Long Division (12 page)

So what do you think, Mr. Prisoner? Do you want to claw your eyeballs out? Do you wish your tubesocks were just a little bit longer so you could fashion them into an effective noose? Don't you think I'm a melodramatic, overreacting, unsympathetic, selfish prat of a woman? Is it people like me who remind you why you defied society in the first place?

T
oday I'm calling my book
So Very Alone
, because I'm having a huge-ass pity party.

 

Winter break! Winter break! Winter break! Of all the perks of being an educator in America, the glorious chunks of vacation time are certainly up there.
³⁹
Any teacher who claims that three months of luxurious holiday wasn't a factor in choosing a career path is full of crap. Those few weeks between Thanksgiving and winter break pass in a whirl of chaos and cookie crumbs.
⁴⁰
The kids can't concentrate with the hope of new PlayStations and skateboards glimmering in their eyes, so I usually slack a bit and give in to several long, uninspired sessions of cutting paper snowflakes.

Last week when I was driving Max to his violin lesson, he asked me about Gus.

“Your friend Gus is pretty cool, Miss Harper. Is he an art teacher?”

“Nope. He's an artist.” I told Max about the windows at the Dairy DeLite and how Gus had recently created a winter wonderland where the reindeer have actual fuzz on their antlers.

“That must be so fun,” Max said. “Can we paint our classroom windows?”

“Probably not, unfortunately, but I can ask Gus if he needs a helper when he does the Valentine's Day display next month.”

“You mean like hearts and kisses and stuff ? No, thank you.”

“I'm sure you two could make more of it,” I said.

“Maybe dinosaurs?” Max asked, and I immediately pictured a T. rex in a slinky red negligee and long, exaggerated eyelashes. It was really a stupid image, but one Gus would probably be willing to try.

“Yeah, maybe.”

Later, Max invited me to his holiday violin recital. He told me there would be cookies, punch, and wine for the grown-ups. I asked him if he'd be performing Han Solo, and he actually got my
Star Wars
reference and laughed. “Yes, I do have a Han Solo part,” he said. I told him I'd love to go and that I hoped the force would be with him.

 

Max's concert is Saturday the twenty-third, the day after the last day of school. I drag Gus along because I know Max will be happy to see him. I pick him up at his apartment and we argue in the car whether it's appropriate to bring Max flowers. Gus tells me that eight-year-old boys don't want flowers, don't like flowers, will not know what to do with flowers. I argue that Max is remarkably sophisticated and will both understand and appreciate the traditional gesture. I pull into the florist anyway, we bring the battle inside, and exit shortly after with the compromise of a small potted cactus. Gus was shocked that the florist didn't carry Venus flytraps.

 

The concert is quite lovely. I was expecting shrill, window-cracking tones and the discomfort of watching young, chubby fingers struggle to emulate the athleticism of movements that were invented by wiry old men who possessed the kind of genius that disregards both pain and hunger. But Max and his small ensemble (a flautist, a pianist, and another violinist) are pretty fucking good. Gus even looks over at me a few times and does that pretentious music-snob nod of approval. Every now and then I look down at the flecks of dried paint on his khaki pants. White and beige and taupe that nearly blend into the fabric. He catches me staring a few times and bounces his legs to the music in response. We exchange smiles. The venue is warm and comfortably lit, and the folding chairs are padded; I could have sat through at least another dozen concertos.

After the performance we drink wine in the lobby with the Schaffers and other miscellaneous family and friends, and though I hardly know anyone and they hardly know me, it all feels so welcoming. “I'm Max's teacher” is all I have to say and it is enough. The mother of the flautist, who is trendy and pretty and seems to be about my age, gives me a weird flirty look and whisper-asks if Gus is my boyfriend. I snort a little bit and drop a big chunk of my sugar cookie. After bending to pick it up I say, “Oh, no. We're just old pals.” The woman gives me an odd look, and it's a moment before I realize I've placed the cookie piece from the floor carelessly into my mouth. Her face goes flirty again and she says “Well, he's really cute. Do you know if he's seeing anyone?”

“He is, actually,” I say and try to smile back. Who is this woman? Since when do the mothers of Max Schaffer's peers get the hots for goofball Gus Warren? Did she see the paint stains on his pants? Does she know they do not match her designer handbag? I always feel a little guilty for the shock that I feel when women express romantic interest in Gus, but it is perplexing to me. It's not the interest itself, but more the types of women it comes from.
Really?
I want to say.
Are you sure?
Are you sure pistachio ice cream is your favorite flavor? Are you sure you want to watch the
Dune
movie on a Saturday night?

Max loves the cactus and thanks Gus and me in his adorably proper fashion. We tell him that he was awesome and that we are really glad we came. On the way home we stop by a strip mall so Gus can pick up a half gallon of eggnog and some whiskey. I drop him off at Gina's because they have plans to build a gingerbread Taj Majal. It was Gina's idea—she loves Eastern cultures—and I can tell Gus thinks it's totally cool. And I agree. I thank him for coming to the recital with me and warn him not to eat too much frosting.

At home I am bored. And I hate to say I'm bored, because whenever my kids say it, I chide them with “Only boring people get bored,” and I like to think that I actually believe that. It's uncomfortable to admit that I am a boring creature, quietly shuffling through the world with my heavy, lolling head chock-full of lackluster thoughts and ideas. I check my e-mail and go to the post office Web site to track the Christmas package I sent David
⁴¹
three weeks ago. The site offers little information, and I find myself staring blankly at the screen, twisting my hands in my lap and imagining the package toppling out of the back of some large truck and getting run over by a tank. Sand grinding into the soft cotton of the black size-large boxer-briefs. The shattered screen of the mini DVD player. The shitlike smudge of my homemade fudge destroying the flawless white of the brand new, tag-less undershirts. I also included a small chapbook I made with cutout pictures of food products from grocery flyers, scenery images from travel magazines, and clippings from high-quality linen catalogs: a promise to David of all the caring and nurturing I'll do when he gets back. I told him to circle all his favorite items. I even pasted in several pages photocopied from an encyclopedia of dog breeds. Pick a puppy, I told him. And I'll time everything right so it's potty-trained but still perfectly perky by the time he gets back. We'll name it Georgie, G.I. Puppyface, Tony Fucking Blair, whatever he wants.

All this package disaster fantasizing isn't helping me at all. The anxiety of his smashed gift evolves into the anxiety of his smashed body and then dips into a series of guilty waves because I'm worrying about a stupid package and not the future of a tumultuous country. Or all countries. Or innocent slaughtering. Or the future of democracy. Or all the women in the world who will lose their lovers tonight. But isn't there still such a chance it could be me?

Oh, how the holidays stink of self-absorption! So I decide to give in. I pour myself a glass of wine and light a pine-scented candle. I'm sitting here at my desk with a box of fine chocolates gifted to me by Max Schaffer's parents, and I'm going to fucking indulge by recounting the lovely holidays that I, Annie Harper, have shared with my darling lover, David Peterson. And it's going to make me feel so lavishly consoled. I just know it.

David and I had only been dating for a few months. All my girlfriends warned me that my gift idea was a little too much for a first holiday together. They had said it was more of a second- or third-year gift and that it'd be better if I just gave him some CDs or a sweater or something. But I was set on it. One of the reference librarians had made one for her high-school-aged son, and I saw her working on it in the basement lunchroom.

“Yeah,” she said, “I got all the gym shorts for under ten dollars at the thrift store, and fleece is always on sale in the fabric store this time of year.” I ran my fingers across the cool smoothness of the mesh fabric, and it instantly reminded me of how David liked to come to my apartment after his morning ROTC workouts and slide into bed with me. The briskness of his cold skin and slinky mesh workout wear was always invigorating and delightful. I wanted him to know how nice it was. So I made the blanket. It was a simple pattern of squares cut from the gym shorts. A few with the logos of local teams and the cheap plastic lettering of recreational leagues made things a little more interesting visually. The back was all a snuggly red fleece, and the librarian showed me how to simply tie the quilt with yarn rather than actually quilting it.

He loved it. Right away he commented on the contrast of textures and how the bold colors made it seem enticingly capelike. I was so pleased and even more pleased that he too opted not for a safe CD bundle or a lame scarf/hat/mitten set from Banana Republic, but instead surprised me with a shiny chrome blender and a bottle of expensive tequila. “You mentioned once that you wanted to have a Cinco de Mayo party,” he said. “I thought you could use this to mass-produce margaritas.” We exchanged enthusiastic gracias in the form of giggly hugs and kisses. I didn't gloat to my girlfriends about how the gym shorts blanket
⁴²
was received fantastically. I knew that being in love was vindication enough.

David surprised me with a weekend trip to Whistler, this fancy ski village in British Columbia. He made reservations for Martin Luther King, Jr. Day weekend and arranged to have a few days away from the base. It was my first year of teaching, and he told me that I'd needed a getaway after the winter break withdrawal. Neither of us had ever skied, and that made it so awesome. It was like discovering a foreign land together, tightening the straps of our rented goggles and fumbling our gloved hands to affix the funny clasps of our lift tickets to our parkas.

David was a natural, slicing graceful lines down the beginners' slope on his first run, while I managed to biff it three times in fifty meters. The third time wasn't my fault, because a bunny—an actual fluffy bunny whose tush was lifting in adorable ways as it hopped along the tree line—had distracted me from heeding my attention to all four pieces of ski equipment at once. David is wonderful because he always takes this kind of thing as legitimate and logical. Like it could have easily been him tumbling from the effects of a serious bunny leer.

The skiing lasted just a few hours before I succeeded in breaking my wrist. He was so concerned and so kind as he carried
⁴³
me to the edge of the slope, where he waved down the medic who later snowmobiled me to the village's small clinic. While I was getting my wrist set, David returned all of our rental equipment and upgraded our suite to one with a more striking view and a real Jacuzzi. Even though I was on heavy painkillers, that night we drank beer and ordered room service nachos while watching crappy movies on the TV and recounting the hilarity of all my various wipeouts. David even invented a way to cradle my wounded wing in a hammock of towels he rigged around the faucet of the Jacuzzi so we could both comfortably bask in its luxury and engage in some pleasant underwater snuggling. “I don't think you can get out of this tub without my help,” David said. “I could boil you in here like a lobster.” I pulled my good hand above the bubbles and flicked away the pools of water that had gathered in the dips of his collarbones. “This claw still works,” I said, and stuck my index finger playfully into one of his nostrils. It's something I do because it's supposed to be gross and shocking, but if you ever really look inside a nose, or better, feel around a bit inside, it's no less revolting than your average bodily orifice. It took David a while to understand this, but eventually he got it and didn't shriek like a baby when I chose to sneak attack his nose with my pinky.