2 A Story

Inside Special Education by Kenneth W. Howell

“…she cannot tell if the movement is opinion or symptom.”

It seems sometimes that life is summed up by unexpected things.

Transportation.

Left behind was the apartment. Water still draining from the tub. The smell of toast seeping out around the windows and doors. Somewhere near the bathroom the dog is stretching out on the cool hall floor: he has not fallen from grace.

Ahead the school room waits in vacant patience. Bubbling fish tanks, and the crackle of crepe paper. Its cubicles and areas no larger than the apartment. Here we do the cooking, here we rest, here we put our waste.

The same.

So why the movement, why the trip from here to there? The complexity of freeways. Stoplights and side streets. Internal combustion. Heather drove the car without anticipation. Its steering wheel was large; it was hot and unresponsive. Already in the high 80s, the day was blending into a mixture of oleander and exhaust.

She was seldom on time (it was a symptom) and her hair was still damp as she opened the classroom door. Robert was already there, waiting to be switched on by receiving his glasses.

“Good morning, Robert.”

“Well good morning teacher.” His unexercised body spread out over the table edge on which he sat. His skin was soft and it was white. His eyes wandered without relation to each other. They had no direction. Retardation had long become synonymous with his identity.

“What did you do last night?”

“I went to sleep.”

“That’s all?”

“Well, I took a shower.” His hands drifted up and began a fluttering imitation of his eyes.

She looked at him. Then, going to the file cabinet, she removed the multilensed glasses.

“What did you do before that?”

“Nothing.”

“You took the shower with your clothes on?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, you did not.” She fit the $3500 glasses on Robert’s head. The eyes came together.

“Well no – I didn’t.”

The eyes have it. The hands float down.

In the office, at school, this cumbersome hot morning, she sits in an undersized chair and melts. Up the hall other teachers, who had come right on time, look down at her.

“Heather. How are you?”

“I am fine.”

“Better?”

“Better.”

“It will pass.”

So will halfbacks. So will those ships in the night.

Eyes rusted straight ahead, hands spread as if to dry, only the mouth allowed to move, and it is cautious. Two male teachers passing through. The door left open. Distant sounds of “don’t grab,” “sit,” “bring me the ball.”

Opportunity knocks once.

The distant smell of urine.

There had been times when ideas passed so quickly that many of them were lost. A number of concepts two large for recording. The intensity of feeling too great and pure for one heart to hold. Now? The janitor passes through, heading for the urine.

“Is Robert yours?”

“Yes.”

“Then come get him.”

Out of the office and down the hall. Shirt sleeves clinging. Past the blistered plaster and slow-motion clock. Robert looks up as if to say, “May as well be honest.”

“I’ve messed my briefs.” Robert with tears in is throat.

“Briefs,” she thought. “Who taught him that word? I never taught him that word.”

“It’s all right.”

“My stomach hurts.”

“Are you sick?”

“Well – I was last night.”

“It will pass.” She hates herself for saying.

Lonely window shades breathe in and out. She wraps the mess in construction paper. The janitor stands by, somewhat unsure where teaching stops and sanitation begins. Together, she and Robert move off in search of air.

Butterflies. “Put down your hands,” she orders. Or maybe moths.

“Well, I could go home.”

“No, it will be all right.”

They sit outside and watch the cars pass by.

She watches them.

When the drivers all get there, and the streets are vacant, then will they look around for something? Sitting in dark rooms. Together or alone. Looking, she supposed, for love. Will they reach out, as if to have one moment when they touched, and really helped another human being?

She has a taste of salt on her lips, and she considers its source.

“I wonder if we are what we do?” she asks Robert.

He shakes his heavy head – but in the weight of the morning she cannot tell if the movement is opinion or symptom.