Part 2 (1/2)
It was why she didn't like the television. All the filled-in faces. She wanted, sometimes, to ask people about their memories. Do you remember people when you are away from them? The faces? At what point do they come alive?
Even her husband's face grown ghostly.
But she never said these things. She kept to herself. Smiling, quiet, clean. She and her son.
Never causing trouble.
Keeping things up.
Arriving on time for the social worker.
The clinic.
The dentist, who said it was all right if she sat on the chair and he sat on her lap to be examined. Otherwise he'll scream.
Fine, then, Mrs. Verbeck. Just keep it up. Keep him away from sugar snacks. Fresh fruit. Apples or carrot sticks. Water rather than soda or other sweetened drinks.
Yes, thank you. Yes.
You've done a good job. Not one cavity. You floss his teeth?
I will.
We'll show you how. Miss Havenick, the hygienist, will show you.
”Let's open our mouth, Billy.”
Not yours. His.
And mine.
She wanted to phone the call-in radio and ask one of the doctors. Are the faces of people empty to other people as they are to me?
Except his face. The one face I have always known.
At night while he slept she sat on a stool beside him just to learn his face. So that she never would forget.
An angry baby. Happy only in her arms.
He doesn't take to strangers. Thanks, no, I can manage. Thanks.
Did anyone look at her face? In the shadowy childhood, family of shadow, furniture the part of it that she remembered most. The green couch. The red chair.
Did anyone look at my face?
He needs a group experience.
But we are happiest alone.
But never say it. She knew what people thought. Children need other children. They believe that, everyone believes it.
Only I do not believe it.
Only he and I.
Happy, happy in the studio apartment, in the trailer, in the bas.e.m.e.nt rented in the rotting house. Happy in the supermarket, laundromat, bank where we stand on line to cash the check from welfare. Singing, eating meals we love, the walks we take, bringing back leaves, pinecones. Puzzles we do in silence, cartoon shows we watch.
She wanted to say to them: ”We're very happy.”
She never said these things. She moved.
Five towns. Five different states.
He needs a group experience.
This time she thinks they may be right. Now he is four years old. Next year, no hope.
No hope. No hope.
All I have ever wanted.
On the first day of school, she dresses him. She didn't dare to buy new clothes for school. She puts on him the clothes that he has worn all summer. Black jeans with an elastic waist. An orange short-sleeved s.h.i.+rt with a design of a bear on the left breast pocket. White socks, his old red sneakers he is proud of. Velcro. He can do them himself.
The teacher says: ”He's never had a group experience?”
”No, just with me.”
”Maybe, then, for the first few days you can stay with him. For a little while. Until he adjusts to the group situation.”
She sees the other mothers bought their boys and girls new clothes. And for themselves. She parks the car behind the church and waits till they have all gone in the little building, like a hut, built for the children. All the other mothers know each other. Like each other. And the children.
There is no one that we know.
The teacher is standing at the door. ”Good morning Jessica, Kate, Michael, Daniel, Jason, Alison.” ”And here comes Billy.”
Children are playing on the swings and slides.
Children are playing in the sandbox.
Girls are pretending to cook at the toy stove, using toy pots and spoons and dishes.
Boys are in the corner making a house of large blocks, then shoving it down, building it, knocking it down, fighting, building.
Billy hides his face in her shoulder.
”I won't leave you.”
”Maybe tomorrow,” says the teacher. ”After he gets more used to the group, you'll feel that you can leave after a while.”
The teacher's pants are elastic-waisted, like the children's pants. She wears blue eye shadow, her fingernails are pink as sh.e.l.ls. She is wearing sandals with thin straps. She is wearing stockings underneath the sandals. JoAnn wonders: Maybe they are socks that only look like stockings. Maybe they stop.