Lori Ostlund - The Bigness of the World

His mother knocked at his door and came in. If she was surprised to see him wearing his kimono again, she did not say so. Instead, she got right to her point, which was that she felt he should invite Simon for a sleepover.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” said Harold.

“Why not?” asked his mother, ready, he knew, to tell him yet again that he would have more friends (using “more” as though he actually had some) once he learned not to be so hard on people. “He seemed like an affable fellow.”

“Yes,” agreed Harold, trying to think of a way to turn his mother against Simon without having to use the word lustful . “He is affable, but he’s also a Democrat.”

His mother sighed loudly and stood up. “I thought you’d had enough of that thing,” she said, meaning his kimono, and she went downstairs to make dinner.

Harold’s parents were Republicans. For Halloween, they had insisted that he go as the Gallup Poll, a costume requiring two people, one to be Jimmy Carter and the other, Gerald Ford. He wanted to be Carter because he liked the slow, buttery way that Carter spoke, but his parents had forbidden it, instead phoning the parents of a girl in his class whose father was his father’s subordinate at the bank. The girl, whose name was Molly, had been dropped off the afternoon before Halloween, and the two of them sat in his living room, where, with the help of his mother and several newspaper photos, they sketched the two candidates. He was surprised at how well the masks captured the two men — Carter’s sheepish smile and Ford’s large, bland forehead — and after cutting small slits for the eyes and stapling elastic bands to the sides, he and Molly slipped them on and practiced trotting around the living room side by side, pretending to jockey for position and calling out, “We’re the Gallup Poll.”

Later, after Molly had gone home, his mother told him that he needed to be sure to finish first, and so, as they paraded in front of the judges the next afternoon, he made a halfhearted surge at the very end, nosing ahead of Jimmy Carter. After the prizes had been given, predictably, to a witch, a robot, and a farmer, Mr. Tesky came up to Harold and complimented him on his costume. “Do you follow politics?” Mr. Tesky asked, his Adam’s apple bobbling playfully. As usual, he wore corduroy pants with a belt so long that it actually made another half turn around his body. Harold wondered whether Mr. Tesky had once been fat, a man better suited for this belt, but he did not ask because he knew that it was impolite to ask questions about health. Actually, his parents included money, religion, and politics on this list as well, so Harold did not know how to respond to Mr. Tesky’s question.

“No,” he said finally. “I’m too young to follow politics.”

Mr. Tesky laughed and reached out as though to ruffle his hair, then seemed to think better of it and retracted his hand, thrusting it into his back pocket as though putting the gesture literally behind him.

* * *

At dinner, Harold’s father asked nothing about Simon’s visit, which Harold took as an indication that his mother had been sufficiently convinced of Simon’s unsuitability. Instead, the conversation centered on back-to-school night, which they would all three be attending the next evening. Harold did not understand why his parents required him to participate, but the one time that he had protested, explaining that none of his classmates would be going, his father berated him for his apathy. As his parents chewed their roast beef, Harold went through the list of his teachers again, making sure that they understood that Mrs. Olson taught science and Miss Olson, social studies, because his parents tended to mix up the two women, expecting Miss Olson to be young when, in fact, she was just a few years from retirement.

“You should also meet Mr. Tesky,” he said, and then, because it was his habit to utilize new words immediately, he added, “He’s a fag.”

“Harold,” said his mother in her severe voice. “I don’t want to hear you ever talking that way about people. That’s a terrible accusation.” His father said nothing.

Harold did not reply because he had found that when his mother became angry like this, it was best to remain silent and let the moment pass, even when he did not understand what had caused her outburst, for his confusion often provoked her more.

The next night, as his mother stood in his homeroom talking to a group of other mothers, his father announced, “I think I will have a talk with your Mr. Tesky. Perhaps you can escort me to the library, Harold.”

Mr. Tesky was on a ladder when they arrived, wearing his belt and a half, the tip of it sticking out at them from behind like a tongue. He did not seem to realize at first that they had come to talk to him, and so while they stood looking up at him, he continued to shelve books, sliding himself nervously along on his rolling ladder. When he finally came down and shook hands with Harold’s father, Harold saw that his collar was twisted inward on one side; it occurred to him that Mr. Tesky’s collars were always askew but that he had never thought to note it until now, now that he was viewing Mr. Tesky through his father’s eyes.

For nearly ten minutes, the two men discussed Harold and his reading habits, his father comporting himself as though he were gathering information on a new hire at the bank, revealing nothing about himself while asking questions that sought to lay bare gaps in Harold’s knowledge or abilities, weaknesses in his approach to reading. Then, shifting the conversation suddenly away from Harold, his father asked, “Say, what do you make of these speed-reading courses?”

“Speed-reading?” repeated Mr. Tesky.

“I’ve been doing some research,” said his father. “Apparently the Carters are big fans and so was Kennedy,” adding with a snort, “For what that’s worth,” as though speed-reading, like opinions on communism or the economy, must be discussed along party lines. “I’m thinking about holding a seminar at the bank, maybe bringing in a specialist.”

Mr. Tesky sawed his index finger vigorously back and forth beneath his nose.

“Did you know that the average person reads just two words a second?” his father continued. “But with training, that can be increased to five, even seven. I’ve just been reading about the Wood method. Ever heard of it? You move your hand across the page as you read, and apparently the motion catches the eye’s attention and stimulates it to work faster.” He opened a book and demonstrated, sweeping his hand across the page as though blessing it or driving out demons.

Mr. Tesky regarded him the way that Harold’s mother regarded guests who added salt to the food before tasting it. “Mr. Lundstrom,” he began, his neck growing blotchy. “The point of reading is to luxuriate in the words, to appreciate their beauty and nuance, to delve fully into their meaning.”

“Speed-reading maintains comprehension,” insisted Harold’s father.

“Understanding has its own rhythm, Mr. Lundstrom,” said Mr. Tesky. “Waving your hand about? Well. That is merely a distraction.”

Harold had never heard Mr. Tesky speak with such severity, not even when children ignored basic library rules, laughing loudly or moving books around so that others would have trouble finding them. In turn, he had always been impressed with his father’s ability to make conversation with all sorts of people: when the electrician came to update the wiring in their kitchen, his father asked him why electricians made less than plumbers when their work was so much more dangerous, and when the plumber came the next week to unclog the toilet, he told the plumber that he deserved every penny he charged and then some, given what he had to endure. His father deftly calculated people’s interests and needs, drawing them out by soliciting their advice, by making them feel knowledgeable and competent, yet with Mr. Tesky, he had failed. He had asked him about speed-reading but said nothing about the stacks of books that he kept on his nightstand and read faithfully from each night.