In the Fall They Come Back

by Robert Bausch

  Any birthday in December is pretty rough, but the degree to which it becomes sadistic is directly proportional to how close it is on either end of the twenty-fifth. The twenty-fifth is the big enchilada: the worst birthday date of all. You get up in the morning, and it’s downstairs to “Merry Christmas in this corner, and that small group of presents over on the other side of the room there, that’s Happy Birthday!!!”

  Can you imagine it?

  It’s so ridiculously perverse I can’t think of a single analogy to compare it to. What would it be like? It isn’t painful or soul-destroying; it doesn’t cause suffering, or disease, or any lasting or important human malady. I mean it’s not an important hardship. It’s just a circumstance that simply and effectively eliminates birthdays for anyone unlucky enough to have parents who got randy and acted on it anytime between March 21st and 29th; any time in March or April, to tell the truth, since birthdays diminish in importance the closer to Christmas, before or after, you get.

  Gradually, though, I came to realize that my surprise party would be doubly rewarding for George, because it would once again make his birthday special.

  I figured that was worth doing.

  14

  A Gathering and Sweetness

  The party was on Thursday the 5th of December. All through that previous week, when everybody seemed giddy over the coming holiday—and when hearts were a little more charitable than usual—I worked on getting it set up. I got Mrs. Creighton’s help, Doreen, Professor Bible, and the rest of the teachers did what they could. But the important work involved getting George’s tormenters and classmates to kick in. That took some doing.

  I scheduled individual conferences with each student in all my classes—ostensibly to go over grades and progress for the year, which took a lot of work by itself—and at the end of each conference, I broached the subject. I explained what I wanted to do in stark, truthful terms. Most of them knew at least a little of George’s suffering; that the bruises on his neck meant something more than an accidental confrontation with a hanging branch, or a low-slung clothesline.

  In truth, I was amazed at how uninterested and dispassionate the response was. Some said they wanted to help, but most simply looked at me as though I was crazy. I thought I had bitten off more than I could chew, but then I got help, miraculous help, from an unexpected quarter: Leslie Warren.

  She strolled into my classroom one day shortly after the last class and flounced in a chair in the front row. “I hear you need help with something important.” She was smiling. Her hair was pulled back into a single ponytail and she wore very small stones as blue as her eyes in each ear.

  “Do you know George Meeker?”

  “The little creepy kid who’s always asking the girls to go out with him?”

  I said, “He’s not really such a creep.”

  “Maybe not, but he’s definitely creepy.”

  I told her the story. She listened with real interest and when I was done she said, “God.”

  “So you see, he doesn’t mean to be creepy.”

  She wanted to know what I wanted her to do.

  “If you could get some of the kids to quit calling him Gay-Org and picking on him all the time …”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  “It would mean a lot.”

  “To who?”

  This question disarmed me for a second and I could see that she noticed it. I said, “To George. And to me too. It would mean a lot to me.”

  She rose from her chair, again with a confident smile. “You got it.” Then she turned and walked toward the door. Just as she got to the opening, she stopped and turned around. “I think it’s a kind thing you’re trying to do.”

  “Thank you.”

  She leaned on the doorframe. I can’t adequately describe the vision she made in the shadows and angles of light by the door. “Kind of like when you helped me the other day.”

  “Just courtesy,” I said. “That’s all.”

  “How old are you?”

  “I’ll be twenty-six in August. Why?”

  “I was just wondering. Some of the girls were trying to guess.”

  “They all think I’m pretty old?”

  She straightened. “No.” Her eyes almost gave off their own light.

  “Well now you can let them know.”

  She looked down at the floor, seemed about to say something else, then thought better of it and left the room.

  The next day I had students coming to me—students I’d already talked to and asked for help, volunteering to chip in. Even those who had laughed at him and called him “Gay-Org” fell into line. Mark Talbot said, “If you want a few of us to rough up his old man, just let me know.” I loved him when he said that, and for a brief moment, while he sat there watching my face, I actually considered it. “What I’d really appreciate,” I said, “is a little bit of kindness for George. A little less ribbing and teasing.”

  “That’s what Leslie said.”

  We were sitting in the classroom, shortly after I’d let everybody go for break. “Can I ask you something about Leslie?”

  Kids are always on guard, ready for the unfair accusations of teachers, it seems; so this got his attention. His face turned serious and he removed his wire-framed glasses. “What about her?”

  “I got the impression she gets in a lot of trouble.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “It’s just the impression I got.”

  “She gets teachers in trouble. Last year she went after Mrs. Gallant.”

  “Went after? What’s that mean?”

  “You didn’t know? She got fired.”

  “For what?”

  “Something to do with Leslie, man. I don’t know. I heard Leslie claimed Mrs. Gallant tried to get her to have sex.”

  I had nothing to say to that. I think Mark noticed the shock on my face. He shrugged his shoulders and said, “That’s what I heard, man.”

  “Well I never heard anything like that. What I was told was that Mrs. Gallant’s husband was in the military and he got transferred.”

  “Maybe it’s a big secret, what really happened.”

  “If what you say really happened, I think I would know about it,” I said. I didn’t believe it but I couldn’t wait to talk to Professor Bible and Doreen. I figured if it was true then they had a whole lot of explaining to do. And even if it wasn’t, I thought I deserved to be let in on the rumors and the dangers.

  “Hey man,” Mark said. “Leslie likes you. You got nothing to worry about.”

  “Did she ever go after anybody else?”

  “I heard she accused Professor Bible but I don’t know if that’s true or not.”

  He got up to leave. “Should we bring presents?”

  “Oh, no,” I said. “Just being nice to him and having some of the cake will be fine.”

  “We’re not going to have to sing that fucking song are we?”

  “Would it be so terribly bad?”

  “It would be totally embarrassing.”

  “Okay. We won’t sing it then. Or at least I won’t suggest it. Mrs. Creighton may want us to sing it.”

  “Then I guess we’ll all have to sing it.”

  “If she insists, I guess.” I watched him leave and it really did seem as though he strode a bit taller toward the door. I think he was feeling very good.

  I saw a lot of other kids during the days leading up to the party. And Leslie came by regularly. She designed a big birthday card that I could get everybody to sign and brought it to me a few days before the party. Again she came by right at the end of my last class of the day.

  This time she wore her hair down, and the shadows it made on the side of her face and around her eyes made her look oddly older—and tired. She showed me the card, which had a pretty good drawing of the school building on it, and lots of room for signatures. I told her it was very well-done. “Did you draw that picture?”

  “Yes. It’s not so good is it?”

  �
��On the contrary. I think it’s very good.”

  We talked about where we might hide it, and how we’d get it to everybody so that George wouldn’t see it. Finally we agreed we’d keep it in Mrs. Creighton’s office and send folks to her during the day to sign it. As I was getting ready to leave I said, “Thank you, Leslie. This is really thoughtful.”

  She said nothing, but nodded her head. Then, wanting to give her something—wanting to praise her and say something she might be glad for, I said, “You know, you could be a model if you wanted to. Or an actress.”

  She smiled in a way that told me she’d heard that a million times already. “Thanks.” One single sweet note of music, but there was something in it that registered as sadness, or even distaste. Instantly I had the feeling I should apologize to her. She looked very sternly into my eyes, then turned and strode out. As I watched her go, I wondered how I would be able to stay on her good side. I couldn’t tell if what I’d said was a good thing or not. At some level I actually felt threatened. I admit I also felt really stupid.

  Mrs. Creighton didn’t bake the cake, but she was kind enough to buy a very large chocolate sheet cake from the grocery store on the way to the school. She bought a box of candles and put sixteen of them on the cake. We decided to bring it into the English room, get all the candles lit and set everything up while George was in math class. We used a wide table in the back and then gathered all the other students in the other classes, except for George’s class of course. Mrs. Creighton had announced over the intercom that morning an “assembly” in the “English Hall,” and that attendance was mandatory.

  When the math class was almost finished, Doreen lined them up to go to the assembly. She made George stand at the back of the line.

  My room was the largest single space in Glenn Acres School, but it was not really big enough for an assembly. It had forty-one chairs in it and none of my classes were that big, so the room always looked huge. With everybody in the school crowded in, standing in front of the picture window—which darkened things considerably—and all along the front blackboard and my desk, it got pretty warm and really crowded in there once the final group filed in. Some stood in the rows between chairs. Mrs. Creighton stood at the back of the room, by the door.

  George stood by the entrance from the Math room, his hands clasped in front of him. In his perfectly pressed gray suit and black-striped tie, he looked like an usher in church, except he was so short and thin and the collar of his light blue shirt was about a quarter of an inch too big, so his thin neck—that so often-bruised little space of skin—looked a bit like a white stem.

  When everyone was sure he was in the room, I walked over to the table in the back and everyone stepped aside to make room for me. The cake already had the candles lit, and just as George saw it, everyone in the room hollered, “Happy Birthday, George!” I heard one snickering little shit mouth say “Gay-Org,” but I’m certain George didn’t hear it. The look on his face would have inspired a new religion; at first he seemed kind of puzzled, but then it registered, what we were saying to him, and what this was, and when he knew that, his face took on the beatific look of saintly gratitude and grace. Anyone watching would have accepted the idea that he had just then risen from the dead.

  Of course everyone cheered, urging him to approach the cake. Mrs. Creighton had ordered it decorated, and an inscription across the middle said, “Happy Birthday George. We all love you.” And at that moment, I think I did love him. Or at least I felt a capable urge to embrace him and make his troubles go away. Maybe that’s the higher side of pity—I did feel sorry for him, too.

  As he moved across the room with everybody cheering, I noticed a thin, red-haired girl standing next to Doreen. Standing is too strong a word. It was more like stooping, because her head was down, her face exactly perpendicular to the floor, as if she’d lost a contact lens or something and needed to study the space at her feet lest she step on it.

  I realized I had seen her before—my first day. I didn’t much remark on it, except that I realized she was a stranger, and I hadn’t seen her in any of my classes. I watched her while George blew out the candles and cut the cake. She did not look up. Doreen rested her hand on the girl’s back for a second, as if to gently rub the fabric of her sweater, but maybe I imagined that. I would not remember this second encounter—if that’s the word I want—except that I began to wonder if she would ever straighten up. I did not yet know her name, and I couldn’t wait to ask Doreen about her.

  When the cake had been served, a few of the students brought out presents for George. It was not a requirement—in fact, Mrs. Creighton insisted that people not bring presents—but some kids did anyway and nobody minded very much. Professor Bible stood in the hallway directly in front of his room, smiling, watching George, and then he looked up and saw me. He signaled that I should join him, so I made my way through the throng of cake-eating, laughing students, toward the back of the room. As I passed in front of Mrs. Creighton’s office, I noticed Mr. Creighton in there getting his guitar ready. He had an amplifier, and a black cord he was unwinding. I leaned in and said, “You playing for this crowd?”

  “Why not?”

  “I can’t wait to hear it,” I said.

  “Oh, you’ll hear it.”

  When I got to him Bible said, “You got a cigarette?”

  “In my desk, I’ll go and …”

  “No, no. Don’t bother.” He took hold of my arm to stop me. “You don’t want to fight your way through that crowd again.”

  I turned and watched as Doreen and Mrs. Creighton passed out second slices of cake. Leslie Warren collected the used paper plates. Every movement she made was classic—her arms and hands, her wrists, the way she bent her legs and leaned over to reach for a plate; she carried herself with such pure artistry. It was like watching a very subtle ballet.

  “I have to tell you,” Bible said. “This is a very fine thing you’ve arranged.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I never would have thought of it.”

  “Well,” I said. “I didn’t see why he should have to suffer here.”

  “And that’s a good point.”

  “Did you see the look on Mrs. Creighton’s face?”

  “No. Why?”

  “I didn’t either. I bet she was pleased.”

  “Oh, she loved the idea. She said that to me this morning.”

  I was unreasonably happy at that moment; it’s possible that it was the purest happy moment I ever had at Glenn Acres School.

  15

  The Beginning of the End of Something

  The next morning I went outside with Professor Bible to have a cigarette. It was during the break between my first- and second-period classes. I was still basking in yesterday’s unreasoning happiness with the earth and just about everything in it. A slight breeze reminded us of the time of year, but it wasn’t very cold. The weak sun warmed us when the air was still. We stood just outside the back door, both of us staring at the sloping driveway that led out to the main road.

  “How was George this morning?” Bible asked.

  “He was not the same kid.”

  “Really.”

  “He came running to the bus this morning. He sat up very straight in class, too.”

  “Maybe it will be enough for a while that he doesn’t suffer here.”

  “I think he must believe that everybody doesn’t hate him at least,” I said.

  He drew on his cigarette a bit. Then he said, “He may be lucky that he came to this school.”

  “Did I tell you what Mrs. Creighton said in her letter to George’s father?”

  “You did.”

  “God it was sweet.”

  “It might’ve worked,” he said. “At least they didn’t take George out of the school.”

  “And George will never know how she saved him.”

  “How you saved him.”

  “I guess we all had something to do with it.”

  “It was your ide
a for the party,” he said.

  “I wasn’t sure it was possible, but you never know with kids this age. I couldn’t have done it though without Leslie Warren’s help.”

  “You watch out for her,” he said.

  “Is it true she got Mrs. Gallant fired?”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Mark Talbot.”

  “Well it’s not true. Cindy’s husband got transferred.”

  “That’s not what the students think.”

  “There are always rumors when a teacher leaves. She had her problems with Leslie. We all have.”

  “What kind of problems?”

  “Leslie simply will not be told what to do.”

  “Has she ever gone after you?”

  “Gone after me?”

  “Caused you trouble. Mark Talbot told me she claimed Mrs. Gallant tried to have sex with her.”

  Bible gave a short laugh. “She complained about Cindy but that wasn’t what it was. Cindy would not allow her to simply get up and go outside for a smoke. So she went to Mrs. Creighton and her parents and said that Cindy had slapped her.”

  “Did she?”

  “Probably. There was no one in the room but Cindy and Leslie. But that was all there was. Nobody got fired.”

  “What about you and Leslie?”

  “She’s never made any formal complaint against me that I know of. She’s very intelligent. I find ways to insult her that require education.”

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “Allusions, my man. Allusions. I’ll tell her she reminds me of somebody in history. Like Ilse Koch. Sometimes she catches on, sometimes she doesn’t. When she does, there’s not much she can do about it.”

  “Who the hell is Ilse Koch?”

  He smiled indulgently.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’m not that educated either.”