A Christmas Gift

A Christmas Gift

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I don’t know what possessed me to do it, maybe curiosity, or the challenge, or some kind of twisted dig at my father, or maybe a genuine deep-seeded desire to make a difference in the world. Whatever my reason, here I stood in the A Hall at Shawnee High School, wearing this fucked-up Christmas sweater emblazoned with an obviously inebriated reindeer holding a martini as I watched hundreds of hyper teens salmon-swim downstream toward the student lot and bus terminal to begin their Christmas Break. With my arms folded across my chest to cover up my naughty, not-at-all-appropriate-for-work attire, I stood outside my classroom shouting, “Slow down, people,” and “Don’t run” even though that’s exactly what I wanted to do: run. My first semester in the Ameri-Teach Corps, we called it ATC, had been invigorating and exhausting, fascinating and tedious, an adventure and a nightmare. But mostly it had been lonely in this seemingly Third World place surrounded by rubes and hill jacks.

     “Pisano’s in thirty,” Mason bumped into me, whispered like a spy contacting his handler, and kept walking upstream to his classroom. I would never have made it this far if not for Mason, who also taught English and was in ATC. His cool as a cucumber, unflappable demeanor was a perfect counterbalance to my high strung, worry wart approach to teaching Shakespeare and Fitzgerald, split infinities and dangling participles to students far more concerned with the commencement of deer season and getting “plowed” in somebody’s barn on Friday nights, “plowed” having several meanings, none of them productive.

     When the last of the stragglers had meandered by, mostly band geeks schlepping awkward instruments, I crossed the hall, cupped my hands around my mouth, and fake shouted, “Pisano’s, ne sois pas en retard,” to Grace, lovely, put-me-over-your-knee-and-spank-me-please Grace. Grace, from the moment we were introduced at the New Teacher Orientation, resurrected all my school-boy fantasies. She was the stern, sexy French teacher who kept me after class for special tutoring. She was the floozie who swiped frosting from my birthday cake and invited me to lick it from her finger. She waited until I entered her classroom to climb up on a desk so I could admire her ass. Teaching these barbarians had been made tenable so long as Give It Away Grace was teaching across the hall. Except that Grace was, in reality, a lovely, witty, complete professional with whom I would never have a shot. Something catastrophic like an earthquake or an apocalypse would have to occur, and I would have to be her only option before we could end up together.  I mean, the woman was gorgeous, kind but not submissive, and had studied in Paris. She had read Proust and Hugo and effortlessly used words like “chanteuse” and “raconteur” without sounding boorish. A local girl who had beaten the system, who had gone away to school and altruistically returned a heroine and role model, she was the county’s Joan of Arc. And untouchable. Thus, I had spent a lot of time during our first semester counting out iambic pentameter and checking game stats on my phone to, as my students termed it, tame my beast.

     Free and clear of adolescent hormones for two weeks, I blasted a crude punk version of “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” as my piece of shit Elantra barreled down Route 6, the only actual through road in Braxton County, a collection of ragged hills and meandering creeks smeared with fir trees, stalked by wolves, and infested with whitetail deer so plentiful locals often greeted each other saying, “How many you hit this week, Skeeter?” No wonder, then, school was canceled every time a snowflake fell. Many of our students lived well beyond where road crews could reach them. Hell, the roads, curvy and sharp, were dangerous enough in good weather. Mason, Grace, and I pulled into Pisano’s parking lot at the same time, raised our fists in victory that we had, in fact, survived the semester, and slid into a booth in the front window.

     “What the fuck were we thinking?” Mason asked after he and I ordered drafts and Grace a fruity white wine. Like me, he was a city boy, he from Boston while I hailed from New York. Both of us private school brats, he was expected to go into his grandfather’s real estate company. But, like me, he had rebelled and chosen a year in the ATC program as a delay to his future, a reprieve to true adulthood. “I asked to be sent to Ethiopia,” he often joked, “but they said this place was more desperate.” He was a cut-up and a smart ass to be sure, but put that boy in front of a class and he would burn it down. The Macbeth Rap, his Chaucer Dating Game, Nearly Naughty Grammar lessons, pacing back and forth before the students like a coked-out comedian, like Robin Williams in Dead Poet’s Society. Walk by his room at any given time and you’d hear laughter, clapping, desk drum rolls. The guidance director wanted him fired, but guess what, he got results.

     “What time’s your flight?”  Mason asked.

     “7:10 in the morning,” I answered, “then a connection in Chicago.”

     “You’re seriously spending Christmas in Breckenridge with Daddy and the Evil Queen?” Mason screwed his voice into a Disney villain’s.

     “It’s my year with him. And since I haven’t found a way to have her violently murdered without leaving evidence, I’m fucked.”

     “What about you, Grace?” I realized we were being dicks about the fact that we could flee this Godforsaken place and she was stuck here.

     “Well, on Christmas Eve they open up the jail and all my cousins meet at Granny’s, and we have ham hocks and collard greens and fruitcake and moonshine,” she grew a wry smile as she sipped her wine.

     “Touché’” Mason raised his glass and guzzled.

     “No really,” I was genuinely interested.

     “There will be a lot of people, a lot of good food, and a lot of cheap beer. We will hug and laugh and gossip. It’s quite tres gentil.”

     “Here’s to a good old fashioned Hillbilly Christmas,” Mason raised his glass again.

     “It’s been culture shock, for sure, but don’t you think the people here have, overall, been pretty nice?” I asked.

     “Oh, for sure. So polite. I like being called sir. But I don’t understand their disinterest in education. Can’t they see that’s their best ticket out of here?” Mason wondered.

     “What makes you think they want out?” Grace asked.

     “No offense, but there’s nothing here. The factories are gone, the coal has all been mined, farming is sketchy at best, and the nearest Starbuck’s is nearly an hour away,” Mason pressed. “And don’t get me started on the shitty internet service. How’s a guy supposed to watch porn?”

     “It’s more complicated than that and you know it. First, this is their home, my home. These are our families, our people. We all understand each other. We know the histories, the backstories. They value tradition and traditionally all the education they needed was to learn to read and write and do basic math. Otherwise, you made your way in life through work. Hard work. Laboring work. They’re very tactile, very literal.”

     “But that’s no good anymore. That won’t get them ahead in life,” Mason insisted.

     “Advanced education, to many of these folks, is threatening. It feels like judgment to them, like we’re lording our intelligence over them, inferring they’re stupid when they aren’t,” Grace tried to explain.

     “I don’t think Mason is suggesting they’re stupid, but their world is awfully small. They seem rather closed-in here, insulated from the world. Afraid of it,” I joined in.

     “Not afraid, but suspicious. You must admit, many of the values they hold to are attacked by the media, Hollywood, Washington. Gun rights, traditional families, religious freedom.”

     “But those values are, I’m sorry, outdated. Guns kill people, not all families look the same, and not everyone belongs to a religion. Shouldn’t America reflect ALL these views? Aren’t we a pluralistic society?” Mason argued like the lawyer he would someday become.

     “But in achieving this pluralism, aren’t we destroying their way of life, not wholly unlike we did the Native Americans’?” Grace held her own.

     The server approached reservedly to take our order, then realized who was sitting in the booth. “Miss Riley, how are you?” She asked then realized Grace could not place her. “I’m Gunnar Stein’s stepmom, well, sort of. He’s in your French class.”

     “Oh, my gosh, yes. How are you? We met at Open House, right?”

     “Yes. He loves your class. Hates school but talks about you all the time.”

     “Well, he’s a delightful boy and a terrific student, a talented linguist.”

     “I don’t know about that. I just need to get him through to graduation. Then he can work at the shop with his uncle.”

     Our trio agreed on a supreme pizza and salads and another round of drinks.

     “That breaks my heart,” Grace whispered after the server had departed. “That kid has a real gift for languages. What a waste if he doesn’t use it.”

     “I would say you’re proving my point, but that would be piling on,” Mason softened.

     “I won’t yield, Mason. I still believe we must try. We must present these kids with a glimpse of what they could achieve, what the possibilities are. Besides, at the core we all want the same things no matter where we come from: a warm home, someone to love us, a sense of security.” Grace stretched out her fingers in frustration.

     “It worked on you,” I added. “Someone inspired you to take that bold step and look how that turned out. You’re a rock star.”

     “Don’t sell yourselves short, cowboys. You’re doing some pretty good missionary work as well.”

     “Well, it feels like a lost cause, but it’s Christmas, so I’ll take it,” Mason demurred.” And look, salads right on cue.”

     We dove into our pizza when it arrived and shared battlefield stories, talks of skirmishes and triage, of impossible students, talented students, jocks and nerds, and the maddening mismanagement of the Moss Hill Mafia, a group of good ol’ boys who dominated the administration with their outdated ideas.

     “I hate to break-up this lovefest, but some of us have flights to catch and some of us have pig’s feet to pickle,” Mason smarted off. He wiggled his index finger for the check. “This, my friends, is on me. Well, it’s on my dad and wifey number three, the Great Bitch of Beacon Hill.”

     As we walked to our cars a gentle Christmas snow, the kind that falls on cue in Hallmark movies, began to tumble around us. Car doors open, shivering in the advancing cold, Grace couldn’t help but return to our earlier conversation. “Hey, I know this area, the people of this county have their issues, but they are good people. I think that should count for something. That’s all.”

     “Gracie, don’t take it so personally,” Mason reached out and touched her sleeve. “We were just trying to solve a world problem. It’s just…”

     As Mason formed his next word ear-piercing screeches echoed around us. A deafening crunch followed, steel sheering steel, a sound like nails searing across metal. We looked up and caught the blur of two cars battling from different directions at the center line on Route 6. Their components then flung in all directions, like a Roman Candle of automobile parts had misfired.

     “I’ll take that one,” Mason pointed at a silver Elantra, “You take the Buick,” he pointed at me and jogged toward the grassy knoll that separated us from the road. “Gracie, call 911 and maybe get someone in the restaurant,” he directed, and his head disappeared over the knoll. I raced into the road, completely befuddled. The extent of my emergency medical training was a CPR in-service held during fall break, and Mason and I had joked through most of it because the instructor seemed to be romantically involved with the dummy, which he called Roxanne, drawing out the R far too long. But I didn’t think, I just moved.

     When I arrived at the Buick, I opened the front passenger door and looked in. There I found a gentleman in a bright yellow turban and a quality gray suit. He lay sideways across the front seat, his seatbelt unused. The airbag had not deployed. Blood was already smeared across his forehead, but I saw no cut. “Sir, are you alright?” I asked, a stupid, stupid question. Of course, he wasn’t alright. He had just been in an auto accident. He was bloody and twisted and frightened.

     “I, I, I can’t feel my legs,” he said through a thick Indian or eastern accent of some kind. Maybe Pakistani. “My legs!”

     “It’s just the shock of the accident,” I assured him. “Help is on the way. I promise. They will be here very soon.” I looked around, taking stock of the situation.” Do you have a cell phone? Is there someone I can call?” I asked, looking around.

      “It is…” he spoke, but I could not understand him. I began to move his legs, to untwist them, but he screamed in agony. Bad idea. Blood began to ooze from his pant leg. I scooted it up and blood poured like a soaker hose. I pulled off my belt and wrapped it around his leg. I had seen people in movies do this to staunch blood flow. I tightened it as best I could. His head plopped to the side, and I placed my fingers on his chin, “Stay with me, Sir. Help is coming.” He spoke but his words were unintelligible to me. I wasn’t helping him at all, but I didn’t know what to do. I climbed back out of the car and stood up, hardly noticing the crowd circled around. Up on the knoll, Grace was talking to a group of patrons and staff from the restaurant. When she saw me, she yelled, “Help is coming. I can hear the sirens now.” As I ducked down to reenter the car I felt a thud on my back, Mason, white like printer paper. “Dude, I think she’s dead.”

     “What?”

     “The girl in the other car, she’s dead. I don’t know what else to do. I think she’s a student at Shawnee.”

     “Stay with her. Talk to her in case she isn’t dead.” Then I turned my head, “Sir, I’m right here,” I assured the turbaned man. “I won’t leave you. Help is almost here.” Lost, completely lost, I began to ramble. “Are you married? Do you have children? You look like a businessman, what do you do for a living?” I felt worthless but could think of nothing else to do or say. He grunted, “Please don’t let me die.”

     “What, nobody’s dying here! This looks much worse than it is. I’ve seen worse than this in bar fights,” I had no idea what I was saying, maybe trying to lighten the mood like some insensitive jackass.

     “My family,” he struggled to pronounce the words, landing heavily on the F.

     “On their way,” I lied. “My friend has already called them. They send their love. Said to just hang on.”

     Finally, after what seemed like hours, but later, I learned, was only around six minutes, an ambulance approached. The paramedics pulled me out and promised they would take good care of the victim, whose name seemed to be Sam or Senge, maybe. “It’s gonna be fine!” I assured him. Then I just stood in the middle of Route 6, unsure what to do, unable to process these events, looking around but for what? A few moments later a police officer told me to “move along” and guided me to the snow-covered knoll. Grace touched my shoulder and Mason touched his forehead to mine, a gentle gesture of solidarity and comfort. The three of us stood there, the snow pelting us, the streetlights showcasing our nerves, people milling around asking questions. “What do we do now?” I asked.

     “I think the police will want us to make statements,” Grace guessed, and we walked over to a cluster of official cars. Two ambulances pulled away from the scene, lights strobing, sirens wailing. Officers blocked traffic and waved cars around the crash site, headlights bouncing at us in the dark. A uniform clarified that we had witnessed the crash and asked us to step inside Pisano’s to make statements. Once inside Grace gasped, “Oh my, look at all the blood!” Mason and I stared at each other; our coats covered like preschool children’s paint smocks. I began to shake. “Could I have a glass of water, please?” I asked.

     “Could we sit down?” Mason requested.

     Our stories told, the officers instructed us to head home, handing each of us their cards in case we thought of any additional details.

     We sat, our little trio, mostly in silence. The manager offered us drinks or food, but we declined. The very air felt awkward, a sense of doom hovering like invisible smoke. Finally, Mason said, “I don’t know what to do now, guys. I guess we should go home,” and he rose, and we followed him back into the parking lot.

     “I don’t know what I should feel right now,” Grace confessed and pulled out her phone. “Let me see if I can find out anything.” She dialed the hospital but could learn nothing, not even confirmation any accident victims had been transported there. Were they alive? Dead? Clinging to life? Had their families been notified? We would likely never know.

     “I gotta get outta here,” Mason whispered, chucked off his bloody coat, and hugged us, drawing us into a huddle. “I guess, Merry Christmas? That feels wrong. I’ll see you soon,” he mumbled and drove off.

     “You’ve had quite a shock,” Grace took my hand. “I wish I could help.”

     “I gotta admit this is a lot. Might be the most traumatic experience of my life. I’m not sure what to do with all this-emotion,” I stammered, “This gnawing in my gut.”

     “Life can be so complicated when we can’t name our feelings. We like to be able to label them, happy, sad, afraid, confused. But this, I don’t know what this is. And that’s scary,” she tried to sound comforting.

     “Well, thanks for letting me talk about it, whatever it is.”

     “I guess I should get going. Unless you still need to talk. We could grab a coffee at the Waffle House,” she pointed down the road.

     “No, I’ve got a plane to catch in the morning and I haven’t packed,” I sighed.

     “Call me if you need to talk,” she held up her mobile phone.

     We climbed into our cars and started them up. I sat in the silence, the snow still tumbling, shooting down a thick coating on the world. As the heat blew in my face, I felt a torrent of tears welling up, a dam about to burst. I looked at the blood on my coat, I saw it reflected on my face in the rearview mirror, swipes Grace had missed. For the first time since the accident, I felt cold, straight to my core. A loneliness washed over me as if I was stranded in the tundra, left behind by my fellow expeditioners. I reached for my phone and punched a number. “Is the coffee offer still valid?” I asked.

     We pulled into the parking lot together, and she took my arm so as not to slip and fall, but it felt more like she was supporting me. We sat in a corner table with a wobbly leg under the overly bright lights, tacky Christmas decorations taped in the massive windows, a melancholy holiday tune filtering in the stale air.

     “I just can’t get the image out of my head,” I confessed. “The fear on his face, the blood, the confusion. I felt so useless,” the words tumbled out of my mouth like secrets in the confessional.

     “You did the best you could. How could you be expected to do more than that?” Grace reasoned; her fingers wrapped around her coffee cup.

     “But I walked away from it; he didn’t. And that girl. I don’t know. Everything else seems so trivial, so unimportant. I feel so guilty,” I couldn’t find the right words, they were just sounds.

     “Look, you went to him. You didn’t choose to. You just went. You stayed with him. You were a comforting voice, a presence in his life, even if only for a few minutes. Isn’t that what life is: a snatch of moments strung together? And we can only live in those moments. Before and after don’t really matter, don’t really exist. We can only be in those junctures. If that poor man died, he died knowing you were there, one human being caring for another. Isn’t that all anyone wants, to feel cared for by another person?” I grasped the saucer under my coffee cup like a life raft. A tear rolled down Grace’s soft, peach cheek. She drew a breath as if surprised by her own words. Then she reached out and placed her hand on mine. We sat in that corner booth as the server chatted up a workman at the bar, as another sad Christmas tune played, as the snow fell, until we felt safe enough to go back out into the world.