A Terrible Beauty: What Teachers Know but Seldom Tell outside the Staff Room (19 page)

“The prayer?” He shrugged. “It felt right.” She shook
her head in disbelief, wincing at the growing nausea washing over
her.

“It felt right? Its against the law! You’re opening
up the district to a lawsuit. I mean, we could have the Justice
Department down here.”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic. Really, what did you
think? Didn’t it feel okay to you?”

She wasn’t getting sucked into that one. “You know I
can’t just let that go.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

What was wrong with her? Her skin was flushed,
clammy, cold. “I don’t intend to. What are you playing at? Is this
part of your plan, the one that’s supposed to win me over?” He
smiled, so quiet, so calm, so damned sure of himself. She wanted to
pound him with her fists, to do anything that would make him see
how serious this was.

He half smiled. “How’s it working?”

She shook her head in frustration. “You just won’t
understand, will you? It isn’t—it can’t. You know that, I told you
that.”

He nodded slowly. “Okay. Well, I’ve got two more
classes to teach, anyway.” He grabbed up a bundle of newspapers.
“History’s downstairs. Coming?”

Stomach roiling, Solange snatched up her bag, pushed
past him into the hall, not daring to stop.

• • •

She made it in time—just.

Locking the door to the staff restroom behind her,
she gave herself up to the spasms. Bare knees on cold tile before
the toilet, she heaved until her ribs ached, until nothing more
came. Head bowed, eyes squeezed shut, she propped herself on
shaking arms.

Panting, exhausted by the effort, she waited for the
waves of nausea to subside.

How did everything get so turned around? When when
when god oh god would it ever be over?

She wanted her life the way it was. She wanted to
feel in control again, safe again. She wanted to be away—from this
school, from this man who threatened everything she was, everything
she planned to be.

At the sink she rinsed and spit, combing vomit from
her hair with her fingers. Arms braced on the sink, Solange took a
last look at herself in the mirror. She was close now, just one
more period. It was nearly over.

Solange slung her bag and tried the door. It wouldn’t
open.

Twisting the button in the center of the knob this
way and that to no effect, panic rose in her. Desperate, she pulled
off a heel, rapping hard on the thin paneled door. Like gunshots,
her knocking echoed down the empty hall. How was it possible no one
heard? Feeling foolish, she tried calling out.

Still no answer.

Hunting through her purse, she came up with a nail
file to attack the hinge pins. Working them loose one at a time
from the many coats of paint that sealed them in place, she let
them drop with a bang at her feet. All three out, she tried the
door again and found it solid as ever.

Infuriated by her stupidity, she saw why; hinges,
like woven fingers, held the door fast in its jam. Giving up, she
dropped onto the toilet to wait. Chin supported on palms, again her
eye was drawn to her image in the mirror before her.

Superintendent Gonsalvas...

How much was the title worth? One good teacher’s job?
More? How much of herself would she give up to get it? And if she
got it, what then? What could she do, who could she help, if her
main concern was keeping her job? She got up, turning her back on
the glass. Could she think of nothing else? Desperate to be free,
she screamed in frustration, pounding on the door panel with her
fists.

Nothing.

On the toilet she sat cradling her head in her arms,
rocking, eyes squeezed shut. It was no use. There was no way
out.

A gentle rap on the door made her jump. “Hey, can you
hear me? Hey! I’m locked in here!”

“I thought so,” he said.

She sighed, dropping her head into her hands. It
would be him. “What do I do?”

“You need to turn the lock straight up and down.”

“Okay, now what?”

“Now come out.” She tried the handle and incredibly
it turned. Quickly, she slipped the pins back in the hinges and
opened the door. Passing him, she said thanks.

He watched her as they walked. “You okay?”

Annoyed, she glared back. “Why?”

He shrugged. “The way you ran out of there I thought
you might be sick or something.”

Why did he have to be so damned nice? She stopped,
facing him in the silent hall. “Look, I thanked you, okay? What
more do you want?”

He raised empty hands. “Whoa, I don’t want anything.
Would you rather I hadn’t come down? I can lock you back in if you
want.”

She bared her teeth at him. “Ha, ha. Let’s just drop
it, all right? I’m fine.” Jesus, what was wrong with her? He didn’t
deserve to be treated the way she was treating him. One more thing
for her to feel guilty about—swell.

They got to his classroom just as the bell rang. In
two years, Solange had forgotten what it was like to live by the
tyranny of the bell, the buzzer, the horn. She didn’t miss it. She
got her case and they began the trek through the bustling hall back
up to the third floor.

“I don’t know how you do this everyday,” she said,
following him up the stairs with her bags. “All this moving from
classroom to classroom. It’s insane trying to teach like this.”

He smiled. “You get used to it. You can get used to
anything.” At his room, he turned, holding the door. “This is it,
last class, looks like you’ll be back in your office tomorrow.”

She brushed past, feeling the heat of him as she
went. The class came in, a different group than she’d seen before,
mostly juniors and seniors. The schedule said it was AP Lit. These,
then, were the best students Elk River had. She looked them over
from her seat in back.

Paul was there, looking superior as always. So were
Armando, Chelsea, Moses. They were excited about something,
whispering back and forth, watching her. She could guess why.

O’Connel perched on the edge of his desk, waiting for
their attention. He cleared his throat and they soon quieted.
“Merchant, scene three. You were to read it, I assume you did.”
Chelsea’s hand went up as she flashed Solange an angry look.

“We’ve heard she’s here to fire you, and that this
might even be your last day. That’s not true, is it?” O’Connel
seemed to think over his answer. “It’s true, but it’s not her
fault. She’s just doing her job.”

“But we don’t want you to go, why do you have
to?”

“It’ll be up to the board tomorrow night.”

“But you’re a good teacher! She knows that, she must,
she’s been here with you all week!” She turned to Solange. “Don’t
you know he’s a good teacher?”

Solange, face flushing, met Chelsea’s eye, but found
her throat too tight to speak. Besides, what could she say? It was
true, she did. She looked to O’Connel for help, expecting none.

“It’s not up to her.”

Chelsea kept her eyes on Solange. “Mr. O’Connel’s
classes are the only ones I’ve got where there aren’t a couple of
kids who take up all the teacher’s time. They’re the only classes
where I learn anything! Doesn’t that matter to anybody? Doesn’t
it?”

“We should do something,” Armando said, “sign a
petition, something.”

“Oh, don’t get too radical, there,” Paul said,
sneering.

“Yeah,” Moses said, “We could have a rally or
something. I saw a movie once about teachers where the kids did
that.”

O’Connel shook his head. “This isn’t a movie. You
guys don’t need me. You’ll succeed no matter who’s up here. You
don’t earn A’s because of me, you earn them because of you.”

“So what can we do?” Chelsea said.

O’Connel shrugged. “You can sign a petition if you
like. It could be a learning experience, but it won’t make any
difference. You guys are what, sixteen, seventeen?”

“And eighteen,” Moses said.

“Okay, some of you are adults, then. It’s time you
learn the way the world works.”

“So, what,” Chelsea said, looking betrayed, “you’re
telling us to be cynical?”

“No, no, no!” O’Connel nudged back his glasses
delicately with a thumb, shaking his head. “What I’m saying is to
open your eyes, see things for what they are. Then, if you want,
roll up your sleeves and do something about it.”

“But you did that,” Moses said, dark intelligent eyes
sly. “Look what happened to you. Why would we want to?”

O’Connel nodded, smiling. “Good question, Moses, why
would you? I’ve got no answers for you, you’ll have to decide that
one for yourself.” He pointed at him. “Understand. Learn. Breaking
the rules to do what you think is right carries a price—I’m paying
it now. And I’m getting off easy.”

Chelsea frowned. “But if you’re doing what’s right,
then why should you have to pay?”

He smiled. “Just because you do what you think is
right, doesn’t mean other people will see it that way, Chelse. The
day will come when you’ll face it—you’ll see a situation that’s not
right, and you’ll make a choice. But think long and hard before you
decide. Rocking the boat doesn’t win any popularity contests.”

O’Connel boosted his glasses, shrugged. “What’s to
say? You guys are why I cross the river every day. And everyone of
you is going to make it—I know it. I hope you do, because if you
do, there is nobody on the face of the earth who can keep you from
it. Nobody. Now, we’ve got a play to study.” They groaned.

“That’s right, stop your moanin’ and groanin’. I want
scene three from Shylock’s point of view in modern English. If I’m
here Monday I’ll let you see what some actors do with it. Now get
to it.”

Moses smiled his clever smile. “But you may not even
be here.”

“That’s right.”

Moses’ face fell. “Okay, I know.” He sighed long.
“Like you always say, I’m doing it for myself— right?”

O’Connel smiled. “That’s right. Hey, maybe you
learned something from me after all.”

Fighting off a growing distaste for herself and for
what she had to do, Solange entered a note about the prayer. Hands
trembling too badly to type, she balled them into fists, squeezing
her eyes shut. How stupid it all was, how futile, as if she didn’t
already have enough on him for the hearing. Yet Hugh wanted
more.

The fact was, whether or not she was the one to do
it, O’Connel was going to lose his job. If she couldn’t help him,
at least she could save Hugh. She could save herself. She could
save what she’d lived for, worked for. And if she couldn’t sleep
tonight, then she couldn’t. She was getting used to that.

Dark clouds hanging low over the hills made it seem
later than three. Rain caromed off the big windows with a sound
like a thousand nails tapping, searching their way inside to warmth
and light.

Would it ever stop, would the world ever be dry and
safe again? Period over at last, she gathered her things as
O’Connel gazed vacantly out the window.

“So...” he said, “In service tomorrow, board meeting
tomorrow night, no school Friday. That’s it, then.” She watched him
curiously. “You talk like it’s over.”

He filled a box with things from his desk. “Isn’t
it?”

“Not until tomorrow night, it’s not.”

“Ah, come on, I don’t kid myself. This didn’t start
with you, it’s been going on for two years—I know how it’ll turn
out.”

She opened her mouth, but no words came. What doubt
could there possibly be? He was right, there was none at all.

He took up a box with battered teapot and books, and
she followed with another down to his truck. They watched rain
cross the flooded parking lot in curtains driven before the wind.
Awed, she watched water pour off plugged gutters, a solid
sheet.

“My God,” he said, “I’ve never seen it come down this
way. It’s melted the snow in the hills, too. The Siuslaw will run a
wanton tonight.” At his room they found Chelsea waiting.

“Mr. O’Connel,” she said, pointedly ignoring Solange,
“I know it might be your last day, but could you help me just for a
minute with my physics? Mrs. Olney said she had to go home. It’s
just one problem.”

“Sure, Chelse.” He looked at his watch, then at
Solange. “I can get the rest of this. Go on home.”

“Go ahead, help her, I’ll wait downstairs.” Solange
took down another box of books. What was another few minutes? At
last it was over. At last she could go back to her life. Still, the
rain came hard, with no sign of let up, and for several minutes,
she stood alone under the overhang mesmerized by the fury of
it.

His last day, his last class, and he stayed late to
help. The worst of it was she knew he wasn’t doing it to impress
her. He did it because that’s the kind of teacher he was—the kind
of man he was.

O’Connel appeared, arms loaded. She opened the door,
standing back as he set the boxes inside. “Well, that’s all of it.”
Just then Celia came out, running for her car. Puzzled, she
stopped, frowning at Solange. “You’re still here? Did you know Wolf
Creek’s flooding over the road? You’d better hurry, or you won’t
get to Eugene tonight.”

• • •

O’Connel squinted, rain pelting him in the face. He
watched Solange run to her little car and saw theirs were the last
in the lot.

From the front of the school, he could see Wolf Creek
at the base of the hill as it churned, ugly brown, over the bridge
swallowing fifty feet of tarmac on either side.

The water was too high. Much too high to cross. He
went to tap on her window, the driven rain soaking him through the
seams of his jacket.

She cracked the window to look out at him, hair
sodden from her short sprint through the wet. “What is it?” Her
eyes were frightened. “I’ve got to go.”

He yelled over the roar of the rain hitting the roof
of her car. “I don’t think you should try it.”

She looked at him as if he’d told her the sun was
shining. “What do you mean, not try it? How else could I go?” He
thought, rain running chill down his neck. “You could try going
Florence to Newport, but I don’t know if you could get through. If
it’s this high here, the odds are, things will be a mess down there
too.”