Catch Me When I Fall

by Westerhof Patricia

  She dashed to the staff lounge, flew in, one hand gripping the blouse, one hand wiping her wet eyes. And there was Stan Ellis, sitting at a table facing the door. He looked up from his newspaper, eyes on her chest. She veered sideways into the teachers’ washroom.

  The rest of her school day was unspeakably miserable.

  • • •

  Eliza sat on her sofa in the semidarkness. She pulled a needlepoint cat cushion onto her lap and kneaded it rhythmically. At 11:00 PM the songbird clock in the kitchen tweeted the hour. She winced—she had never thought of finches as scornful birds. She hauled herself up and trudged across the room to her roll-top desk. Switching on the computer, she waited for the dial-up to connect, logged into her email program, and typed,

  Dear Samantha,

  School was difficult today, but this evening I enjoyed a lovely book club meeting, full of good discussion and laughter as usual. Friends are a balm to the heart. I hope you are doing well, and that your marking pile has diminished since your last email! Looking forward to hearing from you.

  Eliza

  • • •

  Stan Ellis smeared butter and jam on his bedtime toast. Homemade raspberry jam tonight. It had come in a little Christmas basket last month from one of his students, Rodney VanEng—well, more accurately, from Rodney’s mother, Vicky, who sent all the teachers gifts. Stan was grateful. He’d used up the last jar of jelly from the cold cellar last fall and now had to buy commercial jams. He didn’t care so much about the inferior taste, but a Smuckers jar in the fridge was one more tangible reminder that Lucy was gone.

  Stan chewed the toast methodically as he fingered a tiny plastic soldier, part of a set his sister had sent for Christmas, along with a book he hadn’t opened, Painting Military Figures. Saturday nights were the worst. That was the night he and Lucy had leisurely shared much more than toast before they drifted off to sleep. He swallowed the last bite, rose, and scrubbed the plate clean under running water in the sink. The plates were looking scratched these days. Probably he should use a cloth rather than the pot scrubber. He added “dish cloth” to the grocery list taped on the fridge.

  Lucy had called herself a breast cancer warrior. She didn’t like the term survivor, said surviving seemed too passive, like you were just waiting for luck. They were planning to move east once she completed her PhD thesis. He was going to become a training development officer with the armed forces—he already had a master’s degree in education and was a member of the Reserves. They were going to have children.

  He added bread and bologna to the grocery list. Tomorrow he would do laundry and drive to Safeway. Keep moving. Because Lucy the warrior was now resting in eternal peace. Good soldiers, he reminded himself, did not brood on lost battles—unless there was something to be learned. He should think about his work instead. It too felt like a battle. His grade ten social studies class, the western history class, and, really, the Canadian history class too. He was marching students through the content, but they weren’t grasping the significance. Didn’t see how understanding the past enabled one to embrace a deliberate life in the present.

  Stan placed the pencil in the cutlery drawer and ambled into the bathroom. The problem was, he thought, that when students left his room, discipline vanished. Because of teachers like his colleague Liana Steen, who never seemed to educate—she just showed DVDs and assigned group presentations. Or Eliza Zylstra in the English department. She taught many of the same kids he did, and destroyed his efforts with her touchy-feely discussions and lax rules about deadlines.

  Still, he found himself thinking as he brushed his teeth, she looked good today. The fullness of her flesh, the tantalizing purple lace. He tried not to notice breasts, or at least not to dwell on them. It seemed a betrayal of Lucy. He looked away from women in tight T-shirts or with cleavage-revealing necklines. Ally, a short girl in his grade eleven Canadian history class, habitually leaned forward so that her large breasts rested on the desktop, like two plump dinner rolls at a banquet. When he’d found his eyes straying too often toward her, he moved her to the back corner of the room.

  Stan got into bed. He read a few pages of Rommel’s Desert War: The Life and Death of the Afrika Korps. Feeling wide awake, he turned on CNN with his bedside remote control. Another roadside bomb in Afghanistan; no background story, just the smoky image of an overturned jeep. All hype and no depth in the reporting. He hauled himself out of bed, walked to the spare room, and rifled through his desk for blank paper. None there. He checked the kitchen counter and finally wrote on the grocery list, “Explain to the grade tens the difference between the war on terror and the war in Iraq. Use maps.”

  That was another infuriating thing about Eliza. Her thinking was simplistic. Illogical. Ron, his department head, had told him with some concern that Eliza suggested they gloss over wars in their lessons, instead spending their time highlighting great deeds in history. “Use HISTORY class to provide students with ROLE models.” Ron had mimicked Eliza’s strange emphasis on certain words. Staring at the grocery list, Stan imagined Eliza saying his name with that trilling voice. Maybe she’d call him Stanley instead of Stan, like his first girlfriend had.

  He thought about the lacy undergarment. He’d snickered when he described it to Ron after school, but only for a moment. Liana, the only female member of their department, was at her desk, and besides, expressing glee at a fellow teacher’s embarrassment felt disloyal. They were all at peril.

  He hadn’t seen Eliza since the encounter in the staff room. She must be dreading Monday. It was hard enough going back to school after a weekend, like diving into a glacial lake.

  He wandered back into his bedroom. CNN had moved onto Pakistan now. Turmoil there. He should have signed up for active duty instead of the Reserves, or become a Canadian peacekeeper, guarding an orphanage in Sierra Leone as a friend of his was doing. Stan had discussed the idea with Ron after Lucy’s memorial service. “Probably easier than teaching history to teenagers,” Ron said.

  “More heroic too,” Stan had added.

  “Well, you don’t go into teaching for the strokes.”

  No kidding. Occasionally, students grew animated when he recounted famous battles, and the keener ones asked about stratagems, or the impact of new technology on fighting. But most of them smacked their gum and doodled on their binders.

  He turned off the TV. Maybe he should change careers. Not so much give up as change tactics. Apply for that military training development position he and Lucy had talked about. Teach soldiers instead of civilians. He was only thirty-five: there were a lot of years left to fill.

  Back in the spare room he turned on his computer. Maybe he could download an application form online. His Google homepage appeared on the screen. He remembered he’d been meaning to Google himself, ever since Bill Downey in the art department said that students searched online for dirt on their teachers. Did Stan even exist in the virtual world? He typed his name.

  His fingers massaged his forehead as his eyes journeyed down the screen. An American millionaire. A best-selling author. An accountant. Finally, on the bottom of page three, he found himself: The Wolf Creek School Board—List of Teachers. Page four again contained information only about the flourishing Stanley Ellises, mostly the millionaire. But halfway down page five was a site called Rate Your Teacher. He clicked on it. A page appeared entitled Poplar Grove High School with an alphabetical list of teachers. His heart quickened. He hadn’t known such a thing existed. Would there be some confirmation of his efforts in the classroom? It might ease the despondency he was feeling lately. He scrolled down. Next to his name was a smiley face, except that its mouth was a straight line. An unsmiley face. He clicked again.

  “Has good lessons but cares more about famous dead generals than students.”

  “He gave me a D on my essay. It was an opinion essay. How can an opinion get a D?”

  “Good class if you like history,” said the last entry.

  Stan blinked at the screen. He
reread the last comment. It was really very positive. And after all, people used these sites to vent. For every student complaining about him online, there were probably a dozen who thought he was doing an excellent job. Students who had better things to do than rate their teachers.

  He returned to the main page and peered at his colleagues’ names. The face next to Eliza’s name sported sunglasses—and a smile. Goofy-looking. When he clicked, at least two dozen comments popped onto his screen.

  “Miss Zylstra is so cool. On a bad day u talk to her and u r fine again.”

  “She really cares about you and your problems.”

  “She’s a grate teacher.”

  “Miss Z. rox!!”

  Stan shook his head. An English teacher whose students couldn’t spell. He read the most recent addition. “I might have killed myself over the Christmas holidays if it wasn’t for Miss Z. Not kidding.”

  He left the computer on and walked to the kitchen. He opened the fridge, removed a can of Guinness, sat down at the table, and took a long swig. He righted the plastic soldier still lying on the table, then removed the rest of the soldiers from their box. First World War soldiers—French, judging by the uniforms. Pushing the salt and pepper to the side, he lined up the soldiers in two neat rows. Trenches. Trenches filled with disciplined men, biding time, awaiting orders. He picked up a general. He sympathized with First World War generals. Their reputation as callous men who blithely ordered soldiers to their doom was ridiculous of course. They were, like so many leaders, misunderstood.

  Stan grasped his beer in his other hand and wandered back to the computer. Setting the miniature general on top of the monitor, he reread the comments on the screen. Frustration almost brought tears to his eyes. Eliza’s duty was to teach students to write correctly, not to be their friend. She should be training students for real life and the battles ahead. Breast cancer, for instance. Students needed to learn to master themselves. To fight nobly. To maintain dignity.

  Well, in good time his students would review him with as much warmth as they did Eliza. It would just take maturity and a few years of real life. Maybe after today, he thought, they’ll see their dear Ms. Zylstra differently. Her indecent exposure. Damn, she must feel stupid. Absolutely humiliated.

  He closed the site and shifted his gaze to the little general who stood on the monitor, legs apart, one hand on a set of binoculars on a strap around his neck. The tiny face was hard to read. Neutral. A bit remote. Maybe that was the best a craftsman could do when the cast was that tiny. Or maybe the skilled artist decided that the general had just received bad news that he would have to pass on to his soldiers.

  “How lovely are the feet of them that bring good news.” The phrase shot into Stan’s mind. It was from a song, he thought, or maybe the Bible. He recognized it from the year he attended church with his first girlfriend. And he’d heard it more recently—a day early in September when he had strode into the staff workroom before school. Eliza, her back to him, was laminating a poster of Canadian authors, singing loudly. The tune returned to him now and ricocheted through his head. “How lovely on—the—moun—tains are the feet—of them—” He recalled her yellow high-heeled sandals and her toenails, painted coral with little sunflowers on the big toes. It would be a good physics question, he had thought, to calculate the weight on each of those dainty heels. When she noticed him, she’d smiled and called, “Good morning,” then went back to laminating, humming cheerfully.

  The general’s little plastic eyes bored into Stan and a sense of duty heavy as a stack of unmarked exams settled over him. He and Eliza were on the same side, whether he liked it or not. A good soldier, a good person, had obligations. And he had a message. He finished the rest of the Guinness in a single swallow, scowling at the general.

  His hand, a weary drone, moved toward the mouse. Email would work. Eliza was the type of teacher who would check school email, even on weekends. His fingers, which felt thick and clumsy, not fully connected to his nervous system, moved over the keys. Dear Eliza. He paused. Backspacing, he erased the “Dear,” then continued, To ease your transition back to work on Monday—no point in beating around the bush or pretending he hadn’t seen—I think you might want to read the comments on this site. He typed out the web address.

  Best Regards. Stan Ellis.

  God’s Laughter

  KLAAS HAD CLOSETED himself as long as he dared. He flushed the toilet and moved to the sink. New soap, he noticed. The plastic dispenser had a stalk of wheat on the label, not a realistic one—kernels too oval and the beard too long. The label said Serenity. The soap was serene? Would it make the user serene? He squirted some on his hands.

  Alida stirred her tea, the rest of her body rigid, like a machine with one moving part, stirring, stirring. Their daughter Ruthie, blonde hair cut shorter than usual, sat almost as still, her bowed head revealing her girlish, vulnerable neck. Her eyes were damp and her nose pink.

  He lowered himself into his chair, a visible drag in his motions. He yearned to escape outside to the barn or the machine shed. He could tinker with the old Massey Ferguson tractor he was rebuilding.

  “Maybe Ruthie could get counselling,” Alida finally spoke. Klaas blinked and rubbed at his sideburns. He knew Alida thought counsellors were like organic farmers or chiropractors—quacks duping gullible people out of their money.

  “I’m right here, Mom,” Ruthie said, “and I did get counselling. That’s what makes me so sure.”

  Her blue eyes narrowing, Alida scrutinized Ruthie like she was searching for mites or sawflies in the raspberries. “Was it a Christian counsellor?”

  “Yes.”

  “Christian Reformed?”

  “No, Mom, there’s a shortage of those.” Ruthie sounded about fifteen again, all weary disdain and irritation. Klaas thought of the clashes between the two of them during Ruthie’s adolescence. When Ruthie mixed whites and colours in the washing machine for the fourth or fourteenth time, or all the times she burned or undercooked the potatoes. When Alida scolded her, she’d look contrite, but if Alida’s rebuke became a speech, Ruthie would roll her eyes and dish out insolence. It’s just stupid housework. She showed no interest in Alida’s passions, like the craft activities she’d organize for the kids, making Halloween displays, or painting Easter eggs. She avoided shopping trips too, preferred to stay home to help Klaas with the milking.

  He enjoyed her company. Liked her curiosity. She was different from her three older sisters. When she was just two she opened the kitchen cupboard to peer at the pipes. Where water go, Daddy? She liked cattle, and she was the star in the 4H Club through elementary school, raising prize heifers and winning ribbons almost every year. He loved all four of his daughters, but in Ruthie he felt tremendous pride.

  Until now.

  “What about Ken Booy?” Alida said. “You dated him for at least two months.”

  “Yeah. In grade eleven. He helped me pass English.”

  “But how could you date him if, you know?” Alida’s eyes drifted over to the window as her voice faded.

  “I was trying to be normal. What people here consider normal. It’s not a wide definition at Poplar Grove High School.” Her voice was chilly and sharp. Klaas felt something sting him—sympathy, maybe? But still. Was she expecting they would embrace this decision of hers?

  “I don’t see why you can’t be a non-practising uh—you know. That’s what the church teaches.” He stood up and leaned against the counter facing the table. He folded his arms across his chest. “Maybe you can’t help what you are, but we’ve always taught you that you can control what you do.”

  “You don’t get it, Dad. A bunch of old male ministers made up that rule.” Her voice rose. “What do they know about being gay, or what they’re asking? What do they know about a life of solitude? Or about celibacy? Every one of them had a dutiful wife who opened up her legs when he told her to.”

  “Ruthie!” Alida’s chair clattered as she stood up, her face red.

 
; “They didn’t make it up.” Klaas spoke sharply. He reminded himself to stay calm. Serene. “They carefully consulted Scripture. The church’s position is the result of study and prayer. And I’ll remind you that in this house we speak with respect.”

  “Well, I don’t feel respected.” Ruthie sounded sullen. Klaas looked at Alida, still standing, face still flushed. This was enough.

  “I hope you’ll change your mind. Maybe see a different counsellor. Until then, we can’t—you’re not—we can’t welcome you anymore.” Ruthie’s eyes, round with shock, met his. Klaas’s chest hurt, and he kept his arms firmly crossed in front of it. Love the sinner; hate the sin, he told himself. “We just can’t condone the lifestyle you’re choosing. We’re not comfortable with those ideas around here.”

  “What about your nieces?” Alida put in. “Stephanie and Jenna look up to you. Little Madison and Lexi adore you. What kind of example are you setting?”

  “An example of a different way we can love each other?” Ruthie said. Her tone was defiant, but her shoulders drooped.

  “That’s disgusting,” said Alida. “I don’t think you’re really one of them.”

  “One of who, Mom? Can’t you even say the word?

  “I shouldn’t have to. This is not how I raised you.” Tears filled Alida’s eyes and she stumbled from the room down the hallway to their bedroom. Klaas glared at Ruthie.

  “See what you’ve done?”

  • • •

  For a few months, at least they knew where she was—finishing up her zoology degree in Calgary. Alida sent Ruthie the church bulletin every week and occasionally scribbled a sentence or two about the grandkids or how the crops were doing. At the annual church picnic, Alida’s friend Marisa DenZeldon told Alida and Klaas about an organization called Go Straight. Alida called the toll-free number they found on the Internet and obtained a pamphlet. Is it time to rid yourself of sinful desires? We can help. Alida enclosed the pamphlet in an envelope along with a short note about Stephanie and Jenna’s parts in the school play and Madison’s chicken pox.