Authors: Beth Gutcheon
“Mine too.” They looked at each other and laughed.
“How’s our fence doing?” Henry asked suddenly.
“Our fence is great, you should come and visit it.”
“I should,” said Henry. “I loved that fence.”
Emily smiled. They sat silent again for a longer stretch.
“Have we ever danced together?” Henry asked.
“Yes.”
234 / Beth Gutcheon
“How was it?”
“Nice.”
“Would you dance with me now?”
After a beat Emily answered, “There’s no music. People would talk.”
Henry said smoothly, “Another time, then.” And they looked at each other.
W
hen Margee Malko pulled up in front of Home to drop off her children on Monday morning, half the boys in the eighth grade were waiting to greet Glenn with shouts and high fives.
Wearing chinos hanging halfway down his boxer shorts, a plaid shirt buttoned only at the top so it flapped open over his undershirt, with Chuck Taylor low-top sneakers down at heel, and a blue Crips rag tied around his head so low over his eyes that it was practically a blindfold, his walk was a cross between a slouch and a swagger.
His grin was huge as his phalanx surrounded him and accompanied him toward the upper school, like an honor guard. “My home boy, my homey,” his friends kept saying as they slapped his back. Glenn was bopping, on top of the world.
“My home boy,” said Mike, watching them go. “What a bunch of weenies.”
He and Rue were sitting in her office, watching the rake’s progress across the campus, waiting to see what would happen next.
What happened was, across the parking lot the door of the preschool opened and the three teachers, Helen Yeats, Mary Louise Boatner, and Kelly Lau, walked across the playground. They held up the line of cars in the parking lot waiting to drop off their wriggling cargo as they made their way to Home, walking in a line like something from
Make Way for Ducklings
. They reached the shaded benches where children waited in the afternoons for their carpools, and sat down in a silent row to the obvious surprise of the parents in line in their cars.
“Who’s with the children?” Rue asked Mike.
“The TAs. Don’t worry. The cook and the bus drivers are helping too.”
Next Siobhan McKee emerged from her kindergarten classroom.
Across the lawn in Primary, Janet TerWilliams, Charla Percy, 236 / Beth Gutcheon
and Cora Alba-Fish marched their students outside, and teachers and children sat down on the grass in silence.
Parents began to leave their cars and go to the teachers to ask what was happening. Parents looked surprised, then annoyed, and began to gather in knots among the stalled cars, talking, questioning, exclaiming. One or two people slammed car doors. Down the lane, beyond the reach of the grapevine, horns began to honk.
The middle-school teachers, Lloyd Merton, Catherine Trainer, Evelyn Douglas, and Joan McCone, brought their classes outside and sat down on benches in the sun in front of the library. The children formed up to play volleyball or jump rope or jacks. The upper-school teachers, Cynda Goldring, Lynn Ketchum, Consuelo Cole, Robert Noonan, and Toby Chen, emerged from their classrooms and sat down outside their doors.
“They’ve left the kids inside, oh god,” said Rue. Mike, who was nearsighted, couldn’t see as far as the upper school, which was across the creek, but Rue could. “Someone will fall off a desk or swallow a ruler, and we’ll all be sued.”
“Let Chandler worry about it,” said Mike. Rosemary Fitch had come out of the science lab, Pat Moredock and Mrs. Nafie were sitting on the bench outside Home, and Blair Kunzelman and Kendra Flower had come from the gym to join the upper-school teachers.
Rue related this to Mike as it happened.
In the parking lot Sylvia French, who had just heard what her leader and president had done, was saying angrily, “What I
love
about this school is that the children learn that actions have consequences. Rules are rules and they can’t be bent for one person. I
want
my children to know that, and they don’t learn it from television. And god knows, they don’t listen to
me
. I’d like to know who Chandler Kip thinks he is!” Her listeners agreed. Down the lane, people abandoned their cars and walked up the driveway to join the ruckus.
Karen Bramlett, a local judge and member of the Parents’ Council, appeared at the door of Rue’s office, followed by seven or eight other parents from the parking lot. One, Toy Lablanche, seemed to be wearing her pajamas. All were thoroughly hot, emo-Saying Grace / 237
tionally and otherwise, from standing on the asphalt on a cloudless winter morning.
“May we come in?” Karen asked.
“Please,” said Rue.
“Janet TerWilliams says that none of the teachers will go into their classrooms until Glenn Malko leaves the campus.”
“So I understand,” said Rue.
“Well please call Margee Malko and tell her to come get him! This is ridiculous!”
“I agree with you completely, but the president of the Board gave Glenn permission to return after I expelled him. I work for the Board; there’s nothing I can do.”
Karen stared. “Does he have the authority to do that?”
“I don’t think so, but he’s the boss.” She shrugged.
“He certainly is not,” said Karen.
“What do the bylaws say?” Corinne Lowen demanded. Rue handed a copy of the Handbook to her, and she handed it to Karen, who was after all, the lawyer. After reading for a minute or two, Karen said, “Get Chandler Kip on the phone, will you?”
“Happy to,” said Rue. She got up and threaded her way to her desk, among the irate moms who stood or perched all over the office, and dialed.
T
here was a feeling of elation on campus that lasted for days. The Malkos withdrew both children from school, and Rue was sorry about that. Chelsea had done nothing wrong and she was having a great year in Charla Percy’s class. But the family had been so thoroughly humiliated by what had happened that they believed, or claimed to believe, that Chelsea would be persecuted by this faculty. And of course they blamed not Chandler but Rue for what had happened. Chandler was so embarrassed and angry at Rue that he wouldn’t deal with her directly anymore. If he needed to communic-ate with her he did it through Sylvia French or Bud Ransom.
The faculty, however, felt “empowered.”
“Ghastly word,” said Rue to Mike. But she admitted that it fit the situation. They felt as if they had pulled together and roared like one mighty beast, and it felt great. And the best was that they’d done it without violating their dignity or their principles. It had even been good teaching. All over the campus, on one level or another, the children were discussing Gandhi and Martin Luther King or the American Labor Movement or the French Resistance. They talked about rules and how they must apply to all. They talked of the importance of resisting when leaders think they’re Above the Law.
Cynda Goldring taught a class on Watergate and the language of the Constitution, and Catherine Trainer, who was doing her Egypt unit, found a way to relate the faculty’s action to the Jewish slaves under the wicked Pharaohs, preserving their culture and their beliefs until Moses appeared to lead them to the Promised Land. In Primary, there were interesting homilies learned about how to deal with playground bullies. The first grade spent a period talking of Safety in Numbers, which previously they had thought referred to the importance of arithmetic.
Rue felt confident enough that calm had been restored to honor a long-standing commitment. Wednesday she left to go to San An-selmo,
Saying Grace / 239
where she was heading a team to evaluate The Prospect School.
The rest of her team consisted of Sister Catherine, head of a Sacred Heart school in Novato, and a math teacher from Marin, both of whom she knew at least slightly and liked. She hoped that it might be some fun to get away and pass judgment on somebody else’s little cauldron of trouble. But instead it was a disturbing experience.
Prospect was a starving little school and the present head, called out of retirement on short notice, was running the school and also teaching history, because he couldn’t find anyone to take the job at the salary he could offer. Her team heard him call Asian people Chinamen and saw him throw erasers at students who gave wrong answers, and that was the least of the long list of shortfalls. Prospect made The Country School look like earthly paradise.
Late in the evenings, after the team had met and caucused and written their day’s reports, Rue sat in her dingy motel room and tried to call Henry. He didn’t answer the phone. She wondered where he was and thought they were two of the loneliest nights of her life.
When she got home Friday evening, Henry was not waiting to have supper with her, as she had hoped. He had left her mail piled on the kitchen table, but no note as to when he would be back. On top was a padded envelope from Georgia, addressed to Rue alone.
It was a cassette tape, with a long letter.
Dear Mom,
I’m sorry I’ve been bad about writing. I’ve had a friend at the studio help me make this after hours.
We played a concert in Union Square Park on Martin Luther King day. We were actually paid by the Parks Department. An old black guy stayed for the whole set, down behind the bandstand, just staring at us. When we were breaking down afterward, Jonah asked him if he was a player. He said, “No, I’ve been in prison for thirty-eight years.
This is my first day out.”
You asked me what I listen to. Sometime I would really like to listen to this tape with you. I’d like you to like it.
1000 Homo DJs: “Supernaut”
This is a cover of a Black Sabbath tune, so the song is older than I am, but it sure is neat, especially when recorded in 1990 with an industrial groove. Try marching purposefully to this music, stomping your feet and looking evil. Fun!
240 / Beth Gutcheon
Metallica: “Trapped Under Ice”
This song is pretty old too, first recorded in the early eighties. I love Metallica; they’re the original epic speed metal band. This is perhaps the best straight-ahead metal the world has ever seen, vis à vis pure aggression.
The Toasters: “East Side Beat”
Though it doesn’t show until the middle of the song, the Toasters are the quintessential ska band. They’ve got the guitars on the off-beats, the trombone fixation, the reggae groove, a full horn section, the upbeat dance thang, etc. Jonah loves ska. I love ska.
Primus: “Is It Luck?”
Primus are media darlings like you wouldn’t believe. I think it’s their bizarre jerking beat and strange time signature choices. Critics all over the place are thrilled to hear something truly new going on in rock.
The Red Hot Chili Peppers: “Subway to Venus” from “Mother’s
Milk”
This is also funk/punk, but in a very different groove from Primus.
This is the band that began to legitimize idol worship of bass players.
Everybody loves the Chili Peppers.
John Zorn/Naked City: “Latin Quarter,” “Snagglepuss”
Zorn has a jazz background in saxophone, and is the conceptual father of the record. John Zorn is famous for changing grooves (and in fact the whole genre of the song) in between beats.
Neil Young: “The Days That Used to Be”
This is the same old Neil Young, except that now he’s got a distortion pedal. The same old thudding, whiny rock and roll. I really like it.
Mr. Bungle: “My Ass Is on Fire”
This is currently my favorite song in the world. It’s also the angriest song I know. Listen to it four times in a row. This is probably not one to play for the preschool, and don’t listen to it while you’re holding a baseball bat.
Bad Brains: “Revolution (dub),” “House of Suffering”
These two songs show the two sides of Bad Brains, and it may be difficult to believe that they are the same band: the first is straight reggae, the second is D. C. Hardcore.
Saying Grace / 241
Not many bands can get a head-banging audience to pump their fists while shrieking about peace and universal brotherhood.
The Jesus and Mary Chain: “Darklands”
J&MC is best known for distortion that makes their music sound like
“chainsaws in a hurricane,” but on this album they have (in the words of the reviewer) “fixed their guitars, and that’s not such a bad thing.”
It’s interesting to hear the ultra-grunge feedback juxtaposed with their soporific playing style.
The Fatima Mansions: “You’re a Rose”
This is a good example of English pop/rock. They are politically conscious, make heavy use of keyboards, and use drum tracks that sound automated—the whole “ooh, I’m so deep” lyrical style.
Helios Creed: “Ub the Wall”
Jonah says this is the angriest song
he
knows. It draws on the industrial genre, with continuous background (or even foreground) distortion, and an undercurrent of table saw, or perhaps a whole machine shop.
Grotus: “Morning Glory”
Grotus is a magnificently weird band from San Francisco. On a 7”
somebody gave me, they are listed as playing bass, bass, bass, and super x-tra bass. Mood music.
Let me know what you think. Hope you like it. You decide whether to play it for Dad.
Much love
It was signed with a drawing of a bloblike creature that Georgia had been peopling a line-drawn world with for years, on grocery lists and the margins of books and notebooks. The basic creature was (she claimed) a clam, with stick arms and legs and a bow in its hair.
Rue was beginning to wonder where Henry was. She thought she might feel less lonely if she listened to the tape. She was, thus, in the living room considering 1000 Homo DJs when Henry came home.
O
ver the weekend before Valentine’s Day, Mike Dianda married Bonnie Fleming. The wedding took place on campus, outdoors under the live oaks. The wild parrots, frightened by the music, retreated to the highest branches. It was a potluck reception; all the teachers had brought covered dishes and arranged them on picnic tables, and Pat Moredock had made the wedding cake, covered with hearts. The music teacher brought the school’s Kurzweil outside trailing a very long industrial extension chord. As the guests drove up, parked, and hurried across the soccer field, laughing and talking, she played favorite inspirational music ranging from “Come to the Church in the Wildwood” to “The Rainbow Connection” (first im-mortalized by Kermit the Frog).