5

Winter vacation slam-dunked to a finish by dropping temperatures to a mere five degrees Sunday night, and the ever-cheerful weather guy said Chicago could expect more snow and below-freezing temps all week. As I spooned hot oatmeal into bowls for the Baxter crew Monday morning, I batted my eyelashes at Denny. “Any chance I can get a ride to school on your way?” If flirting didn’t work, I could always use the rod in my leg—left over from my car accident a year and a half ago—as an excuse.

“Me, too, Dad.” Amanda flopped into a dining room chair, dropping her book bag on the floor. “It’s murder out there. Wonka told me so, didn’t ya, baby?” She scratched Willie Wonka’s rump before dumping a mountain of brown sugar on her oatmeal.

“Hey!” Denny said, grabbing the sugar bowl.

Good, I thought. About time Denny did some of the nagging.

“. . . Leave some for me!” he finished, matching her brown-sugar mountain granule for granule. I rolled my eyes. They were both hopeless.

Gulping his oatmeal, Denny glanced at his watch. As the new athletic director at West Rogers High School, he didn’t like to be late. I knew dropping me off at Bethune Elementary a few blocks away was one thing; but Lane Tech College Prep was at least two or three miles out of his way—in rush-hour traffic on slick roads. But leave his little princess standing at a bus stop in weather like this? Ha. “Okay,” he said. “Everybody in the car in three minutes.”

So I got to school forty-five minutes early. Not a bad thing. I had time to organize my lessons for the day, hunt up chalk and erasers, which had somehow disappeared over Christmas vacation, and best of all, walk up and down the rows of desks, praying for my third-grade students by name.

The laminated names taped to each desk were a little dogeared but still readable. “Lord, bless Abrianna this semester. Help me encourage her when she wants to give up, when she thinks she can’t do it . . . and Caleb. Oh, Lord, he’s so bright! But he needs a little humility too. The other kids tend to avoid him because of his bragging. I think he’s lonely . . . Thank You for Mercedes, God. She is Your special creation, even though the kids tease her because of her weight. I’ve seen Big Mama, too, so it’s no surprise . . . and Carla, Lord. That little girl’s been through so much! Now her big brother’s been arrested. When she lashes out, help me to remember that she’s scared . . .”

Because of the cold weather, the kids lined up in the gym instead of on the playground when the bell rang. Carla was first in line, the pink fur of her jacket hood framing her dark eyes and creamy brown face. “Miz Baxter?” She tugged on my sweater. “Miz Baxter!”

Two boys started pushing at the back of the line, and the kids were standing so close to each other I was afraid they’d all go down like dominoes. “Lamar! Demetrius! Stop that!—not now, Carla.”

By the time I’d herded the kids into our room, marshaled coats, boots, and mittens into the general vicinity of the coat pegs, and collected the take-home folders, I’d totally forgotten Carla’s question. But she obviously hadn’t. She appeared beside my desk, jiggling impatiently, but I held up my hand, palm out, as the office intercom came on and a fifth grader led the whole school—remotely—in the Pledge of Allegiance.

“—withlibertyan’justiceforall,” Carla gushed. “Miz Baxter?”

“What, Carla?”

“You said if it snowed, we could build a snowman.” She pointed a finger at the bank of windows running along the classroom wall, a miniature prosecutor pointing out the culprit in the courtroom.

“Oh, Carla.” I had, hadn’t I. What was I thinking?! I walked over to the windows, ignoring the noise level rising around me. The six inches of snow that fell on Sunday had been trampled Monday morning by the diehards who had started off “back to school” with a rousing snowball fight. “I don’t know, honey . . . the playground is pretty much a mess.”

Carla’s eyes narrowed. “But you promised. Crossed your heart and hoped to die.”

Right. I glanced at the thermometer outside the window. Nudging slowly upward, a whopping fifteen degrees now. Maybe we’d get more snow by the end of the day . . .

I leaned close to Carla’s ear. “All right,” I whispered. “We can try. But don’t say anything to the other children, or the deal’s off.” Mention snowman making and I’d be nagged to death by short people all day.

At lunchtime, Carla blocked my way, arms folded, giving me The Look. I shook my head, stalling. What should I do? Keep Carla after school? Wait until the other kids had gone home?

My slower readers were parked on the Story Rug after lunch, plowing in jerks and starts through Charlotte’s Web, when Carla yelled from her desk, “Look!” The telltale finger pointed toward the windows. A curtain of powdered-sugar snow sifted past the glass. “Now we can make a snowman!” she announced.

An immediate stampede to the windows ensued. “Yea!”

I took a deep breath and glanced at the clock. Two-ten. If I took my class outside to build snowmen before the last bell, other classes would probably hear them and mutiny. Even if I wasn’t censured for ignoring the no-early-dismissal policy, the other teachers would be mad. But I couldn’t keep all the children after school. After-school childcare buses would be waiting; parents would show up, impatient to drag their progeny off to violin lessons or ice hockey.

But I was reluctant to extinguish the eager anticipation shining in the eyes of the kids. Here in the city, how many of them had ever built a snowman? If we just plowed on with our reading lesson, this day would simply melt into the pool of all the other school days. But if we built a snowman, we’d create a childhood memory that might linger for years. A memory like . . .

I was in third grade, chewing on my pencil and trying to do my sheet of division problems, when my teacher tapped me on the shoulder. “Your father is here.” I looked up, startled. Was something wrong? But he stood in the doorway, hat in hand, smiling. I grabbed my lunch box and followed him to the car; my two brothers were already slouched in the backseat. What was going on? They shrugged. Daddy was mum. Didn’t say a thing. Just drove to the Veterans Memorial Auditorium in Des Moines, surrounded by enormous billboards shouting, “CIRCUS!” with pictures of gold-and-black tigers jumping through flaming hoops and clowns in whiteface and bushy red hair.

It was one of those magic memories of childhood. Funny thing is, I don’t remember much about the circus. What still makes me giggle is that Daddy took us out of school just to have fun . . .

“Everybody! Come to my desk. No talking.” Wide-eyed, the children crowded around my desk. I’d never called them to come around my desk, all at the same time. Something was up and they knew it. I lowered my voice and we made plans. Wait another twenty minutes. Then quietly get on our coats and boots. Silently tiptoe down the hall and out to the playground, like mice creeping past a big cat. By then, I figured, there would only be ten minutes before the bell rang. By the time the other students or teachers heard us, it’d hardly be worth complaining about.

BY THREE-TEN, three lopsided snowmen stood in the school playground. Two were sightless, since we only found two small rocks to use for eyes. One had a branch sticking out of its side for an “arm.” But all three wore brightly colored knit caps and scarves, donated by junior Good Samaritans who insisted the snowmen needed something. I’d have to rescue the hats and scarves before leaving the school grounds, but for now . . .

“They bee-yoo-tee-ful,” Carla breathed. She was the last kid to leave.

I grinned. “Yep. But off you go. Cedric picking you up?”

She shook her head. “Nah. I walk by myself. Mama be home soon.” Her eyes lit up. “Maybe now Daddy help Cedric an’ me build another snowman at home! We got us a backyard now, you know.” She ran off, her backpack bumping on her rump like a loose saddle.

I stopped in at the school office, took off my gloves, and knocked on Avis’s inner office door, which was slightly ajar. She was on the phone, dressed in black slacks, white silk blouse, and black-and-white costume jewelry, dark hair neatly wound into a French roll. She held up a finger to wait. I loitered by the bulletin board in the main office, reading the school lunch menu for January: chicken tenders with muffin, cheese or pepperoni pizza slice, peanut-butter sandwich with fruit cup, turkey hot dog on bun . . . until I heard her say, “All right . . . Thursday. Yes . . . me too. Bye.”

I slipped into her office and closed the door, unzipping my down jacket. “I’m here to confess before you get a complaint.”

She put down the phone and glanced in my direction.

“I took my class outside ten minutes before the last bell and we built snowmen. Guilty as charged.” I grinned, fishing a tissue from my jacket pocket and swiping my still-icy nose. “Call it outdoor education.”

“Jodi Baxter,” she snapped. “What are you talking about?”

“Uh . . . snowmen.” Her tone of voice caught me completely off guard. I thought Avis would be my ally in this minor flouting of school dismissal policy. “Took my kids outside before dismissal and . . .”

Her eyes wandered. I could tell I’d lost the connection. She was frowning at the phone. Sheesh, Jodi. I felt like slapping myself upside the head. I’d just blundered into her office, didn’t even ask if it was a good time—and now that I thought about it, her last few words on the phone had sounded personal.

“Sorry, Avis. Uh . . . are you okay? Is something wrong?”

Avis sighed and sank down into her desk chair. “Yes. Maybe . . . I don’t know, Jodi.” She propped her elbows on the arms of the high-backed desk chair and pressed the tips of her fingers against her temples. “That was Rochelle . . .”

I waited.

She finally looked up at me and shook her head. “Just when I think God’s answering our prayers, we get blindsided from a different direction.”

This sounded like Are-you-sitting-down? news. I pulled up a cushioned chair.

“Manna House routinely asks residents to get HIV testing. No big deal. We knew that.” Avis blew out another breath. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Rochelle’s came back positive.”