In the Fall They Come Back

by Robert Bausch

  I know now that I loved her more than I could possibly know.

  I think on some level all of us loved her—even when she was being the most difficult and mean-spirited little brat. There was something so discordantly lovely about her.

  But I still don’t think I loved her in a sexual or romantic way. I loved her because she was my student, and a human being. I didn’t want her because she was beautiful; I didn’t want her at all. But I loved her because she was smart, and she had something to offer the world, if only somebody could find a way to help her see whatever it was the world would need from her, or what she might have to offer. That’s what I thought I was doing. Was it my fault? I ask you. Was anything that happened truly my fault? I’m not looking for absolution here. I really want to know.

  I never saw Leslie’s note and I can’t say, even now, what it said. I know what was in it, though. Shortly after the funeral Mrs. Creighton called me into her office. This was in the last week of classes.

  I sat down glumly, still feeling the shock of what had happened. Mrs. Creighton looked at me with withering eyes and I knew instantly something was up. She told me about the note.

  “I think the papers said something about it,” I said. “Didn’t she mail it?”

  “Do you want to tell me anything?” she said.

  “Pardon?”

  “I want to know what was going on between you and Leslie Warren.”

  “Nothing was going on.”

  She frowned, glanced down at the papers on her desk. Then she softened a bit, seemed to remember something pleasant. “I told you once that I thought you were a wonderful teacher.”

  “I know it.”

  “You know what?”

  “That you said that.”

  “But I told you not to go too far. Do you remember that?”

  I nodded.

  “You are always in danger as a young teacher,” she said.

  I nodded again.

  “Things happen between people. We’re all human beings.”

  Still, I didn’t see the point in saying anything.

  “And where else is love more likely to take place than in a classroom? It’s natural. You can have a true meeting of minds—the most vital and deeply rewarding contact between people.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said.

  “You are a very young man. Only a few years older than Leslie was, right?”

  “I’m eight years … I’m twenty-six,” I said.

  “Leslie’s mother says the note mentions you, it talks about being passionately in love, a pregnancy. The loss of that love. You know nothing about that?”

  I didn’t know what to say. I looked at my hands fumbling together in my lap as though they were looking for a place to hide. “She wasn’t in love with me,” I whispered.

  “Do you want to tell me what was going on?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “Not what you think.”

  “You were sleeping with her weren’t you.”

  “I was not.”

  “It’s not a punishable charge,” she said, wryly. “Mrs. Warren already looked into it. Leslie is—Leslie was eighteen, and so …”

  “I wasn’t sleeping with her,” I said. “Jesus Christ.”

  I saw the corners of her mouth start to droop a little and realized she was fighting tears. “If you have anything to tell me,” she said, struggling with herself, keeping everything back. “I want to help you if I can. But you must tell me the truth.”

  “It is the truth.”

  “Do you have anything else to say?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I want to know what was going on,” she was a bit stronger, now. Not loud, but in control of her sadness.

  Mr. Creighton came in, pulled a chair up next to the desk and sat down. I was facing the two of them.

  “Mrs. Creighton,” I said, “I think you’ve got the wrong idea, here.” I tried to keep my voice steady. I was still in shock over what had happened; still had not talked about it to anybody. Even Annie. I said nothing to any human soul. I walked around like somebody who’s been placed under some sort of robotic spell; unconscious, mechanical, deliberate. I wasn’t really human; I was a doleful contrivance, with circuits and gears. But now I had to talk about it.

  I said, “I … I … wasn’t …” I couldn’t control my voice.

  Mr. Creighton said, “You better have something to say for yourself young man, because you’ve put this entire school in jeopardy.”

  “I have?”

  “They are suing us,” Mrs. Creighton said. “The Warren family is suing this school and you.”

  “Me?”

  She picked up a piece of paper on the desk and handed it to me. It was a legal summons. My name was at the top of it.

  “Good god,” I said.

  “You’re going to need God,” Mr. Creighton said. “You’re going to need a good attorney too.”

  “I don’t have that kind of money.”

  “Tell me what was going on,” he said. “You have to tell all of it.”

  “Nothing was going on. She got pregnant, I tried to help her.”

  “Did you meet her at Jolito’s after school?” he asked.

  My heart turned to ice. They knew about Jolito’s. I said, “I met her there once or twice. It was during her trouble over the, over her …”

  “You didn’t get her pregnant.”

  “No. Of course not.”

  Mrs. Creighton said, “The Warrens think you had an affair with their daughter and that you got her pregnant. And when she told you about it, you abandoned her. Threw her away.”

  “Did her note say that?”

  “No.”

  “Well how’d they get the idea then?”

  “They were suspicious about who she was—about how she was spending her time.” She fiddled with a document on her desk.

  I waited.

  “So Mr. Warren hired a private detective who followed Leslie. Your name was in his report. He says you met with her at Jolito’s, twice, and that you drove her to the clinic in Alexandria where she apparently got the abortion.”

  “I met her at Jolito’s three times. I accidentally ran into her there the first time. And yes, I drove her to the clinic. She was desperate. I wanted to help her.”

  “And you helped her get an abortion?” Mrs. Creighton said.

  “That’s what she wanted. She said she had to.”

  “She did.”

  “I didn’t get her pregnant.” I almost said, Leslie didn’t know who got her pregnant, but then I thought of her—of her fright and desperation—and I wanted so bad to protect her in some way, rescue her from this judgment, I said nothing more.

  Mr. Creighton said, “Did she say who did?”

  “No sir, she didn’t.” I had my Leslie’s Complaint folder in my desk. I also had her journal. I could take everything out and show them all her entries about Randy and Raphael. It would save me from all of it, but I couldn’t make myself say anything else. I remembered Leslie’s eyes, her note to me on the folded page of her journal, the last smile she cast my way, and I stopped talking.

  “You don’t know who she was sleeping with?”

  “No.”

  “But you could find out. She’s written it somewhere.”

  “I don’t have anything more to say. I’ve told you all I know.”

  “Tell me what she told you,” Mr. Creighton said.

  I explained Leslie’s desperation, her guilt afterward. They listened patiently, and I thought again that I might save myself without talking about her journal entries. I wanted to find some safe ground. But when it came to what I knew, I just couldn’t make myself betray her that way. It was just too important and private to share it with anyone. I went on a bit about her unreasoning guilt. Then I said, “I think she may have misunderstood my help. She got to think, briefly, that she was in love with me.”

  “And you threw her away,” Mrs. Creighton said.

  “No. I never let on that I
knew.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She wrote it on a note she didn’t want me to see. She didn’t know I saw it.”

  “You’re sure of that.”

  “I told her she would find love again, but I don’t think I—I guess, for sure I didn’t convince her.” I felt my voice break.

  “Her mother thinks she wasn’t just despondent over the abortion,” Mrs. Creighton said. “She believes you used Leslie then cast her aside when she got pregnant.”

  “It’s not what happened.”

  “How else would Mrs. Warren get that idea?”

  “I don’t know. It wasn’t me.”

  It was quiet for what seemed like a long time. I think I could hear Mr. Creighton’s watch ticking. Then finally he said, “Well?” and looked at Mrs. Creighton.

  In a trembling, barely audible voice she said, “I’m afraid we’re going to have to let you go, Benjamin.”

  “Really?”

  “I’m afraid so.” Now she did have tears in her eyes. She looked out the window, struggled to catch it, suppress it. She took a deep breath and went on. “I want you to finish out the year. It’s only the rest of the week. But then—well, you were planning on something else anyway, right?”

  “I was going to go to law school.”

  “Well, perhaps that’s for the best.”

  I said nothing.

  “If there is some way you can prove that you weren’t involved with Leslie. If you could …”

  “You’ll have to take my word for it.”

  “I wish I could.” She shook her head. “I wish you had not helped her get that abortion.”

  I got up to leave.

  “One thing,” Mrs. Creighton said. I stood over her desk and watched her searching for words. Mr. Creighton got up and walked out through the back of her office. He had nothing more to say to me. Mrs. Creighton said, “I would prefer if you didn’t make any announcements about your—that you’re leaving.”

  “Okay.”

  “And don’t tell anyone—especially any of the students—about this business with Leslie and her pregnancy and everything.”

  “I won’t,” I said. “You can count on that.”

  She was obviously finished with me. Still I couldn’t leave yet. I knew I should say something else, but I couldn’t think of it. So I just stood there looking at her.

  “What?” she said, when she noticed I hadn’t gone.

  “I can’t think,” I said.

  “What?”

  “I wanted to say something, but I’m caught by surprise.” My voice broke again.

  “Go ahead.”

  “I can’t think of it.”

  “Well I’ll be here when you do.”

  “What about the lawsuit?” I asked.

  She looked at me.

  “I’m named in the suit. What should I do about that?”

  “Nothing will go forward until they’ve talked to all the parties,” she said. I thought again of the copied pages and Leslie’s journal and felt a sudden, terrific sorrow that erased, for a brief span of time, everything else I could remember, and I knew for certain that I would take the folder and her journal out and burn them the first chance I got. What her parents would come to know about Leslie would be what they remembered about her. Nothing more. Mrs. Creighton looked at me and said, “You aren’t out of this just because I’m firing you.”

  I didn’t feel fired until she used that word. My heart sank even further, if that’s possible.

  “I’ll try to keep you out of it,” she said. “Once I explain the situation. You’re lucky that her mother is not against abortion; she would have made sure they helped her if she had gone to them.”

  “I told her she should do that.”

  “Well. I’ll explain that you were just being a friend to her …”

  “That’s what it was,” I interrupted.

  “… and that you have some very strange ideas about how to be a teacher.”

  I said nothing. I stood there watching her for the longest time, then it hit me what I had wanted to say earlier. I had a hard time saying it, because tears welled up in my eyes. “I’m sorry I let you down.”

  As she went back to the work on her desk she said, “Don’t forget to keep quiet about all this.”

  “I will,” I said. An easy promise to make. I didn’t feel like talking about Leslie and what happened ever again in my life. For sure I wasn’t going to say anything to Annie about it. She thought Leslie was troubled and just turned out to be one of those “teen suicides.” But you see, she wasn’t just another “teen.” She was an extraordinary and distinct human being, with a mind and intelligence and a powerful spirit; something in her eyes told you she was worth paying attention to, and I’m not talking about her glamour, either. I’m talking about who she was. How could someone with such promise turn away from the earth? It was all such a terrible waste.

  No, I would not tell Annie one bit of it. I didn’t think I would ever tell anyone about it.

  48

  Final Exam

  My last week went a little too fast. There was nothing in it to savor, but I still found myself carrying on as though I was going to lose something grand. I don’t know how to explain it. I walked around looking at the shelves of books, the desks, the notes on the board as though I was going to leave not just the school but this life; as though my leaving would be from all the earth.

  I said at the beginning that I wanted to tell the truth as accurately as I can. I would not want to sully Leslie’s memory or the tragedy of her family by being prosaic now, and I am perfectly willing to accept my responsibility for all that has happened. But so many factors played a role, and I am trying to understand so much more than culpability. Even if the whole thing was my fault I wonder what I might have done differently. How could I be other than I am? What is a teacher’s job, anyway? I had to watch George Meeker get brutalized by his father—I knew it was happening. I saw the marks on his neck, the bruises on his cheekbone and the side of his head, and I was helpless against it. I had to teach him about prepositions and pronouns, sentence fragments and parallel constructions, so whenever he finally discovered enough hate in his heart to report his old man, he could describe his own suffering accurately and with style. Is that all a teacher is responsible for?

  I still don’t know if I should have refused to help Leslie. She was so desperate and sad. How could anyone have said no to her?

  Mrs. Creighton stayed away from me most of that last week. My classes, as I said, went way too fast. I was finished with grading, mostly. I had the freshmen and sophomores write one final essay about their plans for the summer, but most of them wanted to write about Leslie and how much she had meant to them. I got to read a hundred essays about the shock of her death and the terrible sadness of it. They all wished they had said some final thing to her about how much they loved her. Jaime Nichols wrote: I just know Leslie died so God could teach me to treasure those I love. I wrote: What kind of God do you believe in exactly? What if somebody else wanted to teach you an important lesson by killing a person? I admit I wasn’t very gentle or lucid. That kind of thinking has always angered me. I can’t think of anything more profoundly selfish or self-centered than a “Christian” with a “personal” relationship with God. Leslie died so Jaime could learn something important in her own life. Jesus Christ!

  Another student wrote: Leslie’s death is God’s way of teaching us the meaning of beauty because her beauty couldn’t save her.

  I didn’t bother to respond to that.

  Suzanne Rule wrote nothing in her journal about Leslie or anything else.

  The seniors, of course, continued to grieve right through graduation. They made speeches at the ceremony about what they would remember most about her. All of them believed that Leslie was as dear a friend as any of them would ever have. And all of them had fond memories of their time with her.

  I did not see any reason to point out that our memory of the newly dead is
always slightly marred by our own apprehensions; or that counterfeit grief is really simply a kind of offering, in the hope that death will be satisfied with our suffering and leave us alone for a long time to come. I guess it is also a result of the romantic notion that if we can give meaning to the life of someone we barely knew, we can lend a little importance to our own lives.

  On the last day, Mrs. Creighton stopped me on the way to my first period class and whispered, “Good luck, young man.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I don’t think you need worry over the lawsuit. Leslie had a boyfriend her parents knew nothing about. And there was another fellow—it’s a huge mess.”

  I wasn’t glad to hear that. I felt so sorry for Leslie and her parents. I wonder why it is such a terrible thing to discover that somebody you have loved and cherished is simply human. It would be a long time, I realized, before I thought anything in the universe was good. I nodded at Mrs. Creighton and started to turn away, not wanting any emotional displays, and she stopped me. “One more thing. Her parents wanted me to let you know how much Leslie respected and admired you.”

  I had nothing to say to that.

  “I wish …” she paused. Then she touched my sleeve, seemed to watch as her fingers ran down the side of my arm. “I wish …” Now she looked at me. “I wish things had gone differently.”

  “Me too.”

  “If you hadn’t helped her get that abortion, I think Mr. Creighton would not object to you coming back. He really liked … he likes and admires you.”

  “I know,” I said.

  “Well …” she smiled, tears welling in her eyes.

  “Yes,” I said. “Good-bye.”

  “You know,” she said, still fighting tears. “You are invited to graduation.”

  “I know.”

  “We do hope you come.” She went on back into her office and I walked in to my classroom to start my last day as a teacher.