Victoria Frankenstein, III: Part 8

 

Seven

“How can I help?” John asked.

I didn’t say anything for a little while. Then said, “John. Here’s the thing—if we both take off to search for him, there will be a wide police alert, and it will be nearly impossible for us to avoid them.”

“But—”

“Let me finish,” I said. “The way you can help me the most? Lie for me.”

“I can do that,” he said.

“And be my contact back here. Give me your email address, and I promise to keep in touch with you.”

“That doesn’t seem like much help,” he said.

“But it is,” I said. “I’ll be hoping you can help me—keeping an eye on our house, doing some research for me online—I’m not sure I’ll be able to get on the Internet all that often. And if I do, they’ll be able to trace me—and quickly, too.” I looked at John. “Can you do that?”

“I can—though I’d rather be going with you.”

“I know,” I said. “But it’s too dangerous.” I paused. “For the both of us. And besides—you have tomorrow night’s play production.”

He nodded.

As I hurried down his front sidewalk, I looked back and saw John standing under the porch light, and—despite my worries—I had to laugh. He looked exactly like Dracula.

***

I really had no idea what to do next—where to go—where to begin my search for Father. All I knew was that I had to find him—and I had to avoid the police.

Right now, I needed a quiet place to spend the night. I was feeling drowsy, and I needed a safe somewhere to think and plan. I knew I couldn’t go back to my house—not yet. But then I thought about the library. It was right across the street from our place—cater-cornered. I headed there, staying in the shadows as much as I could. There was a police car in our driveway, so I knew they were waiting to see if I would come back. It didn’t seem all that clever to park right there in full view—but I was grateful.

The Wisbech Public Library was one of the old Carnegie libraries from the early twentieth century. Father had told me about them. Andrew Carnegie, one of the richest men in the world (steel production), had given away piles of money to local communities to build libraries. Years later, quite a few towns had torn them down—or converted them to different uses (like art galleries, lawyers’ offices, and the like)—but some, especially in very small towns like Wisbech, were still libraries.

I loved the look of this one. Very classical—as if a giant helicopter had airlifted it in from Ancient Greece or Rome and plopped it down near our house. Not a bad thing to see every morning as I walked to school and home again. I often went inside and had already made friends with the librarian, Mrs. Jane Arden,[i] who seemed to me as old as the building itself.

On my visits there I had noticed right away that no one seemed too interested in … security. Sometimes—often!—Mrs. Arden forgot to lock the door when she left. I was hoping this was one of those times.

It was.

Even better news: The little light over the entrance had burned out. It seemed—for once—that Fate was on my side.

I slipped inside and moved quickly to the steps that led to the basement level, the place where they kept the oldest books of all, a place I’d already visited numerous times.

There was a faint glow on the stairway because there was a kind of night light that was on all the time. Just enough light for me to move safely down the rickety staircase and into the basement. I knew that the library used to have a custodian, who’d had a room down there. But the budget was so miserable that Mrs. Arden had to do the routine custodial work herself. The library committee also met now and then to help out with chores.

As I said, I’d been down there before and knew where the custodian’s old room was, always unlocked, of course.

I stepped inside, turned on the light, closed the door.

The old cot the custodian had used for his not-so-secret naps was still there—as was an old coat that hung on a hook on the back of his door.

I grabbed that coat, put my backpack on the floor, and lay down on the cot, covering myself with the coat. Plenty warm.

As I was drifting into sleep, I had the oddest feeling that the smell of that coat was familiar. Very familiar.

***

I awoke suddenly with the certain knowledge that I was not alone.

I hadn’t thought that I’d sleep at all—but I had. And soundly, too. Worry and fear had exhausted me, I guess.

***

But I snapped awake when I heard a cough nearby. A human cough. I quickly sat up and saw an old man in a chair. And not just any old man. It was Mr. Leon, who had been the school custodian back in Franconia at the junior high school.[ii]

He didn’t say anything—just looked at me and calmly sipped a cup of coffee from a thermos bottle—and he didn’t seem in the slightest bit surprised that I was there.

But I was surprised, and I blurted, “Mr. Leon! What are you doing here?”

“Well,” he said, “I figured you’d need some help.”

“But how—?”

“Old guys know stuff,” he laughed. “We can’t always do stuff anymore—but we do know stuff.”

“So what do you know?”

“I know your dad’s missing. I know you’ve run away from the police. I know you’ve got a new friend—”

“A new friend?”

“John Howard,” he said, chuckling again. “That Dracula kid.”

And no sooner had he spoken than John came bounding down the stairs. This was all getting a little weird—even for me, the weirdest kid I know.

***

From somewhere Mr. Leon produced some hot chocolate he’d made, and we three clustered in a little circle.

“I don’t know where your father is,” he began, “but I know some places where he could be.”

“Where?” I almost exploded with relief.

“We can talk about it when we get on the road,” he said.

“On the road?” said John.

Mr. Leon looked at him. “You said you wanted to help, Count Dracula.”

“But what about the show tonight?” I asked.

“They canceled it,” said John.

“Why?”

“Because a certain student—a girl—has gone missing.”

***

We headed out to the parking lot in the dark—though the light was already brightening in the east. There was only a single car there—an old beat-up blue Karmann Ghia.[iii]

“How old is this thing?” I asked.

“It’s a 1965 model,” said Mr. Leon.

“Oh, that’s great,” I sighed.

“Will it make it out of the parking lot?” John asked.

“Oh, you youngsters! Here’s all you need to know. Old guys know things. Old cars can do things.”

“Like break down in the parking lot,” I muttered, crawling into the cramped front bucket seat.

John had to struggle to get into the back after Mr. Leon tilted his seat forward for him. I could hear him muttering in complaint as he did so.

“John,” I said, “won’t your parents wonder where you’ve gone. At school, won’t they—”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Mr. Leon as he turned the key and unleashed a sound that resembled a freight train. “Don’t worry about it at all.”

And the acceleration was so sudden and quick that I must have lost consciousness.

---

[i] Mary Shelley’s mother, Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin, as a young woman, had been very close to a family named Arden, especially to their daughter Jane.

[ii] In volume 2 of these memoirs, Vickie tells us quite a bit about Mr. S. T. Leon.

[iii] A kind of  sports car that Volkswagen produced from 1955–74.

Some Weird Former Teacher Thoughts

 It’s been stunning for me to realize that the first seventh graders I taught back in 1966-67 are now in their sixties. Quite a few of them have grandchildren.

How could that possibly be?

I remember a related feeling, about midway in my career, when, now and then, I’d find myself teaching the offspring of former students. (I actually taught quite a few.)

It was all so weird because, you see, in my head I was still 21, my age when I began teaching. So how could I be teaching the children of those who were, in my head, still in middle school?

Facebook has accelerated the weirdness. There was no Facebook in my own student days, and I never really kept touch with any of my former teachers—not the way today’s Facebookers can. I would write a letter now and then; I would see a former teacher now and then, but mostly they just disappeared from my life. In several cases, I really regret what I did not do.

The same thing happened with most of my former Hiram High School and Hiram College classmates. Some I would see at a reunion, and I have to say that the older I’ve grown, the more weird those experiences have become. At my 50th high school reunion (not all that long ago) I talked and laughed with people I could not recognize even though I knew who they were. (I can still read name tags!)

Though, to be fair, I can look at FB posts of the more youthful me and ask myself: Who is that?

Some classmates, however, as they age, change only in texture (if that’s the right word): I would know them immediately on the street—even though I haven’t seen them in half a century. 

And then my thoughts grow darker. Many former classmates, colleagues, friends, family—many former students—have died, some so very close to me. And so I have reached, more recently, that awareness I should have had long ago: I am going to die. Of course, I’ve always “known” it—but not really. It was more of a possibility than something certain.

Just now, reading Maggie O’Farrell’s wonderful collection of personal essays (I Am. I Am. I Am, 2017), I came across this:

“We are, all of us, wandering about in a state of oblivion, borrowing our time, seizing our days, escaping our fates, slipping through loopholes, unaware of when the axe may follow” (32).

And then—as a reminder of all—Longfellow’s fine poem about growing older:

The Meeting 

 

After so long an absence

      At last we meet again:

Does the meeting give us pleasure,

      Or does it give us pain? 

 

The tree of life has been shaken,

      And but few of us linger now,

Like the Prophet's two or three berries

      In the top of the uttermost bough. 

 

We cordially greet each other

      In the old, familiar tone;

And we think, though we do not say it,

      How old and gray he is grown! 

 

We speak of a Merry Christmas

      And many a Happy New Year

But each in his heart is thinking

      Of those that are not here. 

 

We speak of friends and their fortunes,

      And of what they did and said,

Till the dead alone seem living,

      And the living alone seem dead. 

 

And at last we hardly distinguish

      Between the ghosts and the guests;

And a mist and shadow of sadness

      Steals over our merriest jests.

Victoria Frankenstein, III: Part 7

 

Six

             “I see you’ve got Dracula with you,” Blue Boyle snarled, his yellow teeth flaring in the light. But he looked a little alarmed, as well.

John and I both just stared at him. I knew it was impossible, but Blue seemed to have swelled even larger in size than the last time I’d seen him at Niagara Falls the previous spring. His clothes were now so tight that they’d ripped in places.

John seemed impossibly calm. “And who are you?” he asked. “Some kind of Frankenstein wannabe?”

“Actually,” I said to John, “Frankenstein was the man who created the creature, and—”

“Shut up!” Blue bellowed.

We shut up.

“So what’s Dracula doing here?” Blue went on. And it was then that I saw the tiniest flare of hope: There was no irony in his voice, none at all. I knew then that Blue thought John actually was Dracula. So I decided to go with it.

“He’s my new friend,” I said.

Blue said nothing.

But John said in his perfect Dracula voice, “And I will suck the blood from anyone”—pause—“or anything that threatens Vickie.”

And John stood up to his full height—which, I have to admit, was quite a bit less than Blue’s. He spread out his cape behind him.

Blue was convinced. He started backing up, then whirled and ran through the back door, not even bothering to open it. I mean, he ran through that door—wood splinters flew everywhere. Like in a cartoon.

Quiet.

Then John said, “Who—or what—was that?”

“It’s a long story,” I said.

“I’ve got time.”

“But we should get out of here … he might come back. Where should we go?”

“We’re there,” said John. “My place.”

Just then we heard someone coming in the front door. We looked. John’s parents.

His parents had frozen, were staring at the mess Blue Boyle had made. “What has gone on here?” his father finally asked.

John lied with a speed and skill that I admired. “We came in just as some crazy high school kids were trashing the place.” He waited. “They saw us and ran off, probably afraid we’d be able to identify them?”

“Can you?” his mother asked.

“I’ve never seen them before.” He looked at me. “Have you?”

“No. Never,” I said.

***

John’s parents were a little confused—well, more than a little confused—not only about the condition of the house—but who I was—and what I was doing there. And so another mixture of lies and truth began.

“We wondered where you’d disappeared to,” his mother said.

“After the show,” said his dad. “We were looking for you.”

“I’m sorry,” John said. “I wanted to talk with Vickie—this is Vickie,” he said. I smiled. “And when I saw her leave the building, well, I went after her.”

“I guess that explains it,” said his mom.

“You were a great Dracula,” said his father.

“Perfect,” I added—for obvious reasons.

“And you sang so well,” said his mother. “I had no idea …”

“I didn’t either,” said John, “when the play started. But then I started to enjoy it all—acting, singing. A lot.”

“And we loved watching you,” said his father.

“Well,” said the mother, “I suppose you two would like to be alone?”

“Oh no!” we both said simultaneously.

“So your father and I will head upstairs,” continued the mother, as if we hadn’t said anything at all. “Maybe you two could clean up the mess?”

And off they went—while John and I stared at our feet.

***

Eventually (oh, maybe a century later), we both looked at each other. And laughed. “Well, that was awkward,” said John.

“They’re very nice,” I said. “Your parents.”

“They are.”

And then my tears began, thinking about Father. Where is he?

“Let’s sit down,” said John. He gestured toward the couch, and I, blinded now by tears, stumbled over there.

“You want a Coke or anything?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “Since I had that drink back at school, I’ve been … full.” And, I thought, a bit dizzy, too.

“I’m glad,” he said. “We don’t have any Cokes anyway.” He smiled. It was weird, hearing “Dracula” say kind and ironic things in a middle-school voice.

As he sat down, I asked “Nothing for you?”

“I do not drink … water,” he replied in his best Dracula voice. And I couldn’t help it—I laughed.

“So what’s going on?” John asked.

I wondered if I should tell him anything. I hardly knew the kid. But there was something about him. Something … trustworthy. Something that reminded me of Gil. Poor, lost Gil.

I decided to tell him the truth—but as little of it as possible.

“I got home from the play,” I said, “and my father was gone. And the house was kind of … messed up.”

“Messed up?”

“Things out of place. Broken. Things gone.”

“Like this place,” he said.

“Yes.”

“And no note from your father or anything?”

“Nothing.”

“Your father, I’m guessing, has not ever done anything like this before.”

I felt the tears forming again. “Nothing remotely like this,” I managed.

“And so the police came?”

“They seemed pretty much clueless,” I said.

“So that’s why you took off?”

“Right.”

“So what do we do now?” he asked.

And John’s use of we nearly broke my heart.

But I managed to say, “We clean up this place.”

“Okay.”

“And then we find my father.”

 

From Blue Boyle 

Why was Dracula there? Does he drink blood? Yours? Mine? I don’t like him. I drink water.

Health Update

 It's been quite awhile since I've posted anything about my health issues--perhaps it's because I don't want to think about them? Or maybe I've just been a bit ... lazy? Anyhow, here we go ...

My prostate cancer, which has metastasized into my bones, is sort of on Pause right now. My most recent med (Xtandi) has been very effective, reducing my PSA to "unmeasurable"--and that's good, right? I have no prostate gland (removed in 2005 surgery), but prostate cancer also emits the prostate specific antigen, so my oncologists have done all the medical things they can do to lower it. But it will be back, as soon as it figures out how to deal with Xtandi (i.e., evolve).

And next comes chemo. (I've already had two rounds of radiation + immunotherapy.) And after chemo? Nothing can be done.

For all the good it's done, Xtandi has had some deleterious side-effects. My energy is down ever farther, and (coincidence) my physical stability is so poor that I can't walk or stand very much: dizziness overwhelms me, and I have taken some bad falls in recent months--one requiring stitches in my forearm.

I occasionally ride our stationary bike--which happens only when I'm feeling fairly stable--sometimes as often as six days a week--though, lately, I haven't felt secure enough to mount and ride and pretend all is well.

I've seen some specialists about this dizziness: a cardiologist, an ENT, and now a neurologist. I've had some brain MRIs and some other tests. On Wed. I'm having a remote visit with a specialist at University Hospitals, so ... maybe I'll get some encouraging news from him?

Meanwhile, if it weren't for Joyce, I would be in assisted living now. It is she who makes possible the baking I do (she saves me steps in the kitchen); it is she who helps me get up and down the stairs; it is she who ... makes all possible. And I absolutely dread the day when I must go into some kind of care facility.

The old expression "one day at a time" applies to me now in ways I never would have believed in my younger days, the days when I saw no end of days.

Poet Mary Oliver says it succinctly:

When I Was Young and Poor

 

When I was young and poor,

when little was much,

when I was nimble and never tired,

and the hours of the day were deep and long,

where was the end that was already committed?

Where was the flesh that thinned and

stiffened?

Nowhere, nowhere!

Just the gift of forgetfulness gracious and kind

while I ran up hills and drank the wind--

time out of mind.

Victoria Frankenstein, III: Part 6

 

Five

I ran through every room of the house, calling for Father. But there was no answer—only the horror of silence. In his study I saw that someone had smashed our computer monitor—and the computer, as well. I put my hand on it—still warm. And that caused me to feel a little fear for myself: Was the smasher still in the house?

Then I realized I’d forgotten to check the attic. I crept up the stairs, alarmed to see that the stairway lights were on. Trying to make no sound whatsoever, I slipped inside the door.

I saw no one. I checked the lock on the attic room that housed my laboratory—a lock I had devised myself. I could tell someone had tried to get it open—then, apparently, had given up. This was the only good news since I’d arrived home.

I headed back downstairs. I closed the front door—the brisk air had made the entire house chilly. I knew I had to call the local police. But I had no hope—none—that they would find out what had happened to Father.

But I made the call.

***

I hadn’t been wrong. Although the police arrived pretty quickly, all they did was look around sort of helplessly.

One of the two officers even asked me, “Did your father have a temper? Would he smash his own computer?”

I thought of all sorts of unkind things to say. Said none of them. “No,” I said. “He was the kindest man …”

“And where were you while all this was going on?” asked the other one.

“I was over at the middle school—at the play …”

“Anyone see you there? Did you talk with anyone?”

This was getting awkward. As I’ve said, I’d made a habit of not being noticed. “I didn’t really talk much to anyone,” I said. “I went by myself.” I paused. “But maybe the ticket-taker will remember? And one of my teachers, Mr. W., nodded at me … And a classmate, Irv Washington, waved at me.”

“Nodded at you? Waved at you?” an officer asked.

“Well, Mr. W.’s my English teacher—and Irv ...”

“Yes, you said he’s a classmate.” The officer wrote some things down in his notepad. “I’ll check with them,” he said.

“Am I some kind of suspect?” I asked.

“Should you be?” he replied.

Well, this went on for a while, the officers earnestly asking the questions while I tried, simultaneously, not to believe they were somehow treating me like a suspect and not to panic—or break down in anguish on the floor. Where is Father?

***

The officers were not about to let me stay in the house. But there was no way I was going to go anywhere with them. So I did what all criminals do: I lied.

“Let me get some things from my bedroom,” I said. And then they did something that surely got them in trouble back at the station: They let me go upstairs alone.

As a result, they never saw me again.

Our old house had once, apparently, had an apartment on the top floor. And that apartment had a door that led outside, a door that led to an old wooden stairway that descended all the way to the ground. I’d never used it, mostly because I didn’t need to—but also because it looked as if it would collapse if even an autumn leaf landed on its stairs.

I must have weighed less than a leaf because it held me, all the way to the ground. I crept around to the front of the house, where I could see through the window that the officers were still in the front room, waiting.

While I had been upstairs, I had indeed gathered a few things—some clothes, toiletries (you know). I’d shoved them all in my backpack. Oh, and I’d also grabbed the money I’d been saving—a few hundred dollars. I figured I would need it.

I felt a kind of supernatural calm through all if this: I will find Father … he will be safe … everything will be all right …

I was rehearsing these thoughts as I stepped out onto the sidewalk, so I nearly screamed when I heard a voice behind me.

“What’s going on?”

I whirled around. It was Dracula.

Sort of. It was John, still in his costume from the play.

***

John quickly explained himself. He’d wanted to see me after the show—had seen me slip outside—followed me home—he’d seen the police cars—had waited to see what was wrong—had seen me creep around the side of the house …

“So where are you going?” he asked as we hurried along in the dark on the sidewalk.

I hadn’t really thought about that—I’d just wanted to get out of there.

“I’m not sure,” I said.

John didn’t say anything.

I asked him, “Got any ideas?”

“One,” he said. And off we went to his house, only a few blocks away. I wondered if his parents would think it was weird, my coming home with him. But he just said they’d be thrilled. He didn’t really have any friends—and now it would look as if he did.

But then … the oddest … and then the most frightening … news.

We entered his house—all lights on—no sign of his parents. The place a wreck. We heard a noise in the back of the house. We crept back to see.

And there, smashing dinnerware in the kitchen, was a giant.

“What—?” whispered John.

I knew the answer. It was Blue Boyle.[i]

---

[i] Blue Boyle, once one of Vickie’s elementary school classmates, seemed (as time went on) to transform into some kind of monster. He very nearly killed her twice—on the Lake Erie island, at Niagara Falls. (The two earlier volumes of Vickie’s Papers tell his story.)

The Keys to What You're Worth

 So, what are you worth? And what are the measures of that worth? Money? Property? The love of a very worthy one? Fame?

Nah.

I discovered another, more worthy measure just the other day.

Joyce needed to take our car keys to the Toyota dealer in Kent to have the batteries replaced. And as I removed the key from my key ring, well, I looked at what remained on my ring--I laughed. (See pic.)

I made some waggish comment, something like this: "Well," I said to her, "this is what remains!"

There were times, early in my life, that I had carried so many keys that all that metal set off detectors all over the Cleveland area. I sagged to the left when I walked (guess which pocket contains my keys?). Keys to houses (mine and others in the family), to classrooms and schools, keys I’d acquired but no longer had any idea what they opened. In the display in the pic, for instance, the key on the top is for ...? The other is our house key.

We have two cars, but since I no longer drive, I leave that key in a little thingy on the dining room table. And in place of keys, I have on the ring three swipe cards for places we shop: two grocery stores and CVS.  I no longer tilt to the left.

It’s kind of humbling, actually, to see what little remains. I feel a bit like Shakespeare’s Timon of Athens, a once-wealthy man who’s so generous with his money—helping friends, holding extravagant parties. Eventually, he’s broke, and, of course, no one comes to see him anymore. He heads off into the woods, living like a hermit, a troglodyte.

But then one day .... he discovers a hoard of gold ...and ... read it, stream it.

So ... that lone key, for me, is now a symbol of my Timon-of-Athensness. (Of course, excessive wealth has never been my problem.)

I exaggerate. I still have so much: a loving wife; a son, daughter-in-law; two spectacular grandsons; two talented brothers; some fine friends, some of whom I’ve never even met (friendships created via Facebook).

And I’ve learned that the answer to Where is the key of happiness? is in the previous paragraph.

There, and in your own heart.

Victoria Frankenstein, III: Part 5

 

Four

Father was surprised.

“You’re going to see a school play?”

“I thought I would. It’s about Dracula.”

“I guess we need some more horror in our lives,” he said quietly. Then added quickly, “I’m kidding. And not very kindly so.”

“It’s all right, Father. The other day, I said something hurtful, too.”

“Well, you’re entitled—once or twice in your life. Maybe.”

We were both smiling by now.

“Want me to go with you?” he asked.

“I think I’ll be more invisible if I go alone,” I said.

“And ‘invisible’ matters right now?”

“You know it does.”

“Yes, I do,” he said. He breathed deeply. “I have some work to do tonight, anyway.”

“You do?”

“Yes. I’ve begun sort of an online journal.”[i]

“Like a magazine?”

“No, more like a diary.” He paused. Looked at me. “I’ve already done a few entries. Do you want to read them?”

“Sure,” I said. “What are they about?”

“About our recent … troubles.”

“Maybe I’ll wait, then.”

“I understand.”

He always did.

***

After our small supper, we cleaned up. I went upstairs to read a little, then came downstairs and found Father working at our computer.

“Well, I’m headed out,” I said. “If you find me later, missing all my blood, you’ll know what happened.”

“Want to take some garlic with you?”

Those were the last words I heard as I headed out the door.

***

It was not a long walk to the school, not at all. Just across the little town square: Our house was on one side; the middle school, on the other. As I’ve already mentioned, the school was old, and it didn’t really have a theater—just a stage at the end of its small gym floor. They had to crank up the basketball backboard and net for every stage production so that they wouldn’t obstruct the view.

Although it was October 26, the Saturday before Halloween, the weather was still Indian-summer warm.

When I arrived at the school, I saw there wasn’t much of a crowd—mostly friends and families of cast members, I guessed. Some appreciative teachers. I saw Mr. W., who sort of glanced my way and nodded. Anyway, with just so few people, I was able to find Irv quite easily. I saw, too, that there were other boys seated down the row beside him. I almost thought he was giving me a silent message. I almost considered not going over.

But he saw me, gestured to me to come over, and told me to take a seat right behind him—a seat on the aisle, like his. I wasn’t sure if I should be insulted or not, but he kind of smiled at me, so I decided I would settle for that.

Just at 7:30 some of the lights went off in the gym—no dimmers, just off. And the music teacher, whose name I can never remember, sat at the old upright piano and began to pound out the overture. It went on forever.

Finally, the curtains slowly jerked open, and stage lights came on, and the show began.

Everything looked so … plain. They obviously hadn’t had much money for scenery, props, and costumes, but what kind of touched me was this: I could tell right away that the actors—my classmates—were absolutely devoted and committed to what they were doing. There was no fooling around, no hint of looks or gestures that said I’m ashamed to be a part of this. They were proud of what they were doing, and, as the show went on, I felt my admiration for them swell—like a heart filling with hope.

John was especially good. I couldn’t believe it. No longer the sort of shy kid in the cafeteria, he was confident, was absolutely in command of this comedy version of Dracula. And when he began his first song? Well, I felt tears in my eyes. And when he had finished, the audience, who had been absolutely silent during his performance, exploded in applause for him. I confess I was clapping and cheering right along with them.

***

During intermission, I thought I would get a chance to talk with Irv.

Nope. As soon as the lights came up, he smiled at me again and then nearly sprinted over to groups of people. So I went to get a soft drink, and the kid had to scramble around to find something “special” for me. Right.

I returned to my seat and just sat there and stared at my play program. I looked up and saw Irv was talking with a couple of adults whom I didn’t recognize, and he was absolutely at ease with them. I listened hard, pretending I was not listening at all.

“John is just wonderful,” he was telling the adults. “Such a talent.”

“That’s kind of you, Irv. He’ll be glad to hear that.”

“Oh, I’ll tell him myself after the show,” Irving said. “But I just wanted you to know.”

John’s parents, I told myself. I looked at them a little more closely. They seemed … older, somehow, older than parents of an eighth grader ought to be. Now, I don’t want to seem unkind at all here—but they also seemed to be, well, poor. Their clothes were worn—maybe even a little shabby. But they wore on their faces looks of deep pride in their son. As well they should have.

After the intermission, John was even better. You may have experienced this? You’re at a play production, and you find that, after a while, there are performers you just notice more than others. Your attention focuses on them, and you’re barely aware of the others? Well, that’s how I felt about John.

When the show ended, John got to experience more appreciation at curtain call. Kids were cheering, standing and applauding. In that one evening, John probably did more good for the drama program at school than any other event or person had ever done.

I had planned to go up and congratulate him afterwards, but when I peeked in the band room (where the cast had gathered), I saw a crowd, and crowds (even small ones) are what I preferred to avoid. And so I left him there, enjoying his great victory.

And Irv? He had waved at me and left quickly. By the time I got outside, there was no sign of him.

Oh well: Sometimes things begin with a wave? It doesn’t always mean “good-bye,” right?

***

I walked quickly back across the town square. I was starting to feel a little woozy, and as I approached our house, I noticed something odd. Every light in the place was on (not at all like Father to do that), and the front door was wide open. The night was growing cool, almost cold, so even before I entered that front door, even before I called for Father, even then I knew something was very wrong.

And it was.

---

[i] The term blog did not enter the language until about 1999, but this appears to be what Vickie’s father is starting to work on.

Retirement

 I awoke in the middle of the night last night and thought about how it was almost exactly 24 years ago that I retired from my public-school teaching career, all of which was in Aurora, Ohio--first in the Aurora Middle School (see pic of the yearbook issued my first year on the job, 1966-67), then at the new Harmon School (was it 1974 when it opened?).

I had a tremendous time at both places. I made so many mistakes, had many wonderful colleagues and mentors, made so many mistakes, made so many mistakes, made so many mistakes ... ad infinitum.

Although I began and retired in Aurora, I wasn't always there. I left in 1978: Joyce and I had finished our doctorates and headed off to Lake Forest College (north of Chicago) where we both planned to teach the rest of our careers. But ... I didn't like my job ... I missed middle-schoolers ... so we ended up staying only that single year.

I tried to get back to Aurora, but there were no jobs, but we were fortunate to find positions at Western Reserve Academy back in Hudson, Ohio. A boarding school.  I made some great friends there, but I got annoyed with the Headmaster and abruptly quit at the end of a single year, thinking I'd find another job easily. I didn't.

Joyce stayed until 1990 when our son graduated from WRA, while I floundered around. I worked part-time at The Learned Owl (the local bookstore) and taught freshman English part-time at Kent State University. I enjoyed both gigs but didn't exactly rake in the cash.

I got an interview at a private school near Cleveland and accepted their job offer. Then, one day at Kent State, I ran into an old Aurora colleague who told me that one of the Harmon English teachers was retiring. I jumped at it. Aurora hired me back, the school board agreeing with a massive majority: 3-2. I'd left Aurora right after a teachers' strike there in the spring of 1978, and some of the board were annoyed at some of our activities.

So ... back to Harmon I went and had a wonderful time from 1982-1997: taught (mostly) 7th and 8th grade English, directed nearly forty plays, coached basketball (my first year), worked with student council, the school newspaper, took kids on field trips to see plays in Cleveland, accompanied 8th graders to Washington, DC, and enjoyed a couple of sabbaticals, enabling me to finish my work on my Ph.D., and do research on Jack London (making it possible for me to publish some books on him--one, a YA biography was published by Scholastic Press, also the American publisher of the Harry Potter books--guess who sold better?), etc., etc.

I had wonderful colleagues, wonderful students, but by the mid-1990s Ohio had become consumed by standardized tests, and the joy began fleeing from the classroom like honeybees from smoke. Scores, scores, scores--it seemed all anyone thought about, cared about.

And so I decided to retire the first day I was eligible: January 16, 1997. I was only 52 but had logged in 30 years in the retirement system. Enough.

And I spent many of the subsequent years reading, writing, traveling, reviewing books (did a couple hundred for the Cleveland Plain Dealer, over 1550 for Kirkus Reviews).

I rejoined the faculty at WRA and had an enjoyable ten years beginning in the fall of 2001.

Then ... health issues arrived. And soon they drove me out of the profession: I could no longer count on my body to propel me through the day.

And now I look back on it all with gratitude for all the magnificent people I met. I have many Facebook friends and the vast majority of them are former colleagues and students. What a gift!

I’d never really planned to be a teacher—I sort of fell into it. And when I landed, I discovered I’d landed in Wonderland.

Victoria Frankenstein, III: Part 4

 

Three

His name was Irv. Irv Washington.[i]

He was in several of my classes, and he was clearly a smart kid—a very smart kid. He wasn’t the kind who raised his hand all the time. But when he did raise it, and when a teacher did call on him, he almost always said something remarkable. Surprising. Surprising and smart.

Here’s an example. In English class one day—and, remember, we were doing Frankenstein stuff that fall—Mr. W. asked if anybody felt there was something wrong about calling Victor’s creation a “monster.”

No one really offered anything. I, of course, could have said a few things, but there was no way I was going to. I was, remember, in my don’t-notice-me mode.

Then Irving’s hand went up. Mr. W. called on him.

“Well,” said Irving, “I think what Mary Shelley is saying is that we all manufacture things in our lives—and all of them, of course, are part of us. So if some of them are ‘monstrous,’ well, that means that part of us must be monstrous, too, right? I mean, it came out of us—out of our minds and imaginations.”

No one said anything. Some of the other kids just looked at him with that What?!? look on their faces. I mean, what he said was so beyond what most of my classmates could  come up with that they had no real way to respond to it.

I sneaked a look at him (didn’t want him to notice me).

And he was … good-looking.

Even thinking such words surprised me. As far as I could remember, I’d never looked at a boy and thought what I had just thought about Irving. But here he is—see if you agree with me:

Dark hair—kind of long and messy. Sort of medium height—not one of those eighth-grade boys who hit puberty early and look like young giants. But not little-boy small, either. Bright brown eyes that could never conceal his intelligence—no more than a shiny new Porsche can conceal wealth.

 He didn’t seem to care all that much what he wore—nothing that leaped out at you and said I’m expensive! Nothing about him that said I look like a male model, don’t I? Just ordinary clothes that somehow didn’t look ordinary on him.

He carried a backpack that he slung with no effort over his right shoulder when he got up to leave for his next class. It was sort of full and sort of not full—just the right balance. And, later, I noticed him moving down the hall with the grace of a dancer.

Okay, this is getting to be too much. Did I just write with the grace of a dancer? I’m starting to sound like an idiot.

Which, of course, is how you start to sound when you first feel yourself … attracted … to someone else.

***

One of the things that really attracted me: his writing. Whenever we had a writing assignment (which wasn’t all that often—Mr. W. had lots of students[ii]), I was always really surprised by the quality of what Irv came up with. (I, of course, tried to stay below the radar—did not give any evidence of any real talent at all.)

One assignment was this: Take a story that you’ve read and liked (or hated) and change it some significant ways.

Irv chose “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow,” and he yanked his version of the story into our very town and school! Ichabod Crane was Mr. W., and the Headless Horseman did not ride a horse but a bicycle—“The Headless Cyclist,” Irv called it. We all laughed a lot that day when he read it aloud in class—all except for Mr. W., of course, who came off like the ridiculous Ichabod Crane.

At the end, Mr. W. is coming home from chaperoning a Halloween dance, takes a shortcut through the little local woods. The Headless Cyclist came wheeling after him, wearing a costume like Ronald McDonald’s—and threw a Big Mac at Mr. W., covering him with sauce, other toppings, and a couple of patties, soiling his favorite suit.[iii]

***

What drove me crazy about the whole thing? There was no one I could talk with about it—about my feelings. About my … attractions.

And then, suddenly, there was …

***

No boy, except poor Gil of course, had ever “liked” me, and I had “liked” him, too. But his illness—his death—had put an end to that. And, as I’ve said a few times already, I was doing my utmost not to be noticed at this new school. But one boy did notice me—not Irving. No, this other boy’s name was John. John Howard.[iv] And I had not noticed him at all, not until I felt someone sit down near me at “my” table in the school cafeteria—the table where I always sat by myself.

“Okay if I sit here?” he said in a high voice that actually sounded musical.

“Fine,” I mumbled, not even looking up from the book I was reading—the most famous short stories of Washington Irving. I’d gotten more interested in him because Mary Shelley had once had a crush on him … they’d even had a date. It must have scared him off because he quickly left England.

He opened a little bag of chips. Took a deep breath, said, “You’re new, aren’t you?”

I didn’t look up. But said, “Yes.”

“Where you from?”

I finally looked up. “Are we really going to go through all of this?” I asked in as snotty a voice as I could manage. “Where I’m from, my favorite color, what I want for Christmas—”

“Guess not,” he said quietly. And munched some more chips.

Then said, “What do you want for Christmas?”

I couldn’t help it … I laughed a little.

“Maybe a cloak of invisibility,” I said.

“Like Frodo’s in The Lord of the Rings?”

That surprised me. “You’ve read that?” I asked.

“Only about a dozen times,” he said. “I’m kind of an addict.”

I smiled—I knew what a reading “addict” was. I saw one in the mirror every time I looked.

***

            John starting sitting at my lunch table now and then—not every day (he probably knew that would bug me) but a couple of days a week. We sometimes had small conversations though often we were mostly silent the whole time.

One day he asked me, “You going to go see the school musical?”

This sounded like he was leading up to inviting me—a “date.” I had no interest in that—no, it was even worse: I had a fear of that. So I decided to cut it off as quickly and painlessly as possible.

“Probably not,” I said. “I’ve got stuff to do at home.”

He sighed. “That’s too bad.”

“Hmmmm.”

“You’ll miss a chance to criticize me.”

I looked up.

“I’m Dracula,” he said.

“I don’t see any red juice in your cup,” I said.

“No, no … not really Dracula.”

“Duh.”

But he was still smiling. “I’m Dracula in the school musical.”

“There’s a musical about Dracula?” I kind of laughed.

“Quite a few, as a matter of fact.”

“And what’s this one called?”

“Dracula, Baby.”[v]

“And you’re Dracula in the show?”

“That’s right.”

“Well,” I said, “then I might just go.”

  And then I asked him if he knew Irv. He did. And then I asked him if he could see if Irv would be, uh, interested in sitting with me.

John got a pained look on his face. But he told me he’d see what he could do.

And the next day, he told me at lunch that Irv “wouldn’t mind” if I sat near him and some of his friends.

“Wouldn’t mind” is not the greatest encouragement—but when you’re sort of “interested” in somebody, well, you take what you can get.

And so it was that I decided to go see Dracula, Baby. And that decision changed everything.

---

[i] Mary Shelley had a brief friendship with writer Washington Irving (“The Legend of Sleepy Hollow,” “Rip Van Winkle,” etc.) in the 1820s. She wanted more; he didn’t.

[ii] Vickie is right about that! Oh, the time it takes to grade many sets of student compositions!

[iii] I have no memory of this whatsoever.

[iv] John Howard Payne (1791–1852), an American in Europe—an actor and a playwright— was a friend of Mary Shelley’s—and of Washington Irving’s. For a while, Payne, though he was attracted to Mary himself, acted as a go-between for Mary and Irving.

[v] This is an actual script for middle school students. Available from Dramatic Publishing; Woodstock, IL.