“Towards what, John?”
“That I cannot tell you, Mrs. Powell. Not yet.”
“Why not, John?”
“My arrogance has been replaced by humility and fear. Perhaps in time?”
“Time, John? There is so little.”
“Time – I feel the seconds ticking, dripping from my body like droplets of blood. Time. The great dictator. A living thing in its own right. Always here, always there, we know it is ahead of us, we know it is behind us. Time.” His voice turned bitter… “But time doesn’t really exist for us. We exist for time. Where does the time go? Nowhere. It is men that must who I was. The judge, the jury, they hated my When I was found guilty, I was given the move on, the human life that is ticked away. Time is a false barometer.”
“Keep your mystery, then. It’s your choice.” She picked up a fork and ate. “Back to this teaching business… how can I help?”
“Access to your library for teaching purposes?”
“Consider every book yours. Do you have a lesson plan for these adopted students of yours?”
“From what I’ve been warned, I may not last a day.” He laughed, returned to his chair and began his meal. “I thought I should begin with an ancient Greek approach.”
“What is that?”
“Asking questions and listening, prattling on and on without end.”
“Like Socrates.”
“Exactly.”
“Teenagers are a little different today.”
“Are they, Mrs. Powell? With all our technology, have people really changed in the last twenty-five hundred years?”
“I don’t understand,” she said softly.
John smiled, raising a glass of water. “The real wisdom of Socrates was that he was aware of his ignorance.” He took a long sip, then winked at the old lady.
The next day, John woke up late. He was coughing and had a terrible headache. He felt disoriented and his eyes hurt. He stumbled into the bathroom and turned on the light. The brightness hurt his eyes. He vomited and returned to the bed with the pill bottles he received in Mexico. He couldn’t focus on the small typed directions on the bottles.
Mrs. Powell was passing through the upstairs hallway. She heard his coughing and knocked on his bedroom door.
He answered.
“About your medications,” she said. “I have some new drugs you will need to start taking. Mornings are the worst times. How do your muscles feel?”
“I feel sore all over,” John said.
“Any dizziness?”
“Some.”
She went downstairs to the kitchen and returned with a tray of different medications.
“There are so many,” he said.
“All necessary,” she reassured him. “Corticosteroids and osmotic diuretics to phenytoin to reduce ulcers.”
After taking the medicines, he slept through the day. Mrs. Powell woke him up in the late afternoon.
“Feeling better?” she asked.
“Much,” John said.
“Still up to teaching?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Take a shower and dress while I prepare you a late lunch,” Mrs. Powell said.
She gave him another dose of medicine before she went down to the kitchen. She heated up the soup she’d prepared earlier in the day. A faint singing sound resonated from upstairs. Mrs. Powell knew she had heard the song before. She went to the landing and listened.
John was singing an old spiritual song. “Swing low, sweet chariot,” he sang. “Coming for to carry me home. Swing low, sweet chariot, coming for to carry me home. I looked over Jordan and what did I see, coming for to carry me home. A band of angels coming after me, coming for to carry me home.”
During lunch, John seemed animated and full of energy as Mrs. Powell reminisced about her youth.
reduce brain swelling seizures, antacids to and pressure, control stress
“When I was a child, teaching was a profession taught by dedicated priests and nuns in private schools and in the public schools teachers taught until they couldn't teach anymore. Now? It’s all about the money,” she said with dismay. “Our current society, our politicians, they’ve dismembered the American family. Now look at the mess we’re in. We made our kids overweight, sedated them with television, now the Internet, MP3’s and Ipods, and video games. How can anyone teach? What is there to learn that has gravity?” She picked up a small camera and snapped a Polaroid of him. “A keepsake for you,” Mrs. Powell said. “Your first day of school.”
“You’re even more anxious than I am,” John realized with surprise.
After lunch, they visited the house library where John borrowed a box full of books and magazines. She helped him put them in the Toyota. While he was slipping on a tweed sport coat she had given him, Mrs. Powell gave him a few pills to keep in his pocket.
“We don’t want you to overmedicate,” she said, “but if you feel nausea or another headache, take these.”
John picked up his cane leaning by the door. “In case I fall down,” he joked.
“The weather is turning. Remind the kids to start wearing their mittens and scarves.”
“Teenagers don’t wear mittens and scarves.” John laughed. “Why, even when I was a teenager, we walked through blizzards in thin leather jackets, our hands tucked in our pockets.”
“Some things never change, I suppose?”
“Especially not the indiscretion and short sightedness of youth.”
“Remember to make a good first impression,” the old woman said.
John left out the back door for the SUV. His gait was uneasy, shoulders hunched.
“Loose in a world that he no longer understands.”
Mrs. Powell went to the cupboard. There was a pie to bake.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Battle drove down the alley and parked in the small parking lot behind the red brick building. Only one car was still left in the lot after normal hours. It was an old blue Saab. Mr. Wirtz’s car.
John reached for his cane but changed his mind. “First impressions,” he remembered. Instead he grabbed the box of reading materials. After locking the car he followed the sidewalk around to the front of the school and entered. He was surprised to find five teenagers waiting for him.
Up close, they were such different sizes and shapes. Julio reminded him of a big brown bowling ball with jelly arms. Matt was a skinny carrot. Toby was a static ball of energy. Marie, a mousy over-dressed child. And Amber… He didn’t know what to make of the tiny girl dressed in hand-medowns. She had an eerie anger and strange confidence in her posture, like a child waiting for the decade to hurry up so she could be a woman. He met her glaring eyes with his own steady gaze.
Not yet , he thought. Take it slow. Battle blinked and smiled at the group. “You must be the Tadpoles,” he said.
“You must be our new baby-sitter,” Amber said.
“More like a prison guard,” John Battle laughed. “Want to follow me to your cell? It’s room B1. The room with bars on the windows.” He descended the stairs towards the basement.
“He’s got to be kidding, right?” Julio asked.
“Hey, mister,” Matt called out. “You’re not really making us go to the dungeon are you?”
“It’s only a room,” John called up.
The Tadpoles hurried as a group to the stairwell.
“Did they tell you it’s haunted?” Toby asked.
“No,” John said, continuing down the steps.
“A teenager hung himself in there fifty years ago,” Toby said.
“Must have had a tough teacher,” Battle quipped.
The teens exchanged uncertain glances.
“This is a joke,” Marie realized. “He’s trying to freak us out on the first day.”
“I’m going outside for a smoke.” Matt threw up his hands.
“Me, too,” said Toby.
“See you,” Amber said as she descended the stairs.
Marie and Julio followed he
r down.
Matt leaned over the railing. “Traitors.”
“Hey, man, I ain't going to jail again,” Julio said.
“Teacher’s pet! Teacher's pet!” Toby clucked.
Julio raised his hand over his head and gave him an obscene gesture.
Mr. Wirtz appeared from his office and hurried to the stairwell. He grabbed Toby and Matt by their ear lobes.
“Gentlemen,” he advised, “Remember what I said about this being your last chance?”
“But the dungeon is haunted, Mr. Wirtz.”
“Ah, yes, the ancient legend about the teacher committing suicide. I’ve heard it a million times.” He let go of their ears. “But it never happened.”
Toby looked to Matt for help. “I thought it was a student.”
Matt smiled. “Last one down is a rotten egg!”
He took the steps two at a time, Toby on his heels. When they reached the bottom of the stairs, a dark hallway with only the bright lights of room B1 in the distance greeted them. They bounded towards it and met the other bewildered Tadpoles outside the dreary door. Inside the room, there was an old cracked slate blackboard on the far wall, with the word WELCOME written on it. In the center of the room stood a long Formica table with six folding chairs set around it. There was nothing of scholastic use in the room. No reference books, no high tech computers, no witty posters, and no giant words of wisdom hanging from a mobile. The new teacher hovered over the table and dumped his box of books and magazines out. The students entered.
“On the table are magazines and books about all kinds of things. Find yourself in one of them. Show me who you are. You have one hour.”
“What if we want to leave?”
“Then leave,” Battle said. “Either way I get paid. I’ll be here. Today, tomorrow, the day after that.”
“You’re just trying to prove you're in charge,” Matt argued.
“In charge of what?” Mr. Battle asked.
“Us.”
“Us,” Battle repeated.
“You can’t win, dude,” Julio said.
Battle opened his hand and spread his fingers. “Five against one. Not very good odds for me.”
Toby inspected the windows. “Why does this room have bars anyway?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Battle said. “You’re not exactly career criminals.”
“What do you teach?” Toby asked. “Math, I’ll bet.”
“I stink at math.”
“Social Studies,” Matt guessed.
“Don’t say Gym,” Julio laughed. “You’re too scrawny for a gym teacher.”
“No gym, Mr. Ramirez.”
Julio’s eyes widened. “You heard of me?”
“Your ego and reputation precede you.”
Amber approached the table and sifted through the books. “My guess is you teach philosophy.”
“They don’t teach philosophy in this high school,” Matt said. “Only the basics.”
Marie looked over her shoulder at the dark hallway. It gave her the creeps. “Why aren’t there any lights on out here?”
“Budget cuts, maybe?” Battle suggested. “Or maybe the school doesn’t want to spend any more than they have to on you guys.”
The Tadpoles looked at each other. Mr. Battle was probably correct.
“That’s obvious, considering they stuffed us in an empty room with ghosts,” Amber said.
One by one, they grabbed chairs and dropped into them.
Mr. Battle picked up a book. “Anyone here ever read THE ART OF WAR by Sun Tzu? Master the concepts in this book and you will thrive in business.” He set the book down and picked up another. “Ah! Sir Isaac Newton’s laws! Gravity, motion, force, inertia... He was born in 1643. As a boy, Isaac threatened to kill his family by burning down the house. His teachers called him idle and inattentive. Young Isaac survived the Black Death that wiped out a large portion of England’s population. Then came the Great Fire of London. Mere inconveniences to a young man who woke up one day with a passionate yearning for... Anybody?”
“Let me guess,” Toby said. “He wanted to get laid?”
His friends laughed.
Mr. Battle leaned against the table, facing the boy. “Answers, Toby. He wanted answers! Don't we all? Don't we all want to know the truth about things? Why dad drinks and why we’re always broke and why those pimples get bigger instead of smaller and why we feel confused and why others are indifferent to us...” He stood up, sniffed the air and stared directly at Julio. “Let me guess. Beer?”
Julio crossed his arms and legs, staring at the man with relaxed defiance. “Bud.”
An ugly silence lapsed.
The teens froze, anticipating the new teacher’s reaction.
Battle slowly started to stare up at something on the ceiling for the longest time. One by one, the kids leaned back and looked up at where they thought he was looking. But there was nothing up there. Just an old mildewed white ceiling.
Mr. Battle finally spoke, his intense eyes taking them all in. “From personal experience, I have learned that it is difficult to focus on a task at hand when you drink. You get distracted from what the important little things.” He picked up a magazine and suddenly, violently, tossed it at Julio. “An article for you from The Journal of Medicine about alcohol and the brain.” Mr. Battle lifted a second magazine from the table and tossed it at Julio, too. “Or, if you choose to imbibe the rest of your life, a Wine Connoisseur magazine. Think up, Julio. If you’re going to do something, do it well.” Now he turned on Toby, asking out of the blue, “What do you know about dyslexia, Toby?”
Toby squirmed and stared at the floor.
Battle continued without pause. “A lot of famous people have it, you know. Some say it's a gift! A sign of superior intelligence. I’m told Einstein had it. So did Leonardo Da Vinci, Thomas Jefferson, Henry Ford, even George Washington.”
“Sure,” Toby mumbled.
Battle pulled a book from the pile and handed it to him. “Read this and prove me wrong.”
“Just because it's in a book doesn’t make it true,” Toby said. “You ever read MEIN KAMPF?”
“I agree with you,” Battle said, without patronizing. “Books are not the absolute truth. One man’s truth may be another man’s lie. But we must understand the material before we can discuss it fairly. Listen,” he begged them all in earnest, “We all have our own little inconveniences, our own unresolved problems... But not here. Finding your own truth starts here if you are willing. I’ve read your records. I think the school system screwed you. And your friends? They screw you even more with misinformation and petty hearsay. The truth is, you’re all special and unique, and I don’t want to change who you are - I only want to help you see how you are.”
“So we can what?” Amber was getting irritated.
“Grow from the experience! I'm told you call yourselves Tadpoles. A tadpole of what? A frog, a newt, a toad or salamander?”
The kids looked to each other for help. They hadn’t thought that far ahead when they created their gang name.
The new teacher hung his head. “I thought as much. You haven't even been taught to imagine or dream yet.”
Toby stood up, irritated. “What does this have to do with high school? You’re supposed to teach us. That’s what Mr. Wirtz said.”
“I have nothing to teach you,” John admitted, “But you can teach yourselves nothing or everything. It's up to you.” He took a seat and looked at his watch. “You have two hours to kill. How you kill it is up to you. If anyone has any questions, any questions about anything, please feel free to ask me and I’ll offer suggestions to steer you in the right direction.”
“What about our lockers?” Matt said. “My school work is in there.”
“I was told your lockers were emptied out and the contents thrown away.”
“I was almost done with three tests,” Julio lied.
“What tests were they?” the teacher asked.
“Math, English and anothe
r English,” Julio lied again.
“What were they about?”
“I can’t remember,” Julio lied for a third time.
John held up three fingers. “I’m a perfect stranger to you, Julio. There’s no reason to lie to me. Three times already.”
“I’m not lyin’,” Julio said.
“Yes you are,” Amber interrupted.
“You lie about everything, Julio,” Marie said.
“He cheats, too,” Matt snickered, kicking at a table leg.
“Your two hours starts now.” Mr. Battle headed for the door.
“You got a name teacher person?” Amber asked him.
“My name is John Battle.”
“Thanks for the info,” she said.
“You’re welcome.” He smiled, then left the room.
The impatient Tadpoles sat there for less than half a minute in silence.
“We got to do this until next year?” Matt asked.
“No way,” Toby said.
“Another jerk teacher,” Julio yawned.
They all stared at the pile of reading materials. This was not what they expected. Amber grabbed an old magazine. She flipped through the pages, didn’t like what she saw and grabbed another. Finding something she liked, she rose and dragged her chair to a corner where she could prop her feet up on an old steam radiator.
“What are you doing?” Matt asked.
“It’s cold outside,” Amber said.
“No, I mean what are you doing reading?”
“I’m an intellectual,” she smirked.
“Man, I need a beer,” Julio yawned again.
Matt picked up the biography of Charles Darwin and read the front and back covers.
“You’re not serious?” Marie whispered.
“No lights at the log,” he frowned.
Marie tried to get Julio’s attention but his eyes were closed now and he was trying to sleep. She fiddled with her hair, trying to attract Toby. Instead, he started thumbing through the stack of books.
“Not you, too?” Marie complained.
“Just chillin’,” he said. He parked himself on the floor, using the seat of his chair as a table.
Marie shook her head. They were all going crazy on her. Wigging out. She stomped her foot and climbed up on the folding table, grandstanding for attention.
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