There was a window at the end of the school hallway; Isaac perched on the radiator beneath it. The sky was dark gray, thick with heavy clouds, but he�d heard the weather report this morning, and it wasn�t predicting snow.
Still, he thought, maybe things had changed. It would be nice if it snowed. They might get out of school a few days early, if the roads were bad.
Isaac wished for snow. He didn�t want to see Mrs. Schafly until 1989. . . or, preferably, not ever again. She was in there now, talking to Dan. Taylor had taken Zac down to the kindergarten room to visit his teacher, but Isaac had stayed here, uninterested in brightly colored blocks and the playing-house corner. At the far end of the corridor, a lone custodian moved a vacuum cleaner-like machine back and forth against the tile; the entire floor shone with fresh wax. Maybe, Isaac thought, he�d become a janitor when he grew up. It probably didn�t make a difference whether or not you�d failed second grade.
He knew he wasn�t doing very well, and he knew he needed to try harder. At the same time, he could hardly ever keep his mind on school, when there was so much else to think about. The word "preoccupied" had not yet entered Isaac�s vocabulary, but that was exactly what he was. And when you are preoccupied, extended concentration is hard to come by.
Isaac wondered what Mrs. Schafly was saying about him. Probably not anything good, he thought. He felt bad. . . worried that Dan would get mad at him. Isaac felt his stomach twist. If he were Dan, he�d be really mad. . .
Inside the second grade classroom, however, Dan wasn�t growing more and more angry with each passing moment. Instead, he felt overwhelmed. . . and more than a little perplexed. He didn�t know what was expected of him. . . and he hadn�t the slightest idea what he was supposed to do.
"I hesitate to suggest that Isaac�s inattentiveness is rooted in any organic disorder," Mrs. Schafly said. "He can do well when he wants to. . . which doesn�t appear to be very often."
"I think he has a lot going on. . ." Dan began, then wondered if excuses might only make things worse. What did you say at these things? He felt like he should have read up on the subject, brought a lawyer with him, or something. He had a lot of questions, and not the first clue how to ask them.
"I understand that," Mrs. Schafly said. "And I am willing to make allotments. However, I feel. . . and I think you may agree with me, that it would be in Isaac�s best interest to become more adaptable. With stronger academic skills, his schoolwork might not suffer so much during periods of. . . stress."
"So. . . how do we do that?" Dan asked. He felt stupid as soon as the words were out of his mouth. He needed a bigger vocabulary than the one he had already. He should be something white-collar and intimidating, instead of a semi-itinerant graphic artist. He should have an office, a leather chair, Prada shoes instead of battered Converse low-tops...
"Well, I would say that he needs to apply himself," Mrs. Schafly said. "I don�t know how to motivate him. . . nothing I�ve tried has made a difference."
Well, that makes two of us, Dan thought. You think I know how to motivate the kid?
He didn�t say that, though. What Dan asked was, "What have you tried?"
"Well," Mrs. Schafly said, thinking, "pretty much everything. I had him sitting in the front row. He still didn�t pay attention. I tried a sticker chart. . . when he paid attention, he�d get a sticker. If he didn�t, I�d subtract one." Mrs. Schafly shook her head. "He ended up with stickers in the negative numbers. He paid even less attention when there was an incentive to pay attention. I asked him about it, and do you know what he said?"
Dan shook his head. He didn�t know what Isaac had said. . . Mrs. Schafly hadn�t told him yet.
"He said he didn�t really care about how many stickers he had, that it didn�t make a difference to him. He said he kept forgetting that he was supposed to be earning stickers. So, I taped the chart to his desk to help him remember." Mrs. Schafly took a deep breath. "He gave the entire sticker chart away to another child in the class, because, he told me, �she likes stickers better than I do.�"
Dan thought that that was kind of nice of Isaac, personally, but he sensed that Mrs. Schafly wanted him to be appalled. "Hmm. . ."
"Is he this difficult at home?" Mrs. Schafly inquired, curiously.
Dan was taken aback. "At home? No. . . not really. I mean, I wouldn�t consider him to be very difficult." Then again, he thought, how exactly did you know if a child was difficult? Taking care of kids all day was the most difficult thing he�d ever done. Being constantly responsible, constantly alert and constantly available was more draining than he could ever have imagined. Still, Dan thought, it wasn�t as if Isaac threw fits or beat up on other kids. He didn�t start fires or steal things. In fact, Dan thought, it was the fact that Isaac wasn�t very difficult that bothered him. Isaac didn�t want to be any trouble. . . he never even asked for anything, Dan realized. The fact filled him with regret, and a small bit of undirected anger. "No," he said to Mrs. Schafly, decisively. "He isn�t any trouble at all."
Maybe Mrs. Schafly spoke before she thought; maybe her words reflected only grave misjudgment. Whatever the case, the next words out of her mouth were regrettable. "I find that hard to believe, Mr. Conway."
Dan�s eyes, when they locked on hers, were the steely gray color of clouds before a storm. "I don�t. Mrs. Schafly."
For a moment, Mrs. Schafly looked nervous. "I�m sorry. . . I shouldn�t have spoken so soon. Perhaps Isaac is different at home. However, based on what he has shown me with his behavior at school, I do have a hard time believing that he doesn�t exhibit, at least in some ways, the same negative attitude and lack of respect for authority that he shows at school."
"Lack of respect for authority?" Dan repeated.
"Yes," Mrs. Schafly agreed. "For example. . ." She reached into a folder on her desk and pulled out a large sheet of cream colored paper. "His holiday picture."
"Ooh." Dan drew in a breath. "I remember that."
Mrs. Schafly nodded. "Yes." She held the picture up. "Do you know what he ended up drawing?"
Dan squinted at the crayon marks on the thick sheet of paper. "Looks like a forest fire to me," he observed. He was unable to resist the temptation of adding, "Kind of in an early Van Gogh style, or maybe he�d lean more toward Monet." He smiled.
"Mr. Conway, Isaac drew burning Christmas trees," Mrs. Schafly said. "He was not trying to imitate any master artist, he was making a mockery of the assignment."
"A mockery of the assignment?" Dan parroted.
Mrs. Schafly nodded emphatically. "Yes, a mockery. Isaac does not like being told what to do, Mr. Conway. He either will not attempt an assignment, or will put very little effort into it." She pulled a few more sheets of paper from the folder. "These are a few of his most recent papers. . . at least, a few of the ones he�s bothered to turn in." She sat back primly, scrutinizing Dan as he studied the papers.
"Is this handwriting?" Dan pointed to the pencil scrawl that curved and snaked across every line on the paper.
"Unfortunately," Mrs. Schafly agreed, sagely.
"What does it say?" Dan asked. He could scarcely make out individual letters, let alone words.
"Your guess is as good as mine," Mrs. Schafly said. "Sometimes his writing is better than this. . . occasionally, I can read it."
Dan checked the date on the top of the paper. "When this was assigned. . ." he began.
"Yes?" Mrs. Schafly inquired.
"Well, the day before, we�d just told the boys something. . ." Dan wondered how much he should say. "We told them something that I know Isaac was. . . is. . . very worried about."
"I see." Mrs. Schafly nodded. "Well, that�s my point. Many factors in Isaac�s life are. . . out of his control. His performance in school, however, is within his control, and he would do a lot better for himself if he�d learn to take advantage of the fact."
"Well. . ." Dan took a deep breath. "How well, do you think, Isaac is capable of doing in school, if he applied himself?"
"I would say, at least low average," Mrs. Schafly told him. "Probably not more than that, but it�s better than he�s doing now?"
"Why low average?" Dan tested.
"Well," Mrs. Schafly said, "you can�t expect a high performance from someone whose capabilities are so limited."
"You mean because of the outside factors in his life," Dan commented.
"No, I mean. . ." Mrs. Schafly leaned toward Dan and lowered her voice. "Mr. Conway, you are not Isaac�s natural parent. I would not ordinarily tell someone this about their child, but I believe this information will help you as you attempt to. . . deal. . . with this boy." She tapped her long fingernails against the edge of the desk. "I do not believe that Isaac has. . . the potential. . . to go very far in life, and I do not believe he has much of a chance. Even if he concentrates entirely on academics, he will never be a high achiever. I do not believe we should force him to do more than he�s able to, as I doubt he has the ability to get A�s, or B�s, or even C�s, in some areas. However, I believe he can pass, and all we should hope for is that he�s passing." She sat back. "In a few months, Isaac won�t be your concern, Mr. Conway. Or mine. All we�ll be able to hope for is that we�ve instilled some semblance of work ethic into the boy. Do you see what I mean?"
Dan narrowed his eyes. Emotions swirled within him; he was really angry now. "Mrs. Schafly," he said, "Isaac is eight years old."
"Well," Mrs. Schafly said, "it�s never to late to start trying."
"You�re looking at an eight year old and judging his entire future?" Dan continued.
"I�m speaking from experience," Mrs. Schafly countered.
"Do you have any idea what it must be like. . ." Dan struggled to keep his voice level, "to be eight years old, to have a mother who takes off and leaves whenever she feels like it, and to be the only one in charge of your five and three year old brothers half the time?"
"Well, I can imagine. . ." Mrs. Schafly began.
"No," Dan interrupted, "I don�t think you can imagine it. I can�t imagine it. No one can imagine what it must be like to be eight years old and worrying about the electricity being cut off, the phone service being cut off, or their mother never coming home again unless they actually are an eight year old in that situation. Or were," he added, after thinking for a moment.
"What happens to a student at home is not really our concern at school. . ." Mrs. Schafly began.
"Yes I believe it is your concern," Dan said. "You can�t expect him to come to school and forget about everything that is happening to him at home. You can�t expect him to sit there and concentrate when he doesn�t even know what he�ll find when he walks in the door that afternoon."
"If he comes to school, we should expect him to be able to concentrate," Mrs. Schafly�s tone of voice was unfaltering.
"Then you�re expecting more than he�s capable of," Dan said. "You�re holding him up to unfair expectations."
"In that case," Mrs. Schafly pointed out, "you are agreeing with me. Isaac isn�t capable of a satisfactory performance in school."
"No, I am not agreeing with you!" Dan told her, forcefully. "In fact, if he could go through everything that�s happening to him right now, come to school and still perform well, I�d be far more concerned than I am right now."
"And why is that?" Mrs. Schafly questioned, icily.
"If Isaac was sailing along, doing wonderfully," Dan said, "I would take it to signify that he was incapable of grasping the situation he was in. If he was happy and well adjusted and bringing home straight A�s, I would wonder if there was something wrong with him."
"He needs to learn to adjust!" Mrs. Schafly attempted, but there was a feebleness in her voice that hadn�t been there before.
"Mrs. Schafly," said Dan, "there are certain situations no sane person should ever adjust to. Being well adjusted, in Isaac�s situation, would signify insanity."
"I�m certainly not suggesting that he�s insane," huffed Mrs. Schafly.
"I�m not suggesting it either," said Dan. "But I refuse to believe that he is stupid. He can do better and he will do better, and I believe that you and I should focus on ways of trying to help him. Still, I won�t fault him for maladjustment, and I won�t consider him incapable of achievement. Neither, I hope, will you."
Mrs. Schafly sighed exhaustedly. "I appreciate your resolve," she said. "If you believe Isaac can improve his performance, I invite you to try anything you can think of, and I will be supportive. Still, I base my judgments on what he has shown me, and I don�t feel that I have been too harsh. You must remember that I have thirty-one other kids in my classroom, and giving Isaac the type of attention he seems to require will often be out of the question."
"That�s okay," said Dan, his anger dissipating with every breath that he took. "I understand your position, and I�m glad you respect mine. I think we need to give Ike a chance. . . and I think. . . I hope. . . I know we will be surprised by what he is capable of."
Mrs. Schafly nodded. "I�ll go over Isaac�s assignments and compile a packet of worksheets for him to complete over winter vacation," she decided. "If he completes them, and completes them carefully, I�ll pass him for the quarter. Hopefully, he�ll be able to get his act together during the second part of the year."
"That�ll be good," Dan said. "My wife and I will do our best to help him. Thanks."
Mrs. Schafly nodded. "I�ll be sending the worksheets home with him tomorrow."
"And I�ll see that he finishes them," Dan promised. He stood up to leave.
"Mr. Conway?" Mrs. Schafly called, when Dan was halfway to the door.
"Yes?" Dan asked.
"I will withold judment on Isaac�s capabilities until he himself proves to me what he is able to do," Mrs. Schafly told him.
Dan smiled, pleased. "Thank you, Mrs. Schafly. I�m sure you won�t be disappointed."
Mrs. Schafly watched him as he left the room, a sense of wonderment washing over her. He seemed awfully willing to stand up for a kid he hardly knew, a kid who wasn�t even his own. It puzzled Mrs. Schafly. She could hardly understand it, and she wasn�t sure if she ever would.
Dan scanned the hallway. Isaac was right where he�d left him, perched on the radiator at the end of the hall, staring out the window at the few flakes of snow that had escaped from the clouds and were drifting toward the ground. Dan paused, his hands in his pockets, and sighed. Despite what he�d told Mrs. Schafly, he didn�t feel confident at all. If anything, Isaac seemed more unreachable now, curled next to the window with his palm to the glass, a small, resolute little figure who was lost, perhaps, to everyone. . . maybe even to himself. Dan shook his head, and started down the hall.
Isaac looked up, biting his lip. The apprehension in his eyes was impossible to mistake; he stiffened when he saw Dan. "I guess it didn�t go very good, huh?"
"It went fine," Dan said, his gaze fixed out the window.
"I really do try," Isaac whispered, his voice so soft it was almost inaudible. "She doesn�t believe me, but I really do try."
"I know you do," Dan said. "Don�t worry about it."
Isaac slid off the radiator. "Can we go now?"
"Uh huh," Dan agreed. He wondered what to say. He wasn�t mad, he wasn�t disappointed, but he couldn�t find any words that seemed to fit what he was feeling. Again, Dan wished for that elusive big vocabulary. Still, it didn�t seem to him that anyone, anywhere, could ever come up with the right terms, the appropriate trite phrases that would wrap so much emotion into a neat, tight package, something he could use and stand upon firmly, thinking "this is what I mean."
You aren�t my kid, Dan thought, looking at Isaac, but my God, I want to fight for you. "Ike," he said aloud, "you�re a good kid."
Isaac looked up at him alarmed. "Mrs. Schafly said THAT?"
"No," Dan said. "I mean. . . not in so many words. I just thought I�d tell you that I thought so."
"Oh," said Isaac. He was quiet for a moment. "You do?"
"Yeah," Dan assured him. "Don�t forget it."
"I won�t," Isaac promised. He scratched the back of his neck and glanced back at the window down the hall. I�m a good kid, he thought to himself. It�s a pretty nice lie.