He looked surprised, like he'd forgotten that he was talking to me. "Well,
James, it's like this: when you're away that long, you get to invent yourself
all over again. Of course, everyone invents themselves as they grow up. Your
chums there --" he gestured at the boys, who were now trying, with varying
success, to turn somersaults, dirtying their school clothes "-- they're
inventing themselves right now, whether they know it or not. The smart one, the
strong one, the brave one, the sad one. It's going on while we watch!
"But when you go away, nobody knows you, and you can be whoever you want. You
can shed your old skin and grow a new one. When we put out to sea, I was just a
youngster, eighteen years old and fresh from my Pa's house. He was a cablecar
engineer, and wanted me to follow in his shoes, get an apprenticeship and join
him there under the hills, oiling the giant pulleys. But no, not me! I wanted to
put out to sea and see the world. I'd never been out of the city, can you
believe that? The first port where I took shore leave was in Haiti, and when I
stepped onto the dock, it was like my life was starting all over again. I got a
tattoo, and I drank hard liquor, and gambled in the saloons, and did all the
things that a man did, as far as I was concerned." He had a faraway look now,
staring at the boys' game without seeing it. "And when I got back on-board, sick
and tired and broke, there was a new kid there, a negro from Port-Au-Prince
who'd signed on to be a cabin boy. His name was Jean-Paul, and he didn't speak a
word of English and I didn't speak a word of French. But I took him under my
wing, James, and acted like I'd been at sea all my life, and showed him the
ropes, and taught him to play cards, and bossed him around, and taught him
English, one word at a time.
"And that became the new me. Every time a new hand signed on, I would be his
teacher, his mentor, his guide.
"And then I came home.
"As far as the folks back home were concerned, I was the kid they'd said
good-bye to five years before. My father thought I was still a kid, even though
I'd fought pirates and weathered storms. My chums wanted me to be the kid I'd
been, and do all the boring, kid things we'd done before I left -- riding the
trolleys, watching the vaudeville shows, fishing off the docks.
"Even though that stuff was still fun, it wasn't _me_, not anymore. I missed the
old me, and felt him slipping away. So, you know what I did?"
"You moved to New Jerusalem?"
"I moved to New Jerusalem. Well, to Salt Lake City, first. I studied with the
Jesuits, to be a teacher, then I saw an ad for a teacher in the paper, and I
packed my bag and caught the next train. And here I am, not the me that came
home from sea, and not the me who I was before I went to sea, but someone in
between, a new me -- teaching, but on dry land, and not chasing dangerous
adventures, but still reading my old log-book and smiling."
We sat for a moment, in companionable silence. Then, abruptly, he checked his
pocket watch and yelped. "Damn! Lunch was over twenty minutes ago!" He leapt to
his feet, as smoothly as a boy, and ran into the schoolhouse to ring the bell.
I folded up the waxed-paper, and thought about this adult who talked to me like
an adult, who didn't worry about swearing, or telling me about his adventures,
and I made my way back to class.
It went better, the rest of that day.
#
In 75, Pa had almost never been home, but his presence was always around us.
I'd call the robutler out of its closet and have it affix its electrode
fingertips to my temples and juice my endorphins after a hard day at school, and
when I was done, the faint smell of Pa's hair-oil, picked up from the 'trodes
and impossible to be rid of, would cling to me. Or I'd sit down on the oubliette
and find one of Pa's journals from back home, well-thumbed and open to an
article on mental telepathy. We did ESP in school, and it was all about a race
of alien traders who communicated in geometric thought pictures that took
forever to translate. We'd never learned about Magnetism and Astral Projection
and all the other things Pa's journals were full of.
And while I never doubted the things in Pa's journals, I never brought them up
in class, neither. There were lots of different kinds of truth.
"James?"
"Yes, Mama?" I said, on my way out to chop kindling.
"Did you finish your homework?"
"Yes, Mama."
"Good boy."
Homework had been some math, and some biology, and some geology. I'd done it
before I left school.
#
The report cards came out in the middle of December. Mr Adelson sealed them with
wax in thick brown envelopes and handed them out at the end of the day. Sealing
them was a dirty trick -- it mean a boy would have to go home not knowing
whether to expect a whipping or an extra slice of pie, and the fellows were as
nervous as long-tailed cats in a rocking-chair factory when class let out. For
once, there was no horseplay afterwards.
I came home and tossed the envelope on the kitchen table without a moment's
worry. I'd aced every test, I'd done every take-home assignment, I'd led the
class, in a bored, sleepy way, regurgitating the things they'd stuck in my brain
in 1975.
I went up to the attic and started reading one of Pa's adventure stories,
_Tarzan of the Apes_, by the Frenchman, Jules Verne. Pa had all of Verne's
books, each of them crisply autographed on the inside cover. He'd met Verne on
one of his diplomatic missions, and the two had been like two peas in a pod, to
hear him tell of it -- they both subscribed to all the same crazy journals.
I was reading my favorite part, where Tarzan meets the man in the balloon, when
Mama's voice called from downstairs. "James Arthur Nicholson! Get your behind
down here _now_!"
I jumped like I was stung and rattled down the attic stairs so fast I nearly
broke my neck and then down into the parlour, where Mama was holding my report
card and looking fit to bust.
"Yes, Mama?" I said. "What is it?"
She handed me the report card and folded her arms over her chest. "Explain that,
mister. Make it good."
I read the card and my eyes nearly jumped out of my head. The rotten so-and-so
had given me F's all the way down, in every subject. Below, in his seaman's
hand, he'd written, "James' performance this semester has disappointed me
gravely. I would like it very much if I could meet with you and he, Mrs
Nicholson, at your earliest convenience, to discuss his future at the Academy.
Signed, Rbt. Adelson."
Mama grabbed my ear and twisted. I howled and dropped the card. Before I knew
what was happening, she had me over her knee and was paddling my bottom with her
open hand, hard.
"I don't" -- whack -- "know _what_" -- whack -- "you think" -- whack -- "you're
doing, James." -- whack -- "If your _father_" -- whack, _whack_ -- "were here,"
-- whack -- "he'd switch you" -- whack -- "within an inch of your life." And she
gave me a load more whacks.
I was too stunned even to cry or howl. Pa had only beat me twice in all the time
I'd known him. Mama had _never_ beat me. My bottom ached distantly, and I felt
tears come to my eyes.
"Well, what do you have to say for yourself?"
"Mama, it's a mistake --" I began.
"You're durn right!" she said.
"No, really! I did all my homework! I passed all the exams! I showed 'em to you!
You saw 'em!" The unfairness of it made my heart hammer in time to the throbbing
of my backside.
Mama's breath fumed angrily out of her nose. "You go straight to your room and
_stay there_. We're going to see Mr Adelson first thing tomorrow morning."
"What about my chores?" I said.
"Oh, don't worry about that. You'll have _plenty_ of chores to do when I let you
out."
I went to my room and stripped down, and lay on my tummy and cracked my window
so the icy winter air blew over my backside. I cried a vale of tears, and rained
down miserable, mean curses on everyone: Mama, Pa, and especially the lying,
snaky, backstabbing Runnyguts Adelson.
#
Mama didn't get any less mad through the night, but when she came to my door at
cock-crow, she seemed to be holding it in better. My throat and eyes were sore
as sandpaper from crying, and Mama gave me exactly five minutes to wash up and
dress before dragging me out to the horsebarn. She'd already hitched up our team
and refused my hand when I tried to help her up.
I'd been angry and righteous when I woke, but seeing Mama's towering, barely
controlled fury changed my mood to dire terror. I stared out at the trees and
farms as we rode into town, feeling like a condemned man being taken to the
gallows.
Mama pulled up out front of the Academy and marched me around back to the
teacher's cottage. She rapped on the door and waited, blowing clouds of steam
out of her nose into the frosty morning air.
Mr Adelson answered the door in shirtsleeves and suspenders, unshaved and
bleary. His hair, normally neatly oiled and slicked, stuck out like frayed
broom-straw. The muscles on his thin arms stood out like snakes. He blinked at
us, standing on his doorstep. "Mrs Nicholson!" he said.
"Mr Adelson," my mother said. "We've come to discuss James' report card."
Mr Adelson smoothed his hair back and stepped aside. "Please, come in. Can I
offer you some coffee?"
"No, thank you," Mama said, primly, standing in his foyer. He held out his hand
for her coat and kerchief and she handed them to him. I took off my coat and
struggled out of my boots. He took them both and put them away in a closet.
"I'm going to have some coffee. Are you sure I can't offer you a cup?"
"No. Thank you, all the same."
"As you wish." He disappeared down the dark hallway, and Mama and I found our
way into his tiny parlour. Books were stacked every which where, dusty and
precarious. Mama and I sat down in a pair of cushioned chairs, and Mr Adelson
came in, holding two mugs of coffee. He set one down next to Mama on the floor,
then smacked himself in the forehead. "You said no, didn't you? Sorry, I'm not
quite awake yet. Well, leave it there -- there's cream in it, maybe the cat will
have some."
He settled himself onto another chair and sipped at his coffee. "Let's start
over, shall we? Hello, Mrs Nicholson. Hello, James. I understand you're here to
discuss James' report card."
Mama sat back a little in her chair and let hint of a sardonic smile show on her
face. "Yes, we are. Forgive my coming by unannounced."
"Oh, it's nothing."
Mr Adelson drank more coffee. Mama smoothed her skirts. I kicked my feet against
the rungs of my chair. Finally, it was too much for me. "What's the big idea,
anyway?" I said, glaring daggers at him. "I don't deserve no F!"
"Any F," Mr Adelson corrected. "Why don't you think so?"
"Well, because I did all my homework. I gave the right answers in class. I
passed all the tests. It ain't fair!"
"Not fair," my Mama corrected, gently. She was staring distractedly at Mr
Adelson.
"What you say is true enough, James. What grade do you suppose you should've
gotten?"
"Why, an A! An A-plus! Perfect!" I said, glaring again at him, daring him to say
otherwise.
"Is that what an A-plus is for, James? Perfection?"
"Sure," I said, opening my mouth without thinking.
Mama shifted her stare to me. She was looking even more thoughtful.
"Why do you suppose you go to school?"
"'Cause Mama says I have to," I said, sullenly.
"James!" Mama said.
"Oh, I suppose it's to learn things," I said.
Mr Adelson smiled and nodded, the way he did when one of the students got the
right answer in class. "Well?"
"Well, what?" I said.
"What did you learn this semester?"
"Why, everything you taught! Geometry! Algebra! Latin! Geography! Biology!
Physics! Grammar!"
"I see," he said. "James, what's the formula for determining the constant in the
second derivative of an equation?"
I knew that one: it was one of Newton's dirty calculus proofs. "It's a trick
question. There's no way to get the constant of second derivative."
"Exactly right," he said.
"Yes," I said, and folded my arms across my chest.
"Where did you learn that?"
"In --" I started to say 1975, but caught myself. "In France."
"Yes."
"Yes," I said. The fingers of dawn crept across my comprehension. "Oh."
Mama smiled at me.
"But it's not fair! So what if I already knew everything before I started? I
still did all the work."
"Why are you in school, James?" Mr Nicholson asked me again.
"To learn."
"Well, then I think you'd better start learning something, don't you? You're the
brightest student in the class. You're certainly smarter than I am -- I'm just
an old sailor struggling along with the rest of the class. But you, you've _got
it_. You've been marking time in class all semester, and I daresay you haven't
learned a single thing since you started. That's why you got F's."
"Mr Adelson," Mama said. "Am I to understand that James performed all his
assignments satisfactorily?"