Mojave River Review fall/winter 2018

Cathy Ulrich Being the Murdered Teacher THE THING ABOUT BEING THE MURDERED TEACHER is you set the plot in motion.

The children will cry when they’re told. Even Gavin Fire Crow, tallest fourth grader, with his nearly-a-man’s shoulders, he’ll cry, the tears slipping quiet down the sides of his face. The girls will huddle around Starla Mark with her uneven pigtails, drag their desks into a circle where the boys aren’t welcome.

Their weeping sounds like the swirling of water at the base of a waterfall, the principal will think, standing at the front of the classroom with the substitute teacher who’d been filling in for you while they searched.

The principal will have waterfalls on his mind. You will be found beside the small one just outside of town. We will be curled like a leaf husk, your cardigan torn, your shoes missing.

Where are her shoes, the principal will say when the police notify him. He won’t remember saying it; he won’t have any reason for saying it other than he doesn’t like the thought of your stockinged feet in the dirt.

Before the police notify the principal, they’ll tell your wife.

They’ll go to your house, two of them, a short one and a tall one — Mutt and Jeff, your wife’s mother will say, peering out the front window. They look like Mutt and Jeff.

Your wife will be washing dishes when she is told. When the two police say to her, would you like to stop, would you like to sit 19