Authors: Barry James Hickey
from a stranger,” Amber sighed.
“Are you guys and gals going to be frogs or toads
someday?” Mrs. Ledger asked.
“Someday we hope to be salamanders,” Matt joked. “Definitely salamanders,” Marie said.
Mr. Battle faced his students proudly. “Mrs. Ledger, may I
have the honor to present my students; Matt Golden, Amber
Beulah, Marie Fuentes, Julio Ramirez and Toby Chambers.” “Well,” she said with open arms, “Welcome one and all! We
have all kinds of Christmas goodies to eat and drink in the
trophy room across the gym and I hear we may even play a
little disco for you all tonight!” She smiled at Matt in his
tuxedo. “What was your name again, young man?” “Matt. Matt Golden.”
“You look like a regular man of intrigue in that special
tuxedo! Like a young and handsome James Bond 007!” She
giggled. “Save me a Twist for later?”
“Uh, sure,” Matt said. He whispered to Amber. “What’s a
Twist?”
“I think it’s a dance,” she replied.
“Oh, man,” he sweated, “I didn’t get all dressed up to
dance with some old lady! She’ll probably fall down and break
her hip.”
Mrs. Ledger smiled at Toby. “And Toby Chambers! You’re
all grown up!”
“Hello, Mrs. Ledger.”
“What’s it been? Five years since you finished here?” “Six years,” he said.
She smiled at his friends. “Toby learned to sign right here at
our school.” She pinched his cheek. “I’m so proud of you!” Another minute of idle gossip and chitchat went by before
the teens drifted into the gym and left Mr. Battle behind with
Mrs. Ledger.
“It was very nice of you to invite us,” Mr. Battle said. “Oh, my pleasure,” said she. “Before I was an
administrator, I was the English teacher here. Toby’s parents
used to love to read!”
The tanned brick gymnasium was decorated with white
twinkling lights strung along the walls above folded wooden
bleachers that ran the length of the gym. Green and red
strings of lights drifted down from four ceiling skylights,
dangling overhead just out of reach. A big tree decorated by
the student body with their own handmade ornaments and
more strings of lights, ribbons and bows stood proudly
against the south wall near the trophy room, giving the whole
room a real Christmas glow. There was a giant red and white
flag hung on one wall with the words BULLDOG PRIDE
depicting the school’s muscular mascot wearing a spiked
collar. All sorts of red pendants and flags with white letters
graced the walls revealing more school pride:
COLORADO D-8
FOOTBALL
STATE CHAMPS – 1977
STATE
BOYS TRACK 2
ND
PLACE
DISTRICT
BOYS TRACK CHAMPIONS
Like all teenagers, the Tadpoles meandered across the gymnasium towards the room where the free food and drinks were. Julio slid along, dragging his feet on the shined and polished wooden floor.
The spike-haired lead singer for the dance band stood on a makeshift stage performing a sound system check. “Check, check. Is this thing on? Check, check.”
“What kind of music do you play?” Matt asked him. “Something for everybody.”
The Tadpoles left the gym and entered the trophy room. A
snack counter was laid out with cookies, cakes, pies, finger sandwiches and bowls of punch. A blind girl in a wheelchair gave them each a candy cane while they over-loaded paper plates with a little bit of everything. After the Tadpoles ate, they examined all the trophies and awards in the glass cases around the room.
“These guys were state champs in wrestling, football, soccer, just about everything!” Matt was awed.
“They kicked some serious ass in chess and math, too.” Julio was amazed.
“You should have stayed in school here,” Matt advised Toby. “You’d have been a super star.”
“I only took an American Sign Language course.”
They stared up at a pair of giant stuffed bulldogs on top of one of the cases.
“I think I’ll steal one of those later,” Julio bragged.
“I’m sure Mr. Battle will be thrilled,” Amber said.
The Tadpoles returned to the gym and stood in a corner together by themselves, watching a beehive of activity as deaf, dumb and blind students buzzed around the room.
“They’re just like anybody else,” Marie said.
After a couple of minutes the band started up. “It’s hammer time,” the singer announced.
The band broke into an old rap song and the dance floor immediately filled up with dancing kids. The Tadpoles sat together on plastic chairs, anxious and nervous. They saw Mr. Battle across the room getting an earful of happy talk from the principal. After the third song, Betty, the girl that greeted them on their arrival, boldly yanked Toby by the arm towards the dance floor.
“I’m not ready yet,” he protested.
“Who is ever ready?” Betty laughed.
A whole crowd of other kids moved in on the remaining Tadpoles and started chatting away. “You’re from Garfield? What grade are you in? Do you play any sports? Do you want to dance?” One by one, Tadpoles were dragged kicking and screaming to the dance floor.
The party was on.
After an hour of BOOGIE NIGHTS, the artist formerly known as PRINCE, a polka and BABY GOT BACK, the Tadpoles collapsed in chairs with a handful of resident students for small talk.
Amber searched around the room with her eyes and saw Mr. Battle sitting quietly in a corner by himself, his cane across his lap. He seemed suddenly old and tired to her, as if he was all worn out from life. She set her soda down under her chair and approached him when the band started playing an old-fashioned slow song.
“Will you dance with me?” she asked bravely.
“Absolutely,” he smiled.
They stepped out onto the dance floor.
“Remember the six inch rule!” her teacher joked. They turned in slow circles around the room together.
Amber felt his arms and shoulders. She never realized how thin he was before. She noticed his face up close. Deep wrinkles around his eyes, a permanent sorrow behind his smile.
“Chin up, Mr. B. It’s Christmas.” She hoped to cheer him up.
“I’m having a great time, Amber. Just feeling nostalgic. That’s all.”
“Nostalgic about what?”
“The past, Amber. What might have been, what should have been.”
“You have us,” she said. “Me.”
He looked at her shining eyes full of hope and dreams, enhanced by the twinkling lights. “That means a lot to me.”
She leaned her head against his chest affectionately. “You take care of us like nobody else, Mr. B.”
“I wish I could do more, Amber.”
“You’ll see. It will all work out in the end.”
“I hope so.”
“
I know so
.”
They danced past Toby. He had a beaming smile on his face from something Betty was whispering in his ear.
“Be patient, Amber, for there are years when nothing happens and days when centuries happen.” Mr. Battle said, his eyes meeting hers.
“I’ll never forget what you’ve done for us, Mr. Battle.”
He smiled. “Promise me something, Amber?”
“What’s that, Mr. B?”
“That you’ll keep your baby…”
She tensed up and pulled away. “Gee, I don’t know…”
“It will all work out in the end. Remember?”
She stopped dancing and faced him. “I’m scared,” she pouted. “I’m all alone in this great big world.”
“Do you want your baby to go through what you did? Raised by strangers, maybe in and out of foster homes just like you?”
“I never thought about it like that,” she realized.
He took her small hands in his. “You’ll make a great mother,” he said with conviction.
The song ended.
“After winter break is over, I want you to tell me everything there is to know about you, Mr. B! Everything! Promise? After the New Year. A fresh start.”
“Okay,” he said. “Next year.”
Amber gave him a long hug, then dashed off to join her friends. The Principal moseyed up to Battle and offered to lead him around the dance floor next.
“What I really need is a chair,” Battle remarked.
An hour later, Mr. Battle rounded up the Tadpoles and ordered them to follow him outside. He was carrying his small bag of presents. It was still snowing, sticking to the ground now. He led them past a Douglas fir decorated with Christmas lights across from a campus dormitory. Next to the tree was a modern sculpture depicting six iron bodies holding hands and dancing in a circle.
“This is us,” he said. “What we have accomplished together these past months has been a real phenomenon.” Mr. Battle brushed snow off a stone viewing bench and sat down. “Before we go, I have something for each of you.”
He opened the bag and pulled out five small boxes wrapped in expensive paper and ribbon. He gave each student a box. “A little Christmas present from me to you. Go ahead, open them.”
The Tadpoles opened their boxes. Inside each was a bluish gray object that resembled a small stone.
“They’re uncultured pearls,” he said. “Do you know how a pearl grows?”
“No,” said the students.
“It begins around a single grain of sand in the vast ocean. A pearl takes years to grow. When it is found in the sea, it looks like what you have in your hands. What happens next is that the pearl must be polished and shaped to determine its value. . Like you, no two pearls are alike. Want to know what I believe?” he asked seriously.
“What?”
“You’re not Tadpoles anymore. You’ll never be frogs or toads or lizards or salamanders. You’re pearls. Five precious pearls that fell out of the sky and landed in my lap.” Mr. Battle stared up at the heavens. “And I thank God that I have had the pleasure and the opportunity to get to know each and every one of you.”
Amber and Marie started to sob. Julio put his arms around both of them and hugged them tight.
“Thanks, Mr. Battle,” he said.
“Thanks, Mr. B,” the others said humbly.
“No. I thank you,” he smiled, pulling himself off the bench. “Now, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll have the driver run me home. And when he returns, the car is yours until midnight."
“Sorry we didn't get you anything, Mr. B,” Toby said.
The weary teacher put his hand on Toby’s shoulder. “You gave me you. That was present enough.”
He strolled with the teenagers back to the gym. The dance was winding down and the newly named Five Pearls pitched in to fold up chairs and tables while the driver ran their teacher home.
Outside the gym, as Mr. Battle settled in the back seat of the stretch limo, he heard a rapid knock on his window. He lowered it and looked out.
“Yes?” he asked.
“Merry Christmas,” Amber said as she gave him a quick kiss.
“Merry Christmas,” he said, his bewildered lips half puckered.
Amber pulled her shawl around her shoulders and hurried back towards the gym, waving goodbye. Her last words echoed across the parking lot. “We love you, Mr. B!”
As the limousine snaked its way away from the school through the light blizzard, the driver shouted back to the teacher. “Looks like a white Christmas for you this year!”
“That it does.”
Christmas came and went. The sky turned gray and the sun refused to shine. A week of constant snow flurries and black ice settled in across the foothills, delivering a one-two punch of closed businesses and happy children on Christmas break with their sleds and inner tubes. The big house on Cascade Avenue creaked under the weight of snow on the old roof.
John spent his days writing private letters on yellow-lined tablets in the library. He took frequent breaks when his eyes and hands grew tired. Between the cooking, laundry and caring for John, Mrs. Powell spent her free time filling out requests to a handful of regional, state and national historic societies to look into having the Loomis property registered as a National Historic Site.
“It’s a maze of paperwork,” she said with sour dread. “I have to write letters and fill applications to The National Register of Historic Places, The National Trust for Historic Preservation, The Colorado State Historic Preservation Office, The Colorado Historical Society, and dozens of other non-profits and organizations I’ve never even heard of!”
“What are the qualifiers?” John asked.
“Some want proof historical significance prominent American lived or worked here. Some want to know who the architect was. All of them are concerned about the condition of the entire estate.”
“What does
historic
mean, anyway?” John mused.
“Oh my, the word is tossed around so easily nowadays. From ancient ruins to skyscrapers.”
“Instead of asking if your house is historic, shouldn’t the question be, ‘is the house worth saving’?” he asked. “After all, you have the good sense to want to preserve it.”
that there were events of national here. Others want to know if a
“Yes, but I have a vested interest,” she admitted. “I grew up in this old box. My father grew up here, his father…”
“If these walls could speak, what would they say, Mrs. Powell?”
She set down her reading glasses, speaking wistfully. “This old house would say that it wants to remain as a gift to the street. A reminder that old things with individual personalities have value, too. Oh, I know it isn’t as gloomy as the Alamo or as inspiring as a cathedral, but dammit, John, this charming mansion has character and personality. And in the future, people like you can come here to die in peace, and be reminded of the finer things in their narrow lives, when homes were where the heart was and still is, I might add.”
“That was good, Mrs. Powell! Write it down just like that! Strip away the rhetoric and tell it like it is, that it just makes good sense to keep this house alive, that houses aren’t people, that they don’t have to die like us. Historic preservation should be about places that tell a story. Your house doesn’t have to tell a big story about a politician or famous scientist. Why can’t it tell a small story?” He was fuming.
“Calm down, John,” Mrs. Powell laughed.
“Dammit, Mrs. Powell! I know I’m dying. But this house doesn’t have to go down with me!’
“Remember what I said about getting agitated,” she said.
“If the past isn’t important, then the present isn’t important and without either, the future holds no value either, so all goes to hell in a hand basket…”
“You have inspired me, young man.” Mrs. Powell uncapped a pen and started writing on an application.
“When I’m gone… then what?” he suddenly asked. “You have a mountain of legal and political obstacles ahead of you. They may take years.”
“I know,” she said, writing.
“Have you considered who your next tenant might be? To keep the cash flow up.”
“Not yet,” she said.
“Why not?”
She rested the pen in her hand, her smile a beam of sunshine. “My hands are full with the present occupant.”
“You’re a piece of work, Mrs. Powell.”
He went into a coughing jag and stood to excuse himself from the room. But the coughing continued, from deep in his chest.
Mrs. Powell sat him back down in his chair. “Slow down, John. Breathe slowly, breathe slowly.”
After his wind came back, she ran to the kitchen and returned with a heavy dose of pain medicine.
“Is this dinner?” he asked through gritted teeth.
“I’m afraid so,” she said.
He swallowed his pills and drank his liquids. Mrs. Powell pulled him to his feet and helped him up the long flight of stairs.
“It won’t be long now, eh, Mrs. Powell?”
“No, John. Not long now.”