The room was filled with the smell of sharpened pencils, over-ripe bananas and orange peels. There were pieces of crumbled paper, shavings of crayons, a dusty blackboard, the world map torn at the edges hanging from the wall, rows of upside down chairs on desks, a forgotten hat, a stubbed eraser with half a name on a wooden desk with carved hearts and arrows and a big clock ticking loud and slow.
I was barely able to buckle my leather backpack stretched by an oversized atlas of the world, a notebook with a note to my dad in lower case letters, my yellow shirt from PE shoved on top of it all, and a pencil case with a new scented eraser in the front pocket.
It was half an hour after they had all left and my dad had not yet arrived.
He was supposed to come from his army service dressed up in his paratrooper’s uniform carrying a big gun, and wearing a red beret. I wanted everybody to see how he picks me up in the air after he hasn’t seen me for a month and how his eyes smile at me.
The classroom appeared big and still. I stood behind the teacher’s desk and started to read the kids names, marking pluses for their attendance in the teacher’s notebook. After a few announcements I began teaching a geography class, pointing to all five continents with a long stick naming them slowly and clearly. I then asked the class why the five continents fit together like puzzle pieces. After taking a few suggestions I explained how the world was united in one piece many years ago and how it split.
As my voice got higher with excitement I was startled by a noise behind me.
She stood there with a bucket, rags, and bottle of blue ammonia. I was caught. I wanted to disappear, vanish, to undo it all — but she stood at the door blocking the only exit.
How much did she see? How much did I show?
She stepped into the classroom, and her warm gaze melted my frozen shame. Somehow I felt that it was ok, that it was going to stay between us, that she was on my side.
She walked slowly and quietly over to the other side, sprinkled ammonia on the windows and began to wipe in circular motions creating rhythmic squeaks. Reaching high up the window, she revealed between her dress and her shoes, intricate groups of blue veins spreading like spiders webs. I wondered if it hurt. Her shoes were black and old. One had an extra layer on the bottom to make her legs even. She was breathing heavily, wheezing and panting.
Now I knew secrets about her.
The little hand on the clock seemed way past the time we would usually end the day.
I did not want to go home. I did not want to see my mom. I still felt my scalp pulled from her braiding my hair that morning. She had tied it in a hurry with a rubber band around my crooked braid, pulling more hair out mumbling “What’s wrong with you; can’t you stand still for a moment?” Then, gracefully, she lifted her cigarette from the brown ashtray I made in ceramic class for mother’s day. She softly held it between her fingers and slowly drew in smoke closing her eyes for a long moment.
Like a gentle lullaby, the squeaks on the window, her heavy wheezing, the clock ticking, the clanks of the metal bucket – made my eyelids heavy and watery. I wanted to bury my face in her light blue apron and sleep.
I knew she had her own kids at the school and when they saw her they would ignore her. She pretended not to know them either. I thought that tomorrow I would say hi when I saw her in the corridor. I had never heard her saying anything. Maybe she was mute.
And then I saw him; not with his striking army uniform but with his black shorts which were too loose and the worn white tee shirt that I disliked. He looked at the janitor, trying to pick up clues. He had the same look that he had when my mother yelled at him.
I still wished he would take me in his hands lift me high and say proudly “Thanks for waiting, my big girl”. I wanted her to see how big and strong he is, how his big blue eyes get shiny when he laughs, and how his big low voice is soft and confidant.
But his eyes were only half open like shooting slits; his chin was tucked in almost touching his throat, his knees bent. He was unreachable.
I could feel my throat clogged. I pushed my tears down, a taste of ammonia in my mouth. I looked away — on the wall was a picture with four squares; a boy holding an umbrella in the rain, a girl picking flowers, a few kids in a swimming pool, and a girl with a gray scarf standing in the wind. Despite my effort to concentrate on the four seasons, it got blurry, and a warm tear landed on my cheek.
She held the bucket in her hand and watched us.
We were both paralyzed.
I heard no squeaks, no breathing, no wheezing, just the clock ticking louder than before.
It was her voice — broken Hebrew in a foreign accent. Her words were floating and coming from above “I knew you no forget and come for her.”
As if awakened from a deep sleep he said without looking at her or me, “…. thank you… aha… thanks for watching her… my wife said… just a few minutes… and…”
I looked for the first time at her face, foreign and sad. Her eyes were dark and alive, big and open — like a child’s eyes — framed by old wrinkled skin as if popping through a mask.
He said “Let’s go now, your mom is waiting” still not looking at me, still squinting…
I wanted to stay with her; to look at her cleaning the glass windows till I wasn’t sure there was any glass there.
My backpack on his back seemed small. He grabbed my hand and turned towards the door “Mom is waiting” he said as the metal bucket clanged behind us.
On the way home I refused a Popsicle, and did not answer any of his questions about my day, about the last month he was away, about my brothers. Even questions about the dog went unanswered. I held his big warm hand only when we crossed the street.
He gave up, and we walked in silence for a while.
I suddenly stopped, stared into his eyes and asked “Why did you go to see her first?” Like two shutters slamming shut he squinted and asked “Who?”
Again, I felt the familiar scratch in my tonsils and the thick taste of unwelcome tears. I said quickly before the cry would burst out, “You promised to see me first … with your uniform… before you went home… you promised…”
“I just went to check on your mom before…” he said with almost no voice. “You know how she can get…”
I heard my mom’s voice in my head screaming at him. “You promised the kids to go on vacation this Passover… you promised to fix the cracks on the wall since last summer… you promised to get tickets for the circus… for the last three years you said we’ll get a car …you promise… you promise… you promise…”
We arrived home. A few steps before we got to the door I stood still. He also stopped and waited. It was my last chance to have my dad back, my strong-big-handsome dad. The dad I had a love letter for in my backpack, illustrated with hearts and bleeding arrows.
Like pulling a rusty nail from an old wooden board I heard myself say, “Daddy, can you pick me up tomorrow from school with the uniform? …Please?” I looked up at his blue eyes ready to be swirled in the air as he spun the world, him and me into one.
I stood there with my eyes shut whispering my wish like Hanna, who stood at the temple with her eyes, closed muttering her prayer to god — begging.
I wished he would not shrivel his eyes and hunch his back as I saw him do with my mom so often. I wished not to see him hiding his face as he tucks his chin down revealing a spot of thin hair on the top of his head.
I kept my eyes shut to hold the tears in, and I saw her big and tired black eyes, her little smile that uncovered crooked teeth, her light blue apron with an ammonia bottle piping out, a hint of the blue spider web below the edge of her dress and her worn, uneven shoes.
I could hear the wheezing in her breath and her low voice whispering, “come here… I make your hair loose”.