Eleanor slid one of the nuts to Jasper. I pretended I didn’t notice. I was certainly a tad more relaxed. Maybe this prescription was working.
I took a sip of the fresh martini, more conservatively now, and looked back into the dark recesses of my memory bank, a place that I avoided whenever possible.
“I was teaching in Harlem. It was my first teaching job. Joe and I had been married for a couple of years by this time, and we were trying to start a family.” I glanced over at Eleanor and saw the spark in her dark gray eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I know. The trying was the fun part. Well, I’d just found out I was pregnant.”
Jasper let out a heavy sigh and sprawled out across Eleanor’s feet.
“There was this one kid—there’s always one—that you want to save. That you root for more than the others. Julio Lopez was his name. Always in trouble, always late to class.
“The breakthrough moment with him came when I was teaching my history class about the Bayeux tapestry. Something about it appealed to his sense of design. I saw the interest in his eyes for the first time, and I knew that, visually anyway, I had him.”
I paused for a moment, enjoying the memory.
“He talked to me for a couple of minutes after that class. He was fascinated with the idea of telling a story through art. From that day on, I encouraged him to think about a career in graphic design. After all, I’d seen his doodling when he was supposed to be taking notes. And he’d been busted for graffiti a few months prior. Even though it was wrong to desecrate school property, it was still good stuff, Eleanor. He was really talented.”
“I’ll bet you were a great teacher.” Eleanor slid her feet gently out from underneath Jasper’s snoring body and lay against the arm of the sofa, her chin propped in her hand.
I smiled. “I don’t know about that. But that was the best part of teaching, you know. Finding the key with each kid that unlocked their interest and passion for what you were trying to convey. Seeing them make that connection was tangible, wonderful, and made it all worthwhile.”
I’d always enjoyed showing students new ways to think about things. That sense of adventure and of curiosity was perhaps why playing detective held appeal. Come to think of it, history teachers were like detectives in a way. We spent a lot of time researching unexplained things in history to make them relate to today. It also meant I noticed the small details that might tell me a kid was in trouble.
I took another slug of the icy vodka. There was a photographic volume about historic homes in Philadelphia on Eleanor’s coffee table.
“I gave Julio a book on art and design. Quite an expensive book. The next day his eyes were puffy, and he didn’t stay after class the way he usually did. I hurried after him and made him talk to me. Turns out his mother’s latest boyfriend had ripped the book apart in a drunken rage, just because he knew it meant something to the boy.”
I glanced at Eleanor. She was clutching her glass, not drinking, like she hardly dared to breathe. Silence reigned except for the gentle snoring of the one who had caused all the fuss in the first place.
As if sensing my appraisal, Jasper opened his eyes slightly, gave his tail a lazy wave, and went back to sleep.
“That was the worst part. The stuff you heard, that you couldn’t do much to change. The abuse, the neglect. But I was determined to help Julio. To help him get financial aid and go to college, if that’s what he wanted. To me, teaching was also about making a difference in students’ lives by showing them other options. A way out of the cesspool they were born into.”
I drained the last of my second martini.
“After that he fell in with the wrong crowd. Ignored his old friends, which was a big red flag. One day after school, I went to the convenience store where he worked. He used to be tired in class because he worked nights, but the kid behind the counter said he’d quit.
“I finally tracked him down at the basketball court. ‘Are you okay, Julio?’ I asked him. ‘What’s going on with you?’
“He threw a rock against the fence and it pinged against one of the metal posts.
“‘Nothing,’ he said.
“‘Come on,’ I replied. ‘You’re not talking to the kids at McDonald’s now, you know. This is the all-seeing, all-knowing Mrs. B.’
“That brought a small smile, but it quickly disappeared. ‘My mother’s knocked up again.’
“‘By the same guy who trashed the book?’ I asked, but he wouldn’t look at me. Said he didn’t know. Then I told him I’d heard he wasn’t working at Mo’s anymore, and asked if he was doing okay for money.’