Christopher Hacker - The Morels

On the subway ride downtown, turning over Cynthia Bonjorni’s card in my hand, I puzzled over Arthur’s explanation — his modus operandi — pieces of ancient art theory I didn’t fully grasp. It all seemed so arbitrary. That quote of Aristotle’s, for instance, that Arthur should put the emphasis on the word action . He wrote it down for me when I asked him to repeat it. I looked at it now. First of all, wasn’t the real key word here tragedy ? Aristotle was describing an ancient form of dramatic art, not literary art. And in emphasizing action, he seemed to be overlooking the more important word: imitation . Surely Aristotle wasn’t advocating that novelists write novels that brought about their ruin. And anyway, what was he was trying to purge?

The day she left, Penelope had received a call from Will’s fourth-grade teacher. She got the call while she was brushing her teeth. It would be years before the act of toothbrushing — mint lather, bristles on gums — would decouple itself from the ugliness this phone call would bring.

She was escorted to Will’s classroom by a tall black girl in a full-leg cast, swinging ahead of Penelope on her crutches. Through the small square window in the door, she could see the class in session. The teacher, a wiry woman with cornrow braids, was enthusiastically telling them something while the students at their desks — popping up and down, bursting with energy — passed around a pail into which they dropped slips of paper. Will was in a seat toward the front. Penelope’s heart leaped. When the teacher saw Penelope, she instructed one of the students to stand up front while she opened the door and stepped out.

Mrs. Santiago, Penelope said.

Angie, please. She looked at her watch. Five minutes to lunch. She directed Penelope to wait for her in her “office,” which was a cubicle, one of a dozen created from low carpeted partitions set up in an unused classroom. Penelope took a seat at one of two chairs to one side of a small desk. As predicted, the period bell went off, an earsplitting electronic buzz, and a few moments later Angie returned with Will.

I’m not in trouble, he said to Penelope, though from the look on his face she could see he wasn’t so sure. He sat down in the empty seat next to her.

Angie took the desk chair, setting down the book she was holding. She said, We had speaking skills today and Will here gave us a report on Dad’s book.

Will picked up a block puzzle from the desk and began fiddling with it. Penelope put her hand on his knee, the little knob.

During one of the many conferences Arthur and Penelope had attended this fall, they brought up the topic of Arthur’s new book. Angie explained back then the futility of trying to control the flow of information around the school. They could lock down their Internet portals as well as hard sources that might come through the doors, but they had no control over what students told one another. The spirit of keeping Will from the book wasn’t about the words in the book but rather the scene that the words evoked, and this couldn’t be kept from Will. Ideas and images were airborne things, carried and spread by his classmates or anyone else with whom Will might come into contact. A mere Google search of Arthur Morel pointed to online reviews that paraphrased the scene in all its disturbing detail. What sort of inoculation could they provide against it? They considered telling Will about the scene but couldn’t think of a way of describing it — or why his father would have written it — that would make any sense to him. They decided instead to do nothing but be prepared for the moment, whenever it came. Which appeared to be today.

Why don’t you tell your mom what you told the class about the sex part, Will.

I was joking, Will said. I was just messing with everybody.

Angie said, It didn’t sound like you were joking.

Will’s knee jittered under Penelope’s palm. She squeezed it to reassure him, but Will tugged his leg away. He looked down at his puzzle — for some moments it appeared as though he’d shut them out, this whole situation, and devoted himself entirely to solving it. It looked simple — there were only four pieces, discrete shapes that would, when fit together correctly, form a neat cube.

Penelope and Angie looked at each other. Angie’s shimmery green eye shadow matched exactly her green running shoes, which in turn matched her green nails. Though Angie seemed buoyant and easygoing, there was something else about her — a fastidiousness that suggested she was barely keeping it all together. Or maybe Penelope was thinking of herself. Angie nodded at Penelope, indicating some kind of cue, but Penelope wasn’t sure what she was being asked to do.

She cleared her throat and turned to Will. Honey, she began. What were you only joking about?

Will said, not looking up, I read it.

This she was prepared for. This she had an answer for. What she wasn’t prepared for, what she had no answer for, was when Will told her what he had told the class before Penelope had arrived, what prompted Angie to call Penelope in, and what prompted Penelope to say to Will, You what?

Remember. It’s okay, right, Angie? You said I wasn’t in trouble.

You’re not in trouble, Will.

What exactly do you remember, honey?

I was just showing him how. I asked him to.

Him who?

Art.

Art. You were showing Art how to what?

To you know.

I don’t know, Will honey. You have to tell me.

Penelope. I think it might be best if—

Are you joking ? Are you messing with me?

I guess not. You’re mad, though.

Will, I’m not mad, but I need you to tell me — exactly — what you mean when you say that you remember .

Will, your mother and I will be back in a moment — you work on that puzzle.

Angie took Penelope out into the corridor and said, We have to be very careful here. If I can make a suggestion? I think before we jump to conclusions, Will should speak with someone about this.

Someone? Penelope couldn’t think; she was aware that her mouth was open, aware of the thought, Close your mouth . She closed her mouth. She thought, This is it , though she wasn’t sure what it was just yet. She needed to call Arthur, yet she was afraid to. She was, in fact, trembling, though her forehead was perspiring. Her mouth had gone dry, she could barely swallow, she could still taste the toothpaste, its grit coating the roof of her mouth. This woman, the teacher, was still talking. She was handing Penelope a card. She wanted Will to talk to this person, a child psychologist. She was waiting for Penelope to respond, but Penelope couldn’t respond. She was done talking; she needed to go now. She needed to get her son and go.

They left out the side exit into an alley off York Avenue. She hustled Will along (Where are we going, Mom?), pulling him by the hand, Will’s backpack jiggling on his back like an excited monkey. (I’m in trouble, aren’t I? You’re not in trouble, honey.) She had the urge to pick him up and carry him in her arms.

Where were they headed? What was she supposed to do?

Arthur was teaching. He turned off his cell phone when he was in class. She could call the office, and the work-study girl who answered the phones could go to Arthur’s classroom, get him to come speak with her. Or. She could go up there with Will now, in person, pull him out of class. But what would she say?

Not with Will. She should have let Will finish the day, as Angie had suggested. Anyway, what was there to say to Arthur? Plenty, although she couldn’t think, she couldn’t think — she needed to think! (Mom, the light’s green!)

No. She couldn’t talk to Arthur now.