The Compromise

He called on me in class today. “Audrey, have you a verse to contribute?” he asked. He does this, calls on students whose hands aren’t raised, his (admittedly effective) way of keeping us tame. He calls it “voluntolding.” There’d been a lull, a long, uncomfortable pause after he nominated Lance to contribute a verse: Lance, the one who sits in the corner closest to the back door, the one who gets picked up by the Boys’ and Girls’ Club bus. The one whose refrigerator displays the school lunch menu with a smiley-face magnet; the one whose greasy hair is cut unevenly, presumably by Mom. He knew Lance would have nary a syllable to contribute, other than umm, but he also likes uncomfortable pauses, this cruel, cruel man. He likes to watch heads bowing, eyes averting contact, pens scratching vortexes in margins to will away the question. He likes to feel the warmth of the adrenaline surge, the body’s natural defense. But the undefined question festers like an open-ended sore until he provides mercy, relieving Lance of duty.

“Audrey, do you have a verse to contribute?” I was not doodling and my head was not bowed, and my hand was not raised because I wanted him to single me out, this magnificent creation, this perfectly sculpted Michelangelo. Mr. Ives laughingly says “forty-six is the new thirty” but he’s just being modest, coy even. He says this, then flashes me those green eyes of serene phytoplankton seas, with a smile that sighs it’s been far too long. He has a lilting voice, one that breathes over the Elysian Fields and emits not a trace of impatience. It is a calming dulcimer and it, along with those eyes and that smooth face that has never experienced coming-of-age acne that my classmates suffer to conceal, renders me subservient and docile. Submissive, to do His will. Be cruel to me.

“I do, in fact. I believe Wordsworth argues that poetry should be written in the natural language of common speech, rather than in the lofty and elaborate dictions that were then considered ‘poetic.’” PlagiarismCheck would have recognized this as 100% stolen, and it was, straight from Sparknotes. I’d come prepared, hoping I would be voluntold.

“Audrey Beauchamp, my savior. A beacon in a sea of mediocrity,” Mr. Ives lauded. “When you rule the world, all I ask for is an island.” Carly transmitted a tut, a sigh, a roll of the eyes. I beamed.

After class, he pulled me aside. “Let’s try to be a bit more original next time, huh, Auds?” He smiled broadly, flashing his perfect teeth and rubbing my arm. I wanted to Saran Wrap that spot on my blouse that he’d caressed. My beam was now brighter.

****

“Mr. Ives is such an ass,” Carly laments. “Like, I think he enjoys torturing students?” The other girls agree. They’ve already started a petition. They like to make lists.

“I don’t think he’s an ass,” I say. “I think Mr. Ives wants everyone to feel included in the lesson. It’s not like it’s his fault they’re unprepared, or dim. We’ve all heard about ‘the real world’ enough times to know we either need to up our game, or get eaten. Like Social Darwinism.” The lady doth protest too much, methinks. I recognize the defense in my tone. I suck my Blowpop and turn back to the computer.

“Ssssshhh. Ladies, please. And Audrey, jettison the sucker.” Our librarian takes her job very seriously.

“Okay, Mrs. Ives,” Carly now whispers to me.

“What?”

“Oh, get off it. You know you want to have his babies.”

And to this is have no response, because I had entertained such fantasies:

****

Audrey Lillian Ives, step-mother of multiples with one on the way, now twenty-two, wife of Patrick Ives, forty-something. They’d met when she was a junior. She was his student at Wheaton High. He was currently married with children. He had framed, professionally-taken photos on his desk, all five of them in jeans and white oxfords sitting on haybales by a barn, all smiling their clichéd American smiles of God and country; his wife, the blonde you’d expect, having regained her figure from Joey (3), Bobby (5), and Maxwell (7), still big breasted from feeding and dreaming of a girl. The girl’s name would be Ivy. Ivy Ives, she’d wanted to name her. Really? Patrick’s been looking worn lately. Disheveled; distracted. He’s been ‘voluntelling’ Audrey more frequently; he’s been keeping her after class, asking her to explain more. He’s been touching her, rubbing her shoulder and patting her hand, at times alluding to if onlys. He told her once he thought they’d make a great couple, if only he were her age, or she were his. “Age is just a number, Mr. Ives. It’s what’s in the heart that matters…”

“Audrey, come set the table for dinner please.”

*****

“Audrey, can you stay after for a minute?”

I stepped aside with tingling knees as the class brushed past; Carly paused, slowly licking her top lip licentiously and blowing me a kiss. She leaned over, whispered in my ear. “Go get him, Cowgirl.”

After everyone left, he closed the door. “Not sure what this is about, but that’s definitely not a great idea, Mr. Ives.”

“You’re right. Sorry.” He opened the door. “People are already saying weird things. I’m not sure how to handle it.”

“Weird things, like—?”

“Like maybe I treat you differently than other students. Like maybe—”

“Are you happy in your marriage, Mr. Ives?”

“Am I—?

“Are you one of those men who stays in it just for the kids? Until they’re old enough to move out, to start their own lives?”

“Audrey, I—”

“Because if anyone would know how intuitive kids are, it would be you, Mr. Ives. Your intuition is brilliant. You are brilliant. A brilliant, beautiful man.”

And just like that, I had him. He was speechless. He stared at me, trying to summon something, anything. But it couldn’t be found. “I have just as much to lose as you do, Mr. Ives.”

“I seriously, very seriously doubt that,” he stammered. He clenched and unclenched his fists, looking out at the hall. He licked his anxious, parched lips.

I leaned in close, and I whispered: “I still have my virginity.” I lightly tapped the end of his nose, and I walked out of his room.

****

It was a week later. Patrick and I had had no more interactions but only because I’d deliberately left class through the back door. I wanted to give him time to marinate in my suggestion. He’d come around.

Jessica had the boys at the park. She sat on the bench beneath the weeping willow reading a novel as the children attacked the enemy invaders, scrambling up the slide and monkeying across the bars. They are pretty boys. They have Patrick’s features. They will all grow up to be influencers and life changers. I saw this for them, for Joey and Bobby and Max. “Mind if I sit?”

I’ve startled her. “Oh my,” she says, putting her hand on her sternum. “Yes, please. Here,” and she takes the straw bag filled with juice boxes and plastic-wrapped sandwiches off the bench, puts it by her feet. “Here. Please, sit. Those three are mine.”

People say funny things when they are startled. “Yeah, I figured as much. Just taking a break from my studies, thought I’d enjoy the day.”

“Beautiful.”

“Yeah.”

Jessica turned back to her book. I glanced at the cover. It Ends with Us, by Colleen Hoover. How pedestrian. How…high school. Jesus. I watched the boys as they played. Joey isn’t needy or whiney; he’s keeping up with the other two. Bobby appears a bit effeminate and I wonder if that’s a middle-child thing. Max isn’t your typical older brother. He takes the lead, yes, but he helps the other two manipulate the rungs and balance the beams. He is kind, caring. He holds hands and doesn’t patronize or disparage. I closed my eyes, and they called me Audrey. I would never have them call me Mom. I am not their mother; that person sits to my right, reading her trash. The seed within, that will be mine. He will be a Seth; she will be a Magdalena. I’ve always liked those names. Eyes closed, I breathed in the reverie through the voices of three boys who are an extension of Him, the man I’ve come here to learn more about. The zephyr that rustled the willow’s leaves and carried those innocent voices assured me that all shall be well, so long as I practice the patience that Patrick’s dulcimer voice delivers every day in English III.

“Boys, lunch time.”

I snapped to. Was it lunch time, or had Mrs. Ives felt my energy? No matter. “Enjoy your day,” I said. “You have beautiful children.”

“You do the same. Don’t study too hard.”

Clichéd parting words from a clichéd, simple woman. Oh, Patrick, you can do so, so much better.

****

Jessica worked some Saturdays, “at the office” I presumed, leaving Patrick with my boys. He’s a terrific father. From my car, I heard them out back, splashing in the pool, playing whiffle ball. I heard all four voices. Unlike his wife, he is an active part of their development. I felt bad that he has no one to complement this nurturing. He must feel very alone. They must as well.

They were climbing into the Caravan, and I followed. I did not follow at a three-car distance because I was not concerned about being detected. It’s not like he’d look in his rearview and say, “Hey, that’s Audrey Beauchamp! How strange it is that she’s following me.” He had no clue, nor should he have. I’ve been discreet.

Discretion is key. I am not one of those girls who tells all. As much as Carly thinks she has a clue, she doesn’t. I don’t entertain her wheedling for information. I am not one of those who, when Patrick comes around, will treat it as a conquest, as a means for attention. I don’t even do social media. I don’t need ‘likes.’ I know how dangerous it will be for Patrick, when he comes around, and I would never compromise his reputation, his freedom. He is a good man, one of the many reasons why I love him. Discretion is the better part of popularity. I need to help preserve him if we are going to make this work.

*****

I followed the Caravan into the Carmike 10 theaters and I parked two rows over. Joey, Bobby, and Max tumbled out like clowns at a circus. They made silly boy sounds that I found irresistible, that I pined to be a part of. I want to be the Mother Hen who corrals them, for all of us to hold hands and daisy chain our way towards another family memory.

I followed them on foot, confident they were seeing Kung Fu Panda 4 so I didn’t trail too closely. I watched them buy their tickets, their popcorn, candy, and drinks; I watched them ay-YA and karate chop towards their theater, little boys in their own martial-arts worlds. Patrick trailed closely behind, concessions in both hands.

I followed them. I bought a ticket and my tub of popcorn and my gallon-sized plastic Kung Fu Panda cup of Coke and shaved ice and I stood at the entrance of the theater, conducting Ives reconnaissance. They were sitting mid-section, and Patrick was sitting mid-boys as he should have (and good for him!) though I did feel spark of disappointment, for how great would it have been to sidle up into the seat next to him, hello stranger, fancy meeting…

Not great, at all in fact. Stalker. The lights dimmed, and the screen began its texting while viewing is uncool bit. I walked down the aisle to mid-section, and I quietly lowered the seat directly behind Patrick. The theater had maybe fifteen other attendees, scattered about in clusters, plenty of other seats, so if Patrick were to turn around I’d have no recourse other than yes, sweet man, I love you, and I want to spend my life with you. I leaned dangerously close, four inches from the nape of his neck, and I inhaled. I closed my eyes as my receptors transmitted Him for my brain to decipher, to part and parcel, to decode: he smelled sensually, expensively luxurious.

The mistake I make is not leaning back for the exhale. Patrick stiffens, then turns around; our eyes engage, and stay locked for a good five seconds. Before he can jump up and steal the children from their memories, I make to leave. Idiot. I reach down and grab my purse and sling it across my forearm; I reach over and grab the popcorn, balanced on the raised seat next to me; and he…Patrick reaches across, lightly grabs my arm, and slowly shakes his head. No. He gives me a closed-mouthed smile and a wink, puckers a silent kiss, and jerks his head in ‘come-on-over’ fashion; he turns back around, puts his arm around Joey, tousles Max’s hair, and tells Bobby to switch seats with him. I shuffle past the boys; they all smile up at me. I sit next to Patrick; he smiles too. He takes my hand, leans over…

And now, our feature presentation.

I opened my eyes, sat back in my seat, and took a took a deep swallow of my Coke with shaved ice.

****

I left a minute before the anticipated ending and, assuming the Ives boys would have to pee, I walked deliberately slowly to the exit, then picked it up when I heard them in my wake. “Audrey?”

I turned around curiously at the strange voice, my mouth on my straw, good till the last drop. “Mr. Ives!”

“Thought that was you. Wow. What movie were you seeing?”

“The same movie as you.”

*****

That has to be Audrey Beauchamp, walking deliberately slowly ahead of us. Has to be. I feel an adrenaline surge of fear, reminiscent of the tap on my nose she gave me in class a week ago, like the gypsy’s curse in Thinner I’d thought later as I was getting ready for bed.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Jessica had said, slipping on her silk nightie. Fifteen years of solid marriage; she knows me well.

Ignore her. Take the boys straight to the car and ignore her. She’ll know you saw her, and she’ll get the message. A message, at any rate, but a negative one.

“Audrey?” I said, completely ignoring good conscience, because you know you love the attention, the exhilaration; you know how you’ve fantasized over her suggestion in the classroom, for ‘thy wit…is then well served into a sweet goose,’ you Romeo, you Bardolater you…

I froze when she told me what movie she saw, my heart in machine-gun mode. “Come on, old man,” Bobby said, yanking my arm. “Mom’s waiting on us.”

“Boys,” I said, “you go on to the car.” I clicked the fob; the lights blipped. “I’ll be along in a second.” The boys all obediently nodded; Max took Joey’s hand, and I watched as he helped him into the car seat.

“Sweet, sweet children,” Audrey said.

I turned to face her. “Audrey, this is not okay.”

“Whatever do you mean, Patrick?”

“This,” and I waved my arm around the parking lot. I took a deep breath, knowing I was about to lose it, and that would not be good. Jessica’d commented on my anger issues, had suggested once about that “management” thing. Breathe, like you’ve practiced. But I felt myself getting light headed, and the lot was spinning a bit. “And now, you’re involving my children.”

She looked over at the Caravan, and took a slurp of her drink. “Do you think Bobby likes boys?” she mused. “I mean, it’s totally cool if he does, but we might want to start having a conversation. Don’cha think, sweetie?”

And that’s when it rose. The fury. My hand shot out like some supervillain’s iron claw and I grabbed her neck between my thumb and pointer, and I pinched, very hard. Her eyes poppd out and she emitted a gasp and her face immediately turned a deep pink; her own hands clutched my wrist as she leaned backwards but my vice kept her from falling. My teeth were clenched and I was seething, now, panting over and over, my children, my children, my CHILD—

“Dad!” screamed Max, like the great Voice delivering me from the snare of the fowler, from the deadly pestilence. “Dad!” And in my periphery, I saw him running towards me, little boy with untied shoe, across the parking lot, around cars pulling in for the next showing, past the movie goers who stood by their open doors, phones held out at arm’s length. Max ran into me and wrapped his arms around my waist, and he was near crying. “Dad, what are you doing? Let her go, Dad. Mom’s waiting…”

I released my grip, and Audrey fell. She was gasping, clutching her neck. The phones continued to roll; the police blues and whites ran the light and were turning onto Theater Avenue, quickest response time ever. Max had his arms around me and was now really crying into my waist; over there, I saw Bobby holding Joey’s hand by the open Caravan door. I looked down at Audrey, sitting dejectedly L-shaped on the pavement, her legs splayed; and she was looking up at me, heaving, mascara running.

But despite that raspy heave, as the patrol cars descended upon us, she managed to say —and I still remember this now, vividly, fifteen years later, Audrey Lillian Ives nursing our second child, my own children grown and long gone, Jessica finally beginning to date, I hear, despite our ages— she managed to say, nay, to croak,

“Salvation, or hellfire and damnation, Patrick. Which path do you choose?”