Boys Life

over; a concern was working its way out of him. “Mrs. Mackenson, did you know Selma Neville?”
    “Yes, I know her. Haven’t seen her for a month or more, though.”
    “I just came from her house,” Dr. Parrish said. “You know she’d been fightin’ cancer for the last year.”
    “No, I surely didn’t!”
    “Well, she put up a good fight, but she passed on about two hours ago. She wanted to pass at home instead of a hospital.”
    “My Lord, I didn’t know Selma was sick!”
    “She didn’t want a fuss. How she got through her last year teachin’ I’ll never know.”
    It hit me who they were talking about. Mrs. Neville. My Mrs. Neville. The teacher who’d said I should enter the short-story contest this year. Good-bye, she’d said as I’d left her room on the first day of summer. Not see you next year or see you in September, but a firm and final good-bye. She must’ve known she was dying, as she sat behind that desk in summer’s light, and she had known that for her there would be no new class of grinning young monkeys in September.
    “Thought you might like to know,” Dr. Parrish said. He touched my shoulder with a hand that had two hours ago pulled a sheet over Mrs. Neville’s face. “You take care now, Cory.” He turned around and walked to his Pontiac, and my grandmother and I watched him drive away.
    An hour later, the Jaybird came home. He wore the expression of a man whose last friend had kicked him in the rump and whose last Washington had snickered as it sailed off into another man’s pocket. He tried to work up a show of anger at me, for “runnin’ off and worryin’ me half to death” but before he could get steamed up on that route Grandmomma Sarah derailed him by asking, very quietly, where the ice cream salt was. The Jaybird wound up sitting by himself on the porch in the fading light, moths whirling around him, his face long and haggard and his spirits as low as his flagging jimbob. I felt kind of sorry for him, actually, but the Jaybird was not the kind of man you felt sorry for. One word of regret from me would’ve made him sneer and swagger. The Jaybird never apologized; he was never wrong. That was why he had no true companions, and that was why he sat alone on that porch in the company of dumb gleaming wings that swirled around him like his ancient memories of pretty farmers’ daughters.
    One last incident marked my week with my grandparents. I had not slept well on Friday night. I dreamed of walking into my classroom, which was empty of everyone but Mrs. Neville, sitting behind her desk straightening papers. Golden light slanted across the floor, bars of it striping the blackboard. The flesh of Mrs. Neville’s face had shriveled. Her eyes looked bright and large, like the eyes of a baby. She held her back rigid, and she watched me as I stood on the threshold between the hallway and classroom. “Cory?” she said. “Cory Mackenson?”
    “Yes ma’am,” I answered.
    “Come closer,” she said.
    I did. I walked to her desk, and I saw that the red apple there on its edge had dried up.
    “Summer’s almost over,” Mrs. Neville told me. I nodded. “You’re older than you were before, aren’t you?”
    “I had a birthday,” I said.
    “That’s nice.” Her breath, though not unpleasant, smelled like flowers on the verge of decay. “I have seen many boys come and go,” she said. “I’ve seen some grow up and set roots, and some grow up and move away. The years of a boy’s life pass so fast, Cory.” She smiled faintly. “Boys want to hurry up and be men, and then comes a day they wish they could be boys again. But I’ll tell you a secret, Cory. Want to hear it?”
    I nodded.
    “No one,” Mrs. Neville whispered, “ever grows up.”
    I frowned. What kind of secret was that? My dad and mom were grown-up, weren’t they? So were Mr. Dollar, Chief Marchette, Dr. Parrish, Reverend Lovoy, the Lady, and everybody else over eighteen.
    “They may look grown-up,” she continued, “but it’s a disguise. It’s just the clay of time. Men and women are still children deep in their hearts. They still would like to jump and play, but that heavy clay won’t let them. They’d like to shake off every chain the world’s put on them, take off their watches and neckties and Sunday shoes and return naked to the swimming hole, if just for one day. They’d like to feel free, and know that there’s a momma and daddy at home who’ll take care of things and love them