Elizabeth Massie: Wire Mesh Mothers

“No shit,” said Tony. “I coulda told you that. You gave me time I woulda told you that.”

“Gotta get real guns.”

“That we do.”

“What if we get caught?” said Buddy.

“Stay home, that the way you feel. We don’t need you.”

The car reached an intersection and Buddy, for once, stopped at the stop sign. Straight ahead was more countryside, leading to the town of Pippins. To the right, down a couple tenths of a mile, were the Presbyterian Church and the Riverside Holiness Church, side by side as if they really got along, which they didn’t since the Presbyterians had Halloween parties for their kids and the Holiness folks believed it to be of the devil. To the left was a field with cattle and the road leading to the row of houses where Tony lived.

“Who’s got a real gun?” asked Leroy.

“My great-uncle Henry does,” said Little Joe. “Under his mattress. Got some kinda pistol.”

“Ammo?” asked Tony.

“Who has a pistol and no ammo? Morons, that’s who!”

“He home now, your great-uncle?”

Little Joe sat up straight, like he finally felt he had something worth offering. “He don’t go to work ’til two o’clock. But then ain’t nobody home ’til after five.”

“I got a gun at home, too,” said Tony. “Revolver. Was my dad’s.”

“Well, then,” said Leroy.

DeeWee said, “Well, then!” He giggled.

“Buddy, drop us all off at our places,” said Leroy. “Everybody find a disguise to wear. Then Buddy’ll pick everybody back up ‘bout four o’clock. We’ll go do us the Exxon store. We won’t let nobody know who we are, but we gonna show ‘em what we are!”

“But we didn’t get our doughnut sticks yet,” said Whitey.

Tony grabbed Whitey’s ear across Little Joe’s lap and pulled it until he shrieked.

“Shut your mouth about the doughnuts, don’t you care about important things?” Tony said. “And find a good disguise. Make yourself look like a white boy or Mexican boy or Chinese boy or something.”

Tony let go of Whitey’s ear, gave Little Joe’s boots another kick, sat back, and looked out at the world through the snotty-slicked window. Her heart raced; the blood in her fingers was fiery. She counted the pulses and got to nearly two hundred before the car slowed down in front of her little house and it was time to get out.

Gonna do. For once in our lives, we’re gonna do! Won’t Mam just love this? Won’t the Martin bitch just dump in her prissy little drawers?

Tony’s pants tugged and her head itched but this time, they felt good.

It was the urine on the floor that threw everything over the edge, a small puddle, intentionally leaked there by Willie Harrold, a fine, upstanding student in the fourth grade. Willie was short, with black hair, blue eyes and groping hands. He had quite the history, little Willie. He explored the forms beneath the shirts of every fourth grade female who happened to wander within his reach. Willie bit kindergarteners on the playground then said he didn’t. He cussed and stole anything small enough to fit into his book bag or pockets. And to keep Willie free to continue his antics, his father swore a lawsuit every time Willie was removed from the mainstream of the classroom and put into a study carrel or seated on the bench outside the principal’s office.

“Look what Willie did!” Marion Kiddel shouted from her desk. Kate McDolen, who had been standing at the front of the room in her peach sweater and gray wool skirt, writing on the chalk board, fine, yellow chalk dust coating her hands, showing once again that adjectives described things, adjectives like “happy” and “sunny” and “snowy” and “soft” made writing stories much more FUN! spun about on her toe. She stared where Marion was pointing.

Some of the students were in their seats, also staring. Most of the students were up and giggling, glancing between the teacher and culprit. Jenny Wise, slumped in her desk near the door, had actually looked up from the fingernail polish she’d been picking at and was paying attention.

“He went on the floor, just standing there like a dog and went on the floor!” This was Christopher May. He was Willie’s best friend. His prime pleasure in life was heralding Willie’s accomplishments.

Willie himself had his arms crossed and his mouth open in a wide grin, revealing the crooked teeth his daddy didn’t have time to have fixed at the free dental clinic because he was too busy with lawyers, working up law suits against the school system.

Happy. Sunny.

Insane.

Kate felt her fingers crush around the stub of yellow chalk.

Impotent.

The arthritic spot in her jaw clicked. She said, “Sit down, everyone. Right now.”

Most everyone slid into seats. A few students on the periphery of the classroom remained standing. They didn’t want to miss the view. Christopher dropped into his seat, not taking his gaze off Willie.

Standard question, coming up. Standard, worthless teacher question. “Willie,” Kate asked. “Why did you do that?”

And Willie’s standard, broken-record response. “Do what?”

Jaws clenched, as tightly as her fingers on the chalk. Fuzzy, furious stars rising in the corner of her vision. Her sweater no longer keeping out the chill of the classroom air in December. “I asked you a question.”

Willie grinned. “I didn’t do nothin’. Why you always picking on me?”

Jenny scrunched her eyebrows. Another girl giggled then put her hand over her mouth. Christopher popped his lips and bounced the heel of his shoe off the floor, enthralled with the diversion. The showdown rarely varied from its usual choreography. It was an old movie known well by the students. The ending never changed. Willie did whatever he pleased. Ms. McDolen kept her cool and sent Willie to the office after a heated argument. Show over. Willie one. Ms. McDolen zip.

Hopeless. Impotent .

Kate took ten slow breaths. A routine that was supposed to work . Take a few moments, breathe slowly, and you can put things into perspective. Things need to be in perspective. Teachers were patient, understanding. Teachers always knew how to maintain control, regardless of the circumstances. Teachers were good with perspectives. It’s what they were paid for; it’s what they were trained for. God bless teachers.

God bless us, every one.

Willie looked at Christopher and grinned.

“Go to the office, Willie,” said Kate. The veins in the backs of her hands tingled the way they did when she took three cold tablets instead of two. I hate this. This is wrong. It’s always wrong .

Willie licked his finger off then wiped it on his jeans leg. “Can’t make me,” he said. “My daddy said you couldn’t make me leave ’cause it’s against my rights. I gotta get my education.”

“Go to the office now.”

“You can’t make me.”

What is wrong with me? Why can’t I ever get this right? He’s a child, for heaven’s sake, a little delinquent, but I’m the adult here.

“’Gainst my rights. You can’t boss me, you can’t touch me, neither.”

This is insane.

“Can’t touch me! Can’t touch me!”

I can’t do this anymore. I’ve tried, God, for three years I’ve tried and I just can’t do it anymore .

Kate McDolen, trained professional, patient teacher, leader and guide to young minds, felt the snap in her neck. Felt the electric clotting behind her eyes, static and immense. The chalk dropped from her fingers and bounced, once, on the floor by her Easy Spirit pumps.

Willie sniffed, a harsh, challenging sound.