Teach Me (11 page)

naked beasts

Quick.

I slip into Mom’s bedroom and get into her things.

Her Mary Kay Pink Cadillac makeup and orange jogging suit. I cinch the flabby waist and hike the short pants to my knees like knickers. Crimp my hair with colorful old lady barrettes, pull a bushy ponytail through a hole in the back of Mom’s VIVE LE LIVRE baseball cap. I pull the bill of the cap low and put on her narrow sunglasses and rush outside to Wilkie Collins.

Screech.

The Huntsville International Jetplex.

I haven’t been here in a while. It’s smaller than its name implies. Still, I see long glass buildings, overnight parking with its lazy yellow bar, the control tower like a Junovian golf tee. I scrabble quarters out of the ashtray for the meter and sidle Wilkie against the curb.

A security guard walks toward me with the unmistakable look of the vocationally stunned. I bustle past him with authority and make my way through the automatic doors.

Somehow the sunglasses make me confident. I’m anonymous, dangerous, impermeable. A soccer mom juiced on steroids. A family of four hurries in front of me as if pressed in the back by my pathological stride.

They won’t let you all the way to the terminals these days unless you’re a passenger. I look for the luggage carousel. Up ahead a group of travelers is watching suitcases being pooped through flaps of carpet onto an aluminum slide. My head swivels, reconnoitering. None of these people are the Manns. I dig out Mr. Mann’s itinerary and glance at my watch. Seven minutes to spare. Surely I haven’t missed him. Now what?

For the first time I realize I have no idea what I’m going to do.

This is the thing that smashes me. My whole life I have always had a plan, but I have no plan. Only a raging need. A need for what? What can I hope for? What is this wildness inside that is pulling me on like I’ve fallen into a flooded river? I try to keep my breathing in check and look around for stones in the current to hang on to.

A mother struggles with her monsters, hair desperately tucked behind her ears. A man sucks on an unlit pipe and prissily snaps his newspaper. Another man in a wifebeater shirt reads from a huge black Bible. His ropy biceps stand out like pods of butter beans.

Overhead the Announcement Chick booms about boarding for exotic locales like Cleveland and Baltimore. No news from Mexico.

People are talking about things I never like to talk about: shoes, cars, TV. Mom says this is why I have no friends, other than Schuyler. She doesn’t know that I can’t bear it, that it feels like being tattooed against my will.

Do I wish there were more people like me? Sure. Every day. I wish it and hunger for it and almost believe it could happen. But the more I see of things, the more I realize that we can’t have what we want. We can only have what we can have. I had no idea life could be so lonely.

Zammo.

Here they come, the lovebirds.

My fingers curl on the plastic seat. I don’t understand. I simply don’t understand. I will never, ever understand. How could he? How?

I can’t compare this feeling to anything I’ve ever experienced before.

My first instinct is to fly at them, pile drive Mr. Mann into the industrial carpet, straddle him, beat his face with the back of my knuckles. Knock her down too. And hope her head bounces.

But something else is there too. Every second I ever spent with him, touching him, kissing, longing, completing. The rushing heat of all the connections we’ve shared, my fingernails against his skin, the point of his tongue beneath my ear.

Alicia is laughing delightedly, hair like an oversized seashell. Mr. Mann looks tired. He’s tanned; his lovely hair is clipped short. This loss makes me think briefly of suicide. I tell myself it makes him look old.

I hunch into my ponytail. I’ve got to be quick. Quick about what? I could rush them, force them back on the plane, make it fly to the Great North Woods and have it out there. The three of us, naked, animals on the ground, claws, dirt, teeth. I might not win, but I guarantee you, I won’t be the first one down for the count.

I wait. They’re not thirty feet away now. Alicia leans into him; he straightens and touches her elbow almost consolingly. She giggles and puts her arms around his waist. Alicia is burned pink and is wearing something long and blousy that splits alarmingly up the side. Ankles like fence posts. Poor Richard. I laugh bitterly in temporary satisfaction.

They’re distracting each other. Suddenly I see a familiar-looking bag at the top of the chute. I focus on it. It’s a no-name cheapie with a fat belt looped over the top through a scarred buckle. In my memory I can see it on a closet shelf in Mr. Mann’s apartment.

I used to imagine where that bag would go with us someday.

Why not.

I edge slowly around the far side of the carousel, watching for my chance. It’s his, all right; there’s the dark tear near the handle. The suitcase tumbles down in noisy flops to smack on its face. Now. My fingers close over the handle and I lift it in one clumsy motion—heavy!

I glide away at medium speed, stepping purposefully. With my long legs, I’m soon in the middle of the pedestrian flow, increasing the distance away from the carousel in big, easy strides. I’m making my way down the main concourse before I dare to glance over my shoulder.

I have no sense of being chased. Mr. Mann hasn’t even noticed that the suitcase has come and gone; he’s tugging at an expensive-looking black leather bag, obviously Alicia’s. By now I’m thirty yards away and gathering steam, a high-octane traveler in danger of missing a connection. The sunglasses help, make me expressionless, fierce.

I swoosh past a big security guard who doesn’t even raise his eyebrows.

Dinky as airports go, the main building is still track-and-field capable. I look back again. Mr. Mann is almost unrecognizable from here.

I pass an opening to my left; two uniformed women suddenly rush over from a side tributary, going some place important. I’m not sure they even see me. I turn down the hall they just exited, find a seat in a secluded archipelago of anemic rubber trees. Whew, feels good to sit down. What’s he got in this thing?

Wait.

Five minutes, ten. Longer.

He’s not coming.

I unbuckle the suitcase, unzip the flap, and throw it back. Books, a couple of them coffee-table sized. I heft one out:
Cacaxtla: Fuentes Historicas y Pinturas
. Sorry, don’t read Spanish. I pick up another, flip through it: spectacular photographs of basaltic sculptures, jade objects, richly decorated pottery vessels, colossal Olmec heads hacked from giant boulders. On the title page, there’s an inscription in green ink:

 
To my darling Ricky,

May our love last longer than the Star of Venus Chamber.

Your Ali

Besides, Venus is not a star. Moron.

The female guards suddenly scuttle by again, freezing my heart.

They don’t seem to be particularly looking for anyone, just hurrying. My pulse rate begins to go down. Back to the bag: his shoes. I’ve never seen these, black leather and barely scuffed.

I drop them on the floor.

A shiny belt. A stack of slacks in varying shades. Blue shirt, white shirt, olive green. I hold a handful up to my face; these clothes don’t even smell like him, they’re so new. My temper surges—she bought these; I just know it.

I ransack the rest of the bag, nothing much of interest.

No clues of any kind. No journal, receipts, notes, date book.

Just boxers.

No.

Please, no. Mr. Mann wears athletic briefs that hug his lovely thighs. Always. He looks like a god in them. Standing against the window. Watching the rain. Please.

Not these. These plaid and striped and checked boxers.

She has burned me out of his life in every way imaginable.

I’m ready to die now.

I turn the case over; clothing begins to spill out. I drape the boxers, all six pairs, over the rubber tree plants. Arrange them for maximum effect. Is anybody watching? I don’t care. Something small and white tinkles on the carpeting.

A bell.

I pick it up. It’s a tiny replica of a mission bell, painted bluish gray with two robin’s egg stripes and a pearl-colored ribbon tied at the top. A keepsake. Something to remember the trip by. Maybe they shared a kiss beneath a church bell just like this one and wanted something to take home that would perfectly symbolize their treasured union forever. Lucky it didn’t break.

I put it beneath my heel and stomp.

Again.

One more time.

Now grind the pieces into a bluish powder.

As I walk away, leaving it all, the bag, everything open, exposed, the underwear spread out on the rubber trees, it’s the last thing I see:

The ribbon.

killer comet

Doom.

The last week of school.

I’m standing with Schuyler, watching Matt and the other Jesus Phreaks link hands around the flagpole. They’re praying about the Last Days.

“They’ve got it all wrong,” Schuyler says. “The world won’t come to an end until 2086.”

No special reason. Except that’s the year he turns one hundred.

Today would be fine with me.

“Good morning,” Mr. Mann says. His face is wooden.

Some of the kids gape. He’s never said this before. He usually attacks the blackboard without a word and we’re supposed to jump right in. Is he afraid I’m going to stand up and scream? Denounce him before the world?

Gut him like a deer?

Is that what he’s waiting for? The final freak-out, the break with sanity, the secret made known, scandal flung to the winds?

I watch. I tell myself I can’t see a difference in his eyes, but his hands jitter nervously over the top of his desk, feeling their way. Did he prepare himself? Did he stand in front of his small bathroom mirror this morning and think, This is it. Today, everything is over. I’m dead. Crushed. Finished.

He doesn’t look at me. I don’t think he can.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Havisham-Kelly suddenly squeals. “We could have thrown you a party.”

“So, did you get some?” another voice says. Snickers ripple horribly around the room.

Mr. Mann grimaces good-naturedly. What a guy. “Hello, Mr. Atkinson.”

I don’t do anything.

I don’t want to. Not here. Not now. I smile as sweetly as I can through his class but never directly at him. Through the compliments and congratulations and questions and girly squeals and double entendre nasty boy jokes.

Because maybe today the world really is coming to an end.

How nice that would be.

But before a comet from the Oort Cloud slams into the Pacific Ocean, I have something I need to do.

Somehow he senses this. He takes my arm at the end of the period.

“What’s your next class?”

“You know what it is, sir.”

“Then skip lunch. Meet me in my office. We have to talk.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And please drop the
sir
bullshit, Carolina.”

“Maybe you could teach me, sir. You’re good at dropping things.”

Before he can reply, a girl from his next class sidles through the door, a look of embarrassed curiosity on her face. Why is this teacher holding my arm? Why is he squeezing it so tightly?

“Go,” he says.

Time.

The white industrial wall clock ticks expectantly. I’ve seen this kind of clock before. It can only measure the passage of serious things.

So now I get to see the inside of his office.

Now that the danger is over. Now that the fun and games are finished. Now that I’m safe, legal, even appropriate. Now that we’re no longer
lovers
. God, I hate that word. It feels sickening, revolting, disrespectful. Is that what we were doing?
Lovering?

The walls are painted a sectarian beige. Like me, the cloth on the brown furniture is stretched to its limits; beneath the armrests I can feel the staples. His desk is small and short legged, a vulnerable, neglected marsupial.

No pictures of Emily, no New Wave tapes, nothing personal from a hyper-personal man. I’m a little surprised. Only overstuffed shelves and stacks of paper left in fanned disarray. The owner of this room is in a state of perpetual search.

What is he looking for? I thought it was me.

Where is he?

The door opens; Mr. Mann drops a stack of books on the desk with a dusty bang, shuts the door behind him. His posture says this: This meeting will be Short and Conclusive.

It pisses me off how he is using his age.

When he needs it, he uses it—it ’s not there when he wants somebody younger, but it’s his crutch when he needs to fall back on it, become somehow superior.

“So, okay,” he starts, reaching to brush back a lock of hair that doesn’t exist anymore.

“Okay.”

“Are you proud of what you did in my apartment?”

“Yep. Are you?”

Bull’s-eye. He blows air from his cheeks and settles wearily in his chair. “You have every right to hate me, Carolina. Go ahead. Most of the time I even hate myself.”

“You should. And don’t call me Carolina. I don’t know if that person is even alive anymore. Call me Nine. I’ll always be a number to you. The only thing is, which one?”

A dark figure skulks dangerously close to the mullioned glass in the door, then moves on.

“You know it wasn’t like that,” he says. “You know it.”

“Okay, then tell me. What was it like?”

He looks down, fingers roving over his desk, picking things up, putting them back. What is he deciding? Which hat to wear? Lover or teacher? Boy or man?

“I can’t blame you for what you did. I deserved that much, at least.” He tries a halfhearted grin. “One of the things I love about you is your creativity.”

Even in the middle of my anger, my heart wells up. “You said love. One of the things you love about me. Present tense.”

“Oh God, Nine. I—well, maybe I did. But you have got to let it go and leave me alone.”

“Why?”

“What do you hope to accomplish?”

“What do you?”

He leans back. “I know you’re angry. Hurt. Hell, when I was your age, I would have at least blown up your mailbox by now.”

I lean forward, pulling up some of his papers between my fingers, crumpling them a little, menacing. I have to do this, do anything physical; otherwise I will be at his throat.

“No, you wouldn’t have.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because you’re a coward.”

His eyes flinch. You sank my battleship. Good.

“We both know it’s not your fault,” he says.

“We both know no matter how much apologizing you do, it won’t help.”

“Agreed. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not defending myself. But things are different now. I’m married and you have to respect that. If not for me, then for her. She’s done nothing wrong.”

“Yes, she has.”

“What?”

“She got you.”

He thrusts himself away from the desk as if needing a break from my personal Sphere of Pain. The chair tilts too far, nearly toppling him over. He finds a point of equilibrium and hangs there ridiculously, heels off the floor. “What do you expect me to do?”

“That’s my question.”

“Okay. Here’s your answer. I expect you to go on. Live your life. Dream. Explore. Move on. What happened to college?”

“You.”

“Bullshit. Don’t use me as an excuse. You’ve got too much going for yourself, Nine.”

“You never sounded like a cliché before.”

He groans. “I never had to. What I did was a huge mistake, and I take full responsibility. But it’s over.”

“Nothing’s over. In what way have you taken responsibility? You’ve got your bouncy new wife; I’ve let you keep your job. So far. What have I got? What have you left me with?”

“Look, you’ve had your revenge.” He puts his hand to his temple. “What do we call ‘even’ in a game like this?”

“Who said this is a game.”

“You’re making yourself sound like a goddamn nut.”

Am I? A jolt of fear stabs me. Is he right? Is that what’s happening to me? Is this what crazy feels like? This blind anger, this desperate need to strike out, to somehow make him understand, even if I have to hurt him to do it? I can’t think. I can’t think. Not about that. That’s what he wants, wants to turn it around on me, make me believe I’m the problem and he’s the rational one. No.

“Maybe I am,” I say.

He leans forward; the chair nearly throws him out. “Look, nothing you do will ever make up for what I’ve done. You’ll only be hurting an innocent girl.”

“Hurting? Is that Alicia’s idea of pain? Washing out a few sheets with OxyClean?”

“Okay. But the ball is in your court. What do you want, to get arrested next time? You do realize you’ve committed a crime, don’t you?”

“Do you?”

“Is that a threat?”

“What do you think?”

He rocks forward out of the chair and lunges at the desk, stares hard into my eyes. It’s difficult not to look away from all that blue, but I hold my gaze. So now he’s going to be tough? But it doesn’t fit him. There is something inside him that always feels as if it is hiding from everything else. It’s always been a big part of what I love about him. Finding that center of his deep inside, the place he wants to keep hidden, dragging it out into the light.

“Do you really want to do that?” he says.

“No. But I will. Unless.”

“Unless what?”

“I don’t know.” I swore to myself I wouldn’t do it, but I start to cry.

“No.”

I stand and come toward him. “If I could just hold you, if you could just tell me.”

He backs away defensively. I’m close enough to touch his shirt. He glances at the door. “Tell you what?”

“That it’s all a mistake. The wedding didn’t really happen.”

“But it did.”

“But why did it did.”

“What?”

“Why. You owe that to me.”

“I told you, Nine, I can’t tell you.”

I put my fingers on his chest. He’s warm. How can a piece of paper and a few minutes in a church make this any different? I know what he feels there. I know it can’t have just gone away. “Then tell me that it didn’t happen,” I say. “Lie to me. You know how to lie.”

“I never lied,” he says.

“Call it what you want. It’s still a lie.” This gives me an idea. I brighten a little. “Maybe we could still meet? Yes. Please! That’s it! She doesn’t have to know; I won’t tell her.”

My tears are coming harder now. I’m trying to take him in my arms; he’s pushing me away.

“Carolina, stop.” He shoves me hard. My eyelashes are so wet, I can’t make out his face.

“It’s finished,” he says.

“Why? Why? I love you. I know you love me.”

“That’s just the way it is. It’s beyond love now. I’ve got to go. You’ve got to move on. Enough.”

I drag my forearm across my eyes and put my hand on the doorknob. Just as I open it, I turn.

“It’ll never be enough,” I say. “Never.”