Teaching
by Phillip Martin They were five days into the school year, yet this was only his second day of teaching. Mr. Abernathy did not want to lie, but on this Friday morning he was going to have to find some way to make both a strong and positive impression. This was because on Monday morning he asked one of his sophomores to “Please sit down, please,” as if the little one had the option. You might as well say “Please” to an intoxicated burglar. The child did not sit. Mr. Abernathy asked for his name, and the child said that it was Chuck. After an awkward threat of a detention Chuck sat in the closest empty seat and, much like a cat perched atop a bookshelf, began to observe his teacher with more of a curiosity than an interest in learning. Mr. Abernathy proceeded to explain the syllabus while keeping an eye on Chuck who was slipping more and more into a deep sleep. The teacher’s impassioned speech about how he was thrilled to communicate the importance of history to them did not go over as well as he had hoped. The reality is that Mr. Abernathy (Justin to everyone else) had been laid off only three months earlier after two years working in a well-established law firm in Birmingham. He felt unworthy and unfit as a husband and father. The root of these feelings however was insecurity that his wife would thrive in something as aesthetic as landscape design while his knowledge of the law began to rot in his mind like fruit on the countertop. His mother, who had been a teacher for decades, suggested the profession to him as a temporary solution. Justin still remembers her reputation, the teacher everyone feared, the one who dropped an assignment a letter grade for using one too many commas or an improper heading. If one was not in the habit of underlining book titles he might as well register for summer school. Now that he was standing before them again he realized why his mother came home most days with something of a permanent scowl. How would he, the new guy, explain these crutches and this hideous leg brace? Three days earlier, which was Tuesday and only the second day of the school year, Mr. Abernathy had to call in a substitute. Very early that morning he tripped on his dishwasher while walking backwards through the kitchen, and after something of a half-twist in the air fell on the large kitchen knife sticking up from the silverware like a stalagmite. The blade penetrated his leg just above the knee, cut into his quadriceps tendon, and required surgery to repair. If his day-old reputation with the students were not badly damaged enough it would have been on life support after a story like that. Now, as he leaned forward into his crutches, this is the fictional account he relayed to them on the Friday morning of his return. “On Tuesday morning my elderly neighbor must have seen me from her kitchen window as I walked to my car to come to work. She yelled at me from the garage in her Italian accent, ‘Justin, Mr. Justin!’ I swiftly turned to see her rocking side to side as she hurried in my direction. “‘Please sir I need your help today,’ she said, and she explained that her plumber had replaced her bathroom vanity and left the old ceramic pedestal leaning against the wall in the garage. She did not want to throw it away but desired to see it recycled or given to a family who needed it. I told her I would be happy to help. As I loaded it into the backseat of my car a rush of black and gold water flew out of the pipe and onto the sleeve of my button down shirt. I tried to ignore the dirty stain after rubbing off what I could on the seat of my car. Though irritated, I drove off. "Now there is a thrift store a little off the beaten path on my way to work that specializes in kitchen and bath appliances and tools. I remember passing it by just a few weeks ago as I followed the moving truck that was delivering our things to our new home. Those are roads that I am still unfamiliar with, and I could not remember the name of the store to put into the GPS. I was quickly lost. I asked directions from an elderly man walking his dog but he spoke more with his wrinkled hands than he did with words, and even those he was able to mutter I could barely understand. I drove on. The wet sleeve, now sticking to my skin, was beginning to annoy me to the point of distraction. Out of caution I tapped the break a bit as I approached a coming intersection and began to roll up my sleeves. Suddenly I caught a glimpse of a speeding SUV just as it rammed into my driver side door. If I had not hit the brakes I would have slid by just in time. "A sharp piece of dense plastic broke from the door and sliced through my left leg. My khaki pants soaked up the blood and I was in a bit of state of shock. Before long, I think, a man came to my window, took a look at me, and brought me an old, black t-shirt to press on the wound. After my airbag deflated I could see that the high school girl was ghostly white. She spoke with the witness, who proceeded to call for paramedics. I told him that I was going to be fine, but he said that the girl looked in a state of shock. "After exiting my car through the passenger door with difficulty I limped from my car to the girl to ask if she was OK. She sniffled and did not respond. I took the opportunity to take a picture of her car and mine as well as a picture of her. As I was doing so the sirens of the coming police and paramedics reached our ears. I sat down on the curb and waited, but the glare from the road was so great that I awkwardly stood once more with the shirt pressed against my lower thigh. I took a few steps back into the shade of an old oak. "When the police arrived they asked a few questions and told me that I probably only needed some stitches and that I basically needed to suck it up. Shortly after when the paramedics arrived they were a little nicer but essentially said the same thing, that I would need stitches. Something told me that they were wrong. Interestingly however, the girl who had hit me was loaded into the back of the ambulance and driven away despite her having no apparent injuries. Her mother arrived in a panic only a minute too late and I pointed her in the direction of the ambulance, which I assumed was the direction of the hospital. "I was unable to drive and apart from a lingering officer was on my own. My wife was over an hour away in Mobile with my mother for breakfast with our three children. Also, although my in-laws live very close by they had flown out of the country only the day before. My wife texted me the phone number of her aunt, who lives alone in a townhouse near the spot of the accident. I called, and she was willing to pick me up and drive me to the emergency room. "The drive was awkward. Although I was very thankful for the lift she had lined the passenger’s seat with old towels as if I were bleeding from head to toe. She insisted on staying with me in the hospital until my wife arrived, and thus was present when the ER doctor sent a few pictures away to an orthopedic surgeon. Only minutes later a message came back that I needed not only stitches, but also surgery on my quadriceps tendon. What a day. Nearly immediately I was rolled away to the OR preparation area with my wife’s aunt by my side. "Fairly soon after I reached the waiting area with the aunt there arrived two bouquets of flowers. The first was from the police department. I could not identify any of the flowers in the bouquet but I remember thinking that they must have been genetically altered. Blue petals, as blue as the sky, holding hands with tulip like flowers with a stunning pink to red transition as your eyes climbed higher. Definitely unnatural. The second bouquet, on the other hand, was a large one containing a dozen beautiful lilies. It was from the paramedics. Both groups were apologizing for suggesting that I need only stitches. I skeptically assumed they did not want to be sued or something, but was not upset with either of them. “When my wife finally arrived with our newborn I was relieved. My mother skipped work to watch the older two children. My wife was stressed to say the least, which made me feel almost responsible for what had happened. This is a strange thing about men: if they cannot help or need help themselves they feel weak or incapable. As I was showing her the pictures of the accident on my phone the aunt was preparing to leave. Suddenly, she looked over my wife’s shoulder and gasped, saying, ‘I know her! That’s Tabitha!’ She recognized the ghostly girl who had ran the stop sign. “She began to explain that Tabitha was the niece of a close friend (he is not her boyfriend). Not only that, but Tabitha is pregnant, which explains why she was loaded into the ambulance that morning. My wife, who is both beautiful and charitable, asked the nurse if the girl was in the same hospital. Within minutes the nurse returned, and told us that indeed she was in the hospital for a short time longer. Room 229. “The aunt informed us that she would stop and see Tabitha on her way out. A bit overwhelmed by the odor, I suggested that she take the lilies to the girl’s room (leaving the ugly flowers behind) in the hopes that all was well with her and as a sign of peace. The aunt thought this to be a beautiful gesture, wished us well, and was off. “Just as I was being prepared for surgery the aunt returned, except this time she was teary eyed and sniffling. My wife comforted her but she said she did not need it. Tabitha’s family, she said, refused to pay for any unnecessary doctor visits when they learned that their seventeen-year-old daughter was pregnant. As such, she had not had an ultrasound to determine the sex of the baby although she was nineteen weeks gestation. Because of the accident an emergency ultrasound was ordered. Up to that point Tabitha had known the unborn child to be a girl; she could feel it in her heart and her name was to be Lily. This morning however she received quite a surprise when she learned that the baby was a boy. She took the lilies brought by the aunt as a sign of what the name of the little one ought to be. Tabitha decided to name the baby Justin after me.” At this point in the story at least four of the young ladies in this sophomore history class were crying. The rest of them, including the young men, were absolutely awestruck at the power of the story. They began to laugh and gasp and whisper among themselves. This was true of all except Chuck, who was sitting back comfortably with arms crossed. Mr. Abernathy tried to add a closing sentence, something like, “And Tabitha and I have been in touch each day since,” but it was unnecessary. He had won them over. That afternoon after the final bell Mr. Abernathy packed his things, locked his room, and walked slowly with his crutches down the hall towards the front door. The air was cool and he belonged. He was a teacher, and a good one at that. He had control, the fruit of power; compromise was for the weak. He had heard that this was the first step in the direction of a successful school year. Take control, his mother had said, and do not smile until Christmas. He pushed through the doors to the school with the confidence of a graduating senior, and the pleasant air warmed him to the bones as he limped across the parking lot. When he reached his car, there was Chuck leaning against it. “Is this where she hit you?” he asked while pointing to the driver side door. “Yes of course, now please excuse me Chuck I have got—” “Well they sure did repair it quickly. Which repair shop did you use? Also,” he said as he peered through the window of the rear door, “I don’t see the sink. Did you find time to bring it to the thrift store? What was the name of it again?” “Chuck I have a family at home, I don’t have time for—” “Funny how the police department has no record of your accident. My dad’s a police officer you know and I called him at lunch. He says the only wreck on Tuesday morning was a fender bender between two old ladies in a parking lot.” “Well I respect your father but everyone makes mistakes.” “And ain’t it funny how no one in our school knows anyone in this town with the name of Tabitha? There’s only two high schools in this city, but I guess you wouldn’t know that being from Birmingham.” Mr. Abernathy opened his mouth to defend himself but the words got stuck in his throat. Chuck came a few steps closer, and said with a diabolical innocence, “Don’t mess with me this year and I won’t mess with you.” The young man grabbed his teacher’s hand and shook it with a strong grip, then let go to scribble “WASH ME” on the dirty bumper. Chuck’s mother honked her car horn from the road where she had stopped only seconds earlier and the sophomore sped off in that direction. He turned only to wave goodbye before flinging his backpack to the floor and hopping into the front seat. |
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