30 Pieces of a Novel (21 page)

It's six years later; he's been calling in sick a lot and the school he's teaching at now has started to complain about it till finally the principal summons him to his office and says, “Anything bothering you, Mr. Bookbinder? Or wrong with your health that I should know of—something serious? You've missed, on average, a day a week the last seven weeks, and sometimes two days in a row, and you know how difficult it is getting subs for you this far out in Brooklyn. Also, your colleagues are saying they've filled in for you enough, and if they go to your union about it and the assistant principal is unable to take over your class, I'm at a loss what to do. Do you need to take a leave and for us to hire a permanent sub?” and he says, “It's the kids, to be honest. They're driving me crazy. I shouldn't be admitting this, or maybe that's a sign of just how unsteady or something I've become, but either my teaching's down or never was too good or the kids are getting more brazen and uncontrollable, though I know some teachers don't have that trouble. But then when they yell, their students shut up. While when I do it—” and the principal says, “I can well sympathize, since it can happen to all of us.” “I don't instill fear in them, that's my problem,” and the principal says, “That can be good too, if the opposite approach works, and probably better—less strain on the vocal cords, and so forth. But you can't let it get to you too much. Worst thing for you is when it does, and you leave us in the lurch too,” and he says, “I'll try, and I appreciate your warning me about it—the consequences. I don't want to lose the job and I can't afford to take an unpaid leave and I'm not sick in a way where I can take a health one. Or maybe the leave system, the … the … what are they? Not the constitution, but like it … the guidelines—but I don't think it has,” and the principal says, “What hasn't?” and he says, “The guidelines of the health-leave policy,” and the principal says, “Normally it has to be accident related. You get bopped on the head or fall accidentally and split your skull open or some kid on school grounds—and he doesn't have to be a student—pulls a razor on you and just the trauma of that experience, even if the kid doesn't
use
the razor, is enough to do it—so I wouldn't count on getting a paid leave that way. But if you like, and I don't see how I can be any fairer about this, speak to your union rep here about it. Maybe she'll come up with a loophole for you, much as I'd hate to go hunting for a permanent sub more than halfway through the school year,” and three weeks later, shortly before the Easter vacation and right after a day when he didn't want to come in but felt he had to and then didn't think he'd make it through the day, his classes were so unmanageable, he's walking his second-period class through the halls to an assembly in the auditorium, a break from regular teaching since it means a class and maybe a class and a half, if the assembly goes on that long, is suspended and all he has to do in the part of the auditorium he's assigned to patrol is keep the kids quiet, when one of his students breaks from the double line and runs to a phone booth near the school's entrance, and he yells, “Patricia, get back here, I didn't give you permission,” and she pushes in the booth door and shouts at the boy inside, “You're speaking to her, you liar. You're love-talking and you said you wouldn't never,” and kicks and beats the booth glass, and the boy says, “Hey, hey! Stop. I'm talking to my mother, and what you're doing's not looking good to her,” and she says, “Your fucker, you mean, you liar,” and keeps kicking the bottom glass panel till it shatters, and the class screams, “Kill him, Trisha, kill him!” and the boy jumps out of the booth and puts his fists up and says, “Come on, you wanna duke it out, I'm not afraid to hit pussy,” and she lunges at him and he swings and grazes the top of her head or just her high hair and she pushes him down and leaps on him and starts punching his face and pulling his ear and he punches her face from the ground, and Gould's yelling, “Stop, stop, get off him, get up!” and other kids in the class and from other classes surround the boy and Patricia, and a girl in this crowd screams and turns around and says to Gould, who's trying to pull some kids away to get through, “Morris grabbed my tit, Mr. Book; I'm just standing here and he did it; say something,” and Morris says, “No, I didn't; I can't; she has none,” and he says, “Both of you, out of my way, let me get to them,” and other teachers are pulling kids off one another and Gould grabs Patricia off of the boy and says, “You stinking bastard—you had to do that? Look what you caused,” and she says, “Don't be calling me names,” and he says, “I meant because of what you did. Like a savage, you acted, like a savage. Look at that glass; you're lucky you didn't cut yourself,” and she says, “I told you, don't be calling me names; I'm reporting you,” and he says, “Ah, Jesus, what the hell's going on? All of you, just get away from me, enough of this goddamn shit,” and goes to the main office while some kids are yelling, “Teacher cursed, teacher cursed!” and the school secretary, standing at her desk behind the counter, says, “What's happening out there? I never heard anything like it. Should we call the police?” and he says, “Is Mr. Vandenburg in?” and she says, “If he was, don't you think he'd be attending to that racket? No, he's at a meeting in another school,” and he says, “Well, tell him I punched out, I was sick, I couldn't take another minute of it,” and grabs his time card out of its holder and punches out, and she says, “You can't just go like that. You need authorization. I'll get your A.P. Which one is it?” and he says, “Then forget I punched out, but I'm leaving. It's that or lose my mind … I spoke to Mr. Vandenburg about it,” and she says, “If you desert your classes before the school day's over and fail to get someone to cover them, you can be docked an entire day's pay, and I won't even tell you what the principal's reaction will be,” and he says, “Didn't you hear me? Take my day's pay, take two; take the whole week's and the month's and I-don't-care how long,” and goes to his homeroom, gets his coat from his closet and some things out of his desk. There are all sorts of supplies in the cabinets and closets that he bought with his own money to use in his classes because the school couldn't pay for them, but forget it—he'll never need them again—and leaves the school.

HE USED TO
go out there to see his uncle and aunt and cousin and sometimes stay overnight with them. More than thirty years later the cousin was killed there when he got into an argument with a hustler. The hustler was selling drugs; his cousin told him there were kids around so peddle his stuff somewhere else. The hustler told him to mind his business if he knows what's good for him. His cousin said, “Why'd you come to Coney Island to sell your crap? This used to be a good place; my folks and I used to come here to an apartment every summer and you could walk along the boardwalk even late at night without guys like you screwing it up for people.” “Get lost, will you?” the hustler said. There were witnesses; they listened from a few feet off, didn't butt in. “In Coney Island,” one witness said, “you don't stick your nose into anything today. That's the mistake this fellow made and that's why he got killed. What used to be the old days hasn't been those days for decades, you could say, so why'd he think that drug pusher would listen to him?” His cousin persisted: “Look, I want you to get off the boardwalk and stop selling your poison or I'm calling a cop.” “And I told you to walk backwards,” the hustler said. “Now get moving, stay out of my business, or you're going to get very hurt.” “So you're not leaving?” his cousin said, and the hustler looked around, said to the small group of people watching them, “Do you hear this chump? Can you believe anyone would be so stupid? Where's he think he's telling someone this? Okay, because he drew a crowd and I can't deal with him in private, and also because his breath stinks, I'll go, but you tell this dope he's finished, finished.” His cousin followed him till he was off the boardwalk, the hustler turning around every few seconds to stare back and point at him and say things like “You're dead, mister. You might think you're alive because you're breathing, but you're as dead as they come. So take the last of your deep breaths because there aren't going to be any later. If you didn't hear me I'll repeat it. You want me to repeat it? Then believe it. I bullshit nobody.” Some people came over to his cousin and patted his back and said, “I can't believe it, you stood up to that bastard. But you better get going the opposite way from him; that guy's a killer if I ever saw one.” “A blowhard, that's what he is,” his cousin said. “Drugs he has to sell to little kids or to big stupid ones who then turn on and screw up little kids? I caught on to him right away. I'm walking by, just taking in a day at the beach before the real season begins, and hear him with his nickel-bags line to these kids passing. ‘Nickel bags, nickel bags, joints,' and some other crap that kills you but only goes by its letters, TNT or something. You know, when I was a kid I used to stay here summers with my folks,” and someone said, “Yeah, we heard.” “Then you know what I'm talking about: it was nice, lively, safe then. You could sleep on the beach on very hot days, send your kids into the ocean for a midnight swim, even, if there were no jellyfish in the water, and nobody would touch you. Girls could go in alone too, if they maybe only got a few whistles, the older ones.” “Those days,” someone said. “You can't bring them back and, much as I admire you for what you did, you shouldn't risk your life trying to.” “Who was risking?” his cousin said. “If there was going to be any trouble, it would've been then. But I could see he wasn't that kind of hustler. When they don't talk or only say very little and just look at you like they want to slice you in half, then you could be in trouble and then I'd walk the opposite way, or till I saw a cop.” Next morning someone found his cousin's body under the boardwalk about a half mile from where the incident with the dealer happened, his throat slit and pockets torn and necktie pulled around his neck and hanging over his back, but when he was a young man he used to put Gould on his shoulders and walk him at night along the boardwalk for a mile or so, give him money to play skeeball, treat him to the bumping cars and merry-go-round lots of times, buy him soft ice cream and saltwater taffy and a big salty pretzel and always a souvenir to take back to the city, a miniature metal Parachute Jump or a pennant with
CONEY ISLAND
and a picture of a Ferris wheel or the Steeplechase ride on it. Gould went to see his cousin and uncle and aunt a couple of times a summer, usually late June before he left for camp for two months and during the Labor Day weekend. The ocean wasn't clean then. Sometimes shit floated past, human shit, and condoms. But when there was nothing like that around, though he always kept his eye out for it when he was in the water, it seemed okay to swim in. What he liked best was getting in front of a breaker and being knocked off his feet and tossed around. Once, he really was tossed around, couldn't get his footing when he tried to, swallowed lots of water, and thought he'd drown, when his cousin grabbed his hand and jerked him out of the water and ran with him to the beach and set him down on his stomach and pumped the water out of him, and then, when Gould was sitting up and breathing normally again, held him in his arms and said, “Oh, boy, what a scare. I never should've let you go out that far. But you wanted to take chances and I thought, He's not my kid, and taking chances is good for a boy, so let him, but never again like that when I'm in charge.” Gould got sick one time there, violent stomach pains, vomiting, high temperature; it was around eleven at night and his aunt said, “You want to take the subway back home? I'll call your parents and tell them you're coming,” and he said yes, had been screaming he wanted to go home, feeling he didn't want to be this sick in someone else's apartment, thought he'd die if he stayed, that only his mother could take care of him when he was like this. He was practically delirious, it turned out, going in and out of it, he means. He doesn't know the details of what happened after that; he knows he spent the night there, eventually fell asleep, and went home by himself the next day. His aunt must have called his home and his mother must have said something like, “Are you crazy, send him home so late when he's this sick? Put him in a tub of cool water, or rub him with rubbing alcohol, but get the temperature down. Then, if his stomach can take it, give him an aspirin.” His aunt, who usually looked after him well, sort of panicked then; he could tell from her eyes and voice: she just wanted him out of the house. His cousin wasn't home at the time, so maybe he got back later after a date or movie or meeting some friends—though Gould's folks used to talk about how he never had many friends and the only women he saw were whores—and his uncle had stayed in their apartment in Brooklyn closer to the city—same place on Avenue J his cousin had lived alone in for about fifteen years till he was killed—as he had to be at work early the next morning.

Now Gould takes his own kids to Coney Island. Did it the last two Junes too, and late in the month, since there was a better chance then, before they left for Maine on the first, the water would be warm enough to swim in. He always brings the kids' bathing suits but not his own—he just wants to read on the beach, in the shade if he can, while watching them. They haven't gone in to swim yet, but the last two times they
did
put their suits on in the decrepit toilet-and-changing building on the beach and wade in up to their ankles. “The water's filthy,” his older daughter said the last time, and he said, “Why, anything floating in it?” and she said, “No, because it's brown, not like the Maine ocean,” and he said, “That's the sand stirred up, your feet in it, all the activity in the water or something, or the surf's just rougher here and that's doing it, but it's okay to swim in. In fact, there's much less pollution emptied into the ocean around here than there was when I was a kid and used to come to Coney Island, so the water's probably cleaner now than it was then and maybe, because New York might be stricter with its pollution laws, cleaner than the Maine water. You can't imagine what they used to empty into the ocean then,” and she said, “What?” and he said, “Things, terrible things,” and she continued to look at him that she wanted an answer, and he said, “Toilet paper. Human feces, even,” and she said, “What's that?” and he said, “Body waste from people. All right: shit, but not anymore.”