Aimee Bender: An Invisible Sign of My Own

I have an idea, Lisa said.

Shoot, I said.

Shoot! said Danny.

Lisa asked something like: What if we, how about if we, could we go make numbers in nature? When I asked her to explain what she meant, she stuttered and rambled. I know! said John Beeze, we can find numbers. I didn’t know what that meant either but I was inspired by their eagerness, and wanted to keep them quiet, so on the spot, I made up Numbers and Materials.

Listen, I said. How’s this.

The plan was for Fridays, and the idea was that one student would present a number, made out of a material, to the class, and subtract with it. After all, I said, this is the year you learn subtraction. Their faces grew grave. Subtraction is far more daunting than adding, due to all that borrowing business.

Who wants to begin? I asked.

Lisa’s hand shot up and I told her to bring something good for Friday and we’d end the class with it and what a terrific way to start our weekend.

To my utter shock, the class quieted. We spent the rest of the class going over the addition they’d learned last year from Paraguay. They seemed sharp enough.

When the bell rang, they ran to recess and I slumped in a seat, kicking out my legs, already exhausted, but also laughing to myself, thinking of the look on Danny O’Mazzi’s face when he bent his knees and wove his fingers together to take the shape of that 8. I liked them. I stayed there for fifteen minutes, peaceful and quiet, listening to the rubber roar of recess outside.

When I bought the ax at the hardware store, I had a fine time walking it through town, swinging the wooden handle, wondering where to keep it. I strolled those shaded sidewalks, trying it out in different rooms in my mind. Should I store it under the bed? Dangle it from the towel rack? Jam it in the silverware drawer? I would come home from work and visit my ax, open the closet and say hello, beautiful tool, the same way I do when I buy a new pair of shoes and want to greet them, standing in the closet, waiting patiently for their right occasion.

But when I did finally get home that night, at that point things had changed, and I was a trembling ball of worry, and didn’t care much about storage anymore, and just shoved the ax under the kitchen sink next to the dishwashing detergent.

Regardless. Every young lady should have a weapon around the house.

On Friday of that first week, I was on a teaching break in the school

kitchen, knocking up the wood wall, when a young man walked in with chemical-burn stains all over his arms. He had a steady back, standing at the sink, washing.

You’re Ms. Gray, right? he said, over his shoulder.

I nodded, mute with concentration: knock knock knock knock, inhale, exhale, repeat.

He finished washing, arms speckled as a painting, then came over and reached out a damp hand to shake hello.

I’m Benjamin Smith, he said. I teach science. He indicated the marks on his arms, as proof. Math, I said, between knocks; Mona, I said.

He smiled at me. He smelled like soap.

About an hour later, halfway through my pumpkin-seed lesson with the second grade, Lisa Venus excused herself to the bathroom. I had just given each second-grader a pile of ten pumpkin seeds that I’d roasted the night before, and told them to take one away at a time and count what remained. Mimi of the whirlpool curls made her seeds into a heart shape. I heard crunching sounds under the table and squatted down. Elmer Gravlaki was settled on the carpet, busily chewing.

Hey, I said. Stop eating the math.

I’d barely noticed that Lisa had left, so busy was I telling Danny O’Mazzi to STOP flicking seeds at the wall, when she returned to class wearing a thin tube, one end connected to the other so that it made a loop, a clear crown resting high on her ratty head.

What’s that? I asked when she walked back through the door. The class swiveled in their seats. They’d had enough of seeds.

An IV.” said Lisa. Get it? Those are my initials. Almost.

‘!?”-ible sigl, I looked closer. This was indeed the tube portion of an IV Isn’t it supposed to be saving someone? I asked.

She scoffed, softly. It’s been used already, she said, walking to the front of the room.

Excuse me, she said, I am Princess Cancer.

I looked at her by the chalkboard wondering what she was doing. I didn’t really like seeing that IV. here in my math room, ripped out from someone’s vein. Benjamin Smith the science teacher walked by, and who knew if he might peek in and call the hospital, report Lisa for stolen property. I went over and shut the door, knocking it gently.

Lisa gave a careful nod at the front, keeping the tube balanced.

I’m ready for Numbers and Materials, she said.

I blinked. Numbers and Materials?

Remember? she asked. We bring in numbers from the world of nature?

John piped in. Or things that just look like numbers. I nodded.

Of course! I said, half-remembering.

Lisa raised her hands and pointed to the see — through IV tiara on her head.

This is my zero, she said. From nature.

I remembered the assignment then, like a punch.

That’s not nature, called sour-faced Ann DiLanno from her seat. That’s plastic.

Lisa glared at Ann. Ann scowled at Lisa. Their mutual hatred had been developing all week like a man-eating fast-growing jungle fern.

Plastic comes from nature, Lisa said in the same royal tone. It’s man-made, said John Beeze.

And man is natural, said Lisa.

Ann rolled her eyes. Lisa resumed her pose of dignity. I walked to the back of the room to listen.

This is my zero from nature, she said. Zero times anything is zero, she told the class. Zero wins every fight. Zero demolishes the world.

The world is shaped like zero, said Danny O’Mazzi.

Exactly, said Lisa, smiling. Danny made pow-wow sounds in his chair.

Subtract, please, I said.

She nodded. The IV. caught the overhead light and glinted.

2o — o = 2o, she said4 — 0 = 4. Ten billion trillion o ten billion trillion.

Good, I said, still thinking of that IV. bag, right beside a dehydrated unmedicated person but unable to connect. Saline dripping to the floor. The hospital summons the janitor. Where is it? they ask. He shrugs. I have no use for an IV. tube, he says, but his hands twist when he’s nervous and the dehydrated man is thirsty and mad.

250 X o = o! Lisa said.

No multiplication yet, I said, knocking on the wood bookcase.

You’re getting ahead of yourself.

She grumbled, but did a few more, subtracting. When she was done she asked for questions.

What does IV. mean? asked one.

2 Intra-venous, said Lisa.

Lisa Venus, said John. Lisa smiled.

So we’ll call you Intra, said Ann DiLanno.

8 That’s fine, said Lisa. I think that’s pretty, she said. Ann raised her hand. I have a question for Intra. Intra?

Who goes next time? someone asked.

Ann kept talking. I intra-duce Intra, she said. This is Intra.

Everyone say hello to Intra.

The class mumbled a hello and I said, That was good Lisa, thanks!

That was our very first Numbers and Materials, who wants to go next week?

Elmer Gravlaki raised his hand underneath the table, which made a thunking sound, and I said he could go only if he’d sit in a chair from now on. He said, muffled, that he already knew exactly what he would bring. John raised his hand too so I told him to bring something to show at recess as a supplement.

Does it have to be in order? asked Ellen, the one so quiet I always forgot her. The one without a last name.

I guess not, I said.

I turned to the front. Lisa stood, waiting. Sit down Intra, said Ann.

I told Ann we’d had enough from her.

Lisa kept standing there, nostrils flaring slightly. We didn’t have enough time for anything else, so as we cleaned up the seeds I let her show how zero, when doubled, could make quite an unusual bracelet.