Читать книгу Just Another Kid: Each was a child no one could reach – until one amazing teacher embraced them all - Torey Hayden, Torey Hayden - Страница 9

“You’re going to kill me,” said Frank, as he came into the classroom.

“Why’s that?”

“Because I’m going to tell you you’re getting another kid.”

“You jest.”

“Nope,” he said. “’Fraid not. Moreover, it’s Irish Kid, Mark III.”

Pausing from my activities, I looked over. “Oh, come off it, Frank. You must be joking.”

“Nope. Sorry. The Lonrhos seem to have acquired another one.”

“What is this? Some kind of import business they’re starting?”

“Seems that way.”

“I didn’t think there were any more,” I said.

“This is a cousin or something. A boy, thirteen.”

“And he’s coming in here? Into this class?”

“Well, from the sound of things, he does definitely have problems.”

“Good heavens, they do pick ’em.”

Frank grinned and reached a hand out to thank me chummily on the back. “Cheer up, Torey. Mrs. Lonrho specifically asked that the boy be placed in here with you. She thinks you’re brrrrrilliant,” he said in an exaggerated Irish accent.

“Oh, thanks.”

Shamus, or Shamie, as he preferred to be called, was the son of Mrs. Lonrho’s sister Cath. Mrs. Lonrho came in to see me shortly before Shamie’s arrival. His school records weren’t going to be forwarded on for some time, she said, so she hoped she could help me prepare for the boy. And she did help. From her came a picture clearer than anything I would have gotten from a school file.

Shamie was the last of eight children, a gentle, artistic boy who’d been doted on as the baby of a large family. He wasn’t what could be called a bright lad, Mrs. Lonrho said. None of Cath’s were geniuses. But he was good hearted and hardworking.

Shamie’s family, like Shemona and Geraldine’s, was deeply embroiled in the politics of Northern Ireland. Two of his brothers were “Provies,” members of the Provisional IRA, complete with prison sentences to show for it. His mother still worked in a pub that had been bombed twice in the previous four years by opposing groups of loyalist and republican supporters. Shamie’s family had been close to Geraldine and Shemona’s. They lived only a few hundred yards apart on the same street, and indeed, it had been in Shamie’s garage that his uncle had committed suicide. Shamie himself had been very close to this uncle. He had intended to apprentice into his uncle’s electrical business when he came of age, and he had spent a lot of time at his uncle’s house, helping him with his work. Thus, after the uncle’s arrest and release, the boys at school had begun taunting Shamie and calling him an informer too. It was nothing serious, Mrs. Lonrho said. They wouldn’t have really hurt Shamie, but he’d always been an oversensitive lad. He took it seriously. He began to suffer bouts of depression, insomnia and restlessness. He became convinced that he and his family, like his cousins’ family, would be killed.

While listening to Mrs. Lonrho, I developed great sympathy for Shamie. To be taunted as a traitor in a place where people were killed for doing no more than selling building supplies to the opposing side would give me a fright too. Where did the abusive mouths of schoolboys leave off and the real threats begin? Shemona and Geraldine and their family lived only three houses down the street from Shamie. His fears seemed fairly realistic to me.

In the end, Shamie decided that he too wanted to come live with Auntie Bet and Uncle Mike in America, as Geraldine and Shemona had. He wanted to get away from Belfast altogether. And immediately. He couldn’t wait, he’d told his parents. He couldn’t last it out until school-leaving age at sixteen. He said he knew he’d be dead by sixteen.

Shamie arrived in my room six days later. He was a thin, bony boy, looking considerably younger than thirteen, with black hair cut in a style reminiscent of Star Trek’s Mr. Spock. His features were soft and feminine, the femininity accented by the thickest, longest eyelashes I’d ever known not to originate in a drugstore. The dark lashes seemed to overpower his eyes, which were a nondescript bluish color, giving him a dreamy, almost sleepy look.

“This is our cousin Shamie,” Geraldine announced with tremendous pride. “He’s come all the way from Belfast. He was just there last Friday. Weren’t you? He’s our Auntie Cath and Uncle Joe’s Shamie, who lives just three doors down, at 44 Greener Terrace. That’s his address. Our house is 38 Greener Terrace.”

“It isn’t now,” Shamie said. “You don’t live there now. Your house number is 3018 Scenic View Drive.” He smiled, pleased with his knowledge. What I noticed, listening to him, was how much of her accent Geraldine had already lost. She sounded broadly American against Shamie’s thick brogue.

“I’m going back,” Geraldine said. “When I’m grown up, I’m going back to live at 38. And Shemona too, huh, Shemona? Shemona and I are going back to live together at 38 Greener Terrace.”

“Can’t do. It’s sold.”

“Shall do, Shamie. We shall buy it back.”

“How silly. You haven’t any money.”

Geraldine’s lower jaw jutted forward in a defiant expression. “Shemona and I,” she said with great importance, “we shall get jobs. We’ll earn bags of money and buy 38 back.”

“It’ll be all different anyhow, Geraldine,” Shamie replied.

“We’ll make it just as it was. And we’ll live there like before. Shan’t we, Shemona?”

I stood by, bemused.

“Well,” said Shamie with a shrug. “You can, if you want. I shan’t go back. I shall never go back. I’m staying here forever.”

Following the brief after-school conversation with Dr. Taylor, I felt more at ease in her presence, although I obviously hadn’t disarmed her any. She still continued to be aloof and uncommunicative when we encountered one another; however, I ceased to take it personally. I perceived it less as directed hostility and more as just an unfortunate personality trait, and that helped me. I was no longer frightened of her.

What helped even more was that she stopped coming to school drunk. I had been on my guard for the first week or so after the conference with Tom Considyne, but I think he must have said something to her, because from then on, she showed up sober. I flattered myself by hoping that perhaps our after-school discussion might have helped. Indeed, I went so far in flattering myself as to think perhaps she was now frightened of me and didn’t dare come to school drunk. It was a warming thought, and I relaxed considerably.

Then the second week of November arrived. It was a Tuesday afternoon, and Dr. Taylor was sitting at the wheel of her car. As had become our custom, she did not get out. Instead, I opened the rear door and helped Leslie into her seat belt. But that afternoon, when I opened the door, I was assaulted by the smell of licorice breath candies and alcohol.

Now what?

For lack of something better to do, I hastily unbuckled Leslie’s seat belt, pulled her back out of the car and shut the door. Then I stepped back up on the curb with Leslie, who was looking perplexed but stayed calm.

The window on the passenger side lowered with an electric whirr. “What are you doing?” Dr. Taylor asked, irritation naked in her voice.

I said nothing and did not lean down so that she could see my face. Instead, I turned Leslie around, and we started back for the school building.

The far-side door opened, and Dr. Taylor got out of her Mercedes. “What are you doing?” she asked, over the top of her car.

I paused and looked back at her. “I’m going to take Leslie into the office and call a taxi for her.”

The alcohol certainly didn’t impair Dr. Taylor’s reflexes any, because she was around the car and up in front of Leslie and me faster than I probably could have done it sober.

“Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?” she asked. “This is my child. I’ll take her anywhere I damned well please.”

“Let’s not make a big deal out of it, okay? I’ll get her a taxi. You go meet her at the other end.”

She glared, crocodile eyes widening. “Give her to me.” The words were said very individually, each emphasized carefully.

“No.” I’d crossed the Rubicon and I think we both knew it. There was a very, very long exchange of glares between us. “Move aside, please,” I said.

But Dr. Taylor gave no indication of backing down. Her eyes narrowed, taking away some of the frightening reptilian coldness but making her look a whole lot angrier.

“You do this,” she said, “and I’ll see you destroyed.”

Not much to say to that.

“You can be assured that the first phone call I’ll make when I reach home will be to my lawyer.” Her voice was very low and quiet.

I swallowed.

“I don’t know who you think you are,” she said, “but I can tell you right now who you aren’t. And that’s a teacher in this school. Because you’re never going to teach in this town again. Believe me.”

Not having any other way to defend myself, I simply stood silent and stared at her. It was a bluffer’s trick, something I’d learned from my elective mutes. She must have learned it somewhere too, because she stared steadily back, completely untroubled by my silence.

Outstared, I finally had to look away. Dropping my gaze, I studied the sidewalk beneath my feet for a few moments and wondered what to do. I was weighing the possibility that she might try to stop me physically, if I tried to move. She was as tall a woman as I was, if not a little taller, and I didn’t want to chance that kind of thing. I raised my head and glanced around to see who else was nearby. Inside the school doorway, I could make out two of the secretaries standing there, watching us. I could just imagine what they were saying.

Taking a deep breath, I turned slightly, took Leslie’s hand and, making a wide circle around Dr. Taylor, I walked toward the school building.

Mercifully, Dr. Taylor did not try to stop me. Instead, she stormed back to her Mercedes, got in, slammed the door resoundingly, and roared off, leaving a frantic swirl of fallen leaves in her wake.

My knees were like so much Jell-O. I wobbled into the office, and by the time I dialed the taxi company, the shaking had extended to my voice. What the dispatcher must have thought of my several attempts to speak correctly, I would hate to guess.

Throughout all this, Leslie had remained curiously composed. When the taxi came, I put her in and paused to hug her. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. Everything’s okay. Your daddy and Consuela will be there on the other end to meet you. Probably your mama too.” I hugged her again. Then I dug into my pocket and handed the fare to the driver.

The rest of the day passed very unpleasantly indeed. Dr. Taylor overshadowed every thought I had. Her normal, everyday demeanor was so hostile that I hated to think what she’d be like genuinely angry, but I had no doubt she could make a formidable foe. Was she serious about the lawyer business? If so, could she actually do anything? Had I been wrong in any way? My stance seemed fairly clear-cut to me, but I had heard of stranger lawsuits than this.

If Dr. Taylor’s intention was to give me a thoroughly nasty time, she succeeded splendidly. I couldn’t eat my supper. I couldn’t concentrate on what I was doing that evening. Once in bed, I couldn’t sleep. Over and over and over the whole incident played in my mind.

Things didn’t improve much in the morning, because by then, along with everything else, I was tired. Carolyn had a dental appointment, and her class was being taken for the morning by a substitute, who seemed unable to maintain control. As a consequence, I felt obliged to stay and eat lunch with her children to settle them down. Dirkie was more obsessive than usual, pacing after Shemona and her hair, frantically searching for cat pictures in not-very-promising places, like The Journal of the American Academy of Child Psychiatry, spending most of his time hiding under the table and hooting softly, like a forsaken owlet. Leslie had a huge, smelly bowel movement in her diapers, and we were all left gasping for air, the windows wide open into the November rain. And returning from morning recess, Shemona tripped over an untied shoelace while coming up the stairs. In a fit of pique, she ripped off the shoe and threw it down the three-story stairwell. I insisted it was too late to retrieve it; we needed to get back to class. So I made her leave it where it had fallen until lunch. This infuriated Shemona and, in turn, Geraldine, as Shemona’s protector. Both girls sat grimly through the rest of the morning, except for the times Geraldine mercilessly pestered me to return the shoe. Only Shamie and Mariana seemed to be having a passable day.

The first half of the afternoon went little better than the morning had, so I took corrective action at recess. I organized a couple of fast, hard-running games and then ended up with a version of dodgeball, where the children, including Carolyn’s bunch, stood around me in a giggling circle and did the avoiding, while I did the throwing. Even I felt considerably better after half a dozen attempts to flatten Dirkie with the ball.

Back in the classroom, I tried to assure that everything restarted smoothly. Shamie had reading instead of his dreaded math. Geraldine had a paper she and Shemona could work on together. I collected the other three and sat down to play a game of lotto with them. Peace reigned until about 2:45. Then slam! Bang! went the classroom door.

Startled, I looked up. When no one appeared, I excused myself from the game and walked around the corner of the shelving units. There stood Dr. Taylor.