Takeoffs and Landings(28)

What would it be like not to have to hide anymore?

It was one of those rare nights when Mom wasn’t giving a speech. She was sitting at the table in the hotel room, writing notes in the margins of a stack of papers. Lori was sprawled across one of the beds watching TV. Chuck eased into the chair across from Mom.

“Mom,” he started, and almost lost his nerve. He reminded himself he was in Phoenix, farther from home than he’d ever been before in his life. He was safe.

Mom looked up, waiting.

“I’m too dumb to be a farmer,” Chuck blurted out.

Oh no! Why did I say that?

Chuck braced himself for Mom to say what she’d have to say: Of course you’re not too dumb. You just have to try harder. Listen to Pop. Pay attention in vo-ag class. I have faith in you. Lies, lies, lies. And Chuck would have to pretend to believe her.

But Mom just gave him a steady look.

“I’m too dumb to be a farmer, too,” she said.

Chuck’s mouth was already forming the obedient, meaningless, Okay, Mom. I’ll try harder. Whatever you say. He froze when she said the wrong thing.

“Huh?” he managed to grunt.

“So are most of the people I’ve met, traveling around,” Mom said. “Farmers have to know about everything—botany, animal science, mechanical engineering, commodity trading, international markets. . . . Then there’s all the physical labor. There aren’t many people in this country anymore who’d last even a month or two on a farm. Pop may give you all that ‘I’m just a dumb old farmer’ spiel, but don’t believe it. He’s a genius in coveralls.”

Chuck stared at Mom, his mouth hanging open. Fine. Pop was a genius. How was that supposed to make Chuck feel better?

“But I’m dumb,” he repeated.

“You—,” Mom started and hesitated.

Chuck was suddenly too mad to listen. His own mother wouldn’t even deny it. He was dumb.

“The other kids tease me,” he said. “You know that, don’t you?”

“Chuck, you just have to know how to deal with them,” Lori said from across the room. “Just get along.”

Chuck turned on her.

“‘Just get along’? How am I supposed to do that? Laugh along with them when they call me Chuck Lardson? Hold my tests up so everyone can look at the big fat F’s at the top? Stand up at the front of the room during vo-ag so everyone sees I can’t put a tractor engine back together?”

Chuck was breathing hard, winded just from talking. Why couldn’t he shut up? All he’d meant to do was announce, I’ve been going to art museums. Where had all that other stuff come from? Now Mom would know what he was really like. Chuck’s face flamed. Images tumbled through his mind. Phys ed class with half the reserve football team, all of them pointing and laughing while footballs slipped through Chuck’s arms. English papers handed back with big red circles and nasty comments written above every other word. FFA meetings where everyone else sat together, and Chuck sat alone in a row of empty chairs. Pop’s face, red and angry, his mouth open, yelling something: “How many times do I have to tell you to shut the gate? . . . What in the world were you thinking, driving a tractor like that? . . . You trying to kill that corn, spraying anhydrous like that?”

“Oh, Chuck,” Mom said, so softly it sounded like an echo. Maybe it was an echo. In his mind, Chuck saw the face of another woman who had spoken his name like that. Miss Prentiss, his first-grade teacher.

“Oh, Chuck, you are not stupid,” she’d say. “Don’t you pay any attention to what those other kids say. Different people just learn different ways. Now, you try that top line again. . . .”

Miss Prentiss kept having conferences with Mom and Dad. Chuck sat there squirming while Lori played with dolls and Mikey and Joey toddled around the room.

“Don’t you think this is your fault, Chuck,” Miss Prentiss would say. “If anyone’s stupid, it’s us teachers, because we can’t figure out how to help you.”

After every single one of those conferences, Daddy took Chuck out for ice cream—just Chuck. All the other kids had to go home with Mom.

“I don’t think there’s anything to worry about, Chuckeroo,” Daddy would say. “At least, nothing that a little ice cream won’t help. Here. This’ll make everything better.”

Chuck could still see those cones Daddy gave him, trailing sprinkles and fudge sauce and chopped nuts. They seemed to tower higher than Chuck’s head.

Halfway through the school year, Miss Prentiss had gotten some sort of grant and gone off to learn how to help kids read better.