The Light of Luna Park Page 3

  I cannot let this girl die.

  Not again.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Stella Wright, December 1950

  As if I weren’t struggling enough to get through this dreary December 15, Mary Ellen wets herself in class. Sweet thing that she is, she does her best afterward. She refuses to sit, not wanting to dirty the classroom seats, and she doesn’t cry.

  But I’m tempted to. I may have turned twenty-four in September, but my emotions can run as wild as my children’s. I’ve nearly a dozen kids in the classroom and no way to clean Mary Ellen without leaving them alone. No extra clothing, no cleaning supplies, no bathroom, no assistant. I wouldn’t have a classroom at all if there were two fewer students to fill it.

  If today’s minor catastrophe were a onetime occurrence, I would laugh about it later with Jack, poke fun at what my own expression must have been upon noting the streak in Mary Ellen’s stockings.

  But, dear Lord. This is not a unique situation. I find the strength to push through only because I know that today is the day it will change—that at the end of the day, boxes of supplies will await me. No more of Gardner’s cruelty; for nearly two years, he has scoffed every time I asked him for rulers or protractors.

  “They wouldn’t use them anyway,” he always insisted. “What do you expect them to do, quantum mechanics?” His following laugh—a guilty attempt at conviviality—sounded like a bark.

  God bless these kids, whose classroom doesn’t even have a window. They need the lift these new supplies will give us as much as I do. I suspect that the room was built as a storage cellar, though the school itself denies it. About the only perk is that we’ll be the most likely to survive if the Russians do finally drop a bomb on New York—but assuming that doesn’t happen, there’s nothing good to say about the place. My “special” kids were shoved back here when the law decided they had to be taught—when Principal Gardner could no longer dismiss students with disabilities as uneducable.

  But even after all those reforms, I have just the eleven. I try not to think about the others that surely exist here in Dutchess County. Most are sent away to live in old, crumbling institutions. Remnants of the Victorian age, all red brick and creeping vine. Homes for idiots, for the deficient.

  But whatever the principal says, my kids don’t belong there. My kids aren’t uneducable. I know that like I know the number of fingers on my hand. And any fool who spent a day with them would realize it, too. Just one glance into Judy’s reproachful eyes shows she understands every damn word you say against her. A quick perusal of James’s extensive notes on ants’ social hierarchy demonstrates his keen eye for detail. A squishy hug from Mary Ellen when you need it the most proves that she’s perceptive enough to pick up on even the things we adults believe we’ve kept hidden.

  Sometimes it felt like Mom was the only one who understood. She never acted like the kids were interchangeable; she knew every one of their names. Like me, she questioned how they are expected to progress—in speech, in literacy, in social skills or hygiene or independence—when they are isolated like this. How, God willing, am I supposed to teach them? Their ages range from five to eleven. Giovanna speaks only Italian—in fact, I suspect her language is why she’s here, as she has no discernible handicap. Two others use wheelchairs, and I must carry each down the stairs in the morning on my own. Four do not speak. Only James writes, and just a handful read. So, what do I teach?

  The district’s answer is “something the whole lot can do.” They keep it vague so that if we’re ever investigated by the government, they can blame me for failing to provide rigor. But they are the ones to hand me stacks of coloring pages and bone-dry markers passed down from the classrooms with newer ones, patting my hand condescendingly as they pass the boxes over.

  This, I can’t help but think each time, is how my children go through life. Neglected, patronized. Condescended to.

  I grit my teeth now in the approximation of a smile. “James, Judy,” I instruct. “Run up to the bathroom and get me a stack of paper towels.”

  James refuses, shaking his head. He’s entrenched in whatever he’s working on today, and I know better than to push him. I’m lucky the sharp smell of Mary Ellen’s urine hasn’t set him off. The last thing we need right now is a tantrum.

  Judy rolls her eyes at James and leaves on her own, the swing of her walk proving her grateful to be given the modicum of independence. Perhaps I should stop her, send Giovanna—but Judy’s hopeful eyes convey how badly she craves the responsibility. The same desire has always coursed through my own body, constrained as it is by womanhood.

  Guilt hits before the words form fully in my head. I have independence. I’m here, aren’t I? Teaching at work rather than cooking and cleaning at home for Jack.

  Not that they’re always so different, I note ruefully as Judy reappears with paper towels from the upstairs bathroom.

  “Thanks, Judy.”

  She nods, her face devoid of hostility. I take it as a victory and smile before remembering my reason for sending Judy off in the first place.

  “Mary Ellen,” I beckon. “Come.” The girl complies, and I roll her stockings down to her ankles. “Here.” I hand her the papers. “Wipe.” She bats them against her legs until I take them and dry her off myself. “Now put the rest in your panties.” Clumsy, but the best we can do. At the very least, they’ll keep her from getting a prickly red rash where she’s wet.

  The principal appears in the doorway just as I’m easing myself back to my feet. He watches me rise with an aloofness he likes to describe as composure. “Something the matter?”

  Damn. He hates it when I send the kids upstairs. And I hate it when he takes it as an excuse to come down and check in.

  “No.”

  He gives Mary Ellen a pointed look. “Yet we’re taking off our clothing?”

  “She was hot.” I swallow. Who knows what he’ll say about the poor girl if he knows the truth? Human dignity is not exactly a concept he seems to have grasped.

  The principal’s eyebrows rise like he’s enjoying my discomfort. This is the same man, after all, who relishes the power in reminding married teachers that he could release them from their position at any time. And he could. Other women in my graduating class have been subject to that very fate. Mom threatened to write a letter to the principal when my friend Sarah got fired after appearing at school with a ring on her finger; the issue was one of the few on which my mother and I were equally matched in passion.

  I miss her. Jack wouldn’t understand the injustice of Gardner’s threat like she would have. In his eyes, it’s only a matter of time before I quit to have kids, anyway. He works at the bank because it pays; he doesn’t understand that I’ve spent my whole life wanting to teach.

  And after today I’ll start to teach the way I’ve always dreamed of. “Will the supplies be arriving today?” I clench my fists behind my back as I await Principal Gardner’s answer, unwilling to let him see how nervous I am. I try to remind myself what I’ve told Jack for two weeks now. The principal would never let me quit; the job is far too hard to fill.

  “The shipment should come in at one p.m. I’ll leave the boxes by the door.”

  I feel the smile bloom across my face, two weeks’ worth of stress diffusing into the air. I’d been right to speak up. Because of my insistence, we’ll get supplies and maybe even turn over a new leaf with the principal. For him to be willing to bring the boxes down to me is unprecedented; my threat of leaving must have truly rattled him.

  “Thank you,” I tell the principal. Thank you for finally showing me and my kids a modicum of respect.

  * * *

  —

  At ten thirty a.m., I corral the class and march them upstairs for recess. Halfway through the school year, the process is no less chaotic than the day we began. I have to carry Carol and Robby up the steps one at a time, all the while yelling after Jud
y to wait for me before she runs outside unsupervised. Mary Ellen clutches my pant leg in her little fist, and I have to grit my teeth to keep from toppling over and sending Carol tumbling. What should be a simple task leaves me drenched in sweat, and I feel as hot and defeated after climbing the stairs as I would after climbing the Sisyphean mountain.

  I push open the outside door and bite back a curse. Sleet falls in thick sheets from the sky, obscuring the metal swing set and slide that are just six feet away. The wind howls, and I’m surprised we couldn’t hear its roar even from our windowless basement.

  Beside me, Mary Ellen starts to cry. Judy crosses her arms over her chest, and Robby’s face sags in disappointment.

  “Can we go out anyway?” Judy looks up at me like her question is a challenge, but I shake my head. When the rain outside is a drizzle, I often ignore it; a quarter of an hour free of our four brick walls and grim gray ceiling can keep us sane. But this? Letting the kids outside in a storm like this one would be akin to murder.

  I let the door fall shut, the linoleum floor slick. Mary Ellen continues to cry beside me, and I fight the urge to clap my hands over my ears.

  Or, even more tempting, to join in her wailing. Like the kids, I look forward every day to this brief respite outside. We finally made it up those goddamn stairs, coats and all, and now we have to turn around and go straight back down.

  Fighting to keep my own tears inside, I shepherd my class back to the basement. Carrying the wheelchairs downstairs is easier than carrying them up, but also more nerve-racking.

  Once we arrive safely back in the classroom, faces sour, I take a deep breath. I try to look forward to the end of the day when my boxes will arrive, try to enjoy my time with the kids before our two-week separation for Christmas. We play games like Red Rover in an attempt to use up the kids’ energy, but there’s no pretending it’s working.

  I’m nursing Mary Ellen’s stubbed toe, deflecting James’s questions about germ theory, and trying to brainstorm another game to play when Principal Gardner’s face appears at the doorway. “It’s noon,” he announces. “Time to send the kiddos home!”

  For a brief moment, I breathe in with relief. This day has been an endless stream of fights and tears. The sort of morning I would normally follow with a call to my mother. I want nothing more than to be able to do the same now.

  I look up at the principal. His hair is pristine, his collared shirt starched. Meanwhile, sweat pools in the armpits of my blouse, and snot remains crusted at my breastbone after a child’s early-morning bout of tears. “Has the storm stopped, then?”

  The principal quirks his head. “No. It sounds like a locomotive out there. Are you going deaf, too?” He glances from me to Carol and back.

  I grit my teeth. “She’s only deaf in one ear, Principal Gardner. She can hear you.” And understand you, too.

  “Hmm. Well, it’s time for your students to go home.”

  I stare at him. I do not feel comfortable walking in this weather. Yet he expects children to?

  I close my eyes. “Surely they can stay until two o’clock with the rest of the students. With all due respect, sir, they cannot walk home in this storm.”

  “With all due respect, Mrs. Wright, some of them cannot walk at all.” His joke is met with steely silence. It’s all I can do not to slap him. “Mrs. Wright,” Principal Gardner says. “It is time for your students to go home. The choir class is headed down the stairs this very minute. Your children have no choice.”

  While our dank little basement is no bigger than the upstairs classrooms, the lack of desks gives Miss Edwards’s chorus class space to stand and dance. There’s also room to sit underneath the powder-encrusted chalkboard and watch.

  “Well, I will make a choice for them, then.” I lift my chin. “They are staying here. And so am I.”

  I turn before he can respond and shepherd my kids to a spot behind my cluttered desk. “We’re going to stay here for a little while,” I explain. “So we can stay safe and dry.”

  Once Miss Edwards’s choir class has filed in, I run upstairs. I hate to leave the kids, but we don’t have a telephone in the basement. I go down the list alphabetically by last name, calling Carol’s home first.

  “Mrs. Barr? This is Stella Wright.”

  Carol’s mother interrupts me before I can continue. “I’m so sorry.” Her voice quivers with tears. “I haven’t been able to leave the house yet. I’m so sorry you’re stuck there with her—thank you—”

  Now, I interrupt her. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Barr. I’m calling to let you know the kids will be staying late today. I’ll be here until the weather calms down.” She tries to thank me again, but I say a quick good-bye. I hate to hear her apologize as if her daughter is a burden. I’ve seen them together—Carol’s legs kicking with glee, her mother’s face splitting into a sparkling smile. Is it so hard for Mrs. Barr to believe that I love her daughter, too?

  My mother was always so proud of me. She never bragged about herself or my dad or her home, but she wouldn’t miss an opportunity to boast about me. Be it my first word, my kindness on the school playground, my acceptance to Vassar, or my wedding, my mother weaved my accomplishments into every conversation she had. I had to smother a laugh when she praised my fashion sense in front of her friends; she always told me privately that I spent far too much money on dresses and hairstyles.

  Pushing my mother from my mind, I call the rest of my students’ parents. Every one of them practically begs my forgiveness, and I feel guilt for my earlier frustration with the kids. How sad, that these parents feel as if I’m making some sort of sacrifice by spending time with their children. I know it doesn’t come from a lack of love—if their love for their children weren’t infinite, the kids wouldn’t be here. They’d be in institutions. Doctors and people like Principal Gardner tell them to take them there every day. I don’t want to imagine the horrible things these parents have heard to make them think the way they do.

  When I’ve called all eleven mothers, I set the phone down with a dull click.

  Oh, Mom. I allow myself a second. I miss you.

  I return to the classroom to find that my children missed me, too. Four of them are wailing, and two are fighting. Miss Edwards, back turned to face her choir, is studiously ignoring them as her students gape.

  I inhale. “It’s all right, darlings. I’m back.” I pull my kids in close to me. “Let’s do something to pass the time, shall we?” I reach up and grope blindly along my desk until I find a book. My Father’s Dragon.

  “My Father’s Dragon,” I begin to read. “By Ruth Stiles Gannett. ‘Chapter One: My Father Meets the Cat.’ Oh, children! Look at this. The first line of the book sounds just like what we have here. ‘One cold rainy day . . . ’ ”

  * * *

  —

  The choir class returns upstairs at one o’clock, but the storm rages on outside. Our failed excursion for recess feels like it was years ago. We’re nearly halfway through the book, but the kids have grown bored: Mary Ellen is picking her nose, Robby is staring at the ceiling, and James is calculating something on his fingers.

  Then I remember the boxes of supplies. If the storm didn’t delay their delivery, they should be outside the classroom by now.

  I crack the door open and check, straightening with a thrill to see two large cardboard boxes stacked neatly against the wall.

  “Children,” I cry, “we’ve new supplies to open!”

  The kids gather around me as I fall to my knees and tear into the boxes. I rip off the tape, imagining the number of books the packages might hold or the maps and posters I can use to brighten up our somber walls. I know the principal won’t have bought everything on my list—from books to art supplies and more—but I’m eager to see what he has provided.

  The first item I pull out is made of bulky canvas, folded and heavier than its size would suggest. With a thrill,
I realize it must be canvas for painting. My children have never even picked up a paintbrush, but already I’m thinking about all they could create. Self-portraits, a rainbow to make the room their own, imaginary worlds where men like Gardner don’t control their every move.

  The thick cloth falls open, and it takes me a moment to figure out what I’m looking at. It isn’t a rectangle or a square like I expected. Instead, it’s the shape of the letter T, like a shirt. My brain is still focused on art, and my first thought is that the item is a smock.

  Then it hits me. I drop the cloth and jump back like it’s on fire.

  Principal Gardner has sent me a straitjacket.

  My entire body tenses as I peer inside the box.

  It can’t be. I dig through the piles. Straitjacket, straitjacket, straitjacket, each one child-sized.

  “What are they?” Giovanna asks, pride in her voice for asking the question in English.

  I look up and nearly choke on a sob as I gaze at my kids’ expectant faces. Instead of seeing them as they are in front of me, I imagine how they would look in the jackets: Mary Ellen trying to sign to me, her sweet, baby-fat hands trapped in the folds of her jacket. Robby’s body revolting, seizing; saliva running down his chin. Judy shivering with anger so intense she could almost break out. And Carol’s eyes dimming with betrayal.

  “Canvas,” I force out. “Canvas for painting.”

  Giovanna shakes her head like she doesn’t understand, and Judy squints. “Painting?”

  “Yes.” I stand up quickly, thrusting the jackets behind me.

  Only the fact that the kids are watching me keeps me from tears. Because I don’t have a choice now, do I? If I’m not going to pack my kids into straitjackets, I have to quit.

  Which makes today my last day with them.

  My mind sparks with an idea.

  “Judy,” I say. “Go to Miss Bell’s classroom upstairs and fetch us some paint. As much as she’ll give you.”