A Man Named Dave

having the privilege of returning to the school that meant so much to me, and how I had played a small part in helping a child in need.
    Behind me the voice of my fifth-grade teacher startled me. “Just heard what you did. The kid’s gonna be fine. You certainly have a way with them – the kids, I mean.” Mr Ziegler held out a hand. “Listen, I know you have a long drive ahead of you, but if you can spare the time … ?” A lump began to creep up my throat. All I could do was nod yes.
    That evening, during supper in a local restaurant, both of us stumbled to keep the conversation going. I noticed that we made little to no eye contact. I was simply too ashamed. From across the table Mr Ziegler turned away when I looked up from my food and spoke. Clearing his throat as he finished dinner, Mr Ziegler said, “It’s really good to see you … It’s been on my mind for a while, and I need to get this off my chest. I’m not sure if you even know, but … that day, when you came to my class, that day in March when you were taken away …”
    I suddenly became paralyzed with fear. I had never known why my teachers finally intervened and called the police. I became so anxious that I thought my eyes would pop out of my head. With my left hand under the table, I squeezed my thigh. I almost raised my hand to stop Mr Ziegler. I got as far as running my fingers through my hair.
    “You … came to school that day … you were so small. But, uh – I just got to get this out – you came to school that day in March, with, uh … with no skin on your arms,” Mr Ziegler finished, then took a gulp of wine.
    I dropped the fork that I was using. I sucked in a deep breath, staring at my right arm. “I, uh, I remember. I remember …” I felt almost in a trance-like state. “Yes, I remember, grayish flakes, dark grayish flakes, like patches, on my arms and … and my fingers … Right?”
    Looking as if he had seen a ghost himself, Mr Ziegler stated, “Yes.”
    “I forgot – I mean, I never knew why. It’s stupid, but I never thought it was anything she did different … I mean, at times she, Mother, she was so careful …” I was sputtering as I struggled to find that one thing Mother had done to me that … “Holy shit! Excuse me.” I shook my head. “That’s it. The day – the morning you, all of you, called the police, I remember!” My eyes welled up. “I remember,” I repeated, “my fingers and arms … they itched. I couldn’t stop scratching … and uh, I didn’t finish my chores on time. That Friday morning when you called the police … Mother had to drop me off at school that day. She never did before, but … I was so late, late with my chores. Without skin … I couldn’t grip anything … I couldn’t get them done on time …”
    I emptied my lungs in one deep breath. I could feel the tips of my fingers beginning to twitch. “But … it was the afternoon, before Friday, she made me stick my arms in a bucket that had … the mixture … ammonia and Chlorox. That’s it. That’s what did it.” I closed my eyes and shuddered from the cold that crept up my spine. When I opened my eyes, I could feel a small tear running down my cheek. “I’m sorry,” I apologized to my teacher. “I, uh, always had to think ahead, I mean to survive, to outsmart her, and I remember Mother tried, I think, to force my head into the bucket, so, stupid me, all I could do was … to think of… getting any air I could in case … in case she put my head into the bucket.” I stopped for a moment. “I just forgot, the whole thing. My God. I remember everything she did, every word she said, but, I just, I dunno. For the life of me, I never knew what made all of you call the police that morning. So much happened to me on a given day …” I looked down at my hands, which were now shaking. “I know it sounds lame, but you … all of you … saved my life.”
    “All we did was …” Mr Ziegler said, downplaying the situation. “Anyway, anybody could see what she was doing. Back then there was nothing we could have done, or were allowed to do. Back then it was considered discipline, parental rights, but we had to do something. Any one of us could see what was going on. It’s something you don’t forget. Ever.”
    Afterward, in the parking lot we hugged each other goodbye. “Thanks, Mr Z.”
    “Call me Steven.” He smiled.
    “Thanks, but I can’t,” I said. “You mean that much to me. You’re my teacher.”
     
    Months later, the week of the twentieth anniversary of my rescue, I returned to present Mr