kindness, he is a legend at the high school. He is well past retirement age, but every year the school board unanimously approves the extension on his contract.
“I don't know,” Drew mumbles, hunching his head into his shoulders.
Nora watches guiltily. She should have sent him to Billington Academy where Ken and Oliver went, instead of insisting on a public school education, a more realistic world, her argument then. At least away at prep school he would be spared the turmoil of this more disturbing reality, his home life.
“Well, if you don't know, Drew, who on earth does? This work is your responsibility. No one else's. I was very pleased when I saw your name on my class list. You were excellent in freshman history, the kind of student a teacher needs in his class. Not just interested, not justbright, but excited by the work. Thrilled to be learning.” The old man's shrewd eyes shift between mother and student. “Is it me, Drew? Maybe you'd be better off with another teacher. Mrs. Leeman's got a smaller class, maybe it'd be more to your pace. You—”
“No,” Drew interrupts.
“What, then?” he asks hopefully.
“I'll just drop it, that's all.”
“But it'll be an incomplete, it's so late in the term.”
Drew nods miserably. Mr. Carteil sighs. Before they leave, he offers Drew one more chance. If he turns in the term paper and gets an A on it, Mr. Carteil will let him make up one of the tests.
“Oh, Mr. Carteil, that's so kind of you.” She is touched by the old man's sensitivity.
But the prospect seems to deflate Drew even more. Their ride home is painful. No matter what she says he stares out his side window. She tells him how much she loves him, what a good boy he's always been, what a wonderful son, and that she understands his unhappiness and blames herself.
“It's not your fault,” he says dully.
Uncertain how much he actually knows, she tries to be careful.
“Sometimes even the happiest families have … difficulties, honey, and now … now, we're going through it.”
“What?” Drew's head spins around. “A bad patch?” he says, stinging her with the old family joke: Ken's blithe dismissal of trouble, no matter its gravity, never more than that, just a bit of a bad patch.
“All the turmoil, Drew. I've been so wrapped up in my own problems I'm afraid I haven't taken your feelings into account.” She drives even slower. “I guess I was hoping you didn't care. Or notice what was going on. But of course you did, and that was selfish of me.” Suddenly blurry-eyed, she has to pull over. “I'm sorry. Oh,” she says, fumbling in her purse for tissues. “I don't want to be doing this. Crying like this. It's not fair to you, and I'm so, so sorry.” She covers her face with her hands. This is exactly what she doesn't want, to give in to her own pain again. “You're such a good boy. You are, and I've just been such a mess lately.”
“That's okay. It's okay, Mum.” He puts his hand on her arm.
“It's not okay.” She blows her nose and takes a deep breath. “Because we have to talk. That's the important thing. To be honest. To be able to tell one another the truth. I don't know what's going on with you. But that's my fault, not yours. Drew?” His struggle to contain himself is tearing her apart. His chest heaves in and out, his head bobs as he rubs his fist against his mouth. “Say it. Please. Please, baby,” she gasps, reaching for him. His arms and back are alarmingly bony as he leans toward her.
“Mum,” he cries, his newly deep voice cracking. “Don't get divorced. Please?” he sobs, tears and phlegm leaking down his cheeks and neck.
“No! No. Of course not,” she says, truly stunned, and for the first time realizing that in all her misery and anger she has never considered divorce. Not even as a threat.
“Clay said you're going to.” He looks at her. She has forgotten those enormous tears, how as a little boy they would pour from his eyes. Ignoring her tissue,
“I don't know,” Drew mumbles, hunching his head into his shoulders.
Nora watches guiltily. She should have sent him to Billington Academy where Ken and Oliver went, instead of insisting on a public school education, a more realistic world, her argument then. At least away at prep school he would be spared the turmoil of this more disturbing reality, his home life.
“Well, if you don't know, Drew, who on earth does? This work is your responsibility. No one else's. I was very pleased when I saw your name on my class list. You were excellent in freshman history, the kind of student a teacher needs in his class. Not just interested, not justbright, but excited by the work. Thrilled to be learning.” The old man's shrewd eyes shift between mother and student. “Is it me, Drew? Maybe you'd be better off with another teacher. Mrs. Leeman's got a smaller class, maybe it'd be more to your pace. You—”
“No,” Drew interrupts.
“What, then?” he asks hopefully.
“I'll just drop it, that's all.”
“But it'll be an incomplete, it's so late in the term.”
Drew nods miserably. Mr. Carteil sighs. Before they leave, he offers Drew one more chance. If he turns in the term paper and gets an A on it, Mr. Carteil will let him make up one of the tests.
“Oh, Mr. Carteil, that's so kind of you.” She is touched by the old man's sensitivity.
But the prospect seems to deflate Drew even more. Their ride home is painful. No matter what she says he stares out his side window. She tells him how much she loves him, what a good boy he's always been, what a wonderful son, and that she understands his unhappiness and blames herself.
“It's not your fault,” he says dully.
Uncertain how much he actually knows, she tries to be careful.
“Sometimes even the happiest families have … difficulties, honey, and now … now, we're going through it.”
“What?” Drew's head spins around. “A bad patch?” he says, stinging her with the old family joke: Ken's blithe dismissal of trouble, no matter its gravity, never more than that, just a bit of a bad patch.
“All the turmoil, Drew. I've been so wrapped up in my own problems I'm afraid I haven't taken your feelings into account.” She drives even slower. “I guess I was hoping you didn't care. Or notice what was going on. But of course you did, and that was selfish of me.” Suddenly blurry-eyed, she has to pull over. “I'm sorry. Oh,” she says, fumbling in her purse for tissues. “I don't want to be doing this. Crying like this. It's not fair to you, and I'm so, so sorry.” She covers her face with her hands. This is exactly what she doesn't want, to give in to her own pain again. “You're such a good boy. You are, and I've just been such a mess lately.”
“That's okay. It's okay, Mum.” He puts his hand on her arm.
“It's not okay.” She blows her nose and takes a deep breath. “Because we have to talk. That's the important thing. To be honest. To be able to tell one another the truth. I don't know what's going on with you. But that's my fault, not yours. Drew?” His struggle to contain himself is tearing her apart. His chest heaves in and out, his head bobs as he rubs his fist against his mouth. “Say it. Please. Please, baby,” she gasps, reaching for him. His arms and back are alarmingly bony as he leans toward her.
“Mum,” he cries, his newly deep voice cracking. “Don't get divorced. Please?” he sobs, tears and phlegm leaking down his cheeks and neck.
“No! No. Of course not,” she says, truly stunned, and for the first time realizing that in all her misery and anger she has never considered divorce. Not even as a threat.
“Clay said you're going to.” He looks at her. She has forgotten those enormous tears, how as a little boy they would pour from his eyes. Ignoring her tissue,
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