DEBUT

Frank Westcott

A Short Story

Arthur Crandon Fiddleheimer was thirty-seven years old. He'd been teaching for fifteen of those thirty-seven years. Too many he figured. After all, how long can a guy take it standing in front of thirty, thirty-one, sometimes more kids going through the same garbage year after year. He didn't have to contend with runny noses, bleeding noses, or any particular kind of noses. Not like his neighbor, Sally Witherspoon, in the primary division. Every morning in the hall he'd watch Sally Witherspoon's backend as she bent over to wipe some nasal dripping six year old. Now that, he couldn't do. Not on your life, or anyone else's life for that matter. He'd been asked to teach the little kids once. They thought his sense of humor would be good at that age. "Well, if that's what they think of my sense of humor, that's a put down." he said.

He wasn't up for being put down. Up for putting down maybe, but certainly not for getting down. He was down enough as it was. Even Sally Witherspoon's derriere wasn't having the usual effect. Lately, in the mornings, he found himself waiting outside his classroom door for Wendy Watson's bouncing brigade. Maybe he was moving up. Up from bent over backsides to bouncing brigades. He wasn't sure. He wasn't sure of anything these days.

Then one day while teaching fractions and talking about whole numbers, he looked out the window of his classroom and saw the town maintenance crew dumping a load of sand beneath the swings and climbing bars so the kids wouldn't break their necks when they fell. A few arms maybe. Or a leg or two, but at least, no necks. That's when he saw the ostrich. A big brown and white feathered bird with a long neck squatting down on top of the sand pile. He watched the bird for awhile then turned to continue talking about whole numbers. The class was gone. The empty seats were filled with ostriches sitting up straight with their necks bent over and their long beaks pecking at the desk tops. Peck. Peck. Peck. Peckapeckapeck. Peckittapeck. Peckitpeck. Faster. Then faster still. The birds started doing paradiddles, like so many drummers playing in the town marching band all sitting in his classroom looking like ostriches and making drum noises on the desk tops.

Arthur Crandon put his hands over his ears and hurried to his desk top. At first, he thought of joining them. Hopping up onto his desk top and pounding his beak into the wood. Then he remembered he didn't have a beak. Just a nose and that would hurt. Besides, his desk was too messy with test papers criss-crossed across the front into graded piles of C's, B's, and A's and a separate pile of never-never lands. Papers of students who never-never landed a grade above an 'F'. Very consistent students they were though. He always wrote on their report cards "Greg has been consistent this term" or "Amanda is consistent in her work" or "Freddy deserves credit for his consistency." Once he wrote "for his constituency" on Doug's report card. That seemed to fit and he liked the sound the word made when he rolled it off his tongue. Freddy couldn't pronounce it. His parents couldn't read 'constituency' so he left the word. Broke the tedium.

The ostriches were consistent. Most of them were sticking to the paradiddles. One ostrich in the front row was playing triplets and throwing off the beat of those around him. Arthur let the triplet player play. He preferred triplets to paradiddles anyway, particularly when the first beat of each triplet was accented hard. The triplet player lost his rhythm and was getting a hollow sound from the desk top by opening his beak while he pecked.

"Desk top, desk top where do you roam. Gee how I wanna go home." The little rhyme rhymed itself inside Arthur's hand-covered head. He leaned over his planning binder and peered at the date. July 15, 1988. He shouldn't be at school. Why was Sally Witherspoon bending over running noses that morning then. Nah, his mind must have slipped and he wrote July instead of June. He knew there was school that day. Wendy Watson had bounced right in front of him on her way to the kindergarten. He remembered because he had smiled at her and kept his eyes on her all the way down the hall and only watched the bounce with his peripheral vision. Sure it had to be a mistake. June 15, 1987. That had to be the date. After all, they hadn't even had New Year's 1988 yet or New Year's Eve 1987yet and he hadn't gone home for Christmas this year yet to see Sister Roberta's new baby that wasn't due until September. No the date was wrong. Surely.

Arthur felt someone breathing beside him. He shifted his posture so he leaned heavily and at an angle on his right leg. He could smell Jack Tillson's cologne. He looked into the face of the person standing beside him and breathing hard into the side of his face. Yup. It was Jack Tillson. Jack had been Arthur's principal since Arthur first started teaching in grade seven, fifteen years before.

"You okay, Arthur?"

"Can't say for sure. Date's wrong. Look Jack. It's July 15, 1988. Roberta hasn't even had her kid yet. We haven't had the Christmas party this year. We couldn't have cause it was supposed to be at my place. Tell me the date's wrong, Jack. Isn't the date wrong? I've got all these papers to mark and hand back. Tell me the date's wrong, Jack."

"The date's wrong, Arthur. Roberta hasn't had her kid. The date's wrong. Would you like a coffee Arthur? I just made some."

Arthur hesitated. "Who'll watch my class, Jack? I'm teaching whole numbers. They have to know their whole numbers. 1, 2, 3, 4. Whole numbers. 1, 2, 3, 4. Whole numbers. They're not ready for integers, Jack. Is it okay they're not ready for integers?"

Jack leaned his bulk, six feet five inches, down on the side of Arthur's desk and looked up into Arthur's face. "It's okay, Arthur. They don't need to know their integers. Not yet. Arthur, have a coffee with me."

"You sure, Jack? It'll be all right?"

"I'm sure, Arthur. Come along. We'll have a nice cup of coffee. Cream and sugar."

"Saw the sand come in this morning." Arthur said.

"Yes the sand came in this morning, Arthur. I'm glad you saw that."

Arthur was going to tell Jack about the ostrich on top, sitting there with its neck outstretched, then he decided that if Jack had seen the sandpile, he would have seen the ostrich. Maybe Jack ordered the ostrich.

"Did you order the ostrich, Jack?"

"No, I didn't order the ostrich."

They walked past the rows in his room and Arthur stopped at the door. He was about to say, "Angela, you're in charge," like he always did when he had to leave the room. The desks were filled with ostriches all turned towards him with their beaks open. The one in the front row beside the one that was doing the triplets had two tears running down out of her eyes. Arthur had never seen an ostrich cry. Then again he'd never seen an ostrich except in books and on television. His forte was history. He did know there was an ostrich-like bird in South America called a Rhea. There were no Rheas in his room though. Just brown and white feathered ostriches.

"Will Sally wipe tears from the one that's crying?"

"Yes. Sally will do that, Arthur."

"Sally's good at wiping things." And Arthur saw Sally bend over the boots in the hall wiping the floor with her white wiping cloth. She had a bucket of brown water beside her and an ostrich was drinking from the brown water.

Arthur watched the brown water drip from the ostrich's beak as the ostrich raised its head to stare at him as he walked past.

"Don't worry, Miss Witherspoon'll wipe your beak." Arthur said. He reached out and patted the little ostrich on its head. The ostrich smiled.

"Thank you Mr. Fiddleheimer."

"Thank you for what?"

"For patting my head. I like it when you pat me on the head when I get sent out in the hall. You haven't patted my head for three days now. I wondered if you were mad at me."

"No. I'm not mad at you. Why would I be mad at you?"

Arthur felt Jack's big hand gently pressing into his back. Jack must have had his fingers wide because Arthur could feel the press of Jack's finger tips on his spine. "Come along Arthur."

Arthur knew he'd gotten up that morning. He knew he'd set the alarm for seven. He always set the alarm for seven. That way he could let the dogs out and do his pushups, and have breakfast and still get to work around 8:30 as long as he didn't stop for an ice cream cone, and slip quarters into the metal box for a paper to read his horoscope. He liked the days better when he skipped the ice cream cone, but he felt lost if he didn't have his horoscope. He needed to know if he had to watch out for anybody that day. He didn't care if there was good stuff in his horoscope. That was okay. He wanted to make sure he didn't have to watch out for anybody. That's all. That's all he ever wanted to do.

Make sure.

Arthur heard Sally talking to Jack in the staff room. "He seemed all right when he came in."

"I know." Jack said. "You can never tell. I've seen it before. Happened once to Willis. Took a year to recover."

Arthur saw Sally's hand go to her mouth and her head shake back and forth.

Somebody must have fallen into the sand pile. A broken leg maybe. Or a couple of arms. That would do it. Maybe the ostrich was sitting up there with its head pointing up at the sky. Maybe that's why.

Arthur knew he got up that morning for sure, cause he wouldn't be there now if he hadn't gotten up. He couldn't remember whether or not he'd gotten a paper that morning. If he'd gotten his paper he would have known to watch out for the ostriches. He would have known that.

Two men dressed in blue uniforms came into the staff room. Arthur always thought they came in white coats. These two came in blue uniforms with their names sewn into their chest pocket flaps.

Arthur knew he didn't get his paper that morning, now. Otherwise he would have known to watch out for the men in the blue uniforms. His horoscope would have told him and he would have known to watch out. The ostriches might have been there too. But the horoscope would have told him to watch out for the men in the blue uniforms. He knew that as he got up and went with the two men.

They took him to the ambulance and strapped him into the bed. He laid his head back on the pillow and thought about the papers he still had to mark. They could wait. They would have to. He wasn't going to be there to mark them. Not for a year or more anyway.

Jack said so.

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