Marigold and the Historian
Part Three
It was the forth consecutive night at my new job and I could not for the life of me get Henry Anderson off of my mind. He was renting a single room in the apartment complex across the street. I could see part of the building from the classroom that I was teaching night school in. During a lesson on structuring five-paragraph essays, I very nearly wrote his name on the whiteboard in the place of the word "heading". Thankfully, most of my students had their laptops out and while they were supposed to be taking notes, I had my suspicions that at least half of the class had tabs open of a more recreational sort. I erased the damp line of dayglo Expo ink with the corner of hand, avoiding the sleeve of my new dress at all costs, and started the word anew.
"The heading goes at the top of the page. Please take note that I will dock points for papers that are titled thusly: 'Assignment 1', 'Short Paper Number 3", you get my point. Titles matter to readers just as much as content. They should encapsulate what you are trying to say in a brief and concise way. They are symbolic, poetic, condensed haikus-" I caught a hand being raised in my periphery and lost my train of thought. Teaching—good teaching, as I would learn, required a levelheadedness that I had yet to gain. "Guys! We will pause for questions at the end of class, remember?" I cursed, trying to retrieve the diminishing ember of inspiration and turned, sheepishly wiping the perspiration from my forehead. "Where was I?"
The room, an even split of middle aged clerks and pregnant high school graduates, stared daggers at me. They must have grasped the hypocrisy of "no questions unless I'm the one asking" before I had the opportunity to. I knew how to do this. I knew how to juggle and keep my students engaged. I had come out on top in every education course that I took in Portland and furthermore, had landed this gig because of the stellar recommendations from my professors. All six of them. So, what the hell had happened to me? I was bombing, nose diving, spiraling headfirst into a jagged mountain range in slow motion. The class wouldn't let out for another 45 excruciating minutes. I had to find a way to get out of my head and into the moment. Somehow.
"Mizz… uh… Mrs… Cassette?" One of my more vocal students, an older, bearded man in a navy blue Wal-Mart uniform grumbled. It did not help matters that he was seated at the table nearest the window that framed Henry's apartment building.
"Casey," I corrected him. He didn't seem to like this, so I softened up. Get to know your students, I reminded myself. Learn their names and converse with them instead of regurgitating information in their faces like you have been all evening. "Sorry. My Y's look like T's and my R's look like V's. What a pretty rhyme!" Silence. "What is your name?" Had I been in my right mind, I would have heard that his name was 'Harvey' and that he was a diabetic who needed to leave the room and find a vending machine before completely blacking out. "Henry," a smile that I am entirely sure was both dazed and idiotic formed on my face, "let's take a poll!" I skip-scrambled to the podium, fired up my computer and opened a poll generator, "Would you prefer," I said aloud as I typed in the question and options, "to continue learning about five paragraph essays or have a fun, impromptu activity in which you decipher one another's penmanship? Clickers out and bombs away! Remember, this is a democratic classroom!"
Nobody was voting. Those who weren't surfing the web were closing their laptops and preparing to leave. The poor gentleman named Harvey whipped out his wallet and left the room without giving me a second look. My face was burning with embarrassment and I'm sure my ears were a glaring fire engine red. The milder the embarrassment, the more likely I was to flush in places that a normal person would, but when humiliation was positively eating away at my psyche, my ears would give me away. Oh, the pleasures of being a human mood ring! Thankfully, nobody seemed to care. One student walked out, the others followed suit, all of them were chattering amongst themselves about wasted money. I was left alone in the empty room, stunned.
I remained calm for about three minutes; reassuring myself that everyone bombs at the beginning of their career and had I not been so overzealous about jumping headfirst into the industry, I would have been able to work at Frenchie's or Coffee n' San-tea for a few more months and do more training. Be it tutoring or volunteering, there were options out there that would sharpen me into the helpful, authoritative educator that I was capable of becoming. Those calming words only worked for so long. By the time that I was packed up and heading down the hallway, every tiny detail that I had gotten wrong leading up to the point where my students had actually jumped ship swarmed into my head. My temples started pounding, the skin beneath my sweater became coated in a cold sweat and I headed for the lady's room to cry- or worse.
I retreated into a corner stall and pulled out my cellphone, intent on calling Giselle. The screen lit up, the address book was found, and my emotions churned violently as I contemplated on what words to say, what questions to ask. My body told me that tears could wait. It needed to cough, it needed to choke, it needed to leave me with my head cradled in my shaking hands above the toilet bowl. Another purge. Another false sense of renewal. This was how I coped with estrangement, this was how I kept myself composed, it was the only practice in my life that was truly cleansing. I kept a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste in my bag, that was how expectant I was towards these episodes. Minty fresh, empty, wobbly and "better", somehow, I exited the building and saw my next escape.
It was stupid, of course. Ridiculously stupid. I only knew that he lived there because we bumped into one another after class two days prior. He was carrying an armful of vinyl and I had helped him carry it across the lawn and up the stairs. His apartment was dark, cool and filled with the enticing smell of old leather-bound books. My eyes didn't wander as much as they yearned to. I placed the vinyl by his record player, accepted the brief but darling embrace that he initiated and left with my heart thumping in my ears. This time, it would be different. This time, I would stay. There was a gas station several buildings down that was bustling with the community college's night school crowd. Commuters, mostly from Pembroke and the rural areas beyond. I was bound to see at least two of my students inside but decided to chance it, anyway.
The overhead bell dinged its tinny fanfare as I stepped inside. It was an older station with a wobbly, glass front door, flickering internal and external lights and the reek of cheap cappuccino that had grown in mats like bacteria through the years. Nausea flared up inside of me and I detoured to the single restroom in the back. Thankfully, it was empty, but that was its only benefit. My sense of smell had doubled and everything about the uncleaned bathroom hit me in a second wave of seasickness. There was nothing left inside of me to exhume, just a painful episode of dry heaving that left my throat raw and my eyes watery. I walked over to the sink, cupped my hands over my mouth and inhaled the leftover smell of Expo marker for an elongated second. Going home and going to bed (or to be more specific, futon) was my best option, but I did not take it.
I left the bathroom, strode down the alcohol aisle with the upmost composure and settled on the prettiest bottle of Riesling that I could find. The ornate label and the fact that I had picked up a bottle in the first place would hopefully distract from it not being red. White wine, as I saw it, was fresh, cool, light and somehow less caloric than my other options. I discarded the brown paper bag that they had given me at the register out of the fear that it looked tacky, slipped the bottle and receipt into my tote and proceeded to the apartment complex. I even managed to go unnoticed by Tommy Martin who was far too preoccupied with feeding quarters to the bouncy ball machine to see me. I would later learn that it was for a prank that involved dumping a large box of said bouncy balls across the staircase at his school during passing period. Maybe I didn't want to be a teacher, after all!
I was perfectly calm and collected until my finger let off on the buzzer. When the microphone crackled and Henry's voice bled through, all of my anxiety returned.
"Good evening?" That voice. It was both sophisticated and seductive. I wished that it was visible, tangible just long enough for me to hold and kiss each wave of glorious sound. "Hello? Is anyone there?"
"Uh, yes. Yes! Hi, Henry. It's Miss Cas- uh, Marigold! Marigold Casey!" I heard a second crackle, but no response. The urge to state my case pushed me into a place that was neither bravery nor panic, but sheer stupidity. "I have come with a bottle of fine wine and the intention of making violent love to you!" It is worth noting that my usual voice disappeared and the stage voice that landed me roles in community and college theatre productions as vain, neurotic 1940's housewives and Hollywood starlets took over.
"Marigold, yes," if he was uncomfortable or interested in my proposition, it did not show, "do come up. I am in 2B."
I giggled with nervous delight. "2B or not 2B?!"
"Sorry?"
"That is the… question. Never mind! I'll be there in a jiffy!" Whether or not my stomach had leveled out remained a mystery to me. I was numb from head to toe, buzzing with anticipation for what might happen next. My previous boyfriend, Todd, who left Portland State during his junior year, put our relationship on hold and allowed it to deteriorate in midair. More importantly, he had warned me about how downright unappealing my lack of impulsiveness was. Up to this point, losing my virginity to him in a tent in the Oregon woods was the nearest to impulsivity that I had ventured. That was the great scandal, the highest point in my romantic life before sex became nothing more than a blip of ecstasy shrouded in motions that grew routine, robotic and dull. Having a vague understanding of what Todd liked did not mean that I knew what Henry would like. Impulsiveness was my best guess.
When he opened the door, he didn't appear startled or nervous at all. A book, antiqued and beautiful was perched in his hand. "You'll have to forgive me, Marigold," he started, I couldn't hear a thing through that blasted intercom. It is a miracle that I caught your name! How can I help you?"
My hand was in my tote bag, fingers tightening around the neck of the wine bottle like a noose. He hadn't heard me. I should have been relieved, the numbness should have vanished, but it did not. "I'm-" I started.
"Marigold?" His voice grew distant and vague, crackly like it had been through the speaker out front. "Are you unwell?"
The image of Henry's fair, chiseled face became distorted and the world around us both felt like and sounded as though it were submerged in a deep pool ice water. My knees gave out as I tried to step towards him. The pressure of failing my students, abusing my body and embarrassing myself acted as a weight. He opened his arms to me, breaking my fall. It should have been romantic, but it was not. I should have felt some relief being so close to him, my body should have warmed and melted into that fragrant, muscular chest, but no. I ached, I trembled, I cried and before the world around me turned to blackness, I mumbled, "I need help."
