Mrs. Ravenbach's Way

by William M. Akers

  He only wore the sneakers, which meant one could never hear him coming. This was his special technique to creep up on the misbehaving children. I had often seen children nearly die of fright when Mr. Hertenstein appeared, as if from nowhere behind their backs, and cleared his throat. Their frightened faces truly could make one laugh.

  It was not quite as amusing, however, to have him sneak up and suddenly appear in one’s own private classroom.

  “Mrs. Ravenbach?”

  It took quite the effort not to have a stroke. “Yes, Principal Hertenstein?”

  “Toby Wilcox was in my office today.” There was something in his voice that concerned me, just a wee, tiny little bit. When one’s fifth Golden Apple for Excellence in Teaching hangs in the balance, any possible shift in the scales is worth noticing. “He recited his little haiku to me. It did not seem to be worthy of being sent to my office.”

  Down my back a chill as cold as the beautiful Danube River ran. Could it be that Principal Hertenstein disagreed with me, Mrs. Leni Ravenbach? I said, “It was a most disrespectful haiku.”

  “Your opinion, of course. My concern is my time, and he wasted an enormous amount of it climbing all over my bookcases, rifling through my file cabinets, and generally making a nuisance of himself in my office. While Miss Scott was occupied sorting her bottles of fingernail polish by color, I had to deal with three phone calls from irate parents and had no time to prevent Toby from visiting every corner of my office. I do not like having my time wasted. And I most emphatically do not like little children going through my private office files.”

  “F-files . . . ?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Ravenbach. My files. My personal private executive files. My personal, private, private executive files.”

  The cold Danube River flowing down my spine suddenly began to feel as if fifteen platoons of Waffen-SS soldiers had thrown nine tons of ice into it. Each.

  “Do you have, Principal Hertenstein, any idea what files he was . . . inspecting?”

  “When I dragged him away, he was rooting around in the L.E. drawer.”

  Now it felt as if the Waffen-SS soldiers had dropped dry ice into the Danube.

  * * *

  PRINCIPAL HERTENSTEIN IS MY KIND of principal in that he maintains the precision timing. He left for his exercise club every day precisely at 4:15 p.m.. The order and the discipline!

  His secretary, Miss Scott, who was a bit of the va-va-voom and not the sort of secretary who makes a correct impression sitting at a desk painting and polishing her fingernails all the day long, always left exactly three minutes after he did. Probably to go to a bar to meet sailors. Which meant, if one waited ten minutes after that, there was no danger of being noticed slipping into the principal’s office.

  Like an arrow shot from the crossbow, I went straight to his personal, private, executive files. In the drawer marked L.E., I could see one file sticking up and smudged, as if it had been grabbed by fat, dirty fingers on a fat, dirty hand.

  A file marked “LeJeune, Edward T.”

  I could feel the beautiful Danube beginning to freeze.

  I quickly slipped the folder out of the file cabinet and into my great, massive brown leather East German Grundschule book satchel. It was a matter of instants before I was out the door and down the stairs, and out the front door, and into my charming lavender Volkswagen Beetle automobile.

  That evening, in my fireplace, the Edward T. LeJeune file burned very, very nicely.

  CHAPTER 11

  It was with great relish that, one bright and sunny afternoon, while the children were out at recess, running, running, sweating, sweating, throwing up, throwing up, I put down my knitting and raised my elegant, strong body from behind my gleaming teacher’s desk and cruised between the students’ tidy little desks to the messy desk of young Tobias Wilcox.

  I had not read his personal, private journal in several days and was yearning to see what his little fertile mind had been up to.

  Squashing the desire to put on chemical-resistant hazmat gloves, I raised the lid of his desk and rummaged through the usual damp, disgusting mess. And rummaged. And rummaged. I had great hope, but unfortunately his personal, private journal was not there.

  Was this a problem for Mrs. Ravenbach? No, it was not!

  If you are well prepared, nothing is a problem. And Mrs. Ravenbach was well prepared, as you will recall, since she was in possession of her own personal mole. A bald-headed one named Richard.

  Through the window, I quickly got his attention and summoned him to my lovely classroom that smelled so delightfully of Pine-Sol.

  It only took a small amount of Adam’s apple pinching to get Richard to go to the playground, to slide young Tobias Wilcox’s dirty journal from his backpack, and to lay it on the well-polished surface of my teacher’s desk.

  I noticed that the journal was more dusty than usual. A strange silver dust, but no matter.

  I let Richard stand there, at a discreet distance, of course, and watch me learn of his friend’s innermost thoughts. The guilt and shame Richard felt would go a long way toward preventing in the future his using mud puddle language. While he fidgeted, I found out precisely what Tobias’s devious little mind had been up to.

  The answer, once I was able to decipher his atrocious handwriting, was that his fertile little mind had been up to . . . wonderful things! Thoughts and musings about the life, the teaching, and the overall relationship between the child and his teacher. It was quite gratifying to behold.

  It was so gratifying to be seeing my knowledge so well received by my young pupil!

  Miracles do happen. And young Tobias Wilcox might be my miracle child for this school year.

  I closed his diary. It held no more interest for me.

  Suffice to say, the important thing was that young Tobias Wilcox was back on track! Good job by the teacher!

  It was a bright and sunny day when Mrs. Hamilton’s fourth grade class filed into my classroom for the fourth grade portion of the All-School Poetry Contest. They were silent, respectful, and had their heads bowed. It was clear, because her head too was bowed, that Mrs. Hamilton was terrified of me.

  The terror. Always the correct idea.

  One by one, each little child shuffled to the front of my tidy classroom and, knees knocking, upper lips perspiring, and fingers twisting nervously as their hands clasped and unclasped behind their backs, each child said the stupid little poem that they had composed.

  One by one, each of the little children disgraced himself or herself.

  Trevania Sumner had a boring poem about a teapot. It had a wretched rhyme scheme.

  Arthur Hester said a poem about James Bond, but it made absolutely no sense to anyone on the planet except Arthur Hester himself.

  Ernie Harbison said a poem about how he wanted to grow up and be a Marine. What a ridiculous subject for a poem.

  Drusilla Tanner, to my dismay, recited a poem . . . about the farting. Her poem was quite popular with the boys, especially Arthur and Richard and their fat little friend Tobias Wilcox. Needless to say, she did not get chosen.

  I mention Tobias Wilcox only at the end of my discussion of the poetry recital for a very marvelous reason.

  Much to my surprise, and it is rare that Mrs. Ravenbach finds herself surprised, young Tobias Wilcox had crafted a most excellent poem. Wunderbar. Not only did he say it beautifully, but it was a superb piece of writing. I was astounded anyone so headstrong could write something so beautiful.

  The entire poem from the beginning to the middle to the end, was wunderbar.

  It reminded me of my own long-dead, much-beloved Grossvater. Everyone should be so lucky to have a grandfather like mine, and so few do. When Tobias had finished reciting his poem, with that touching final line, there were several girls dabbing their eyes from the tears.

  “Tobias, that was excellent.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Ravenbach. I spent a long time writing it, and an even longer time rewriting it. The stuff you told us about
how you’re supposed to rewrite stuff was real helpful.”

  “It was an excellent poem. Mrs. Hamilton and I will now decide who will get to represent the fourth grade in the All-School Poetry Contest.”

  It did not take long for Mrs. Hamilton and myself to decide that young Tobias Wilcox should be the one to represent the fourth grade with his most excellent poem about his Grossvater. Especially since Mrs. Hamilton said not a word. When we told the class young Tobias was indeed the winner, they exploded with the kind of applause normally reserved for a ship launching. It was heartwarming. He was smiling and happy and overflowing with the self-confidence. It was a wonderful educational moment. The only thing that tainted the moment for me was the fact that young Tobias Wilcox was grinning, as the Southerners say, “like a mule eating briars,” because he seemed so certain he would be chosen to represent the fourth grade in the All-School Poetry Contest.

  His grinning made me want to smack him in the face. I restrained myself. Barely.

  Despite my nearly overpowering desire to leave my handprint on his cheek, I was proud of young Tobias Wilcox. He had done the best job. Mrs. Hamilton, natürlich, agreed with me.

  After Mrs. Hamilton’s class left, I said, “Tobias?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Ravenbach?”

  “You deserve a special, special reward for winning the fourth grade portion of the All-School Poetry Contest.”

  “Really, Mrs. Ravenbach?”

  “Would you like to brush my hair or massage my feet?”

  Every child froze in place.

  Young Tobias Wilcox had never been invited to enjoy the Highest Honor. He had never participated in Reward Time.

  He said, “Thank you and no thank you.”

  I could not have been more astounded if a polar bear ran in and shouted, “The Father Christmas is a Communist agitator!” Never, in all my years of teaching, had I heard a pupil refuse the Highest Honor. This confirmed my suspicion that, when he was a small child, young Tobias must have been dropped on his head by his parents.

  “Everyone wants to brush my hair. Everyone wants to rub my tired feet, especially when I allow them to use my fragrant unguent from Westfalen.”

  “I don’t know what unguent is,” he said, “but I don’t want to touch your feet. I bet they smell.”

  The room became extraordinarily quiet.

  “Excuse me?”

  His eyes, like a little snake, they did not blink. He just looked up at me, and looked up at me, and looked up at me.

  He was a most vexing child.

  “Are you certain you are not wishing to rub my feet or brush my hair? I will let you use my sterling silver hairbrushes and comb.” He shook his little head.

  Arthur said, “Toby, it’s the best thing you can imagine. We all love to brush Mrs. Ravenbach’s hair.”

  Drusilla said, “And everybody likes to massage her feet! The lotion smells so wonderful on your hands for the rest of the day.”

  And . . . then . . .

  Young Tobias Wilcox said . . . “Oh, barf.”

  At that precise instant, something dreadful occurred.

  Every child in the classroom began to laugh.

  And laugh, and laugh, and laugh!

  They had obviously been holding back their laughter for quite some many months now. It exploded like the Hindenburg. Not a quiet, peaceful little laugh either; it was a gigantic, mirthful, percussive, loud, and awful laugh. It was the most embarrassing laugh I have ever heard in my entire lifetime. And it was directed at me, Mrs. Leni Ravenbach, fourth grade teacher. Whatever happened to Mother. Father. Teacher. God?

  As they howled, their mouths were open so wide, I could see all the way down to their tonsils. Tears were squirting out of their eyes and running down their cheeks. Drusilla was pounding her desk with her skinny little fist so hard that her scruffy nail polish flaked off and landed on the desk. Richard was bobbing his bald head up and down so fast, it looked blurry. Even Larry, the little suckup, was laughing. Arthur Hester, who never said anything, who never did anything, never thought anything, never felt anything . . . was laughing at me, Mrs. Ravenbach, his teacher!

  They were all laughing at me!

  Tobias Wilcox stood there, smiling and smiling and smiling and smiling and smiling.

  CHAPTER 12

  The sun had set, darkness had set in, and I was setting, ha-ha, the table for tea when I heard a light little knock at my door. Mrs. Button! My dear friend.

  She was wearing a lovely little print dress, her nicest feathered hat, and white kid gloves. I do adore a woman who wears gloves. A sign of the good breeding. So few Americans had the good breeding. I was honored to know one, at least.

  I opened the door. She came across the room, light as air, on beautiful white high-heeled shoes. The heels made such a pleasing sound on my hardwood floor. I do adore a woman who sees the point of dressing up for the tea. These Americans, they are so sloppy about everything. Dungarees, tracksuits, sweatpants! It’s astounding they could put a man on the moon!

  Mrs. Button sat down across from me and crossed her legs at the ankles. She was shivering with the worry, the fear, and the vexation.

  “Mrs. Button,” I said, “it seems you have a story to share.”

  She frowned. “Late this afternoon, I was over at the Wilcoxes’ home.”

  “Do tell.” Because I was serving the tea, I pretended I was English.

  “Mrs. Wilcox, because she is much younger, relies on me for advice on how to raise her son. We are confidantes. I come and go in their house quite freely. On this occasion, I let myself in the front door and gave a small, ‘Anybody home . . . ?’ I approached their kitchen. There was quite a commotion. Toby had come home from school with stories of your classroom today.”

  I leaned forward.

  “He was telling how you had asked him if he wanted to brush your hair or massage your feet . . . I thought, my precious Leni, you had resolved never to grant him the Highest Honor.”

  “The child wrote an excellent poem. He will be representing the grade in the All-School Poetry Contest. No student from my class has ever won the Poetry Contest . . . I felt he deserved the reward. Perhaps I miscalculated.”

  “Apparently he turned down the Highest Honor.”

  “To my surprise and consternation, yes.”

  “The Wilcox family, including the dog, was quite amused by the tale he recounted.”

  “Surely I did not hear you say ‘amused’?”

  Her voice, her face, and every molecule of her being were as hard as Krupp steel. “When I tiptoed in, they were . . . laughing.”

  My fingers froze on my exquisite Meissen teacup.

  She said, “Do you not think it is time you took . . . executive action?”

  Then my exquisite Meissen teacup shattered.

  It did not take long for me to finish tea with my dear friend, Mrs. Button. It did not take long for me to usher her out the door. It did not take long for me to clean up the sadly broken cup, to clear away the teapot, cozy, tray, lemon slices, and clean the Apfelstrudel crumbs from my W. Schillig silk sofa. It did not take long for me to pour myself a generous tumbler of Schnaps. Nor did it take long for me to drink it. Or the next one. Or the next one. None of that took long.

  What did take a long, long time was for my great, big, strong wonderful heart to slow its racing pace.

  A superb teacher must, from time to time, face difficult situations. The teaching is very, very important work, and, as the fourth grade is the most important year in all of the education, so the demands upon the fourth grade teacher are stringent, rigorous, and, occasionally, heart-wrenching.

  When one is at the top of one’s field, and one is called upon to make difficult, difficult decisions, one must rise to the occasion. Like cream, rising sweetly to the top.

  And that is what I did.

  I am remembering particularly well that particular day.

  I was in a particularly pleasant mood. Things had gone well with the mathematics instr
uction. Things had gone well with the reading after lunch. Things had gone well with the recess. Drusilla Tanner had made a particularly marvelous oral report on From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler.

  “Drusilla?”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Would you like to brush my hair?”

  “Oh, yes, ma’am.”

  “Your report was very well constructed and I think I should reward you.”

  “Can I go get the comb and mirror and hairbrushes?”

  “May I.”

  “May I go get the comb and mirror and hairbrushes, Mrs. Ravenbach? Please?”

  I so enjoyed when the children were eager for their Reward. It makes things so much more pleasurable for me and for the children and for the classroom and for the learning and, natürlich, for the order and the discipline.

  “Drusilla?”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Do you know where I keep my sterling silver hairbrushes and mirror and comb?”

  She nodded so hard I thought her pigtails would snap off.

  “Would you please go and get them?”

  The beautiful child fairly skipped to the red velvet pillow where I keep my great-great-grandmother’s silver sterling hairbrushes, mirror, and comb.

  As I began to take down my long, heavy, blond braids, I smiled inwardly at the thought of having my hair brushed. I do love it so. Then I heard a small voice from the far, far end of the classroom. Drusilla’s small voice. Drusilla’s small, tiny, wee . . . frightened voice.

  “Mrs. Ravenbach . . . ?”

  “What, child?”

  “They aren’t . . . here.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Ravenbach. I’ve searched very carefully.”

  “As carefully as the little chicken when she is searching for the last little piece of grain?”

  “Of course, Mrs. Ravenbach. That’s how you taught us to find things.”

  “Well then, please, my dear, look again to make sure. This is quite serious.”