Karen Bender - Refund - Stories

“I don’t,” she said. “The Lord helps me teach these children. He gets me through the day.”

She said that, merrily, though I had seen her at the perfume counter, one Saturday after I was on my own and I convinced myself to get out and walk around the mall. I saw her, clutching the spritzer bottle, aiming at customers with determination. She got everyone in her path. You buy perfume. You. You. I saw her hold out an exquisite bottle to a customer, a bottle designed to make anyone feel like a queen. Each bottle, a path. I will buy my diabetic daughter medicine and keep her from eating Ho Hos.

“You, it’s just you to take care of,” said Dolores. “You could work perfume and women’s wear, you could rack it up.”

The sounds of the sirens drained away. It was just me to take care of. It was an easy thing to say. Hal had left four months before. We had moved here, to North Carolina, his idea. We had just graduated college, we did not know where to throw ourselves, so we tried each other. It was a way to be, imagining that we loved each other, and for a while, we did. I’m not sure what happened. His body beside mine was a fortress, but then it was a jail. It happened when we decided to get engaged. I knew that if I went through with it, I would not be able to breathe. There was no good reason. I said no, I waffled, I was not the team player he had wanted. And then he moved out.

Each morning, I woke and had a moment when I saw the pale morning sunlight brightening the floor, and I forgot everything that had happened in the last few months. Perhaps Hal was in the next room, perhaps I still thought I loved him. The morning began with a pure, calm moment of nothingness, of boredom, even — that luxury — before I remembered what was true. Then, sometimes, I had a sensation that my body was disappearing; I was starting, somehow, to vanish. It wasn’t a good feeling. So I got dressed in a rush, ate breakfast, got out of the apartment, for I needed to get to school, to set the crayon baskets on the tables, to hear the voices of the teachers and students.

NOW I STOOD ON THE CEMENT WALKWAY IN FRONT OF THE SCHOOL. The sun was warm and brilliant, but I was shivering. No one had come for me; not that I had expected it. But the soles of my feet were cold; I had never felt that before. I had to get out of here, but I did not know where to go.

Someone tugged on my jacket. It was Keisha Jones. She was chewing the tip of one of her brown braids. She wore her eagle mask, on the top of her head like a hat.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

She shrugged.

“Who’s picking you up today?”

“I don’t know.”

“Your mom? Your dad? Your aunt?”

She raised her shoulders and dropped them; “I don’t know.”

We made our way through the police back into the office, where the secretary was sitting, typing an announcement, and weeping softly.

“Keisha Jones? No pickup again?” She handed me the phone contact list. I called her home.

“Who’s this?”

“This is Miss Samson, Keisha’s teacher. We wondered who was coming to pick her up.”

Silence.

“Shit,” said her aunt. “Oh. Sorry, I guess it was supposed to be me—”

“Is her mother around?”

“She’s on second shift at the hospital. Not back until late—”

“Is anyone else there who could pick her up?”

“I can’t drive, or I did, but—”

“Can you get on a bus?”

“I broke my foot, miss, and I can’t walk.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“I can’t walk.” Her voice was rising. “Her mom’s not coming home till late—”

“Anyone else I can call?”

“I don’t know. . her uncle, maybe, but, no, he’s on till nine tonight, they’re doing a big fundraiser at Chick-fil-A. . they need him. Her dad’s. .” she paused. “I can’t walk, honey, really, I can’t—”

There were the various excuses we heard, the relatives who were assigned pickup but had been arrested; there were the family friends who had offered to do a good deed but were too depressed and forgot; there were broken-down cars, etc., but mostly the reasons people missed school pickup were dreary — the assigned person was at work. Everyone was always at work. The first job, the second job, etc. There was no car and there was a broken foot and there was another kid, waiting.

“I’ll drive her home,” said the secretary, rising from her chair. “If we go quick. Come on, sugarplum.”

“No. Miss Samson,” said Keisha, gripping my hand.

“I’ll do it,” I said. I didn’t know why I said it. Keisha jumped up and took my hand.

“You know the way?” said the secretary, raising an eyebrow. “She’s on North Ninth.”

She said it that way because this was where the “free lunch” children lived; she thought I’d somehow be intimidated. “I can figure it out,” I said, annoyed.

“Well,” said the secretary. She regarded Keisha. “Keisha Jones, you turn in your signed permission slip for the trip tomorrow?”

Keisha looked at her, and her shoulders wilted. “I forgot,” she said.

The woman shook her head. “Then you can’t go.”

Keisha stared at her. Then one tear, two, began to run down her face. “I want to go,” she said. “This time, I got to go!”

“Rules, baby,” said the secretary, patting her on the shoulder, and then Keisha turned and hurried out the door.

Keisha stood, crying noisily, in the corridor. I knelt down and hugged her. Her sobs were loud, and then softer. Then she stepped back.

“I want to see a sea turtle,” she said. Her voice rose. “I want to! Now.”

Her voice echoed inside me. I heard her. I knew that tomorrow she would be sitting at a desk in the fourth grade, where they had some extra seats, probably coloring in sheets on a marine theme. Someone in the sadistic school bureaucracy would think this was a way to include her, but obviously this would just make her feel more left out. I hated the whole world, for a moment.

“Okay,” I said, quickly.

I was a kindergarten teacher, which meant that I was not an impulsive person. But she was one of those students who seemed to have decided I was good. It was a silly, rash decision; I had done nothing but give her a little attention in class. We sat and sounded out words together. I see a c-at. The c-at is s-oft . She was the best one in class, my speed reader. The cat is soft. The cat jumps. I see the cat . Done. Next book. It was the rare, divine dance between teacher and student, in which I helped her locate what she already knew.

“Okay?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“Yes,” I said, deciding. “Now, let’s go.”

I signed her out. She set the mask back on her face again, in an attempt, perhaps, to look fierce, grabbed my hand, and did some long leaps to the car, the way an eagle might, if it were trying to take off into the air.

I HAD A CAR SEAT IN THE BACK FOR TIMES I HAD TO CHAUFFEUR children home. She buckled herself in. She removed her mask and surveyed my car. “Messy,” she said.

“I know. Sorry about that,” I said. The backseat was basically a museum of fast food wrappers. I swept them onto the floor and tossed my cell phone into the glove compartment. Keisha gingerly settled into a seat.

“It smells,” she said. I was both ashamed and offended and opened a window.

“How’s that?” I asked.

“Okay,” she said.

I started the car. We sat there, in silence. She kicked at some of the crumpled wrappers on the floor.

“Why’d he shoot Mrs. Hill?” she said. “She was nice.”

I glanced in the rearview mirror; she was rubbing the gray feathers of the harpy eagle mask against her lip.

“I thought he was going to shoot me,” she said.