esther's journal-6

MONDAY, September 18: The start of a new school year is the best time. It’s the feeling of promise, I think. It’s the start of the journey, which really is what it is – a journey. We start out here and end up there. With any luck, we all arrive at the end together, somehow. I had all four of my classes, today, and I did what I usually do, at the start: try to figure out who won’t make it to the end. We never all get there.

One of the new sophomores in my B Block, Samuel Roberts, is an early guess. His entrance profile isn’t very strong and he seems a bit of an odd duckling. Not a great combination, though kids like that sometimes surprise you, too. They blossom. Margie – hard “g” – Wozniak in C Block is interesting. She's got that sneaky look about her. A bit too nice, a bit too mature. I already had to talk to her about her cleavage. She’s going to be trouble. I’m not saying she’s a lock to leave, but I’ve picked out girls before like her.

I’m a bit worried, too, about the new biology teacher. He’s really odd. Self-conscious. Needy. Clingy. If he gets through the year, he won’t make it through two. Then, it hit me. Maybe I’ll be the one, this year, who doesn’t make it to the finish line. I held the thought for a moment, then let it go. I felt it leave me, release from me. That was a healthy feeling. It made me smile. I’m going to end on that note. It’s a positive one, I think.

are father

He’d built a
family, or at least
he thought
he’d
done that, but now and then he’s not so sure, so
he calls
or e-mails,
or texts
or anything to catch
a
word, to catch
a voice,
to connect, again, to reconnect, again,
and
to make it seem,
again, whole. He understands
that
things change, that
families spread
out
and
about, that they begin to expand in their
own
directions,
with their
own directions,
and around their own connections, but on days when
he feels
the sting of it being gone,
or of not being
right there,
he needs reminders and he
wonders
if they know
of
his
insecurity, which embarrasses
him,
of course, that insecurity, if it really is that, for he thinks,
too,
that maybe it’s
just
loneliness.
And he doesn’t
want
them
to know that – that he’s
lonely – for they have their
own
things
and worries
and concerns
and stuff – their own families, or at least lives.
Theirs.
Not his.

her name is maria

Her name is Maria, of course, and she walks with a slight limp, now. She’s a housekeeper at the hotel – a maid. She’s in her late 30s and much of her youthful beauty is beginning to fade. She was captivatingly gorgeous in her 20s – dark eyes; black hair; thin, angular face. She even had a mystery about her. Most girls – women – that age don’t, of course. What they’ve got is what you see. It’s all part of the plan. But not her. Not hers. She always held something back, inside, deep down. But that’s gone, now, and she knows it. She’s not sure who took it – him? Them? Life? What’s replaced it is a resolute, some might say requisite sorrow. It’s in her eyes. You see it clearly, if you look closely enough. It’s in her smile, too, though she thinks she hides it with that. She doesn’t tell anyone about it, about what’s gone, because what’s the use? Everyone loses something, don’t they? She just ended up losing her joy. She’s in Room 129, now, cleaning the toilet so she has enough money to buy toilet cleaning goods for her own home, where she will head in a few hours to clean one more toilet. She understands the redundancy, but doesn’t question it, at least not anymore. Tonight, after dinner and the dishes, she will make love to her most recent Johnny and wait for that moment when he will turn her away and then pull her close and hold her for just a moment. He won’t, of course. He never does. They never do. Still, she will hold her breath and wait. She always does.

shuless meaux

She’s got her shoes off, sunglasses pushed up, cell phone pressed to her ear. “You had the x-rays, right?” she asks, shifting her feet, then: “Exactly. Are you working, still?” She listens, now, tapping her bare feet on the concourse rug, a mottled green, matching the airline’s curious choice of décor. “Correctly,” she reports, scratching her foot. “I like that.” No smile. Her mouth’s a straight line. She slides her feet into her shoes, then out again. She nods, now. “I like that, too. How did the brunch go?” Across the way, the flight from Las Vegas arrives, led by a striking blonde in sequinned jeans, followed by a tall guy in a black “Titleist” hat. He purses his lips. “Anyway, strange, strange,” she says. “I don’t know if I’ll have the energy to go Sunday. I’ll call Murray, tomorrow. At least it’s not Saturday.” She says, “Talk to you soon,” then closes the call. Her mouth’s still a straight line. Come to think of it, it never changed. Her shoes are on, now, in case you wondered, heels pushed down. She’s thinking about her favorite show – “The Biggest Loser.” Her second favorite is "The Colbert Report," but only because she thinks he's being serious.

the end

“You don’t want to get involved with me,” she said.
“Why not?” he asked.
"Because. It’s not good. It’s just not good. I’m not good.”
“That’s crazy. You are good.”
“It’s not. You don’t know.”
“I know enough.”
She shook her head, gently. “Not nearly.”
“Then, tell me.”
“I can’t – and I won’t.” She started packing her briefcase.
“You could.”

She looked at him. Her eyes were damp. He smiled, gently. He had no idea, what she meant, how she meant it – “You don’t want to get involved” -- but he took it as a challenge.

“Yes. I could. But I won’t.”
“Don’t you have to tell someone?”
“People already know, some of them.”
“But you won’t tell me.”

It was a statement; he was careful to make sure it was a statement. Why, he didn’t exactly know. But it was important. It felt important.

“Yes. I won’t. Tell you.”

He looked down, away, took her hand in his. She stood. Her fingers curled around his. “In the end it will be far too painful,” she said.

“In the end?”
“Yes,” she said. “In the end.” For she already knew the ending. She always did; she always had.

“It’s starting to snow,” he said.
“Snow makes things pretty,” she said. “Most things.”

it is her job

It is her job, she tells herself. She wears a buckskin vest (faux buckskin, of course) and a white cowboy hat tipped back, way back, showing off her silver bangs. She stands in front of the escalator for six hours, Tuesday through Saturday, give or take a minute or two, depending, usually, on how long she spends in the bathroom, hiding, mostly, from the reflections she sees of herself in the windows and mirrors that show her just what has become of her dignity. It is a job, she tells herself, though it is not much of one. “Where’s Gate 16?” “Is there a bathroom, nearby?” “Baggage claim? Which way?” She was once a teacher or a seamstress or a sales clerk in a downtown boutique and then she retired. Now she answers questions posed by mostly overweight tourists in jeans and t-shirts and Nikes and baseball caps and, yes, faux buckskin vests. It seems like a job, she tells herself, even though most of the passing idiots could, if they had a shred of intelligence or gumption or initiative, answer all the questions she answers just by looking at the goddamn signs. It is her only job, she tells herself, and thinks, again, now, almost longingly, about going home and putting up her feet and watching the daytime version of “Deal or No Deal,” like she used to before the market crashed her 401K and Bernie Whatshisname got outed. She does love that Howie Mandel. Always did.

little no peep

I know where I am
I tell
myself: I am here. But
if I
didn’t tell anyone,
no one would
know, so, see, I feel
a bit like that tree
in
the
forest
that might or might
not
make a sound when it
falls.
And I wonder:
does it care, really?
Or is
making
the noise
the payoff for giving of
limb and life?
And, while I’m at it,
is it just as
narcissistic of the poplar or elm or maple
or evergreen to consider
it’s relevance
as
do
I?
Not being sure
if you’re even
making a sound
is
not
an easy thing to be hearing
a brain ponder on a
Tuesday
afternoon
in March
on the floor
of
an
airport
in
Colorado, especially
when the brain is yours –
or close enough to it
for government work.
It sometimes makes
you want
to
scream: Just
to
see if anyone is listening. Well, maybe not
here.

sell phones (or: what are we buying?)

Connecting
but
disconcerting.
No more getaways,
hideaways.
Replaced by
ubiquity.
Always
reachable by the invisible
tether.
In the store.
In the movies. In the can,
for Chrissakes.
What’s that odd
sound
coming from
the next stall?
It’s your neighbor
or doctor or
parole officer, reaching out to
touch
you.
(ugh.)
Flush with
care.
Flush with
connectivity.
No where
anywhere
anymore
to go and just sit and
think.

esther's journal-5

SUNDAY, September 17: Today is my mother’s birthday. Or was. She died two years ago from Alzheimer’s. We never really got to settle much of what was between us. By the time I was ready, she was already in a different world. I still struggle with that. We should have had it all out, or at least come to some sort of agreement or truce.

I think is pretty much boiled down to this: I’m not sure my mother ever really loved me. I know that sounds harsh, but I’ve thought about it a lot. It wasn’t her fault, really. I don’t think she knew how to love. It wasn’t me; it was her. The loneliness still hurt, though. I still think, too, that she was somehow abused by her father. Just a calculated guess. I think all children need to be loved by their parents. That may sound oddly obvious, but it’s not. I think, sometimes, that’s why I’ve been here this long. Our school doesn’t get Exeter and Andover or Deerfield kids. We get damaged kids, kids who feel stupid or odd or wrong, somehow. I think I get that – them. I’d like to think that, anyway, and that I make a difference in their lives.

Anyway, Mom would’ve been 87, today. I thought she died young. Turns out she had me by a quarter century. I’m not sure about any sort of after-life. I don’t believe in hell, but I’m not at all confident about heaven. If there is one, perhaps Mom and I can get things settled.

Sorry, time to go. Dinner. I’m meeting Mollie at the dining hall. Tomorrow we start classes. I’m ready to go. Been ready.

shy anne

I didn’t find her, there, in
WY, when I
was there,
but I did find a
2-for-1 on
“dream catchers,”
hermetically packaged, no less,
at
the
local flea store, just down the road
from
the
giant cowboy boot and
the “warning: tree sap on benches” sign and the
state
capitol, where the
gov’s office is just
off to the
right
of the main
entrance, and open for business. so I wondered
this:
a deal on dreams?
or do you need
two of them
in
these
parts, where
space is not only
available, but maybe
even
a
nightmare. and while
I
pondered
the
latter, I came across
another
deal:
Wedding
Dress, $150. Slightly Used, it seemed, and perhaps
deferred, now,
of dreams,
or maybe
ready 4 another. I pondered
these until
distracted
by
the
woman
in the lime-green
Crocs – egad! --
with white fleece
liners.
Ignominiously
Abominable.
Is this How The
West Was
One?
I think
not.

faraway

I look through
The glass. It’s
A window
Into reality.
She smiles.
She laughs.
I watch.
And I suddenly
Feel so very
Far
Away.
From her.
It’s not the
Distance.
Or the
Separation.
For I will
See her,
She will be close,
upclose
In a few minutes. It’s the reality. If I were smart –
If smartness was
A thing, one thing,
Something
That regulated
Care
And affection
And, yes,
Love,
Then by
Intellect alone I would know what to do.
But I’m not
That smart –
Or don’t want
To be. Ever. Not just this
Time.
But at all. Because
There is something
True about
The heart. Not something safe. Never
Something sure.
But
True, yes.
So, I see the distance and I think
That even
Though it cannot
Be solved,
It is worth
The pain
And eventual
Loss and
Attendant grief. And I think: God, she is beautiful. And God
Answers:
In silence.

esther's journal-4

SATURDAY, September 16: I think you would like my school. I say, “my,” because I have assumed some ownership – or taken it. I was thinking about that, it, the school, about how people feel about boarding schools, when I looked out the window, this morning. No sure why, exactly. I don’t need any sort of affirmation; I don’t think the school does, either. But it is nice to be respected and maybe even admired, and I think we would be. There are schools out there that are real meat-grinders. You know the names. But not “The Win.” I like to think we have a soul, here, somehow – it has a soul, somehow. Anyway, I’m not going to bore you with details or try to make any sort of case. Just keep that in mind.

The other thing on my mind this morning was my body. I actually posed in front of the mirror for a few seconds and took inventory. I’m 59, remember, but even given that, I think I looked pretty hot. Before my “health issue,” I exercised every day, an hour a day. Since then, not so much. I think I finally decided that I was going to just enjoy myself. Yes, the exercise was painful, driven by my self-image. So, I just sort of said, “Fuck it!” Anyway, the body was ok. Legs – check. Hips – check. Boobs – check, honest. And all the other parts, too. Anyway, it put me in a good mood. Yes, I was standing in front of a “good’ mirror, not like the one at the Holiday Inn when I went to a teachers’ conference, last May. Bad mirrors. You know the kind. Not those. A kind one.

Spent much of the evening with my good friend Mollie. She’s a therapist, in town. She’s happy I’m writing this journal. I told her I’m hating it, but I’m not, really. I kind of like it, in an odd way. Or maybe it’s not so odd.

nakedly

If you
stripped
yourself naked,
and stood in front of
a
mirror,
would you like what you saw? Or at least
accept
it?
How many times
would you move so that
the angle
became
you?
Out of the shadows. Maybe some indirect
lighting.
Oh, for
an
air brush.
But what if
instead of
arms &
legs & skin & boniness (we can’t see
(our bones,
(only our
(angularities)
we could see
our
minds &
hearts & souls?
Would we
be able to move & adjust to better the picture,
view
or
reflection?
Could we handle
the
truth, Jack? Is this why
we
wear
clothes?
Another layer
of
skin?
To protect us not from one another, but
from
ourselves?

uncle al's stuff

After my
uncle passed my dad passed to me
some of his stuff.
It looked
like stuff an old man,
alone,
would have.
It smelled
like some stuff an old man, living alone
had.
I remember,
especially,
the sadness.
It
FELT
so lonely,
like things
an old man
loving alone
would
FEEL.
Sears this.
Kmart, that. I thought all of this, today,
while I
shopped
at Wal-Mart,
alone,
to fill a place,
where a man
alone lives.
And I wondered
if he,
Uncle Al,
tried as hard as did I to make sure
his place didn’t
look,
smell,
FEEL,
like a place,
where an
old(er)
man lived
all
alone.
Alone.
Alone.
Alone.
Alone.
All.

what's hidden

She pads
silently through
the house in the pink slippers that she bought
at Kmart in triplicate. She is hiding
stuff from those
she sees in the shadows
and around the corners
and behind the couch.
Stuff:
money;
bills that she’s wrapped
in paper towels she slips between pages of old,
coloring books.
Rings she puts
inside the pillows
on the rocker.
So safe
that even she
will forget where they were stashed. And while she forgets
he only begins
to remember.
Or just learn.
A diary that she didn’t
hide so well
he finds filled
with words that
seem lost.
Ramblings
about life
and love
and marriage that make his heart ache,
for he knew
none of what
she was feeling
all those years.
“If this is
all there is …”
And he stops
reading and takes
the book to the old
incinerator. There he burns what he doesn’t want
to know,
while she
keeps hiding
things like she
always
had.

December 24, 1970

The quietest of the four men was doing most of the talking.

“That wasn’t us, out there today. It wasn’t, right? It was someone else. That’s what it was – someone else. Not even us. Right? Are you thinking that, too? That’s all I can figure. I mean, what else could have happened? That’s the only way I can … oh, shit. Oh, God. Oh, God. Fuck. Oh, my God..”

“Shut up, Shoe. Just shut the fuck up..”

“I can’t man. I can’t. I mean, I try, but it just keeps comin’ out. It’s like it …”

The second man to speak didn’t move from his cot, didn’t flex a muscle. He lay perfectly still. He was staring at the ceiling in the pitch dark. “It didn’t happen, is what happened.”

“That’s what I’m saying. Like that. It …”

“Shut up, and listen. It didn’t happen, period.” His voice was calm, but dark. “We never got there. We were never there – understand? We can make that fly. No one’s gonna care. No one’s gonna give a good goddamn. No one.”

“What if …”

“What if nothing. That’s what it’s going to amount to – nothing. That’s what it amounted to, anyway.”

“Right. Exactly.”

“No one’s gonna give a good goddamn – except us.”

“Yeah. What about everyone ...?”

A third man pitched in. “Fuck everyone else. You do what you have to do. But you swallow it.”

The second man nodded.

The third man said: “No one can know. Only us.”

The fourth man: “I need to take a walk.”

Second man: “You OK?”

Third: “Yeah, you OK?”

Fourth man: “I need some air.”

The room went silent, pretty much for good. Each man could hear the other two breathing, and that was all. It was December 24, 1970, and what had been a day filled with extraordinary noise, brutal cacaphony, was now and truly a silent night. No one stirred for hours. No one even roused with the single gunshot sometime in the deep, deep night. They all wondered, alone, to themselves, but from where they lay, it sounded only like a muffled pop. Coulda been anything. Didn’t sound dangerous. Not deadly. Certainly not cleansing.

It was, in fact, all three.

esther's journal-3

FRIDAY, September 15: We had time, today, to prep our classrooms for the start of classes on Monday. I’ve been in the same room, now, for about 10 years. Second floor, front, of the academic building. Great view of the campus. I think I’ve taken it for granted. Of course I have. But today, I stopped to look around a bit. The side wall is filled with posters, unchanged for that decade – Jimi Hendrix; Gandhi; Hemingway; Eleanor Roosevelt. Lee Evans and Tommie Smith – that photo from the ’72 Olympics; and Muhammad Ali, the one where he’s standing over Sonny Liston. Not exactly sure why I picked those, initially. To tell the truth, to fill the wall. but they’ve come to define the room, I think. There’s so much so very human in all of the posters. Plus, kids get a kick out of seeing Hendrix.

So, I stood, for moment and took it all in – the room, the view, the feeling. And I allowed my self to wonder how long it will take someone to change it when I’m gone. It would only be right. It would need to be theirs, the room, the feeling. But it did leave me a bit wistful, again, maybe even sorrowful. But only for a moment, because I think that’s what so wonderful about life – change, regeneration. I changed the room; someone later deserves to do the same.

I met up, too, a bit later with the new girls field hockey coach; I’ll be her assistant. She’s young – Julia Tooher. Full of energy. New teacher. Just out of college. She reminds me a bit of the way I was when I first started teaching. I was going to change the world. I was going to do good. I was going to make a difference. She made me smile. Anyway, she seems to think we’ll have a pretty good team. I never care, really. Well, I do, but not that much. It’s being outside, surrounded by all that energy. It’s enough for me. Julia told me to call her JT. I told her that Julia is such a beautiful name and that she should use that. She said she’s always been JT. I relented. But I’ve set my sights on getting her to use Julia. Small thing. But beauty is often a compendium of small things. Julia. Lovely.

his plants

He already has decided: he will only keep the pictures. Everything else will go; everything else must go. The tables. The end table. The lamps, the dishes, the secretary. Nothing there of any import or real value. He’ll make a few hundred bucks, if that. It’s time, he has decided, to let loose everything. Anything that harkens back; anything that weighs down. Everything takes up too much space. Except for the pictures. But, even then, he’s not sure about the frames. Keep them framed, the pictures? Or store them otherwise. The ficus trees, too. Stretching out – one -- awkwardly. Gnarled and cut back, the other. They need better homes. Someone to talk to them. He hauled them from place to place for 20 years. Maybe more. No more traveling. He’s made these decisions. Over time. Bit by bit. He’s in that place, now. He’s alone. He doesn’t need these things. Someone else might. He heard a car in the driveway. The girl who lives in the back. Her name is Lorrie, he thinks. He’s not sure. Maybe she wants the plants. He’ll ask her, tomorrow. They can stay one more night, at least.

perplexity

The monster arrives,
again,
and asks: what are you
going to do with
your life and the
answer
is
gone away, again,
now,
even though
it
seemed
closer for a
moment
or
two.
He does this,
the monster, and has
perfected
the
timing,
because
he arrives when he should
be gone and he goes
just when you think
he
never
will, which is
a good
thing, but
unsettling because he knows you
know that things
are never
if ever
actually settled.
And so a friend
says,
“There is no
clarity, if
that’s what you seek,
because
life has no clarity, just
windows that
open, every now and then
to let in more
light,” and you
want to
argue, with her,
too,
because who does
she think she is, but
you have a
sense
that
she
might
be
on to something –
that’s “on to,” not
“onto,” if you’re grading
at home,
which
we all do,
right? Or is it
just me?