Chapter 16
Robert
Monday morning. No clanging bells, no rattling pots in the kitchen, no rug rats clamoring for food. Their dads picked them up yesterday. A welcome hush has settled on the house. I find Aunt Whitney sitting cross-legged on the bed next to my dad, his useless left hand gripped in hers. Her eyes shimmer with tears. She sniffs as Dad’s chest heaves with the exertion of drawing in even a small amount of air.
I let my gaze settle on his face, the open but vacant eyes, the grotesquely stretched skin, the foam that is just beginning to form around his nostrils and his lips.
Aunt Olivia has pulled the armchair from the living room up next to the bed. She checks the bag clipped to the side rail. “He’s just not producing anything anymore.” She looks over her shoulder at me and wipes her eyes. “You’re not going to school today, are you?”
“I’ve got sectionals this morning and an English test this afternoon.”
“Make it up later,” Aunt Whitney says sharply.
Aunt Olivia’s voice is softer: “Robert, your dad may not be here when you get home. You see this?” She holds up the bag she was looking at a moment ago. “His kidneys have shut down.”
“Is that why he’s foaming?”
She glances at his face. “His lungs are filling with fluid.” Then she turns back to me. “This is your last chance to be here for your dad.”
The way he was here for me?
I stay under the radar over the next half hour, showering and dressing quickly and quietly. In the kitchen, I grab a couple of blueberry waffles and drop them in the toaster.
“You want something more than that?” Mom asks, coming into the kitchen. “I can make you some bacon and eggs.”
“No, thanks.” The truth is I feel a little sick this morning. Two dry waffles and some water is about all I can handle. I can’t watch this. I won’t watch this. And then there’s Andrew. “I’m going to school,” I say, looking up from the toaster to check her reaction.
“Good. You don’t need to be here for this.”
“What happens when he dies? I mean, what do you do with him?”
“Honestly, Robert, I don’t know. I’ve never done this before. I’m sure your aunts know what to do.”
The waffles pop up. I take them out with my fingertips and drop them on a napkin to cool. “Why do you do that?” I ask. “Let them run the show?”
She bites her lip and looks at me like I just slapped her face.
Andrew
From the cubbyhole that constitutes my school mailbox, I extract a stack of papers—attendance verification forms I need to sign (No black ink, please.), grades for two new students (both algebra), an invitation to meet with financial planners in the upstairs lounge this afternoon (as if I had any money to invest), the current issue of Pi in the Sky (a note from the librarian paper clipped to the cover—Mr. McNelis, Great article on math games. Thought you might like some new material.), a certificate for ten dollars off a meal at some new restaurant, and an envelope with my name on the front in Jen’s distinctive loopy writing.
I set my cooler on the floor, tuck the rest of my mail under my arm, and open the envelope. Two tickets to the Iron Maiden concert tomorrow night at the Pavilion and a note, this one on a sunflower Post-it rather than the business yellow the librarian used.
Throw a girl a bone already. Pretty please?
“There you are,” Jen says from the doorway. She slips behind me to her own mailbox.
“Did you just grab my ass?” I say in a low voice. We’re the only two at the mailboxes, but just through the open cubbyholes is a workroom. I can see Mr. Redmon at the copier.
“Don’t tell me you didn’t like it,” she responds in an equally low voice.
I laugh and hand the tickets back to her. “School night.”
She snatches them from my hand. “It’s an early concert. I promise, I’ll have you home and in your Barney pj’s by eleven.”
“Don’t be mean. I outgrew Barney last year. I’m wearing Spider-Man now.”
“God, you are such an old fuddy-duddy.”
I laugh. That’s me. “Come on. I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”
I call out a bold “Good morning” to Mr. Redmon through the cubbies; he calls one back. Then we sneak out the back door so we don’t have to cross through the reception area again. It’s still early—six thirty—but you can always count on there being at least one parent waiting to talk to the principal about some injustice that’s been served up to their kid, no matter the hour. I counted three when I came in.
We cross paths with Robert a little ways down the hallway. He’s holding the strap of his backpack over his shoulder with one hand and lugging his saxophone with the other. He catches my eye and holds it just a beat too long before letting his gaze drift down to the cooler in my hand, then he smiles and says, “Good morning.”
We watch him disappear down the music hallway.
“I could swear that kid’s hot for teacher,” Jen says.
My heart skips a beat, then picks up its pace. “You should be flattered,” I tell her with a broad smile that I’m pretty sure doesn’t reach my eyes, though I try.
“Um, I wasn’t talking about me. I’m not his type, you know.”
The coffee is still dripping when we reach the lounge. Jen catches the drips with her cup while I try to maneuver the spout so that the coffee splashes into her cup and not on the counter, then fill my own.
“So, when do you hear about the admin program?” she asks.
“Today, I hope. It starts in February, so they can’t wait too much longer.”
“Oooh, you know, you could be my boss one day. That’d be kind of hot, don’t you think? I wouldn’t mind so much getting summoned to the principal’s office if you were sitting behind the desk. I might even break a few school rules just so you can spank me.”
I squeeze the little plastic single-serve container of half-and-half a little too hard, and it squirts onto the counter.
“You have quite the imagination,” I say, mopping up the spill with a paper towel.
“That’s what I’ve been told,” she says, ducking her head down and fluttering her eyelashes at me.
Ahem. “Gotta run!”
I drop the paper towel in the trash receptacle at the door and escape before Lolita can throw me to the ground and hump me right there in the teachers’ lounge.
It’s been two weeks, but some of the kids still seem to be on Christmas break. Settling my freshman Algebra students back into a routine has been a challenge. Stephen Newman has been especially trying. He bounces in this morning with his pants hanging halfway down his ass to show off his South Park boxers, no doubt a Christmas gift.
Stephen likes attention, a lot of it. Twice he interrupts my lesson on solving quadratic equations by completing the square with some inane comment. Now he’s stretched out in his seat with his T-shirt hiked up, and he’s carrying on a bizarre conversation with Kristyn Murrow next to him . . . using his belly button as a mouth, squinching it together with his fingers to simulate moving lips. She titters across the aisle from him.
“Stephen,” I say, wrapping up the equation on the whiteboard and turning to him. “If you keep getting on my nerves, I’m going to get on yours, buddy. You got that?”
Astonishingly, he responds with his belly button. “I got that, sir. Yes, sir.”
The rest of the room snickers. I look around sharply and they quiet down. I wait while he pulls his shirt down and hunches over his desk.
It’s a relief to get them started on their homework a few minutes later. Next year I’m petitioning for Algebra 2 classes. Freshmen. Sheesh.
A couple of new e-mails came in during my lesson. The one from Mr. Redmon has been flagged high priority.
Yes!
Mr. McNelis—
Please stop by my office during your planning period this morning.
Mr. Redmon
I would be happy to, Mr. Redmon.
I take a sip of coffee. It’s lukewarm. I decide to nuke it between classes. I want to be on my game when I meet with him third period.
I can’t wait to tell Robert. The thought skips through my brain and settles into that little compartment where I keep all things Robert. I sit back in my chair and scan the room, but I’m thinking about that intense look on his face when he danced, the way his arm felt pressed against mine as he looked at the photos on my phone, the sweet way he interacted with Kiki in the grocery store.
When the bell rings, I realize I’m smiling like an idiot.
When second period ends, I hustle to the main office. Mrs. Stovall, Mr. Redmon’s secretary, motions me to a love seat adjacent to her desk. Jen calls this the deep-shit sofa where they leave you to piss your pants before your inquisition begins. I think she exaggerates. Not all visits to the principal’s office are bad things.
There are three red folders spread uniformly on the desk next to Mrs. Stovall’s computer. Clipped to each folder is a temporary badge on a lanyard. Mrs. Stovall (not Ms. unless you want her to cut you with one of her looks) is on the phone still trying to locate the subs she needs for the day. A sub shortage means other teachers have to fill in on their planning periods, and the district has to pay them. It’s cheaper and less disruptive to have a sub. But there are never enough of them to go around.
She’s clearly in a bad mood so I sit quietly and imagine sitting at the desk behind that door one day. It’s a hard job, I know that. The hours are brutally long, but the pay is at least a living wage. And the position is a bully pulpit, an opportunity to shape the culture of a school. I already have some ideas about how my own school will be different.
I’m lost in my thoughts, so I’m a little startled when Mrs. Stovall tells me I can go in.
“Drew,” Mr. Redmon booms as I step into his office. “Have a seat. Sorry to keep you waiting. I was just talking to my son. He graduates from MIT this May.”
“I didn’t know that. That’s great. Smart kid.”
“Yeah. He’s the last one. Once we get this one out of school, my wife and I are going to take a long cruise in the Greek islands.”
I smile just as his fades a bit, and mine subsequently falters.
“Drew, this is really difficult for me to talk about.”
What? I quickly catalog my qualifications for the admin program. I have a strong academic record, my kids’ test scores are solid, I’ve proven myself in the classroom, I’ve tutored and even participated in the annual chili cook-off, I’m a man, I even had a teacher friend in English check over my application to make sure I hadn’t made any inadvertent grammatical faux pas. And the interview had been lively.
Until this moment, I’d considered myself the perfect candidate. I can’t believe they’re not admitting me into the program, and that is exactly what I’m thinking when Mr. Redmon slams me in the chest.
“I want you to know that your sexual orientation has never been an issue for me.”
My heart stutters to a halt.
“But”—Mr. Redmon studies his hand—“a band parent called this morning about another issue and mentioned that you were in the back parking lot Friday night with Robert Westfall.”
My heart kicks up a wild beat and my fingertips tingle. I force my face to remain neutral, my voice nonchalant. “Mr. Gorman asked me to chaperone the band dance.”
“I find that curious, Drew. Usually parents chaperone those dances.” He holds my gaze for a moment before continuing. “Look, I have no objection to you chaperoning a band dance. I do, however, question your judgment in spending time alone in a parking lot at night with one of your students.”
I start to open my mouth to defend myself, but I clamp it shut at the last second. Any protest would stink of guilt.
He studies me as I struggle for some kind of neutral response, then drops another bombshell. “Robert Westfall has been having lunch in your classroom for the past week.” It isn’t a question.
My first thought is, Jen. But any number of people pass by my classroom during any given lunch period. It could have been anyone from the copy room aide to another student. The door always remained wide open. I haven’t been trying to hide anything, exactly.
I steady my voice before I speak. “He’s having a rough time. I think he sees me as a big brother he can talk to. That’s all.”
“That ends today, Drew,” he says sternly. “This instant. Let me remind you that perception is everything in a public school. You’re young. You’re a nice-looking man; he’s a vulnerable teenager. And you are not a counselor. That is Ms. Lincoln’s job. I’ve already asked her to call Robert in today for some counseling. Might I suggest that you stick to algebra and calculus. You have a bright future ahead of you. I don’t want to see you screw it up.”
I mumble, “No problem. Thank you,” and stand, willing my knees to lock beneath me. He hands me a sheet of paper. I take it, but I’m afraid to look at it.
“By the way,” Mr. Redmon says as I open the door, “I don’t have the admin training list yet, but I’m sure your name will be on it.”
“Great.” I offer him a bright smile and close the door behind me.
In a faculty bathroom, I shoot the deadbolt and sit on the toilet. My hands tremble as I take out my cell phone and delete all text messages from both my in-box and my sent box. From my photo album, I take one more look at Robert’s face before I delete that too.
At lunch I quickly exit with my students and lock my classroom door behind me. Jen is surprised when I show up in the lounge. She’s sitting at a round table with other math teachers and pats the empty seat next to her. I take it.
“You know,” I say with a big fake smile on my face, “I might take you up on that concert after all.”
I open my cooler on the floor and retrieve one of the sandwiches, a bag of chips, and a Powerade, careful to keep the lid half closed.
She flicks her eyebrows at me. “Well, all right, then.”
I force myself to eat, to swallow, to laugh at all the right places, and when Jen places her hand on my knee, I leave it there.
I try not to think about my student, standing outside my locked classroom door, wondering what happened.
In Calculus I feel Robert’s eyes on me. I can barely think straight as I work through problem after problem on the board. I don’t let them start their homework early as I usually do. And when the bell rings, I call Stacy Woodward up to my desk to give her the letter of recommendation she asked me to write for a summer job she’s applying for. I chat with her for a few minutes about the job and her college plans.
Robert lingers, and when Stacy gushes a thank you and heads for the door, he approaches my desk. I try to look busy, shuffling papers that don’t need shuffling, jabbing the pens and pencils that litter my desk back into the holder.
“I thought we were going to have lunch together,” Robert says.
“Oh, hi, Robert. Sorry. I had to attend a meeting. I hope you got something from the cafeteria.”
I can see on his face that he’s uncertain whether to believe me or not. Finally, he seems to decide not. His face screws up with his question: “Are you mad at me?”
“Mad at you? Of course not.” I keep my voice bright and slap him lightly on the shoulder as my seventh-period students begin making their way through the door. “You better get going or you’ll be late for class.”
His eyes hold mine for another couple of beats until I look away. And then he goes, and I’m left standing behind my desk, feeling like I’ve just kicked him in the gut.
When the bell rings at the end of seventh period, I don’t wait until my duty ends to leave. I lock my door and head to the parking lot.
Robert
I hurry through the rapidly clearing hallways to my seventh-period class. I don’t understand. I thought that maybe he’d been called away on an emergency, that perhaps something had happened to Kiki.
I took that worry with me to fifth period. When I arrived in his classroom sixth period, I expected to see a sub, but he was there, just like every other day. He greeted everyone, just like every other day. He took roll as we completed our warm-up, just like every other day. He lectured and worked problems on the board, just like every other day.
He didn’t look at me. Not once. And I don’t know why.
And when I stayed behind after class and asked if he was mad at me, he acted just like a teacher—fake cheer, distance thinly disguised as warmth.
Lunch was his idea, I remind myself angrily as I take my seat in economics.
“Mr. Westfall,” Ms. Flowers says quietly before I can even pull my mechanical pencil from the rings of my spiral notebook. She hands me a white office pass with my name on it and a check mark in the little square next to the word Counselor. “Ms. Lincoln would like to see you.”
I lay my notebook on the desk and start to get up. “She wants you to take your things with you,” she adds.
Ms. Lincoln greets me with a sympathetic smile and gestures to a chair in front of her desk. She seats herself in the chair next to me. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m okay,” I answer.
“I spoke to your mom a few minutes ago.”
“Is my dad . . . ?”
“No. But I think you should go home.”
My heart sinks a little. “I only have one more period.”
“Robert . . .” She shakes her head but doesn’t finish.
I meet her eyes and wonder what she thinks about me. I heft my backpack back onto my shoulder, but I don’t get up.
She sighs. “I know this is a really hard time for you and for your mom. You should be with your family right now. School can wait.”
I nod my head. I know she expects this.
“Is there anything you want to talk about before you go?”
I shake my head, and she pats me on the knee.
“I want you to know that my door is always open. You can talk to me about anything. I’m here for you, okay?”
I wonder for a moment what she’d say if she knew how desperately I wanted this chapter to end and the next to begin. Would she understand? Or would she refer me for some psychiatric counseling on the grounds that I am a psychopath, unable to form an attachment with or feel empathy for my dying father?
She takes the pass from me and scribbles something on it, then hands it back. “Go ahead and check out, then go home.”
I stand, my knees weak at the understanding that now I will have to witness death. Ms. Lincoln means well. But I know Andrew never would have sent me away. At least, a few hours ago, I thought I knew that.
I don’t understand.
He doesn’t respond.
I’ve always thought of death as coming in one of two ways—quick and bloody, or slow and gentle. It comes neither way to our house.
Dad’s eyes are still open, still vacant, but now he’s blowing huge wads of foam from his nostrils in great but irregular bursts. My aunts huddle around him. Aunt Whitney gently wipes the foam from his face.
Over the next seven hours, the foam dries up, and Dad’s breathing becomes so shallow, so intermittent, that it’s hard to know sometimes if he’s breathing at all. Near midnight, he grows still. Aunt Olivia places the round disk of her stethoscope on his chest.
Aunt Whitney is curled up next to him and whispering in his ear, speaking for him the words he can’t speak for himself. And even though her voice is soft, I can hear her pray: “Into thy hands, Lord, I commend my spirit. Holy Mary, Mother of grace, pray for me. Protect me from the enemy and receive me at the hour of my death.”
“He’s gone,” Aunt Olivia says quietly. She sniffs as she gently closes Dad’s eyes, then places her cheek on his chest and sobs. I see tears in Mom’s eyes as she sits quietly on the end of the bed, ever the outsider, and I’m surprised to feel the pricks in my own eyes.
When Aunt Whitney and Aunt Olivia pull back the sheet to bathe Dad one last time before the funeral home people show up, I have to leave the room. Even though he’s gone, I’m still embarrassed for him, for me, for my mom.
It’s a relief when the hearse pulls into the driveway. We wait stiffly in the living room while the attendants take care of business. When they emerge a few minutes later, they are soft-spoken, kind, and respectful as they wheel the black vinyl bag cocooning Dad’s wasted body out to the hearse. It’s one o’clock in the morning, but a few neighbors are standing around. Aunt Olivia reaches for me as one of the attendants closes the back doors. I shrink from her touch and pull my keys out of my pocket.
No one tries to stop me as I get in my car.