More Than Allies Read online

  Maybe God was working hard to make her glad she wasn’t a teacher!

  Austin, Texas

  Dear Maggie,

  This isn’t a good way for us to live. We have to decide whether we will be a family. I want that, but I don’t believe we can make it, there. I need work, and you want work, and our children need both parents. I’m not going to say things over again about Mother, I know I said them too baldly when I left. I love her, and I know you do, too, but you are the mother now.

  Austin is very beautiful, not like Lupine, but not completely unlike Lupine, either, because it is green and hilly. The main thing is, it’s bigger, and I can make a living here. Maybe we won’t be rich, but we could rent a house here, we could do that. They tell me the schools are okay. The music is everywhere, and great. They have nice little places to go and drink beer, they call them beer gardens, like in Germany. And lots of cheap places to eat.

  If you would come down, and try it, see how you feel, I would stay open to living somewhere else, if there’s work, but not Lupine. I am living in a one-room apartment in a house chopped up into apartments, but if you come I will rent a little house for the summer. It’s hot here already, but there’s water, many places to swim, good hamburgers. Jerry’s wife is nice and wants to meet you. They have a baby a little older than Stevie. (They guessed which musician she was named for, which shows you they knew me pretty good right away!)

  I thought you could come when school is out, since you won’t be subbing. If you don’t want to come, I want Jay for the summer. He can stay with me at the shop, or at Jerry’s some of the time. I want to find an old car and start showing him how to work on engines. I promise I won’t let him on a motorcycle, I know how you feel about that.

  If you aren’t going to come, we need to come to an agreement about child support and stuff, and whether you want a divorce, oh Maggie, not that! But I don’t feel right sending you what I decide, I don’t know what I ought to be doing, but I can tell you the only reason I haven’t sent more is because I was saving up for security deposits for renting a house and turning on the utilities, and I overhauled the engine on the truck.

  Well, school will be out pretty soon and there’s no real reason for you not to come. I promise you you won’t be nearly as lonesome as you think you will. Jerry’s wife (Lisa) is dying for you to come, and I’ve already got to know some other people, too. You’d meet people because of the kids, especially when they’re in school. What else can I say? I didn’t say I love you, I miss you all the time, I’ve been true to you but I don’t like being alone at all. If you want I will come get you, or we can use some of what I’ve saved and you can fly, except that you couldn’t bring very much stuff.

  Maybe you could talk to Mom about it. Not your friends. I don’t mean don’t talk to them, God don’t get mad like I’ve insulted them or something. I just mean they’re not the best ones to understand us. They’re not really like us. Mom wants us together. I bet she prays for it, if I know her. There’s a Mexican works in the shop, he says everything that happens, his wife goes to church and lights candles. If I was Catholic, that’s what I’d do. I’d light all the candles in the place, and every one, I’d say, please let Maggie and the kids come. Please let me say the right things instead of the wrong things this time.

  Love, Mo

  Mrs. Tobler’s English class had just finished reading Death of a Salesman. She had left a list of discussion questions. Maggie looked over the afternoon’s plans—there would be three classes in a row—and saw that the next class had the same assignment, for the same play, and that the last class was going to watch part of the movie.

  She checked her watch, and turned to write the questions on the board. She knew by the time she had written out the first couple of lines that she would not attempt a discussion. She didn’t want to maneuver her way through the students’ apathy and insolence, second-guessing who could be called on and who to avoid. She would tell the students they could work in pairs to write out answers in preparation for a discussion the next day—with their teacher. “Keep it down,” she would say sternly, “or you will have to work singly, in silence.” That was about the extent of her ability to threaten. That, and taking names.

  Mrs. Tobler wasn’t stupid; why did she leave a sub to launch talk about a boring play with a class of students who would know Maggie was a lightweight? And there were the things Mrs. Tobler had no way to know: that Maggie had no father and did not know how to talk about fathers, that her children’s father was in Texas selling motorcycles, that she had been up all night with a sick baby.

  “Cheers.”

  She looked up to see Rachel at the door. There were five minutes left of lunch hour. She waved at Rachel to come in. Rachel was wearing a nicely cut but loose-fitting dress, and Maggie couldn’t be sure, but she thought she had lost weight. Maggie could see it in the face, where Rachel’s rather delicate features had for the past year seemed buried in flesh.

  “They hired a teacher from Milwaukee for that freshman slot,” Rachel told her. Maggie had applied, but the truth was, she had just about forgotten there was an opening. Her application was on file—it had been on file four years, here, and in the next two towns over, except that she had skipped the year after she had Stevie. They were never going to hire her. Why should they? She had a B.A. in English and a basic teaching certificate. She had no experience other than subbing, and she was nothing special, personally. She didn’t ski or play handball, she hadn’t been to Thailand, she didn’t speak another language, and she wasn’t particularly good at teaching (not that she had had a chance to test that very far). Her only real qualification was that she would be a cheap hire. She had counted on that but it wasn’t paying off.

  Rachel smirked. “Milwaukee, Wisconsin, not Milwaukee, Oregon.”

  “Really,” Maggie said, not even mildly interested.

  “There’s a rumor that she’s black. A black teacher on this staff. Imagine that. Don’t you hope she’s married?”

  Maggie looked up. She tried to remember the last time she had seen a black person in Lupine, other than athletes at the college. Two years ago they had done a play at the theatre, with an all-black cast.

  “It was all done by mail, by phone. She didn’t come out to interview.”

  “And they don’t know?”

  “Oh, they know. But we don’t know.”

  Maggie didn’t understand why Rachel was telling her this. She asked, truly curious.

  “Maggie, you are so damned literal. You remind me sometimes of Leah.” Leah was Rachel’s four-year old daughter.

  Blood rose to Maggie’s face. She felt insulted, without understanding the nature of the accusation.

  Rachel saw. “Oh shit, Maggie, don’t be so thin-skinned. I’m teasing you.”

  Maggie picked up the chalk again. “I need to write the rest of these questions out.”

  “What I meant was, everybody’s talking about it like it matters. I was commenting on the petty, stupid nature of gossip at LHS.”

  Maggie set the chalk down and leaned on the desk, to give her hands someplace to be firm. “You weren’t gossiping?”

  “I was being ironic. Well, maybe not. I mean, not actual irony, in the literary sense. But I don’t care. I hope it’s true, and I think it’s worth mentioning because it’s all they’re talking about in the English offices.”

  The first bell rang.

  “Sorry,” Rachel said.

  “I didn’t expect anything,” Maggie said. “I’ve never been called for an interview.”

  “Not that. I assumed you’d know what I meant. In a way it’s a compliment, you know. Thinking that you’d know. My therapist says I’ve become a master of hidden meaning because I don’t want anyone to know my real state of mind. She says if I keep it up it will interfere with my writing. It already interferes with the integrity of my life. I ought to be better at saying things straight out.”

  “I suppose you could practice on me, but I’m not really the one
you’re hiding anything from,” Maggie said, suddenly, inordinately proud of her insight. She had always considered Rachel mysterious; what if she were just deceptive?

  Rachel didn’t miss it. “Everybody underestimates you,” she said. “Even you.”

  As Rachel left, Maggie wondered whether Rachel was avoiding honesty in her marriage, or in her writing—with her Muse, Rachel would say—or just with herself. Something about Rachel invited you to speculate. She was an interesting woman, and Maggie had always admired her. She didn’t have time, though, to analyze her; twenty-seven high school juniors were pouring into the room.

  She wrote out another question, then turned to call the roll.

  The last period of the day was a free one for Mrs. Tobler, but Maggie wasn’t supposed to leave until four. She tidied the two piles of papers she had collected in class, then took a paperback book out of her purse. It was a collection of short stories by women, all having to do with love and family. What didn’t have to do with love and family? Business and war, she supposed. Did women write about those things?

  A student came in and said there was a phone call for her; she could take it in the library.

  She ran to take it, worried it was the baby. It was Polly, to say that Jay’s teacher had called and she needed to go over there as soon as she was free. “He seemed to think Jay’s not doing so well,” Polly said. “He assured me it’s not an emergency. And Maggie, Stevie’s feeling much better. She doesn’t have any fever at all.”

  Maggie took her time slip down to the front office and laid it on the counter. The secretary tapped it with her long nails. “We really aren’t supposed to check you out until four.”

  “I have to be over at the grade school.”

  The secretary looked at her, clearly disbelieving, but was twenty minutes worth a confrontation? She pulled the slip of paper toward her. “Mrs. Tobler will be back tomorrow, you know.”

  “I’m so glad,” Maggie said.

  The children had already cleared out of the building and the buses were gone when Maggie reached Jay’s school. She walked quickly to his classroom. Jack met her at the door, took hold of her in that kind of squeezed-upper-arm grasp he had, and suggested that they go down to the office.

  “What’s wrong?” she demanded. His overly concerned expression alarmed her.

  “Now don’t worry, Maggie,” he said. “There’s nothing really wrong.”

  “But—his grandmother said—”

  “Come, why say everything twice?”

  He led her into the principal’s office. The principal was a pretty, plump, very sweet woman, well-liked by everyone, and she was sporting the same damned look as Jack.

  Maggie sank into the one soft chair in the office. Jack sat on a straight-backed chair a little closer to the principal’s desk. Mrs. Cecil. The kids all called her Miz-C.

  “Jay?” Maggie said.

  “Oh, he’s gone on home on the bus,” Mrs. Cecil said.

  “He had a hard day,” Jack said.

  “He’s such a sweet kid,” Mrs. Cecil said.

  “Usually,” Jack added.

  “What has he done?” Maggie asked.

  “It’s not so much one thing—” Mrs. Cecil said, “—as it is a pattern that seems to be emerging.”

  “Of what?” Maggie asked.

  “There was one thing today,” Jack interjected.

  “Jack thought it was so close to the end of the year, we could let things go by—” Mrs. Cecil began, but Jack interrupted her. He leaned toward Maggie, his arms resting on his knees.

  “He sprayed a boy today, on the stage.”

  “Sprayed?” Maggie’s immediate image was of her son peeing on someone’s foot. He used to do that when he was little. On his own foot. When he first started peeing standing up. He didn’t always wait for the stream to end. He was in a hurry to get away, and he’d let go too soon.

  “And a little scuffle ensued,” the teacher added.

  “Ensued,” Maggie repeated. Spoken in that isolated way, the word had an exotic sound, like a greeting in another language.

  “They were working on the play for Spanish night,” Jack continued.

  “Mrs. Jarrett,” Mrs. Cecil said. Jack stopped talking. He pulled his hands together, folded them so that they hung in a lump between his knees. “We’re worried about Jay because he seems so angry. So unhappy.”

  “He hasn’t seemed that way to me,” Maggie said. It was true, wasn’t it? He was the same old Jay? Or was he unhappy, the way he slid his food around on his plate with his fork while he drooped his head? The way he holed up in the bedroom at Polly’s with his comic books and didn’t come out for hours? The way he refused to speak to Mo when he called? And then wouldn’t talk about it. She assumed it was something he was growing into, and would grow out of.

  “His dad—” Maggie said, shrugging. She was embarrassed. She didn’t want to talk about Mo with her son’s teacher. She didn’t think it was anyone’s business. Besides, she didn’t know what to say.

  “Divorce always affects the children,” Mrs. Cecil said in a soothing, sympathetic voice, devoid of accusation.

  “We’re not divorced!” Maggie said. “Jay’s father is out of town—on a job.” She felt furious with herself for the lie—which wasn’t entirely a lie but not the truth, either—and furious with these people for putting her in a position to explain. “He’s in Texas,” she said helplessly. She was afraid she would start to cry.

  “I’m going to take him out of the Spanish play,” Jack said. “It does seem clear he started the scuffle, and he has to experience some consequence—”

  “If it was a scuffle, there must have been other boys—” Maggie said. Jay was a small boy, maybe the smallest in his class.

  “Punam volunteered to drop out, too,” Jack said. “He acknowledged that he should share the responsibility. He was trying to get the paint can away from Jay.”

  “The paint shouldn’t have been on the stage,” Mrs. Cecil said. “We’ll talk about it in faculty meeting, to be sure it doesn’t happen again. We want a safe environment. Anything dangerous should be used under supervision.

  “Actually, Punam would be a good friend for Jay, now that Gus doesn’t pay him much attention. Punam is a nice kid.”

  Maggie, thoroughly confused, sat mute.

  “I’m apologizing to you, Mrs. Jarrett,” Mrs. Cecil said. “For our failure in this matter. The lack of supervision. Not calling you sooner.”

  “We’re going to talk about it in circle tomorrow,” Jack said. “You could come. You could talk to Jay about that.”

  Maggie shook her head vigorously. “No no,” she said. “I couldn’t.”

  “Parents often sit in,” Mrs. Cecil said.

  Maggie shook her head again.

  “We have to talk about the roughhousing on the stage,” Jack said. “And we have to talk about what to do when we’re angry.”

  “The children are very close,” Mrs. Cecil said. “And Jennifer will be sitting in.”

  “Jennifer?”

  “Jennifer is our child development specialist. This is her first year on staff. We got her, you know, because so many parents lobbied the Board. Parents can’t bear all the load.”

  Maggie, ashamed, feeling tears on the way, put her face in her hands.

  “Mrs. Jarrett,” Mrs. Cecil said, rising from her chair.

  “The—baby—is—sick,” Maggie whimpered. It was simply more than she could stand.

  Mrs. Cecil pulled up another chair and sat close to Maggie.

  “This isn’t a terribly serious matter,” she said gently. “It’s just that we like for the parents to know what’s going on in the child’s classroom. We want you to understand that we care about Jay, and not just about his reading and math.”

  Maggie shook her head, but she still wouldn’t look up. She felt Mrs. Cecil’s hand lie lightly on her forearm.

  Jack said, “Excuse me, Maggie. I’ll talk to you later in the week.”

  She
heard him go.

  “It must be very hard for you right now,” Mrs. Cecil said.

  Maggie slid her hands down so that the tips of her fingers were over her mouth. She looked up into the principal’s face. Then she bent her head forward, tipping toward her. Mrs. Cecil’s arms came up. For just a moment, Maggie didn’t worry, or think at all. She simply folded into the principal’s warm embrace.

  “They didn’t say anything about this!” Maggie said when she saw Jay’s face. There was a bruise on his cheek. He wouldn’t answer any of her questions. They were in Polly’s living room. Maggie held Stevie in her lap and outwaited her son.

  “I got socked with the paint can,” Jay said finally. “It doesn’t hurt.”

  Polly was across the room, in the kitchen, making chicken-fried steak. Her back was to them.

  “Can I go now?” Jay whined.

  “Oh honey,” Maggie said. She couldn’t bear his misery.

  He headed for the kitchen door.

  “You’re having supper with me,” Polly said.

  He turned and looked at his mother pleadingly.

  Maggie looked to Polly, but her mother-in-law was back at the stove.

  Maggie, after a huge sigh which turned into an even bigger yawn, said, “I’ll call you when supper’s ready.”

  “I don’t want to eat,” Jay said. He stood with the sliding door open, one foot in, one foot out of the kitchen.

  Polly turned around, her finger on her nose. It was an eccentric gesture she used unconsciously when she was suppressing admonition. As soon as the door was closed, she left the stove and joined Maggie on the couch. Stevie stirred, then opened her eyes and began to cry. Polly reached over to stroke the back of her head.

  “Oh Polly, I made such a fool of myself,” Maggie said. “I actually cried in the principal’s office.” She didn’t say: in the principal’s arms.

  “It doesn’t seem so bad,” Polly said.

  “They said there’s a whole pattern.”

  “Of what?”

  “He doesn’t finish his work. He bugs other kids.”