Mrs. Ravenbach's Way

by William M. Akers

  All my pupils were sitting straight up at their desks, backs rigid, little eyes focused on the blackboard. The order and the discipline, the basis for everything in the civilization. All the students heard much rummaging.

  “Mrs. Ravenbach, they’re not here!”

  “Drusilla . . .”

  “They really aren’t here!”

  Every single student in the entire classroom sucked in their breath. It sounded as if an elephant had sat on a basketball.

  At that precise moment, what was young Tobias Wilcox doing? Picking his nose.

  I got up from my elegant teacher’s desk and ran across the classroom. In the history of my teaching career, I had never run. Running is undignified and I don’t believe students should see a teacher exerting herself in any other way than the teaching.

  Instantly I was at the back of the classroom. Instantly, in the gold-trimmed red velvet pillow, I saw the indentation left by my sterling silver hairbrushes, mirror, and comb. My missing sterling silver hairbrushes, mirror, and comb!

  My voice was terrible to behold. “Someone has stolen my sterling silver hairbrushes, mirror, and comb. They were given to me by my great-great-grandmother. They are made from the finest silver from the Harz Mountains, the region in Germany that produces the most exquisite work.”

  I tried to calm my breathing. I failed.

  “Who has stolen my sterling silver hairbrushes, mirror, and comb?!”

  The class was as still as a dead, dry mouse in a dark basement corner.

  “Drusilla?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Ravenbach.”

  “Do you have any idea who might have stolen the sterling silver hairbrushes, mirror, and comb belonging to your beloved teacher?”

  She shook her head. Her tightly braided pigtails flew around.

  “Does anyone have any idea who might have stolen their beloved teacher’s sterling silver hairbrushes, mirror, and comb?”

  Not one child breathed.

  Not one child passed the gas. That was rare.

  A good teacher does not show her anger, ever. A good teacher has a death camp look. I have an excellent death camp look. I gave them mine. At no charge! Ha-ha. A joke.

  “I have no idea where it is.”

  “Beats me.”

  “I dunno.”

  “Mrs. Ravenbach, I don’t know. I swear.”

  “Maybe they’re under the pillow?”

  “Can I . . . go to the bathroom?” This from Arthur Hester. He was always wanting to go to the bathroom. What he needed was a good smack on the behind with a riding crop.

  “Everyone, stand up!” I said.

  All together, all at once, the sound was satisfying: smack, their little bottoms unstuck themselves from their wooden chairs. Smack, their little feet hit the ground. Smack, their little heels clacked together like a formation of Prussian cavalry officers.

  I cast my eyes on every single student. One by one. All were looking straight ahead at the blackboard. Well, almost all . . .

  Little Tobias Wilcox was watching me.

  My voice, I must confess, had a bit of an edge.

  “I want every child in this fourth grade classroom to open his or her desk, to slide his hands in his desk or her hands in her desk, and remove every single item from inside that desk and lay them on the floor beside that desk. Right now. Go.”

  There came two dozen scurrying noises like two dozen scurrying cats escaping from a twelve-foot-tall Doberman pinscher as my beloved students rummaged in their desks and pulled sticky gum and comic books and school books and notebooks and pencils and more gum and hairbrushes, but not mine, and lunch sacks and pencils and pencils, some which were nearly chewed into pieces.

  I supervised the unloading process. My hairbrushes did not appear. Each child was staring straight at the blackboard as a good and teachable fourth grade student ought. Except for Tobias Wilcox.

  Little Tobias Wilcox was watching me.

  As I marched straight to the desk of young Tobias Wilcox, my elegant high heels made a satisfying sound on my soft Bokhara rug.

  On the floor beside his desk, he had a pile of debris so high that the cow that jumped over the moon couldn’t jump over it. A few school books, of course, incredibly messy with holes poked in them and mustaches drawn on patriots’ faces . . . quite disrespectful. A bird’s nest, a Lego man, DunkAroos, peppermints with no wrappers, a baseball glove and ball, three fishing lures, a magnifying glass, three sets of car keys from God knows what automobiles, baseball cards and more baseball cards, and trash, trash, trash, but not my sterling silver hairbrushes, mirror, and comb.

  I did see his hands in his lap, trembling. His knee was tapping. His little chin was quivering. I must say I could see the words “I’m about to tell a lie” written in beautiful cursive right across his lumpy little face.

  “Young Wilcox,” I said with my almost sternest voice. He was shivering. “Young Wilcox, have you removed every single thing from your desk?”

  He said, slowly, “Yes, ma’am.”

  He was telling a black lie. “Are you certain?”

  “Yes . . . ma’am.”

  “Are you positively one hundred percent absolutely certain?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Because the most important thing in the classroom is you know what?”

  “The telling . . . of the truth.”

  “Yes, isn’t it? So I’m going to ask you one more time: have you removed everything from the interior of your desk?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” His little voice was so small, all the students were leaning forward to be able to hear him lie, the little lying wretch. I must say he was not a very good liar; I have seen better. But, little fellow, he was trying his hardest.

  I enjoyed that I was able to make his fat little chin quiver. Why? Because it meant I had gotten his attention.

  “Tobias.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Ravenbach?”

  “Open your desk.” He did nothing. “Open your desk.” My voice was as dark and bitter as week-old coffee grounds soaked in vinegar. “Look at me, you miserable little boy.” Everyone gasped.

  He shook his head. I could tell his heart was not in it, pathetic child. He was like a prisoner being led to the gallows. He did not want to take a step, but he knew that he must. He also knew what the end result was going to be.

  “Open your desk, young Tobias.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Step away from the desk. Right this instant.” He did nothing. I called out to Sophie Taschlin. “Miss Taschlin?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Ravenbach?”

  “Come here, please.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Ravenbach.”

  She was there in a flash. I’ve always liked her. Such an obedient and beautiful child.

  “Mr. Wilcox, scoot back from your desk seven and a half inches, please.” Using the students’ last names when they’re about to be in trouble makes the situation so much more memorable for them, don’t you think? Young Wilcox scooted back fourteen inches, but I decided not to bring out the tape measure this time.

  “Sophie?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Ravenbach.”

  “Please search the interior of Mr. Wilcox’s desk and remove anything in it that you might find.”

  I shall remember for many, many, years the heartless “I’ve got you in my sights, you worm” look that dear, sweet Sophie Taschlin gave young Tobias Wilcox. Miss Taschlin stuck her angelic hand inside Tobias’s nasty desk.

  She was such a pretty child with the longest blond hair. Perhaps when I die I will leave to her in my will my sterling silver hairbrushes, mirror, and comb. I saw the triumph and glee on her little face as she closed her hand around an object and slowly withdrew from Tobias Wilcox’s desk . . . one of my sterling silver hairbrushes! Followed instantly by its mate, mirror, and comb!

  In all my twenty-one years of teaching I had never found reason to raise my voice with a student.

  “TOBIAS WILCOX!!” If I practiced a bit more I might be able to shat
ter a wineglass were it a fine enough glass. Young Wilcox was stiff, like a week-old corpse. “WHAT ARE THOSE?!”

  He looked at me with the fiery flame of hatred in his eyes. Natürlich.

  “Miss Taschlin?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Ravenbach?”

  “What have you got in your hands? Please share with the other students.”

  “Your silver sterling hairbrushes, mirror, and comb, Mrs. Ravenbach.”

  “YOU, TOBIAS WILCOX, ARE NOTHING MORE THAN A COMMON THIEF!”

  He shrank back. In shock. In fear. His eyes became wet. He shook like a sail flapping in a hurricane. It was delightfully satisfying. I had reached the child! I had his attention!

  I switched my voice to my softest inside-quiet-mouse voice. All the students leaned even more forward. “Young Wilcox? Why have you stolen my silver hairbrushes, mirror, and comb?”

  His voice was tiny. “I didn’t.” I looked at him. He looked at me. For the longest time neither of us blinked.

  I said, “I am going to give you one more chance to come clean, as they say in the detective shows, young Wilcox. Why. Did. You. Steal. My sterling silver hairbrushes and mirror and comb?”

  He was so close to crying in front of all of the other students, I thought for a moment he would burst into tears and drown us all, but he held back the flood and mumbled, “I . . . did . . . not . . .”

  “You have been caught red-handed. Every student in the classroom sees my sterling silver hairbrushes and mirror and comb on your desk. Every student knows that you are not telling the truth, and in a classroom the truth telling is the most important thing, is it not?” He was shaking so hard, he could barely nod.

  From the back came a gasp. I am not completely positive, but it sounded like Lisbet Quinteros. Her horrified gasp was picked up and went around like electricity. There was a loud inhaling as if all the air had left the room at once.

  I looked down at young Mr. Wilcox. On the floor beneath his chair was a puddle of light yellow pee-pee.

  I smiled triumphantly and said, “Is there anyone here who needs to use the toilet?”

  No one raised their hand.

  “Is there anyone here who needs to use the toilet?”

  There was the longest pause and the little boy, one slow pathetic time, nodded.

  “Then I suppose you should get up and leave the class in the middle of our session and take care of your problem, young Tobias Wilcox, and when you come back we shall discuss the theft of my sterling silver hairbrushes, mirror, and comb. Is that clear?”

  He only managed a pathetic nod, which is no surprise because he was a pathetic child. He got up, dripping on the floor, and walked shamefacedly with his head bowed down, no doubt under the weight of his crime and the embarrassment of having peed in his little pants in front of all of his little chums.

  I said in my most clear voice, “Normally, a child who steals would be sent to the principal’s office for swift justice and painful retribution. But, I am thinking we have all learned a marvelous lesson here in the classroom today. So. That is that!” I clapped my hands and smiled brightly.

  All of young Tobias’s chums were not so very chummy as they laughed and laughed and laughed when he walked in front of the desks, in front of the blackboard, in front of my beautiful globe of the world, toward the doorway. I could tell by the way he was walking that, with each step, the doorway was getting further and further away, as if he was living in a nightmare . . . a nightmare that, natürlich, was his own doing.

  While he was gone I sat down and made notes for the parent-teacher conference I knew was sure to come.

  CHAPTER 13

  Unlike the painful parent-teacher conferences of some teachers at the McKegway School for Clever and Gifted Children, my parent-teacher conferences are always successful. I enjoy welcoming the parents into my classroom. They can visit their child’s cubby. They can see the child’s desk. On the wall, they can see the colorful pictures the child has made, all evidence of a wonderful time spent in Mrs. Ravenbach’s wonderful fourth grade classroom.

  When Mr. and Mrs. Wilcox and young Tobias came into my classroom, I was knitting at my desk, in front of which I had placed three small chairs. The only grown-up chair in the room being mine, of course. I imagine they felt a tiny bit uncomfortable on those little chairs.

  When the Wilcox family was settled down for the year’s final parent-teacher conference, I gently laid down my knitting, cracked my knuckles, and looked straight into the eyes of young Tobias.

  It was oh-so-clear that he was wanting to murder me.

  I could see it in his tightly clenched fat little fists. His fat little body was consumed by anger. Consumed by anger is not a way to go into a difficult conversation that one has any desire to win.

  He knew that I had been reading his journal. Otherwise, why would he have written all that claptrap about what a wonderful teacher I was? Just because the teachers tell children we do not read their personal, private journals does not mean we do not read them! Only a child would be so naive to think that their teacher would not be reading their journal, if knowing what was in that journal might be helpful to the teacher in the orderly running of the classroom.

  Of course, ha-ha, they are children, aren’t they?

  “Good afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Wilcox.” I was smiling my finest white-teeth smile. It is very difficult to withstand the force of such a wonderful smile, from such a wonderful teacher. Yet, incredibly, Mr. Wilcox resisted.

  “I want to know what’s going on here.”

  “Please, Mr. Wilcox, you tell me.”

  “Toby said you stuck the hairbrushes the children use to brush your hair with in his desk, and you said he stole them from you.”

  “That is what he said?”

  “Yes.” The fat little boy was nodding his head vigorously.

  I said, “That is not what happened.”

  Mr. Wilcox’s voice had an angry, irritated tone. “Now listen here, Mrs. Ravenbach! We didn’t—” Instantly, Mrs. Wilcox gave Mr. Wilcox a look. Wives are always full of the looks. Oh, my, my, my, my. After that particular species of look, Mr. Wilcox wasn’t going to say too much more. I gave him the full force of my charm and gentility, along with a most pleasing smile.

  Mrs. Wilcox spoke next “Toby’s not happy. He’s not doing well, and we’re concerned.”

  “You should be. He is a thief. I would be most concerned if my child were a thief.”

  “Toby told us he didn’t take your hairbrushes.”

  “And comb.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Ravenbach, and comb. Toby didn’t take them.”

  “And mirror. Every child saw them. In his desk. There is no way he did not take them, despite what he may have said to you at the home, far, far from the classroom.

  “He told us he had no idea how they got in his desk. That somebody else must’ve put them there.”

  “Absolute poppycock.”

  I must say, the look young Tobias gave me at our last parent-teacher conference, the one that would split me into sixteen pieces had he actually had laser beams in his eyes, that look was nothing compared to the look which he next gave me. I began to feel the heat growing up the back of my neck and under my bottom on my chair. I decided I wanted to end this parent-teacher conference quickly and on a pleasant note. So I did.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Wilcox, are you aware that a student saw Tobias take my sterling silver hairbrushes, mirror, and comb from their place on the red velvet pillow in the back of the classroom and hide them in his desk?”

  Mr. Wilcox gurgled like he was going to drown right here in the middle of my classroom. How unattractive.

  I said, “Did Tobias not inform you of this?”

  Mrs. Wilcox said, “No . . .”

  “I am not surprised. Mrs. Wilcox, I am so, so, so sorry. Sometimes children enjoy telling the lies.”

  “Not Toby. He never lies about anything. He’s the most truthful child I’ve ever known.”

  “Well, in this case that is n
ot the case.”

  Mr. Wilcox said, “Who’s the kid who ratted him out?”

  “I am afraid I am not at liberty to divulge confidential information, but suffice to say, a student came to me when I was alone in my classroom and said she had information that I should hear. She repeated that information to Principal Hertenstein and it is abundantly clear that your child, Mr. and Mrs. Wilcox, is a thief.”

  Mr. Wilcox said, “But he told us he didn’t do it and I believe him. That’s the kind of kid he is. He always tells the truth.”

  “Mr. Wilcox, I have been teaching the fourth grade for twenty-nine years and one thing I am knowing about children is that sometimes they are telling the lies.”

  Mr. and Mrs. Wilcox, they nodded. They knew.

  The expression on that little boy’s face, I must confess to you, it was magnificent. Watching the sad realization dawn on him that he was being defeated by me, his teacher, made every effort on my part worthwhile. I saw the fear. A wonderful emotion to see in a pupil. Because, without the fear, you cannot then have the respect. Through the respect is a teacher able to maintain in the classroom the order and the discipline.

  And, after the fear, of course, the terror.

  I was simply trying to help the young student, and his family, with the mess they had made of their lives.

  Or the mess they were going to make of their lives.

  Without me.

  And my wonderful influence.

  Mrs. Wilcox said, “Why would he lie?”

  I then spoke the two sentences that I had been up all night writing. They had come to me a little after three o’clock in the morning, and after several generous snifters of cherry Schnaps. I smiled pleasantly and said, “I am a teacher. Why would I lie?”

  The pure beauty of my eight well-crafted words took all three members of the Wilcox family by surprise.

  Why would the teacher lie? She has nothing to gain, nothing at stake. There is nothing in it for the teacher, no reason, no explanation for why the teacher would lie.

  The child has every reason to lie. He is a child, after all. Most things they get, they get by telling the lies. Big lies, little lies. Black lies, white lies, fibs. It is what they know.