groped for words. It didn’t seem to be about Josh: he was right there, tucked baby-perfect into her elbow and chewing on her knuckle, looking as content as a five-month-old teething baby could. Staying in the church nursery during Sunday school obviously hadn’t done him any bodily harm. The walk home perhaps? Had something happened then?
“Promise me!” she blurted out finally.
Doug stashed the saw in its proper drawer and began walking toward Essie to take Josh. “Promise you what?”
“Promise me Josh will never make bathroom jokes, or think crawling under the sanctuary pews is cool, or try to blow Kool-Aid out his nose because he was dared to, or draw the Apostles having a belching competition on his gospel lesson papers—promise me!”
Doug tucked Josh onto his shoulder, feeling his shirt dampen. His new son seemed to be a constant source of saliva. “Slow down, Essie….”
Which was useless, since Essie had now begun to pace the tiny workshop they’d carved out on the back porch of their San Francisco apartment. “Promise me he’ll never see who can say booger ten times fastest, or bark like a puppy for ten straight minutes while someone’s trying to teach him about forgiveness, and that he will possess the seemingly rare ability to sit still for thirty seconds, and that he won’t turn into one of them!”
Doug wasn’t sure there was a safe response to that. He tried to catch Essie’s hand as she paced the short length of the deck, but she slid out of his grasp. She turned and crossed the length again, tugging at her ponytail. She looked like she had another hundred such laps in her.
“They’re animals,” she said to no one in particular. “They’re little beasts in tiny khaki pants and itty-bitty loafers. They couldn’t have been raised by humans. They’re animals.”
“They’re second-grade boys. That’s pretty close to animals in my book.”
“No.” Essie turned to him, eyeing him like a biology specimen. “These aren’t normal boys. Men who run companies and drive school buses and file tax returns don’t start out like this. Mobsters start out like this, not nice boys.”
“You just had a bad day.”
“You know,” she replied as she rubbed at a marker stain on the cuff of her shirt, “I thought that. Last week. But this week was just the same. They’re lunatics, these little boys. It’s like trying to teach a band of chimpanzees on a sugar high.”
She stopped pacing and leaned her body back against one of the support columns. Strands of curly hair had escaped her ponytail, and she pushed them aside with an annoyed gesture. “I don’t why I ever let Mark-o talk me into this.”
Doug offered Josh a knuckle, wincing as the tiny edge of a new tooth made itself known. “You were excited about this. Essie, you’ve always been great with kids. You’re great with Josh. You were voted Teacher of the Year before we left New Jersey. You can do this.”
She turned her gaze out over the alley, away from him. “No one in the hallowed halls of Pembrook High School ever called me Mrs. Poopy-head.”
“Well, not to your face, maybe…”
“Doug…”
“Okay, okay.” He came up behind her and kissed one shoulder. “So they’re a rough crowd. And they lack certain social skills. That doesn’t make you a bad teacher. From what I remember of second grade, ‘poopy-head’ is a compliment.”
A tiny laugh escaped her lips. “So this is like kindergarten, where if I hit you it means I like you?”
“Not exactly. By second grade the ‘cootie factor’ comes into play. Look, Essie, Mark’s under a lot of pressure from those private-school-types to get things right. He wouldn’t have asked you to teach at his church if he didn’t think you’d do a great job.”
“I bet he’ll get calls today. Mrs. Covington’s gonna pop right out of her Guccis when she sees her son’s ‘Burping Apostle Peter.’ Where do those little minds dream up this stuff?”
“You were expecting them to line up and sing ‘Jesus Loves Me’ in harmony? Don’t you remember second grade?”
She rested her head against the pillar. Josh reached out a chubby hand to grasp at his mother’s curls, now within reach, and tried stuffing one in his mouth. Essie winced at the pull and turned to face them. “I thought I could handle them, Doug.”
“You can. You’re just going to have to work a little harder than you thought to pull it off.”
“I don’t know.”
“I do. The Essie Walker I married can’t be conquered. You could shot-put one of those kids across the room if you had to, and I bet they know it. Perhaps during next week’s lesson you could mention that you are the New Jersey state champion.”
“These boys don’t even respect the laws of gravity. They’re not going to respect the 1993 New Jersey state shot-put title.”
“I don’t know,” said Doug, breathing in the particularly wonderful scent of his wife’s neck. “It goes a long way with me.”
“You,” she said, her voice pitching a bit higher when he kissed her in just the right spot, “don’t count.”
“Joshua and I are insulted at that remark.” Doug pulled away in mock indignation.
“I’ll make it up to you.”
She leaned in to kiss him, her hair glinting in the early afternoon sunlight. Doug inhaled in sweet expectation.
Only to hear his son fill his diaper. Enthusiastically. And then snort in manly satisfaction.
Doug rolled his eyes. “Boys and their bodily functions.”
Essie sighed. “I’ll change this one.”
“No,” Doug countered. “I think you’ve had enough of male physiology for one morning. I’ll take this one. There’s some pink lemonade in the fridge. I’ll take care of Mr. Toxic Pants here and meet you back on the deck chairs.” He used his free hand to nudge her shoulders toward the kitchen.
Essie didn’t argue. Which could only mean those boys really had been beasts.
The second-grade boys’ Sunday school class at Bayside Christian Church was proving to require stamina of Olympic proportions. Two weeks into the job—no, Essie corrected herself, into the ministry—and she was up to her earlobes in doubt. She was a fine teacher, but try as she might, she could not get the upper hand with this squirrelly class. Essie was still shaking her head as she closed the fridge door and returned to the porch to sink into an Adirondack chair.
She loved these angled wood chairs. They barely fit on the deck, and their New England rustic charm clashed with the jazzy Euro-style that was San Francisco. Ah, but Essie wouldn’t give these chairs up for the world. They were home. Barbecues in the backyard followed by walks to the beach. They were morning coffee cups steaming into the salt-laden air, they were lemonades on the lawn when it was hot and sticky. Essie let her head fall back against the wood and tried to conjure up a New Jersey Sunday from the scents that lingered in the grain. Of a life where she knew what to do
