Bad Seeds: Evil Progeny Page 15

  As Ethan and I moved on to talking about other things, gradually opening doors to each other once more, and calming down, I silently determined that the Arthur Milford situation had finally reached DefCon 1.

  I got to the school a little after two o’clock. My appointment would mean that I’d have time to kill in the area afterwards, before picking Ethan up, but it was the only time the headmistress/owner would deign to see me. It’s a small school, privately-owned, and to be fair, I imagine Ms. Reynolds is pretty busy. I was shown to a little office, part of the recent extension on the ground floor, and given a cup of coffee. I sat sipping it, looking up through the glass roof at the side of the building. Two further storeys, grey brick, with long bands of windows.

  Schools, even small and bijou ones like this, all feel the same. They take you back. I knew that when Ms. Reynolds arrived I’d stand up slightly too quickly, and be excessively deferential, though she was ten years younger than me and effectively ran a service industry, in which the customer should always be right. None of that matters. School is where you learn the primal things, the big spells, the place where you become versed in the eternal hierarchies and are appraised of our species’ hopes and fears. Being back in one as an adult is like returning in waking hours to some epic battleground in the dreamscape—even if, like me, you had a pretty decent time during your formative years.

  It was quiet as I waited, all the little animals corralled into classrooms for the time being, having information and cultural norms stuffed into their wild and chaotic heads.

  Eventually the door opened, and the trim figure of Ms. Reynolds entered. “Sorry I’m late.”

  I stood. “No problem.”

  She smiled briefly, and perched at an angle on the chair on the other side of the desk. I tried hard not to take against her posture, and the way it signaled a confident belief that this was going to be a short conversation. I sat back down, square-on to the table.

  “So. How can I help?”

  “I wanted a quick word. About Ethan.”

  “I’m sure it’s temporary,” she said, briskly. “I honestly don’t think it’s anything to worry about.”

  “What is?” I asked, thrown. “Worry about what?”

  “Ah,” she said, smoothly covering a moment of confusion. “I talked with your wife about this, yesterday, at the end of school. I assumed she’d mentioned it to you.”

  “Mentioned what?”

  “Ethan’s schoolwork. It’s taken a dip recently, that’s all. Nothing major. It happens with most of them, the boys. From time to time. But we’re aware of it, and we’re working with Ethan to lift things back up. I can appreciate your concern, but I really … ”

  “That’s not why I’m here.”

  “Oh. So … ”

  “I am concerned if there’s an issue with his work,” I said. I was also a little ticked that Kathy hadn’t mentioned it to me when she got back from yoga the night before. “But I wanted to talk about the bullying.”

  “Bullying?”

  “For the last week, maybe two, Ethan’s been talking about being bullied.”

  Ms. Reynolds swiveled to sit square in her chair. It was clear I’d got her full attention now. “If that’s the case, it’s a very serious matter,” she said.

  “It’s the case.”

  She frowned. “One of the teachers did notice a mark on his arm this morning. Very minor. It looked as though someone had gripped his arm. Is that what you’re referring to?” Her eyes were on me. There was probably no way she could know that the mark, which I’d noticed myself when helping Ethan to get dressed that morning, was the result of me shoving him into bed the night before. Not so very hard, but children’s skins are sensitive.

  And my own father raised me to tell the truth. “No,” I said. “That was me.”

  “You?”

  “There was a disagreement over getting into bed last night. I ended up guiding him into it.”

  She nodded, a minimalist raise of the chin. “So then what are you referring to?”

  “One of the other boys has been picking on him. Muttering things in after-school swimming class, calling him stupid. Shoving him in the corridors.”

  “Ethan told you this?”

  “Yes. And this boy’s even threatened to throw Ethan out of a window.”

  “Throw him out of a window?” Ms. Reynolds now looked stricken. “When? When did this happen?”

  “Last Monday. And again yesterday.” I’d forgotten, for the moment, that this threat hadn’t actually been made on Monday—only implied, or intuited (or fabricated) by Ethan. It didn’t matter. Yesterday, it had been said. “I’m not happy about this. At all.”

  “Well, of course not,” the headmistress said, putting her hands out flat on the table in front of her. “And who does Ethan say is doing all this?”

  “Arthur Milford,” I said, feeling heavy satisfaction as I handed up the name. Not just at finally stepping up to the plate on behalf of my son, but also through disproving what Arthur had told him—that it was only teachers that could do anything about a situation. Learn this, you little shit: stuff that happens in the outside world counts, too.

  “Arthur Milford?”

  “Yes.”

  “It can’t be,” she said.

  “I’m sure he behaves perfectly when teachers are around.”

  “No, that’s not what I mean. I mean … we don’t have an Arthur Milford at this school. Are you sure that’s the name?”

  “Absolutely sure. I’ve heard it every day this week, including in the middle of Wednesday night, when Ethan had a nightmare about this boy coming into his room and threatening him. Kathy’s heard the name too.”

  The teacher looked baffled. “We did have an Arthur Ely in the school, a few years ago, who was quite big, and boisterous, but he left well before Ethan joined us. And there was a Patrick Milford, I think… . Yes. He was here even before Arthur. But again, he’s moved on. There’s no Milfords here now. No Arthurs either.”

  “That’s the name Ethan used.”

  “I’m afraid … he may just have made it up. Or one of the other children did.”

  “What—and the fact there have been kids here with very similar names is just a coincidence?”

  “No. Making something up doesn’t mean it isn’t real. I know this is hard to hear, but… . Their parents, everything out there in the world… . They’re important, of course, you’re important. But still not as real to the children as what happens in here.”

  I nodded, remembering the thoughts I’d had while sitting in the chair waiting, and how it had been when I was a child. “Facts, too,” she went on. “Children can get them muddled up. Or half-hear things. Or add two and two and make twenty eleven and a half. Perhaps Ethan got shoved, by accident. Or he and another boy really aren’t getting on—or perhaps he’s having arguments with a someone who is his friend, and so Ethan doesn’t want to use his real name. Children remember the names of those who have gone before. Perhaps they use them, too, sometimes. Like mythological figures. I spend all my working hours in this place, but it doesn’t mean I understand everything that goes on.”

  “So you don’t think anyone’s actually bullying Ethan?”

  “I really doubt it—and not just because we do a lot to make sure this kind of thing doesn’t happen. None of the other boys or girls have said anything. None of the teachers, either. But trust me, I’ll look into it. The moment you’ve gone. And if there’s anything—anything at all—to be concerned about, I’ll call you right away. I promise.”

  “Thank you,” I said. I didn’t know what to feel. A little foolish, certainly.

  She stood up, and reached out her hand. I did the same, and we shook.

  “I hope I haven’t wasted your time.”

  “No time spent talking about a child is wasted,” she said, and I felt a little less silly. “But do you mind if I offer you a piece of advice?”

  “Go ahead,” I said, assuming it would be some way of h
elping Ethan move past this, or of helping him to get his schoolwork back on track.

  “Do be careful about … the ways in which you have physical contact with your son.”

  I froze, indignation and guilt melting together. The room seemed suddenly larger, and very cold. “What do you mean?”

  She looked steadily at me. Her eyes were clear, and kind, and for a moment she didn’t looked like a teacher, or Ethan’s headmistress, just a woman who meant well and cared about her charges a great deal.

  “I know what it’s like,” she said. “What they can be like. I don’t have a child of my own, not yet, but I spend a lot of time with them. Which is why, every day after I leave here, I go to the gym and get it out of my system for an hour. I kickbox. I’m not very good, but boy do I give those punch bags a thump. And then I go home and have a gin and tonic that would make most people’s eyes water. That information is not for general consumption, okay?”

  “Okay,” I said, smiling.

  “Loving children can be hard work. But it’s what we do. I know you love Ethan, very much. I’m just saying … be careful. Because of the assumptions others might make, if they see a mark on him. And also because of how you feel, about yourself, and about how he’ll feel too. Boys need strong fathers. Men who are strong, and kind … and not full of anger and guilt.”

  I nodded, knowing she was right.

  “There’s evidently something going on in Ethan’s universe, and it’s good that I know about it. You did the right thing coming in to tell me about it.”

  “I hope so,” I said, anxious now to lighten the mood. “Ethan said last night that’s it was okay to tell me about it, but teachers couldn’t know. Otherwise, Arthur would, you know.”

  Ms. Reynolds smiled, and rolled her eyes, as she started to lead me toward the door. “The stuff that goes on in their heads,” she said, with just the right amount of irony, and affection.

  I realized that I’d started to like Ms. Reynolds, and respect her, and that perhaps I’d start to take a more active role in Ethan’s schooling, and that would be good.

  She walked with me out of the doors and to the waiting area outside. I had an hour to kill, and had decided to go find a coffee somewhere. To think through what had been said, to find a way of accessing a calm which must still exist somewhere inside me. To lighten up. To remember how to be strong, and kind.

  “You did the right thing,” she said, once more.

  As we shook hands again, there was the sound of glass breaking, somewhere high above. We looked up and saw the third floor, and the broken window there. Saw the small, boy-shaped figure that came out of it, and started to fall.

  Second Grade

  Charles Antin

  When the Army recruiter comes to my second grade class, I want to grab his arm and twist it behind his back and say something highfalutin and holier-than-thou as I toss him from the classroom. Instead I say, “Sir, these kids are seven years old,” and retreat behind my desk.

  He’s unfazed. He cocks a 9mm handgun and the kids ooh and aah and before I know what’s happening, Aidan, the four foot seven, proud, mature-for-his-age star of my class, steps up. Aidan’s my favorite. Thoughtful and handsome, kind but not sentimental, popular yet humble. He’s the kind of kid that second grade teachers dream of. I remind him of the sacrifices he’ll have to make should he enlist (no more Legos, no more read aloud, no more show and tell, etc.) but I can tell by the look in his still-innocent doe eyes that he’s already gone. The recruiter gives him a Crayola magic marker and points to the dotted line. Aidan waves me off like he barely knows me and carefully writes his name in newly-learned handwriting. Aidan’s the ringleader so when he signs up, the rest of the boys follow suit.

  Some of the girls decide they’re being left out and move to sign up too. The recruiter stops them and makes it clear that while they’re technically allowed to enlist, they’re unwanted. This isn’t something that women of any age like to hear. I’m against discrimination but I can’t say I’m disappointed.

  “Child warfare,” says the recruiter. “Little guns, big terror. It’s a brave new world. God bless America.”

  Then he ushers the boys onto a yellow school bus and salutes as they drive out of the parking lot. There’s nothing I can do. The boys are ripped from me, their daytime father. I’m helpless. Castrated by Uncle Sam’s Bowie knife. Dramatic, I know, but that’s what it feels like. I’m left standing there with the girls and the one boy forbidden to enlist: George, our exchange student. George looks at me, the metaphorical eunuch, then at the veritable harem of teary-eyed females, and smiles.

  Back in the classroom, I make an effort to return to business as usual, but things just aren’t the same. I return to my curriculum, to the sharing, to the reading aloud, to the other things that seemed quaint and necessary before, but now seem trite. When I take roll call any doubts disappear: I’ve failed as a teacher. One look at Maggie’s big blue eyes, silently asking what I’ve done, and I almost lose it. I want to scream:

  It’s not my fault! It’s a free country!

  Instead, I internalize. Depression sets in. I assign naptime. The children balk, claiming that naps haven’t been required of them in years. I’m the teacher, I snap, and leave it at that. There’s some crying, some whimpering, some refusal to nap as instructed. I turn down the lights and lie on a rubber mat, too guilty to even move.

  The only one who gives me no trouble is George. He curls up on his mat and falls immediately to sleep, as if there’s nothing in this world that troubles him. Sleep, George, sleep, like you haven’t a care in the world. George George George George. I repeat it over and over under my breath like a dirge. Where did he get this name? The name George is English, and my George is not English. It’s clearly a pseudonym, an attempt on his part to “fit in.” George is a foreigner, that much is clear, but his exact provenance is unknown. His skin is brown, or perhaps yellow-hazel or burnt orange or umber, and his accent is nondescript, as if he grew up in several places, or perhaps had an English-speaking au pair. His file is classified. This is highly irregular, but then, so is George.

  In the few quiet hours of solitude that I’ve got after the two p.m. bell, I finger paint. At first, I find it rejuvenating; the cold wet paint between my fingers reminds me that I’m still alive. Each time I finish a painting I’m reassured that I can still produce something ex nihilo. I still have an imagination, perhaps a soul.

  I stare at the finger paintings for so long that I start to see things in these impromptu Rorschachs. This one is Aidan coming home with third-degree burns and no lips. That one is Aidan in a wheelchair, drinking vodka from the bottle on skid row. Another is George, sleeping quietly and mockingly on a rubber mat, while I toss and turn in a feather bed. When laid out side by side, the paintings recall an amateur Guernica in brown. I stop finger painting for good.

  At lunch the next day, Eliza says she won’t eat until I get the boys back. In practice, a hunger strike, she just doesn’t know the term. I’m in no shape to deal with her; I haven’t eaten in a day.

  Her unopened Lunchables, once the envy of the class, remain perfectly preserved in their compartmentalized plastic container. I put them in the fridge, in case she changes her mind. I hand out Otis Spunkmeyer cookies in three-packs to the rest of the class. The girls are unimpressed.

  “At what cost?” their frowns seem to say. “At what cost do we have these delicious cookies?”

  They’re right: there is a surplus of cookies thanks to our reduced number. But it would be a strong-willed second grader who could turn down cookies. George scarfs down his and the girls abandon their frowns and follow his lead. There’s a moment of relief but it disappears almost as quickly as it came. The cookies weren’t enough. As soon as they’re eaten, the children ask for more, and this time with a very off-putting sense of entitlement. You gave us back what was already ours, their outstretched palms seem to say. Now give us more.

  When the first letters come, it’s like rain after a dr
ought. I flip through them, scanning the return addresses for Aidan’s name. At first, I can’t believe that he hasn’t written, so I scan the pile one more time. When reality sets in, I turn over the letters to the girls, who descend upon them like a pack of hyenas on a wounded gazelle.

  The girls are indiscriminate in their joy. This sort of non-specific happiness troubles me. It seems capitalist, consumerist, super-size, “American.” George remains silent and, even though I fault the girls for their over-exuberance, I fault George even more for his placidity. Has he no emotions?

  The letters are, for the most part, illegible and nonsensical. The boys, despite their new profession, can’t hide the fact that they are still only second graders. In fact, most of the “letters” are nothing more than crude drawings, made cruder by the desert’s unforgiving shades of tan and shadowless sandscapes. Trees, houses, the odd crossing guard or stop sign are the things that make up a second grader’s repertoire. In the desert, they are artistically adrift. The drawings consist of squares that signify tanks, squiggly lines that (I’m guessing here) represent snakes and, in the best examples, a few cactuses.

  The girls love the pictures. They exhaust half a dozen glue sticks covering the walls with them. Once they’re hung it’s apparent that the pictures are more numerous than I first thought. They cover the walls of the classroom like evil wallpaper in Bic blue.

  During all this, George paints quietly at his desk. I steal up behind him and glance over his shoulder. He catches me and, though I politely avert my gaze, invites me to take a look. George, it turns out, is no slouch with the watercolors. On a regular 8.5 x 11 sheet of printer paper is what appears to be a family of four: a father, tall, broad-shouldered, with a mustache and black hair, a mother with a round face punctuated by a slender aquiline nose and almond-shaped eyes and a daughter with chubby cheeks and black corkscrew curls. Next to them is a boy. George, I presume. They are standing in front of a house, but the architecture provides no clues to their whereabouts. There is a bird and a tree, but they are stylized and abstract. The clothing, too, is unfamiliar, so other than “not America” it’s impossible to place. The brushwork, however, is immaculate. I think back to my own finger painting and grimace. George gives me the painting: a gift. I take it and tell him I plan to hang it on my refrigerator at home. When his back is turned, I fold it over and over and over until it is the size of half a credit card and stick it in the bottom drawer of my desk.