Читать книгу Lovey - Mary MacCracken - Страница 10

Hannah’s mother came heavily, hesitantly, into our classroom. She was a large woman dressed in a cotton housedress just like Hannah’s, although hers reached only to her knees and was covered with a dark cloth coat.

I had telephoned Mrs Rosnic at the end of that first day to ask if she could come in for a conference. Although she was hesitant and it had taken two weeks, she was here and I was grateful. Helping Hannah was not going to be easy. She was going to have to give up old established ways and learn new ones. There were difficult weeks ahead, and before I initiated any major changes at school I wanted to talk to Hannah’s mother and learn what Hannah was like at home. I needed to fill in the gaps left by the psychological reports, to find out what sort of relationship there was between Hannah and her brother and sister, between Hannah and her mother. Our school day was only five and a half hours long. There were eighteen and a half other hours I wanted to know about.

I had been sitting at one of the low tables, but as Mrs Rosnic hesitated in the doorway I got up and walked towards her. ‘Please come in.’

But she remained where she was, her eyes moving rapidly around the room. By now the boys’ papers and drawings covered one wall. We had begun a large mural on another, but the only sign of Hannah was her name on her cubby and above the coat hook in the closet.

‘May I take your coat?’ I asked.

For the first time Mrs Rosnic looked directly at me and it was my turn to stop, startled by the fear in her eyes.

As gently as I could, I took her coat and hung it in the closet beside my own light sweater, and then, impulsively, I moved them both so that they hung together on Hannah’s own hook. I came back and sat down at the round wooden table. ‘Thank you for coming in,’ I said. ‘I know how difficult it must be for you to get away with the three children at home, but I wanted to talk to you a little bit about Hannah. I’m happy to have her in my class this year.’

Mrs Rosnic came across the room then, stopping in front of me. ‘You not getting rid of her?’

So that was the fear; it was still there in her chopped, guttural speech. There were traces of an accent. I must remember to check and see what language was spoken in the home. It was possible that much of Hannah’s garbled speech was a poor imitation of the words she heard exchanged between her mother and grandfather. But that could come later.

Now I had to get through that fear, let Mrs Rosnic know that I didn’t want to get rid of Hannah. On the contrary, what I wanted was to get closer, know more. The best way I knew was to say it simply and straight.

‘I won’t get rid of Hannah,’ I promised. ‘She’ll be here in this class all year.’

Mrs Rosnic sat down opposite me then, her eyes never leaving my face. ‘In other school, every time they call me for conference, they warn Hannah is too bad. They say she have to go.’

‘Not here. When I call you, it’s because I want to know more, try to figure out how to help more.’

Mrs Rosnic drew in her breath and then let it out in a long, slow sigh, but as her body relaxed, more of her weariness showed. ‘Ah, she is so hard, that one. I don’t know what to do with her. Yelling, screaming half the time. Most other time she just sits, dumb, do nothing. Once in while she play joke. Put mouse in Grandpa’s bed and laugh and laugh when he yell.’

I tried to picture the house. I knew Grandpa lived downstairs, but where would Hannah get a mouse?

‘A real mouse?’ I asked.

‘Lots of mice around. They’re not trouble. Hannah like them. The cats are good, get rid of most of mice. Only if rats come, then the cats scared.’

‘Mrs Rosnic, Hannah doesn’t talk to us here at school. Does she talk at home?’

‘She not talk Carl or Grandpa, but sometime she talk to me. Say yes, no, other words. Grandpa say she not make sense, but I know what she mean.’

It was hard to tell from this whether Hannah spoke more or whether Mrs Rosnic’s interpretations were better.

‘Listen,’ I said, ‘what’s Hannah like in other ways at home? I know she goes to the bathroom by herself. Does she wash, brush her teeth and dress herself?’

‘No.’ Mrs Rosnic’s sighs were deep now. ‘She never wash. She sleep in dress all night. Won’t get out of it. Next morning Carl or Grandpa hold her and I get other dress on her.’

‘Carl. Does Hannah play with him or with her sister?’

‘Play? Nobody play. Just fight, fight, fight. At each other day and night. Carl tease her all the time. Now he tell her she going to retard school and she cry and cry.’

I felt like crying myself. Poverty, dirt, ridicule. I looked away for a minute, trying to clear my mind, to see what to do next. I turned back to Mrs Rosnic. ‘What about friends? Does Hannah play with other children on the block?’

Mrs Rosnic sat up straight, definite now. ‘I careful with her. Keep her in back yard so neighbour kids not make fun. Sometime when I fixing Grandpa’s food she get away, but not much. Mostly I keep her near.’ A wistful look came over Mrs Rosnic’s face. ‘Sometime I wish … I think how good if she could help some. You know. Like set table. Maybe even dry dishes.’

I reached across the table. If she had been a child I would have touched her then, but instead I touched the water glass of the roses and left my hand out open on the table.

‘I know I wish too much,’ she continued. ‘Should be glad she not worse. Grandpa say she can’t be worse, say she better dead from operation. But I don’t know. It nice, kind of, you know – to have somebody like me.’

My heart ached and angered all at the same time, even more than when I’d read the reports. No wonder this good, uneducated woman was close to giving up. Under the weariness and despair had once been mere laughter and other dreams? It was too late now to recover those dreams; too late for Grandpa and maybe for Mrs Rosnic. But not for Hannah. Maybe I couldn’t do anything about the poverty or the loneliness, or Carl or baby Helen, but I could help Hannah. And so could Mrs Rosnic.

‘Listen,’ I said. ‘You’re not expecting too much at all. You’re exactly right. Hannah should be learning to help you around the house. She can learn to do all those things. And more. Much more.’

Mrs Rosnic looked at me and then fished in her large black pocketbook for a handkerchief. I got up and brought back a box of Kleenex from the counter and set it down hard on the table.

‘Hannah can learn to wash and dress herself and help you with the housework. And she can learn to read and write.’

This was too much. I had gone too far. Mrs Rosnic shook her head at me. ‘No,’ she said. ‘You don’t know. Grandpa say she moron.’

‘I do know and Grandpa’s wrong,’ I insisted. ‘I have known other children as troubled as Hannah. I have read her records and I have watched her here in the classroom. I don’t believe she’s retarded. I believe she’s able to learn and grow and do a great deal more than she ever has.’

Mrs Rosnic looked at me directly, challenging. ‘Why you care? Why you want to do this?’

It was a fair, honest question and I wished that I could answer. But I had never been able to find words for the way I felt. I could talk easily about the children, or to the children, but when it came to describing my own feelings, I was inarticulate. Perhaps the words imprisoned in the children spoke to something locked inside me. I tried to soften my silence with a smile so that it wouldn’t seem a rebuff. ‘I don’t know,’ I answered as honestly as I could. ‘I wish I could put it into words. I can’t explain, but I hope you’ll trust me.’

I went to the coat closet and got Mrs Rosnic’s coat and my sweater from Hannah’s hook and then held the coat for her. Mrs Rosnic stood facing me, still looking at me. Finally she turned and put one arm into a sleeve. ‘Ah, well, never mind. Words come hard. I know. And anyway, the ones that say them so easy – well, I hear plenty words before.’ She put the second arm in.

‘It’s not going to be easy with Hannah,’ I said. ‘That’s one thing for sure. It’s going to mean a lot of work for both of us, and it will be harder for you because you’re with her more. Sometimes you’re going to have to be very strong. Hannah’s been used to having her own way, and she’s not going to be able to all the time now. She won’t like it, and sometimes she’s going to get very angry with both of us.’

I shrugged on my sweater and then was caught by surprise as Mrs Rosnic reached out and smoothed it across my shoulders. Her fingers were rough and they snagged on the soft wool, but her hand itself was strong and warm. ‘Listen. It okay. I tell Grandpa. It okay. Hannah, she lucky this year.’