P.”
We all wrote it down and worked in our vocabulary books for ten minutes.
Then Mr. Proctor passed out another book. It wasn’t a novel, though. It was a play titled
The Roses of Eyam
, by Don Taylor. He held the book high and told us, “This is a play about the bubonic plague. The roses in the title refer to the rose-shaped blotches that appeared on a plague victim’s skin. These blotches, and a sudden sneezing fit, signaled the beginning of the end. You may have heard of this before without realizing it.”
He flipped up both index fingers, as if he were conducting music, and recited, “ ‘Ring a ring of roses, a pocket full of posies. A-tishoo, a-tishoo, all fall down.’
“And they did all fall down. In some towns, every man, woman, and child fell down. Dead. Every one.”
He continued: “
Eyam
rhymes with
dream
. Or
scream
. It is the name of a village in England.”
He looked at Wendy as he went on. “You may not like our village of Blackwater too much. You may think it is the worst place in the world, and you can’t wait to get out of here. But before you go, consider the villagers of Eyam. They really
were
in the worst place in the world because, in the year 1666, death arrived in their village.
“The bubonic plague. The Black Death. When they realized what was happening, the villagers’ first instinct was to run for their lives and take their chances out on the road. But their second instinct, their higher instinct, was to stay where they were; to keep the plague confined to their village for the greater good of mankind.
“More than half the villagers died because of that decision, died horribly. It is likely that many of them would have lived had they run for it. But it is also likely that some of them already had the plague. And they would have spread it, unchecked, throughout the countryside. They would have set off a chain of events that killed thousands.
“So this is a play about choice, and responsibility, and being connected to mankind as a whole.” He looked at me. “And maybe it’s about blooming where you are planted; about playing the hand you are dealt; about getting lemons and making lemonade. All those things.”
He pointed out the window. “Are there better places than Blackwater? Maybe. Are there worse places? Yes, most definitely.”
At the end of class, Wendy ripped a page out of her planner. She wrote down her address and phone number and handed it to me. “Here. Don’t lose this. I’ll talk to your driver right now.”
She sidestepped in front of Arthur before he could exit. She said, “Arthur? May I call you that?”
“That’s my name.”
“Sorry for the late notice, Arthur. I am inviting you to a Halloween party at my house. Tonight.”
Arthur shrugged, but he answered, “Okay.”
“Can you make it?”
“I guess.”
“Good. Can you drive Tom?”
Arthur looked at me. “Sure.”
“Good.” Wendy turned to include me. “You will both need to wear costumes.”
Arthur replied, “I don’t have a costume.”
I said, “I don’t have one, either.”
Wendy thought for a moment. “You two could go as a team, you know? The brain guy and the muscle guy. The brain guy rides on the muscle guy’s shoulders—like Master Blaster in
The Road Warrior.
”
Arthur’s lip curled up. “What’s that?”
“It’s a cult movie,” she said. “Or like
Freak the Mighty.
”
I explained, in case Arthur didn’t know, “That’s a book. A little kid rides on a big kid’s shoulders.” Then I added, “Or like Banjo Kazooie.”
It was Wendy’s turn to look puzzled. “What’s that?”
“Video game. It’s the same idea. Smart bird rides on dumb bear’s shoulders.”
“Yeah.”
Arthur looked offended. “I ain’t doin’ that. I’m smart
and
strong. I don’t need Thomas here for my brain. And I sure ain’t lettin’ him ride on my shoulders.”
Wendy smiled. “Fine. Those were just suggestions. A lot of the college guys are coming as
We all wrote it down and worked in our vocabulary books for ten minutes.
Then Mr. Proctor passed out another book. It wasn’t a novel, though. It was a play titled
The Roses of Eyam
, by Don Taylor. He held the book high and told us, “This is a play about the bubonic plague. The roses in the title refer to the rose-shaped blotches that appeared on a plague victim’s skin. These blotches, and a sudden sneezing fit, signaled the beginning of the end. You may have heard of this before without realizing it.”
He flipped up both index fingers, as if he were conducting music, and recited, “ ‘Ring a ring of roses, a pocket full of posies. A-tishoo, a-tishoo, all fall down.’
“And they did all fall down. In some towns, every man, woman, and child fell down. Dead. Every one.”
He continued: “
Eyam
rhymes with
dream
. Or
scream
. It is the name of a village in England.”
He looked at Wendy as he went on. “You may not like our village of Blackwater too much. You may think it is the worst place in the world, and you can’t wait to get out of here. But before you go, consider the villagers of Eyam. They really
were
in the worst place in the world because, in the year 1666, death arrived in their village.
“The bubonic plague. The Black Death. When they realized what was happening, the villagers’ first instinct was to run for their lives and take their chances out on the road. But their second instinct, their higher instinct, was to stay where they were; to keep the plague confined to their village for the greater good of mankind.
“More than half the villagers died because of that decision, died horribly. It is likely that many of them would have lived had they run for it. But it is also likely that some of them already had the plague. And they would have spread it, unchecked, throughout the countryside. They would have set off a chain of events that killed thousands.
“So this is a play about choice, and responsibility, and being connected to mankind as a whole.” He looked at me. “And maybe it’s about blooming where you are planted; about playing the hand you are dealt; about getting lemons and making lemonade. All those things.”
He pointed out the window. “Are there better places than Blackwater? Maybe. Are there worse places? Yes, most definitely.”
At the end of class, Wendy ripped a page out of her planner. She wrote down her address and phone number and handed it to me. “Here. Don’t lose this. I’ll talk to your driver right now.”
She sidestepped in front of Arthur before he could exit. She said, “Arthur? May I call you that?”
“That’s my name.”
“Sorry for the late notice, Arthur. I am inviting you to a Halloween party at my house. Tonight.”
Arthur shrugged, but he answered, “Okay.”
“Can you make it?”
“I guess.”
“Good. Can you drive Tom?”
Arthur looked at me. “Sure.”
“Good.” Wendy turned to include me. “You will both need to wear costumes.”
Arthur replied, “I don’t have a costume.”
I said, “I don’t have one, either.”
Wendy thought for a moment. “You two could go as a team, you know? The brain guy and the muscle guy. The brain guy rides on the muscle guy’s shoulders—like Master Blaster in
The Road Warrior.
”
Arthur’s lip curled up. “What’s that?”
“It’s a cult movie,” she said. “Or like
Freak the Mighty.
”
I explained, in case Arthur didn’t know, “That’s a book. A little kid rides on a big kid’s shoulders.” Then I added, “Or like Banjo Kazooie.”
It was Wendy’s turn to look puzzled. “What’s that?”
“Video game. It’s the same idea. Smart bird rides on dumb bear’s shoulders.”
“Yeah.”
Arthur looked offended. “I ain’t doin’ that. I’m smart
and
strong. I don’t need Thomas here for my brain. And I sure ain’t lettin’ him ride on my shoulders.”
Wendy smiled. “Fine. Those were just suggestions. A lot of the college guys are coming as
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