I arrived at work a bit later than usual on Monday morning. I skipped the staff meeting and the awkward chatter and went straight into my classroom. A morning of no classes afforded me the momentary solitude I desperately needed. I sat at my desk. I could not stop thinking of Mr. Barnes; the image of his head landing on the ground, then bouncing, once or twice, replayed in my mind every time I drifted. I had been doing a lot of that lately, drifting, going through the motions, each day feeling a little less special than the last, less meaningful—less alive.
I checked my emails, figuring the deeper I plunged myself into my work, the more I’d be able to forget this feeling. Click. Delete. Click. Delete. Click. Delete. Staff Announcement: Christmas Party. Delete. Mr. McCormack: Meeting—Important. Click. I wished I could delete them all and get my inbox to zero. Surely, hell must be an eternity of never-ending emails. Break time approached, and there was still no sign of Mr. Barnes. Usually, rumors spread around this place like wildfire, so if anyone had heard anything, it would have been around the school by now. I remembered the time a new teacher completely lost their temper and punched a wall in the classroom. The word got around faster than the school bell. And it wasn’t even from the students. I suspected he had been eyeing up that wall for weeks and knew just where to hit it. To be fair to him, I had often thought about punching a wall, but I could not find one deserving enough to be hit.
I walked through the corridors, past the gym, the cafeteria, the library, up the stairs, around again. Still no sign. His classroom was empty. As I walked back to my classroom, I saw Sandra walking toward me. She looked at me, holding my gaze, but not showing any signs of slowing down to talk. She rarely didn’t stop when she saw me, if ever. We would always stop in the corridors for a chat, or at least a joke that would often lead to staff members gazing at us with suggestive suspicion, or the students making comments; the boys saying, “Is that you, sir? Go on,” or the girls asking, “Miss, is Mr. Kabongo your boyfriend?”
My eyes screamed at Sandra to stop. I wanted to talk, to tell her everything, but she kept walking. I went back to my classroom, slumped into my chair, and waited for the bell.
“You all right there, pal?” Mr. McCormack came into the room. I unconvincingly shuffled some papers around on my desk to make it look like I was working. He wore a puzzled expression on his face as he sat down on the table in front of my desk.
“Look, is everything okay?” he asked, with a hint of concern. I was taken aback by his question, not by the question itself, but by the fact he was asking.
“Yeah?” I replied, more a question in response to his than an answer.
“It’s just that you haven’t been yourself lately, or really at all as the year has gone by. I just wanted to make sure that you knew you could come to me if there’s anything you wanted to talk about…” I hated how genuine he sounded. As if the idioms “my door is always open,” or “if you need a shoulder,” were true. In this case, they were, and this saddened me. Mr. McCormack always made time for you—to talk, to listen. He was a married man, with three kids, and he always made time. Yet here I was, alone and living with my mum, and barely able to stop each moment crumbling into the next. I wanted to tell him it was me, that I was the thing with poison. But my mind blocked my mouth before I could speak, and I simply muttered, “It’s okay,” as the bell rang, signaling the end of break.
The day passed. My thoughts grew heavier. I did not leave my classroom. Mr. McCormack’s question had sent me on another drift; this time of isolation and doubt, contemplating the inevitable futility of my future. I did not even stop to think about Mr. Barnes, not until Sandra walked in and said, “Have you heard what happened?”
“What?” I replied, surprised.
“Apparently, Mr. Barnes got robbed or something. He’s in the hospital. He was on a night out with friends, got separated from his group, and then got robbed…”
“Oh, no… Where did you hear this?”
“Gina told me.”
“Separated from his group…?”
“Yeah.”
“Ah, that makes sense now…”
“Wait, what do you mean that makes sense?”
“Don’t worry.”
“Are you going to visit him?”
“I don’t know. I literally just found out.”
“Wait, you didn’t know?”
I shook my head.
“Well, aren’t you going to go see him?”
I thought about the best way to answer this question, without lying. I couldn’t think of it. “Yeah. I will.”
She went on a rant about how unsafe it is these days, and how there’s violence everywhere in this city, and gangs, and knives, and how you can’t even have a peaceful night out anymore, and I listened and validated her woes—not because she was right, that was irrelevant, but because I wanted her to stay. She left as soon as the conversation ended.
I heard a basketball bouncing and rubber sports shoes squeaking against the wooden floor. I went into the gym. There was a basketball game on. An opposing school was visiting, their plain red-and-white uniform an eyesore against our chrome-blue and gold. I stood against the wall watching Mr. Black waving his hands through the air giving instructions. He seemed to grow larger with every movement and to move in sync with his players as if he were their master puppeteer. Duwayne sat on the bench, completely consumed by the game; cheering, whooping, supporting his teammates. I watched him and wondered how many sides there were to this boy.
There was less than a minute left in the third quarter. Mr. Black called Duwayne from the bench, and he went to the sideline, preparing to sub in. He high-fived his teammate coming from the court, and went to defend number five, on team red-and-white, bringing down the ball. Duwayne hounded him. Team red passed the ball around, fumbling but avoiding the defense. Duwayne stole the ball and sprinted with it on a fast break toward the basket, the defenders chasing behind him like the police. They slowed him in his tracks, and with the few seconds left on the clock, he took two wayward steps and threw the ball up one-handed into the air and fell on the ground. The ball floated up high with a rainbow arch, tail a shooting star trailing its path, and landed, like a stone thrown in a river, into the basket: swish. Duwayne pumped his fist as the buzzer went. His teammates ran over to him. He looked at me as he passed, a brief glimpse, eyes asking for someone to be proud of him. I quietly left the gym.
The week had been long and laboring, some days an uphill climb, others a downward tumble. I made my way into the church midweek. The main area was empty. I followed the sound coming from the side room. I knew Mami wouldn’t be there today. Thankfully, she was at work. I knew that if she saw me here, she would see this as approval, though it was the furthest thing from. In fact, I’m not even sure what it was, but here I was, walking quietly through the side door into a half-empty room with Pastor Baptiste at the front.
He jumped up when he saw me but managed to disguise it and convert it into one of the many natural movements he had while preaching that left people saying, “He’s so energetic and passionate.” He acknowledged my presence with a nod, and I acknowledged his by not responding.
“ ‘Let not your hearts be troubled. Believe in God—believe also in me. In my Father’s house are many rooms. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, that where I am you may be also.’ ”
Pastor Baptiste very delicately closed the Bible he was reading from and began speaking as if addressing an audience of thousands. I tried to listen to what he was saying, but every word that came out of his mouth filled me with indignation; his voice was fuel added to the rageful fire of my burning heart. After half an hour of intense prayer, I returned to find the evening session had finished and Pastor Baptiste was left alone, packing away the chairs.
“Michael, I welcome your presence, but if I’m honest, I did not expect to see you here tonight.”
“Why?”
“Well, it’s just you don’t often attend, so I did not…”
“No. That’s not what I’m asking you about.” Pastor Baptiste stopped in his tracks and stood upright.
“So, what is it that you are asking me about?” he said, looking over, stern and focused.
“Why? Why do you do this? All of this?” I replied, waving my hand across the room.
He chuckled, and then continued packing away the chairs.
“That conversation is for another day.”
“Well, I’m asking now. I deserve to know, don’t you think? Especially as you intend to marry my mother.”
“She told me about what you said, about your ultimatum, Michael.”
“And?”
“And do you think it’s fair?”
“I don’t know about fair, I only know about what’s meant to be.”
“And what’s meant to be will be.”
“So, answer my question. Why?”
“Why? You want to know why? I do this because I love the Lord… and because people need hope. Without it, we have nothing.” He finished his sentence like a sermon.
His simplicity and elusiveness frustrated me. He wasn’t magnificent and esoteric. He was simple. I huffed.
“Michael, I sense much pain in you. You must learn to let it go, otherwise it will eat you up inside. Trust me, I know.”
His words sent me to an internal flying rage. Pastor Baptiste slowly walked away and there I stood, a dilapidated building, falling apart brick by brick by brick.