The Secret of Clouds

by Alyson Richman

  “Of course,” I said. “No need to explain. It makes sense why you’d have to be so careful.”

  I dipped into the bathroom, turned on the faucet, and rolled up my sleeves.

  * * *

  • • •

  WHEN I walked into the living room, I found Yuri bundled under a down comforter, his face peeking out from a mountain of puffy layers. My first reaction was relief when I saw him, because he did not look sickly the way I remembered Ellie. Instead, he reminded me of a little bird. His blond hair was sticking up in feathered peaks. He had the same pale white skin and sharp cheekbones as his mother. Staring at me were two large marble blue eyes.

  “You must be Yuri,” I said. I was the one who now appeared like a bird. I could hear the sound of my voice, which was almost freakishly chirpish.

  He pushed the covers down toward his waist, and I could see he was still in his pajamas. They were the old-fashioned button-down kind, blue and red checked like the kind my father wore.

  “I’m Ms. Topper and I’m going to be tutoring you in English language arts.”

  He lifted his hand from the comforter and offered me a weak, half-hearted wave.

  I smiled at him. “Yuri, we’re going to have fun together this year.” I sat down and placed my bag next to my feet and pulled out my folder. “We’ll be reading lots of great books . . .” I lifted my eyes to him. “Do you like to read?”

  I saw two textbooks already stacked on the coffee table next to him. Math and science. I also noticed a pocket Game Boy, but there were no clues about any recreational reading.

  My question went unanswered. Instead, Yuri’s eyes drifted toward the bird feeder by the window. Two starlings were pecking at a mound of seed, their feathered tails bobbing up and down. Spattered against the cedar decking was a spray of fallen seeds and wet leaves.

  “Hmmm,” I said, trying to refocus the conversation. “Did you read any books over the summer?” I knew Franklin had sent out a list of suggested summer reading to all the sixth-grade students.

  Again, Yuri didn’t answer. His gaze remained fixed on the window and on the birds outside, as though he envied that they were on the opposite side of the paned glass.

  “So if reading’s not your thing . . . I’m going to take that as a personal challenge for this year . . . to change that.” I forced a laugh. “But in the meantime, how about telling me about something you do like?”

  “I’d like not to be stuck inside all day,” Yuri answered flatly.

  I felt a chill run through me. All my hopes of dazzling Yuri with my boundless energy and creativity were quickly fading.

  “I can imagine it’s very frustrating not being able to go to school like everyone else,” I said, choosing my words carefully.

  “You can’t imagine,” he said, staring at me. “Nobody can.”

  For several seconds, the silence between us felt awkward and oppressive. I didn’t have the buffer of other children in front of me, like I did in my classroom. I couldn’t call on another student to fill the air. I didn’t have a blackboard to turn to and start writing different prompts. It was just the two of us, and I felt like I was drowning in quicksand right there in front of him.

  Luckily, Katya’s voice soon floated into the room like a welcome life raft.

  “Yuri? Ms. Topper?” She stood at the threshold of the living room, holding a tray of cookies and two glasses of milk. “You said you didn’t want tea, but maybe I can tempt you with some cookies?”

  “Now you know my secret weakness.” I laughed. “In my family, food is our first language.”

  Katya smiled and placed the plate of cookies on the table between us.

  “I hope Yuri is being a good boy for you.” She looked over to him and gave him a knowing look, as though she had been listening to our brief exchange.

  “As you can see, he is not so happy to be home all day.”

  Yuri reached over and took a cookie. A thin veil of powdered sugar settled on his lips.

  “I think you’ll find Yuri to be a very smart boy once you get to know him,” she said, lifting the tray into the air. There was a gracefulness to Katya that seemed second nature to her and made her appear different than most of the other mothers I had encountered.

  Yuri took another cookie and looked out the window. He made no attempt to counter anything his mother had said, as some children who are unhappy often do.

  After she had left, I once again tried to whet Yuri’s appetite for what we’d be doing together this year.

  “So like I said, we’ll be reading lots of great books . . . and doing some really fun things like making our own writing notebooks. All the students love decorating them. You’ll see . . .”

  But it was obvious Yuri wasn’t listening to me. His eyes had returned to the window. The one remaining starling perched on the deck flapped its wings and flew off. As I reached into my bag to find my notepad, I could feel Yuri retreating from me, without his uttering a single word.

  3

  OVER the next few weeks, I visited the Krasny house six times, and each visit was less productive than the one before. Yuri failed to complete the homework I assigned him. I had left him a copy of Where the Red Fern Grows that my midlevel reading group at Franklin was using for discussion. When I tried to engage in a discussion with him about the book, it was obvious he hadn’t even bothered to open it. I contemplated approaching Principal Nelson and telling him he might need to consider replacing me because I was failing to connect with Yuri. My frustration was taking its toll.

  “The great irony of it all,” I complained to Suzie over coffee, “is that I have command of twenty-four students in my classroom, but I’m unable to reach the one child who is sitting right across from me. How is that even possible?”

  “I think you’re being way too hard on yourself,” she counseled.

  “I’m not so sure. Maybe I’m just not cut out for this. Maybe I’m not as good a teacher as I thought I was.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Suzie cut me off. “He’s having a hard time. The kid’s cooped up in his living room all day and not able to go to school like other children. Why would he be so quick to bond with you? You need to stop expecting him to be a normal kid, when he’s not. His situation is unique . . . and so is he.”

  I made a face. I knew she was right, but it was so hard to have clarity when I was failing so miserably.

  “The thing about kids, Maggie, is that they can tell right away when you’re trying too hard. It’s like they can smell it on you. He probably hates how everyone strives to put a happy face on when they see him.”

  I knew she was right. I had been trying too hard.

  “Children need to feel that they can trust you. And maybe it takes longer with some kids than with others to earn that trust.”

  * * *

  • • •

  IT was far more challenging than I had anticipated to appear laid-back with Yuri and not push so hard. But then something unexpected happened between us. Something I could never have anticipated would help me connect with Yuri. It was baseball.

  That afternoon, I was twenty minutes late to Yuri’s house. An accident had shut down much of Route 25A, and I had to take two detours to get to him. When I arrived, Katya looked concerned.

  “We weren’t sure you were coming today. You’re always so punctual.”

  “There was a bad accident on 25A,” I apologized.

  “He’s in the living room watching TV. I told him he could watch a game since I assumed you weren’t coming.”

  “No problem,” I said, sliding my bag off my shoulder. “I’ll wash my hands and go say hello.”

  I found Yuri with his feet up on the ottoman, his body bent forward and his eyes fixated on the television screen.

  I walked deeper into the living room, and Yuri’s head turned to me. A look of alarm crossed his fac
e. He didn’t want to have to stop watching the game.

  “Hey, who’s winning?”

  “The Yankees are losing to the Orioles. It’s five nothing, bottom of the ninth.” His voice was tense. “They pulled Clemens, and now Grimsley’s pitching. Too bad they can’t put Rivera in.”

  I smiled and sat down next to him and started watching the game. “You’re right. They’re too far behind to bring in their closer.”

  I could feel Yuri glance at me sideways and smile.

  It was strange. Even with silence between us, I felt the energy shift in the room.

  * * *

  • • •

  I spent the next half an hour with Yuri watching the final inning of the game. It was a study in itself to observe him interacting with the players on the TV screen. The listless, disinterested child I had encountered in my previous visits had now transformed into an incredibly impassioned and informed fan. Seeing him in this new role made me realize that nothing was more alive for Yuri than baseball.

  I was not a complete stranger to the game. I actually considered myself a pretty decent fan, enough to know what a “closer” was, anyway. My older brother was a die-hard Mets fan growing up and so was Bill. I loved going to the games and getting caught up in the feel-good energy of America’s favorite pastime. I even had my own Al Leiter jersey that Bill had recently given me to wear to the occasional game at Shea Stadium.

  But I was clearly out of my league with Yuri, who started quoting batters’ statistics when they came up to the plate. He spoke of his four favorite players—Pettitte, Posada, Rivera, and Jeter—and why they made the Yankees so great.

  When the game ended, Yuri picked up the remote control and shut off the television.

  “Thank you, Ms. Topper, for letting me finish the game. I appreciate it.”

  “It was a pleasure watching you get so into it. You really know a lot about baseball, don’t you?”

  He smiled. “My dad and I really love the Yankees.”

  “Well, you’re in for a treat, then, because guess what? I like the Mets.” I couldn’t resist teasing him.

  “You’re clearly rooting for the wrong team, Ms. Topper!”

  “Am I?” I played along.

  “They haven’t won a World Series in thirteen years.”

  “I guess I have a special spot in my heart for the underdog,” I said.

  “Well, you’ve come to the right place, then, Ms. Topper.”

  “Have I?”

  “Yep.”

  He lifted his hand and placed it on his chest.

  “Meet Yuri Krasny. Underdog number one.”

  “You don’t strike me as an underdog,” I said, feigning that I didn’t see the bevy of orange plastic pill containers next to the lamp, and the large dehumidifier by the couch.

  “No?”

  “Nope. And even if you did, the one thing I know about baseball is that it’s the player you’re least expecting to do anything who then hits the ball out of the park.” All those late-night conversations I’d had with Bill and his fraternity brothers over the years swirled inside my head for a second, and I reached deep into my memory to pull out the right comparison to impress him.

  “You know, like Bucky Dent hit that home run that time.”

  “Did you just say Bucky Dent?” An expression of disbelief washed over him. “You know who he is?”

  Miraculously, a random reference that Bill had made over the summer to a friend of ours visiting from Boston about Bucky Dent’s famous home run against the Red Sox had stayed with me.

  “Of course I do. He was a little guy, not a particularly good hitter. But he still had one of the most important hits in Yankee history.”

  I saw Yuri’s face change when I said that. Again, I suddenly felt something shift between us, and my spirit lifted now that I knew we had a shared interest.

  I now had the hook with him I had been looking for. Who knew that listening to Bill and his buddies drone on about baseball for all those years would finally come in handy?

  But it clearly had.

  Yuri lifted his chin and looked back at me. And that’s when I saw the sparkle of light behind his eyes.

  It glimmered so brightly, it was blinding.

  4

  “WHY do you love baseball so much?” Now I had Yuri’s interest, and I wasn’t about to lose it.

  “The thing with baseball, Ms. Topper, is that everything about it is unpredictable. You never know what’s going to happen . . . You can either make the right play or the wrong play. You don’t know if it’s the right decision, but you have to go with your instinct,” Yuri explained.

  It was interesting to listen to him. So much of what he said made me think about my own decisions in teaching. I never knew who would be in my class or what impact their personalities would have on my teaching. There were so many varied outcomes when I began my lesson plan each day. Every student could bring about a small ripple of change.

  I couldn’t wait to tell Suzie that I had made a breakthrough with Yuri.

  “Good for you,” Suzie said over coffee. “Just as I expected, these things have a way of working themselves out naturally if you don’t push too hard.”

  “What would I do without you?” I teased her.

  Suzie touched one of her metallic autumn earrings and flashed me a smile. “I’m not so sure. You’d be second-guessing yourself a whole lot more.”

  “At least now I have a plan of action. I’m going to use baseball as a way to get Yuri more interested in our lessons.”

  Suzie smiled. “Now, that’s the Maggie I know and love. I can’t wait to see what unfolds next with the two of you.”

  * * *

  • • •

  I was energized knowing I had Yuri’s love of baseball to work with. Before I went to his house again, I needed to find a novel we could use for “literacy circles,” the informal book discussions I did with all my classes.

  That night, I was on my knees with a box of books I had picked up at last year’s Scholastic Book Fair when Bill came home.

  “Hey,” he said as he placed his briefcase on the chair and pulled off his coat. “How was school?” From beneath the starched white cotton, I could make out the contours of Bill’s strong back. A gold-and-navy-striped silk tie, its knot already loosened, dangled from his neck.

  “Sorry, I haven’t gotten around to making dinner yet. Maybe we can order in Chinese?” I suggested, peeling myself away from the box of books.

  I heard him walk into the kitchen and open the refrigerator, followed seconds later by the familiar sound of the snap and fizzle of a beer can being opened. Then the unmistakable sigh that followed the initial gulp.

  He walked back into the living room, pulling his tie off from around his collar. “Yeah, sure. Golden Wok sounds good.”

  “You know, you saved me today . . . That student I told you about . . . the one I was having so much difficulty reaching? Well, I finally broke through to him, and it was with something so unexpected.”

  Bill gave me a puzzled look.

  I went over to him and kissed him. “Listening to you all these years really helped me with this particular student. And you know, I was almost ready to give up on the tutoring thing.”

  “So stop burying the lede, Maggie. How did I help?” He took another swig of his beer.

  “With baseball. It seems we have a little Mets-Yankees rivalry going on now.”

  “Really? Glad to be of service.”

  “Yeah, he’s a die-hard Yankees fan. I somehow pulled out a Bucky Dent reference I picked up from you. It must have been divine inspiration at that moment.”

  He smiled, faintly amused.

  “I’ve got complete confidence in you. You’ll have him loving the Mets by the end of the year.”

  Bill went to the large chair and reached for
the TV remote.

  “Are you going to call Golden Wok, or should I?”

  He was already flipping through the channels.

  “I owe you for today,” I joked. “Let me do it.”

  5

  I looked for clues in every one of my students’ work. A single sentence could illuminate whether something was going on in their families or shed light on a hidden anxiety. The best, however, was when it revealed a passion for something. I didn’t care if it was music or baseball. What I believed more than anything was that having something in your life that you loved deeply sustained you.

  * * *

  • • •

  I would not forget that my first clue into Yuri’s heart was baseball, but I still hadn’t found the right book for us to read together. After Bill couldn’t remember what his favorite book was when he was twelve, I thought I might have a better chance with my brother, Charlie, up in Boston.

  “That’s easy, Mags. Shoeless Joe. It was the inspiration for Field of Dreams, and what baseball-loving twelve-year-old doesn’t love that movie? Hold on a sec and I’ll check who the author is. I think I still have my copy.”

  I laughed to myself. Charlie had apparently also inherited my affinity for dragging along his old books wherever he moved.

  A few seconds later he was huffing and puffing into the receiver. “Got it right here. W. P. Kinsella. The kid’s going to love it. It’s got everything . . . baseball . . . magic. A legend coming back to life.” He was getting excited just remembering the book. “The opportunity to right old wrongs . . .”

  “You’re amazing. I owe you one.”

  “More like ten,” he kidded with me.

  “Are you and Annie coming down for Thanksgiving?”

  “Do you think Mom would ever let me off the hook?” I could see him grinning behind the phone. “Yeah, we’ll be there. Is Dad going to serenade us with one of his new violins?”