desk.
Mrs. Boyden crossed her flabby arms and stared at Scotty. Then she took out a sheet of paper. “I’m going to write your father a note. What do you think I should say?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? I think I have to tell him something.”
“No! Please!”
Scotty imagined the Judge’s reaction: big hairy fists coming down hard on the kitchen table, the Judge’s voice, low and absolute, yelling so loud it hurt his ears, and Scotty undoing his belt and lowering his pants and feeling the slap of those hands, the sting from the Judge’s wedding ring, and so Scotty begged Mrs. Boyden, “Please, don’t write a note.”
Mrs. Boyden stopped. Scotty was about to burst. So she put away her paper. “Where would a boy like you learn about such things?”
Scotty shrugged.
“Who taught you such an awful gesture?”
Scotty stared at his desk.
“Not your father, not your sisters.”
“No.”
Mrs. Boyden told him to approach her desk. She handed Scotty a blank sheet of paper. He returned to his desk where he used a green Husky pencil to write “I am sorry” over and over.
After the other kids returned from recess, it was the time of day when all her students put their heads down on their desks, and Mrs. Boyden would read a story.
“Today’s story is one of my favorites. ‘Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel.’ It’s the story of a steam shovel that digs himself into a very deep hole.”
Mrs. Boyden began to read. Glancing up at the class, she noticed that Scotty was still hunched over the piece of paper, writing “I am sorry.” Mrs. Boyden stopped reading and said, “That’s enough, Scotty.”
But Scotty continued anyway. He was in the middle of printing his thirty-seventh “sorry” when the sheet of paper was taken away.
Scotty looked up at his teacher.
“That’s enough,” she said with a smile. She returned to her stool and continued reading.
***
After school, Mrs. Boyden worked on her lesson plan for the following day. Before going home, she put her desk in order. She crossed to the windows to close the blinds. These were her end-of-the-day rituals, and they gave her a sense of completion. Passing by the desks of her students, she often saw remnants of the day: a scrap of paper, a broken crayon, some indication that minutes earlier little boys and girls had been learning.
When Mrs. Boyden came to Scotty’s desk in the middle of the classroom, she suddenly stopped. In all her years of teaching, she’d never seen anything like it. “I am sorry” was printed countless times in pencil across the surface of Scotty’s desk. So many
I am sorry
s that it was obvious to her that Scotty hadgotten the point, so many that Mrs. Boyden began to feel ill. So she took a bucket from under the classroom sink, filled it with warm, sudsy water—she wet a sponge and scrubbed Scotty’s desk clean.
(13)
Sometimes at night when he bathed, Scotty felt a vague memory, blurry, but it hung in his thoughts. Whenever he bathed, he concentrated hard to fight through its fuzziness. He remembered sitting in warm water at one end. Across from him, covered in bubbles, two brown nipples and a clump of hair between her legs, his mother. She’d hand him soap. He washed, or so he thought, he didn’t know. Only the breasts, her hair, and the space in between her legs held any clarity.
Don’t get fuzzy, he thought.
Scotty’s baths kept getting longer. He scrubbed and scrubbed, washing himself repeatedly, so that when Joan returned, she’d find him clean, smelling nice, no dirt under his nails. And the longer he stayed in the tub, he thought, the better he could remember her.
(14)
It was a Saturday afternoon in November when Tom Conway showed Scotty Ocean his father’s hidden treasure.
His parents’ closet had been padlocked but not with precision.Tom had figured out how to get the closet door opened, and he allowed Scotty a glimpse. Hanging from the wall were machine guns, bayonet blades—a cache of
Mrs. Boyden crossed her flabby arms and stared at Scotty. Then she took out a sheet of paper. “I’m going to write your father a note. What do you think I should say?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? I think I have to tell him something.”
“No! Please!”
Scotty imagined the Judge’s reaction: big hairy fists coming down hard on the kitchen table, the Judge’s voice, low and absolute, yelling so loud it hurt his ears, and Scotty undoing his belt and lowering his pants and feeling the slap of those hands, the sting from the Judge’s wedding ring, and so Scotty begged Mrs. Boyden, “Please, don’t write a note.”
Mrs. Boyden stopped. Scotty was about to burst. So she put away her paper. “Where would a boy like you learn about such things?”
Scotty shrugged.
“Who taught you such an awful gesture?”
Scotty stared at his desk.
“Not your father, not your sisters.”
“No.”
Mrs. Boyden told him to approach her desk. She handed Scotty a blank sheet of paper. He returned to his desk where he used a green Husky pencil to write “I am sorry” over and over.
After the other kids returned from recess, it was the time of day when all her students put their heads down on their desks, and Mrs. Boyden would read a story.
“Today’s story is one of my favorites. ‘Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel.’ It’s the story of a steam shovel that digs himself into a very deep hole.”
Mrs. Boyden began to read. Glancing up at the class, she noticed that Scotty was still hunched over the piece of paper, writing “I am sorry.” Mrs. Boyden stopped reading and said, “That’s enough, Scotty.”
But Scotty continued anyway. He was in the middle of printing his thirty-seventh “sorry” when the sheet of paper was taken away.
Scotty looked up at his teacher.
“That’s enough,” she said with a smile. She returned to her stool and continued reading.
***
After school, Mrs. Boyden worked on her lesson plan for the following day. Before going home, she put her desk in order. She crossed to the windows to close the blinds. These were her end-of-the-day rituals, and they gave her a sense of completion. Passing by the desks of her students, she often saw remnants of the day: a scrap of paper, a broken crayon, some indication that minutes earlier little boys and girls had been learning.
When Mrs. Boyden came to Scotty’s desk in the middle of the classroom, she suddenly stopped. In all her years of teaching, she’d never seen anything like it. “I am sorry” was printed countless times in pencil across the surface of Scotty’s desk. So many
I am sorry
s that it was obvious to her that Scotty hadgotten the point, so many that Mrs. Boyden began to feel ill. So she took a bucket from under the classroom sink, filled it with warm, sudsy water—she wet a sponge and scrubbed Scotty’s desk clean.
(13)
Sometimes at night when he bathed, Scotty felt a vague memory, blurry, but it hung in his thoughts. Whenever he bathed, he concentrated hard to fight through its fuzziness. He remembered sitting in warm water at one end. Across from him, covered in bubbles, two brown nipples and a clump of hair between her legs, his mother. She’d hand him soap. He washed, or so he thought, he didn’t know. Only the breasts, her hair, and the space in between her legs held any clarity.
Don’t get fuzzy, he thought.
Scotty’s baths kept getting longer. He scrubbed and scrubbed, washing himself repeatedly, so that when Joan returned, she’d find him clean, smelling nice, no dirt under his nails. And the longer he stayed in the tub, he thought, the better he could remember her.
(14)
It was a Saturday afternoon in November when Tom Conway showed Scotty Ocean his father’s hidden treasure.
His parents’ closet had been padlocked but not with precision.Tom had figured out how to get the closet door opened, and he allowed Scotty a glimpse. Hanging from the wall were machine guns, bayonet blades—a cache of
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