When Carla PULLED UP IN FRONT OF THE SCHOOL AFTER her appointment with Dr. Samuels, she could see that her mother was engaged in conversation with a large man in a Rutgers sweatshirt. They were both holding sheets of paper and appeared to be talking animatedly. As she opened the door, she could hear Jessie saying in the same pleasant, instructional tone she used to show Stephanie how to baste a chicken: “The last two lines are really all you need. They tell you what the poem’s about. I used to go straight to them to get the point.”
The man nodded. “Thanks for the tip. Never had much experience with poetry. ‘Casey at the Bat’ was about as far as I ever got.”
“It’s another language.” Jessie nodded sympathetically. “It’s a matter of being exposed.”
“Our kids are lucky that way,” said the man.
Jessie nodded again. “Back then, there were fewer opportunities. Most were no better than cannon fodder.”
“Sure,” said the man, figuring that Jessie was talking about her own youth. “World War Two, Korea—”
“And the War of the Roses.”
“Yup,” said the man, a bit confusedly. “Fortunately, I didn’t have to go to war, but that didn’t help me much. Teachers managed to
make Shakespeare seem like a bad case of the flu. It helps to have one with a little enthusiasm like this Mr. Pearson—brings the stuff to life.”
“Yes,” said Jessie, “it’s a nice touch to have him come back as an English teacher. And seventh grade. He used to say their minds were useless by the time they turned sixteen.”
The man nodded, but seemed relieved as Carla motioned to her mother to get in the car.
“So how was Back-to-School Night?” she asked, noting that Jessie’s face was flushed. “I see you’ve managed to make friends.”
“Yes, everyone was nice, though I can’t say that Stephanie’s teachers are very inspiring. With the exception of Mr. Pearson. It was wonderful seeing him again after all this time. Gave me quite a shock at first. But once I got used to it, it made sense.”
Carla swallowed. “What made sense?”
“Will coming back like that. As a teacher—he always had a streak of that in him, always trying to get me to read. Then, of course, there’s the practical side of it. He can talk up the plays, point out the good lines, get the word out.”
“Did you—discuss all this with him?” asked Carla slowly.
“Not in so many words. It was clear he didn’t have a clue. He’s too young. It only comes back later, once the curtain is about to fall.”
Carla was silent. It suddenly occurred to her that her mother’s fantasies might be a way of helping her face death. “But you did speak to Mr. Pearson,” she finally continued. “What did you talk about?”
“Oh, the sonnets mostly. I set him straight about a few things. He had them all wrong, gave far too much credit to that sniveling Pembroke who wore his breeches too tight and was always hanging around trying to get things dedicated to him—as if Will cared a jot about him. I’m not saying that there weren’t some episodes in that line—he and Kit Marlowe talked a lot about ‘the varieties of love’ and so forth—but everyone knew that it was me he was trying
to make jealous. Then, when I wouldn’t listen, he wrote the Venice play and broke my heart.” Jessie paused. “He was the love of my life, you know. No offense to your father—it was another life. Of course, there was someone who might have given them both a run for their money … .” She paused again, as if realizing she were veering off on another line of thought, then continued in a more matter-of-fact tone: “Anyway, I didn’t tell Mr. Pearson any of that. I didn’t want to keep you waiting. Besides, we’ll have more time later.”
“Later?”
“I invited him to come for Shabbos dinner one night. He seemed very pleased by the idea. I dropped a hint about Margot, so that may have had something to do with it. And I promised to make my chopped liver. He loves my chopped liver—he may not remember, but he does.”