Tag: N.D.Williams

 

     On the occasions they met – in the hallway, the teachers' cafeteria – Mrs. Haliburton,
with folders and computer printouts in hand, always seemed in a hurry to get somewhere.
She stopped long enough to drop remarks that left Radix puzzled about her role.
    For instance, she told him one day she was on her way to the principal's office. What
about? The asbestos threat. Radix had no idea there was an asbestos threat. Where was
the threat? Mrs. Haliburton looked at him half amused, half amazed. She explained that
some time ago a teacher from the Foreign Language department, Mrs. Battershield, had died of cancer. Exactly two years ago, to be precise. Now she'd just got word that a second teacher, who had been on a mysterious long leave of absence, was receiving treatment for cancer.
    So what was the connection, Radix asked. Was the teaching of foreign languages
somehow hazardous to teacher health. Couldn't it be simply coincidence?
    The connection, Mrs. Haliburton said, her lips drawing close to his face, for this was
no trifling matter, the connection had to do with that section of the building where the
foreign languages department was located. The school administration and the Board of
Ed. were not willing to acknowledge there was an asbestos problem there.
    She walked away shaking her head affirmatively, her lips pursed with conviction. Radix
looked after her open-mouthed. What should he make of this? Had Mrs. Haliburton, now an investigative reporter, stumbled on some closely guarded school secret?
    It was possible she was deceiving herself; maybe she'd developed an inflated sense of
her own importance; maybe there was some truth to the gossip in his department that
she was just another office seeker, a player in the school's identity politics.
    One morning he walked in her office, closed the door, and ignoring her distant manner
told her he had some important news. "I was speaking with the Chapter Chairman, about  that business of the asbestos…? He says there's nothing to worry about." She looked up, clearly taken aback. (Just takes a little "news" to switch her on, Radix thought.)
    "I'm not surprised he said that. The Chapter Chairman doesn't care who lives or who dies in this building. He's looking out for his own interests."
    "He says the Board of Education sent in a team last summer to examine the situation. They reported the building was safe."
    "I know about that report. There is a serious problem with asbestos in this building
and nobody's doing anything about it. And by the way, the next time you talk to Steve
Kite, our beloved Chapter chairperson, you ask him what's he doing about the money
for the swimming pool."
    "Money for the swimming pool?"
    "That's what I said…Money. That was supposed to be spent. On facilities. For Swimming in this school. Where did it go? You ask him why he isn't raising a stink about that." She tugged the collar of her jacket as if to suggest her assertions were as neat and correct as the fit of her clothes.
    Though Radix hadn't meant to sound adversarial it seemed now he had crossed a line;
he had gone over to the other side seeking truth; he'd returned to question the integrity
of someone from the community.
    Mrs. Haliburton sighed and looked away from him as if the view from her window offered solace, helped her deal with people new to the country, astonishing in their
naivete.
            (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!" a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)

 

 

     For her part Mrs. Haliburton had heard of the exciting things Mr. Bilicki was doing and
she was impressed. She saw him as an old trooper willing to move with the times, to fight
the powers for change; though she never missed an opportunity to chide him about the
absence of black males from his class.
   "I don't get it," she said to him. "Help me here, Brendan. We start off with overcrowded
classrooms in the ninth grade, everybody complaining about the registers, and by the 
time they get to you in their senior year, the numbers are what?…15,16 students? Where do they go? And what is it about you that apparently turns off some students, particularly
black male students…? I mean, I see all these pretty Hispanic girls in your class, but no black males. What's going on here, Brendan?" 
   And Brendan who liked her combative spirit, who knew she didn't mean to hold him
accountable for student attrition over the years, who was neverthless wary of the razor
of anger he sensed hidden within the folds of her humor, changed the subject and spoke
of innovations he had tried to introduce to the department; and the obstacles placed in
his way by "reactionary" people like Pete Plimpler.
    Bilicki's interest in Chinua Achebe – the African connection, as he put it – really impressed her. Mrs. Haliburton was an avid reader; it was part of her book club image to walk the hallways with a hard cover edition of a famous author clasped to her breast. Stop her to enquire what she was reading, you found Alice Walker, Toni Morrison and (though not very often) Danielle Steele. If anyone said they'd never heard of these authors, an expression of dismay and censure came over Mrs. Haliburton's face.
    She spoke to Noreen at the Board of Ed about Chinua Achebe, how Bilicki had asked
his students to write a book report on her work. She was smacked with chagrin when she
learned that this Chinua was a male, not a female person. "You mean all this time…"
disbelieving laughter "..you know, I was on the phone to a book store last weekend, and
the woman was telling me she had no idea who this Chinua person was."
             (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!" a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)

 

  When Radix first met Mrs. Haliburton he was unaware of her reputation as a woman
 whose power in the comunity was not to be taken lightly. He happened to wander past
 the open door of her office, and he caught a glimpse of her looking out the window,
 seemingly lost in thought. He hesitated; he was struck by the empty feel of the room,
 the spartan arrangement of chairs.
   "What goes on in here?' he asked with cheerful innocence.
   "Why don't you come in and find out?" the lady at the desk replied.
   He was startled to discover she knew who he was; knew his name, the department he
worked in.
   "I hear you're from the Caribbean islands."
   "Where did you hear that?"
   "My father came from the island of St Kitts."
   Mrs. Haliburton seemed friendly and engaging, and mysteriously self-possessed; a stout
woman in her forties, with firmly upholstered breasts; dressed with an older woman's
concern for clothes that reflected her age and status and identity. There were thin
elegant streaks of grey in her full head of hair which reminded Radix of island women of
prominence who devoted their energies to organizing other people's lives. In Mrs.
Haliburton's case there was the desk, the telephone, an air of leashed impatience; but
no sense of her room as a humming centre of activity.
   "So how're you getting along here?" she asked.
   "I'm still feeling my way around."
   "I hope you decide to stay with us. We don't have too many like you here?"
   "You mean people from the islands?"
   "I mean, there aren't too many black men in the teaching profession. You can count
the ones we have on your fingers. Our community needs more men like you…role models
for the kids…young men with your neat little Malcolm X beard, and…" she gave a fist
pump "..fire in their bellies."
   She was looking at him directly, as if measuring his worth. She asked where he lived
and was delighted to learn he lived in the Bronx. It prompted her to introduce her theory
of borough residency requirements for teachers.
   "You weren't here during the snow days last fall…see, lots of teachers couldn't get in,
they live far outside the borough. The kids made it in through all that snow, but not the
teachers. In fact we had so many teachers out, we ended up warehousing kids in the
lunch room for most of the day."
   "So how do we fix that problem?" Radix asked.
   Mrs. Haliburton's face flashed a look of disappointment.
        (from "Ah, Mikhail, O Fidel!" a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)

 

 

 

   When they got inside her office Pete Plimpler looked around, then walked over to
the window. Mrs. Haliburton took off her coat and asked what the problem was.
   Pete Plimpler cleared his throat; he spoke in a clear measured tone. Mrs. Haliburton
was stunned by what she heard.
   "He had the nerve, are you listening, Noreen?…he had the audacity to suggest I give
up my office…that's what he said…he wants me to switch rooms…give up my room,
with the view…exactly…that's what I'm saying, he moves here, I go there!"
   Pete Plimpler was quite serious. Might Mrs. Haliburton not feel more comfortable, he
began respectfully, occupying his office, away from "the hurly burly" of the second floor?
The reason was simple: the location of her office, directly above the Principal's office,
made it ideal for quick communication between someone like himself and "our mutual
friend" below. Besides, with the elevator breaking down when it felt like, the logistics
of the situation would seem to suggest such an arrangement could be of benefit to
everyone.
   "Well, honey," she told Noreen,"I. don't. give. a pail of horse droppings about the
logistics of his situation..that's right! They're going to have to get a court order to
make me vacate this room."
   Actually, she was pleased with the way she handled Pete Plimpler that morning. She
tried not to look startled; she listened with fingers splayed thoughtfully on her jaw, her
eyes never wavering. And she gave the impression she was somewhat intrigued by the
proposal.
   When he'd finished Pete Plimpler focussed his beady eyes on her face, convinced by
her nodding silence that he'd persuaded her, that she would acquiesce. He seemed to
be waiting for a response right on the spot.
   But the phone rang and Mrs. Haliburton picked it up. She raised her hand, a finger
asked him to hold on one moment. Pete Plimpler didn't care to hold on while she talked
on the phone. He wiggled his finger and whispered he'd get back to her on the matter,
no hurry; and he slipped out the door.
   "Noreen, didn't I tell you something like this was going to happen?…that's what I said
too…exactly…well, he'd better get ready to rumble with this black woman."
          (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!" a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)

 

   The first challenge to her office space came from the supervisor of the English Dept.,
Pete Plimpler. He caught Mrs. Haliburton early one morning as she strolled into the main
office. She got the distinct impression he'd been lying in wait for her; one minute he
appeared to be studying notices pinned on the main office board; the next he looked
around, smiled and announced, "Ah, there you are…"
   Mrs Haliburton threw her arms up in mock surrender – what offence had she
committed to warrant his attention? – her bosoms shaking with mirth. And Pete
Plimpler cleared his throat, touched her gently on the elbow and assured her with
corresponding good humor she had committed no offence. "At least not yet."
   "My heart went bumpity, bump," Mrs. Haliburton later told Noreen, girlfriend at the
Board of Ed. "All these years this man has nothing to say to me, walks by me like I'm
the corner mailbox…and now all of a sudden, he's happy to see me?…I mean, be still
my heart."
   "Are you going up to the second floor?" Pete Plimpler asked. "There's something I've
been meaning to discuss with you."
   Smiling, still mystified, she walked with him to the elevator.
   Mrs. Haliburton was a bosomy woman with firm, fleshy arms and a full head of hair
she kept well groomed. Pete Plimpler was short and slim, with thinning grey hair; he
wore an obligatory jacket and tie. He walked head lowered, deep in thought, his manner
gruff; and he gave the impression he'd rather be anywhere but in the Bronx, among
people not exactly genteel in manner; who wore their emotions on their sleeves; and
were quick to take offence. 
   Once the elevator door closed Mrs. Haliburton sensed the physical advantage she might
otherwise not have had over him. Seizing the moment her ebullient nature slipped off
its leash.
   Her voice boomed and walloped Pete Plimpler's head and ears as she complained
jocularly about the arbitrary nature of the elevator which some days got stuck with its
door open on one floor while people on other floors pressed the buttons, waiting and
waiting. Did he have any idea how many pounds she lost whenever this happened,
heaving herself up the stairs?
   Her laughter made him cringe inside. He stood erect and smiled painfully, his winter
pale face tight with distress. Yes, he told her, he had been a victim of elevator misuse. 
In more ways than she could ever imagine.
              (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!" a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)

 

   Her office on the second floor permitted Mrs. Haliburton a view of the front entrance.
  She was reluctant to give up this view. She was able to observe everyone, students and  
  staff, coming in, and report on their morning disposition. Case in point, the incident
  that developed from the fracas in the car park across the street, where a student was
  stabbed while onlookers jumped on the cars for a better view of the fight.  
    The car park had been used by some teachers without formal permission. It was
  intended for residents of the apartment building but since they owned very few cars
  there were always spots available. For years teachers, glad for the feeling of security
  the enclosure offered, drove in and parked in the empty spots.
     Imagine their surprise, the shock, one morning, when they arrived to find the
  entrance blocked.
     A group of residents, mainly women, were walking up and down in what seemed a
  kind of protest action. They lowered a chain to let a resident car out; they raised it to
  block teachers from entering.
    Mrs. Haliburton was at her desk observing the situation, and reporting developments
  blow by blow to Noreen at the Board of Ed.  
    "Here comes…I think it's Mr. Estwick…teaches Biology…a young man, he started
  last fall, his wife had a baby the other day…um hmm…he drives in from the Island…
  he's been parking right outside the front entrance which nobody in their right mind
  would do, these kids don't think twice about sitting on your hood when they want to
  hang out after school…well, he had his sideview mirror broken, and the antenna bent
  …you'd think he'd learn his lesson by now…no, he continues to park there…on the
  same spot…um hmm…Now wait, this is interesting…Mrs. Karnipp just drove up…
  they've raised the chain…she's getting out the car…she's speaking to them… My
  goodness! she's really upset…she's backing away!…Lord knows where she'll park today." 
     Later Mrs. Haliburton couldn't resist asking Mrs. Karnipp about the encounter. They
  were in the teachers' cafeteria. Mrs. Karnipp was sipping coffee and pulling on her
  cigarette.
    "I noticed you had some trouble this morning…with the people across the street…in
  the parking lot?" she probed. 
     "You know, I've been parking there for years…never had any problems with those
  people. It never occurred to me I was taking someone's parking spot…I mean, there
  are more spaces there than people own cars."
     Mrs. Karnipp's eyes were wide open with pain and distress for all the world to see.
  Her fingers with the cigarette scratched the air. She searched Mrs. Haliburton's face
  for some understanding of the chaos she'd been thrown into.
    "Well it is their parking lot. They can do whatever they want with it," Mrs. Haliburton
  said matter o' factly. 

    

 

    Mrs. Haliburton arrived at the school at about seven in the morning. She was driven
  there by her husband in their Cadillac Seville. It idled for a few minutes at the front
  entrance while its occupants, looking straight ahead, exchanged important reminders;
  then Mrs. Haliburton stepped out. She was among the first to arrive, and often the
  first to leave.
     Her departure, about an hour before the exodus of the three thousand students,
  was also through the front entrance. The Seville was not there to take her home. She
  walked. Sometimes she stopped by the post office; chatted on the sidewalk with old
  ladies gripping shopping carts; then she caught the bus. A lady of social standing, she
  felt at ease in the streets of her community.
     Once in the building she attended to paperwork for half an hour; then she picked
  up the phone and called her "girlfriends", women who like Mrs. Haliburton worked at
  a desk; single or divorced black women, like Noreen at the Board of Education, or
  Thelma at the Superintendent's office. They formed part of her valuable network of
  information. 
     Networking for Mrs. Haliburton was as important as the underground railroad back
  in the old bad days. She had her sources, people she relied on to leak information
  from downtown. Often she learnt in advance about new proposals for John Wayne
  Cotter H.S. She'd pass on the leaks to astonished colleagues with a wink and a smile,
  and "Don't tell anyone you heard it here first."
     Other bits of information she filtered to people in the community, folks she met on
  Sundays at her husband's church; influential grassroots people whom the Bronx
  politicians courted and turned to for votes.
                              (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!", a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)                                                                                                                                                                                                      
                                                                        

 

      On Friday evenings Amarelle would urge him to take her out to dinner. They'd  
    gone out twice before, crossing a bridge into Manhattan and dining at a Greek
    restaurant. She smiled and made small talk, commenting on the decor and
    overdoing her excitement when the waiter took their order; while Radix, quiet
   and stiff, looked around and wondered what was no longer appealing about dining
    at home as they did on the island.
         When he stopped their eating out evenings – the one weeknight of dressing
    up, getting away from the decrepit neighborhood and dining like people with
    money to spend – Amarelle never forgave him. Now on Fridays there would be
    for him only "pot luck". And this evening she hadn't even come home from work!
         There was a Chinese Takeout on the next block.
         He stood on the stoop, buttoning his jacket, and he stared across the road
    where hours before someone had been killed. Strips of yellow police tape left
    behind flapped about on the sidewalk. A little girl emerged from the bodega
    with a bag of groceries. The Budweiser neon sign glowed and promised fun.
         At the Chinese Takeout the woman took his order without looking at him.
    Numbah 34, right? He hesitated; he changed his order, wanting something
    simpler. Okay, you want Numbah 35? She seemed eager to take his order, get
    it bagged, take his money; her eyes were cast down, her hands busy with
    detail behind the counter. And behind her – wearing their white chef hats and
    labouring over steaming bowls and pans – her Chinese helpers.
        He stood still looking out at the streets, arms folded, pondering the price of
    existence out there. The Chinese shop was next to a supermarket, and adjacent
    to a place for cashing checks. On the other side of the street, a towering
    apartment building, through whose glass doors a steady stream flowed – children
    babies in strollers, overweight women.
        Two young men came in and instantly swept aside his reflective mood. They looked
    at Radix, at his clothes, his shoes, all in one quick measuring motion; then they
    looked away. They came up to the plexiglass partition and rapped hard with knuckles.
    The Chinese woman looked up from her counter in terror; she pulled a pencil from her
    hair and waited.
        "Numbah 36!" The Chinese woman repeated the order just to be sure. "Didn't I
    just say that?… Wha's the matter…you fucking deaf?…Didn't I just say Numbah 36?
    That's what I want…and a side of fries. I don't know what this chump here wants."
    And his friend – bulky, babyfaced, wearing a bubble jacket – grabbed him and tried to
    put his head in an arm lock for calling him a chump.
                    (from "Ah, Mikhail, O Fidel!" a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)