Chapter Eleven
CHAPTER ELEVEN
M y first days on the job pass in a blurry haze. Since Wednesday I’ve been tagging along with Eve Seibold, the sixty-something who’ll be vacating the position as soon as she thinks I’m the least bit competent. So far, she hasn’t mentioned a date. We sit in the homebound office on the third floor of the administration building Friday afternoon. Compared with the spacious suite I had at Bohlinger Cosmetics, this cement-block room feels like a custodian’s closet. But a nice window overlooks East 35th Street, and after I fill the ledge with my mother’s potted geraniums, the place looks almost cheery.
I sit at the computer table perusing student files while Eve cleans out her desk. “Ashley Dickson sounds pretty straightforward,” I say. “Two more weeks of maternity leave and she’ll go back to school.”
Eve chuckles. “Trust me, they’re never straightforward.”
I set aside Ashley’s file and open another, this one for a sixth-grader. “Mental illness at age eleven?”
“Ah, Peter Madison.” Eve pulls two notebooks from her desk and crams them into a cardboard box. “Crazy as a bedbug. His shrink wants to talk to you. Dr. Garrett Taylor. He’s got a signed release from Peter’s mom.” She points to a phone number scrawled on the top of the folder. “The doc’s number’s right there.”
I flip through the file and land on Peter’s psychiatric report. Acts of aggression in the classroom…expulsion for the remainder of the semester. And I was worried about shabby houses? “What’s wrong with him?”
“LSS,” she tells me. “Little Shit Syndrome.” She pulls a smashed Twinkie from the back of her drawer, contemplates it for a moment, and then chucks it into the metal waste can. “Dr. Taylor calls it conduct disorder, but I’m no fool. The kid’s just like hundreds of others from these parts of Chicago. No dad, family history of substance abuse, not enough attention, yada, yada, yada.”
“But he’s just a kid. He should be in school. They can’t deny him his education.”
“That’s where you come in. Give him homebound services twice a week and he’s considered educated. Illinois Public Act Ninety-something-or-other. Make sure you call Dr. Taylor before you leave tonight. He’ll fill you in.”
B y the time I’ve finished reading all seven student files, it’s almost six o’clock. Eve left an hour ago, taking with her two large boxes crammed with everything from candy dishes to framed photos of her grandchildren. I gather my notes and my purse, suddenly anxious to start my weekend, too. Just as I’m about to turn out the lights, I remember I’m supposed to call Peter’s psychiatrist. Damn. I trudge back to my desk. At this hour on a Friday, he’ll be gone, but I’ll feel better if I leave a quick voice mail. I punch in his number and mentally rehearse the message I’ll leave.
“Garrett Taylor,” a melodious baritone answers.
“Oh…hello. I, um, I wasn’t expecting you to answer. I was planning to leave you a message.”
“Another ten minutes and you would have. How can I help you?”
“My name is Brett Bohlinger. I’m the new homebound teacher. I’ll be working with Peter Madison.”
“Ah, yes, Brett. Thank you for calling.” He chuckles. “You were expecting my voice mail; I was expecting a male voice.”
I smile. “Good one. Just one of the pitfalls of having a man’s name.”
“I like it. Isn’t there a Hemingway character named Brett?”
I lean back in my chair, impressed that he’s made the connection. “Yes, Lady Brett Ashley from The Sun Also Rises . My mother—” I realize I’m rambling. Do psychiatrists have this effect on everyone? “I’m sorry. You’re about to leave. Let me get to the point.”
“Take your time. I’m in no rush.”
His voice has a friendly, familiar tone, and I feel like I’m talking to an old chum rather than a medical doctor. I grab a piece of paper and lift my pen. “I’m calling about this student, Peter Madison. What can you tell me about him?”
I hear what sounds like Dr. Taylor settling back in his chair. “Peter is a very unusual boy. He’s extremely bright, but very manipulative. From what I understand, he was wreaking havoc in his classroom. The school district wanted a complete psychiatric workup, which is why they enlisted my help. I’ve only been working with him since September, so you and I will both be learning about Peter as we go.”
He tells me of Peter’s escapades in the classroom, everything from bullying a student with cerebral palsy, to tormenting the classroom hamster, to cutting a student’s hair.
“He gets pleasure from the reaction he receives from others. He enjoys inflicting emotional pain. In fact, he’s highly stimulated by it.”
Outside the wind howls and I wrap my sweater across my chest. “What caused him to be this way? Was he abused or something?”
“His mother is somewhat limited, but seems to be concerned. Dad’s not in the picture, so there could be some emotional trauma associated with that. Or it’s possible Peter’s psychological disturbances are simply the result of an unfortunate genetic endowment.”
“You mean he was just born this way?”
“It’s possible.”
Nothing I’ve read in What to Expect When You’re Expecting has touched on this. I imagine a chapter titled “Unfortunate Genetic Endowments.”
“But you’ll find that Peter can be quite charming when he wants to be.”
“Really? Like when he’s putting scissors to my hair?”
He chuckles. “I’m afraid I’ve frightened you. You’ll do fine. You sound very capable.”
Uh-huh. So capable my mother fired me.
“You’ll be the eyes and ears of the house, which will be extremely helpful. I’d like you to call me after each visit. Is that possible?”
“Yes, I can do that. Eve and I are supposed to see him Monday.” Unless I can come up with an excuse .
“My last session ends at five on Monday. Would you be able to call me sometime after that?”
“Sure,” I say, but his words barely register. Every cell in my brain is consumed with the fact that in three days, I’m going to be teaching the future Hannibal Lecter.
——
I take special care dressing Monday morning, finally opting for a pair of navy wool slacks to match the heather-gray cashmere sweater my mother bought me last Christmas. Not only do I want to make a good impression on my new students today, I also want to look my best when I meet Carrie. I think about her all the way to my office, hoping work goes smoothly and Eve doesn’t yammer endlessly at the end of the day. I want plenty of time to get to McCormick Place and find the restaurant in the Hyatt before Carrie arrives.
When I get to my office, I learn that Eve’s chatter would have been the least of my problems. Mr. Jackson, my supervisor, finds me before I’ve even turned on my computer.
“Eve called this morning,” he says, his large frame filling the doorway to my office. “She had a family emergency and won’t be back. But she’s confident you’ll be fine on your own. She told me to wish you luck.” He gives me a terse nod. “Good luck.”
I shoot from my desk, snagging my sweater on the splintered edge of my desk. So much for good impressions. “But Eve was going to introduce me to the students today, help me get the hang of things.”
“I’m sure you can manage. Did you drive or take the bus?”
“I-I drove.”
“Well then, you’re all set.” He turns to leave. “Be sure to keep track of your mileage. We do reimburse you, you know.”
Mileage reimbursement? I don’t give a rip about mileage. My life’s at stake! I trail him as he walks away.
“Mr. Jackson, wait. We have this student, Peter Madison. He sounds like he could be trouble. I don’t think I should see him alone.”
When he wheels around, the crease between his brows is angled like a tree branch. “Ms. Bohlinger, I’d love to provide a personal bodyguard for you, but unfortunately our budget won’t allow it.”
I open my mouth to object, but he’s already marching back to his office, leaving me alone to gnaw on my thumbnail.
M y first student today is Amina Adawe, a third-grader who lives on South Morgan. I’m shocked when I spy an abandoned tenement with Amina’s house number dangling above the entry door. I slow to a stop. People actually live in this place? The splintered door pushes open and a toddler waddles out, followed by a woman gabbing on her cell phone, dressed like she’s ready to go clubbing. Apparently, they do.
I make my way up the cracked sidewalk, thinking of my private office at Bohlinger Cosmetics, with its lush green plants and my little fridge stocked with fruit and bottled water. A familiar anger rises in me. Why has my mother placed me in this predicament?
I take a deep breath and, using my coat sleeve, twist the doorknob. Before stepping inside I look around one more time, as if it might be my final glimpse.
It’s murky and dank in the narrow hallway, and stinks of dirty diapers and garbage. I worm my way down the hallway, littered with food wrappers and cigarette butts. Rap music blares so loudly from one of the units I swear the floor is palpitating. Please tell me it this isn’t Amina’s apartment.
The apartment numbers on this floor are double digits. Amina’s unit, number four, must be in the basement. My heart pounds in my chest and I inch down a flight of stairs. Who’d ever find me if I disappeared inside this hellhole? How long must I keep this damn job before I can convince Brad to check it off my list? Another week, I decide—two at the most. By Thanksgiving I’m finished.
I reach the bottom of the stairwell. An exposed lightbulb overhead flickers, creating a frenetic light show. From behind the closed door of apartment number two, obscenities storm me, ugly and foul. I freeze. I’m just about to race back up the steps when a door swings open at the end of the hall. A thin woman with caramel skin and kind gold eyes appears, a silk hijab covering her hair.
“I-I’m looking for apartment four,” I enunciate slowly, holding out my staff ID. “Amina Adawe. I’m her teacher.”
She smiles and waves me inside. When she closes the door behind us, the shouting and stench vanish. The tidy apartment smells of baked chicken and exotic spices. She nods when I remove my shoes, and leads me into the living room where a tiny girl rests on a threadbare sofa, her plastered leg propped on pillows.
“Hello, Amina. I’m Miss Brett. I’ll be your teacher while you’re recuperating.”
Her dark eyes take me in bit by bit. “You very pretty,” she says with a lovely Arabic accent.
I smile. “You are, too.”
She tells me in broken English that she moved here from Somalia last winter, that she had one leg that was too short, so the doctor fixed it. She’s very sad to be missing school.
I pat her hand. “We’ll work together. When you return to school, you’ll be right on track with the rest of the class. Shall we begin with reading?”
I pull her reading text from my leather bag and a small boy rushes into the room. He clutches the cotton fabric of his mother’s jilbāb.
“Hello,” I say. “What’s your name?”
He peeks at me from behind his mother’s dress and whispers, “Abdulkadir.”
I repeat the multisyllabic mouthful and he blossoms into dimples. Amina and her mother giggle, their faces ripe with pride. With Amina propped on the bed and her brother sitting on his mother’s lap, the three sit rapt while I read a story about a princess who couldn’t cry. They study the pictures, stop to ask questions, giggle and clap.
Here I am, in my very own one-room schoolhouse! And this time, every student is ravenous to learn. This is a teacher’s dream. This is my dream!
T wenty minutes later I’m driving through Englewood. I try to focus on the fact that one of my favorite singers, Jennifer Hudson, grew up here, and ignore the fact that her family was murdered in this very place. A shiver goes through me. I’m relieved when I pull up to a large green house on Carroll Avenue that looks perfectly safe. But what’s with the sign in the front yard?
It’s hard to believe Sanquita Bell, three months’ pregnant and suffering from kidney disease, is a senior. The girl who looks to be of mixed race is as tiny as a twelve-year-old. Her wan face is barren of makeup, and her skin is silky and shiny, like pulled toffee. But it’s her hazelnut eyes that break my heart. They’re the weary eyes of a much older woman—one who’s seen far too much of a cruel world.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” I say, shedding my coat and gloves. “I saw the sign for Joshua House, and I thought I had the wrong address. What is this place?”
“A shelter for homeless women,” she says matter-of-factly.
I stare at her, thunderstruck. “Oh, Sanquita, I’m sorry to hear that. Has your family been here long?”
“My family ain’t here.” She rubs a hand over her still-flat belly as she speaks. “My mom, she moved to Detroit last year, but I refuse to live there. My baby ain’t gonna have that kinda life.”
She doesn’t define that kind of life , and I don’t ask her. I bite my lip and nod.
She crosses her arms over her chest defensively. “Don’t go feeling all sorry for me. Me and my baby’s gonna be just fine.”
“Of course you are.” I want to wrap her in my arms, this poor homeless girl, but I wouldn’t dare. It’s obvious this young lady doesn’t take kindly to comfort. “I don’t have parents, either. It’s hard, isn’t it?”
She lifts her shoulders dismissively. “I wanted my baby to know her daddy, but that ain’t gonna happen.”
Before I have time to reply, a short brunette rounds the corner, a baby on her hip.
“Hey, Sanquita. This your new teacher?” The woman takes my elbow. “I’m Mercedes. C’mon. Me and Sanquita will show you around.”
Sanquita lags behind while Mercedes leads me from the utilitarian kitchen into a spotless dining room. Two women fold laundry at a dining room table. In the living room, two more sit in front of an old television, watching The Price Is Right .
“This is nice,” I say, and look back at Sanquita. She looks away.
“Nine bedrooms in all,” Mercedes tells me, her voice tinged with pride.
We stop outside an office door, where an imposing black woman sits behind a desk, punching numbers into an adding machine.
“This is Jean Anderson, our director.” Mercedes knocks on the open door. “Miss Jean, come meet Sanquita’s teacher.”
Miss Jean raises her chin. After giving me a thorough once-over, she lowers her eyes to her adding machine and resumes punching numbers. “Hello,” she mumbles.
“Hi,” I say, leaning in with my hand outstretched. “I’m Brett Bohlinger. I’ll be working with Sanquita while she’s out of school.”
“Sanquita,” she says without looking up. “You need to get that prescription filled today. Don’t forget.”
My arm falls to my side and Sanquita glances at me awkwardly. “Uh, okay. See you later, Miss Jean.”
We climb the stairs, Sanquita a step ahead of Mercedes and me. “Miss Jean’s cool,” Mercedes tells me. “She just don’t trust white people much.”
“Gee, you’d never guess.”
Mercedes busts out laughing. “You’re sassy. You and Sanquita are gonna get along just fine, aren’t you, Quita?” Sanquita doesn’t respond.
Mercedes and I are still chatting when we reach the top of the stairs. I look up to see Sanquita standing at a bedroom door, drumming her fingers on one of her crossed arms.
“Thanks for the tour,” I tell Mercedes, and hurry into the bedroom.
A weathered bedside table separates a set of twin beds, made up with faded blue bedcovers. Two mismatched dressers sit on either side of a window that overlooks the street. Sanquita takes a seat on the bed. “We can work here. Chardonay’s at work.”
There’s no chair, so I perch beside her on the bed, careful not to stare at her swollen hands, her eyelids puffy with fluid, or the patches of pink skin on her arms and hands that look as if they’ve been scratched raw.
“How do you like it here?” I ask, fishing her folder from my satchel.
“It’s straight. Not too much drama. That last place I stayed didn’t have no rules. I got my purse stole there, and some crazy lady thought I was messing with her. She tried to fight me.”
“Oh, my gosh. Were you hurt?”
“I didn’t care about me. I was just worried about my baby. That’s when I came here.”
“I’m glad you’re in a safe place now. How are you feeling?”
She shrugs. “Okay. Just tired, that’s all.”
“Take care of yourself. Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.”
“Just help me get my diploma. My baby’s gotta know her mama was smart.”
She says it as if she won’t be around to tell the baby herself, and I wonder just how sick this girl actually is. “It’s a deal,” I say, and pull a chemistry book from my bag.
After an hour, I have to force myself to leave Sanquita. I could spend all day teaching this child. Chemistry is especially difficult for her, but she listens carefully as I explain, and keeps trying until she finally succeeds.
“I usually suck at science, but today I actually get it.”
She doesn’t attribute her success to me, nor should she. Still, I nearly burst with pride. “You’re a hard worker,” I say, and slide her folder into my satchel. “And you’re one smart girl.”
She studies her fingernails. “When you coming back?”
I open my planner. “Well, when would you like to see me again?”
She shrugs. “Tomorrow?”
“You’ll be finished with your homework by tomorrow?”
Her eyes go cold and she slaps shut her chemistry book. “Never mind. I know you only gotta see me two times in the week.”
“Let’s see,” I say, studying my calendar. The only unscheduled slot tomorrow is an hour at noon reserved for lunch and paperwork. “I can come at noon. Does that work for you?”
“Yeah. Noon’s okay.”
She doesn’t smile. She doesn’t thank me. But still, I leave feeling warm.
I call Brad on my way to Wentworth Street and leave him a message. “This job was made for me, Brad! I’m on my way to Peter’s house, so wish me luck.”
When I arrive, an obese woman opens the door, a telephone at her ear and a cigarette between her fingers. This must be Autumn, Peter’s mother. She’s wearing a baggy T-shirt with a picture of Sponge Bob. I smile at the whimsical character, but she simply jerks her head, which I take as a gesture for me to enter.
The stench of cigarette smoke and cat urine nearly knock the breath from me. A black wool blanket tacked over the picture window blocks any natural light from infusing the stuffy room. On the wall I can make out a framed picture of Jesus, his eyes beseeching and his bloody palms outstretched.
Autumn snaps shut her phone and turns to me. “You Peter’s teacher?”
“Yes. Hi, I’m Brett Bohlinger.” I take out my ID photo, but she doesn’t bother to look at it.
“Peter! Get out here!”
I smile nervously and reposition my satchel on my shoulder. Autumn plants her fists on her hips. “Goddamn it, Peter. I said get out here, now!” She barrels down a hallway and I hear her pound on a door. “Your teacher’s here. Get your ass out here before I break down the damn door!”
Peter obviously doesn’t want to see me. The rant continues until finally I step toward the hallway. “Look,” I say. “Why don’t I come back another time…”
Suddenly the door swings open. At the end of the gloomy hall, a figure takes shape. A large boy, with shaggy brown hair and a sprout of fuzz on his chin, lumbers toward me. Instinctively, I take a step backward.
“Hi, Peter,” I say, my voice shaky. “I’m Miss Brett.”
He breezes past me. “No shit.”
T he one-hour session with Peter seems more like three. We sit at the Madisons’ sticky kitchen table, but he refuses to look at me. Within earshot, Autumn yaks on the phone to someone named Brittany. Her gravelly voice competes with mine, and I deliver my instructions loudly, determined to win this contest. Peter simply grunts, as if I’m a huge annoyance he’s forced to endure. I consider myself lucky when I get an occasional terse, one-word answer. By the end of the session I’ve learned far more about Brittany than I have about him.
F reshly fallen snow covers the windy city like a layer of white frosting, and the entire region slows to a crawl. It’s nearly five o’clock when I trudge up the stairwell and unlock my office door. I turn on the light switch and spot a fabulous vase of orchids on my desk. How thoughtful of Andrew. I tear open the enclosure card.
Congratulations on your new job, Brett.
Couldn’t be happier for you.
Best Wishes,
Catherine and Joad
What was I thinking? Andrew’s never been a flower kind of guy. I tuck the card back into its envelope and make a mental note to invite Catherine and Joad for Thanksgiving dinner.
The red light on my office telephone blinks and I lift the receiver to check my messages.
“Hello, Brett. It’s Garrett Taylor. Just feeling a little anxious, wondering how it went today with Peter. My four o’clock canceled, so I’m available whenever you are.”
I dial his number and he picks up on the first ring.
“Hello, Dr. Taylor. It’s Brett Bohlinger.”
I hear him sigh. It sounds like a sigh of relief rather than annoyance. “Hi, Brett,” he says. “And it’s Garrett—no need to call me Doc.”
I like his informal tone, like we’re colleagues.
“Everything go all right today?”
“I still have my hair, so I’m considering it a success.”
He laughs. “That’s good news. So he wasn’t so bad?”
“Oh, no, he was a complete asshole.” I slap a hand over my mouth and my cheeks flame. “I’m so sorry. That was totally unprofessional. I didn’t mean—”
Dr. Taylor laughs. “It’s fine. He can be an asshole, I agree. But maybe, just maybe, we can help this little asshole develop some social skills.”
I tell him about Peter’s reluctance to come out of his room.
“But he finally came out when he heard you say you were leaving. That’s positive. He wanted to meet you.”
The dark cloud that’s been trailing me since I left Peter’s house lifts. We discuss Peter for another ten minutes before the conversation takes a personal turn.
“Were you a classroom teacher before you took this homebound job?”
“No. I’m a disaster in the classroom.”
“I doubt that.”
“Trust me.” I lean back and prop my feet on my desk. Without meaning to, I plunge into the story of my day substituting at Douglas Keyes, embellishing it for entertainment purposes. It’s freeing, hearing him laugh at my tale, like a lead balloon miraculously rising and floating off into the heavens. I’m guessing this hour would cost me a couple hundred bucks if I were sitting in his office.
“I’m sorry,” I say, suddenly embarrassed. “I’m wasting your time.”
“Not at all. I’ve seen my last patient, and I’m enjoying this. So, even though your day as a substitute was a challenge, you knew teaching was your passion.”
“Honestly, it’s my mother who insists it’s my passion. She died in September and left me instructions to try it again.”
“Ah. She knew it suited you.”
I smile. “I guess so.”
“I have great respect for your profession. Both my older sisters are retired schoolteachers. My mother taught, too, for a short time. Believe it or not, she actually taught in a one-room schoolhouse.”
“Really? When was that?”
“Back in the forties. But as soon as she got pregnant, she was required to resign. That’s how it was done back then.”
Shamelessly, I do a quick calculation. His oldest sister was born in the forties…he’s pushing sixty, minimum. “That’s not fair,” I say.
“Certainly not, although I never sensed she regretted it. Like most women during that era, she spent the rest of her life as a homemaker.”
“What made you choose your profession?”
“My story is a bit different than yours. My father was a physician—a cardiac surgeon. Being the only son, I was expected to join him after med school, and eventually take over his practice. But somewhere between med school and my internship, I realized I craved relationships with my patients. During rotations it was always the same issue, ‘Taylor,’ my supervising physician would say, ‘you can’t make money talking to patients. Get the facts and shut the hell up.’”
I laugh. “Too bad. I wish more doctors cared.”
“It’s not that they don’t care. It’s just that medicine has become an assembly line of sorts. The doctor’s got twenty minutes to get the patient diagnosed and out the door, with either a prescription in hand or a referral for further testing. Then it’s on to the next patient and the next. It wasn’t my style.”
“Well, from what I can sense, you chose the right specialty.”
It’s six thirty when we finally hang up, and I’m as relaxed as a cat in the sun. Peter will challenge me, no doubt about it. But I have an ally now, in Garrett.
Mine is the only car left in the dimly lit parking lot. Without an ice scraper, I use my mitten to brush the snow from the windshield. But beneath the snow lurks a layer of ice, too thick to crack with my hands.
Sitting in my car with the defroster blasting, I spy the red flash from my cell phone. Four text messages: one from Meg, one from Shelley, and two from Brad. Each is a similar version of the same message. How was ur day? How was crzy kid? I type a quick reply to each, feeling a lump in my throat swell until I can barely swallow. I rub it down and work to breathe.
Nothing from Andrew. Not even a simple, U ok?
T he drive home is akin to an obstacle course. Drivers aren’t used to winter conditions yet, and every block or two it seems I have to swerve around a fender-bender, or double back to avoid a traffic standstill. Finally, at eight twenty, I pull into the parking structure. Just as I turn off the ignition, the date on my dashboard catches my eye. I rotate the key and the dashboard lights up again. November 14.
“Shit!” I pound my fist on the steering wheel. “Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!”
November 14, my date with Carrie Newsome.