Lori Ostlund - After the Parade

The class was quiet. Finally Paolo asked, “What is your idea about drop-in, Aaron?”

He considered blowing his whistle or correcting one of their grammar errors, but he looked at his students there before him, coats zipped, hoods up, all of them shivering yet focused, wanting to know what he thought.

“I do not like when people drop in,” he said.

They shifted in their seats and waited for him to explain, but he could not tell them about the hostility he felt each time his doorbell rang unexpectedly, how he pressed himself against the wall out of sight or tiptoed into the bathroom and turned on the shower, hoping that the unwanted visitor would hear it and leave. Once he had even crouched under his desk until he was sure the person had gone.

His students were looking at him, waiting for him to elaborate. Eventually, Katya said, “Americans are so friendly when you meet them, but they will never invite you into their homes.” The others nodded, and she added, “Russians are opposite people. We are very moody outside people, but we will invite you into our hearts.” Katya believed that heart and home were the same thing.

His students wanted desperately to make American friends and came to him for advice, considering him equipped to offer instruction in the art of befriending Americans. He gave them pointers — eating out was good, but karaoke made many Americans uncomfortable. He did not tell them that he too was alone in this city, that as he walked down the street each day, he wondered about everyone he passed: what they had eaten for breakfast, whether they cursed more when they were happy or when they were sad, whether they were smiling because of something they had just observed or because they always smiled when they were out in the world alone. Lately he had found himself deeply curious about the details of strangers’ lives, yet the thought of engaging in meaningful conversation struck him as unbearable. He was perplexed by his conflicting emotions but accepted that he felt oddly liberated by his loneliness, just as he accepted that he could not tell his students any of this without changing everything between them.

* * *

On Thursday, the fourth day without heat, there appeared inside each faculty member’s mailbox a small candle in the shape of a heart, which Aaron interpreted as a token apology, an attempt at appeasement. The candle only intensified his frustration, for it was so small, the school so cold. Worse, when he turned it over, he saw that the price tag had not been removed— 49¢ , which meant that the collective apology had set the school back less than five dollars, though he suspected that Marla had paid for the candles out of her own pocket.

By then, it was colder indoors than out, so at the start of class he pulled up one of the yellowing shades along the far side of the room and opened a window. Yoshi went over and leaned out, joking that he wanted to warm up his ears, which was a big deal for shy Yoshi. As he pulled his head back inside, the window slammed, almost guillotining him, and then, in such quick succession that the two events seemed connected, the entire third floor went dark. Aaron supposed it was a blown fuse. He also supposed he should do something about it — report it at least — except weren’t the cold and the dark and the broken window all Pulkka’s doing?

Soon, he heard the jangling of Felix’s belt in the hallway. When he looked out, Felix’s bicycle strobe was flashing eerily from the stairwell.

Ten minutes later, the lights came back on. “Okay?” Bart asked, poking his head into the room. Aaron thanked him but could not make his voice sound sincere. He knew that it was not Bart’s fault that nothing in the building worked, that he was just a student working to defray tuition costs, yet Aaron could not help but believe that Marla chose students who were sympathetic to the school’s ways. Bart pointed at the two heaters he had brought up on Monday, which had yet to produce heat, and shook his head as though the heaters had nothing to do with him. He unplugged them and paused in the doorway, a contraband heater in each hand, to say, “Meeting in Marla’s office at noon. Bring your own lunch.”

Of course, the meeting had not been called to address anything as urgent as the lack of heat, though Aaron noticed that Marla had let her office cool down. Her mistletoe and Christmas lights had been replaced with hearts that said WILD THANG and U R MINE, and she began by wishing them all an early Happy Valentine’s Day. “Did you guys get the candles?” she asked, and they gave mumbled responses, like children who had been asked about a topic that embarrassed them.

“I have some exciting news,” she said next. “Are you ready?” She paused dramatically. “Mr. Pulkka has rented out the spare room.” She said it as if they were all getting raises.

“His office?” asked Valerie, whom Aaron did not really know because her classroom was on the first floor and she rarely came up to the faculty room.

“No,” said Marla. “That little room on the third floor that nobody uses — right across from Felix and Aaron.”

“To who?” said Felix.

“Yes,” said Aaron, “to whom?” He hoped that Felix had noted the correction.

“A private eye,” said Marla excitedly.

“What’s a detective want with a room in an ESL school?” asked Eugenia.

“He’s going to teach classes,” Marla explained.

“Classes in sleuthing?” said Aaron, and everyone except Marla laughed.

* * *

It turned out that sleuthing was precisely what the detective planned to teach. That afternoon, the mushrooms were scraped from the wall, a table, chairs, and a whiteboard carried up from the basement. When Aaron arrived to a warm building the following Monday, a function entirely of the weather, he got his first glimpse of the detective. He could see him across the hallway, attaching a hand-lettered sign to his door: THE PRIVATE EYE SCHOOL . He resembled a Hollywood version of a detective — ruddy and big-bellied with a shambling walk and, Aaron would quickly learn, a penchant for tobacco. Unlike priests and professors, who surely benefited from looking priestly and professorial, Aaron imagined that the man’s appearance only made his job — much of which he pictured taking place undercover — that much harder. Perhaps he had turned to teaching as a way to finally cash in on his detectivelike looks.

Aaron always gave a quiz on Monday mornings, his way of nudging the students back to English. Most of them retreated to their native languages over the weekend, except Paolo, who spent weekends riding with the San Mateo Harley Club and always had questions on Monday morning. What Paolo wanted to know this Monday — waiting until the others were working away on their quizzes to ask — was why the Chinese were such bad drivers. He picked up his pen, preparing to take notes, and the others, even the Chinese students, looked up from their quizzes expectantly. Aaron studied his chalk while the class studied him. He hated stereotypes, particularly those that struck him as somehow true, but he envied his students their ease in asking such questions.

They asked one another such questions also. The Brazilians asked the Chinese whether they could spot a Chinese American, for example, and they said of course they could because the Chinese Americans walked a different way. “How do they walk?” the Brazilians asked, and the Chinese students said, “Aggressive like Americans. They are not humble anymore.” It was the “anymore” that intrigued him, for it implied that they had been born humble and then had it squeezed out of them. They asked about one another’s features, the shapes of their eyes, the color of their skin, always turning to him for vocabulary: what was this type of nose called, this shade of skin? Most often, he replied that there was no word, at least none that he could think of, and Lerma, the lone Filipina, said, “How do you speak about noses without words?”