Rosie used her dishtowel to swat a fly buzzing its final death throe in the corner of her kitchen window. It was a blazing Alabama afternoon—Indian summer—the kind of day that made you think cool would never happen again. The sun heated the earth to the point where the temperature outside a body matched the one on the inside. Rosie splashed cold water on her face for the few minutes of relief that evaporation would grant. Through the window, she noticed a man curled up on the steps of the church. She could clearly see that he was white. Judging by his wrinkled clothes and stubble, he was a derelict of some kind. He looked to be sleeping. The sun was beating down on him, but he appeared unaware. Surely that man would blister.
The phone rang, intruding on her surveillance.
“Hello?”
“Yes, this is Rose Yarber, but I don’t have an account at Bank of the South.”
She sighed. She knew what was coming.
“I don’t know where Robert Yarber is right now. We’ve been divorced for a long time.”
Rosie cut the voice off. “Welcome to my world. He doesn’t return my phone calls, and he owes me money, too.” Exasperated, she slammed down the receiver.
“Not my drama,” she said to herself. “Son of a bitch.”
Rosie remembered when her marriage began to crumble. After Robert’s admission of “meaningless infidelity,” they had worked diligently on their relationship. He tried to engage with Langston when he was home and be more helpful with household chores. When Langston was in kindergarten and had a terrible bout with flu, Robert stayed home to care for him. As soon as Langston was well enough to go back to school, Rosie got sick. When she woke at three in the morning drenched in sweat, Robert was just coming in. He claimed he’d been at the office, but even in her delirious state, she knew something was very wrong.
The wrong came in the form of another woman. One of the partners in the firm, a woman eight years Robert’s senior, had started to invite him for drinks after work. She was sexy in her high heels and Chanel suits. Having a mentor protected him from the other lawyers in the firm. His inefficiencies and lack of drive were safe from criticism as long as he hid behind a senior partner’s metaphoric skirt. Robert didn’t object to her six-figure income or her vacation home on the beach, either.
Not long after Langston’s sixth birthday, Robert moved out. Rosie and Langston stayed in the apartment. Rosie did what she could to limit the damage of the separation, but Langston whined and clung and had difficulty falling asleep. She assured him of her love constantly. She planned weekend activities, made play dates for him, and, despite her own hurt, encouraged Robert’s visits.
In their Sunday phone calls, Mo could hear his niece was in pain. He resisted the urge to lecture or berate, instead reminding her that staying busy was the best antidote to self-pity. Rosie threw herself into work. She became chair of the English department at her school. When Langston began playing T-ball, she became the team parent. Although there were men who’d expressed interest in her, men she met through mutual friends or at the gym, she used Langston as an excuse not to date.
Rosie was never one to whine. The months passed, and there was no hope of reconciliation. They used a mediator for the divorce. He gave her primary custody, as long as he could stay in Langston’s life. He’d pick up Langston from school one afternoon a week and spend a weekend with him once a month.
Soon enough, Robert and his new lover began to quarrel—at first over restaurant choices and golf dates, but eventually over Robert’s spending habits and poor performance at work. Losing his job was inevitable, as was falling behind in child support, defaulting on his student loans, and maxing out his credit cards. He drank heavily, convincing himself that if he drank only when he went out, he was not an alcoholic. But there was always a reason to go out, like there was always an excuse for not spending the afternoon or the weekend with Langston. He often made promises to his son, promises as empty as his bank account.
Rosie distracted herself. She wiped down the kitchen counter even though it was spotless, opened the tap again, and filled a glass with water. As she drank, she once again focused on the man asleep on the church steps. The sun had moved off his face, so his body was partially in shadow.
Rosie double-bolted the front door. She’d never seen an unfamiliar drifter in this part of Brent. She’d seen locals who were crazy, drunk, or high, but not a stranger. She observed the man three more times that night, once again from the kitchen, once when she turned the TV off before she went upstairs, and once more from her bathroom window before she went to sleep. He was out cold. She would have thought him dead, but his body had rearranged itself ever so slightly between her check-ins.
The next morning, as Rosie rushed around the kitchen, Langston sat at the breakfast table, one leg tucked under him, the other swinging gently back and forth. He took leisurely spoonfuls of cornflakes.
“Mom, listen to this,” he said, reading the back of the cereal box. “What building has the most stories?”
“I don’t know. I give up.”
“The library!” he said proudly.
“Good one,” Rosie said, smiling. “That reminds me—did you pack your reading book?”
“Yeah.”
Rosie shot him a stern look, and he instantly corrected himself. “Yes, ma’am.”
She nodded approvingly, “What about lunch—take or buy?”
He returned to the cereal box and ignored his mother.
“Langston Yarber, do you hear me? I’ve got enough to do this morning without having to repeat myself.”
“Buy.” Instantly, Rosie felt tension in the air. She felt insulted whenever he gave curt answers. She believed that a fresh attitude was a sign of disrespect. He corrected the moment, softening his abruptness by offering more information. “We have corn dogs on Tuesday.”
Rosie went to her wallet and took out a few bills. As Langston cleared his dishes, she tucked the money into his pocket. It was an excuse to get close to her son. He was a full-blown boy now, but he still made her melt like he did when he was a baby.
“Don’t forget to turn in your homework.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
His response was satisfying. She believed in discipline and manners and children who respected authority.
“Uncle Mo will walk you to school. Now go brush your teeth.”
Rosie headed to the back of the house and knocked on Mo’s bedroom door. “Mo? I’m leaving.”
There was no response.
“I have a faculty meeting this morning.”
Still no response.
“Langston’s ready.”
Mo grumpily opened the door. She heard the television news in the background.
“Don’t worry. I got it covered.” Mo walked over to his TV and turned it off. “The world’s on a short fuse and I gotta get a boy to school,” he muttered as he made his way to the kitchen.
Rosie threw her school bag in the back of her car. She was about to start the engine when she saw the vagrant still lying on the church steps. She quickly got out of the car and walked back into the house.
Mo was pouring a cup of coffee as she entered. “Forget your keys again?”
“No. I wanted to tell you to watch out for that drunk on the church steps. He’s been there since last night. Make him leave. He gives me the creeps.”
Mo crossed to the window, assessed the man on the steps and took a thoughtful gulp of his coffee. “Yeah, I’ll give him his walkin’ papers…if he’s alive.”
Rosie looked out the door and across the street. “Well, he’s moved around since I first saw him, so he’s not dead.”
Langston crossed to his mother’s side to see what everyone was staring at.
“Mind your own business,” Rosie said, turning him away from the window.
She shot Mo a do-something-about-this look and left for work.
Langston hefted his backpack on his shoulder and waited while Mo locked the front door. They passed the sleeping body on the church steps.
“What’s wrong with him?” Langston asked.
“Looks like he’s pretty damn tired,” Mo answered as he took Langston’s hand protectively.
Rosie stood in front of the blackboard. It was last period, World Literature, her favorite class. Unlike her other classes, this one was an elective, so all the students actually wanted to be there. They even liked to read.
Although there was some bantering in the room, the students participated and stayed on topic. Rosie was animated. She challenged the kids to analyze their personal experience to fill in the chart she’d written on the board. She needed to excite them about the next reading selection.
Across the top of the blackboard was a heading: CONFLICTS IN LITERATURE. Underneath were subdivisions: Man vs. Man, Man vs. Nature.
She sat on the corner of her desk, “Come on, folks, what else have you been seeing in these short stories? Any ideas?”
The class was silent. Rosie pointed to the board.
“These are all external conflicts. Think, people.” She again gave the class a moment. “Think about your own life. What’s your biggest obstacle?”
A lanky boy from the back of the class responded. “I get in my own way.”
Rosie slid off the desk and picked up the chalk. “Right!”
Janine, the heavyset girl in the front row, agreed. “Like feeling too lazy to work out even though I know it’s good for me?”
A male voice threw out a biting insult. “Yeah, like you ever exercise.”
Janine flushed bright red, and Rosie snapped her head in the general direction of the taunt. “Enough,” she ordered. Then she stood next to Janine and acknowledged her by resting her hand lightly on her shoulder.
Rosie continued, “Some of our toughest moments in life are when we’re in conflict with ourselves. Let’s think of some other examples.” As hands shot up across the room, Rosie turned and added to the board: Man vs. Self.
When the bell rang, Hansom, the acned boy who sat at the back of the class, waited for the others to leave before he approached Rosie’s desk. He was small and slender, with fine bone structure and delicate eyebrows.
Alarming cystic blemishes disfigured his face. One angry flare-up sat in the middle of his forehead, making him look like some Cyclops. The spots on his cheeks and neck were red and inflamed. She pretended not to notice. He stood stiffly in front of the desk. Rosie waited for him to state his query.
He finally spoke, offering an uncomfortable smile. “I like this class, Miss Yarber.”
“And I like having you in class.”
“Here,” Hansom said, reaching into his backpack for a small homemade wooden bird. “I made this for you.”
Rosie was impressed by the detail and proportion. “It’s lovely. I’m going to keep it on my desk.”
She carefully placed the whittled bird on a stack of papers. “Thank you so much, Hansom.”
Hansom lowered his head, embarrassed by the compliment, and walked away.
Rosie was moved by the gift. She knew from talking to Kala that his home life was loaded with trouble. His mother had abandoned him, and he lived with a grandmother who was too old and disabled to do a proper job of raising him. Adding insult to injury was that name—Hansom. He was an obvious target for adolescent bullying.
Reaching a kid like Hansom—befriending him, motivating him to read and write, taking him away from his beleaguered life—was utterly satisfying. Interactions like these reminded her why she loved teaching.
Janine, the girl from class, waited for Hansom by the door. She was one of the eight percent of the student body who was white. She and Hansom made the oddest pair: one slight and timid, one thick and bold. Hansom wore tight-fitting T-shirts and skinny jeans. Janine had heavy eyeliner, dressed only in somber colors, and wore her hair down to her shoulders on one side and shaved on the other. Rosie had seen mismatched pairs like this in every school. They had little in common, yet they stuck together. Hansom and Janine rebelled against the mainstream because they couldn’t find a place in any of the social groupings. Rosie was glad that Hansom had at least one friend.
A commotion in the hallway changed Rosie’s quiet musings to alarm. There was the sound of scuffling, and a female voice screamed a string of curse words. “Fuck-you-you-turd-piece-of-shit.” The girl’s voice went up an octave, “Your-mama’s-a-whore- and-your-daddy’s-a-dickwad.”
Rosie opened her door to witness Janine shove the student who’d insulted her in class against the wall. Hansom covered his mouth to hide his delight at the kid’s comeuppance, and the kid instantly turned the full force of his aggression on Hansom. The kid was enraged. He propelled himself off the wall and slammed his body into Hansom, knocking them both down. Then he stood up and started kicking Hansom’s body anywhere he could. Hansom balled up and tried to cover his head, but the barrage kept coming. Janine tried to pull the attacker away. He punched hard into her soft middle, and the breath went out of her.
Rosie yelled “Stop!” as loudly as she could, but the aggressor was deaf with rage. Janine started to dry heave, and the attacker kept kicking Hansom. Magically, Edmond appeared. He lifted the kicker off his feet by the back of his neck and threw him five feet down the hallway. Rosie went to Janine while Edmond helped the terrified Hansom to his feet.
Edmond thundered at the kicker. “FRONT OFFICE…NOW!”
Before Edmond followed the aggressor down the hall, his eyes connected with Rosie. She momentarily wondered what it would be like to have Edmond’s arms around her.