Mrs. Jones, and: The Nematode

Mrs. Jones

  In high school, I’d wander down to the home ec room after class because there were always girls there   and something to eat. And Mrs. Jones, who always said the same thing every time she saw me: “You’re going   to be a handsome man when you grow up, David Kirby!”

  How would she know? She was thirty-five, maybe. I was sixteen. Whatever became of Home Ec? It’s now   called Family Science, as if that were even possible. Also Human Ecology, which makes more sense,   since ecology just means the give-and-take of life:

  I make the pie, you eat a slice, you thank me. Somebody should write an opera about high school.   How many musicals have been set there? I see myself walking down to the home ec room. The door opens,   and someone comes out. It’s my young self, I think,

  but he’s going the other way, so I can’t see, and I want to ask if Mrs. Jones still teaches here, but he can’t hear me, either. There’s the sign, though: mrs. mary jones. And there you are, Mrs. Jones, putting away the Mixmaster   and hanging your apron on the back of the door.

  I clear my throat so as not to startle you, but you jump anyway, then say, David Kirby! Is that you? God,   you’re beautiful. How could I have thought you old? The girls made a pound cake, you say. Would you  like a piece? It’s fall, and there’s a whistle on

  the football field. No, I don’t want a piece of cake. I just want to look at you, Mrs. Jones. You say,   Call me Mary, silly! But I can’t—you’re a teacher. You told me everything I needed to know about women,   though it took me years to learn. I want to take you

  to dinner. I want to make love to you, but I’m twice your age now, and besides, there’s a Mr. Jones.   I’d like to break his neck. I don’t mean that. You deserve to grow old with someone like yourself. I hope   he’s sweet to you. I bet he is. The light is creeping out

  of the sky the way it does this time of year, and it’ll be dark before we know it. The athletes laugh and shove   each other as they make their way to the parking lot. Soon there’s just one car left. It’s Coach Wilson’s.   We’re playing Destrehan this weekend. They’ll kill us.

  Still, Coach watches game film, draws his Xs and Os. Maybe we’ll win—maybe we’ll get lucky this time.   Another car pulls in, and a man gets out. You look over my shoulder, Mrs. Jones, and your face lights up   like the bonfire at the pep rally tomorrow before our boys

  take the field and lose again. I better be going, you say. And look, I’m sixteen. I can do this, I think. The door   opens, and a man walks in. Are you David? he says, and when I tell him I am, he says, A girl’s waiting.   She asked me if I’d seen you. She wants a ride home.

The Nematode

“I’m not drunk!” my student says, though her features sag   and her speech slurs. “The doctor’s doing tests—I just wanted you to know.” She comes to class and talks about   the assignments in her halting voice, the other students nodding and giving her the time she needs, even

slowing their own speech so hers doesn’t seem so different. A month   later, she says, “Do you know what amyotrophic lateral sclerosis is?” and I say, “Yes, Lou Gehrig’s disease,”   and we cry and hug each other and go to class, where she continues to talk, a little slower each time, until

she can’t talk at all, which is when she begins to write down   and give me everything she would have said had she been able to...