A Terrible Beauty: What Teachers Know but Seldom Tell outside the Staff Room (18 page)

“Miss Gonsalvas, I’ve been here twenty-eight years;
in two more I retire. How many you have in, five?” He cocked his
thumb over his shoulder. “You see that paddle up there? We used to
call that the board of education. I don’t care how tough they
were—and we’ve had some tough ones—when I swatted them, they had
tears in their eyes. They passed a law that says I can’t use it
anymore, so it sits up there collecting dust.” He shook his head,
looking like an old cowboy in need of a place to spit. “Was it a
panacea? Hell, no. Oh, a few kids I only had to use it on once.
Straightened them right out. For others, it didn’t do a damn thing.
It was just another trick in the bag, is all.” He shrugged, his
wrinkled mouth sour. “Now we talk. It’s no different—some get the
message, and some don’t. Same as always.

“I’ve seen eighteen different superintendents come
through here, lost count of how many assistants. They come and they
go. Me, I just go with the flow.”

She leaned forward, unwilling to give up on him yet.
“Come on, Dean,” she said, cajoling.

He laughed, pointing at the door. “Do you think I’m
going to put my tail on the line for some kid because he says so?
He’s a screwball, and after tomorrow he’s just a memory. My
starting linemen all say Frank started it. Who am I supposed to
believe? Look, I follow whatever policy the board adopts, and right
now the policy is to send them both home for three days. End of
story.” She could think of nothing to say. With a sigh, she got up
to leave.

He spoke to her back, “You’ve been spending an awful
lot of time with him, haven’t you? Is that uh— usual district
procedure?”

He was treading very close to the line. “Your point,
Dean?”

He raised open palms to the ceiling. “No point, no
point at all. Just don’t forget why you’re here. From what I heard,
it wasn’t to second guess me on how I do my job.”

She flushed, wanting to answer, but kept her mouth
closed. In deep enough already, she went out, flinging the door
back against the wall.

Celia’s sympathetic smile said she knew exactly what
had gone on. Solange wondered if there was anything that went on at
school she didn’t know. She headed upstairs. Hugh would hear from
Parnell about that. Why had she put herself in that position? He
was right, she wasn’t here to tell him how to discipline. She was
here to remove a teacher from the classroom, a teacher that just
happened to be one of the best she’d ever known.

She caught herself grinding her teeth as she topped
the stairs and took a deep breath, willing herself calm. How had
everything gotten so complicated?

She found him in Spanish class struggling into a pair
of blue striped coveralls. Slipping in as inconspicuously as
possible, she found a seat. What could he possibly be up to now?
“Okay,” he said, “each of you will serve as translator for our
guest today. Your copy of what is said is due when you leave.”
Puzzled, Solange looked around the room. She had seen no one coming
up.

O’Connel pulled on an orange hard hat and an oversize
pair of goggles. “Our assistant superintendent, Miss Gonsalvas,
will be our interviewer.” He bent to lace up a pair of black boots.
“You wouldn’t mind, would you, Miss Gonsalvas?” She smiled sweetly,
scratching an eyebrow with a middle finger.

His eyes told her he got the message. It was the last
thing she needed right now, but what could she say? “I’ll try.” As
she came up, he handed her a sheet of paper. “I’ve got your
questions here.” He went out the door and came right back in.

She read from the script he had given her. “Ah,
bienvenidos, Senor!” He stood with his hands behind him, suddenly
an arrogant man, looking ridiculous in the odd costume. “Muchas
gracias, Senorita Gonsalvas. Muchas, muchas gracias!” His voice had
become that of an older man, his accent very good, she thought.

He pointed to a girl in the front row, and she
translated— “Many thanks, Miss Gonsalvas.” Solange asked his name,
and he said it was Pescadito Milagroso.

This was translated as The Miraculous Little
Fish.

“Wasn’t this an odd name?” Solange read, to be
translated by the next student in line.

“Para mi, no.” Not for him, it wasn’t.

“Y su profession, Senor?” His profession? “Soy
explorador, “he said, puffing himself up proudly.

“And what is it you explore?”

“Todas las aguas sucias grandiosas del mundo. “All
the world’s greatest sewers.” They laughed as much at his evident
pride as they did at his answer.

“Which of the world’s sewers had he explored?”

“Todas. “All of them. Paris, London, Madrid,
Barcelona, New York, all of them.”

“Y cual es su favorita, Senor?”

“My favorite? A difficult question—” He fingered his
stubble of beard in contemplation. His finger stabbed the air—he
had it.

A student translated, “His favorite was Paris—a fine
sewer, very clean for a sewer.”

“Tal vez es el vino.”

“It might be the wine.”

“What was it like in the sewer?” He grimaced, fanning
the air in front of his face, and they laughed again.

Another translated, “It was very dark, very wet, and
very smelly, but then,” he added, “exploration is not without
hardship.”

“And what had he discovered in his explorations?” He
looked thoughtful once again.

“Ratones del tamano de una vaca.”

“Rats the size of a cow.”

“A veces anillos de oro.”

“Sometimes gold rings.”

“Y siempre, siempre hay mucho excremento!” Paul,
looking bored, translated without glancing up, “There’s always a
lot of crap.” She asked about his family and other things, reading
from the sheet he had given her.

“Porque ha venido usted a visitarnos?”

“Why have you come to visit us?”

“Para encontrar ayudante.”

“To find a helper. The pay is small, but the rewards
are great. There were yet many great sewers yet to be explored.”
With an elegant little bow, he went out to return sans costume.

Relieved it was over, she sat. Disgusted with her
choices and with herself, she turned to the window, no longer
listening. Monday someone else would be here in this room, standing
where he stood now. Monday there would be one less good
teacher.

Because of her.

• • •

His PE class met upstairs to set up for the
feast.

Frank was there, an expression of rapt concentration
on his face as he sliced turkey thin as paper. Wondering what had
changed Parnell’s mind, Solange watched as they worked assembly
line fashion. Anna sliced rolls, Chelsea spread mayonnaise, Moses
slapped on lettuce, Armando applied cheese, and Sally topped it all
with turkey. It was all Solange could do to stay out of the way as
the others moved tables together, covered them with butcher paper,
and set places for seventy. Paul, morose as usual, set a plate at
every place.

At the bell, the room filled quickly, and O’Connel
announced that no one was to eat until all were seated and
served.

Parnell, Fleming, Aurora, Sid, and Karl sat at her
table. Parnell leaned close, nodding at Frank. “Tell your buddy he
can think of it as a going away present.” He said it without
rancor, but it stung just the same. Somehow it didn’t help to know
that any of them approved of what she was doing.

Everyone served at last, O’Connel took a seat next to
her, holding out his hands. “Okay, everybody join hands.” Lorena
balked, but at a look from O’Connel, rolled her eyes, and wrinkling
her nose, took Paul’s offered hand gingerly by a forefinger.

Solange took Parnell’s cold hand on one side and
O’Connel’s on the other. Hard, warm, his hand anchored her to her
seat, to the moment. His grip rigid as oak, soft as buckskin. She
looked away, yet all of her was there in his hand.

He waited for quiet. “You can join me or just sit
quietly for a moment. “ She watched his face, not believing. This
couldn’t be what she thought it was.

Voice low, clear, he began. “Dear Lord— We are here
today to give thanks.” Looking around the table, panic clawing at
her, she was incredulous to see many eyes downcast, some closed.
Here they were, in public school, where any and all prayer was
banned by the Supreme Court, where the mere mention of God was an
infringement on the civil liberties of all within earshot. And now,
here, he dared pray.

“We thank you for this food, for these friends, and
for the chance to teach and to learn, and we ask for your help in
being the finest men and women we can be.” Her mind raced. What a
lawsuit this would be, what a scandal, what a story! It would drag
them all down with it, make them infamous, destroy careers—but what
was it really? Only one man quietly giving thanks to God. How would
anyone, Jew, agnostic, Buddhist or atheist be offended by his
words? It was a moment she would not forget, this prayer with
seventy men, women, and children, skin every shade, every tint of
brown and white, hands linked in this old school room with its
groaning radiators. She felt connected to those in the circle in a
way she seldom did with anyone. For one slippery moment, they were
a common people, giving thanks for a common need fulfilled, food
before them. Things didn’t get any simpler, any more elemental than
that. Where, she wondered was this tolerance everyone spoke so much
about? “Amen.” They answered, six dozen voices together, setting
her spine tingling.

The sandwich was good and, suddenly ravenous, she
bolted it.

When it was over, the room put in order, Sid, Karl,
and Aurora stayed behind. Lott put his feet up on the table,
watching the rain beat against the glass as he picked his teeth.
“Did you see that creek down there this morning? This rain keeps
up, it’ll be over the road again sure as hell. How long’s it been,
now, ten years?”

“Twelve,” Karl said. “I heard Lyle Walker’s mama’s
going to sue the school because you scared her little angel
yesterday. She says it’s a clear case of discrimination.” O’Connel
scowled. “Discrimination for what? The kid’s white as a sheet.”

“Oh, no,” Aurora said, “Mama swears he’s
one-sixteenth Cherokee.” Karl shook his head. “Hundred percent jerk
is what he is.”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Sid said, correcting, “let’s be
positive. Parnell says he denies he ever said anything to you.”
Karl was shocked. “You’re not suggesting little Lyle Walker has a
garbage mouth, are you?”

“What I want to know is, what’s a kid like that doing
here?”

“Oh, come on, Dai,” said Aurora, “the word is
inclusion. It’s every child’s right to go to school, it’s not a
privilege. Regardless of what he does or doesn’t do, it’s our
responsibility to teach him.”

“In other words,” Karl said, “we keep him off the
streets.”

“God damn!” O’Connel put down his sandwich. “I’m so
tired of keeping kids in lock up, keeping them busy with seat work—
dittos, worksheets, coloring, anything to keep the psychos off the
ceiling.

You know, I’m ashamed of what I’ve got to do in some
of my classes to keep the peace. I should be teaching, but I can’t.
I’ve got to sit on them. Why do we force kids like that to come to
school?”

“It’s that money, honey,” Sid said. “It all comes
down to dollars.

Every suspension costs the district. Why do you think
we are so careful to use it as a last resort? Why do you think old
Doc sets up a Mobius strip we have to follow before a kid can be
expelled? It’s the money!”

“Yeah,” Karl said. “When his contract comes up for
renewal, if he wants to get his hundred thou a year he’d better
show a good bottom line to the board,” Solange had heard enough.
“Do you think this started with him? It didn’t. He does what he
does because that’s what the system demands.

He didn’t set up all the hoops you’ve got to go
through to get rid of these kids. There are laws, some state, some
federal, and there’s what the board and the parents want.” Solange
slipped a finger inside the neck of her blouse and pinched it up
tight around her neck. “You may have tenure, we don’t. We have to
keep everybody happy if we want to keep our jobs.” Sid nodded.
“Okay, okay, I’m not saying anybody’s the bad guy, but if you ask
me, the whole system’s lousy.” Solange moved her glance to the
window where windblown rain pounded the glass. What was there to
say—he was right—it was.

She didn’t feel well. Perhaps she shouldn’t have
eaten so fast.

“Well, as long as I’m dreaming,” O’Connel said, “I
want to teach kids who want to learn. Think about that. No busy
work. No lock step holding back the smart ones. Everyone learning
at their own speed.”

“You mean you don’t individualize your classroom
instruction?” Karl said in mock indignation. “I teach thirty
different ability levels in every subject.” O’Connel ignored the
joke. “I’m serious. No more reading about people doing things.
Baking, building, making things—schools used to do that. Some still
do, why don’t we? That’s one part of 21
^st
Century
Schools I like.” The bell rang, and Sid snorted through his nose.
“Wood shop, metal shop, catering, agriculture—that’s exactly what
most of these kids need. They’re not all going to be brain
surgeons, they need a vocation. But it takes money. We’d have to
fire some of the paper pushers downtown, and we couldn’t have
that.

“No, much cheaper just to keep our hands-on program
going.” Karl laughed as he pushed in his chair. “Hands on the
pencil, pencil to the paper. “

“Keep dreaming, Dai,” said Aurora. “Don’t let these
old farts discourage you.” They went out, leaving the two of them
alone, and O’Connel took his sandwich to stand by the window. Rain
coursed rivulets down the glass. Taking a bite, he motioned with
the big roll. “Coming down?”

“Yeah.” Solange watched him as he chewed, suddenly
bothered by the sight of food. “Tell me, why would you do that?” He
smiled down at her, mouth full, pushed back his glasses, signaled
her to wait, swallowed.