Close Encounters of the Third-Grade Kind (24 page)

M
y students and I open and close each day with a song. The children sing while I plunk out tunes on an old beige piano that’s
missing a pedal, has two broken keys, and tilts because one of the wheels fell off. I hit more wrong notes than right ones.
The kids think I’m a professional. Each month I teach the kids a new batch of tunes. In February, the kids learn “Yankee Doodle,”
“You’re a Grand Old Flag,” “America the Beautiful,” “This Is My Country,” and the national anthem. But I don’t call it “The
Star Spangled Banner” anymore. For me it will always be Michael’s Song.

I first met Michael at morning recess on the first day of school many years ago. I was on yard duty. Michael was not in my
class yet. He was still a second grader. I was standing on the blacktop making sure that kids didn’t run up the slide. Michael
was saving a potato bug.

“You’re Mr. Done,” Michael said, looking up. His freckled nose was peeling. His cowlick was standing straight up.

“You’re right,” I replied. I began rubbing my chin. “And you’re… let me see…” I closed my eyes and tapped my forehead. “Wait…
it’s coming to me. You’re… you’re… Michael.”

“How’d you guess?” he asked.

“Teachers know everything,” I said, smiling.

He forgot that he was wearing a name tag.

*  *  *

The following year, Michael was in my class. It didn’t take me long to realize that he was a special little boy. When a student
returned after being absent, Michael would explain what she had missed. If someone forgot a lunch, Michael shared his. When
we read picture books with our kindergarten buddies, Michael held his buddy’s hand. The day Michael showed me a new badge
on his blue Cub Scout uniform, I wasn’t surprised. It was for “kindness.”

Once I asked Michael what he wanted to be when he grew up. He said a pastor.

I smiled. “You’d make a good one. Hey, wasn’t there an angel in the Bible named Michael?”

“Yep.”

“And wasn’t he the one who told Mary that she was going to have a baby?”

“That was Gabriel.”

“Oops. Wrong angel.”

After that I started calling Michael “Angel.” He liked that. He wrote
Angel
on his name tag. Oftentimes he’d sign his papers
Angel,
too. Little did I know how fitting his new name would become.

Most of the time teachers have to ask their students to stop talking. With Michael I’d have to ask him to stop singing. He
loved to sing. His voice was strong, clear, and pure. Every Friday for Show and Tell, Michael would sing us a song. No accompaniment.
The other children expected it. Sometimes he would even take requests.

Whenever Michael was our song leader for the week, he would always pick “The Star Spangled Banner.” One Friday, after singing
the national anthem at eight in the morning for four straight days in a row, I said, “Michael, how about a different song
today, huh?” He thought about it for a second then shook his head. He’d have none of it.

One afternoon, Michael’s mother walked into the classroom. Her eyes were puffy. Her mascara had run.

“Do you have a minute?” she asked.

“Sure.”

I pulled a chair out for her. She took a seat and looked down at her hands. I could see that she was reaching for the right
words. Finally she looked up.

“I have something difficult to tell you — about Michael.” I waited. Then she took a slow, deep breath. “Michael has leukemia.”

I inhaled sharply. For a second I could not find my voice. “Is… is it serious?”

She nodded, pressing her lips together. “But we’re hopeful. He’ll start his first chemotherapy in a few weeks. I’m afraid
he’ll have to miss school. When he’s out, I’ll come by and pick up his work.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that.” I paused to take a breath. “Does Michael know that you’re here?”

“Yes.”

“How’s he handling it?”

“Quite well,” she responded, forcing a smile. “I don’t think he really understands it all yet.”

I felt my Adam’s apple rise and fall. “Is there anything I can do?”

She took a deep breath. Fresh tears filled her eyes. “We’d appreciate your prayers.”

“Of course,” I said. “Thank you for telling me.”

*  *  *

That week for Show and Tell, Michael told the class all about his leukemia. He brought in little stuffed red and white blood
cells that the doctor had given him. The children listened closely. It was hard to believe that what he was describing was
his own disease. He looked perfectly fine. After he finished sharing he sang us a song. I had to look away.

Over the next couple of weeks things started to change. Michael began missing more and more school. The chemo made him terribly
sick. When he did come to class, he wore a hat. His already small frame looked even smaller. His mother said he had trouble
keeping the food down.

Then one day Michael’s mom came by and said that Michael wouldn’t be coming to school anymore. He was too weak now, and the
doctors wanted to make sure that he didn’t catch any germs from the other children. I asked Michael’s mom if I could visit
him. She said of course.

The following week I went to see Michael in the hospital. When I walked into his room, his mom had to stop him from jumping
off the bed and ripping the IV out of his arm.

“Hey there, Angel,” I said. I handed him a cupcake, though I knew he probably couldn’t eat it. “It’s Jill’s birthday. She
brought treats.”

My gaze shifted to the plastic bag hanging on a pole beside his bed. Clear liquid ran through a tube and into his little arm.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“The chemo,” his mother answered.

“
That’s
the chemo?” I was surprised. “I didn’t realize it looked like that.” I was embarrassed that I didn’t know.

Then I sat on the foot of the bed. Michael had circles under his eyes now. Pale cheeks had replaced rosy ones. He looked like
he was melting away. I tried my best to keep a happy face.

“I miss your voice during music,” I said, cheerily. “It’s not as loud.”

He began to giggle. “What did you sing today?”

“‘My Favorite Things.’”

As soon as I answered, Michael started singing. “Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens.” I joined him, and his mom hummed
and tapped her fingers on the arm of her chair. When we finished, Michael’s mom clapped. She was trying to keep her happy
face on, too.

“Sing another one,” she requested.

“Only on one condition,” I said, nudging Michael playfully in the ribs. “
Not
‘The Star Spangled Banner.’”

He laughed.

And so we sang. We sang every song I had ever taught him. We belted out “Do Re Mi” and “Food Glorious Food” and “I Won’t Grow
Up.” We sang “Getting to Know You” and “This Land Is Your Land.” Even with the needle in his arm, Michael tried the hand movements.
Nurses stopped in the doorway to listen. A couple of them joined us. Occasionally, Michael would look over at his mom and
smile. And for a few moments, the cancer and chemotherapy and needles were gone. The music had made us forget.

“Do you know any songs from
The Wizard of Oz
?” I asked Michael.

“No.”

“You’ve seen
The Wizard of Oz,
haven’t you?”

He shook his head.

I turned to his mom with a surprised look.

“I don’t think he’s seen it,” she said.

“Oh my goodness!” I exclaimed, placing both hands on my head. “You
have
to see
The Wizard of Oz.
It’s my favorite movie in the whole wide world.”

“We’ll have to get it,” his mom commented.

Michael grabbed my arm. “Have you seen
Grease
?”

“Of course I’ve seen
Grease.
”

“Do you know the songs?”

I crinkled my forehead. “I’m afraid I don’t. It’s been a long time.”

Then Michael slapped his free hand on his head, too. (He wasn’t going to be outdone.) “You don’t know the songs from
Grease
? Mr. Done, you
have
to learn the songs. That’s
my
favorite movie in the whole wide world.”

My lips stretched into a smile. “Fair enough.”

The next week after work, I stopped by Michael’s house. When I walked in, I handed him a package. His mom reminded him of
what to say.

“Thanks!” he said.

“You’re very welcome.”

Quickly he tore open the paper and held his gift up for his mom to see. It was a DVD of
The Wizard of Oz.

I crouched down in front of him. “I want you to learn the songs, Angel. And next time I see you we’ll sing them together.
Okay?”

He beamed. “Okay!”

As the weeks went by, I didn’t get to visit as frequently. Sometimes when I’d call to see if I could stop by, he’d be resting.
Occasionally his mother would say that it had been a difficult day. I knew what this meant. He was too sick to have visitors.

One night around ten o’clock my telephone rang.

“Hello,” I answered.

“Mr. Done?” a voice whispered.

“Michael, is that
you
?”

“Yes.”

“Where are you?”

“In the hospital.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I have to stay here overnight.”

“Does your mom know you’re calling me?”

“No. She left the room.”

I chuckled. “How did you get my number?”

“It shows up on our phone when you call. I copied it.”

Laughing, I sat down in my living room. The lights were off. It was raining.

“Hey Mr. Done, guess what.”

“What?”

“I know all the songs.”

“What songs?”

“From
The Wizard of Oz.
”

“Already?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Good for you. What’s your favorite?”

He thought about it for a second. “‘If I Only Had a Brain.’”

“Ah, good song.” I sang the opening line.

“What’s
your
favorite?” he asked.

“Oh, it has to be ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow.’”

“Oh yeah,” he remarked. “That’s good, too.”

At that moment, I looked out the window and thought of him lying there in that hospital room. A wedge of moonlight streamed
through the glass and made shadows on the wall over the fireplace. Sadness pressed down on my chest, and I could feel the
tears pooling behind my eyelids. Then softly I started singing, “‘Somewhere over the rainbow way up high…’” I knew that Michael
would like it. He sang along with me. My voice wanted to break, but I wouldn’t let it.

When we finished singing, I heard a woman’s voice.
His mom is back.
There was some muffled conversation, then Michael came back to the phone. “I gotta go, Mr. Done,” he said. “Bye.”

“Okay, Angel. Talk with you soon.”

That was the last time I ever heard his voice.

The memorial service was held at Michael’s church. The pews were filled with teachers, classmates, and families from school.
I recognized some nurses from the hospital. There wasn’t an empty seat.

As the service began, the pastor talked about what a special boy Michael was. He talked about Michael’s love for music and
God. He told everyone that Michael even planned some of the service — chose the Bible verses, the music, and who would speak.
His mother told me I was his first choice.

At first when the family asked me, I didn’t want to. I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to get through it. But eventually I said
yes. For my students. When the moment came for me to walk to the microphone, I looked down the pew at Michael’s mom and smiled.
She smiled back. Then I walked up to the podium and unfolded my notes.

I talked about the first time I met Michael saving a potato bug. I explained that Michael always chose “The Star Spangled
Banner.” I told the audience how he called me from the hospital when he wasn’t supposed to. At the end of my speech, I folded
my paper, looked out at the congregation, and swallowed hard. “I always thought angels wore white robes,” I said. “But now…”
I waited. “… now I know that some wear Cub Scout uniforms.”

After I took my seat, Michael’s mom caught my eye and mouthed
thank you.
Then I heard the shuffling of feet up in the choir loft behind me. The pianist began playing. I froze.
No.
My heart began to race. I whipped around and looked up to the loft. “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” began to fill the sanctuary.

I felt like crying and laughing at the same time.
I cannot believe this,
I thought.
That little guy chose this song for me. I know he did. He picked this song to comfort
me
!
I turned back around and looked up toward the ceiling. I knew Michael was up there singing. I sang with him.

Eventually my students and I got back to our routine. It wasn’t always easy to keep it together, but I had to. I had thought
about taking Michael’s desk out of the classroom, but it didn’t feel right. So I decided to keep it where it was. I left his
name tag on his desk, too.

In class I spoke freely about Michael. I knew that talking about him was important. Sometimes the kids would talk about him
as well. And if the song monitor picked “The Star Spangled Banner,” we’d always sing it good and loud for Michael. Eventually,
we stopped calling it the national anthem altogether and just called it “Michael’s Song.”

One afternoon toward the end of the school year, Michael’s mom stopped by my classroom. It was the first time I had seen her
since the funeral. We chatted for a bit. She was happy to see Michael’s desk still in its place. She told me she was going
to have another baby. I was happy about that.

“Oh,” she said, “I almost forgot.” She handed me a bag. “Michael wanted you to have this.”

“Thank you.”

“Before he died, he bequeathed most of his things.” She paused. “Can you believe it?”

I let out a little laugh. “Actually, I can.”

“I’m sorry it’s so late. I should have given it to you long ago.”

I sat on the corner of a child’s desk, opened the bag, and looked inside. When I saw what was in it, I threw my head back
and gave a good loud laugh. His mom smiled with me. Out of the bag I pulled a well-worn video of
Grease.
On the cover there was a note in Michael’s handwriting: