Learning Curve. Terry McLaughlin
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could phone Dolores over in Orchard View. He’d buy her a few drinks, and she’d offer her warm bed and willing body in exchange. She always did. Dependable, divorced Dolores. Maybe tonight he’d take her up on it.
He frowned down into his glass, knowing the company of a forty-five-year-old shopping network addict wasn’t the cure for this particular case of restlessness.
Maybe he’d make a plan. Short-term, just for the next few hours; long-term, to get him through Saturday night, too. Maybe he’d open another bottle of wine and settle in at the piano, spin out whatever blowzy, bluesy tune the vintage suggested. Ambivalence in the key of Burgundy.
He turned from the window, set the goblet on a side table and stretched out along the oversize sofa squeezed into the undersize space. The secondhand-shop leather cushioned him like an old ball glove, and he focused on the comfort as he willed himself to relax.
The clock struck nine, and the room dimmed as the shop lights beading the street below winked out. Rain splashed over the gutter, and the furnace whumped and hissed. He tapped one foot against the other, adding to the sullen syncopation.
So, is this where you picture yourself in ten years?
He swung his feet to the floor with an oath and flicked the switch on the side table lamp. Light spilled over his empty goblet and beside it, his cell phone.
Conversation could be a cure for restlessness. He’d had a taste of conversation, of connection, in the quad with Emily, and the sample had left him hungry for more.
He lifted the phone, hit the first number on his automatic dial and waited through the electronic clicks and trills to hear the voice of his aunt in San Francisco. Anna Green, his one and only family member. An activist with a heart as deep as San Pablo Bay and enough political savvy to fill it ten times over.
“Anna,” he said when she picked up. “It’s me.”
“So it is.” His aunt’s gravelly voice sounded like his childhood—earthy, basic, and a little rough around the edges. “Where are you, kid? Anywhere close?”
“Here at home,” he said.
“Friday night, single fella, stuck at home. What’s wrong with this picture?”
“It was a rough week.”
“Aren’t they all?” she asked. Joe could hear papers rustling in the background and pictured her fidgeting with her work. Anna never did one thing at a time when she could do two.
“The first couple of weeks of school don’t usually hit this hard.” He didn’t usually have to deal with a fresh and lovely young woman probing into his intellectual and emotional nooks and crannies.
Joe slouched down and rubbed his free hand over his face. “What’s on the political agenda these days?”
“SUVs. Elitist weapons of death.” He listened for a few minutes while she read him an abbreviated version of her current riot act. The follow-up literature would probably hit his mailbox within a week. Anna didn’t write, she pamphleted.
But he’d always been able to derail her from her one-track speeches for the critical moments of his life. And she’d managed to keep him fed and clothed, disciplined and educated after his mother had abandoned him on her doorstep. He was grateful for the care she spared for her nephew in the midst of her greater quest to care for humanity.
He waited for her to wind down, waited for an opening. “Is it all worth it? What you do, I mean.”
“That’s one of the most ridiculous questions you’ve ever asked.” Her exasperation sputtered through the wires. “What’s wrong with you?”
“I don’t mean the causes. Or the effort,” he said.
“What do you mean, then?”
“I mean…” What did he mean? “Does it—does your work make you happy? Are you happy, Anna?”
“Why the hell wouldn’t I be?” No more sputtering now. “It’s what I choose to do, every day. It’s my life—it gives my life meaning and direction. There aren’t many people who can say that about what they’ve chosen to do.”
Anna’s words rippled through his dark and empty spaces. Something coherent struggled to take shape, but he was too weary to concentrate. Too much wine, too much rain.
“This is an interesting series of questions,” she said. “I’m wondering what inspired it.”
“A conversation I had this week. About altruism.”
“Hmm.” The paper rustling slowed. “I think that, to some degree, I need to feel good about myself. About what I do. What about the job you do? Some folks might call teaching an altruistic profession.”
“But I get paid to do it.”
“So do I. All my causes put food on my table. Just because they’re bigger than a classroom doesn’t mean they’re any more important.”
Joe rubbed tiredly at his face and silently cursed Emily Sullivan for making him feel like a project with a due date. Short-term, long-term, end-of-term—any way he looked at it, he was going to have to define himself as a teacher and a human being before he could help guide her through the process. And he had a feeling he wasn’t going to like the answer to the big essay question waiting at the bottom of the page.
“So, what’s the real reason for the call?” Anna asked.
“Nothing special. I just wanted to talk.”
“About the justification for our existence? Most folks start out with something simple, like, ‘How’s the weather down there?’”
He thought of Emily’s simple, friendly chat. “Maybe I’m a little rattled. New school year, remember?”
“Yeah. Any changes? How about a new principal?”
“No, still stuck with Kyle.”
Joe smiled at Anna’s inventive curse. She’d met his boss once; survivors of the disaster scene still cringed at the memory. “Word is his wife left him.”
“Smart move.”
“There’s more.” He stalled for a moment, and then dived into the news he realized he’d wanted to share with her all along. “I’ve got a student teacher.”
“It’s about time, kid.” The paper rustling stopped. He had her complete attention now. “Here’s your chance to make a bigger impact. Mold another teacher to fight the good fight.”
Joe quickly blocked the image of his hands molding Emily’s curves. “I don’t think that’s going to happen. She comes from a military family. You know the type—solid, upstanding, old-fashioned. Big-time conservatives.”
There was another pause. A long one. And then Anna did something she didn’t do very often. She laughed. A rolling, raucous, riot of a laugh. The kind of laugh he hadn’t heard from her since that Love Boat actor decided to run for Congress on the GOP ticket. He could hear Anna’s partner, Carol, in the background, ask what was going on.
Anna finally managed to ask, “Is she pretty?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Is she?”
“What if she is?” said Joe. “She’s not my type.”
“What do you mean, she’s not your type? Is she mine?”
“No!” Joe stalked to the window and lowered the blinds. “I mean, I don’t think so. No.” God, no.
“So, what’s she like?”
“Think Shirley Temple on speed.”
There was that laugh again. And when Anna repeated his description for Carol, he got to hear it in stereo. “So glad I could provide