Crack the Spine - Issue 75

sat on the counter. Her parents had gone to the supermarket. Did she still like Cornflakes? They would pick some up for her. And don’t make plans for dinner. The Grants are coming with their son, Allen. He lost his job, too!

She vaguely remembered the Grants, her parents’ neighbors and only friends for the past ten years, and hadn’t been aware that they'd had a son. She knew that Mr. Grant had recently retired from teaching middle school language arts; her mother mentioned this often, along with how beloved Mr. Grant was in the community. “You should see it,” her mother’s familiar story began. “Everywhere he goes, former students chat him up, saying how much he’d meant to them—how much he changed their lives! Can you believe it?”

Once, Helen had thought about reminding her mother that she was a teacher, too—that she might have had at least some positive affect on her students. Mr. Grant, however, had probably never allowed a student to chop off a finger while he napped under a table. But he must have had his off days. Who could be expected to be at 100% all the time?

“When Allen called us and needed to return home,” Mrs. Grant said at dinner, as her husband salted his pot roast, “of course we were concerned.”

Helen’s mother gave Allen a pat on the hand; Mrs. Grant looked upon her son, who appeared oblivious that he’d become the topic of conversation, shook her head and continued: “He’s a good boy—you know that, Claire.”

Her mother said, “He certainly is.” She looked toward her husband. “Right, Harry?” But Helen’s father stared out the window at the Martins’ house across the street. A silver Lexus sat in the driveway—the realtor’s car.

Helen had been told, no, warned, that Allen was some math or engineering wiz but had some problems, and that she should attempt to treat him as normal as possible. Apparently, if Allen got upset or frazzled—her mother's word—he might have one of his episodes. This made Helen think of Andy Russell, a former student of hers, who'd spend most of the day silently drawing or coloring. Without warning or provocation, he'd start to scream and throw whatever his hands could grab, terrifying the other children and Helen, too. The third time it happened, Helen wrapped her arms around the screaming boy, squeezed him against her chest. He fell silent. And while she wasn't sure why this assuaged Andy, she was happy to have facilitated the reprieve from the horrific pictures she imagined forever playing in his head.

Helen’s gaze kept falling on Allen’s curly black hair. It looked wet, but she knew it wasn’t. It had had ample time to dry; before her mother served dinner, Mr. Grant had opened a bottle of red wine and