Long Division Read online

  “Annie Harper, what have you brought us?” Loretta scurries up to me and rests her hands on top of Max Schaffer’s and Steven Wright’s little heads. “A pack of baboons?” She looks around at all the masks. A few students giggle quietly.

  “Well, Loretta and all residents of Violet Meadows, please welcome my third-grade class from Franklin Elementary.” Two people clap softly. It sounds like a fat dog lazily thumping his tail on the ground just a few times to snag his owner’s attention and ask for food. I explain to our audience as they begin to seat themselves on the three sofas and various chairs of the rec room what kind of show we have in store for them and that we hope this will be a pleasant Valentine’s Day for everyone.

  We kick things off with a bumpy69 but adorable rendition of Nat King Cole’s “L.O.V.E.” While rehearsing, the kids got in the habit of overemphasizing the first syllable of “extraordinary,” and I see a woman with a fancy hat hop in her seat at the shock of the volume.

  Despite its absurdist-style humor and multiple references to twenty-first-century pop culture, Mambo and Spike Conquer the Universe is received swimmingly. Spike, played by David Taylor, steals the show with an indistinguishable European accent, and one old man actually slaps his knee when Mambo (Lizzie McDonnell) goes ape-crazy throwing real bananas at the pirate/ninjas. It’s a huge success. I can tell my kids are pulsing with pride.

  We sing a few more songs, accompanied by tambourines and maracas, and then Max Schaffer takes front stage for the final act. He’s brought out his violin, and I can almost hear the crowd sigh at the first few bars of one of Beethoven’s sonatas. Max’s face is serene and angelic while he plays. The rest of the class stands motionless and attentive, like they’ve been honing their ears for this exact moment since the first of September. I can’t tell if it’s the music or the tender tilt of Loretta’s head or the obedient stillness of my perfect class, but a tear buds up in my right eye. The bridge of my nose can’t support its weight for long, and it cuts a quick, clean path and disappears into the fibers of my surgical mask. And that’s when I hear the scream.

  My head snaps to the source of the shrill noise. It’s one of the wheelchaired women, and she’s pointing a knotted finger at Garrett Wagner, who has toppled over, a crumbled wad of red sweatpants on the gray linoleum floor. “Shit, Garrett!” I shout and rush to his side. Max is still playing, reaching the climax of the piece, unaffected, seemingly unaware of the ruckus that has erupted around him. And it’s all the same feelings I had when I thought David was blown into crumbs eating chicken fingers. But worse. I’m wearing a bodysuit of bee stings. My every organ is chili-dog nauseated. My head is a spinning clothes drier filled with steel-toed boots. I wave to Max to cut the music. I roll Garrett over onto his back and rip his surgical mask off his head. The pirate/ninja teeth go skidding across the floor, and I say his name a bunch of times. A few kids start crying. Almost immediately I feel that Garrett is breathing, and after a few miserable moments, his little eyes flutter open and he says, “Uhhmpha” or something very close to that.

  “Garrett, sweetie. Are you okay? What happened?”

  “I don’t know.” I silently curse myself for asking too many questions too fast, but then I can’t help it.

  “Are you hurt? Did you hurt anything falling down?” Garrett sits up, pushes his floppy blond hair from his eyes, and looks toward his pirate mask across the floor.

  “No, I don’t think so. I just got dizzy. My mask smelled funny.” Smelled funny? I don’t get it. A friend from college worked as a masked Minnie Mouse in Disneyland over the summers, and I remember her saying that Chinese food or hot dogs for lunch could ruin your entire shift. The air in the mask being so recycled and everything. Then I hear the smack of Denise Robinson’s gum and she butts in.

  “Yeah. I was worried about that. The moisture of the child’s breath must have reactivated the fumes in the Magic Marker ink or the glue holding the glitter on. Inhaling all those toxins likely caused him to pass out.” What was she? A fucking chemist! Magic Markers are nontoxic, and I always use Elmer’s glue sticks that are impossible to get a buzz from huffing. That’s outrageous. I hate Denise Robinson. The kid simply fainted. Probably exhausted from all the hefty pirate noises he had made, the shanty singing, and the maraca shaking.

  As soon as Denise makes this proclamation, I can see the chests of my students rising and falling with exaggeration. I guess I can’t blame the little shits for testing to see if their masks will also give them the spins. “Everyone, take off your masks.” I order. Charese Atkins takes over tending to Garrett. She pulls a bottle of water from her purse and helps him to his feet. The kid seems fine, really. He’s probably just a fainter. All teachers get one every few years or so. Mine was overdue.

  I get to my feet and awkwardly thank everyone for their participation in the program. I thank the V-Meadows residents for being a great audience. And I apologize for the startling interruption of the violin finale. Loretta flashes me a look that says not to worry, but of course I am worrying my fucking brains off. Kicking myself over and over and over for endangering my students, terrifying a group of weak-hearted seniors, and mortifying myself in front of the chaperones. Jean is actually quite cool about it. She grabs my elbow on the way out the door. “Don’t worry, Annie. Everyone had fun. Looks like that boy will be just fine. The residents will be talking about this for weeks. Don’t worry. Fumes, schmumes, that woman doesn’t know what she’s talking about.” And if I didn’t have to chase down Marco Antolini as he bounded through the parking lot belting “Very very ¡EX!traordinary,” I would have wrapped my arms around her smooshy shoulders and hugged the living crap out of her.

  15

  Today I’m calling my book 101 Ways to Go Nuts While Your Lover Is at War. Self help is always popular. While I was busy orchestrating dangerous field trips and poisoning my students, Helen was busy laying two beautiful eggs. Two! So I’m making myself a special treat for V-Day dinner: deviled eggs.

  Garrett Wagner’s mother agreed to come pick him up instead of letting him ride the bus home. I really think he would have been fine, but the possibilities for taunting are predictably high after such an incident, and I didn’t want to subject the poor wimp to even further humiliation. After the class scurried out to the bus line, I bought Garrett and myself cans of Coke and Snickers bars from the staff lounge vending machine. While waiting for his mother, we enjoyed the snack by one of the computers,70 looking up different breeds of dogs on the Internet. I asked Garrett if he’d ever passed out like that before.

  “Oh yeah,” he said. “Once at soccer practice and a couple times at my grandma’s house.” I spoke to him candidly because other than letting kids occasionally break the rules, frankness is the best way to show them respect.

  “Do you think it was the scent of your pirate/ninja mask that made you dizzy?”

  “Nah. I don’t think so.” And then he leaned in close to me and whispered, “Honestly, I think it was the smell of the old people.”

  When Garrett’s mother arrived (I’d only ever met his father at a parent/teacher conference), I was relieved to discover that she was one of those tough-skinned, no-fuss type of parents. The kind that trusts her kid to peel the stickers off his own apples, choose his own clothes, and read grown-up books whenever he’s ready.

  “Nothing to worry about, Miss Harper. Garrett has a history of wiping out. He looks fine to me already.” She turned toward her son. “How was the skit, dude? Is that your Coke? Can I have a drink?” Garrett handed her the soda like he didn’t expect or even want it back. Like he’d give his mother anything. I thanked her for coming to pick him up, and she was so calm and genuine in assuring me that she totally understood (her words). As the pair shuffled down the hallway, I heard Mrs. Wagner telling Garrett that his dad was picking up a pizza for dinner. The door slapped on Garrett’s tiny “wahoo.”

  It’s just so great when the right kind of people have the right kind of kids, when parent and child so perfectly matc
h. It’s seeing these sweet, symbiotic unions—kid needs ride, mom needs caff eine—that make me think of Baby Alden and what made his mother think she couldn’t make their baby/momma partnership work. And then what changed to make her think she could. Did she find a stash of diaper coupons one day and think Oh, 2-for-1 Pampers! This might not be so bad? Or was it more biological than that? Perhaps her breasts ached when she took off her bra. Or maybe she woke up cradling her pillow and dreaming of her baby’s soft, soft skin.

  A few years after I found out about Baby Alden and his brief time as a Harper, my mother told me about how in the weeks following his departure my father—a lifelong sleepwalker—would get up in the night, walk to the nursery, and return with his arms cupped around a ghost of a baby. He would pace the room, rocking the dream baby to sleep and humming. Eventually his arms would just drop and he’d float, zombielike, back to my mother’s side. I think enough years had passed so that my mother was able to smile and laugh at how cute and goofy it was. “He did it when you were a baby too, Annie.”

  “Sleep walked/rocked me?” I asked.

  “Yes, but he wouldn’t actually hold you. You’d be happily asleep in your crib, and he’d be wasting energy and startling me. But it was so sweet, of course.” I didn’t tell my mom that dreaming about a baby you still have isn’t as sappily tragic as fake nurturing one you’ve recently lost. It was still a tender image to her. I really do have the sweetest parents. Too bad I so briefly got the chance to share them.

  I think about this again back at home as I plop the creamy yolk mixture into the dips of the cleanly sliced boiled egg whites. Deviled eggs have always reminded me of little bassinets. Well, bassinets and funerals. They’re such a typical wake food. Perhaps paprika and mayonnaise naturally lift moods and soothe tired eyes.

  David just sent me an e-mail to thank me for the V-Day gift that he actually received a whole week early. He says the cookies were still fresh and delicious and that he’s already worn the high-tech cooling socks three days in a row. He also asks if I got his package yet. A package! For me?! I have not! Instantly I realize that it’s probably been days since I’ve entered my house through the front porch, where the post-man leaves anything that doesn’t fit through the mail slot in the door. My urgency to check on/dote on Helen has had me busting around to the backyard and entering the house through the rear door.

  I open my front door to find a small parcel the size of a watch box. Inside there’s a typewritten gift card—a square piece of pink card stock—and I can’t help but imagine some package-processing stranger typing and printing out David’s personal sentiments.

  TO: ANNIE, THE GIRLFRIEND WORTH ONE

  MILLION POINTS. HAPPY V-DAY.

  LOVE: DAVID

  Points? What the dickens is he talking about? Some “Hot or Not” Army Dude game where they rate the aesthetic value of each other’s lady friends back home? Possibly. But I doubt it. One million points can’t be an easy score to achieve. I also wonder about the message’s lack of exclamation points. Our last six months of electronic communication have taught me a lot about the man’s textual communication style. With his proper manners, immaculate personal hygiene, and superior household cleanliness, I wouldn’t have pegged him as the type to throw out “☺ ☺ !!!!!!!!!!!” as liberally as he does. But it is endearing. I figure he likely forgot to tell the customer service phone rep or the online order form to add the extra enthusiasm.

  The box inside the box is the small velvety kind that announces “precious jewelry” in a smooth, classy voice. David has never bought me jewelry before, and the sophisticated texture of the box causes my guts to tense up in a way that makes me glad he isn’t here to witness the reception of the gift. Jewels mean it’s serious. A diamond pendant he’ll see you wear for anniversaries to come. Dangly tennis bracelets that symbolize an unending love. Pearl earrings to show that you’re precious and that you’re worth it. It’s all a bunch of crap to me. And I thought David knew that. Did he forget about the note he left on the motel room pillow promising my freedom if I want it? Isn’t this whole mess about obtaining “freedom” anyway? Did David send me a diamond-bedazzled set of handcuffs? A four-million-pound engagement ring? The only other tiny velvet box I own belonged to my mother and contains the entire set of my baby teeth. Could David be sending me his baby teeth? Is that creepier than sapphire studs? Should I make the teeth into a necklace? Should I bleach them first?

  I turn the box over in my hands one more time before I open it. It snaps open with a loud crack, causing the contents to hop off their plush resting place. It rattles and settles. It’s a necklace. I force out an exaggerated sigh and laugh at myself. At David. Along a delicate sterling silver chain and resting in an equally shiny silver bearing is a Scrabble tile. An A for “Annie” worth a measly one (million!!!!!! ☺ ☺ ☺) point(s). It is cute. As long as I don’t equate it to those gross sweaters that teachers wear with appliquéd pencils and school buses on the pockets, I like it. It’s a very thoughtful gift. A reminder of how many times I’ve kicked his business-major ass.

  16

  Big fat sigh.71

  The rest of February and the first weeks of March were unremarkable. In the movie version of my story, they would be depicted through a musical montage of the following scenes:

  Driving in the snow.

  Demonstrating long division to my class on the chalkboard.72

  Flipping through news channels on my television.

  Diving for the phone when it rings.

  Looking at a picture of David.

  Scattering grain for Helen.

  Cracking an egg in a skillet.

  Cracking an egg in a skillet.

  Cracking an egg in a skillet.

  Diving for the phone when it rings.

  Eating Indian food with Gus.

  Learning to play pinochle with Loretta and two of her friends.

  Cracking an egg in a skillet.

  Driving in the rain.

  Driving Max Schaffer to his violin lesson in the rain.

  Looking at a picture of David.

  Combing Loretta’s hair.

  Eating pizza with Gus.

  Trying to pet Helen.

  Helen running away.

  Trying to pet Helen.

  Helen trying to fly.

  Scattering grain for Helen really close to my feet.

  Trying to pet Helen.

  Walking casually to the phone when it rings.

  Cracking an egg in a skillet.

  Demonstrating the cursive Q to my class on the chalkboard.

  Trying to pet Helen.

  Cracking an egg in a skillet.

  Eating clams with Gus.

  Letting the phone ring and ring.

  Laughing with Loretta.

  Flipping through the news channels on my television.

  Even that was a bit long for a rather dull month. But the editors will know how to pare it down. So it’s probably a wise editorial choice to glaze over it and get straight to my spring break camping trip. I took a break from writing because I was starting to feel too self-indulgent and repetitive and generally lame about it. One night I went online and read all these blogs73 of wives whose husbands are deployed in Iraq. The blogs are called things like “On the Homefront” and “While My Love Is Gone.” All the ones I read belong to young women with babies. Two babies, three babies, a woman in Nebraska with four babies—ages six months to six years. And reading these blogs depressed the hell out of me on many levels. Please allow me to explain.

  Level 1: The Risk of Fatherless Babies

  This is quite obvious. All those cute, chubby offspring with stewed carrots dripping down their ARMY BABY bibs have no idea that Papa might be blown to smithereens. They probably just know that he’s gone and that his certain variation of peek-a-boo has been discontinued. The older children—Stevie, Junior, Mary Rose, Freedom74—they understand that Daddy’s away working and that he’s fighting in a WAR. I know twenty-nine third graders. They’re amazi
ngly, disturbingly, well acquainted with the subject.

  Level 2: Lack of Surprises and Encouraging Sentiments

  When I stumbled upon the first blog and started to search for others, I thought I’d busted into some new resource: a backstage tour to the women who were similarly coping. I thought that I’d cluck my tongue at clever survival tips and snort at amusing anecdotes. I thought these women—army and marine wives of years—would say things to encourage this Woman at Home and teach me more about the fucked-up situation we all share. I thought it would be like the boiled-down version of the Knitwhit Wife Ladies. I’d get the helpful scoop without all the shit-talking and social pressure. It’d be this authentic, insightful dialogue . . . but organized! Miss Harper Loves Organized! But my expectations fell far outside of what actually exists on the World Wide Web. It was all wholesome, obvious, and a big fat waste of time. It was kind of like reading the directions on the back of a shampoo bottle, but with all the lovely adjectives missing. Or maybe the instructions on a can of soup. Or the ingredients label for a jar of applesauce. Wash. Rinse. Repeat. Heat. Stir. Apples. Sugar. Yawn.