“Didn’t do it.” His voice was cheerful with just an edge of defiance.
“Why not?”
“Couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Can’t read it.”
Shakespeare was of course difficult, and I was aware that there had been complaints that the twelfth graders would benefit more from modern dramas such as Miller’s The Crucible or even Williams’ A Streetcar Named Desire, which would at least have a mad Blanche whose dependency on the kindness of strangers might make more sense to the average teenager than a mad Lear with his dependency on family. And there would be some identification by the male students with Stanley Kowalski, a fact that I had mentioned to a laughing Miss Steinbrink, who had paid me the compliment of consulting me on curriculum choices. I had been fortunate enough to acquire a job at the local library the previous summer and had spent all my spare time reading modern drama. It had been my best summer.
“Shakespeare is difficult,” I told him carefully, “but I did explain some of it to you yesterday, and the annotated text should help.” I started to question him, and to my surprise he remembered the plot, the paradox of a mad Lear becoming enlightened and a blind Gloucester gaining insight. He even remembered the Fool as a sensible touchstone for Lear.
“You remember it all really well.” He smiled and flushed at the praise. “But you’ve got to reduce it to writing. Exams, remember?”
He stopped smiling.
I decided to have him try a little Gatsby. Shakespeare was too heavy for starters.
Rather than lecture as I had the previous day, I started questioning him, even attempting to personalize the West Egg and East Egg, laughing when I compared my apartment with his home in a new development. He did not laugh, perhaps, I thought, out of concern for my feelings. His sensitivity surprised me, as did his moral position on Tom’s adultery and the relationship between Daisy and Gatsby.
“But he did love her,” I argued. “Everything he accomplished he did for her, even if it was criminal activity. He was even willing to take the blame for the accidental death of her husband’s mistress.”
He would not be convinced, and I thought of the irony of the virgin, Sonja Danychuk, taking the moral low road with this outspoken student who questioned Deborah Hanson’s menstrual periods, and who, as everyone knew, was having sex with the unsmiling Candace Stewart.
We talked about the valley of ashes, the green light on Daisy’s dock, Gatsby’s parties, and the American Dream, lost among the pursuit of wealth.
“Do you know any symbols?” I asked.
“My dad’s Mercedes,” he answered without hesitation.
I was pleased, as well as with the roast chicken with mashed potatoes and string beans, followed by cheesecake with sour cream and bottled blueberries. He would, he promised, give me a plot summary of Chapter One of Gatsby in writing the next day, touching on the revelation of character and developing themes.
Carl Helbig Sr. drove me home in his Mercedes, sleek, silver, and purring, which sounded like the shushing of winds through summer branches on the icy streets of Davenport. He was a soft-spoken man with only a slight accent, the opposite of the animated Gerda in every way.
“We are,” he told me, “very grateful for your efforts. Carl’s not a student, but his graduation from high school is very important to his mother. He is,” he continued, “a good boy and a great hockey player. We cannot all be good students.”
“We’re doing well,” I said.
I entered our apartment warm with satisfaction, even looking forward to the next day. I was, I told myself, a great teacher, inspiring and encouraging, opening up new avenues to even the leader of the badass choir. And I had chosen the right vocation, earning a living by teaching what I loved. I settled myself on the faded stale sofa in the still apartment where I could no longer smell cooking, and where sometimes late at night I could still see Pops sitting at the table with his Smirnoff bottle, a glass symbol of unfulfilled aspirations, a much sadder symbol than Mr. Helbig’s silver Mercedes.
Mutti picked me up at five-thirty the next day in front of the apartment and informed me they were waiting dinner for me. She had taken for granted that I hadn’t eaten, and merely smiled and nodded when I said, “You didn’t have to do that,” replying only, “Your Mutti work night, yah?” Everyone always knew everything in Davenport.“Guess she glad her daughter so schmart.”
I nodded, thinking Ma would have been better pleased had I been planning to work at the local pharmacy or the Toronto-Dominion Bank rather than planning a university education, even if I did receive an Imperial Oil Scholarship.
Dinner was wiener schnitzel with buttered noodles, carrots, and broccoli, followed by crystal goblets filled with imported strawberries and blueberries with large curls of yellow custard on top. No wonder Carl was so big, stuffed with nutritious food since birth. Mutti, I thought with admiration, could do everything. Wearing my white socks, while carefully placing my boots on the mat inside the front door, I returned the smiles of the two Carls, who stood as I entered the dining room.
I actually loved it all: the food, the shiny surfaces, the scent of money hovering behind it. The day before we’d arrived early, and the cleaning woman, an elderly German immigrant who Carl introduced as Ursula, was rushing to finish polishing our mahogany work table. Polite of him to introduce her, I thought, doubting whether any of Ma’s employers had ever seen fit to make an introduction.
I watched her as she bent over the polished surface, rubbing our already-gleaming table, lips pursed and underarms jiggling with effort. I smiled and said, “It’s okay,” after she muttered, “Sorry” for keeping us waiting. I heard her gathering up the familiar charlady’s utensils, heard her close the back door quietly, and glimpsed her through the window, pail by her side, a bowed figure, fumbling for the keys of her decrepit Volkswagen in the pocket of her down duffle with its hood pulled up against the late afternoon chill.
I felt a moment of guilt. It could be poor Ma trudging off with pail and cleaners, after having her evening meal of pickles and luncheon meat, all followed by three Camels, one after the other.
“Husband and I have Rhine wine,” said Mutti as she poured two glasses. “You keep clear mind for study. Time to celebrate after Carl pass grade.”
Carl led the way into the study and stood looking down at me, his blue pullover showing the fresh checked collar of his shirt underneath. His scoured jeans were tight on his long legs, and even his running shoes were unmarked by the slightest trace of dirt. Now that I’d permitted myself to look at him directly, I decided he was the cleanest person I’d ever known. Even his ears had been soaped to a shine and under the light glowed like the pink inside of seashells. Blonds, certainly natural ones, I thought, always looked cleaner than those of us with dark hair. He always made me feel unclean, although I did my best, fighting with the temperamental apartment shower that had to be cajoled to give more than a lukewarm dribble at morning and night.
“Present,” he sang, depositing three white sheets with carefully inked paragraphs on the polished table in front of me.
I leaned over and started to read. “This is wonderful,” I breathed and then realized under no circumstances did this sophisticated analysis of the first chapter of The Great Gatsby originate with Carl Helbig.
I looked at him steadily when I had finished.
“It’s very good,” I said. “I wonder who wrote it.”
“What do you think I am?” he answered, his voice full of contrived indignation. “A dummy?”
“No,” I said quickly, “I don’t think that, but you didn’t write this.”
He had, after all, gone to the trouble of plagiarizing three sheets of criticism, presenting them to me as a gift, and even if the gift was not authentic, it remained a presentation. It was pointless to pull moral indignation—the food and money were too good.
“Why?” I asked, lowering my voice, knowing in some intuitive way the answer.
“I wanted
to make you happy, the way you were last night when I answered your questions on Gatsby.”
“You went to this much trouble . . . to make me happy?” I asked softly.
He looked at the mahogany surface of the table, then back at me, and then looked away again. “It’s more than that . . . I can’t read. It’s like pain. The letters are fucked up and I can’t spell, not a damn word. It would have taken me years to do what you wanted, and even then I couldn’t do it. I have a hard time sitting still even for two minutes. I can use the computer; I play games on it. I got this off the Internet. I typed ‘Gatsby’ into Google and there it was under ‘Chapter One.’ I copied it. It took me three hours.”
I’d heard of this problem before. I wished I could afford a computer. I could not be angry with him. Neither could I give him sympathy, knowing it would anger and embarrass him. He had wanted to make me happy.
“There’s a word for this, I believe.”
“There are two,” he replied. “One is stupid and the other is dumb.”
“No, no,” I corrected him quickly, “you’re anything but. The fact that you’ve reached Grade 12 without being able to read or spell may mean you’re a genius. You gave me great spoken answers. They should let you do your exams that way, but they may not. Not Davenport High. I could go and ask Wiley Wheaton just in case they’d consider it.”
“No friggin’ way. This was just between us, remember?” His voice had a determined edge I hadn’t heard before.
We sat without speaking. And then he said more softly, “I understand when you read or talk. It’s just reading it and understanding it on my own.”
“Have you ever been tested?”
He smiled and the edge in his voice was back. “In elementary school when I was about ten. The teacher insisted on it, as I was already repeating my year. Mutti got very upset, said they were covering up their bad teaching and my laziness. So nothing was done. They kept promoting me, the class moron. But I had a lot of friends, nothing like being the class comedian, and I could always do math. I was one helluva hockey player from age seven, so they kept pushing me through, probably afraid of Mutti and of losing their top peewee scorer. But now they won’t push me through anymore: I’m too much of ‘a challenge.’ You can’t have a high school graduate who can’t read or spell—bad for the school’s reputation.”
“Nice that you can do math, my worst subject. Trigonometric ratios and evaluating logarithms drive me crazy. Perhaps you can tutor me.”
I was glad I’d said it. He started smiling and allowed me to continue.
“I’ll read the first act of Lear to you, all of it. I’ll spell out the words and explain every sentence. The test is on Lear, so we’ll leave the Gatsby and Prufrock for the moment.
“Not what you expected, eh? Really boring for you. Not even ‘a challenge.’”
“No, it’s not what I expected, but I’m here to help, not to enjoy myself.” Having said this, I was sorry. I made it sound as if I were serving a prison sentence.
“Really earning your twenty bucks an hour.”
His resentment was wounding. He had opened up to me. Now he wanted to punish me for it.
I pride myself on my self-control. I am not a crier. I did not even cry when Pops died, enduring his passing like some festering abdominal wound that stirred when I least expected it. Literature, more than life, was moving to me, so I avoided intimacy, although I knew I desperately needed it. I felt sad for him, but I stifled it. Empathy would be seen as condescension. I would be basic and frank, no subterfuge or sympathy. I would even attempt humour provided he did not think he was its object. After all, didn’t he use humour every day of his life? Carl Helbig and his chortling choir, background music in the back of the class, guaranteed to drive his teachers into a rock-and-roll frenzy.
“When you need the money like I do, it doesn’t really matter how you earn it. This beats Tim Hortons and O’Dare’s, and your mom’s cooking beats everything. If I were home I’d have a pickle and a piece of processed meat for dinner. I haven’t eaten so well, ever. If you didn’t have learning problems, think of all the great meals I’d miss and all the money I’d lose.”
It was the right approach. “Glad to be of service,” he said, and he sat down, smiling.
The reading began. Act I, the Shakespearean rendition and then the Danychuk interpretation, spelling names and having him copy, over and over, then a page and a half, succinctly printed, outlining the plot, the development of characters, and the Fool, who I told him was no fool at all. I had him copy the page, cringed inwardly at his clumsy efforts and the reversal of letters, and then had him read it haltingly back, time and again. Tomorrow he would reproduce and correct what he’d done, and if sufficient we’d progress to Act II; if not, we’d begin again to do the Act I synopsis.
There was still history and political science, which we hoped would be multiple choice since he found that easier, provided, of course, he could read the choices.
At nine we were both exhausted. And now I’d have two hours of studying to ensure my scholarship, should my application be successful.
“Studies go good?” asked Mutti as we cruised through the icy streets in the silent silver Mercedes that Carl Sr., who was watching a hockey game in the living room, had heated up for us. It seemed impossible to me that Carl’s Mutti hadn’t taken in the fact that she had a son who had, indeed perhaps always had, serious learning problems that had been ignored year after year. Her denial of the situation was cruel.
“Carl,” I said, breathing deeply, “has really serious problems with his reading and spelling.”
“And that is why we have you, to solve problem.” Her voice was harsh, scratching my already stretched vulnerability. Did she want me to saw open the head of her handsome scrubbed son and attack the problem with a screwdriver, tightening some loose screws so all would function, like the Mercedes and the well-oiled machines functioned at Dare’s Machinery?
It was useless to argue further. I decided I disliked Gerda Helbig, who could not have an imperfect son any more than she could have an imperfect house. Carl was lazy and his teachers incompetent.
“I’ll do my best, Mrs. Helbig,” I promised, stifling a desire to say more. Shutting up for $20 an hour and great dinners. But what was the point of arguing with a tank?
We would meet tomorrow.
THE NIGHT WAS heavy with February chill, and the white sliver of a moon in the black socket of a starless sky gave no light. I let myself in and waited in the foyer until a man with long black hair and wearing a black leather jacket and frayed jeans went into the elevator.
Pops had always warned me to never get in the elevator alone with a man at night. Suddenly I missed Pops, with his vodka, swollen belly, and sad dark eyes. Unlike my mother, who was probably too tired to care, he always smiled and nodded his head in approval when I handed him my report cards and essays. He was not a mean drunk, just a consistent one.
The apartment was cold and I pushed up the thermostat. The building was old and needed renovating. Not that the owner would renovate, and if he did it would mean an increase in rent. You made a choice: discomfort or loss of money. I left on my coat and boots and started on my history assignment. I liked British history, with its succession of kings and queens who ushered in new eras reflecting individual politics and religion. I especially liked the Tudors: Henry VIII and his abolishment of the Catholic Church to accommodate his marital choices, and the indomitable Elizabeth I, using her professed virginity to manipulate foreign powers and remain on the throne.
I couldn’t focus. The confrontation with Carl, if you could call it that, had upset me, as had Gerda Helbig, with her unrealistic demands. I wanted to use the Internet to further investigate Carl’s problem but it would have to wait until tomorrow when I could check it out on one of the five computers in the school library. It was unfortunate that Carl could only use his father’s computer to play video games and plagiarize English assignments.
I tossed and
turned in the tangled sheets, tired but unable to turn off my thoughts. I smelled Ma’s cigarette when she came home at midnight and heard the closing of her bedroom door. Things would be worse when we moved to the one-bedroom next month and she had only the sofa. I woke up soggy and still tired at seven and struggled with the tepid water from the rusty shower, finally giving up and heading to the kitchen sink to shampoo my hair. There, hair wrapped in a towel, I joined Ma, who was already up, cigarette attached, sitting at the kitchen table.
I felt cranky, both at the cigarette smoke and at a refrigerator that contained only Bubbie’s Pickles, mouldy cheese, and pumpernickel so stale that it curled from its opened package, the mottled pink luncheon meat long gone.
My crankiness was enervating, almost enjoyable, and I aimed it at Ma, who I secretly blamed for hastening Pops’ death by her relentless menu of fried sausages and lard-packed fried potatoes. I spoke to her in Ukrainian, my desire to integrate her into English-speaking Canada gone.
“There’s no food in the fridge and you’re killing me with your damn cigarettes. I smoke a pack a week in second-hand smoke and this place stinks like O’Dare’s Bar. If I didn’t eat at the Helbigs, I’d starve.”
“You are,” retorted Ma in rapid-fire Ukrainian, “getting really high on yourself, all because of your chance of a scholarship and eating with the rich Germans. Losing weight won’t hurt you, that’s what you always say you want, and when your father was alive all you ever did was complain about my cooking so don’t make like you miss it. Cigarettes are my only pleasure and I won’t give them up for a spoiled daughter who appreciates nothing. I clean floors all day to keep a roof over your head and all you do is bitch, getting your head turned and eating with the Nazis. If your father was alive, no way you’d dare speak to me like this.”
Ma’s tirade unsettled me. I got up, still drying my hair, and stamped back to the bathroom. I’d been too harsh, directing my anger at Gerda Helbig and the whole Carl situation at Ma, who, despite her chain-smoking and poor food choices, hardly deserved my condemnation. When I returned, dressed for my library visit, hair blown dry and pinned back in its usual fat doughnut, Ma was gone, but there was a crumpled twenty left on the table. I would have preferred to leave it as a final rebuff for when she returned at five o’clock, but I stuffed it into my jeans pocket. I would pick up a coffee and a doughnut at Tim Hortons on my way to school.
Sonja & Carl Page 3