woke up in a tangle of sheets and legs. Kate's hair was in Elizabeth's eyes, one of Andrew's hands was pinned beneath her hip. A warm and awkward mass of bodies. Elizabeth wrapped an arm around Kate's stomach and felt the twitch of a vein in her daughter's chest. Andrew turned over. Kate snuffled. Elizabeth only wanted to stay here in bed, safely, uncomfortably wrapped around each other. Andrew yawned. "Morning," he said to Elizabeth and pulled his hand from under her. "My hand's asleep," he said and shook it. "What was that about last night?"
"A bad dream," said Elizabeth and Kate shifted. Elizabeth's foot poked into the sharp air beyond the blankets.
Elizabeth sat in the bus seat, a folder full of student papers on Lyndon Johnson's suitability as president in her lap. Some of her students were intent on proving his involvement in the Kennedy assassination, but she insisted they work in the escalation of the war as well, so as to widen the range of their obsession. The bus pumped along home, fast for once.
She would have the house to herself tonight. Andrew was at a town meeting on his new project, no doubt feeling besieged. Kate was at Mee Lin's for the night. The friendship had grown since the New Year. Elizabeth would be able to finish Vera's chart. She would sit at her table, surrounded by the bound genealogies, the stacks of Xeroxes, and write out the last names in clear black ink. Her results would be slim but then, she resolved, she would take it over there. She still hadn't seen Mr. Krystowicki. The light had been on each night. The garbage had been put out. One small bag
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of it, a knot of black plastic sealing it shut. She had called a couple of times but there'd been no answer. Vera didn't own a machine.
As the bus lumbered around potholes, Elizabeth thought about the discussion in her Jefferson class. People were divided about Sally Hemings, Jefferson's slave, supposed mistress, and mother of his children. Mr. Brewster said the morals of the president's era were different and we couldn't condemn Jefferson because he hadn't behaved according to our lights. Mrs. Harpole said it was bad enough that the author of the Declaration of Independence had been a slave owner; it was hard enough to reconcile that, much less children whom he'd never had the guts to acknowledge. The rest of the class aligned itself to one position or the other.
"The evidence isn't compelling either way," Elizabeth had said, which was true but it sounded a bland compromise. Mr. Brewster tucked his pen firmly in his binder. Mrs. Harpole rummaged in her handbag. Everyone was disappointed. The answer didn't have the ring of authority, which was what people always expected from teachers.
"Anyway," Elizabeth said as chairs started to scrape, "Part of this is about having to wrestle it out for ourselves. Even the people we'd like to admire are complicated." How do we weigh things like Dr. King plagiarizing? Kennedy's infidelity? Jacket zippers rasped. Mrs. Harpole said she supposed the children of Nazis loved their parents.
Elizabeth listened to the rush of air as the bus doors opened and closed and, lost in the odd rhythm, nearly missed her stop. In the doorway of the house, she saw Mr. Krystowicki, wearing a hat with furred flaps. The weather had turned cold again. The sidewalks shone with a thin sheet of ice.
"Hello," he said, and took off his hat. Elizabeth stamped the cold mud off her feet and said, "I'm glad to see you, Mr. Krystowicki. I hope you haven't been here long. Would you like coffee?" She realized she was looking forward to the rest of his story.
"Please," he said, dipping his head in a courtly way Elizabeth
Page 79
recognized. Vera did this, too, Elizabeth thought. Was it inherited? Or a reflex of their time and culture? She imagined those small and civil responses were hard to erase, even after the camps. How you held a fork. The nod to greet strangers. Or, she thought, as Joseph folded his scarf into the sleeve, maybe
"A bad dream," said Elizabeth and Kate shifted. Elizabeth's foot poked into the sharp air beyond the blankets.
Elizabeth sat in the bus seat, a folder full of student papers on Lyndon Johnson's suitability as president in her lap. Some of her students were intent on proving his involvement in the Kennedy assassination, but she insisted they work in the escalation of the war as well, so as to widen the range of their obsession. The bus pumped along home, fast for once.
She would have the house to herself tonight. Andrew was at a town meeting on his new project, no doubt feeling besieged. Kate was at Mee Lin's for the night. The friendship had grown since the New Year. Elizabeth would be able to finish Vera's chart. She would sit at her table, surrounded by the bound genealogies, the stacks of Xeroxes, and write out the last names in clear black ink. Her results would be slim but then, she resolved, she would take it over there. She still hadn't seen Mr. Krystowicki. The light had been on each night. The garbage had been put out. One small bag
Page 78
of it, a knot of black plastic sealing it shut. She had called a couple of times but there'd been no answer. Vera didn't own a machine.
As the bus lumbered around potholes, Elizabeth thought about the discussion in her Jefferson class. People were divided about Sally Hemings, Jefferson's slave, supposed mistress, and mother of his children. Mr. Brewster said the morals of the president's era were different and we couldn't condemn Jefferson because he hadn't behaved according to our lights. Mrs. Harpole said it was bad enough that the author of the Declaration of Independence had been a slave owner; it was hard enough to reconcile that, much less children whom he'd never had the guts to acknowledge. The rest of the class aligned itself to one position or the other.
"The evidence isn't compelling either way," Elizabeth had said, which was true but it sounded a bland compromise. Mr. Brewster tucked his pen firmly in his binder. Mrs. Harpole rummaged in her handbag. Everyone was disappointed. The answer didn't have the ring of authority, which was what people always expected from teachers.
"Anyway," Elizabeth said as chairs started to scrape, "Part of this is about having to wrestle it out for ourselves. Even the people we'd like to admire are complicated." How do we weigh things like Dr. King plagiarizing? Kennedy's infidelity? Jacket zippers rasped. Mrs. Harpole said she supposed the children of Nazis loved their parents.
Elizabeth listened to the rush of air as the bus doors opened and closed and, lost in the odd rhythm, nearly missed her stop. In the doorway of the house, she saw Mr. Krystowicki, wearing a hat with furred flaps. The weather had turned cold again. The sidewalks shone with a thin sheet of ice.
"Hello," he said, and took off his hat. Elizabeth stamped the cold mud off her feet and said, "I'm glad to see you, Mr. Krystowicki. I hope you haven't been here long. Would you like coffee?" She realized she was looking forward to the rest of his story.
"Please," he said, dipping his head in a courtly way Elizabeth
Page 79
recognized. Vera did this, too, Elizabeth thought. Was it inherited? Or a reflex of their time and culture? She imagined those small and civil responses were hard to erase, even after the camps. How you held a fork. The nod to greet strangers. Or, she thought, as Joseph folded his scarf into the sleeve, maybe
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