#14 (Part IV)

#14 Real versus Fake (Part IV)

     "I. . . yes.  I'm teaching them."

     She stepped in fully, her eyes going from row to row.  Revulsion gathered in her eyes, spread to the thin press of her lips, and finally to the wrinkle of her nose.  As if she smelled something rotten in. . . rotten in . . . I couldn't find the word to finish the saying. 
     "I had them, once, for Sunday school."
     "You're a teacher, too?"  I was at once thrilled to have such an acquaintance.  Someone like me.  It made me feel less alone.
     She smiled briefly.  It was not enough to change the look in her eyes.  "I've come to take you home."
     Oh, how my heart thundered in joyous ovation for this very moment.

#14 (Part III)

#14 Fake versus Real (Part III)

     "I will collect your books at the end of the day.  Please don't play around.  Your education is very important."

     The sudden cessation of noise hurt my ears. 
     There was a scrape of sound somehow outside the others: like knowing jet black is not the same as ink black although the eyes might not be able to pick out the difference when one was layered over the other.  I turned at this sound, unsurprised to see the face peering into the classroom.  The door handle twisted and a woman stepped in.  
     "You're teaching them?"

#14 (Part II)

#14 Real versus Fake (Part II)

            Of their own accord my fingers wrapped around the chalk.  "Pay attention now: I want you to write down three colors you associate most with art."  My eyes sank closed at the hush that went through the room.  For a few moments I could pretend the scratching behind me came from the feet of birds nesting in the rafters, and not the nibs of fountain pens against composition papers.  "And now write down three words that describe the colors you find on your clothes."  I could pretend the breeze playing across the broken window panes was the source of the whispering I heard. 

     The chalk at least was real.

#14 (Part I)

#14 Real versus Fake (Part I)

      Of all the things to be real in a fake paper classroom - why the chalkboard? I pushed the thought aside."Open your composition books to -"

     Had I not known the children behind me were paper I would have sworn the sound of books slapping down on desks were real.I would have sworn the books were real, their desks were real, and that the giggling and whispering . . . all of it was real.
     Until I turned around.Not a single thing, paper doll or otherwise, was out of place.  By accident my gaze fell on the cigarette-burn eyes.  I shuddered and jerked around to face the only thing that I knew was real: the chalkboard.  The cool stick of chalk in my hand lent a weight to reality.  Just holding it helped soothe the fear caused cramping in my stomach.
     Behind me the room erupted into laughter.

#13 (Part III)

#13 'Teach' Envelope (Part III)

 
     I turned on my heel to look over the classroom.  Paper faces, some pale and some brown with age, stared back at me.  There was even one where someone had used a cigarette to burn holes for eyes.  I did not look towards this one; my skin was already crawling with revulsion.  As if talking to real children, and not oversized paper dolls, I addressed the class, "I expect you to behave.  This is important.  Someone has given you an identity through art.  I am telling you about yourselves."
     My words were a teacher’s words.  They were the only protection I had against the waxy green eyes pasted to some faces, and the chalk brown drawn on others.  There was even, amazingly enough, a face painted in crisp watercolor reds and purples.  They all stared at me, unhindered by the noises that brought unwelcome memories to the surface of my mind.  How well I remembered the taste of fear in my mouth, the prickle of nerves down my arms and legs.  These were reminders of that night with my husband long ago.  These feelings I had hoped to never experience again. 

#13 (Part II)

#13 'Teach' Envelope (Part II)

     I tried to put from my mind the horror stories my husband scared me with on long wuthering nights.  It was all a ruse for him, all to push me into his arms and us into a love making where I honored his hero's status.  After all, he was the one who saved me from the monsters and goblins in his stories.  Towards the end he hadn't made up a story, but told me to climb under the covers while he stood watch.  The wind had made noises like it did now.  "What is it?"  I had dared to peek over he edge of the comforter and ask.  "Fetches."  He said. 
     From behind me came a shrill flute-ish whistle.  I jumped, spun around.  I glared at the cracked windows, the dirt encrusted windows.  These were the windows that made the entire building equal to that of a bottle organ, a mouthpiece to lost souls.  .    
     With perspective back in balance I returned to teaching.  "We came into a new style of artistry.  I can see by the . . . by the designs on your dresses that you've already had an introduction to the subject."  I lifted my hand to the faded walls, wrote out the words 'Art Nouveau'.
     Somewhere, behind me, someone giggled.  I knew that sound, the distinctive uplift of a child in mischief. 

#13 (Part I)

#13 'Teach' Envelope (Part I)

     Low moans of tortured souls drifted under the door to the classroom.  I wrapped my fingers around the broken piece of chalk.  It wasn't the first time in the last hour I'd lost place in the lesson plan.  I turned back to the chalkboard, jumping at movement out of the corner of my eye.  Automatically my head whipped around, my arm came up for defense - and the arm of the shadow came up as well.  My shadow.  Just as I was to congratulate myself for yet another nervous reaction, the sounds stopped. 
     Down the hall, as if from a distance, came the distinctive clatter of reed chimes.  And children giggling.
     Almost at once the moans started up again.