Lily King: The English Teacher

This was the first time he’d ever been alone with the Belou kids without his mother. He’d imagined this moment differently, too. He thought their stiffness and reserve with him — and with each other — was due to his mother’s presence, but except for Stuart’s occasional outbursts, no one said a word, and Peter’s ears rang in the silence. Fran sat up front, her arms locked over her wool coat. Caleb was with Peter in back, turned away from him, breathing onto the window, then squeaking letters into the brief fog.

The Belous lived across the bridge from Fayer in Norsett. Fayer was technically an island, though no one called it that. Norsett was on the mainland, a bigger, poorer town than Fayer with abandoned processing plants blocking most of its water views. There were a few shabby summer houses on the southern edge, but the year-round residents lived in small capes along an inland grid of streets. To Peter, who had lived in the same cottage in the grass sandwiched between playing fields all his life, a normal road lined with houses was deeply exotic. Even the sidewalks were part of a dream come true.

As they crossed the harbor, Peter felt the same surge of anticipation of the wedding that he’d had each of the times they’d driven to the Belous’ house in the past month. But this time it was cut short by the recognition that it was done, no longer something still ahead but slightly behind. It was only now, in the backseat of the Belous’ car above the cold black water, that he let himself admit disappointment. Yet, as they headed inland, turning one unfamiliar corner and another, each street looking so similar Peter wondered if he’d ever find his way out, the realization of disappointment about the day (except the two dances with Fran, which he would treasure even if she never spoke another word to him) had no effect on his anticipation of their arrival at 81 Larch Street, where he would begin his life as a regular person who ate his meals not in a cafeteria but in a kitchen, whose neighbors were not his teachers, and who on weekends would not find himself moving furniture or passing hors d’oeuvres to alumni. Most of all he looked forward to siblings, and even their withdrawal in the car now did not chase away his image of what that would be like. There was bound to be some awkwardness at first, but in a few weeks they’d look back and laugh at how shy they’d all been.

He wondered what Tom and his mother were talking about. She would be thinking about their dog Walt and how long he’d been left alone at a strange house. She would be thinking about all the papers she couldn’t grade this weekend. She didn’t like any disruption of her routine. Even their dinky three days at York Beach threw her. He could count on her being ornery (one of her favorite words to describe herself) for the rest of the month. But what she would be saying was a mystery. He’d never, before this summer, seen his mother in the company of a man.

Stuart pulled into the driveway behind the Dodge. Peter got out last, and waited a few seconds for his mother, but she and Tom remained in the front seat, windows rolled tight. He followed the others into the house.

Not to Peter, not to anyone in particular, Fran said, “Thank God that is over.” She collapsed onto the sofa in her coat. Stuart, who didn’t ever seem to wear a coat, went to turn on the TV. He turned the dial from channel to channel and when he finally stopped, he muttered, “Jesus, look at that,” but he was blocking the set and no one cared enough to ask him to move. Caleb snuck into the recliner in the corner, a chair so enveloping and puckered it looked like an enormous cupped palm. He picked up the library book on bats that had been left facedown on the arm, snapped on the standing lamp over his shoulder, and began to read.

Peter stood alone near the door. He heard steps on the porch. Once his mother was inside it would become his house, too. There was shuffling and whispering but they did not come in. He picked up a Lucite cube of photographs from a table next to the sofa. He hoped Fran would notice him turning it over and narrate, but she just stared at Stuart’s back, as if she could make out, from the flickering edges of his body, the images on the screen.

The pictures were only of Stuart, all taken when he was much younger. In each one he had the same enormous smile. They were all typical scenes from childhood: riding a tricycle, frosting a cake, building a sand castle, fishing. Peter turned the cube from side to side to side, trying to catch him without that smile. That smile bore utterly no resemblance to this Stuart who stood muttering and shaking his head in front of the TV. This Stuart had no expressions at all. It was as if all his facial muscles had been snipped. His mouth hung flat and motionless, even when he spoke. But here in these snapshots, the smile covered his whole face, a combination of joy and shock and love, his forehead wrinkled in surprise and his head bent to one side affectionately. The pictures spanned seven years or so, and his joyful face was the same in each one.

“There’s not going to be a quiz at the end of the period, Peter,” Fran said without looking at him.

He put the cube down. Where was his mother? He didn’t even know where his room was. He didn’t know where anything was, except the kitchen, where he’d had dinner twice. But he liked it here. It was a real home, lived-in, with soft carpet everywhere and lots of places to sit. Even the smell was better.

Something brushed against the front door. Peter waited for it to open, for his mother to help him begin his life here, but nothing happened. Another scuffle — an attempt at a knock?

“Answer it,” Fran barked.

Peter swung the door open and found his mother limp in Tom’s arms.

“Oh my God,” Fran said, disgusted.

Caleb lifted his eyes briefly from the bats. “What are you doing?”

Tom took a few small steps into the house. “I’m carrying my bride over the threshold.” His face was flushed from either strain or embarrassment and he lowered Vida feet first to the ground, steadying her carefully as she took back her own weight. It was such a delicate, silent motion, and Peter felt comforted by it. It was, in fact, the first comforting moment he’d had all day.

“Congratulations,” he said, the sound lingering unfinished because he’d wanted to add “Stepfather” or just “Father,” but at the last moment couldn’t say either. Father was such an unused, alien term. He thrust out his hand like Dr. Gibb.

Tom encased Peter’s hand in two warm palms. “Thank you, Peter, thank you.” He, too, seemed to want to do something else then — give him a hug or ask him an important question. Peter waited, his hand hot and buried, but nothing came.

When he was released, he turned to his mother. “Congrats, Mom.” He felt, in the presence of the Belous, that he should hug her. They had gotten into a bizarre habit of performing in front of them, pretending they were another breed of mother and son. At their first dinner all together his mother, in the middle of the meal, had stroked the top of his head while bragging about his interest in writing. She’d exaggerated completely — he’d won a stupid poetry contest in seventh grade, that was all.

He stepped toward her and they raised their arms. It was a show; they hugged without pressing. He remembered this from childhood, this weak hug, as if he were made of paper.

“What the hell?” Tom said, stepping toward the TV. “Oh, no.”

Peter tried to make sense of what he saw: fires, screaming, mayhem. Every few seconds the TV camera itself seemed to be struck by a passerby. The jolted footage made him slightly nauseated. Then it rested on one image, a long lean Uncle Sam, his striped pants in flames, surrounded by dancing, chanting men whose robes flipped in and out of the fire.