Saving Elijah

computer and write poetry.) "Then in your sleep, maybe," Sam suggested. Right. Maybe in my sleep, if I were sleeping, except I practically hadn't slept in months.
    How in the world was I going to write a lighthearted essay every two weeks? What was funny anymore? Clearly the ghost meant to obliterate and mock every single element of my life, everything I loved, everything I held precious. Even my class was beginning to feel like a burden. Not that the demon had done anything since the day it mimicked Carl's wife, but I was always afraid it would. Always the fear, gnawing at my insides.
    I decided that I needed to hold on to what wits I still had by concentrating only on what was most important. I would give up my class. I would do it today.
    I erased the poem and turned off the computer.
    That afternoon, I took Elijah to the Jewish Community Center, dropped him in his art class with Addie, then went to face the music.
    Mitzi Hertzl had finally written about her first lover, the romantic Englishman she'd wanted to marry. Her essay was charming, also sexier than I expected from a woman pushing eighty. Not explicit, just sexy.
    The group seemed to really like it, even had a discussion about how writers nowadays had to give readers a tour of body parts, spell everything out, and how most of the time less is more.
    When the hour ended, I told them I could no longer teach the class.
    "You joining the navy?" Abe had a smile on his face.
    "No, Abe," Carl said. "You joined the navy, and it was fifty years ago."
    "I'm really sorry," I said. "I've been finding lately that I can't... that I'm too busy."
    There was a silence. They stared at me.
    "You're abandoning us just as we're getting the hang of it?" Abe was still trying to make a joke out of it.
    "What'd she say?" Mrs. Shoenfeld asked Mitzi, who leaned over and loudly told her.
    Ellen startled. "Quitting?"
    "I'm sorry," I said. "I just have no choice. I'm going to talk to the director. I'm sure he'll be able to find someone else to continue with it."
    "What is it, Dinah?" Pearl said. "Maybe we can help."
    "Pearl's right, Dinah," Mitzi said. "Maybe we can."
    "Is it Elijah?" Ellen Shoenfeld asked, turning her right ear toward me, the way she did when she was trying hard to follow.
    "Thanks for asking. No. He's fine. He's taking an art class in the crafts room."
    "Then what?" Carl Moskovitz.
    "I really can't talk about it. Really."
    They packed up their bags and their papers, and they left. I went to get Elijah.
    When I came into the crafts room, Addie was just saying goodbye to the other children. Still-wet pictures were tacked up around the room, names scrawled at the bottom of the pages. There were lots of houses on green spiky grass, with a band of blue sky at the top of the page. Lots of stick figures and brown tree trunks with round green foliage blobs. An artist named Jason had painted a purple polka-dot car.
    In a corner, Elijah was still painting away, concentrating intently.
    "Hi, little guy," I said.
    "Hi, Mom." He didn't look up, kept painting.
    "Wait till you see Elijah's picture!" Addie said.
    I went over to see what he was doing, and stopped. Cold.
    The top two-thirds of the large paper was painted a solid powder blue. The bottom third he'd left white. In the blue section were several crudely drawn fish-like figures, rendered in dark blue lines. In the white section was a big pink splotch. Pink.
    I stared at the thing, speechless.
    "It's pretty, isn't it?" Elijah said.
    "I had the kids name their pictures," Addie said. "Tell your mom what you call yours, Elijah."
    Elijah smiled. "Angels."
    I pointed to one of the dark blue fish figures. "Is that one of the angels?"
    He lowered his eyes. "That's Charlie."
    Charlie? My knees buckled and I sat down on the table. That was the name of my mother's little brother, the one who drowned in an Atlanta pool. Almost seventy years ago. I closed my eyes.
    "That one's Jimmy," Elijah said.
    I opened my eyes but I'd begun to tremble. "How do you know about Charlie and jimmy?"
    Elijah smiled up at me. "I see them when I sleep, Mommy. Just like dreaming."
    I took his hand and led him out, holding the painting carefully, faceup, in my other hand. We had to pass Ellen Shoenfeld, who was sitting on a bench in front of the building.
    "Hello, Elijah," she said. "How are you?"
    "Fine." He was staring at her intently.
    "Is that your painting?" she asked, pointing to Elijah's picture, turning her head to hear his response.
    Elijah nodded.