He had received a call the week before from Charity’s daughter. She informed him Chuck had a heart attack followed by a procedure to unblock arteries. There had been complications. Charity had called since to update him on Chuck’s condition. Cal appreciated being included, even more so when he learned Chuck had insisted he be informed. Their rekindled friendship meant as much to Chuck as it did to Cal.
He and Charity exchanged a few pleasantries. She asked about his retirement party and expressed regret for not being able to attend. She asked if Susie had been in touch. Cal said she had called a few times, and they had tried to find a time to get together, but they were both so busy. And finally, Cal asked about Chuck. Charity’s voice had sounded strained throughout the call, and he worried she had bad news to share.
“The doctor told him to take off for an entire year,” Charity said. “Actually, Chuck asked me to call you, and I know this is a huge imposition… he wondered if you would take his classes while he recovers. I hate to ask, Cal, but I know he’d rest easier if he knew he could count on you. I’m so sorry. We know about your travel plans.” Her voice trailed off.
“Yes,” Cal said. “Tell him I’ll sub for him as long as he needs me.” And just like that, his plans changed. He would start his journey closer to home and send pictures to his father from southern Ohio. The rest of the world would be there when Chuck was ready to resume working.
Charity sighed on the other end of the phone. “You don’t know how good it feels to hear you’re willing to come.”
She had no idea how good he felt about having somewhere definite to go.
BRYONY MEETS CHUCK’S SUB
Three blocks from the high school, traffic crawled to a stop, then surged forward, stopping again in less than half a block. At first Bryony thought the jam must be related to everyone arriving at once, but then she moved forward enough to see a worker with an orange vest directing traffic.
Sweat darkening his T-shirt’s underarms, the flagger held up a Stop sign. Bryony watched as cars traveled past in the opposite direction. Cool air recirculating through her car and closed windows blocked most of the smell from the fresh tar glistening in the morning sun.
The first day of school was going to be a hot one.
If the road work forced her to wait much longer, the large coffee sitting in her car console would be cold by the time she delivered it. The aroma of fresh-baked dough wafted from the passenger seat. Upon hearing Bryony’s plan to celebrate the start of the school year with continental breakfast for her brother, Lillian added an extra dozen bagels for the office staff.
The flagger waved Bryony through. She steered around a clanging machine and into the driveway leading to the school. Relieved to find the last open spot in the lane, marked “Visitors,” she parked and loaded up her arms.
Nearing the entrance, a large red-headed boy with a larger bass viol almost knocked her over. Three giggling girls brushed by, disturbing Bryony’s nervous juggle of bagel bag, latte cup, and overstuffed bronze shoulder bag. A tall, athletic boy wearing a school jacket held the door for her, but let go too soon when someone called to him from the parking lot. She managed to enter the lobby intact, with no spills, but her insides were jumbled.
Would she ever be able to enter this building without feeling like a piece of vine clinging to cracks in the wall? Had there been a high school contest for Least Likely to be Noticed, Bryony would have won. One teacher wrote in her yearbook, “You, my dear—unseen, unheard, undiscovered—are a treasure yet to be found. Your day will come.” Within these walls, the timeline on when the “un” part of her life would end, and the “seen, heard, and discovered” part would commence seemed to stretch beyond her expected lifetime.
In contrast, outside the hallowed halls of her alma mater, Bryony had spent the last few months rediscovering lost—and uncovering hidden—strengths. After a series of pep talks from Lillian, four self-help books, and a barrage of TEDTalks by empowered women for women needing to be empowered, Bryony had made a few changes in her life.
She had written, “I am ready to blossom and bloom,” in RedRose shaded lipstick across her bathroom mirror, and read the phrase out loud every morning. Meditation and lifting weights preceded her daily walking habit. She practiced yoga every evening. Five pounds of excess weight had evaporated into thin air.
All of these practices seemed to have resulted in substantive change in Bryony’s persona, too. Her father recently asked if she had a nose job or dyed her hair because something about her seemed “different, less pinched.” Lillian marveled at her ease with customers, and Bryony herself noticed feeling relaxed around people in a new way, almost like belonging somewhere.
But the biggest change was knowing that never again would a man become the focal point in the landscape of her life. She truly was fine being single. In fact, Bryony felt better than ever.
In spite of all that, being here, in the building she had fought hard to endure for four years, she wilted. Wall to wall, perfumed, upper-class adolescents bustled around exuding superficial confidence. Freshman struggled to open their lockers for the first time, their anxiety palpable. Bryony lowered her head and made a beeline for her destination.
“How nice!” Mitch said when she presented him with the goods she carried. “Let me introduce you to everyone.”
“Introduce” was a funny word to use. Bryony had gone to school with the two women who covered administrative assistant duties, lived next door to the Assistant Principal, and had served coffee to the counselor and social worker less than an hour ago. But everyone played along as Mitch danced her around the complex of smaller rooms inside the glass door marked “School Office.”
All eyes were on Mitch, of course, as he made a display of the effort his “little sister” made to kick off the year with community support. Mitch always garnered the attention—he always had.
After retreating to the largest room inside the office area, her brother closed the door and collapsed in his chair, sighing with dramatic relief. “I don’t know if I have it in me for another year, Bry.”
Bryony sat on the edge of a heavy coffee table, concerned. Typically, Mitch blathered on about how well the students responded to his discipline and the staff to his leadership. Mopey Mitch made no sense at all. Bryony inserted the tip of her finger into the potted plant beside her as she made eye contact with her brother to show she cared, she was here for him. She would tell him later he needed to water his plant.
“For instance,” Mitch said. “Henderson is out for an extended cardiac rehab, and we have a substitute who might be here all year. He’s a nice enough fellow, but”—Mitch raised his arm and made rolling movements with his hand—“he talks and talks and talks.”
Brushing dry potting soil from her finger onto her skirt, Bryony searched for the right words. “Many people talk when they’re nervous,” she said. “You are his new boss.”
She picked a dead leaf off the plant. She had heard about Chuck’s heart attack. If he might be off all year, it must have been pretty serious. “How’s Chuck doing?” she asked.
Mitch ignored her. “I met the sub for a burger last night. When I meet someone for burgers in the evening, the last thing I want to talk about is work. I thought I might soften him up a bit, make him feel at home, help him lose the professional facade of always showing how much you care about the kids, blah, blah, blah. But instead of loosening up, he asked about ways he might assist with extracurriculars.”
“Sounds like maybe Chuck’s sub cares about making a good impression,” she said.
“Right!” Mitch said. “And talked until midnight!”
Should she send a card to let Chuck know she wished him well? “Sounds like the sub showed enthusiasm for his job.”
“I didn’t get to bed until after one!”
Bryony cocked her head. Mitch was whining! Unlike Chuck, whose temperament would have him taking his serious health issue in stride, Mitch moaned about a minor problem, which could likely be addressed with an earlier bed time. “Sounds like you didn’t sleep enough last night.”
“Right!” Mitch said. “You get it.” He put his head in his hands. “I’ll be sixty-six this year, Bry. Maybe I’m getting too old”—he swept his arm in a semi-circle—“for all of this.”
“You’ll feel better after a good night’s sleep.”
Bryony stood, preparing to leave. She didn’t want to take advantage of Lillian’s flexibility, and there would be plenty to do before the lunch rush. “Go to bed early tonight,” she said as she inched toward the door.
“Mister Green?”
She turned toward the voice. A man she did not recognize peered around Mitch’s office door and stepped in with caution. He appeared to be close to her own age, a few inches taller than her, trim, with short sandy-colored hair thinning on top. He wore glasses perched on the end of his slim nose, and his smile revealed bright white uneven teeth. He wore what passed for normal teacher fashion—navy blue pants and a pressed white shirt.
Her position blocked the man’s view of her brother, and when she glanced back at Mitch, he mouthed, “He’s the sub.”
“Cal! Come on in.” Mitch stood, his face shifting to a welcoming smile as he moved around Bryony and waved the man to enter. “Come in and meet my little sister, Bryony Green.”
Mitch finished making the introductions. Bryony’s face grew warm when Mitch, now situated behind the new teacher, made hand signals of a talking mouth as the teacher gushed a monologue of appreciations at Bryony for the warm reception he had received at the school and, in particular, for Mitch’s hospitality.
Unwilling to join her brother in crossing the boundaries of civil conduct, and good taste, Bryony shifted her position to avoid seeing him altogether as she gave her full attention to the new teacher. “Nice to meet you, Mister Forster.”
“Please, call me Cal.” He extended his hand to shake hers, and the papers he held fluttered to the ground around his feet.
“Let me help,” Bryony said, as the sub said, “Oh, dear,” and they both leaned forward at the same time, butting their heads hard enough for Bryony to see stars.
“I’m so sorry!” they said in unison, rising as one.
“Ouch!” Mitch said. “I’ll bet that hurt.” He skirted his desk, sat down again, and began shuffling through papers.
Bryony looked at the sub as they both rubbed their foreheads. “I understand you’re with us while Mister Henderson recovers from his surgery.” The pain in her head dulled to a throb.
“Do you work in the building?” The sub clutched the disorganized papers in his free hand. “Because I’ve spent the last two days roaming the halls, meeting everyone I could, and somehow I missed you. Let me guess. You look like an artist, but I know you’re not the art teacher. He’s a scary looking fellow!” The sub raised his eyebrows, shuddered, and backpedaled, “But nice, so nice.”
