The mothers press their red-faced children to their bellies when I appear in the schoolyard. My students’ tormented stiffness makes my heart ache. What sort of wickedness are they suddenly believing in, I ask myself, that they don’t even dare to look up at me, when we once got along so well?
Disturbed, I wonder: What have people been telling them?
I’ve always believed that no disgrace is ever completely unearned, and that, however excessive or obtuse or cruel a reaction to a dubious reputation may be, its cause can rarely be questioned.
You always have some idea, I thought, of the wrong you’re being blamed for. You always have some idea, I thought. But now I can only confess—knowing it’s stupid and presumptuous of me, my brow burning with shame—that I cannot begin to imagine any reason why Ange and I should have become pariahs at our school.
It’s impossible. God knows I try. God knows Ange tries, all night in bed, tossing one way, trying some more, then tossing the other, when he should be deservedly enjoying the sleep we require for our responsibilities as patient, faithful, tireless teachers. I sense that Ange can no more find a comprehensible motive than I can, but we never bring up the subject, fearing our words might endow it with a terrible reality.
We’re convinced of our innocence, but ashamed all the same.