From the Cupboard

“Peter! Have you forgotten about the Green Rule?”

The pupil froze on the spot the very second Mrs. Soloway raised her voice, stopping midway between the door and the teacher’s desk as all of his classmates directed their inquisitive stares towards him. He might as well have been a frail, hopeless leaf caught in a sudden winter storm, hammered to the ground by the merciless weight of the snow falling from the skies.

Truth be told, her tone had been kind and nurturing. One might even say playful. Had her words been sung to the tune of the softest of lullabies, her student’s reaction would have been the same. A sensitive nine-year-old boy who never disobeyed under any circumstance, Peter Faulkner dreaded any form of reprimand and viewed it as a personal failure deserving of the highest guilt.

He turned to face her, his shabby and stretched out shirt flying around his meager body along the way. The boy was tall for his age. The long raven hair covering his forehead partially concealed the tears that formed at the corners of his eyes.

“I’m so-so-sorry Mrs. Soloway. I didn’t mean to. I just forgot to ask. It won’t happen again.”

Visibly taken aback by the shakiness of his voice, Mrs. Soloway addressed her class first.

“Alright everyone,” she said, addressing glances of warning to the handful of sneering students at the back. “Enough staring. Go back to your multiplication tables, we have a test tomorrow.”

All obliged. Now safe from their wandering eyes, she approached Peter with the gentleness of a feather duster, her long skirt gliding along the classroom floor like mist hovering over a lake. Dealing with anxious students was never an easy task. She used all the tricks in the book, lowering herself to his eye level and making sure he took a good look at her caring smile before saying another word.

“I’m sorry Peter, I made a bit of a scene. It’s all good, please don’t cry. I was just teasing you. Forgetting the Hall Pass happens. Is there something on your mind?”

“No-no-no, I swear, it was just a mistake,” he mumbled. “I’ll never do it again, I promise.”

“Dearest Peter,” she said, letting out the kind of laugh that could diffuse the tension at a crime scene. Her voice turned into a secretive whisper. “Let me tell you something I would never tell anyone else here. Rules are made to be broken. Take the rules on the board.”

She pointed to the blackboard at the back of the classroom, on which the class rules were written in colour coded chalk. Peter zeroed in on the Green Rule.

I must ask for the Hall Pass whenever I need to go to the bathroom.

“We made these rules for a reason,” she continued. “They exist to keep order in the classroom, because otherwise, some students could take advantage of the situation. That’s not your case though. I know you meant no harm. As long as your intentions were good, you shouldn’t worry about breaking a rule or two.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely sure. I trust you completely. The day you first walked through that door, I knew right away you would be the best, most disciplined student. But discipline sometimes mean we get too hard on ourselves. Believe me, I would know. Wisdom is knowing when discipline is in order, and when it is not.”

Peter wiped his eyes with his worn-out sleeves and made an effort to smile. Somehow, Mrs. Soloway knew the message had gotten through. She pulled out the Hall Pass from her pocket and handed it over to him, relief in her heart.

“There you go. I feel much better when my students aren’t crying, believe me.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Soloway. I’ll be back quickly.”

With slow steps, Peter walked out of the classroom, thoughts boiling inside his brain. As long as your intentions were good, you shouldn’t worry about breaking a rule or two. This was word for word what Mrs. Soloway had said, and Mrs. Soloway never lied. Her voice seemed to echo along the deserted hallway, reverberating tenfold as it bounced from one bleak wall to the other. Peter accepted this as the truth.

He didn’t feel so bad about lying anymore. There was indeed something on his mind that made him forget about the Hall Pass, but his intentions were good. He didn’t want to worry Mrs. Soloway, that’s all.

Just as he reached the entrance to the boys’ washroom, something caught his eye on the other side of the of the window at the end of the hall. Beyond the school playground stretched dozens, if not hundreds of small brick houses that looked just as shabby as his shirt. They all seemed dreary and grey under the thick layer of clouds that covered the sky.

All, except for one: amidst this sea of austerity, a single ray of light managed to illuminate one house in the middle of it all. One small red brick house whose windows glimmered in the dying afternoon sunshine. This was no coincidence, he thought. It must be a sign. And so, having made up his mind, he entered the washroom, his eyes dry as could be.

***

“Good job everyone,” said Mrs. Soloway, addressing her whole class. “There are twenty minutes left to our day, and you know what that means: it’s reading time! Pick one book from the cupboard but remember the Golden Rule: all books taken from the cupboard go back in the cupboard. No exception!”

All students swarmed the tall wooden cabinet at the front of the classroom. The first in line flung open the creaky, poorly varnished doors, almost sending them of their hinges. Peter waited last, as he knew the book he wanted would not be taken by the time he got to the cupboard. Most students went for comics, or children’s book. Some would only pretend to read them. Unbeknownst to his peers, there was a classic literature section in the cupboard, probably for Mrs. Soloway’s own entertainment during reading periods. Her favourite works were tossed into as corner, on the left of the top shelf.

As the crowd dissipated, Peter took advantage of his height and stretched his arm, reaching the top shelf on his tippy toes. He pulled out the book, closed the doors with the utmost care, and went back to his place quietly.

Unexpectedly, Mrs. Soloway opted not to pick a book for herself that day. She walked with stealth between the rows of desks, whispering occasional gleeful comments to the most avid readers.

“Narnia, such a great choice! Oh, Charlotte’s Web, you’ve got good taste Sarah!”

Soon, she passed by Peter’s desk. Instead of quietly walking on with a mere whisper, she stopped, disbelief splattered across her face.

“To the Lighthouse?”

Peter grimaced slightly. He did not expect having to justify his choice.

“That’s quite a difficult book Peter,” she said, still incredulous. “You picked this from the top shelf?”

“Yes.”

“I’m a little bit shocked, it’s not really – uhm, a book traditionally aimed at children.”

“Isn’t the book about the existential disillusion that comes with growing up? And how time is fleeting and inescapable?”

Mrs. Soloway went silent, although her mouth remained wide open. Her eyes oscillated between the book and the child, struggling to process what Peter had just said.

“I – I suppose you could say so.”

“Then I think children can very much relate to it. I like stream of consciousness. Sometimes, it feels like my thoughts have been put on paper.”

His teacher’s expression changed. The disbelief transformed into compassion and empathy. Understanding had been exchanged between the mentor and her pupil, and there was nothing else to be said.

“Very well. Enjoy your reading.”

The minutes went by quickly as Peter’s eyes danced along the words printed on the pages before him. It all felt vivid, real, tangible. Now he knew why she liked Woolf so much. By the time the bell rang, his notion of time had vanished.

“Time to go home, friends! Please don’t forget about the Golden Rule on your way out.”

One by one, the students passed in front of the wooden cupboard, schoolbag in hand, and put back the books they had borrowed. Soon, the classroom was empty, save for Mrs. Soloway. She stood motionless, lost in thought, glaring at Peter’s unoccupied desk. The child was unusual, she could not deny it. Gifted, but unusual. She knew there was something on his mind, although what it was remained a mystery.

***

The streets beyond the playground felt desolate. One could almost believe Peter was walking down the pavements of a ghost town. He lived too close to take the bus, but his backpack sure felt heavy as he meandered on and on.

As long as your intentions were good, you shouldn’t worry about breaking a rule or two.

The statement now echoed along the brick facades. All who met the boy knew he was capable of deep rational thinking. One thing he had never managed to rationalize, however, was guilt. Guilt from breaking a rule. Guilt from disappointing a teacher. Guilt from wrongly assuming the woes of the world were somehow his fault.

Today, Peter had managed to refrain from guilt. His intentions were good.

He had now reached the little red brick house that had been illuminated by that single ray of light earlier today. The dying afternoon sunshine was long gone, but hope still glimmered through the windows. He walked down the cracked cobblestone leading to the entrance door.

“There you are,” said his father, standing by the oven, relieved to see his son finally home. “I was starting to wonder, it’s dark outside. Did you walk slower than usual?”

“Yes. I’m sorr–”

He stopped halfway through his sentence.

“I mean, I lost track of time dad.”

“Don’t worry about it. Something on your mind?”

“No. There’s nothing.”

His father kept on stirring the pea soup boiling inside the rusty casserole on the stove. He was still wearing his blue one-piece suit, covered in paint from the hard work he had done earlier today. The man never found time to change upon coming home: his wife needed him to keep going, and so did his son.

There was something different about that night though. Usually, Peter could never tell the old man was tired. In that moment, as he stared into his dad’s eyes, the hopelessness had never been more obvious. Mr. Faulkner caught on to it and did his best to compose himself better.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” he said, the strain still there in his voice, no matter how hard he tried to hide it. “You should spend time with your mother until then. As a matter of fact, you should spend a lot of time with her tonight. We never know what tomorrow might bring.”

Peter understood. He had known all day. Without saying a word, he made his way through the narrow kitchen and went into his parents’ bedroom.

Mrs. Faulkner was laying on the bed beneath the thin sheets, her skin pale as a ghost, her face emaciated. This was Peter’s mother at her most vulnerable. Her breath was that of a woman who was saving every intake of oxygen as if she might soon run out.

“Peter,” she said in a thin whisper, using all the energy she had left to muster a smile for her beloved son. “Come in.”

For a brief moment, she appeared stronger than she really was. Only a mother was capable of that particular form of strength; the Herculean strength of one who is trying to save appearances in front of her children. Peter sat by her side.

“What did you learn at school today?”

“Nothing special, really.”

This was no time for chit chat. Peter got straight to the point.

“Mom… Do you remember when I was sick last year, and you spent the whole evening reading to me in bed?”

“Yes dear, of course I remember.”

“Would it help if I read to you tonight?”

“That’s very kind of you, but…”

“You told Dad you read Virginia Woolf in school, right? And that she was your favourite author?”

Mrs. Faulkner’s smile grew dimmer.

“Sweetie, I’m really touched you thought of this, but we don’t really have the money for books right now, even if the bookstore was still open.”

“We don’t need money.”

Peter reached into his backpack. To his mother’s surprise, he pulled out the book she had longed to read again all these years: To the Lighthouse.

“Peter! Where did you get this?”

“From the cupboard. Can I read it to you, Mom? I would really like to.”

She couldn’t help it: tears poured from her eyes, on and on, like drops of water from a broken tap. The love for her son radiating through her body was so strong that her frail limbs shook uncontrollably.

“Don’t worry Mom,” said Peter, confused. “You don’t have to feel bad about it. I had good intentions, I swear.”

She grabbed his cheeks between her hands.

“I’m not crying because I feel bad, sweetheart. I’m crying because I feel good. Yes, read to me please, by all means.”

Peter leaned into her welcoming arms and opened the paperback book. As mother and son lost themselves into its pages, all notion of time seemed to vanish into oblivion. And all notion of guilt, also.