but because we were the most lovable, that is to say, I was most and best. I heard my mother say that Barbara may have regretted bringing the bee to our school, that the fevered Lombard cousins in their dead heat were probably driving her over the bend. The error of that statement was an embarrassment to the speaker, poor Nellie Lombard out of her element.
Mrs. Kraselnik for certain had rare gifts, her cool beauty and her excellent low voice only two of her many teaching tools. I later understood that in our day-to-day work she somehow made Amanda and me feel that together we were a great force, and separately we were special in a way that required no comparison. When Amanda was excused every day after lunch so she could walk up the street to sixth-grade math, Mrs. Kraselnik allowed me to sit in the quiet corner and read a difficult book or work on my memoirs. If we were both raising our hands with equal urgency she called on someone else. We were both enlisted to be mentors for students who needed extra help, the only class members accorded that honor.
A week or so before our class bee, that long-anticipated night, a fight broke out on the playground, a fourth-grade boy beaten up because he was for Bill Clinton. After lunch, it seemed that Mrs. Kraselnik was looking at me especially when she began to talk about the purpose of life. We were doing a tour of Europe and in particular Spain, our teacher more imposing than usual in a black bolero jacket with red trim, and black gaucho pants, and tall black boots. “Why,” she asked, standing before us, “why, boys and girls, are we on this earth? What in the world are we doing here?”
No one had ever asked us that kind of question. Even Amanda didn’t know the answer. “What’s all this for?” Mrs. Kraselnik sounded almost angry, as if our ignorance, our lack of curiosity on the subject, was unforgivable, as if she couldn’t stand to think of our carelessness. Not one of us ventured an opinion, no one in fact saying anything, all of us a blank.
She pierced each of us with her gaze. She said finally, “Boys and girls, we are here to put good in the world.”
That was it? She was again looking very hard at me. For what seemed like a full minute she wasn’t just looking at me, no, she was glaring. Had I done something wrong? Or was I going to misbehave in the future, Mrs. Kraselnik an oracle? It was as if she wanted Mary Frances Lombard, more than any other student, to understand the simple instruction. Even though there was nothing to her statement she repeated it. “We are here only—only to put good in the world.” She clutched her notebook to her chest, her lips pressed firmly together. “You must,” she said, “you must always, always remember this.” I gazed back at her with all my heart, hoping she knew I would never forget her message.
At home in those weeks before the bee I’d started to notice something peculiar. My father quizzed me, always discussing the possible answers in depth, both of us poring over the maps that detailed imports/exports, religion, migration, air currents, the landscape beneath the oceans, endangered species, song and dance, painting and theater, oil, gas, coal, diamond deposits, all the spices of life, and the remarkable flux in time and space. Now and then he’d say, “Just think how much you know! That Mrs. Kraselnik! It’s amazing how much you’ve absorbed in such a short time, what a virtual encyclopedia you are.”
That pleased me.
But then he’d say, “The reward is right here, Marlene, in your knowledge.” For no reason that anyone could remember Marlene had always been my father’s pet name for me. “It doesn’t matter, you know, if you don’t win. That doesn’t matter, not a whit. You’ve already won by knowing all that you know.”
Those remarks made no sense. I hadn’t won, couldn’t possibly have won since the big night had not yet occurred.
My mother, who had always kept track of my studies, was
Mrs. Kraselnik for certain had rare gifts, her cool beauty and her excellent low voice only two of her many teaching tools. I later understood that in our day-to-day work she somehow made Amanda and me feel that together we were a great force, and separately we were special in a way that required no comparison. When Amanda was excused every day after lunch so she could walk up the street to sixth-grade math, Mrs. Kraselnik allowed me to sit in the quiet corner and read a difficult book or work on my memoirs. If we were both raising our hands with equal urgency she called on someone else. We were both enlisted to be mentors for students who needed extra help, the only class members accorded that honor.
A week or so before our class bee, that long-anticipated night, a fight broke out on the playground, a fourth-grade boy beaten up because he was for Bill Clinton. After lunch, it seemed that Mrs. Kraselnik was looking at me especially when she began to talk about the purpose of life. We were doing a tour of Europe and in particular Spain, our teacher more imposing than usual in a black bolero jacket with red trim, and black gaucho pants, and tall black boots. “Why,” she asked, standing before us, “why, boys and girls, are we on this earth? What in the world are we doing here?”
No one had ever asked us that kind of question. Even Amanda didn’t know the answer. “What’s all this for?” Mrs. Kraselnik sounded almost angry, as if our ignorance, our lack of curiosity on the subject, was unforgivable, as if she couldn’t stand to think of our carelessness. Not one of us ventured an opinion, no one in fact saying anything, all of us a blank.
She pierced each of us with her gaze. She said finally, “Boys and girls, we are here to put good in the world.”
That was it? She was again looking very hard at me. For what seemed like a full minute she wasn’t just looking at me, no, she was glaring. Had I done something wrong? Or was I going to misbehave in the future, Mrs. Kraselnik an oracle? It was as if she wanted Mary Frances Lombard, more than any other student, to understand the simple instruction. Even though there was nothing to her statement she repeated it. “We are here only—only to put good in the world.” She clutched her notebook to her chest, her lips pressed firmly together. “You must,” she said, “you must always, always remember this.” I gazed back at her with all my heart, hoping she knew I would never forget her message.
At home in those weeks before the bee I’d started to notice something peculiar. My father quizzed me, always discussing the possible answers in depth, both of us poring over the maps that detailed imports/exports, religion, migration, air currents, the landscape beneath the oceans, endangered species, song and dance, painting and theater, oil, gas, coal, diamond deposits, all the spices of life, and the remarkable flux in time and space. Now and then he’d say, “Just think how much you know! That Mrs. Kraselnik! It’s amazing how much you’ve absorbed in such a short time, what a virtual encyclopedia you are.”
That pleased me.
But then he’d say, “The reward is right here, Marlene, in your knowledge.” For no reason that anyone could remember Marlene had always been my father’s pet name for me. “It doesn’t matter, you know, if you don’t win. That doesn’t matter, not a whit. You’ve already won by knowing all that you know.”
Those remarks made no sense. I hadn’t won, couldn’t possibly have won since the big night had not yet occurred.
My mother, who had always kept track of my studies, was