He had forgotten how small the desks are. Ms. Adams rose to greet him as he entered the classroom, then motioned to the desk in front of her own. He flashed an embarrassed grin as he folded himself into the seat and she smiled understandingly but made no move to get a larger chair from another room. Foolish, he thought. Next time he’d bring his own damned chair.

“I really appreciate your coming, Mr. Hebert.” She pronounced it
Hee-bert, which annoyed him, but there was no sense in stirring things up right off the bat. “I could really use some help with Randy’s behavior. I guess Mrs. Hebert couldn’t make it today?”

Use some help. Like he was her assistant or something.

“She’s working. I’m–off, today.”

She nodded, then waited, looking at him. What had Randy told her?

“I work at the shipyards. I got laid off a few months back, but I should be getting back to work soon.” None of her business, really. He didn’t need to apologize to her. He didn’t need to apologize to anybody. “So what’s the problem with Randy?”

“First, I want you to know that I think Randy has the potential to be a really good student. He’s quite bright and he shows some real leadership qualities…” She was a pretty blonde, maybe five or six years younger than him; thirty-five, he guessed. Her teeth weren’t quite right, though. “…seems to be pretty highly strung. Would you say he’s a nervous child at home?” She spoke slowly and precisely.

“Well, he’s got a lot of energy. Don’t all ten-year-olds?” He looked like an idiot in this tiny desk, like one of those goofy Shriners that rode the little cars in the parades. This was how they did it, how they got the upper hand on you. They made you feel like an idiot.

“What’s he doing? Is he talking a lot? We’ve had problems with him before because he talks too much in class.” The guy in the picture on the desk must be her husband. How does she talk to him? Does she talk to him like this, like she’s talking to a fourth-grader?

“Yes, he does talk a lot. Unfortunately, he has a bad habit of interrupting me or the other children when we’re having a discussion. I’ve spoken to him a number of times about this, and I’m sure he told you that I had to send him to the office twice last week.” Ms. Adams folded her hands and leaned forward on the desk.

“They called me. He’s off TV for a week. Seems like we’ve tried everything. We’re just not sure what to do next.” Pathetic. Can’t you even control your own kid?–that’s what she’s thinking. Some parent. But at least he tried. He made an effort. That’s what he wanted them to understand. He was willing to make an effort. If they’re so smart how come they can’t control him, either?

“Mr. Hebert, there’s another problem, too.” She was saying this carefully, like she was trying to be tactful. When they get tactful, look out. “Randy’s a big boy for his age. He tends to be really rough with the other children. We’ve had to call him down at recess several times for picking on his classmates.” She studied his face as she talked, like a wary boxer watching an opponent’s eyes for the flinch that signaled his next punch. “He seems…angry. Do you get that feeling at home?”

Angry. Yeah, he’s probably angry. The union sold out his dad on the last round of layoffs. His mom had to go back to work at the garment factory so he never sees her when she isn’t exhausted. His teacher hasn’t even bothered to learn to pronounce his name right. And, of course, there was Allen.

“Not really,” he said. “Not that I’ve noticed.” That’s not very useful. Say something intelligent. “He gets mad when he doesn’t get his way sometimes.” He shrugged and shifted his body, trying to find a more comfortable position for his legs. He could feel his left foot going to sleep.

The teacher pursed her lips thoughtfully for a few moments.

“Children need a lot of direction,” she said, still talking slowly. Are you taking notes, Mr. Hee-bert? “They need parameters–um, fences or rules–so they can learn how they are supposed to act. But we can’t expect them to know these rules unless we communicate them. Of course, they’re all different and we need to respect each one as an individual, get to know them, let them talk about their feelings. Do you know what I’m saying, Mr. Hebert?”

“My name isn’t Hee-bert. It’s Ay-bear.”

“I beg your pardon?” Ms. Adams looked confused.

“It’s French. We’re from Louisiana and that’s how you pronounce it. Seems like there would be enough coonasses in Houston where you could recognize a French name.” He pushed himself up out of the desk. “His name is Randy Ay-bear.”

The teacher looked up at him. For the first time, she seemed flustered. “I’m sorry. He never said anything to me.”

He walked over to the bulletin board and ran his eyes over the watercolor drawings, but he couldn’t find one by Randy. “Maybe it doesn’t bother him anymore.”

She was silent for a moment, then said, “Look, Mr. Hebert,” taking care to pronounce it properly, “sometimes when children act out like this it’s because they’re seeking attention–”

“And you don’t think he gets enough attention at home.”

“I didn’t say that.”

He turned and looked at her across the room. Sitting there at her big desk in an adult-sized chair surrounded by her textbooks and diplomas and child psychology crap. Calm. Stay calm. He couldn’t let her get to him. She was a parent; she could be made to understand.

“Look, Mrs. Adams. You know you can’t watch a kid every second. You can tell him how to act, but he won’t always do what you say. You can tell him, ‘Don’t run in the street,’ but sometimes he’ll do it anyway. Is it your fault, then, if he runs in the street? You can tell them what to do in school, but–you have children, right? Do they always do what you say?”

“No,” she said. Then: “I mean, no, I don’t have children.”

The confession hung in the air between them, and for a moment he could not believe he had heard her correctly. No children? She may as well have admitted to flunking out of grade school.

“You don’t have any children,” he said flatly.

“Whether or not I have children has nothing to do with this. We’re talking about your child, Mr. Hebert. We’re talking about Randy.”

“It has everything to do with this. You people take your classes and you talk about your theories and when anything goes wrong with a kid you blame the parents. Well, it’s not my fault. You want to tell me how to raise my children, and you don’t even know what it’s like to be a parent–what kind of hell having kids can put you through–the responsibility–”

“I wasn’t blaming you. I just mean that being a parent is a privilege. Everyone can’t–I mean, children are gifts, and we need to cherish them, appreciate them–” Her voice trembled slightly.

“Appreciate them?” His voice was rising, but he made no effort to stop himself now. He had to make her understand. “Let me tell you something. You can’t really appreciate children until you have one taken away from you. Did you know that Randy had a brother named Allen? He got killed last year, right there in front of the house. Randy, Allen and me were just tossing a ball around in the front yard and then, I mean, he was there one minute and gone the next, just like that. It wasn’t anybody’s fault, except maybe Allen’s. It wasn’t the driver’s fault. It sure as hell wasn’t my fault. Kids just do things. But everybody wants to put the blame on somebody. They say they don’t, but they make comments, and then you wonder if maybe they’re right. Maybe you could have done something different. Maybe you’re not such a good parent. But all you can do is try your best and hope to hell they listen. Do I appreciate Randy? Lady, you don’t know. You don’t know.”

A maintenance man appeared in the doorway of the classroom and looked questioningly at the teacher. He had been yelling, and she was scared, and he felt ashamed now–ashamed for letting her get to him, ashamed for scaring her, ashamed for just now realizing that maybe it wasn’t her choice that she didn’t have children. He was sick at his stomach and he didn’t want to be here. He just wanted to go home and hold Randy.

“It’s all right, Leonard,” Ms. Adams said quietly, and the janitor nodded and cast a wary glance at the irate parent before he left.

He could feel the muscle spasm tightening in his back. It would be a bad night. Pick up sleeping pills on the way home. He’d tell his wife the meeting was fine, everything was fine. Why get her stressed out again, too?

“I’ve got to go now,” he said. “I’ll get on Randy–I’ll talk to him about the behavior.”

When he was almost out of the door she said, “I’m sorry. I’m very sorry.” He did not stop walking.

Laura Adams listened to the footsteps fading down the hallway. She took out her roll book and opened it. Her eyes slowly scanned the list of names and for each name a face appeared; faces she could connect only with her own world of the classroom and homework and report cards. They all had labels: they were “good” and “bad” and “bright” and “slow” and “sweet” and “rude.” And suddenly her world seemed so small, so small. She pictured in her mind a house by a busy street, a rolling ball, a desperate scream, the anguished sobs of a little boy whose brother would never play catch with him again. Next to Randy’s name she wrote Ay-bear in pencil and she circled it. Unconsciously, Laura’s eyes moved to the picture on her desk, the one showing her and her husband and no child looking back from it. And she realized she was crying.