The Anything Box

I slopped over to the school building and started a rousing argument in theoffice that resulted in the bell ringing five minutes late. There, I thought.There's your five minutes back.
That afternoon as we watched the children helling up to the helitransthrough the last of the downpour, Miss Robbin looked past me to Miss Leavenand said, 'I can't imagine what happened to Leonard. He cried all day for hismother. Imagine, a boy his age crying for his mother.'
'This putrid rain would make anyone cry,' said Miss Leaven. 'He's a cutekid, isn't he? All those blond curls.'
Blond said my feet in the squishy orange mud. Blond, blond, blond.
The situation followed me home, a formless, baseless haunting. I caughtmyself pacing aimlessly and sat down with a book. I read four pages withoutretaining a word. I took an anti-vir and an aspirin and started cleaning outmy desk drawer. I finally went back to the troublesome cable I was knitting ina sweater and grimly set myself to counting knits and purls. The evening wentsomehow and I went to sleep in an aura of foreboding.
I was unduly upset when I was awakened by the alert signal some time in thevery early morning hours. As a civilian there was nothing for me to do duringa practice alert except to try to go back to sleep. Actually, if ever a realalert was called and we had to evacuate, there was a plan that was supposed tobe put into operation. I don't think any of us civilians and noncombatants hadmany illusions about what would actually happen under such circumstances. We'dbe pointed down a road and told to 'git,' and we'd be on our own after that.We were expendable.
I lay awake, trying to rid myself of the vision of what a person lookedlike after an unprotected attack by the enemy. They have a nasty type ofprojectile that merely pricks the skin. But then the pricked place almostexplodes into an orange-sized swelling that, when cut or punctured, which itmust be immediately to ease the unendurable agony, sprays out hundreds of tinycreatures that scatter wildly, digging for hiding holes. And their tiny claws
ABC Amber Palm Converter,http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
prick the skin. And then the pricked places—
I turned over and drowsed fitfully until the all clear sounded and then,for the first time on Argave, I overslept and arrived at school unfed andfeeling that my clothes were flung on, which certainly didn't improve mydisposition. It was one of those days that reminded me that sometimes Iloathed myself as much as I loathed the children. During ground-duty time Iwalked briskly around the playground perimeter, feeling caged and trying towork it off. I saw the three boys bent over their interminable game in thecorner, but I avoided them, sick to the bone of school and kids and—andmyself. I was just holding on until the mood would pass.
But after school I began to wonder about the game, and contrary to my usualpractice, I stayed after school. I was all by myself on the empty playgroundas I squatted in the corner. I looked uncomprehendingly at the scratches, thetiny heaps of gravel, the signs and symbols scrawled on the ground. They meantnothing to me. There was no interpreter to read me the day's journey.
Day's journey? To where? I squatted there, no doubt a grotesque object,with my head between my hands, my arms resting on my knees, and rocked backand forth. Surely my sanity was going. No adult in her right mind would worryover a tiny row of toy vehicles sprawled in the sticky mud of the playground.But I looked again. I finally found the lead vehicle. The whole column hadde-toured around a large rock and seemed to be helplessly bogged down in themud. With a quick guilty glance around me, I carefully patted the mud smoothin front of the column, making a tiny safe highway to bring it back around therock. I started to pick up the first vehicle to clear its wheels of the mud.But I couldn't lift it. Incredulous, I tried again. With all my strength Ipulled at that tiny toy. It might have been part of the bones of the world. Itmoved not a fraction of an inch. I felt a fingernail snap and relinquished myhold. I felt fury bubble up inside me, and grabbing a double handful of mud, Islopped it down on the smooth road I had just made. My breath whistled betweenmy clenched teeth. I felt like hammering the whole thing flat, smashing allthe little vehicles out of sight in the muck—hammering, beating, tearing—!
I drew a quavering breath and stood up. Adults are not supposed to havetantrums. I held my two muddy hands away from me as I went indoors to wash. Ileft a muddy thumbprint on the door latch as I went in. I wiped it offthoroughly with tissue as I left the building, my mind carefully blank of thewhole situation. I couldn't understand or explain it. Hence it should beignored. On this premise I have built my life. Built it—or lost it?
Friday, I paced the playground, trying to forget the far corner. My mindwas seething with questions that kept frothing up like bubbles and poppingunanswered, even unstated. But this was the fifth day. That's all they hadtalked about: five days. After this day I could let my bemused mind go back toits usual thoughts. Then, a little bleakly, I tried to remember what I used tothink about. I couldn't remember.
A flame of resentment began burning inside me. These —these brats had upsetmy whole life. Logically or illogically I was caught in the web of theirnonsense. I was being pried out of my pattern and I didn't like it. Years oftraining and restraint and denial had gone into making that pattern and thosebrats were shattering it. They were making me an ununderstandable andinexplicable thing—a thing to be ignored. I pressed my lips tightly together,my jaw muscles knotting, my heels gouging the soft turf of the playground as Ipatrolled. If this foolishness persisted one moment beyond this day, I'dreport the three of them to the office for—for perversion. That would rockthem good! Them and their families. Let their patterns be shattered. Let theirnasty insides spill out like cracked, rotten eggs!
Sharply I caught myself up, my breath thick in my upper chest. How horriblecan one person get? After all, the knife is not responsible for the gash itmakes—or the blood that stains it. It's the hand behind the knife— The Hand. I felt a little dizzy at such odd, unaccustomed thoughts crowding into my mind—abillowing, shapeless turmoil.
When I felt I had myself under full control, I started casually for the
ABC Amber Palm Converter,http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
corner. At that moment the bell rang. I saw three heads snap up at the soundand assumed that they were responding. Consequently, when I got to the doorand had all the classes lined up to go in and looked over at the corner andsaw the three still there, I was justifiably annoyed. I delegated Peter to seethat the lines went in order and stalked out to the three truants. My firmstep wavered and softened as I approached the trio. I leaned over them, notcaring whether they saw me or not. I opened my mouth to speak, but it stayedopen—and silent—as I took in the scene.
Something new had been added. A miniature spacecraft was balanceddelicately on its fins on a small flat area. All the toy vehicles were pulledup in a circle around it—all but two: the last ones in the convoy. Red wasnudging the next to the last over a flimsy bridge built of matted stems andgrass across a miniature chasm that decisively ended the makeshift road. Thebridge swayed and sagged. The vehicle slid and rocked and Red wiped the sweatfrom his forehead when Blond took over and started the vehicle over towards the spacecraft. Red reached his finger out to the last vehicle and made ittoil through the dust up to the makeshift bridge. I suddenly became consciousof how absorbed I had become and my anger flared again. I reached out my footand stepped heavily. I felt the twigs give under my shoe, reluctantly brittle,like living bones. I ground my foot down until the dust scuffed up over thesole. Then I said, 'The bell rang.'
My voice left no room for argument. After a slight pause, the three boysgot up from the ground. Even then they didn't look at me. Brown looked at Redand said, 'Tomorrow?'
'No,' said Red. 'This is the fifth day. There aren't any more days.'
'But how will they ever make it—?'
'It's none of our business.' Red hunched his shoulders. 'We tried. We faired-the-coorze. It's finished.'
'But what will they do?' Blond took a weary step, easing his tired kneeswith his hands.
Red shrugged. 'She did it. Let Her figure it out.'
'But I like my teacher,' protested Blond.
'Goes,' said Red. 'But we can't help it. No one falls alone, even if wethink they ought to.'
'I don't like to play this game,' wailed Blond. 'I think it stinks!'
'Who's playing!' Red's face crumpled. 'O Loving Father, who's playing?'
Brown and Blond put their arms around him and helped him, his face movingblindly, towards the school building.