Mr. Gray

                                                   Mr. Gray

     August is the longest month of the year when you are twelve years old.  The longest thirty-one days  when you are waiting for the summer to end and  your best friend to come home from her family cottage in Maine. And those last days of August seem to stand still as you wait and wait for the mailman to deliver that all-important postcard that will announce your fate for the coming school year. 

     I spend these summer mornings sitting on the front steps in the sunshine. The building that I live in is quiet because everyone’s at work. It’s just me and my library books. Over the past month I’ve figured out the mailman’s schedule.  Each day by 10:30 he turns the corner from Broadway onto New York Street and stops at Colell’s market for a cold drink and a cigarette in the back room behind the meat counter. The room where the men hang out. I know about this because my grampa spends a lot of time back there. My mother knows it, too. Sometimes after a long day at work, they have a discussion in the kitchen about where he’s been all day, why the dishes are still in the sink and the trash isn’t out at the curb.

    Today it’s raining so I sit in the aluminum chair on our small covered porch. I’m home alone because Grampa went someplace. Said he had to do something with someone. I go inside to check the clock. It’s 10:45. The mailman is having a long cigarette break today, I think. Finally, his slicker-covered figure turns into the driveway and crosses to the sidewalk. His helmet is covered in plastic and he bends over his mail bag to protect all the important bills and letters.  He comes up onto the porch and shakes out his jacket. “Good morning, young lady. Rainy day, huh?” He fingers through the mail. “You waiting for something? Something from the Dover School Department?”

     “Yes, sir,” I say. I reach for the post card in his hand. “Thank you!”  I grab the rest of the mail and go inside. This is it, I say to myself. I turn the card over.

        What? Who is this Mr. Gray? A man teacher?  This can’t be right. I was expecting to see the name Mrs. Ames on my card.  Everyone says she’s a nice teacher, lets you talk in class and doesn’t believe in homework. Thinks kids should have after school activities, play sports or go to scout meetings. Who is this Mr. Gray? Never heard of him.

     I make the rounds of my neighborhood friends.  “Who did you get for a teacher?” I ask. They answer Mrs. Ames or Miss Jones. And some reply, Mr. Gray. 

     On the first day of school, I’m up early before it’s light outside.  I eat toast and cereal while my mother packs our lunches and sips Nescafe coffee from a stained Melmac cup. She puts the dishes in the sink, picks up her thermos and lunch bag and gives me a kiss on the cheek. “Have a good day. Don’t dawdle on the way and come right home.” And she’s out the door. 

      I dress in my new plaid skirt and white blouse.  My brown shoes are polished. I leave the house at exactly 7:45 and arrive at school fifteen minutes before the bell. The girls are gathered  near the swings. I find my best friend and we laugh and shout out the names of classmates that we haven’t seen all summer.  There’s also whispers and glances across the playground to where the boys  stand at the edge of the baseball diamond,  scuffing their new shoes in the dirt. When the bell rings, we all rush to the school doors that are marked with signs and arrows that direct us to our classrooms. 

     I’m  the first one in to room 103 because I know where I want to sit. Far away from the teacher’s desk. Mr. Gray has his back to us as we enter the room.  He’s written the date and his name across the top of the blackboard. The “Vocabulary Words of the Week!” are already listed on the right hand side of the board, the title underlined twice and punctuated with an exclamation point.

     Mr.  Francis Gray is a medium man: not too short, not too tall, not too skinny, not too fat. His hair is dark, his skin pale, his eyes brown behind black glasses that slip down his nose. He uses his middle finger to push them back in place. Sometimes he pauses in the middle of a sentence and slips his hands into his pockets. Sometimes he writes a random word or sentence on the board and double underlines it. Most of these underlined words are about talking too much,  doing our homework or asking for a bathroom pass. 

     There are bells all day long: for morning recess, for lunch in the cafeteria, for changing classes. We find our way down long hallways, pass doors numbered or lettered, around corners into a different wing of the large building. The boys snicker as they pass the Principal’s Office; the girls note the exact location of the doorway that’s lettered NURSE.  At two-thirty the final bell rings, telling me that I’ve survived my first day of  7^th grade.

     By the end of week two, Mr. Gray knows our names and has made seating changes. There is only one name on the board for detention. But I am still in the back corner next to the  window that overlooks the woods. And we’ve learned  some things about him, too:

     He’s a first-year teacher.

     He walks around the room a lot when he’s talking.

     He carries our spelling tests and homework around in a paper box because he does not own a brief case.             

     He loves music and  writing. 

     So it comes as no surprise to us that our first big assignment is to write a short story. He talks about the need for “a beginning, middle and end.” Big chalk letters spell out the words  “character,” “ setting,” “conflict,” “plot” and “theme.” Each word double underlined.  He pauses in the middle of an aisle and listens to the low groans  around the room.  

     For the next two days, we read stories from our literature books. Then Mr. Gray asks us questions. “Who is the main character? What is the plot?” When no one raises their hand to answer, he asks us different questions. “Who will you write about? Where will your story take place?” He walks around the room, pushing his glasses back up onto the bridge of his nose. He passes out yellow lined paper and tells us to begin. Chins rest on cupped hands. Pencils tap. I look out the window at the trees colored red and yellow and orange and  begin to write.

      Our mornings begin with the Pledge of Allegiance followed  by a raspy woman’s voice that comes over the intercom to read the daily announcements. I don’t pay attention to these because they don’t apply to me: I don’t need to bring my hot lunch money on Monday because I bring my cold lunch in a brown paper bag every day. I’m not artistic so I won’t be attending the first meeting of the art club on Wednesday. And I won’t be showing up for cheerleading tryouts in the gym on Thursday because I’m chubby and plain.  But my ears perk up at this last announcement: Open House will be Wednesday, September 24^th from 6:30 to 8. 

     Well, I remind myself, that one doesn’t apply to me either. 

     The morning moves slowly through math, social studies and science. But after lunch is my  favorite part of the day: reading and language arts.  Mr. Gray’s pen tap, tap, TAPS on the front desk. “ Now it’s time to work on your short stories, “ he says. “But first, did you all hear the announcement about Open House?”

     We nod our heads.

     “Good,” he says. “Because that night your  stories are going to be on your desks, waiting for your parents to see what great writers you are. Your assignment is to have the first draft done by this Friday.  The final draft  must be at least three pages long, in ink and on white paper with one inch margins and a cover page with your story title  and your name.  Do you have any questions?”

      I stop listening to Mr. Gray’s words after he says Open House. My mother has never been to one of these. Each year I take the notice home. Each year she nods her head and says, “We’ll see.” And each year, on the morning after that night, my papers are still in a neat pile on the top of my desk.

     Mr. Gray begins a walk around the room, inspecting  how many words have made it to the yellow-lined practice paper. Before he reaches my corner, I push those Open House thoughts to the back of my head and concentrate on all the words my story needs.

     On Friday afternoon, there is no grammar lesson. Just writing, erasing and  more writing . It’s ten minutes before the bell rings and I read my story one more time. I look at every word, every line before placing the story on Mr. Gray’s desk. After school I stop at the library to return my books and sign out new ones for the weekend. I’m glad to have this time alone, to think about my story, to wonder what Mr. Gray will think about my characters, setting and plot. My beginning, middle and end. I also think about the Open House notice that is folded inside my social studies book. I think about leaving it there all weekend. 

      On Fridays, my mother gets home late from work. It’s pay day and she stops at the A & P for  groceries and then knocks at Mr. Morrow’s front door to pay the rent. I set the table and check the sink for dishes. Grampa sits in his chair by the stove, reading the paper and smoking his Camel cigarette. When my mother comes through  the door, she’s smiling. I already have the bread and cheese slices, the tub of oleo and the can of tomato soup on the kitchen counter. This is our Friday night supper.

     “How was school today?” she asks.

     “Good.”

     “What did you do?”

     “We had a spelling test and finished the first draft of our stories. They’re going to be done in time for  Open House.”

     My grampa scrapes his spoon against the bottom of his bowl. My mother pulls her sandwich apart, letting the yellow cheese ooze from the toasted bread. She dunks it in her soup.

     “I worked on my story all week. It’s very good. Miss Lawrence even let me stay in the library after school until it was time for her to leave. You’re going to love it.”

     My mother glances at my grampa and then at me.

     “What is the date again? What night is it?”

     I tell her. She shakes her head.

     “That’s laundromat night, Nancy. You know that.”

     “Yeah, but….”

     “But I work. That’s the only night of the week that I can get there.” 

     I reach into my pocket and slide the folded piece of paper across the table. “But I was thinking…”

     “I know what you’re thinking. But I’m not like the other mothers and fathers. I have to work and then come home and take care of this place and then get ready to go to work again. Wednesday is the only night the laundromat is not crowded.” 

     I know what she says is true. I feel bad that I have asked her to do one more thing at the end of the day. I try to say I’m sorry. That I understand. But I can’t. I have a lump in my throat and all these words are bumping against the inside of my head and giving me a headache. I leave the rest of my grilled cheese on my plate.

     Grampa pushes back his chair.  “I’ll do the dishes, Peg. Why don’t you read the paper? Or go next store to see Ethel.” 

     I push the Open House out of my mind. I read my library books and ride my bike with Joanie. But those words are still there again on Monday morning when it’s time for the daily announcements. Every day there’s a “Friendly Reminder” or a “Don’t Forget.”  Open House is going to happen and my story is going to be there. But not my mother.

     As promised, Mr. Gray returns out first drafts on Monday afternoon. I watch him go up and down each aisle until he reaches my corner. He hands me my story and smiles. “This is very good,” he says and continues around the room. I fold back the title page. I cannot see the yellow paper or my small handwriting. I only see red. Red circles around letters. Red X’s  through words. Red comments in my one-inch margins. Double red lines under sentences. He must have used one whole red pencil just on my story.

     Mr. Gray returns to the front of the room. He writes the words “spelling” and “punctuation” and “run on sentences” on the board. “These are very good first drafts. But they all need more work. The red marks on your stories are all things that can be fixed before the writing of your final draft. So get to work. Come see me if you have any questions.”

     I cannot listen to all these blurry words. I cannot look at the blackboard or the other students or Mr. Gray. I can only look at the red pencil marks all over my wonderful story. I look at the clock to figure out how I can keep breathing for the next thirty minutes until the bell rings and I can run outside the building and get this big sob out of my throat.

     But before I leave the room, Mr. Gray calls my name and motions me toward his desk. “I told you this is a very good story. Do you know why?” 

     I shake my head.

     “Because you wrote about something you know. You had a character, a setting and a problem that was solved by the end of the story. Now you must make it an even better. That’s what writers do. They fix things over and over until they get it just right. And I think you’re going to be a very good writer.”

     I nod my head, hold my book bag against my chest. “I have to go now. Someone’s waiting for me,” I lie.

     On the morning of open house, I do not get up with my mother. I wait for the front door to close and listen for the engine of the Rambler to start up. I walk to school, do my assignments, eat lunch. At the end of the day, I clean out my desk: broken pencils, wadded up papers, used tissues. My short story is written in ink on white lined paper with one -inch margins and a title page.  The red pencil marks are gone. I center it on my desk. Just like everybody else’s. 

     Mr. Gray stops me at the door “And will I meet your parents tonight?”     

     I bite my lip “No. No parents. I just have a Mother. She works and tonight is laundromat night. She can’t come.” And I walk out the door.

     At 4:30 I set the table. At 5 o’clock my mother still isn’t home. Three other cars are now in the driveway but not hers. She’s late. My stomach starts to rumble and I take the Saltine box down from the cupboard. Finally her car turns into the driveway. The door opens and slams shut. My mother goes around to the passenger seat and lifts out the laundry basket with our clothes all folded and stacked..

     She comes through the door with no greeting. No hi, hello or how are you. Just short orders: make some bologna sandwiches, pour the milk, put on your school clothes, get ready or we’ll be late. 

     We drive in silence to the school. She follows me down the hall to room 103.  A small line of parents stand at Mr. Gray’s desk, waiting for their turn for a good report about their Johnny or Claire. I lead her to my desk in the corner and smile as she picks up my story. We have our backs to the front of the room and do not hear Mr. Gray approach. My mother turns from page one to page two , her eyes following every word.

     “Mrs. Cronin?”

     She turns and pauses before answering.  “Yes?” 

     “I’m Frank Gray,” he says. “And I’m very, very pleased to meet you. That’s quite a story that you’re reading.  Nancy loves to write and has a knack for telling a story. You should be very proud of her.”

     My mother looks at me, smiles and then turns back to Mr. Gray. “Thank you.”