.
In one way, it underlined Patty’s excellence. When she was there her room was quiet and peaceful. The girls studied, read, worked diligently in their workbooks; in the afternoon they did various arts and crafts projects. Patty had taught both Wanda and Tina to knit, and I loved to walk into their room and find Patty and the girls sitting around a table like a Wednesday ladies’ sewing circle. But without Patty the room fell apart. The girls could not sustain what she had taught them; their security was based in Patty and they seemed able to function only in the atmosphere that she provided.
There was no crisis teacher in our school, though other schools like ours use one at times like this. A crisis teacher is a regular part of the school but doesn’t have a class of her own. Instead she goes wherever she is needed, coping with the most difficult problems, taking over in emergencies.
If we had had such a teacher, perhaps she could have handled Patty’s class during the measles epidemic with a minimum of disruption. As it was, we all rocked in chaos during the day and dropped into bed exhausted at night.
The Director hired one substitute after another to handle Patty’s class during the morning hours; not one lasted more than a day. We struggled through lunch alone, the eight children and myself. In the afternoon, the Director divided the girls up, parcelling them out to different classrooms.
My children, because they were closer to Patty’s class, joining them for Circle and for lunch, were more affected by Patty’s absence than the rest of the school. I tried to be kinder, stronger, more patient, knowing how difficult it was for them. But I was in a turmoil as well. I couldn’t help but wonder if my presence was as crucial to my children as Patty’s was to her class. If so, what would happen next year if the worst should occur and I couldn’t come back?
I began to look at my four even more closely. Brian was going to be all right, I was sure of that. Ever since he had rescued Hannah’s purse on the bus ride, he had grown steadier; bolder; more competent. He would be going to P.S. 24 in the fall and he was going to make it. He had dealt with the outside world now, and just the dealing with it had reduced his terror.
Rufus was almost ready. Square, solid, loving Rufus, his plumpness almost gone, never absent any more. No pseudo-illnesses, no sitting under the table talking to himself, able now to handle both academics and social situations. I called his parents and suggested they explore and also urge our psychologist to investigate the possibilities of a Neurologically Impaired class for him. The nystagmus in his eyes, his awkward gait, the many reversals were all indications, soft signs, of some sort of neurological involvement. One more year, particularly in the spacious
new school building with its own swimming pool, would have helped, would have solidified all he had gained, but Rufus would be okay either way, I thought.
Jamie, little Jamie. I held him as often as I could and praised him when he wrote and said, ‘My name is Jamie Walker.’ He had written that first a year ago; the only other things he had written since were his address and his phone number. Jamie was never going to be ‘all right’, but he had a large, warm, supportive family, a mother and father and four older brothers who took him with them when they went fishing or even to the movies. Whatever happened at school, Jamie would be all right at home.
Hannah. She was almost pretty now. Rufus had instigated what he called (to my great pleasure) Wait Watchers. Under his direction we all got weighed each Monday and Thursday morning. I had brought in scales, and twice a week we all took off our shoes and Rufus weighed us while Brian recorded the results on a chart on the wall. We had all lost a little weight, but Hannah lost twenty pounds.
Now, too, she had five new dresses. A woman had called me one day at school and identified herself only as Hannah’s godmother. She said she was visiting the Rosnics and couldn’t get over the changes in Hannah. She was excited and pleased and wanted to know if it would be all right to buy Hannah some new clothes. All right? It was marvellous. So now Hannah had a new dress for each day, and Mrs Rosnic kept them crisp and clean. Hannah’s hair had almost grown back and it was soft and silky and bright and her eyes remained blue and clear and beautiful. She had come so far, and now I poured every extra bit of energy I could find into teaching her all that I could. But even so, she remained vulnerable.
While Patty was absent, the Director sent Janie and Barbara Lasky to our room in the afternoon. Barbara was no problem; she sat in the sun contentedly, combing her hair with pieces from the erector set, and I let her sit. But Janie could not be left alone. By herself, she wound her hands around her throat and pressed her thumbs against her larynx. Her hands were amazingly strong, and after she had wrung her neck hard enough to leave deep red welts and make herself vomit, I kept her beside me.
There was never time in the morning now for maths, so in the afternoon we all gathered at the two round tables and worked on maths problems. Brian and Rufus were doing a unit on measurement in their workbooks; I tried to make it more meaningful by having them measure the room, the windows, their pencils and books. They did pretty well, helping each other with the rulers and yardsticks.
The rest of us added and subtracted, joined and separated sets of beads, bottle caps, and buttons. Jamie sorted marbles into the muffin tin. Sorting is the beginning of arithmetic.
The afternoon of the phone call from Jean Huntington, I went back to my class and took over from the Director, who was looking more tired than I’d ever seen her. I explained about the call and said I’d bring in a letter the next day.
She nodded and said she’d do what she could, but the way she said it did little to raise my hopes.
I sat back down with the girls, Hannah and Janie on either side of me. I had brought in my grandmother’s button box. As a child, this same painted-tin button box had been a source of enchantment. It was kept for special times, when I was sick or when there had been a long, long period of rain. During difficult days, when hours passed slowly, my mother brought out the button box. Now I laid out three round mother-of-pearl buttons and two made of black jet. Just the physical feel of the cool stones was a pleasure.
‘How many altogether?’ I asked
Without warning, Janie swept the pearl and jet buttons off the table and cradled them in her hands. I had no idea what she would do with them: throw them, eat them, run away?
Instead she turned and pulled one of my hands towards her, opening my palm. ‘One, two, three, four, five.’
I was amazed. Tired as I was, I could feel a physical jolt of pleasure. ‘Good for you,’ I said. ‘Good for you, lovey. That’s exactly right.’
Crash. The whole button box was on the floor and Hannah was on her feet, shouting at me. ‘You not call her that! She not lovey. I lovey. You not even know her!’
‘Hannah, Hannah,’ I said, weariness blurring my eyes. ‘You’re right. I’m sorry. But come on, now, there’s room for lots of “loveys” in the world.’
Not in Hannah’s world.
That night when I wrote the letter to the Board for their meeting the following evening, I tried to combine professional knowledge with my urgent desire to teach. But fatigue took over and what came out seemed like a stilted plea.
I turned in the letter the next morning and then called Ted to check on Patty.
She was better; her fever was down and the black splitting headaches had eased. I told Ted about Janie, knowing Patty would be pleased – and then added that I had written my letter of appeal.
Ted didn’t approve. ‘You should strike, damn it. The other teachers would support you – and rumours must be filtering out because a couple of mothers have called here, trying to sound Patty out on what to do. They’d organise. Look, Patty isn’t up to it, but I can help you get started. First thing is to get a petition –’
I interrupted. ‘Ted, I can’t do that. This place is a shambles now with Patty out and so many kids sick or just coming back. The Director is doing four jobs at once. It’s already the beginning of June, almost the end of the year. I can’t tear up the school even more, with the move to the new school planned for fall. Besides,’ I said honestly, ‘it’s not my style. I wouldn’t even know how to begin to strike.’
‘Yeah,’ Ted grunted. ‘That’s the worst of it. You’re right. It’s not your style. Listen, I gotta go. Keep in touch, okay?’
I always read to the children in the afternoon. After lunch I’d get down on the rug or mats where they rested and read aloud to them. At first I read them short stories from various story books, but this year, as I became more and more aware of their intelligence and potential, I began to read whole books. My children ranged in age from eight to twelve, but because they were reading below grade level, the stories in their reading books were always about younger children. They needed to hear about children their own age, what these children were like, what kind of problems they encountered and dealt with.
I discussed it at our staff meeting. Our psychiatrist was sceptical about the children’s ability to maintain an interest over the extended period it took to read a book a chapter or two at a time. The Director and the psychologist doubted whether they would be able to remember what was happening from day to day. But psychiatrist, psycholo-gist, and Director were wrong – and they were the first to admit it and be pleased by the rapt attention of the children as I read to them each day after lunch.
Brian, Rufus, and Hannah (Jamie just cuddled close) not only remembered the facts, they related to the children in the book and made judgements and interpretations. I was finding out what I had suspected all along. We need to teach emotionally disturbed children more rather than less. Because of their fears, their inhibitions, their bizarre traits, we tend to underestimate them. But learning is therapeutic; the ability to handle knowledge is comforting, particularly for children who have such difficulty in dealing with emotion.
We had finished The Secret Garden, which they had all loved. Now we were reading a book called Peter and His Horse. It was about a boy, ten years old, who lived close to a gentleman who raised thoroughbred horses. Peter began to help train a colt named Star – and became more effective with him than any of the adult trainers. Peter loved Star, racing to see him as soon as his chores were done. Star responded and could sense when Peter was on his way and whinnied and trotted to the gate to wait for him.
Brian, Rufus, and Hannah were fascinated by this. Each longed for some sort of pet of his own, so they understood how Peter felt and they were delighted that Star also loved Peter.
Peter trained Star carefully each day, readying him for the County Horse Show. Everyone was excited. Surely Star would win, he was so beautiful and Peter had trained him to perform so well. Then,
just the day before the show, Peter fell on his way to Star and broke his leg. He had to go to the hospital and have a cast put on his leg. Peter wouldn’t be able to go to the horse show.
Hannah and Brian both moaned.
‘Read. Hurry up, Mary. Find out what happens,’ said Rufus, unable to stand the suspense.
The man who owned Star took him to the show. Everyone agreed that that’s what Peter would want. Star should have his chance to win the blue ribbon.
Star’s owner groomed him carefully, but when Star entered the ring he forgot all his training.
‘Oh, boy,’ said Hannah. ‘Oh, boy.’
Instead of doing what he was supposed to do, Star trotted faster and faster around the ring, tossing his head from side to side, searching for Peter.
The judges dismissed him, and his owner took Star back home in disgrace.
Peter came home from the hospital a few days later, but the man who owned Star wouldn’t let Peter even see the horse. He was angry with Peter; he told Peter he had made Star too dependent on him and done Star more harm than good.
When I finished the chapter we sat silently. This was unexpected. The thought that you could hurt a pet by too much or the wrong kind of loving was a new idea, one that we had never talked about.
Hannah broke the silence. ‘That Star, him bad. He just like kids in Patty’s class. He good if Peter there. They good when Patty there. They not good when she gone. That both their trouble.’
I was amazed at her reaction. I knew she was both intelligent and aware, but I hadn’t realised how far she was able to go.
Brian said, ‘Peter didn’t mean to be bad to Star, Mary, did he? He didn’t want to hurt him. I think it was like that man said. Star just got – what was that word, Mary?’
‘Dependent,’ said Rufus, before I had a chance.
‘Yeah. Star got dependent on Peter.’
Brian and Hannah and Rufus solemnly nodded their heads in agreement.
‘And Patty’s class?’ I asked. ‘You think they’re like Star? They’re too dependent on Patty?’
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