You're My Baby. Laura Abbot
the blank, freshly painted walls, the student desks shoved into the corner, the newly carpeted floor. He crossed to the windows, raised the blinds, then stood, hands on his hips, studying the boxes and rolled posters piled along one wall. Time to tackle decorating his room, if you could dignify what he did by that term.
Tearing open the top box, he began stacking supplementary geometry texts in the built-in bookshelf. Next week teachers’ meetings started and he didn’t want to wait until the last minute to bring order to his space. Besides, he needed to be organized if Andy came. But that continued to be a big “if.” So far, responses to his ads had been discouraging. Few applicants wanted to live-in, and, of those, they either demanded exorbitant wages or had personalities that never in his wildest dreams would be considered adolescent-friendly.
Savagely he attacked the next box. Shelley was pressuring him for an answer, and if he didn’t find someone from the ad running this weekend… Surely she wouldn’t follow through on her threat to send Andy to boarding school. Maybe, since it wasn’t basketball season yet, she’d let Andy come whether or not a housekeeper was in place. Doubtless, in a matter of weeks, he could locate a suitable person.
By the time he arranged his texts between the book-ends on his desk and finished tacking up the exhibit of geometric forms on his bulletin board, his stomach was growling. Taking one last glance at the transformed classroom, he stepped into the eerily quiet hall and locked the door behind him.
He ran down the stairs and passed the first-floor office before becoming aware of music emanating from Pam Carver’s room. He’d thought he was alone in the building, but apparently not. He’d stop by, say hello, find out about her summer. Pam was one of his favorite co-workers—devoted to her students, realistic about school politics, often the voice of reason amid the cacophony of rumor and complaint and, besides that, fun to be around. Who else could have talked him into making a fool of himself annually in the faculty pep skit?
Outside her classroom Grant paused, hearing above the soft strains of classical music the muffled sounds of weeping. Her door was ajar. Slowly he eased it open. Pam sat hunched over her desk, head cradled in her arms, shoulders shaking. Sure, she taught drama, but this was way too convincing to be an act. He took a tentative step forward. “Pam, are you all right?”
Her head shot up, revealing a tear-streaked face. “G-Grant?” She grabbed a tissue from the box on her desk and hastily blotted her eyes. “I didn’t know anyone else was in the building today.” Her voice, usually warm and vibrant, sounded thin, and he had a sudden urge to protect her.
“I wanted to get my room set up.”
“Me, too.” She hiccuped, then flung an arm in the direction of the books and boxes piled haphazardly along the far wall. “The summer painting project is wreaking havoc, though. It’s been years since I’ve had to box up my stuff.”
“Is that what’s upset you?”
She glanced away briefly, before turning back, a watery smile in place. “Stupid, isn’t it, to let something so minor throw me.”
He watched her mask of bravado slip back into place. He’d bet it would take a whole lot more than a little mess to shake Pam Carver. “I’m willing to help.”
“Somehow I can’t imagine you draping my bookcases with Indian shawls or putting together a montage for my bulletin board.”
He pointed to a stack of cardboard leaning against a file cabinet. “Maybe not, but I can certainly assemble your Globe Theatre replica.”
“You’ve just made me an offer I can’t refuse. I never was any good at inserting tab A into slot B.”
They worked quietly side by side for half an hour. Every now and then she’d stifle a sigh. Her shoulders, usually held back confidently, sagged periodically, as if she bore a huge weight. He didn’t want to pry, but something was going on with her.
She finished with the bulletin board about the same time he put the flag atop the Globe. He stood and faced her. “Feeling better?”
Her eyes were too bright, her smile too brittle. “Much. I needed a little nudge, that’s all.” She laid a hand on his sleeve. “Sorry if I upset you.”
He put an arm around her and snugged her close. “What are colleagues for, anyway? Remember, our school motto is Caring, Character, Curiosity. This was the caring part.” Then, struck by a new idea, he laughed. “And curiosity, too, I guess. Pam Carver reduced to tears? I couldn’t picture it.”
“If you live long enough, you see everything.”
Although her tone was light, he had the disturbing sense she was making a joke of something very serious. Then he became aware he still had his arm around her waist, his hand on her hip.
She moved away at the same time he dropped his arm. “Thank you, Grant. I’m fine now. Really.”
“Take care, then. See you at Tuesday’s meeting?”
“Sure thing.” She extended her arms, more like the old Pam, and said, “Let the games begin.”
He chuckled at her final remark as he left the school. But gradually his smile faded, replaced by a sadness he couldn’t identify. He had always been fond of Pam. Heck, tell the truth. He was attracted to her. But she was like a tropical bird—colorful, flamboyant, dramatic. He’d always figured she’d never go for a plodding, meticulous math teacher who just happened to be tied up several months a year with a high school basketball team.
Driving home, he couldn’t shake the feeling that her brave front had been just that. A front. He didn’t think she was fine. Not at all.
And he didn’t like that. He wanted her to be fine.
PAM BANGED AROUND the small kitchen of her condo, fixing a salad and warming leftover corn bread for dinner. What kind of idiot Grant must think she was! All afternoon she’d replayed the scene in her mind. Why there? Why then? To fall to pieces like some fragile Melanie Wilkes. Unthinkable.
It was the notes that had done it. She’d been rummaging in her desk drawer for the key to her filing cabinet when she’d come across them. She made a habit of saving complimentary correspondence from students and parents. Then on bad days she’d pull them out and read them to remind herself why she loved being a teacher. She’d been okay until she came to Cissy Philbin’s scrawled message. Poor Cissy, who struggled to make B’s and had been devastated by the death of a sibling and later by her parents’ divorce.
“Dear Ms. Carver,
I couldn’t have made it through high school without you. You always believed in me and demanded my best. You knew what I was going through and willed me through bad time after bad time. You wouldn’t let me quit. Or be a crybaby. You made me believe that like the saying says, there can’t be a rainbow without the storm. You are my rainbow. Thank you.”
Now, recalling the words, Pam felt a flood of emotion similar to what she’d experienced at school. It wasn’t just hormones, although they were certainly doing a number on her. When she’d read Cissy’s words, she’d felt a painful void. If she had to quit teaching because of the baby, she wouldn’t be there for the Cissys of the world, nor would they be there to infuse her life with purpose and meaning.
Picking up her plate, she moved to the living room couch and turned on the evening news. But she scarcely heard the newscaster. Grant, of all people. They’d worked on faculty committees together. She admired his no-nonsense approach to problems and his well-deserved popularity with the students. Several years ago she’d toyed with the idea of exploring a relationship with him. But they were very different. He was quiet; she was not. He was steady; she was mercurial. Finally she’d concluded it would be foolish to risk a valued friendship in the unlikely search for romance.
Any other time she might have found it comical to watch him sitting on the floor of her classroom, his rangy six-foot-four body hunched over the myriad components of the Globe replica. But today she had studied him intently out of the corner of her eye, noticing how his big hands worked