Language Arts

by Stephanie Kallos

  “Yes, Dana.” If Mrs. Braxton was as astonished as everyone else by Dana’s unprecedented use of classroom etiquette, she gave no indication. “Do you have something to contribute? You may put your hand down if you wish.”

  Dana spoke at a normal volume, slowly, but with exceptional clarity:

  “That boy … that Char-Lee Mar-Low … He do good work with … those … those … Pah-mer loose. He do real good work.”

  It was the most anyone in room 104 had ever heard him say.

  PART TWO

  THE PALMER METHOD

  On the first day of fourth grade, Mrs. Hunter

  collected our penmanship samples to save

  until June; by then, she said, we’d write

  in the handwriting we would have all our lives.

  …

  We were writing ourselves into the future.

  —Katrina Vandenberg, “Handwriting Analysis”

  I almost think we are all of us ghosts … It is not only what we have inherited from our father and mother that “walks” in us. It is all sorts of dead ideas, and lifeless old beliefs, and so forth. They have no vitality, but they cling to us all the same, and we cannot shake them off. Whenever I take up a newspaper, I seem to see ghosts gliding between the lines.

  —Henrik Ibsen, Ghosts

  Every childhood has a lexicon.

  —Priscilla Long, The Writer’s Portable Mentor

  Giorgia’s Boys

  The Intruder continues to disrupt the orderly workings of the many worlds Giorgia inhabits, an idle tourist with too much time on her hands. Maybe she has nothing to do but sightsee, chitchat, and take photographs, but Giorgia has obligations.

  Most concerning of all, however, is the fact that the Intruder (whose name, Giorgia has learned, is Roma) has begun to evolve into something far more than a meddlesome, gossiping nuisance; she has become a threat, aggressively inserting herself into Giorgia’s stories.

  She has made herself a character in “A Love Like Salt”—a sixth sister in the panificio, when it is Giorgia who has always been the youngest!—parading around, showing off her strength and beauty, trying to supplant Giorgia as Papa’s favorite.

  She is the newest teacher at the school on “The Isle of Rain,” a novitiate seeking to endear herself to Giorgia’s special students, some of whom are starting to prefer her when it comes time for handwriting lessons.

  And she has also somehow gained access to Giorgia’s convent cell, where Giorgia is the title character in “The Epistles of the Banished Princess.” Earlier this morning, she became aware of the girl crouched beneath her writing table, spying, peering over the edge through that camera lens, trying to distract Giorgia from her responsibilities as a wartime pen pal.

  As if anything could keep her from that story and that work, l’opera di Dio! How wrong it would be to abandon her correspondence, written in an unperturbed, flowing female hand with the greatest of care, telling of ordinary things, affirming the enduring existence of places exempt from horror. The war is escalating. The body count is rising. Not every boy is fortunate enough to have a sweetheart or wife assuring him that there is at least one person in the world advocating for him morning, noon, and night with God the Father and with the saints in His special employ, the patron saints of soldiers: Saint Ignatius, Saint Joan, Saint Martin, Saint Maurice, Saint Sebastian, and Saint George—Giorgia’s namesake.

  Ha! There is no Saint Roma! It is a satisfying thought. I bet she’s never written as much as a postcard to a boy in uniform!

  One thing is certain: this Roma had better not dare to step foot in the chapel again, or into any part of the story of “The Sunflower Bride.”

  It remains a puzzle. For so long, Giorgia has moved easily and alone between worlds on paths she believed that no one else could travel; how is it that the Intruder is able to follow?

  It matters not. She has come up with a way to shield herself. In one of the church classrooms, she found a large, lightweight white board with two folds, a standing screen that she can situate wherever it is most needed. It affords her privacy and separation. It allows her to concentrate. She can carry it with her wherever she goes, and she does, from world to world, country to country, across the seas and back again.

  One world materializes as another recedes. It is difficult sometimes knowing where she is and who her allies are. But at least, always, she has this protective barrier that serves her many needs: portable confessional, panificio kitchen, convent cell, the walls of a classroom, the palace of her shame.

  She has this wall, and her hands, and her ceaseless industry.

  •♦•

  Now she is in the story “Life Among the Changelings.”

  Giorgia’s pupils at the island convent school are among God’s most special children: eyes tending ever upward, roaming the skies; speaking (if they speak at all) in a private, individuated language; typically oblivious to ordinary earthly concerns; often outright resistant to traditional forms of human connection—touch, eye contact, conversation; attentive first and foremost to celestial voices only they can hear and decipher. In this sense, Giorgia considers her role to be less teacher and more code-breaker.

  Yes, of course, her students can be difficult, even dangerous. Within their grown bodies (her students are all boys), they are still children. A stern hand, sometimes even physical restraint, is called for, but Giorgia can handle them. As Papa always said, Sei forte, Giorgia, come un uomo, quasi.

  (He called her something else too, something besides strong; what was it? A mandolin? A mango? A pair of handcuffs? A sleeve? Oh, well. It doesn’t matter.)

  The student she is working with now is an easy one. Tall, tame as a domesticated geriatric bear, he is one of the mutes—although he occasionally sings snatches of cheerful songs, some of which sound familiar: The bigger the figure the better I like her the better I like her the better I feed her the better I feed her the bigger the figure the bigger the figure the more I can love … Consistently attentive to personal hygiene (this cannot be said for all of Giorgia’s boys), he presents a clean-shaven face, combed and Brylcreemed hair, and today wears neatly pressed trousers and a corduroy jacket over a plaid shirt. His expression is slack, his arm dead-weight heavy when Giorgia lifts it. She has to mold his fingers around the pencil and adjust his forearm so that it is angled appropriately in relation to the table. He watches these gentle manipulations with baffled interest, as if they are happening to someone else.

  They begin.

  Up, down, around … Up, down, around …

  This student is moderately advanced; very soon he’ll be able to attempt his first letter, a lowercase i.

  Giorgia is no fool; she doesn’t expect her students to master cursive writing, but she believes it is important for them to try (how else but by attempting human gestures such as writing will they lay claim to the highest expressions of this earthly existence?) and just as important for their families to watch them try (how else but through observing these imperfect but brave efforts will their families begin to love them?).

  Far more than demonstrations of social courtesy or proper hygiene—although these things are important as well—Giorgia has discovered that what makes her students’ families most hopeful is watching their boys attempt to write. Why this is so, Giorgia is not sure, but clearly there is deep comfort and joy to be found in observing a son, grandson, nephew, uncle, or brother who has never spoken a word in his life try to write one.

  The boys sense this happiness too, the fact that they have surprised other human beings in a positive way. It makes them more content to stay on earth, to keep trying.

  Giorgia focuses on her students’ divinity and mystery, not on obsessive repetitive gestures, nonresponsive expressions, or inappropriate outbursts. She knows they are capable of far more than competency and compliance. The key lies somewhere in penmanship practice.

  After rewarding this student’s effort with a brief, feather-light pat on the shoulder and a chocolate chip cook
ie, Giorgia stands and waves him on his way with a briskly executed series of bedspring ovals written in the air. She then reclaims her seat and waits for whoever is next.

  •♦•

  Giorgia hears the sounds of many footsteps approaching. She peers around her screen.

  The rain has stopped! The sun has come out! The room is filled with the golden light of the countryside.

  Home.

  Toscana.

  This must be a new scene from “The Sunflower Bride”; her wedding reception, perhaps? That’s why all these people are here. The old ones have already taken their seats. Of course, that is as it should be, the elderly deserve preferential treatment, respect, and safekeeping; and now the young people are arriving, all the young people of Giorgia’s village—her friends!

  Giorgia looks for her sisters, her uncles, and Papa, who will surely soon be toasting her happiness from the head table.

  Where is the head table?

  And why are there not flowers? There should be flowers, girasoli, from the fields outside their village—hundreds of them, in milk bottles, on all the tables. Her sister Felice used to set them out like that, on the counter at the front of the panificio, a cheerful welcoming sight for their customers.

  Where is Felice? Giorgia is growing anxious. As Giorgia’s maid of honor and best friend, she should be at her side. And where is her groom? He will be in uniform, of course, as will the groomsmen.

  Across the room, near the church basement entrance, Giorgia sees her, Roma, greeting each of the young guests, calling them by name. She guides them to their places around the room.

  That is not her job! Giorgia is the bride! Only she knows the seating chart!

  “Ma io sono la sposa,” Giorgia says, getting up and leaving the seclusion of her small screen. “Non quella ragazza.”

  Things have gone too far. This is more than inexcusable rudeness or even a threat—this is mutiny; this is a coup d’état.

  Now the Intruder has begun to take pictures of the wedding guests.

  But she is not the wedding photographer! It should be her bridegroom’s friend, the pudgy redheaded boy.

  There he is! And there is Giorgia’s groom next to him, both in uniform, si bello, standing beside a table where one young villager, a gangly-bodied boy with dark hair and pale skin (he needs to get out in the sun, that one), sits alone.

  “Hello, Mrs. D’Amati,” the Intruder says when Giorgia draws near. “How are you today?”

  How does she know my name? Giorgia wonders. We’ve never met. It is time to make it clear. She is not and will never be a character in any of my stories.

  Giorgia reaches for the camera.

  “Togliti di dosso quella telecamera,” she says.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. D’Amati, what is it? Do you want me to take your picture?”

  Giorgia shakes her head. “Non sei stato invitato,” she says, wrapping her hand around the camera strap and giving it a sharp tug.

  “Mrs. D’Amati, I don’t … can you just tell me what … please, let go …”

  Giorgia yanks the strap so hard that the Intruder topples toward her. “Fuori!” Giorgia yells. “Non puoi stare qui!”

  Suddenly Giorgia’s bridegroom steps in and breaks her hold on the camera strap.

  The Intruder moves behind him, cowering. She places her hand on his arm.

  “Togli le mani di dosso a mio marito! Io sono la sposa!”

  “Stop that, Giorgia.” Her bridegroom’s voice surprises her; it is hard and cold, like Papa’s. “Leave Romy alone or I’ll have to take you outside and put you in the bus.”

  Giorgia is incredulous; he is taking the Intruder’s part! She has bewitched him! She has stolen him away!

  “Io sono la sposa!” Giorgia shouts at her. “Io sono la sposa! Lui è mio marito! Mi ama!” And then she hurls the full force of her ninety-eight pounds against her bridegroom, bulldozes him out of the way, and slaps the Intruder in the face.

  Instantly, her bridegroom and his friend vanish—poof!—and in their places the fallen angels appear, with their massive arms and thick necks.

  Where are her allies? Why do none of her friends come to her rescue?

  “Aiutami!” Giorgia cries out in desperation to whoever might hear and understand. “Dio in cielo mandami un angelo custode!”

  •♦•

  Cody is sitting and watching. It is the first time he has seen the tiny woman up close. He has studied her from across the room many times before. She too prefers to sit alone. She speaks a strange language. Sometimes she talks to other people, but mostly she talks to herself. She does things with her hands that interest him.

  A small crowd has formed near Cody’s table. At the center is the tiny woman, screaming—she is having a bad day—while Big Mal and the other man who is like Big Mal are trying to get hold of her. A few steps away is Romy, the girl who takes pictures and helps Cody and his group do art; she is talking to someone Cody doesn’t know.

  “It’s all right,” Romy is saying. Her face is red. “Really, I’m fine. You don’t have to take her outside, I’ll just …”

  Cody stands up. No one notices; they are all too busy grappling with the little woman, who is strong, mad, and afraid. He walks around his table and comes closer.

  “Cody,” Big Mal says when he sees him. “Sit down and finish your lunch.”

  But Big Mal is too busy with the tiny woman to make Cody do anything, so he keeps on standing there. The tiny woman has started to cry.

  Finally she notices him.

  “Tu?” she says. She stops fighting the big men. Her eyes are large and brown and shiny. “Sei tu? Sei venuto ad aiutarmi? Grazie. Grazie a Dio che ti ha mandato.” Everyone else has stopped moving too. “Vieni. Cerchiamo di dargli una lezione. È passato troppo tempo.”

  She tries to take Cody’s hand. He jerks it away and steps back. She nods—“Bene, ho capito, A-Okay”—and makes a gesture letting him know he should follow.

  •♦•

  Giorgia leads the student back to her place. She hasn’t seen him for such a long time. Thanks be to God the Father for sending him, one of her favorites! She’s forgotten his name—Dario? Dante? Delmo?—but it will come to her.

  She sits. She pats the table surface next to her.

  Roma has followed, but she isn’t wearing that camera anymore, and she keeps a respectful distance, so Giorgia is no longer worried. She showed that girl what’s what and then some.

  Of course, Giorgia shouldn’t have let her temper get the better of her. It was wrong to strike Roma, even if she is a flirt. Giorgia will need to say many prayers of contrition in her cell tonight. In the meantime, she looks Roma in the eye and says, “Mi dispiace. Ti prego perdonami. Ho un cuore invidioso.”

  The girl’s face softens slightly, almost a smile, and she takes a few steps closer, so that she is next to the boy.

  As soon as Giorgia sees them standing side by side, it all makes sense; the resemblance is so clear. Of course: they are brother and sister! Why did Giorgia not see it before?

  This, at last, is a story she can live with, a way for the Intruder to have a place in Giorgia’s world. Roma can be a character in “Life Among the Changelings”:

  It is visiting day. The three of them will eat lunch together—Giorgia, her student, and his sister from the mainland—and then, afterward, Roma will see the progress her brother has made.

  Giorgia pats the table again, one hand on each side of her.

  They sit.

  Giorgia touches the boy’s hand.

  He pulls away; he doesn’t like to be touched, she’d forgotten.

  The best thing is just to begin.

  And so she does.

  She starts with the basics. It is never a waste of time to go back to the beginning:

  “Su, giù, intorno … Su, giù, intorno …”

  Beyond the triptych of her screen, Giorgia is aware, others draw close, watch with respect, with reverence. Even the fallen angels and the prison warden!


  That’s fine! That’s good! Let them all observe what it is to work with diligence and care in this small way.

  God sees everything. It is not for the showy that He opens the gates of heaven, nor for the clamorous. It is for the small and resolute; the meek, the humble, the patient, the silent.

  Let them all watch and learn.

  The Art of Ukemi

  It was Thanksgiving break, the day itself. Cloud City was closed, but Charles had risen at five thirty as usual and was already busy.

  He had nothing but time over the long weekend and was determined to make some headway in the crawlspace. He really wanted to locate Emmy’s childhood keepsakes—going through them together would be something fun to do—so in a way, he was grateful she’d decided to stay in New York and wait until Christmas to come home.

  It’s fine, sweetheart, he’d told her when she broke the news.

  Are you sure, Dad?

  Absolutely. Traveling over Thanksgiving break is a nightmare, especially cross-country. So much can go wrong.

  Please tell me that you have plans. I don’t want you to be alone.

  I won’t be.

  Well, give Cody my love, okay? I miss him so much.

  He misses you too, Emmy. Have fun, get some rest, and I’ll see you next month. I will recognize you, won’t I? I mean, you won’t be coming home with a shaved head or a tattoo or a nose ring or anything, will you?

  Very funny, Dad. Ha-ha. But just wait; one of these days I’ll surprise you.

  Charles had made coffee, eaten breakfast, chosen another dusty bottle off the rack and set it in the fridge to chill: French, white, a piquepoul. He learned from a quick Internet search that the literal translation was “lip stinger” but he’d decided to try it anyway. He liked the lettering on the label.

  The day was all planned.

  Later this morning he’d visit Cody at the group home, watch a few minutes of whatever college football game was on, and wish the caretakers a happy holiday. He wouldn’t stay for the special lunch, most of which Cody probably wouldn’t eat anyway.