City Kid

by Mary MacCracken

  “See the snake skin?”

  “Not yet.”

  “There, over the table.”

  I shaded my eyes. Now against one wall I could make out a narrow table covered with blue jeans, underwear, and T-shirts. That must be where they kept their clothes. Above the table, almost the same color as the wall, I saw the snake skin.

  “I see it. It is big.”

  I turned back to Luke. “I’m glad you found the skin and not the snake. It’s good you have sharp eyes.”

  Time to go. Time to go. I started walking back toward the field. Luke walked beside me. How to leave him? How to say good-bye? Not good-bye. What did they say? Auf wiedersehen? Till we meet again. Whatever you say, don’t cry.

  We were back at the field. When we got to the stream I said to Luke, “Okay. Watch this. This time I’m going to do it right.” I held my arms out like a tightrope walker and never missed a step.

  “Allll right, way to go,” Luke rewarded me. We were almost to the mole hole. Do it here. If you’re going to say good-bye, do it here. Not in front of the whole school.

  I knelt and looked down the mole hole, more to get myself on Luke’s level than for any other reason.

  “What are you going to do this summer, Luke?”

  “Visit my father,” he answered without hesitation. “Maybe we’re going to go to Florida, even.”

  I nodded, missing him already. “You deserve it, Luke. You’ve worked hard, your reading is really coming along, and your math’s terrific. How many days were you absent this month?”

  “None,” Luke said.

  “Great. And I know you haven’t been in the office or the police station. You can feel real proud of yourself, Luke. Now, listen, I’ll write to you,” I said. “I’ll send you a postcard with my address and maybe you’ll write back.”

  Now it was Luke’s turn to nod.

  I stirred the mole hole a little. If I couldn’t find the mole, maybe I could find the words to say good-bye.

  “Will you be all right till school ends? Do your work? Keep out of trouble? Call me if you need me?”

  Again Luke nodded.

  “Okay, then, Give me a hug good-bye and I’ll see you in the fall.”

  Luke’s arms went tight around my neck. I could feel his breath against the side of my face, but he didn’t say anything. Not “good-bye.” Not even “see ya.” He just held on tight. We stayed like that for a couple of seconds and then Luke dropped his arms and started to run, turned and ran backward, and said, “I’ll race you. All the way back.”

  “Okay.” I ran just behind Luke, down the narrow streets, past the lipstick factory, leaving wet footprints on the hot sidewalk. Neither of us raced. We ran together, Luke leading.

  There was the school, my car parked on the opposite side of the street. Both of us knew Luke wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t even look back. We ran down the street in front of the school, and then when we reached the steps, I stopped and Luke ran on alone. Up the stone steps, not turning his head, through the door, into the school.

  I unlocked the door to my car, sat down and took off my wet sneakers and put on my sandals. I put the wet shoes on the floor in back, then changed my mind and put them on the front seat. I drove to the hospital with the smell of Luke’s river beside me all the way.

  Chapter 19

  My mother improved a little every day. Her speech was still sparse and slurred; she could not feed herself or walk alone. But she was better, and when we found Mrs. Hubbard, a retired nurse, who agreed to come and help care for her during the day, the doctors agreed that she could move back to the apartment.

  Summer school began on June 28. I had classes five days a week, four hours a day. I could visit my mother and father only on weekends now, so I was glad that she was back home, surrounded by familiar things, near my father.

  I was taking three courses, the maximum allowed, but they added up to only six measly credits. Three for Speech Correction, two for Teaching Social Studies, one for Elementary Swimming, It was the swimming that nearly did me in.

  “Gym” was a required course. No gym, no graduation, I didn’t believe it at first, but it was true. My forty-five-year-old body was going to have to go to gym.

  Fortunately, at least I had thought it was fortunate in the beginning, there were many choices – archery, golf, tennis, swimming. I didn’t hesitate. During the first eighteen years of my life, I had spent two and a half months each year at the Thousand Islands. We lived on the St. Lawrence River all day long, changing only from a wet bathing suit to a dry one, adding a sweatshirt if it was cool. All our waking hours were spent fishing, sailing, swimming. Elementary Swimming would be a snap, I thought as I registered. Thank God I didn’t sign up for intermediate.

  Because the summer session was only six weeks long, classes met every day. Swimming was from 8:00 to 9:15, Speech Correction from 9:20 to 10:45 and Teaching Social Studies from 10:50 to 12:00. Plus an hour or so at the library digging out material for the abstracts and papers.

  It was raining the first day of the summer session. College was an hour away, so it was 7:00 A.M. when I pulled out of the underground garage with my bathing suit on the seat beside me, and I felt the first misgivings about Elementary Swimming.

  At least there was no traffic or trouble finding a parking spot. I walked through the misty rain to the gym. Inside the girls’ locker room, a dozen young girls in tank suits were clustered together chatting. I nodded to them, dreading the thought of donning my three-year-old flowered, two-piece suit. Misgivings multiplied.

  I stripped quickly, pulled on my suit and hung my jeans and shirt in the locker, put my books on the floor and closed the locker door. I had forgotten a towel. How could I have forgotten? Maybe there were some by the showers. I felt naked in my outdated suit as I walked by the waiting girls, thankful at least for the cover of my tan. No towels anywhere. I hovered beside the shower curtains for a few minutes and then went back and sat on a bench and waited for the instructor to appear.

  One of the girls was demonstrating what looked like the belly dance. “See, just lock your hands here, behind your head, and rotate. This is the center of gravity.” She nodded downward. “And you just moo-oo-oove around it.” Her slim young hips undulated faster. “It drives Frankie absolutely wild,” she said. Her feet picked up the rhythm and she began to dance down the aisles.

  The outer door slammed shut and a whistle blast interrupted the belly dance. “All right. Line up over here. Bring your class cards with you. Hand them in as I call your name.” It was Mrs. Hogan. The same Mrs. Hogan from Adapted Phys Ed, the one who had made us demonstrate in front of the class. What was she doing here? The catalog had listed the instructor as Fuller.

  “Avigammo, Bishop, Barrati – thank you – stand over there now alphabetically,” Mrs. Hogan called out. “Coggan, Gentula, Grossman, Gruber, Hall. No card? Wait there.” She pointed behind her.

  “Let’s see. Where was I? Mmm. Hall. Okay. I’ve got Hall – now, all right … Kenny, Lanzana, MacCracken. MacCracken?” The surprise in her voice made the others turn in my direction. I handed in my card without speaking.

  “Ritter, Schwarzenbach. Is that right? Schwarzenbach.” A tall blond handed in her card. “Well, is it?” Mrs. Hogan demanded. “Yes,” the blond muttered, A small giggle went round the locker room. I eyed Schwarzenbach. Maybe she would help me plan the demise of Mrs. Hogan.

  “Thirteen. Right?” She counted our bodies. “Including Hall.” She turned to the plump girl behind her. “Where’s your card, Hall?” The girl shrugged her shoulders. “I can’t find it,” she said.

  “Well, get another one today or don’t bother to come tomorrow. Get in line now.” Hall scurried over behind Schwarzenbach. “Not there,” Mrs. Hogan bellowed, consulting her list. “Behind Gruber, for heaven’s sake. Stay alphabetical.”

  Mrs. Hogan advanced to the head of the line. She was wearing green camp shorts, a gray T-shirt, green socks, sneakers, and a whistle on a silver chain. Evidently, sh
e was not planning to swim.

  “Ms. Fuller is unable to teach this course as planned, so I am taking it over. Now there are thirteen of you. There are also seven boys. Men. They’re at the pool now. I already have their cards. There will be no homework for this course; there will also be no exceptions. Go through the door to the pool now and I’ll go over the requirements.”

  She blew a blast on her whistle. I couldn’t believe it. It was like the one week I’d spent at scout camp when I was ten. “All right, Avigammo, go ahead. Single file. Be sure to step through the disinfectant.”

  The pool itself was large and well lit. Seven assorted male shapes stood by the shallow end. Mrs. Hogan now read the total list, inserting the men in their alphabetical slot. “Fisher. Step in before Gruber. Raise your hand, Gruber. Michaels. Down there between MacCracken and Ritter. Raise your hands, MacCracken and Ritter.” It was Ian. I hadn’t recognized him without his hat. He slouched his way into line.

  “Good morning,” I said under my breath.

  “You’re nuts, MacCracken. You gotta be nuts,” he replied.

  Mrs. Hogan blasted her whistle. “There will be no talking during class. None. Save your breath. You’ll need it.” Her mouth curled in what was evidently intended to be a smile. “Here are the requirements. We will be working on four strokes – breaststroke, sidestroke, backstroke, and freestyle. Freestyle does not mean you do what you want. It means you do what some of you refer to as the crawl.

  “This is an elementary class, so I do not expect perfect strokes. I do expect mastery of each stroke, plus a few simple dives. Mainly, I expect to build stamina. No one will pass until they complete fifty laps of alternating strokes.”

  “I told you,” Ian whispered.

  I stared straight ahead.

  “All right. Everyone in the water. Line up at the shallow end and take your alphabetical positions.”

  The water felt warm and wonderful. I crouched down under it.

  “You will swim the length of the pool, four people at a time, alternating strokes, so I can get an idea of your ability. All right. Let’s go. Avigammo, Bish –”

  “Excuse me – uh – Professor Hogan.” Beside me, Ritter, a tall black girl, was waving her hand. “I can’t swim.”

  Hall called out, “Me neither.”

  Blood was rising in Mrs. Hogan’s face, staining it a reddish purple.

  “Can’t swim? What are you doing in here, then?”

  “Thought I’d learn,” Ritter said coolly. “Elementary, it said in the catalog. Didn’t have no prerequirements like knowing how to swim.”

  She was absolutely right. I silently cheered her on. Schwarzenbach, Ritter, and I could form a conspiracy and do in Mrs. Hogan.

  Mrs. Hogan paced back and forth, chewing on her whistle. Finally she made her decision. “All right, Ritter and Hall. Get out of the water. I’ll talk to you later. What about the rest of you? Is there anyone else here who can’t swim to the end of the pool?” Her gaze lingered on me, but neither of us said anything.

  “Regroup then. Swim down four at a time. Don’t worry about changing strokes. Just see if you can get there, for heaven’s sake.”

  Ian was in my alphabetical group and he swam the way he did math problems, lazily, elegantly. My style was far from elegant, but I made it to the other end.

  Mrs. Hogan spent the rest of the hour dividing us into groups according to ability. Ritter and Hall were in the bottom group, unable to swim, relegated to imitating strokes at the side of the pool. My group was next. I could see that Mrs. Hogan expected me to sink any minute. We were each assigned a “buddy,” who was supposed to send up a warning if we had any difficulty.

  I was busy thinking about trying to transfer to another course. Surely there must be something else I could take for one credit. But when? I was taking the maximum load for both fall and spring next year. I would not be allowed to add another credit there. It would have to be this summer and that would be a problem. There were no afternoon courses and my other morning hours were full. What else, I wondered, was offered at 8:00 A.M. that would fill the gym requirement? The familiar feeling of despair crept into the swimming pool. What was I doing here, anyway?

  At last we were dismissed. I’d been down and back three times and I was exhausted. Fifty? I’d never make it fifty times. I dragged myself to the locker room. No towel. I’d forgotten. No hair dryer, either. The young crew were wrapped in towels and blowing their long manes – practicing the belly dance at the same time. Only Hall, plump and dismal, sat alone in a corner. I would not ask any of them for a towel or dryer.

  I carried my jeans and shirt to the shower room. Rinsed briefly under the warm water, dried myself on the shower curtain, combed my wet hair, and walked out of Elementary Swimming straight into Ian Michaels, who was sitting on the floor in front of the door.

  I was not glad to see him.

  He walked beside me out into the rain. If he made one wisecrack, I would kill him, I would use the karate chop I’d seen on TV and then carve his heart out with my ignition key.

  We walked in silence, rain running down my face, dripping off my nose.

  Ian touched my arm. “Want my hat?”

  I shook my head, not looking at him, but deciding not to kill him, after all.

  “You can still drop it, you know,” Ian said. “Substitute something else. There’s probably still room in archery.”

  I stopped and looked at Ian silently. I had been heading for the registrar’s office. For the last hour I had been planning to drop swimming. Now suddenly I changed my mind.

  “Why,” I asked coolly, “would I want to do that?”

  Speech Correction was taught by Andrew York, a tall, handsome black man in his late thirties. His voice was gentle as he introduced himself and told us what text to buy. Then he asked us each to introduce ourselves and designate our major. Again, there were twenty of us, only two males this time. Most were special ed majors, a few were in nursing, one other was like me, with a dual major in elementary and special ed.

  “What is defective speech?” Andrew York asked and then when we replied with silence, he continued, “Speech is defective if it deviates so far that it calls attention to itself, interferes with communication, or causes its possessor to be maladjusted. In other words, if it is conspicuous, unintelligible, or unpleasant. It is always important to remember the degree of the defect. When the defect is slight, speech improvement is needed rather than speech correction.”

  I listened intently, taking notes. For the first time I felt I was listening to someone who knew and cared about the course he was teaching. I smiled. This more than made up for swimming.

  Not so Teaching Social Studies. I had no high expectations for TSS, as the students called the course. This would be my first exposure to what were known as “method courses” and were required for elementary certification. I had teaching math, science, language, and music coming up in the fall and I had been warned that they were “all a crock.”

  The method courses were taught in a small brick building that had once housed an experimental nursery school. It was situated across the street from the rest of the campus, a ten-minute walk, or a five-minute run, away so I was out of breath and the class had already started when I arrived.

  Stevie Wonder’s version of “The Star-Spangled Banner” rolled through the room and at the front of the classroom, Professor Figerito waved his arms in front of the portable record player as though conducting an invisible orchestra. His pink shirt was wet with perspiration. The record ended and he grabbed a pile of yellow paper and passed it down the rows.

  “Write how you feel about that record. Were you affronted? Shocked? Should the national anthem be treated as a sacred hymn? Do you object to difference?”

  We sat looking at him.

  “Well, write. Write. Don’t just look at me. Unless you’d rather tell us. Uh. You, little lady, there in the back row –”

  He couldn’t mean me. I was five feet seven. “You. The
one who arrived late. Yes. You, dear. Do you want to tell us what you thought of the record?”

  He did mean me. He had come to the back of the room and was standing right beside me. I could feel the blood rising in my own cheeks as chairs squeaked and the class turned to look at me.

  I shook my head. I was blushing. I couldn’t believe it. I hadn’t blushed in twenty years and here in this idiot class before this idiot man, I was blushing. I looked down at my piece of yellow paper.

  “No. Well, all right, dear. Maybe tomorrow you won’t feel so shy. How about you, blondie?”

  The class shifted its attention to a new victim and I put my hands together in my lap to stop their trembling.

  At the end of an hour, Figerito said, “You can all keep your piece of paper as a memento. I hate to correct papers, anyway.”

  I hurried out the door and back to the parking lot. Every spot was taken now and the roofs of the cars were steaming in the sudden sunshine. I put down the old canvas top and ate my apple and cheese. In some ways my car seemed more like home than any other place – it was ten years old now and more familiar to me than the apartment or the house in the country.

  I thought about Figerito and Teaching Social Studies. It was going to be a problem. The only way I could get there before class started was to leave Speech Correction early, and it made no sense to cut short the one good course I’d found. But walking in late was going to call Figerito’s attention to me every day, and that meant trouble.

  Three weeks later, after exactly twelve sessions, we had midterms. In swimming we would be required to do twenty laps and a demonstration of a racing dive and two of the four strokes. Of the original twenty, six students, including Hall, had dropped out. Ritter had stuck it through and was now paddling back and forth at the shallow end. She was given permission to do thirty abstracts on the benefits of exercise for her midterm.

  Ian and Amy Schwarzenbach were the stars of our class. They had speed as well as style and raced each other playfully up and down the pool, diving and surfacing like two young porpoises. I did not play. I worked every minute of that class. I had got a tank suit and towels and a hair dryer, so I was less conspicuous. But fifty laps was still a lot of laps. At least for me. I could do a passable freestyle and sidestroke, the backstroke was easy, but I could not master the breaststroke. My head was always up when it should be down and I could not snap my legs together frog-style. I had made myself do two more laps each day so I was pretty sure I could pass the midterm.