A Terrible Beauty: What Teachers Know but Seldom Tell outside the Staff Room (25 page)

Mrs. Noble whispered to Davies, and a frown creased
his boyish face.

“I was under the impression that Ms. Gonsalvas had
been observing Mr. O’Connel all this week. Does she have some
information for us?” Hugh looked as old as she’d ever seen him
look—and as unhappy.

Still he was silent.

Davies, growing impatient, went straight to Solange.
“Ms. Gonsalvas, do you have anything to contribute to this hearing
on Mr. O’Connel’s competence?”

She would make this fast. There was no reason to
stick around to hear what went on after. The insurance company had
dropped off a car, the key was safely in her purse. In five minutes
it would all be over-her career, her life, her dreams. “I’m afraid
the data disk with the information I’ve collected has been lost.
And so, I’ve decided…”

“I think you may be talking about this,” O’Connel
said, setting the disk before her.

On his mouth was the same half smile. Why was he
doing this?

“You left this in my room and I accidentally picked
it up.” He reached over and before she could stop him, snatched the
disk containing her resignation out of her hand. He smiled for an
instant. “And I see you have mine.”

Then he knew—but how? She opened her mouth to
protest, but thought better of it. She would never understand
him—never.

• • •

It was her show now.

Solange, voice steady, read from her laptop,
describing each incident in the letters of reprimand she had
written.

From the back of the gym, O’Connel smiled. She was
amazing.

A few moments ago, he’d have sworn he had caught her
off guard.

Now she spoke with her usual businesslike
assurance.

He didn’t listen to what she said; he didn’t care
about that. Letting her words wash over him like a strange
language, the sound of her voice was all he heard-a strong,
competent, sensual voice-a voice he would never hear again.

She sat and he raised himself from his reverie.
Davies asked him if he had anything to say, and standing, he
noticed Herschel, the OEA rep sitting in the front row and felt his
hackles rise. “Before I get started, I want him out of here.”
Herschel turned around in his seat, Adams apple working up and
down. “I’m here as your representative.” O’Connel looked at Davies.
“I ought to have a say about whether or not I want to be
represented, don’t you think?” Mr. Davies nodded in agreement, but
before he could speak, Herschel spoke up again. “I have as much
right as any other resident of the district to be here.”

“Hersch, old buddy,” O’Connel said, “I’ve been paying
extortion to the effete, elitist snobs at the NEA for twenty years,
and all I’ve ever gotten is a lot of junk mail and propaganda about
saving the whales and disarming honest American citizens. If you
hadn’t gotten your agency fee clause in the contract, half the
teachers never would have joined. I hate the things you stand for,
and I will be damned if I’ll have you here. Now get out or I’ll put
you out myself”

“What do you think, Herschel?” asked Mr. Davies
reasonably.

“If he says he’d rather not have representation, we
can honor that, can’t we?” Hershel thought it over, bushy gray
eyebrows bristling. “Well, a rep should be present at all
disciplinary hearings, but,” he threw up his hands, “If he refuses
representation, then I suppose it’s his funeral.”

O’Connel waited until the door had clanged shut
behind him before he began. “Okay, I’m not going to waste any time
debating what Ms. Gonsalvas said about me.” He allowed himself the
briefest glimpse of her, and found her watching him, worry plain on
her face.

“It’s all true. But I do have something to say.” He
lifted a hand, searching carefully for the right way to say it.

“Something— Something isn’t right, here. The
newspapers, they don’t want to hear about it. What they want is
feel good puff pieces about cute kids having fun, not stories about
what doesn’t work. The last thing anybody wants is a scandal at a
local school that’d make it harder to pass the next bond, and
nobody wants that.

Education is our highest priority, right? And more
money always helps, doesn’t it?” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, I
just don’t buy it. Are teachers underpaid—yes. Do we value
education highly enough—no. I’m still not convinced more dollars
will translate into better test results.

I mean, look at what happened with computers. They
were going to change everything, right? Well have they? Or do we
still have the same problems we had before? Nationwide we’ve spent
hundreds of billions to put schools on line and what’s changed?
Aren’t the same kids still failing? Aren’t the same ones making it?
“Let’s talk about something that does make a difference. For every
six teachers, we have four paper pushers—that’s the average across
the country—forty percent. In a few years, the ratio will be one to
one. Think about that— nearly half the employees in this district
don’t teach, and the less they do, the more they get paid.

“Don’t think I’m saying the secretaries, the
janitors, the bus drivers don’t earn their money. Most of them
should make twice what they do. I’m talking about the people we
don’t hire subs for, the psychologists, the counselors, the
directors, the coordinators, the administrators who are always at
meetings, and never, never in the halls. What do they do? Who
knows? They may help some kids, at least we hope they do, but is
having them here worth nearly doubling class size? Davies leaned
back in his chair. “What about the children with special needs?
What are you suggesting we do for them?”

“That depends on which children you’re talking
about,” O’Connel said. “Kids that can learn belong in the
classroom, kids that can’t need to be where they can be helped. If
they can be...some can’t. Terrible thing to say? Maybe. Also true.”
O’Connel kicked his chair across the polished maple court floor.
“Four out of five new dollars spent on education are spent on
special ed. Why? “Somebody somewhere has got to stand up for the
majority, the normal kid who wants to learn, wants to do well.
There are a few out there. I see them-but nobody else seems to.”
Mrs. Noble stood. “What about bilingual and migrant programs? We
serve a large population of Hispanics at Silver Mountain, in case
you’d forgotten. Are you seriously suggesting we cut them?”

“I’ve seen kids come in here speaking zero English,”
O’Connel said. “This was years before anyone had heard of bilingual
or migrant- and a few years later they spoke better English than I
do.

Salina and Maria were home from UCLA this week, maybe
you remember them. Look at them now! We didn’t teach them in
Spanish.

We kicked them off the dock into deep water, and they
swam.

I’ve seen it again and again, not just with bright
kids, with all kinds.

School works. For kids that try, it always has.”

“I don’t want to bore you with the money side of it,”
Mrs. Noble said, doing her best to be insulting, “but without Title
One, bilingual, migrant money we’d have to lay off teachers. Is
that what you’re suggesting?” What was the point? He wasn’t going
to change anyone’s mind.

He knew that. He would never make them see. “No, but
we’ve got kids here now that have been in the bilingual program for
five years, and they still don’t speak English. Five years. Maybe
that’s what we want— kids who never learn English. At least they
justify the need for the program. If that is what we want, we’re
doing fine.

“Now we’ve got 21
^st
Century School reforms
coming down from Washington and Salem. It’s not all bad, I’m not
saying that the vocational stuff’s right on the mark, but it’s
loaded down with feel-good double speak. Like meetings. We’ve got
site council meetings, pod meetings, grade level meetings,
curriculum meetings, textbook adoption meetings, staff meetings,
and, yes, even meetings where we schedule meetings. Sweet Lord,
have we forgotten why we’re here?”

“What’s wrong with meetings?” Solange asked. “How
else can we stay in communication?”

“Nothing’s wrong with them if you’ve got the time to
waste.

Take the site council. The idea of a community
control over schools sounds good, but what really goes on? A site
council meets every month and spends four hours reaching consensus
on everything.

How are the two parents supposed to influence the
outcome with a meeting of six educators and two administrators?
These guys are pros at oiling the water. If, on a rare occasion,
someone actually has a strong opinion about something, they put off
the vote. No disagreement allowed in these most enlightened of
committees. The system’s set up to give the appearance of parental
involvement while insuring no one rocks the boat. That’s one thing
we do not want.” One of the board members asked Davies if he didn’t
think they had heard enough.

“I’m going to let you finish what you’ve got to say,
Dai. I guess after twenty years, we owe you that much.”

“Thanks, Ron. And school board meetings, let’s not
forget them.

The citizens of a community running their own school,
another worthwhile goal, isn’t it?” Davies frowned. “Are you saying
it isn’t?” O’Connel scratched his head in frustration. “You, Mr.
Davies, are the way it’s supposed to work. You live here, farm
here, your kids go here, you care about the school-that’s why
you’re here. I respect that. But what’s sad is that most board
members aren’t like you. They’re in it for something else. When the
board puts together the requirements for the reroofing of the high
school, and the only contractor that fills all the requirements is
owned by a member of the board, are we supposed to think that’s
coincidence? Don’t get me wrong, I believe it, but then I believe
Oswald was a miracle worker with a Carcano, too.” He glanced at his
watch. “I didn’t plan on talking this long, but thanks for letting
me vent my spleen. I’ll leave you to it.” He turned to leave.

Davies called after him, tossing his cap on the table
to run a hand over a bald head. “Wait just a minute. You did a good
job describing what’s wrong, now I want to hear the answer-if
you’ve got one.” He turned at the door. “Christ, Ron, I don’t know.
Requiring everybody that draws a paycheck-administrators,
counselors, psychologists- all of them teaching at least a couple
classes a day might be a place to start. We’ve forgotten that a
principal was originally a principal teacher, haven’t we? Something
else, okay, why not vouchers? Tax credits? Anything that would let
people choose where they send their kids might help.

“We’re too big, too entrenched, too political. If
vouchers could get off the ground, you’d see schools sprouting like
mushrooms after a rainstorm. Some might even be good. It would be
an exciting time. I’d like to see it.” He shook his head. “Of
course it’ll never happen-NEA, OEA will see to that. They-and
we-have too much to lose. If people could choose, they’d choose the
best, and that wouldn’t be us. Not now anyway. No, I don’t have any
answers, but when in America we’re afraid to give people the
freedom to choose the best education for their children, there’s
something wrong somewhere, isn’t there?”

He went out into the cold, into the dark, the door
slamming shut behind him. Suddenly tired, he sat on the cold stone
steps, taking the weight off a bad knee by leaning on the metal
rail as he let himself down, hands sticking to the frigid iron.

Wincing, he rubbed a knee. The cold water hadn’t
helped it any. Neither had carrying her. He smiled, remembering her
riding his back. She didn’t look that heavy. Solid little
thing.

Down the hill, Wolf Creek thundered. As he thought it
might, the wind had cleared the sky. Making a cup of his hands, he
warmed them with his breath. A breeze stirred the last of the
leaves in the tops of the oaks, cutting through his leather
jacket.

When he was a kid, a red Tijuana firecracker went off
in his hand, robbing his fingers of feeling—that’s how he felt
now.

Dead.

Cold.

Empty.

Eyes accustomed to the darkness, he looked out across
the valley.

The stars shone vividly over the little town spread
out under an impossible weight of stars. It was a wonder they
weren’t crushed by such a massive emptiness.

That was it—after twenty years, he was no longer a
teacher. In spite of everything, he hadn’t really believed they
would take his job.

He really was one stupid son of a bitch.

O’Connel looked back over his shoulder at the school
squatting on the hill. They wouldn’t be out for a while yet.

He had time.

A wealth, a fortune of time—all he would ever
need.

He had forever.

It turned bitterly cold.

Freezing mist settled over the river, leaving a scum
of ice on everything it touched. To see, he melted a spot on the
boat windshield with the palm of his hand. The porch light was his
only guide home. He could barely make it out, now. Smiling into the
icy dark, he guided the boat across. He could still see the look on
her face. It had been worth it to see her like that, to see her
taken off guard. If it had been his last card, all the more reason
to play it with élan.

Sonny waited on the dock, trembling, eager for his
hand. Worn yellow teeth shone ghostlike in the darkness. The dock
was slick with ice, and as he climbed out of the boat he nearly
fell. Feeling more alone than he had in a long time, he headed up
the walk, frozen gravel solid as stone under his feet. The house
was silent, the stove cold, his heart clay. He lit a fire,
showered, made tea. Opening a forty-year-old copy of Wuthering
Heights, he settled back on the wide soft couch before the fire.
The dismal story suited his mood tonight, but before long he closed
the book, disgusted with a simpering Heathcliff. A yellowed page he
folded dog-eared to mark his place and it cracked like filo.