To You and Back

Chapter 10: I Didn't Correct Him

TWENTY YEARS AGO

The colorful banner hung over the entrance to the elementary school cheerfully announced that it was Parents Day. First to fifth graders roamed the halls with parents and guardians in tow, walking in and out of classes, admiring art and painful-smiling through bad musical performances, talking to teachers, partaking in the bake sale, and enjoying a festival like atmosphere.

Eight year old Peter Townsend sat alone at his desk, writing in his grammar workbook. No teacher asked where his parents were, no parent asked why he was alone. It was a warm spring day, and the windows of the classroom were open, letting in the smell of peonies planted in the window box. But Peter was just getting over a cold, so to not take the chance of catching a chill, he stood and went to his cubby in the back of the classroom for a sweater.

Standing between the cubbies and the open door were two mothers, holding cups of coffee and taking a break while their children ran around the room. They looked at Peter as he knelt at the cubby, then exchanged glances. Half turning away, they began to speak in lowered tones.

"Did you hear about his parents?"

"Who hasn't?"

"I guess they couldn't bear to show their faces today."

"Could you?"

"God, no. But come on, even if your marriage is falling apart, to leave your child alone on parent's day..."

"I know. I can't say I'm surprised his father isn't here, but his mother..."

Peter, pulling his sweater out of his bag, went still.

"She should at least have come for the morning assembly."

"Well, if anyone doesn't want to show their face, it would be her, if you know what I mean."

"I don't. What do you mean?"

"Didn't you see her at the Valentine's Day bake sale? That bruise that all the foundation in the world couldn't cover?"

A gasp. "No! You mean...?"

"I suppose it's better to stay away than to show up looking like that."

Peter's grip tightened on his sweater until his small knuckles were white. His face and body were hot and blood pounded in his ears, but he kept his eyes and head down, as if hearing nothing. But there was someone who would not be so lenient.

From the other side of the women, by the open doorway, came a childish voice, clear as a bell: "Who are you talking about?"

Peter and the women jumped. The women moved slightly as they turned, and past them Peter could see, standing in the doorway, a small boy in powder blue shirt and shorts, white socks and black shoes, with a mop of shinning blond hair that flopped over wide, clear blue eyes.

"Is it about him?" the boy asked, pointing at Peter, still kneeling by his cubby. "You know he can hear you, right?"

The women flushed and tried to hide their embarrassment with fake cheerfulness and gentle admonishment, "Of course not," they stuttered, "and it's rude to eavesdrop on grownup conversation, little boy. Didn't your parents ever tell you that?"

"I don't have parents," the boy said. "By my grandma says it's wrong to eavesdrop, yes. She also says it's wrong to gossip. She says only trash likes to talk about other people." The small blond head tilted, the fine straight strands of hair falling slightly to the side. "Does that make you trash?"

"Why you little—" One of the women moved towards the child, but he darted back out the door with a high pitched giggle and a rude gesture and vanished into the crowds.