One morning a student announced that Xavier had been in a fight: he cut a boy
with a box cutter, they took him to Lincoln Hospital; they gave him ten
stitches to close the wound. Her heart scorched, Judy turned away, her face
cringing in disbelief.
This could not be true. First of all the girl telling the story, Shanequa
Washington,was pregnant, and had this habit of crooning to herself and rubbing
her stomach. When she wasn't doing this she was recounting frightening
incidents of life and near death on her block. The girl wanted attention, plain
and simple. Sitting there relaying wild stories, and eating vanilla wafers as if
they were candy ̶̶ how could anyone take her seriously?
When eventually Xavier returned to class Judy Weiner searched his face for
clues to the incident, for signs of remorse or triumph ̶̶ anything! She walked
over to where he sat. "How are you feeling this morning?" Sensing he was in no
mood to talk she went back to her desk.
At least he was here, in the classroom; brooding and solitary, but here ̶ not
out in the hallway running wild in a pack. As for all the talk of violent behavior,
Xavier was too smart for that.
Two weeks after the alleged face-slashing incident Xavier disappeared. His
guidance counselor sent his teachers a note informing them he'd been arrested
on an undisclosed charge; he would be out for an undisclosed period. Judy
Weiner wanted to know the circumstances. The counselor offered few details.
The day he returned ̶ wearing his black or gray clothes and bright sneakers ̶
it was as if he'd taken a short vacation. He walked up to her desk and handed
her papers from the courthouse; no need for further explanation. Then he
went to his desk and put his hooded head down in a way that said, Leave me
alone.
She glanced at the court papers, then pushed them away. She was relieved and
happy he was back. She had no wish to probe the circumstances of his arrest.
He'd probably had enough of questioning. The important thing now was to get
him back on task.
"New software came in while you were away, " she said. He didn't answer.
At moments like this when he sat all coiled up, hard as granite, she felt
helpless, unable to do anything for him; and afraid she'd set off some sim-
mering outburst. She couldn't bear to see him like this, all folded in, shut away
under his hood. She stared at him and waited. He didn't look fatigued or
ashamed about something. She busied herself with paperwork of her own.
What was behind this behavior? Surely it made more sense to open up, talk
about what bothered him. All he had to say was, Okay, things got a little
messed up back there, but I'm ready to move on. That would be sufficient.
She'd be willing to accept that; she' was ready to move on.
She made one last attempt. "Xavier are you alright…ready for work today?"
Anticipating the same stony silence, she looked away.
His shoulders lifted a little; slowly his face came up, his eyes still shut; his
hands peeled the hood from his head; and she was stunned. He had shaven his
hair off. His head was now one shiny skull.
Words leaping from her heart got stuck in her throat. She walked over to
where he sat; he was stretching his arms in an exaggerated gesture of shaking
off the vines and weeds that had trapped him down there. Her eyes could not
leave his skull.
"What happened to your hair?" she rubbed his head, mouth open in playful
innocence and surprise. Never in her teaching life had she felt so close to a
student.
She could hardly imagine his young man's body; it was always covered in
trendy clothes, somewhat rough-textured and gloomy, as if his young manhood
disdained light materials and colours. But here, now, he had bared a part of
himself to her ̶ his skull, with its lacquered glow, something she wasn't
supposed to see, much less touch; like some kind of atonement he'd chosen to
make for his mistakes.
So he was ready to make amends; he was ready to move on; only she hadn't
thought he'd do it this way, shaving his head, saying to the world, I'm starting
over.
But now her attention was making him self-conscious. He moved his head,
leaning away from her.
"You play any instrument, Miss Weiner?" His eyes looked dull, the question
seemed to pop out of nowhere.
"Do I what?" What was he talking about?
"You know, like the piano or something?"
"I'd always wanted to play the harp, but no, I don't play anything…".
"The harp… what's that?"
She moved back to her desk. She had no idea where he was taking her with
this new interest; there was no mockery in his voice.
"You know, it's got strings, and it's like a giant bow, and you sit and pluck at
the strings."
"Oh, I know what you talking about." He laughed his young man's savvy laugh. "I
could see you playing something like that."
"Why, thank you, Xavier."
Some days these Special Ed. kids took a lot out of you, left you a shell of your
self at the end of the week, your nerves in tatters. Deep in her bowels that
morning she felt she'd got something back from Xavier to restore her. What-
ever the world might think, Xavier was pure of heart; wild-spirited and
careless with his life, but pure of heart. She was bound to him, bound to his
anger and suffering.
(from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!", a novel by N.D. Williams, 2001)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 