Tag: N.D.Williams

                  

  

                Jessica did try to put the incident behind her, though with each passing day her
                shoulders looked more rounded; her demeanor stiffened, as if her stomach now
                carried a secret that must be held in check and not give her away. She had lost
                some of her sureness of things, and to her classmates she seemed less "arrogant",
                though she was still considered the senior student "most likely to succeed".

                And for awhile everything was fine, until weeks before graduation exercises when
                a chance remark, that had nothing to do with her, stirred memories of the fire
                drill incident. She was suffused again with feelings of shame and violation, and
                the troubling thought that by now everyone in the building knew what had
                happened; and in that cruel high school way everyone was sniggering behind her
                back.

                In her heart seeds of trepidation took root. When she pictured herself up on the
                stage about to deliver the valedictorian speech before parents and school
                officials, she trembled. She knew she'd freeze.

                She'd hear a snigger; she'd see hand-muffled giggles; she'd look out at the frozen
                grins of those upturned faces, the Class of '92, so subdued and different in their
                haircuts and formal dress. Worse than the fondling of her buttocks would be
                failure before their knowing eyes. Her humiliation would be complete. She could
                not got through with it.

                Could not go through with it? What on earth was she talking about? Her mother
                demanded an explanation. Jessica could not explain.

                Her mother, for whom the valedictory moment would be the crown in her
                daughter's achievement, would hear nothing of it. Nerves could be overcome,
                Jessica must go through with it.

                Jessica swore she could not. Her mother worked herself into such commanding
                frenzy, Jessica eventually broke down and disclosed what had happened many
                months ago during the fire drill.

                Her mother was stunned.  Why hadn't Jessica mentioned it before? Did she speak
                to anyone at the school about it? Had she raised her daughter to bite her lips and
                say nothing when something like this happened?

                Outraged that "something like this" had indeed happened to her daughter,
                Jessica's mother stormed into the school the following day. She demanded to
                speak to the principal. She was directed to Bob Darling's office.

                He listened with sympathy and astonishment; he shared her distress over the vile
                attack on her daughter; he directed her to the Dean of Discipline.

                The Dean sought more information about the incident from Jessica. He explained
                that since the whole thing happened so long ago, his hands were tied; at this 
                stage there was little he could do. Jessica's mother fumed and raged. Jessica sat
                with bowed head, mortified that her mother was making such a scene in the
                office.

                Her mother threatened to take the whole matter to the Board of Education, even
                if it meant taking another day off from work and traveling to Brooklyn.

                This she apparently did for word came back through the grapevine that the Board
                of Education had received a complaint about "an incident". While not calling
                names or blaming anyone in particular, they were very concerned. A parent had
                confirmed their worst fears about the number of "incidents" at John Wayne Cotter
                H.S. that had gone either unreported or uninvestigated.

                Phil Quackenbush, who had been fighting a rear guard battle through the union to
                stop the Board from closing down and redesignating the school, confided to his 
                membership his belief that this incident  ̶  or, as he put it, "this non-incident"  ̶
                was the final nail in the coffin.

                "This is like the Titanic," he said, half-seriously. "We're headed straight for
                disaster. The big iceberg is right in front of us, and there's not a whole lot we can
                do."

                 (from "Ah Mikhail O Fidel!", a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)

 

 

  

                    Wherever she is now, away and flourishing, Jessica Montserrat probably carries
                    the shudders of that day, for it was during this drill that she lost her innocence.
                    At least this was how her English teacher put it, adding that Jessica was a
                    strong, resilient girl and would no doubt rise "like the phoenix" and do
                    exceptionally well at college.

                          She was in truth one of the brightest prospects to come through John Wayne
                    Cotter's system of encouragement and discouragement. She had been a
                    survivor of the Program office's mishandling of freshman programs; a sopho-
                    more who did not drop out, did not get pregnant; a junior who passed all
                    her Regents exams; President of the Student Council in her senior year; and
                    from early indications destined to be valedictorian for the Class of '92

                         "An exceptional student, truly outstanding results," Pete Plimpler declared. He
                    reminded his colleagues at the department meeting that their efforts at
                    teaching literature were not entirely futile. Jessica was a fine example of what
                    could be achieved. "She's from the West Indies," he pointed out. "They've got
                    the British system of education down there."

                          Jessica Montserrat knew she was "exceptional" from the first day she stepped 
                    into a classroom. Perhaps she wore her dreams too closely stitched to her
                    pride. Something was bound to happen to someone like her, so nice, so focused
                    and shamelessly ambitious.

                          On the morning of the fire drill she was on her way to the third floor, on an
                    errand for the college office. The warning bells caught her on the second floor;
                    she blithely ignored them; she ignored everyone and everything. She was
                    on her way to deliver an important message.

                    By the time she got to the third floor the classrooms were spilling out. Still 
                    thinking drill procedures didn't apply to her, she walked on until a security
                    officer, unimpressed with her mission "from the college office", insisted she
                    turn around, take the nearest exit to the streets. She had to join a mass of 
                    rowdy freshmen, shouting needlessly, and moving like a herd down the
                    stairs.

                    On the first floor she was trapped in the stairwell; there was congestion near
                    the main entrance as classes converged from several directions. She held her
                    breath and waited, her body packed in among other bodies on the stairs. There
                    was a lull in the talk and the laughter, a moment when it seemed everyone had
                    stopped talking at the same time. She distinctly remembered that moment for
                    seconds after she felt a hand grab and squeeze the right cheek of her buttocks.

                         And before she could turn her face to catch the buttock squeezer, the bodies
                    massed in front of her moved, sucking her forward in sudden release. Fearing
                    she'd be crushed or trampled in the stairwell by the students behind her,
                   Jessica moved too.

                         Out in the hallway, angry and embarrassed, she turned to catch her violator;
                   she listened for someone's boastful laughter; but the students streamed past
                   her and the security officers were yelling and directing everyone to the doors.

                   She wanted to make a detour back up to the college office. They won't let her.
                   She found herself herded out onto the sidewalk, alone among students she didn't
                   recognize; her face burning with the knowledge of what had happened.

                        Jessica Montserrat had been grabbed by the buttock. Jessica Montserrat, who
                    had walked with confidence (and a little contempt) through the school's
                    hallways, had been violated. In the school building. In broad daylight.

                    And somewhere in that mass of students huddled on the sidewalks stood the 
                    violator, who at that very moment  ̶  the animal! the beast!  ̶  must be studying
                    her face, laughing at her anguish, maybe confiding to a friend what he had
                    done. She stood there dying slowly with embarrassment. She wished the earth
                    would open beneath her and swallow her in. She needed someone to talk to.

                    The teachers streaming back inside at the all-clear, faces strained and raw 
                    from the cold, seemed too beleaguered to listen. All except Mrs. Boneskosky
                    who had an undisturbed neat look about her, as if she hadn't been outside at
                    all.

                          "I was hurrying to my next class. I had to stop and help her," she said later.
                    "The poor girl was so upset."

                          Walking slowly, stopping at the point of Jessica's horrible disclosure, Mrs.
                    Boneskosky had just enough time to pass on morsels of advice.

                          Jessica should try to put the whole episode behind her. It was a truly painful
                    degrading thing, to be violated like that; but Jessica must try to come to terms
                    with what happened, and  ̶  Mrs. Boneskosky glanced at her watch  ̶  she should
                    come and talk to her again at the end of the day, Rm 206, okay?  Remember
                    the poems we read last semester  ̶  remember?  ̶  about courage and
                    resilience, the passing of life's cruelest season, the human spirit beaten but
                    unbowed, remember, Jessica?"

         
                           (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!" a novel by N.D. Williams, 2001)

 

 

                   The only person not impressed, not harried, truly not caring about the fire drill 
                   procedures was Pete Plimpler (A.P. English). His secretary, Felicity Rudder,
                   shared with the department his cryptic response to announcements about
                   clearing the building. "Pete says, it would take something close to Dante's
                   inferno to get him to vacate the building."

                         If he was lucky to be tipped off about the drill he placed himself, as the hour
                   approached, inside his glass cubicle. Felicity Rudder would grab her bag and her
                   coat, push her head in the door, and say, "I think this one is real. I'm leaving."
                   And Pete would respond wearily, "If it gets out of hand tell the fire people not
                   to bother with the ladders. I'll go down with the building in flames." This slice of
                   humour she also shared with the department which gobbled up every treat of
                   gossip about its enigmatic supervisor.

                         Pete Plimpler had his own procedures when these drills started. Once Felicity
                   had left he waited two minutes, listening to the din of classrooms emptying out.
                   When it seemed his third floor was clear he'd step outside his door ostensibly to 
                   move along any stragglers. Then he'd return to his cubicle, pour himself a fresh 
                   cup of coffee, turn up the volume of his radio (tuned into the classical music 
                   station).

                   He'd stand at the window, steam from the coffee cup swirling round his lips and
                   up his nostrils; and he'd look out on a somber grey world  ̶  the bareheaded
                   shuffling confusion below, the grimy sodden brick and grilled structures of Bronx
                   dwellings; aging trees, overused roadways. And for as long as the fire drill
                   lasted he'd experience a strange desire to be transported.

                   It raised goose bumps on his skin. He waited for something to happen, for some
                   force to take his soul out of its suitcase of weary flesh; lift it up and away.

                        Felicity Rudder would return to find him at the window still staring out, his
                  head at a limp angle. When she spoke to him  ̶  "I thought I'd freeze to death out
                  there!"  ̶   she noticed he didn't respond right away. Which prompted her to
                  remark once to Mrs. Boneskosky,  "You know, sometimes I wonder if Pete is all
                  there."

                       For his part Bob Meier was unusually sanguine about these drills. Depending on
                  when the bells rang he was happy to take a break, any break from the classroom.

                       On the day Principal Wamp kept everyone freezing on the sidewalk, the alarm
                  went off just as he was settling down in the cafeteria to lunch. Not the cafeteria
                  lunch of fries and oily chicken and over steamed broccoli, which he paid three
                  bucks for and shoveled in like coal in his stomach boilers. This time he'd brought
                  something from home in a Tupperware container.

                       His department's microwave was broken, so he had to travel to the first floor to
                  use the Special Ed. department's microwave. The secretary and a teacher in the
                  office who didn't know him gave him a long cold look and told him he could go
                  ahead.

                  He had to borrow (he couldn't find his) a plastic fork from the cafeteria; they
                  didn't approve of anyone using their cutlery and their paper napkins and not
                  buying anything. Finally he was able to settle down, shaking his head, 
                  wondering what the world was coming to.

                  He'd just taken his second mouthful when Bob Darling instructed everyone to
                  leave the building. Everyone in the cafeteria looked up at each other, wondering
                  if those instructions applied to teachers on their forty-minute lunch break, who
                  had taken just two or more sips of their coffee. They decided they weren't
                  leaving; and Bob Meier was opening the pages of his New York Times when this
                  burly security officer came in and shouted, "Everybody out of the building";
                  startling the teachers who were accustomed to shouting, not being shouted at.

                  They froze and stared at him and seemed to resent his manner of speaking. The
                  officer looked and sounded intimidating, with his bald head and smooth black
                  youthful face; and a football player's impassable bulk. He held his ground, but
                  amended his message: "I'm sorry, ladies and gentlemen, you have to leave the
                  building." And he stood waiting, thumbs in his belt, for the teachers to do
                  precisely what he'd said.

                  The shock of being addressed in that manner lingered in the air. The alarm bells
                  rang, the strobe lights flickered; and Bob Darling's voice now gave stern
                  warning  ̶  this drill was not to be taken lightly. The teachers got up, gathered
                  their belongings, and headed for the nearest exits; not happy, grumbling to each
                  other, food trays abandoned.

                  Bob Meier was the last to leave. The burly security officer had looked straight at
                  him when he spoke the second time, as if detecting a potential trouble-maker.
                  There was no mistaking the frustration and anger on Meier's face. He got up
                  slowly; he wasn't sure whether to pack away his wife's Tupperware with its 
                  barely touched contents; he decided to leave it on the table. If the drill was over
                  quickly he might have time to get back to it. As he sauntered off he heard the
                  footsteps of the security officer marching behind him.

                  Outside, since he had no class of students to supervise, he hung about near the
                  entrance. He was rousted again by another security officer and told to move on,
                  over to the sidewalk across the streets. Enraged, he shuffled off, mumbling an
                  apology if he stepped on the heels of a student. And during the long wait he
                  focused his stare back at the doors where the first security officer, his short
                  sleeves rolled up to reveal impressive biceps, his job done, stood with legs apart
                  sharing a joke with his pals.

                  Students standing near Bob Meier tried to engage him in banter but he wasn't in
                  the mood. His lips were clenched in a strange self-absorption. His eyes were a
                  beam of controlled fury directed at the burly security officer.

                  He wanted to catch the man's eye. The man had taken something from him when
                  he stormed in like a drill sergeant rousting everyone. Bob Meier wanted it back.

                  For the rest of the term whenever he passed that security fellow he tried to lock
                  into his eyes. The man did not engage him in the hallway, doing his job of yelling
                  and directing students; carrying on as if nothing had happened.

                         
                    (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!" a novel by N.D. Williams, 2001)

 

 

 

 

 

                   For all his acknowledged charm and sense of fair play Bob Darling held fast 
                        to the belief that teachers should be held accountable for their actions.
                        Consequently there was not too much to argue about once an issue was
                        brought to his attention. Still, to show he wasn't exactly the cold bureaucrat
                        in long sleeves and tie, he made small but important gestures; like, for
                        instance, leaking information there would be a fire drill during a specific 
                        period of the day.                           

                        No such warning went out when Principal Wamp entered the building one
                        morning. She didn't inform anyone until twenty minutes before it was
                        scheduled to begin. 
                                
                        She explained she'd been unhappy with the response to the last fire drill.
                        Most teachers were slow and nonchalant about vacating the building. Once
                        they got outside they tended to cluster on the sidewalk near the entrances.
                        This created a dangerous, congested situation with students still pouring
                        out the exits. Things like that left her very unhappy.

                             This time only the school's security officers were told about the fire drill. 
                        This drill, she emphasized, would be as close to the real thing as she could
                        contrive. They were to make sure everyone  ̶  students, teachers, everyone  ̶
                        vacated the building, using the designated exits and following the
                        procedures she had gone over with the staff so many times.

                        The bells went off during the fifth period. A few teachers poked their heads
                        out of classroom doors, looked at each other, asked, Is it real this time? Bob
                        Darling's voice on the school address system cast all doubt aside.

                               
                        They stood on the sidewalks hugging themselves, chattering and complain-
                        ning, while the wind whipped around them and gnawed its way through to
                        the bone. They stamped their feet, talking with fervor, as if spoken words
                        could help keep them warm.

                        Everyone assumed the drill would be over quickly. It made no sense holding
                        the entire school out on the sidewalks in this cold weather. 
                               
                        Five minutes, ten minutes. Still no signal to return inside. What had started
                        as a simple exercise now took on the proportion of something fiendish and
                        uncaring. Inside shivering hearts a strong desire raged to be gone from this
                        place, to drive or walk away from this building, never to return.    
                             
                        All eyes looked toward the doors where the security officers, their task of
                        clearing the building complete, stood around in shirt sleeves, joking,
                        enjoying what seemed a rare pleasure of officering at the gates of cold
                        duty.

                        A flurry of activity. A hint that perhaps it was over. And then Principal 
                        Wamp  stepped outside.

                        She was escorted by Head of Security, Mr. Mc Nulty. He walked with a limp 
                        from an old Vietnam war wound, and seemed to heave his bulky body
                        forward in an effort to keep pace with Principal Wamp's quick steps. She'd
                        told him she wanted to have a look, to determine how well everyone had
                        followed instructions.

                        Rarely if ever had anyone seen the school's principal walking down a Bronx
                        sidewalk. They were slightly awed and attentive. She looked radiant in a
                        black blouse, set off by a red outfit, the shoulders square; and she seemed
                        undaunted by the chilly weather, appearing coatless, as if to set an example
                        of responsibility and fortitude.

                               Since everyone had assembled on the sidewalk across the street, her walk
                        took on the appearance of a celebrity tour of the school. She walked briskly
                        half way up the block, pointing across the street, making observations; while
                        Mr. Mc Nulty, staying close, gestured and offered his evaluations. She
                        paused and nodded; she seemed satisfied with what she saw; she turned
                        back.

                                Near the entrance she gave the first sign of being aware how cold it was.
                        She rubbed her arms and gave a mock shudder. She smiled as if now she
                        understood the terrible discomfort everyone must be feeling, all in the
                        interest of fire safety. Everyone thought she was about to wave them in. 
                        Instead she seemed to be making a new puzzled appraisal of her students 
                        and staff massed on the sidewalks.

                               Then she saw Phil Quackenbush, the chapter chairman, crossing the road,
                        hurrying toward her, no doubt to lodge some union grievance and protest.
                        She turned and went inside. And at that point the security officers waved
                        the all clear.

                                           (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!" a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)

 

 

 

               Over dinner, pointing his fork for emphasis, Chrystel offered his opinions on every-
               thing  ̶  people and politics, exotic places ravaged by civil war, the Mayor of the
               city, "your average American". His words gleamed with exciting good humor.

                
               For the most part, he told her, human existence was determined by men who sat 
               in conference rooms and board rooms; men who drank fine Scotch, smoked hand-
               rolled cigars and wore boxer shorts. As for the rest of the sweaty world one only
               need fear men who go long periods without sex, and people who were afflicted
               with those two incurable diseases: the common flu and human stupidity. He
               assured her that, with the decline of the Soviet  Union, the making and spending
               of money were the twin engines that would drive the pleasures of the guzzling
               world.

                 When he suggested she put her money to work in the stock market she withdrew
               her life savings  ̶  ignoring a nagging voice urging her to call her daddy first  ̶  and
               handed it over. Not once did she fear he'd vanish for good from the earth. The
               investment proved sound; it paid big dividends. She bought property in
               Westchester with some of the profit. And when the moment arrived when he
               would sleep with her, she responded like a virgin for whom trust was more 
               important than passion.

               In recent years she'd grown soft and round at the hips and legs. At social events
               where men sipped alcohol, spoke with harmless humor, then seemed to steer the
               conversation toward the possibility of sleeping with her, her body stiffened; she'd
               smile and move away.

               With Chrystel there were no preambling moments, no rough manly haste either to
               reach that summit. Each night after dinner she waited for signs, for desire like
               smoke alarms to go off in the living room.

               One night he took a sip of his coffee; his long fingers carefully rested the cup and
               saucer on the table; then he turned and looked at her. She smiled, a little
               uneasily. He got up, outstretched his arm, and said, "Come, let's go inside." Just
               like that. As if he were taking her on one of his trips overseas, their destination
               not yet clear.

               For weeks her bedroom had been in a state of readiness for just this moment. Still
               fully clothed he insisted on undressing her. He explored her soft round contours,
               until at last it seemed he approved and wanted every part of her, bulges and fat
               and bone. It was a ritual he would repeat each time they slept, full of sighs and
               vague mutterings; his hands restless and probing, over her breasts, between her
               thighs; his hands squeezing the globes of her buttocks, his lips on her navel.

               Throughout all this she kept her eyes closed, happy to surrender to his
               examination, happy to be found satisfactory.

               She wished they were young again, with all the time in the world to be reckless
               with their passion. Then she thought: thank goodness this is happening right now,
               our bodies still healthy and mature, good and strong, our intimacy an intelligent
               thing, thank goodness.

               "Are you okay?" he would ask, breathless beside her; and her quick response, "Yes,
               I'm fine", seem to calm his heaving chest. "What are you thinking of?" he'd ask,
               staring up at the ceiling; and she'd answer, "Nothing. It's good to have you here."

               She felt no need to talk about him to anyone. In a city of marriages made and
               unmade, a city of love and betrayal, alimony and anger, orders of protection from
               a stalking spouse, in a world so fractured and violent and ripe for television news,
               wasn't she better off this way, half-knowing who he was? Hadn't she come this far
               on her own, trusting her own instincts?

               One evening, late summer, before the start of the Fall term at John Wayne
               Cotter, she hinted that perhaps she could accompany him on one of his trips to
               Europe. She would, of course, pay her way, and not interfere. She could stroll
               around, visit museums, take mini excursions while he was off doing whatever he
               did. Chrystel listened patiently; he said he didn't think it was a good idea. His
               silence, the chilly way he stared up at the ceiling worried her.

               It was a mistake, she realized, to broach the idea while they were still in bed.
               Wrong time, wrong place.

               She had dared to suggest they redraw the lines that defined their relationship. He
               might interpret it as a craving in her for some new cloying alliance. What more
               need they ask of each other?  After all they were friends, they were lovers;  
               approaching middle age. Why not just leave things as they were?

                         (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!", a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001) 

 

 

 

                  Anyone who stepped into the office of Principal Theresa Wamp  ̶  and being
                  ordinary mortals, teachers had no reason to step in unless summoned  ̶  might be
                  struck by what seemed an extraordinary otherworldly place; like a retreat from
                  the chaos in other parts of the building.

                    "Have you ever looked in there?" Mahmood Sharif once asked Radix. "I'm thinking
                  of organizing a field trip to her office for my students. We're discussing tenant
                  farming. Just one quick look, that's all, would help them understand the two
                  separate worlds: the privileged class and common labor".

                    Just one quick look would bring to the eye, first, the shiny display of school 
                 trophies; then the burgundy drapes, the beige carpet; and if you shut the door, 
                 the soft silence, the feeling of being comfortably ensconced.

                  Adjoining her office was the conference room: more burgundy drapes, a 
                  varnished table, a coffee cart and a coffee maker  ̶  everything required to 
                  coddle the decision makers at John Wayne Cotter. On her polished desk were
                  framed pictures of her father, and of Theresa Wamp's properties, a home on
                  Long island and in Westchester (the opinion, even among her harshest critics, 
                  was that they were "quite lovely" homes).

                 Then the flowers. Theresa Wamp loved flowers. If you wanted to thank her, or
                  for any reason show your appreciation, a bouquet of flowers brought to her face 
                  a full moon of delight. There were flower decals on the windows of her car, on
                  the lapels of her jackets, on notes she sent to the administrative staff.

                      Once, as she addressed the incoming freshman class, she felt impelled (at the 
                  end of remarks about the need for respect, the importance of discipline and 
                  "good tone" in the building) to suggest the following, spoken in all seriousness: 
                   Wouldn't it be nice if every family of every child sitting in this auditorium 
                   took the trouble to do a little planting of flowers, around their homes in the 
                   Bronx. It would do so much to lift the spirit of the borough, which has been so 
                   unfairly stigmatized  ̶̶  as an orphan borough, a borough beset  with crime, 
                   ugly poverty, ugly rundown buildings.

                        Imagine: looking down from apartment buildings and seeing not the desert of
                    weeds and dry brick, but flowers; bright, defiantly beautiful flowers. Wherever
                    there was bush, empty lots, unsightly weeds, let everyone pitch in and plant
                    flowers. What transformation! People would see results right away. They'd feel
                    better about themselves.

                    There was rumor and speculation about her single, unwed status. Theresa
                    Wamp did in fact have a lover. The only person in the building who knew
                    about him was Mrs. Haliburton, who kept this nugget of information like a key 
                    in the folds of her bosom. (It thrilled Mrs. Haliburton to think she was privy to 
                    information which many in the building  ̶  in particular her white colleagues  ̶   
                    would give an arm and a leg to possess; and use to their advantage.)
             
                    For her part Principal Wamp handled the problem in a clever way, keeping her
                    guard up, always smiling, maintaining a professional tone even in casual 
                    conversation. After all, gossip and speculation was the price she had to pay for
                    being a woman in a position of authority. It was a tough choice, in a tough
                    Bronx neighborhood.

                       She put in long, hard hours. She left the building late afternoons in her Buick 
                   Regal. Once she'd passed through the toll gate at the Throgs Neck bridge that
                   part of her that made decisions and kept the lid on things would empty its bin;
                   she'd feel instantly relaxed; she switched on the car radio.

                      The home on Long Island she considered a place of refuge; she could take off her
                   shoes, pour herself a drink and begin to unwind. She lived for the weekends,
                   which was when her lover came to visit. He spent an evening dining with her;
                   sometimes he slept over, leaving early the following morning. Not much shared
                   time as these things go, but then she'd schooled herself not to ask too much of
                   him. Besides, one evening, carefully and graciously arranged, could release an
                   eternity of delights.

                   Who was her lover?

                   Whenever she visited her father in Natick, Massachusetts he put the same
                   question to her. "So who is this man you've been seeing all these years? How
                   much longer will you keep seeing him?" Theresa Wamp would say only that he
                   was a wonderful man, wonderful to be with. "But if he's so wonderful, what's
                   stopping you from marrying him?" Because, she crooned, she didn't want to get
                   married. Marriage would imperil what they now enjoyed. "Imperil? What are you
                   talking about? Am I never to be visited by my daughter and my grandchildren on
                   Thanksgiving?" And Theresa Wamp would kiss him fondly on the forehead and 
                   point out with a heaving heart that the prospect of a visit "with grandchildren" 
                   for Thanksgiving dinner was, well, with each passing year, not sustainable.

                         (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!", a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)

 

 

 

                   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)

 

 

 

 

                 At the start of the new week Mrs. Caratini would enter the room and spend ten
                   or fifteen minutes with Judy Weiner, exchanging weekend gossip. The students
                   were told to boot up the computers and start work on their journals. Mrs.
                   Contreras, the teacher's aide, kept them on task, while Judy Weiner fixed her
                   hair and applied makeup using the tiny mirror in the teacher's locker; then she
                   joined Mrs. Caratini who sat in a student's chair, legs crossed, filing her nails.

                       They spoke as if it hardly mattered if students overheard, though Mrs.
                   Caratini lowered her voice when inserting the word fucking. They believed
                   their conversation had no meaning for students in the room and required little
                   privacy.

                        In fact, no one paid them any attention, except Xavier.

                        He had a late afternoon job that sent him home after midnight. Some
                    mornings he'd arrive and promptly put his head down on the desk. Since Miss
                    Weiner was never ready to start the bell, he saw nothing wrong in catching up
                    on lost sleep for the first 10 minutes.

                        He referred to Miss Weiner and Mrs. Caratini as Bologna & Cheese. Without
                    wanting to, he overheard much of what they said. At times he dozed off only
                    to be roused by Miss Weiner speaking in her slow refined way, explaining some 
                    mishap. Things always seemed to happen to Miss Weiner. She left her keys in
                    the teachers' bathroom; a car rear-ended her car and the insurance people
                    were refusing to cover the entire cost of repairs; her mother wasn't feeling too
                    well lately. On and on, one sad story after the next.

                        Sometimes he'd groan in frustration and mumble to himself, Get a grip,
                    bitch, get a grip! At other times he followed the conversation  ̶  when, for
                    instance, Miss Weiner was telling Mrs. Caratini about the Jewish cocaine gangs
                    at the turn of the century, and how she understood what was happening to kids
                    who were pulled into the drug business in the Bronx.
      
                    But Xavier saved his contempt for Mrs. Caratini   ̶̶  a conceited little bitch with 
                    a skinny butt. Always going on about herself. And talking shit. He couldn't
                    understand why a sophisticated person like Miss Weiner would have as a friend
                    someone as stupid as Mrs. Caratini; always, Oh, let me tell you, last night I
                    made myself a huge salad, it was like huge, and I ate it all by myself…Did I
                    tell you, I went to a model home Open House last Sunday? Just off the Grand
                    Central, past the airport? Anyway they had these model homes, two bed-
                    rooms, three bedrooms, kitchen, bath, really gorgeous houses. They were
                    asking 170 up. I tell, you prices are literally going through the roof these days.

                        On and on with this boring shit. And Miss Weiner just sat there sucking it up.

                    When he'd had enough Xavier would stretch his arms and make a roaring sound,
                    like a rested lion stirring itself; signaling he was ready to work. He'd been
                    ready all along, he implied, but these two teachers sitting there jawing away   
                    didn't seem eager to start. This tactic always worked. Mrs. Caratini would
                    throw him a frantic, worried look; then she'd glance at her watch, gather her
                    keys and leave the room.

                        And Mrs. Weiner would declare in a cheery voice, "So are we ready to work
                    today?… Xavier, how're you feeling?

                    Always she deferred to him with a curious tenderness, at times treating him
                    as if he were the scion of a very important person whom she'd been asked to 
                    tutor.

                    "No eating over the computers. You know the rules, Xavier."

                    "Calm down. You see any crumbs on the keyboard?"

                       "Xavier… you're squinting."

                       "So."

                       "Maybe you should get your eyes examined."

                       "I have glasses."

                       "You own a pair of glasses…? So why don't you put them on?"

                       "Don't need them. I can see alright."

                       "Xavier, if you don't wear the glasses prescribed for you, your vision will slowly 
                     deteriorate…to the point where, well, as you get older you'll need them all 
                     the time."

                        "It don't matter. Don't plan to live that long anyway."

                       "Please, don't talk like that."

                       "Why? Ain't nothing you can do 'bout it" 

                (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!", a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)

 

 

                    "What happened to you? I tried calling you last night," Mrs. Caratini said. She'd
                    been waiting in the main office near the time clock for Judy Weiner. And much
                    to her relief, here she was, looking pale, a little tired, confirming her
                    suspicions something had happened.

                        Mrs. Caratini (Math) was Judy's closest friend in the building. They were the 
                    same age, twenty-nine, but Mrs. Caratini looked younger, and walked with 
                    frisky quick steps; and seemed always ready for fun.

                        Mrs. Caratini had been married, and she liked telling the story of her 
                    marriage. She'd flown out to Las Vegas with her boyfriend during spring break; 
                    and there, one evening, as they strolled on a crowded sidewalk, he suggested 
                    they get married; on the spot, right there. Why not, she responded, giggling.

                        Back in New York her husband  ̶  an Italian businessman, ten years older, 
                    good-looking, "with a nose for money", she said  ̶  turned into a testy, 
                    unbelievably coarse man. Mrs. Caratini didn't wait for things to settle down,
                    for problems to work themselves out. One day she was married, the next day,
                    boom! it was over; she was single again, just like that.

                    For Mrs. Caratini to emerge unscathed from what seemed a moment of naive 
                    reckless decision, only to resume her life  ̶  a fearless soul, full of carefree 
                    chatter and lean-bodied energy  ̶  seemed to Judy a feat just short of 
                    miraculous. If she, Judy, were to attach herself to this woman, who was 
                    already exploring new possibilities, some of those transcendent qualities might
                    rub off; her life might be changed.
                           
                     Sensing patches of emptiness in a colleague's life Mrs. Caratini was only too
                    willing to take Judy Weiner under her wing. "You need to get out more, make 
                    yourself available," she kept saying. "Some work on the hips, a little toning of
                    the thighs, fix your hair, you'll be fine."

                        Judy Weiner, in some ways more sensitive and intelligent, began to question
                    all the things she'd always believed, like her obligation to her ailing mother
                    (meaning, Judy was stuck in the house a lot). She deferred to the other 
                    woman's experience, the neat dramatic entrance and exit from marriage. Mrs.
                    Caratini (everyone in the building, for reasons unknown, continued to refer to
                    her as Mrs.Caratini) had gone through so much, in such a short period of time,
                    she just might have the answers that eluded Judy Weiner all these years.

                        So began, in a flurry of hope and desire, their joint excursions to Manhattan
                    nightclubs, on weekends, wearing tight fitting or revealing clothes. Mrs.
                    Caratini, who had a preference for leather outfits, assured Judy there were
                    guys out there, they were sure to find someone; not Italian guys who prefer
                    women with long hair, and in any case weren't worth the effort, Trust me on
                    that! Yes, nice Jewish guys, if Judy preferred; not your regular Orthodox,
                    but nice. And those new Wall street millionaires, looking for the perfect mate,
                    they weren't too intellectual, but you can't have everything, can you? And
                    there was always the stranger from nowhere who might turn out to be the 
                    one, who knows?

                        At some point, just as Judy was ready to give up, thinking the Manhattan
                    project ill-advised and irresponsible (she had to leave her ailing mother alone
                    for hours) she met someone she liked.

                    His name was Mike; he was fortyish, built like a warm cuddly bear; he had a
                    salt and pepper beard, chubby arms and soft hands; and he was half-Italian,
                    which surprised Mrs. Caratini who thought she could spot even half an Italian
                    a block away. He had a sense of humour, a gentle manner and he held a fairly
                    decent conversation. And he was a Pet Shop owner.

                        They'd stroll about Manhattan sidewalks; take in a movie; enjoy dinner at a
                     restaurant, talking all the time. He talked about his pet shop; ever since he
                     he was a kid he had this love of animals. Judy listened with keen glowing
                     wonder. He helped run a little league baseball team out in Queens; and he
                     was still single because, well, to tell the truth, he hadn't given any serious
                     thought to settling down.

                     They met again the following weekends, another movie, another restaurant. 
                     One Sunday afternoon he drove out to her home to visit, bringing her a
                     Tibetan dog. He said it had been house-broken. Judy was overwhelmed. No
                     one had ever given her a dog before.

                    "This is a big signal, Judy, biggg signal," Ms Caratini said, visibly more thrilled 
                     by the gesture than Judy. " Now here's what you need to do. You play him for
                     awhile, don't make him think you're needy. Just keep him interested, see what
                     happens. He gave you a dog, Judy, a dog! Now me, I'm the shallow type. I   
                     return all presents. Give me money. My ex-husband used to buy me jewelry.
                     I'd toss it in a box. Whatever he gave me. Into the box. Give me money."

                          Soon after that visit with the gift of the dog, Mike suddenly stopped calling;
                     he just dropped out of sight. Judy was baffled. She imagined him disabled and
                     hospitalized; maybe he was out of town.

                     She called the pet shop. A young woman, who spoke as if she was Mike's
                     assistant, told her in an odd knowing tone that she'd give Mike the message.
                     She said Mike was busy; there was a lot of shop business to deal with right
                     now. She added, as if she knew more than she should about Judy's relationship
                     with her boss, that Mike would get in touch with her as soon as he'd gotten
                     over the hump.

                         "Gotten over what? the hump? What did she mean by that?" Mrs. Caratini
                      couldn't keep her voice down. "She's got some nerve talking to you that way, 
                      the bitch! and as for Mike, he's a fucking idiot, disappearing on you like that.
                      Just like all Italian men. I knew this wasn't going to work out. Judy, listen to
                      me, you're going to have to forget this man…" 

                     "I can't think of anything I said. Maybe it was …" 

                     "…and forchrissake, stop flagellating yourself. It's not like you were hoping 
                       to marry this guy. If I were you I'd go right down to his pet shop and give
                       him back his fucking dog.  I'm serious. I told you I didn't like gifts. I had a
                       feeling this wasn't going to work out."

                         (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!" by N.D.Williams, 2001)