This River Awakens (33 page)

And in a week’s time, there were the children. Her charges. They mattered more than anything else. No problem with enthusiasm there, she was certain. The new philosophy of education had finally taken them into account. At last they were part of the equation.

‘In many ways,’ Principal Barry Thompson had said at the interview, ‘we view the sixth grade as the most vital year for the children.’

‘Oh yes,’ she’d replied, nodding vigorously. ‘The pupils need to be prepared for Junior High, after all. It’s a transitional year, both socially and, for some of them, biologically. At that age they need an environment that’s safe and nurturing. They’re finding their identities, exercising their egos, while at the same time they’re very unsure of themselves, open to all kinds of new and sometimes troubling influences—’

‘They’re little hellions,’ Barry had cut in, grinning.

‘Oh, I don’t see them like that at all,’ Joanne said, watching his grin fade as she continued, ‘They’re exploring, and that’s a natural process. It needs to be carefully guided, made constructive, not destructive. I’ll be entirely sensitive to what they’re undergoing. They deserve no less.’

The principal sighed. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘we definitely need someone on board who knows the new programme.’ He paused to jot something down on his notepad. Joanne thought him to be about forty-five, maybe slightly younger. Balding, tall, wearing a rumpled grey suit and a wide, short tie, burgundy with a gold pin. His face looked too small for the rest of him, at odds with his bony, lanky build. He finished writing and looked up. ‘As far as my staff is concerned, they’re a good group. They’ve been together a long time. I’d like you to make a presentation at the first staff meeting, should you be selected among the candidates, of course. The presentation would outline the new philosophy, giving an overview of the theories and their practical application. It will be a couple of weeks before our decision, which would leave you less than a week to prepare. Would that prove a problem, Miss Rhide?’

‘Oh no, not at all. I still have my notes from university, as well as condensed outlines, which I prepared myself. In fact, I could probably make that presentation without any formal preparation at all. I know it that well.’

‘Impressive,’ Barry said. He hesitated, then continued, ‘Earlier you said you’d be “entirely sensitive” to the needs of the children. I’d like to give you a word of advice.’ He leaned forward on his desk, his calm blue eyes holding Joanne’s attention. ‘Don’t be too sensitive, Miss Rhide. If you put your heart on the table for those kids, by year’s end you’ll find twenty pencils stuck in it. That’s my experience talking, the kind of stuff you won’t find in any textbook.’ He leaned back, rocked in his chair. ‘Oh, certainly there’s one or two who are exceptional. With them, you could be the lousiest teacher on earth and it won’t matter. As for the rest, well, most of them are spoiled, indifferent, or complacent, and more than a few are complete bastards – if you’ll pardon my language.’

Blinking, Joanne cleared her throat and said, ‘It’s been found that positive reinforcement is far superior to the traditional forms of discipline. I believe that every child has the right to be respected for how and what they are, and that it’s my task to show them their potential.’

‘No doubt,’ Barry said. He rose and held out a long-fingered hand.

Joanne took it tentatively. She’d always disliked shaking hands, and had always tried to make the act as short and lifeless as possible. Her mother refused to shake hands entirely. Joanne sometimes wished that she had that kind of courage and confidence.

Soon. Not long now.

‘Thank you for coming out,’ Barry had said, releasing her hand. ‘You’ll be informed in writing of our decision. Did you have any concerns with the Division interview? That board’s made up of some real sharks.’ He smiled.

‘I believe it went very well,’ she said. ‘They mostly listened, which I took to be a good sign.’

Barry grunted. ‘The new directives have everyone feeling a tad intimidated. We’ve all been hitting the books this summer, and for some of us, it’s been a long time since we had to do anything like that.’

He walked her to the door.

Joanne thought about what he’d just said. ‘I make it a practice to study right through each and every summer. I even sit in on classes at the university. Things are changing so quickly. We’re discovering new methods all the time.’

‘Of course, it all depends on how the rats perform,’ he said.

‘Pardon?’

‘The rats in the new maze. Your students, Miss Rhide.’

She’d thought the interview went well, except for that last comment from Principal Thompson, which she found disturbing enough to lose sleep over for the next few nights.

Barry Thompson was clearly a product of the old system. Hard-handed and contemptuous of the children for whom he was ultimately responsible. He thought teaching was a matter of personality. He didn’t see the social context, the collective imperatives. He didn’t see the school – its teachers, its students – as an organism, an organic whole.

The future had arrived. There was a new way of doing things. A better, more reasoned way. The conventions were outmoded fossils from a culture long gone. The children had new needs – the result of the changing society around them.

Joanne knew she’d have to lead by example. She had twenty children to nurture, to save and to prepare. They would be her proof.

The turn-off was up ahead. She clicked on the turn signal and slowed, checking the mirrors. She came to a stop even though the opposite lanes were empty. Then she slowly swung the car on to the driveway and pulled into the parking lot.

There were only a few cars in the lot. She was early, but better that than late. The job was hers, and this presentation would show the others why she’d gotten it. She had good reason to be proud. Confident, relaxed and self-assured. She’d worked on the presentation from the first night after the interview with Barry Thompson.

Joanne collected her briefcase and opened the door. She stepped out, the wind hot against her long, pale face, pulling at her hair. She closed and locked the door, making sure the windows were up. As she turned to face the school a slight flutter caught her eyes, up at the front of the car. Frowning, Joanne went around for a better look.

A dead crow, crushed into the grille, its feathers splayed out and trembling in the breeze. The plastic grille was broken. Blood spattered the passenger-side headlamp and the bumper.

She remembered. Just this side of the cloverleaf. She’d thought it had made it off the road. But no, she’d heard the thump – it just hadn’t registered. The Toyota Corolla was bumpy and loud enough on its own – one more sound wouldn’t have been that noticeable. Besides, she’d had her mind on other things. Important things.

Joanne continued staring at the mangled creature. Her dress felt rumpled, wrinkled and damp. Wisps of hair had escaped the barrettes and now stung her face.

She’d overprepared. The presentation was too long, too detailed. The tone might sound strident if she tried hurrying through it. She knew she had a tendency to sound strident. Like her mother. It’d be a hostile audience, too. Rigid minds, inflexible and defensive.

She’d need to get the car washed right away. On the way home.
I thought crows were smart. Ugly birds, though. Never really liked them. They eat rotten meat. Dead rabbits on the roadside, squirrels and cats. Oh, I hope it didn’t have a mate. I hope it isn’t looking for its lover. It was an accident. I didn’t mean it. Oh, why today of all days?

Joanne pulled her dress where it stuck to her back. The staff-room would be air-conditioned. She’d get chilled, and when she got chilled her fingers turned bluish. She’d always been too skinny. Mother had told her so.

Two more cars rolled into the parking lot. Joanne didn’t want to talk now. She didn’t want to say hello, pleased to meet you, I look forward to working with you, and it’s a hot one, isn’t it? So she pretended not to notice, checking the flap of her briefcase, then walking purposefully towards the school entrance.

It was like exam time. She felt an anxiety attack coming on. It’d pass once she started her presentation, she knew. But tonight …
Tonight I’ll get a migraine. I’ve gotten overexcited. Overexerted, Mother’d say. Oh, you stupid crow!

II

Like clockwork. Idiots. So predictable it’s pathetic.

The overgrown lot felt like an oven, only moments from bursting into flame. She tossed her butt and watched it bounce against the foundation wall. Owen would be here soon. Her body felt like a sponge, waiting to soak him up.

We’ll soak each other up.
A university professor in the city had brought back some peyote from New Mexico. He’d given half to a friend of his who lived in the North End. The friend pushed. Six buttons made their way into Jennifer’s hands. She planned on surprising Owen. The buttons had arrived inside individual caramel squares.

They’d eat their candy, then neck, wrapping themselves around each other, and when it started, she’d tell him. It’d be too late. He’d be in her arms. She’d carry him through.

Poor Debbie and her revolution. I’ve cut myself loose and your brother’s mine, dear. Don’t you get it? The world’s never changing. The shit just keeps piling up. You can either drown, or swim like you was made for it.

Maybe they’d fuck. Maybe it’d finally happen, both flying like apes with wings, laughing and grunting. They’d merge completely. She’d give him her breath. He’d give her his. She’d make him come deep inside her, then she’d roll over and make him come again from behind, like dogs. Maybe this time, it’d happen.

*   *   *

The world’s never changing. Never, ever. Don’t you get it yet?

The social worker, Anne, in her forties, wide-boned and low to the ground, expressionless but with eyes that never stopped moving behind thick glasses. She’d come dressed in a navy blue polyester sack that was reluctant to copy the movements of the body underneath. She’d come in, clipboard tucked under one arm, the glasses framing a nose like a rudder, wearing on her feet blue leather shoes with spring-loaded knife blades in the toes.

Jennifer grinned, stretching her legs out in front of her. The leaves snapped in the hot wind. Beyond them was the blue sky, which had forgotten its season of thunder and rain, becoming remote and changeless.

Anne the social worker, bat-winged with tyrannical power, eager to exercise her world-view, stepping to one side with Roulston and delivering three short, succinct sentences that made the good doctor’s face turn bright red.

He’d come to them then and said, ‘It seems that the assessment process does not allow for my presence in the room—’

‘The house,’ the social worker corrected.

‘The house. The assessment must be independently conducted.’

Jennifer laughed. ‘On your way, angel,’ she said.

Anne shot her a look, sizing up the enemy. Jennifer made her answering smile innocent.
Anne. Anne Boleyn, Anne of Green Stables, Annie get your gun, Queen Anne kitchenware. Anne, slaying ogres with one look from her aquarium eyes. Swim in these waters, those eyes said, at your peril.

‘Dr Roulston,’ Jennifer explained calmly to Anne, ‘is our guardian angel. We don’t really need one, but that’s how it is with guardian angels.’

Roulston turned at the door. ‘Jennifer,’ he said sharply.

She ducked, just enough. ‘Sorry, Doctor,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry for what I said.’

The good doctor actually slammed the door.
Finally got to him. Hah.
‘Please sit down, Anne,’ she said. ‘As you know, my mother had an accident. Her jaw is wired. She can’t speak.’

‘I’ve received Dr Roulston’s detailed report, including his professional observations and opinions.’

‘He’s very diligent, and earnest, isn’t he?’

Anne sat down opposite her mother – who sat on the couch as usual. For Anne, then, the seat of judgement. Occupied in its time by policemen, doctors, snake-headed witches. The woman named Anne swung her gaze from her mother. ‘I also have your school records … Jennifer, is it? Yes, Jennifer. I’m not good with names.’ Disarming smile there one moment, gone the next. Back to business. ‘Now, I have a set list of questions. About your family life, your income sources and how you manage your finances, some medical history and the like. Mrs Louper, your husband resides here as well?’

Her mother nodded.

‘But he’s being treated at Riverview Hospital. I have the police report. Some of the statements are contradictory. As the investigation is on-going, we’ll have to leave that alone for the time being. Now, Jennifer, you’ll have to answer the questions on your mother’s behalf, when you can. Otherwise, I have here a notepad and a pen. Mrs Louper?’

Her mother nodded again and accepted the writing material.

‘Good,’ Anne said, flashing the smile once more, this time for her mother.

Like a machine. A lie detector like the ones in dear Daddy’s magazines, but with a built-in paranoia gewgaw.
Working her questions like traps, coming around from different directions, testing for inconsistencies in Jennifer’s answers. Querying more details on her mother’s written replies. Jennifer found herself concentrating with all her power, all the while affecting a casual, relaxed pose. It was a game worthy of her, and it sharpened her as it went on, the minutes piling up into one hour, then two. Page after page, pause after pause as Anne wrote detailed notes, made private observations, skyrocketed the tension level with her choppy jottings, page after page.

Food groups. Hours watching TV, time set aside for homework, chores. Records of utility statements. Sten’s disability income. Questions of alcohol abuse, wife abuse, child abuse.

Jennifer dropped her tone when talking about those last few subjects. She tried to sound duly embarrassed. The performance of her life, always on truth’s edge – giving her words the needed authority. Jennifer wove her answers. With grace.
‘Yes, ma’am. My father has a problem with drinking. We’re all sticking together, working through it, as best we can. We need support. I understand that. My father has agreed he has a problem. He’ll be attending his first AA meeting this Sunday morning. Violent? Only the dishes, sometimes, or a wall or two. Because he’s been drinking, he can get a little wild – just look at Mom. It was an accident. Blackouts? No. My father remembers everything. He gets so full of guilt. That probably makes it harder to stop, doesn’t it? We thought so. We’ve talked about it. We’re trying to talk more, though Mom has to write things down for now. Yes, I’m doing the household chores. Cooking, the dishes. Well, Father’s one love … did I say Father? But Mom, yes. I guess I’m getting pretty formal. Dad loves his dogs. Pure-bred. Show quality. He dotes on them. One got out and was killed by a car. That’s what made him start again. Grief, I guess. He’s getting over it, I think, but it still makes him sad.’