Scott McClanahan - The Collected Works of Scott McClanahan Vol. I

And then she wrote these words…

I wish you the best of luck.

And so I thought about these last words I’d heard before.

I knew these words. They were Nicole’s last words.

“I wish you the best of luck.”

So I didn’t call. I turned off the computer and I didn’t call because I’d caught the fever. I took down a sheet of paper and I started writing down what happened. And now at the end of writing this — I find that it’s not an account I’ve been writing, but a note of some kind. This fever can be passed through a story too.

I find myself writing a note that you’ll be writing soon. It’s a note that ends like this,

I’ve lived a good life. But I’m no good at it. Tell my wife I love her. Tell her to remember the happy times. I’m going away now. Love, Scott.

My mom had been teaching for thirty-three years and it was starting to get to her.

It used to be she came in all smiling and happy and telling funny stories. Now it was different. She was worn down and tired. One day she walked in through the door carrying her school books with this tired look on her face.

She sat down in the la-z-boy and said, “I had the strangest thing happen to me today. It’s something I’ve never seen in all my years.”

She sat in the la-z-boy and told us about a little boy who had it rough at home.

She told us about how her class had just come back from music and they were sitting in their desks talking. She noticed this little boy doing something at his desk.

She watched him for a few minutes and then she went back to his desk and said, “What are you doing R.J? What are you doing with that chalk dust?”

There was chalk dust on his nose and he had a rolled up piece of paper he was snorting it with.

R.J. looked up with his 4 thgrade eyes and said, “I’m taking my medicine like mom.”

My mom said she didn’t even say anything to him. She went back to her desk and sat down.

I saw my mother’s eyes fill full of tears, and I thought to myself that this was my mother. This was the woman who had taught children how to add and divide.

That night after the little boy snorted the chalk dust and she came home with tears in her eyes, I sat down and tried talking with her.

She sat in her chair and said, “I guess I’m just a failure.”

I said, “Oh Mom. It’s not that. Do you think that maybe you’re just kind of burnt out?”

She thought about it for awhile and then she said, “I don’t think it’s that. I just think these kids have changed. This is a different place now.”

I knew all about it. There were 100,000 coal jobs in West Virginia in 1950 and now there were 15,000. 75 % of the kids were either on free or reduced lunch. I told her this but it didn’t help.

She started crying and said, “I guess I’m just a failure.”

I knew I had to do something. I went over to the counter and picked up dad’s calculator and I said, “But think about all the kids you’ve taught. I mean think about it, somehow you’ve made a difference.”

I punched into the calculator the number 33.

I said, “You’ve taught thirty-three years.”

I added those three years she would have taught if she hadn’t stayed home with me. I took an average class size of twenty-five students and then I multiplied that together. Then I hit the equal key. The total was close to one thousand students.

I showed it to her and I said, “Look at this. You’ve taught 1,000 kids.”

She held the calculator and looked at the number 1,000. She pushed the tears away from her eyes and sniffed a sniff.

She smiled a tiny smile and said, “I know I had one student Steve Meadows and he’s a doctor now.”

Of course, I’d been hearing about Steven since I was a little boy. I’d been hearing about Steven graduating valedictorian from high school and leading the small high school to their first state football championship in fifty years.

And like now the story always ended with, “And you know what? I think he’s a doctor now.”

I remembered being a little boy and watching my mother cut out his senior picture from the newspaper after he’d won a scholarship. I remembered listening to the radio when Meadow Bridge High School held Pineville on the goal line in the Class A state championship.

4th and 2.

Pineville with the ball.

The snap — the quarterback rolls right.

He throws.

The receiver bobbles the throw and it’s knocked away.

It’s a miracle.

They stop them.

We sat at home and cheered and my mother said, “You know I was the one who taught that little boy to read, and he was such a good student. He caught on so quick.”

It wasn’t a week later my dad came home and said, “Did you hear Sheridan died? The obituary is in the paper.”

He started looking through the paper.

My mother said, “Oh that’s too bad.”

This was Steven’s grandfather.

“I guess I should go then,” she said.

So she did. She went to the wake of her favorite student’s grandfather. Of course, she hadn’t even seen this student since he was in the first grade. She stood in the back because it was so packed. Then she saw Steven’s mother. Steven’s mother waved. And my mom waved.

My mom asked, “And how’s Steven?”

“Oh he should be here any second. He’s brought in the wife and the kids. He’s so busy.”

My mother said, “Yeah I know I’m getting ready to retire next year and it makes you feel good when one of your students succeeds. It makes you feel worthwhile.”

This guy walked in with these three kids behind him. There was a tired looking woman too with a baby in her arms and a huge diaper bag across her shoulder. Immediately the three children started running around knocking things over.

Steven’s mother said, “Oh there’s Steven. Steven, come here.”

Steven walked over.

Steven’s mother said, “Steven. Do you know who this is?”

Steven was all sweaty and chubby. He wasn’t like the high school football hero or the valedictorian, or the cute little first grader.

He looked at his mom with this disgusted look on his face and said, “Now mom how am I supposed to know every person you introduce me to?”

Steven’s mother slapped his shoulder like he was being rude, “Don’t you remember Mrs. McClanahan? She was your first grade teacher.”

Steven looked at Mom like she was a stranger and then he shook his head, “NOOOO! I don’t remember. That was a long time ago. I don’t know who she is.”

Mrs. Meadows slapped his arm again and then Steven walked away.

My mother taught for thirty-three years and Steven Meadows didn’t know who she was.

My dad worked at Kroger for thirty-three years and he used to come home every day at 3:30 and tell me what happened. There was a mentally retarded man, Rex, who used to stand outside Kroger, day after day, and sell Grit newspapers. The Grit was a paper full of stories like…

HOW I GREW PRIZEWINNING SQUASH IN MY GARDEN THIS YEAR…

…10 EASY STEPS TO LOSE WEIGHT AND EAT ALL THE BREAD YOU WANT …

… BARBARA MANDRELL, THE SECRETS OF MY SUCCESS . And each day when my father took his break, Rex walked right up to him, just like he did the day before and asked him, “@#$*?”

My dad said, “What?”

Rex adjusted his fur coat and his big thick glasses and said, “Know what time it is?”

My dad looked at his watch and said, “Yeah it’s 10:15.”

Rex said, “Wanna @#$%^?”

My dad said, “What?”

Rex said, “You want to buy a newspaper?”