Secrets in the Classroom

    It happened every year, as the blazing rays gave way to the mellow end of summer, yet the day always arrived unannounced.  First day of school. As the children shook the flowers from their hair, the desolate brushed away their dust and their cobwebs. All grew accustomed to the old routine. The twenty children, some arriving from lunch and others from class, were more than ready to finish off the first day of school. One by one, they found Mrs. Brady’s classroom.

    Greeting them at the door was...not Mrs. Brady. A man. Noise throughout the classroom confirmed the confusion, and only after coaxing were all the seats filled.

    “I know,” nod of the head and a look around the class, “I’m not Mrs. Brady.”

    Silence now enclosed the students in a thin dome. Anxiety. Excitement.  A substitute already? Tragedy always struck down the summer too soon. Cobwebs would always entangle.

    He, enthusiastic at oddly the wrong time, raised his finger to his lips. A secret between them.

    “She won’t be here this week at all.”

    Collective gasp. Heads glancing sideways, eyebrows slowly climbing. Well?

    “Her husband passed away this summer.”

    All leaning in closer, the students needed more. The details were rite of passage into the tragedy, when summer dissolved into the darkness of winter. Contributions would come readily, all of them could help, but what were the details?

    One at a time they emerged: thick hospital curtains blocked out the sun, the smell of cancer was a solid presence in the room. Bedside flowers withered unwatered and food spoiled uneaten. Mocking. Laughing. Not understanding at all. As the sun reached a peak in the sky, the soul departed. He was too tired to wave goodbye and the widow was abandoned in that small room. Darkness enclosed her and the tears finally ran down. No compassion. 

    “I called her on the phone yesterday to ask if she was all right.”

    The students dared not speak lest the entertainment should suddenly stop. Greedy attention was all his to claim.

    “One thing of which she told me to inform you students: please never ask how she is feeling,” and the phrase they had all longed to hear,

    “It makes her break down all over again.”

    The performance eventually found a stopping points and books were passed out. In a week, Mrs. Brady would be back but the students had already received their first pop quiz; what should you never ask her? The answer became fully formed upon the lips of all twenty students,

    “How are you feeling, Mrs. Brady?”