MR. MURRAY’S FEAR

Mr. Murray continues to bring order to my morning. 7:30 a.m. He is always at his desk. We have regular assignments every week. I know if I am not there that day, he is, and he’ll know I’m not there. Mr. Murray’s and my days don’t hinge on the wind in the birches or the government.

My head spins a little while I sit in his class Monday morning.

“You need to get in your assignments,” he says before other students have come.

“Yes, I will.”

“Before I’m gone.”

“Are you going, too? Everybody’s leaving.”

“Who else is leaving?”

“My father’s going fishing in Virginia.”

“I’m only going to see my new grandson.”

“When’s that?”

“End of the week.”

“I don’t know,” I say. “About getting the assignments in.”

“Why not?” he says.

It was nice to stop thinking for a while, with the gin. I haven’t done my assignments all week. I just look at him.

Mr. Murray gazes at me briefly, this man with vast curiosity about the world.

My father said that Mr. Murray’s wife left him for a job in the city. She wanted more than he had to offer: a sweet smile, an appreciation for her walk, a good sentence. Mr. Murray writes a column for the newspaper. He never remarried, and my father said sometimes you can’t account for who you fall in love with.

Later, during my study hall, I go to Mr. Murray’s room and write one assignment. I think I might want to talk to him, but I don’t. I just hang out there and work. Mr. Murray must wonder why I’m there.

I am still thinking about fear, after that night by the stove when my father and I talked.

Before I leave I drop a paper on his desk. It’s a poem we read in English: “For My Young Friends Who Are Afraid.”

I like it, quite a lot, but don’t know how to use it right now, for my father and me. Maybe Mr. Murray will.