Aimee Bender - An Invisible Sign of My Own

What’s his first name? she asked, in a rickety voice. I had no idea. Minehead? I ventured. Minehead Jones? She said no and have a good night dear, and when we hung up, I missed her. I missed the sounds of those trucks in the background, people out driving the grid of the city.

At school, I sipped my tea and worried. The first grade was on a field trip with the reading teacher to some reading festival so I had a little extra time before the second grade marched in.

Benjamin walked by once but it was too fast for either of us to say anything. I was staring at the door, formulating a vague plan of what to do if Ann did not have the 42 with her, when a group of parents entered MATH without knocking.

They were all talking at me before I could even say hello.

I recognized most of them. They seemed to be the parents of my second-graders. I thought, first, before I could understand their words, that they were citizens for Mr. Jones, that they knew about the 42 and the other numbers, and had put together a search team, bless them. Or I thought maybe they’d found Mr. Jones, and then I wondered if they were going to tell me how Ann DiLanno’s parents had both died in a freak dual poisoning accident, and then I worried about Lisa’s mother and then about my own father but finally my ears tuned in and heard what they were actually saying.

— and besides it is flat-out in-ap-propriate to teach math using severed limbs, said Mimi Lunelle’s mother, her mouth loud and pink, fingernails flashing bright as a beverage. Mimi dreamt all weekend that a gigantic I was coming to strangle her, she said. I mean really. Whatever happened to buttons and blocks?

Severed limbs? I said. I took a sip of my tea.

Mr. Gustav Gravlaki’s mustache trembled from the tight pursing of his lips.

We will not have Elmer doing mathematics with arms or anything else that has to do with war! he yelled. Mrs. Gravlaki jumped in agreement, wearing her housecoat, a blur of red buds and orange suns. Yeah, said another parent standing behind.

I remembered the O’Mazzi arm then, that hopeful flower of a hand reaching up to the ceiling through the pane of blue glass, and felt confused and tired by their distress. I’d been so upset by the 42 that I’d forgotten all about the severed arm.

Ill. T’sible Did it break? I asked feebly.

No, it did not break, said Mrs. Lunelle. Don’t you get it? — It’s frightening for children to look at body parts in their math class! They loomed over me, righteous. I raised up from my seat and stood near the chalkboard.

Well, I said slowly, trying to clear my head, I feel it was a good learning tool. In fact, it was our entryway into Multiplication and Divison. This is a very advanced class, this second grade, I said.

They shook their heads in unison, leaning toward me-furious, but also tentative; everyone is secretly a little afraid of the math teacher. All you really need to do is write 1,000,000 — 56,899 on the board, and people will flee in droves, horrified by the sight of all those zeroes in the minuend.

I was about to launch into a speech about gratitude toward war veterans when my boss, luckily, bustled in, wearing a green suit that looked more like Wednesday than Monday. I felt off schedule just looking at her. I stopped talking; I had very little to defend; I thought the severed arm had been one of the best Numbers and Materials all year. What you people really need to worry about, I wanted to say, is that Mr. Jones from the hardware store has vanished and could be eaten by coyotes somewhere and that there are death numbers strewn all over this town.

My boss took the group outside to talk them down and then the bell rang and inside trooped the second grade, all seven in a row, greeting their parents, bewildered, delighted.

What’s happening? asked Elmer. Why is my mom here in her kitchen clothes?

Nothing, I said. Don’t worry.

I shut the door behind them. Okay class, I said. Take your seats,

don’t worry about the parents So are you busted? Ann asked. They’re never here unless you’re busted.

They sat right down in their chairs, expectant, except Ellen, who stood at the pencil sharpener, sharpening the second end of her pencil so it had two points and looked something like a hammerhead shark’s hammerhead.

Ann tried to hear the discussion outside, but all we could get were low urgent tones. I was relieved to see that she looked like she’d had a normal weekend.

It’s because of the arm, said Mimi Lunelle. I had nightmares all weekend.

Danny’s eyebrows drew in. My arm? he said.

Ellen, said Lisa, I can’t hear, will you stop sharpening your pencil already?

It’s not your arm, Ann said to Danny.

Lisa had her hand over one ear. Whose parents are here? she asked.

Oh, said Mimi, everyone’s.

I interrupted to ask who had brought a Number and Material for class today but no one had; it was Monday, they admonished. I put some hard subtraction problems up on the board. 15 — 923 — 16. The kids didn’t move, and Ellen remained at the sharpener, rrrrr, noise whirring on, then off.

Lisa fidgeted in her seat, and after a minute, stood over Ellen, poked her shoulder, said, Stop it!

7, Flip. Rrr.

All weekend, I’d thought of Lisa, going to the hospital after wanting to get herself hit by a car, standing and looking at tubes and pumps and quiet machines. The lure of a death that is fast and loud.

Outside the room, the parents were still in a heated, indecipherable discussion. Ann had her ear to the wall, eyebrows scrunched. Flip. Rrr.

I can’t hear a thing, she said.

Lisa twitched, still standing, and then dragged a chair to the bookshelf, stood on it, and lifting high on the balls of her feet, reached up and pulled the ax down from its hanging place on the wall.

Let’s get the dumb parents really mad, she said. Lisa, I said, don’t mess with the 7It’s not a 7, said Ann. It’s a hatchet. It never looked like a 7, ever.

Put down the 7, I said. I walked over and plucked it out of Lisa’s hand.

The parents are not dumb, said Mimi Lunelle. My mom is really smart.

Flip. Rrr.

Oh Ann, by the way, I said, did you bring back the 42? Did anyone happen to see Mr. Jones from the hardware store this weekend?

Ellen’s lead broke and she gave a gentle sigh and stuck her rapidly shrinking pencil back in. Rrr.

Lisa stood directly next to me and gripped the handle of the ax in my hands.

Hey Lisa, Ann said from her seat. I have an idea. Ms. Gray, she said, let’s make a Number and Material out of you.

The class hushed, instantly. What do you mean, Ann? I asked.

I mean, I bet you won’t cut off a finger if we dare you to, Ann said.

Oh, I thought to myself, I bet I might.

Lisa leapt in. We’ll cut one off you, Ann, she said. I’ll come over and chop off your big mouth if you don’t shut up. Ellen, STOP sharpening!

John Beeze, always loyal to Lisa, started laughing. Ellen, at long last, removed her pencil from the sharpener, blew on it as sweetly as if it were a dandelion wish, and sat down at her seat.

Without the electronic rrr buzz, the room seemed almost empty now, it was so quiet.

Ann looked a little nervous but still turned to me. Her eyes were clear and green. Who cares about a finger? she said. Let’s make a i for Numbers and Materials. It’ll be way better than the arm.

Hey, shut up, said Danny O’Mazzi.

It’s true, Ann said, holding up her hand, splaying her fingers.

Look how straight, she said.

Well, Ann, I said smoothly, I need my fingers to count on.

Fingers are a crucial part of math because ten is a good base.

Nine is too complicated. Our bodies are made for math, just the way they are, I said.

Don’t do it, said Elmer.