"Tom?" came a voice from the art teacher's room. So, casually, I turned to face Mrs. Norris, a wonderful seventy-five-years young lady with a heart of gold. She'd known me since I was as old as the Kindergarteners in her room...after all, I'd been one of her many, many students, along with my brother and two sisters. We'd all gone to Twin Pines as kids and had, as elementary kids do, quite a bit of fun along the way. Now, though, I was twenty by a month, and so all that kid stuff gets left behind...but every time I saw her face that adulthood facade was melted away. To put it quite honestly, I couldn't even think of her without feeling like a five-year-old. She had that sort of rare radiating glow, that almost childlike happiness a true teacher feels when they're in front of a group of kids they truly love.
I blushed and sheepishly stammered, "Mrs. Norris, how are you today ma-...ma-am?" It never failed. No matter how hard I tried to talk to her like an equal, it always came out wrong. I couldn't put my finger on the problem, really...it wasn't a problem I usually had. Talking to people seemed to me to be my best trait and never failed me until I was under the gaze of this old woman.
"Well, Tommy," she started off in her usual manner and tone, smiling, patient, understanding, shrinking me that much more in my mind, "Do call me Regina, you're far too old to be calling me Mrs." She chortled, pausing and continued, "You're nice and early today. Do tell me how your class is going."
I struggled to get pertinent details, any useful details at all, out of my brain. But there was no hope. I babbled like a ten-year-old who ate way too much sugar, jumping from random topic to topic, explaining in depth the simplest parts of my class, skipping right over the most important. The entire time my eyes fixated on hers, watching only for the signs of patient understanding that Mrs. Norris kept locked away in spades behind her eyes somewhere. And, of course, getting exactly what I'd bargained for.
"It sounds to me as if your class is going wonderfully, Tommy," She said, smiling in a disarming manner, the way a teacher would get a babbling student to think they got their point across, when in actuality the teacher is rarely listening. She hesitated for a moment, long enough for me to think about saying my goodbyes and heading in to set up the demonstration for the kids in the next room. Then her eyes grabbed mine again and I felt more of a sixth sense feeling of being mentally scanned than anything else. "Perhaps, Tom, we could have tea this afternoon when you get done."
I was suddenly envigorated, without understanding why. It was as if she'd understood some unanswered question I didn't know I had. Suddenly, the coolest thing I could think of doing after class was not going home and smoking a little pot, or mixing some CDs. It was going to have tea with my old elementary school art teacher. I stumbled all over my acceptance and she seemed satisfied enough, saying only, "I'll see you at four-thirty, then, honey."
I didn't really think too much about it after that. By the end of my class, while the kids were leaving with their parents, I'd all but forgotten my dear old art teacher, and if it wasn't for my cell phone alarm, I would have, too. But the beeping pulled me back into that weird place I'd been in when I saw her earlier and I finished packing up as quickly as I could. As I left that afternoon, I couldn't help but notice how much higher everything seemed to be hung on the walls. Nothing else had changed, except the kids pictures and the posters and everything else tacked up to the wall seemed to have been raised up a good foot in the time I'd been in my class. I attributed it to the janitors, as they'd been doing some painting recently and I figured that the bottoms of the walls were being done now. Besides, I was strangely too excited to think much about it. All I cared about was getting to my beloved old teacher's house and drinking some tea, which I hated, with her.
She seemed surprised to see me when she opened the door, as if she never expected me to actually show up, but she was courteous as ever, taking my coat as I came in. Her house was standard elderly fare, all forms of knick-knacks and antiques filling up almost every empty space in the house. It was the first time I'd ever seen the inside of the building, although I was quite familiar with the house. She lived only a block from my own house, so I tended to see hers with some regularity. But there was a strange sense of recognition I couldn't shake, the feeling that I'd been here, inside, before. I shook it off as best I could and sat patiently waiting in her living room as she worked on the tea.
When she returned, I was fixated on an obviously novice sculpture project, most likely given to her by one of her students. A small, clay turtle, painted with hamfisted glaze, it, like most of her house, was tied up with that same feeling that I'd seen it somewhere before. Again, though I couldn't place it, so I was staring at it as she walked in. She said nothing for a moment, merely placed a cup of tea in front of me while I remained oblivious, and sat down in her chair opposite me. After a long sip, with no conversation, I heard her voice query from next to me, "Do you remember that, Tommy?"
All I could really do was nod my affirmative, because the sculpture was seemingly taking up ninety percent of my active thoughts. I wasn't even sure, afterwards, why I'd nodded. It seemed to me that I didn't know the sculpture at all, beyond my easy guess that it was a child's project. For some reason, though, I continued to stare at the thing, all but open-mouthed and gaping.
Her voice came back, ethereal and wistful, from my left, "I'm surprised you'd remember that one, Tommy. You had to have been...all of six, perhaps? Maybe seven."
Then it dawned on me. That thing was mine, I had given it to her, years and years ago. The memory knocked me out of my daze, which was good, as I'd been trying to break the hypnotic spell the thing had had on me with no success for about ten minutes, by then. I turned, in time to see her pass me and pick it up. The initials TX were emblazened upon the bottom with an unnaturally red glaze.
She turned and smiled that Mrs. Norris standard rot-your-brain look, "I always told you, honey, you would've been a great artist." She had. It was all I could do to keep her from getting my parents to sign me up for this art class, or that seminar, or those apprenticeships. It was nothing personal, you understand. For any artistic talent I had, there was an equal or greater lack of understanding art, which would have caused my own art to suffer. At least, that was my reasoning, but it never stopped her from trying, all throughout my elementary years.
I blushed and nodded, unsure of what to say. In lieu of speaking, I sipped my tea again. Despite not liking tea, this stuff really grew on me. It had a sweet, smoky flavor, like some kind of nut, with a hint of vanilla that reminded me of chai. There was a pause in the conversation, and she put the sculpture back down, sitting back in her seat and getting nice and comfortable.
"All those times I had your parents send you to those art classes," She said, echoing my thoughts in an almost eerie unison, "And not once did you give a care in the world for them. It was a pity, Tom, that you never got interested in art as a career."
"I...well. I just didn't think it was a viable option, Mrs...Regina," I responded awkwardly. For some reason, talking to her like I was seemed even harder than it had this afternoon. Every word I formed vocally desertified my throat that much more. I sipped my tea and tried, as best I could, to continue, "It's just...I never thought I was that good, is all."
"Nonsense, honey, you were a terrific sculpturist. Not quite as good a painter, but still better than most in your class, as I recall...certainly far better than your brother and sisters." She said, her eyes twinkling. No argument there, really. Nothing against my siblings, you understand, but they'd never been what you'd call 'artistic' in an asthetic sense, although my brother was far more musically inclined than me.
I drained the rest of my tea and nodded. It seemed like the entire day had just caught up to me suddenly. I was very sleepy and Mrs. Norris sat talking in a voice that seemed to make me more and more tired by the second. I'm not quite sure when it happened, but I dropped off at some point.
I woke up feeling kind of strange. I was a bit fuzzy in the head, like the feeling you get when you wake up after a long night drinking. The room was dark and it took me a second to realize that everything that had happened earlier wasn't a dream. That I was actually laying here in my old art teacher's house. I glanced at my cell phone. It showed 2/09/04, 10:45 pm. I'd slept for a good four hours and felt rather sheepish. I moved the quilt that she had thrown over me and stood up pretty fast, sitting back down even faster with an insane headrush. It took me five minutes or so more to stop the room's spinning enough to get up and walk down the hall rather shakily. I didn't expect Mrs. Norris to still be awake at this hour, after all, she had to be at school at 8:00, but there was a light on in the dining room, so I figured I'd check.
Sure enough, there sat Mrs. Norris, just then finishing her dinner. She looked up as I walked in and flashed a knowing smile, "So you're awake, honey? Let me fix you something to eat..." I nodded once and she brought out a duplicate of her own plate, full of roast chicken and stuffing. I ate it like there was no tomorrow and she sat, watching me eat. Then, when I was almost done, she said, "I have to get along to bed now, honey. Are you coming to the school on Friday?"
It took me a second to remember why I was going to the elementary school on Friday. As I sat thinking, she sat watching me think, not saying anything to lead me on, spurring me to think of it myself. Then it dawned on me. I still needed five more hours of community service to graduate with my class at the end of the year. Lately I'd been going down to my old school to 'give something back' as it were, teaching the third graders how to read. I nodded, saying nothing until I swallowed my food, "Yeah...I, uh, still need like five hours," I paused. A thought came to mind, "Do you need any help in your class, Mrs. Norris?"
She seemed to consider it for a moment, and for a split second I thought perhaps she was leading me on, or messing with me somehow. Then I remembered where I was, and who I was talking to. She nodded, "I could use your help on Friday, Tommy, just stop by when you're done with the third graders."
I nodded as well. Mrs. Norris was cool, she'd probably give me five hours for an hour of actual work, so I figured I'd go to her first rather than after teaching the snot-nosed third graders to read unsuccessfully. She handed me my jacket as she showed me out, and I drove home.
When I got home, both of my parents were sitting in the living room, waiting for me. In my hunger and tiredness, I'd forgotten all about my 11:15 curfew. I explained where I'd been and they seemed to soften a little, but they were still both quite pissed off. It was sheer luck that I got off with a warning, and realistically, even if I'd been grounded I would have gone straightaway to sleep anyway. I was just that tired and school was only five hours away.
To be continued...