Comes the Blind Fury

Without waving or saying good-bye, she began limping slowly up the walk to the school building. June stayed where she was, watching, unable to drive away until Michelle was inside the building.

Carefully, her left hand holding on to the railing, her right hand maneuvering the cane, Michelle mounted the steps, leading with her right foot, then dragging her left leg after her. The process was slow, but steady. Only when she had reached the top of the seven steps did she turn, wave to her mother, then disappear into the school. Sighing, June put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb. As she drove home, she prayed that everything would be all right. And, feeling a pang of guilt, she began to look forward to spending a day — a whole day — with her baby and her work.

Corinne Hatcher had already begun the lesson when the door opened and Michelle appeared, leaning on her cane, her expression uncertain, as if she might be in the wrong room. The class fell silent. The students shifted in their seats to stare at her.

Trying to ignore them, Michelle limped down the aisle, keeping her eyes fixed on her goal — the vacant seat in the front row, between Sally and Jeff, that had apparently been saved for her. As she reached the seat, and carefully lowered herself into it, she allowed herself to look at Miss Hatcher and smile.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” she said shyly.

“It’s all right,” Corinne assured her. “We haven’t even begun. I’m so glad you’re back. Doesn’t anyone want to say hello to Michelle?”

She looked at the class expectantly. After a moment, a murmuring began as each of the children, unsure of what was expected of him, muttered a greeting. Sally Carstairs, reaching across the aisle, squeezed Michelle’s hand, but Michelle quickly withdrew it. From the other side, she heard Jeff speaking to her, but when she turned to him, she saw Susan Peterson nudging him, and he looked quickly away. Michelle felt her face reddening with embarrassment.

She couldn’t concentrate on her lessons. Instead, she was terribly aware of the other children, feeling their eyes boring into her back, hearing their whisperings, kept so low she couldn’t make out the words.

For a while, Corinne Hatcher thought of stopping the lesson, of facing the issue of Michelle’s accident head on, but she discarded the idea: it would be too embarrassing for Michelle. So she pressed ahead, trying to keep the children’s minds on their work and off their classmate. As the first recess bell rang, Corinne gratefully released the class. All except Michelle.

When the room was empty except for the two of them, she pulled her chair over near Michelle’s desk.

“It wasn’t too bad, was it?” she asked in as conversational a tone as she could muster. Michelle looked at her blankly, as though she didn’t understand the question.

“What wasn’t?”

“Why — why your first morning back at school.”

“It’s fine,” Michelle said. “Why shouldn’t it be?” There was a challenging note in her voice that threw Corinne off. It was as if Michelle were daring her to talk about the whisperings that had pervaded the room for the last two hours.

“Perhaps we should go over some of the work you’ve missed,” she offered, taking her lead from Michelle: if Michelle didn’t want to talk about the class’s reaction to her, then it wouldn’t be talked about.

“I can catch up by myself,” Michelle said. “Is it all right if I go to the restroom?”

Corinne stared at the girl, so composed, so seemingly sure of herself. But she shouldn’t be — she should be nervous, she should be feeling insecure, she should even be crying. But she should not be calmly asking if she could go to the restroom. Suppressing the questions that were in her mind, and wishing that Tim Hartwick were here today, Corinne watched Michelle make her way toward the door. Corinne Hatcher was very worried.

• • •

Michelle was pleased to find the hall deserted — at least there would be no one to watch her as she made her slow progress toward the girls’ room, her cane tapping hollowly on the wood floors.

She wished she could disappear.

They were laughing at her, just like she thought they would.

Sally had barely spoken to her, and the rest of them hadn’t known what to say.

Well, she wouldn’t give in to them.

She pushed the door open and went into the restroom, where she stared at herself in the mirror, wondering if the pain was showing in her face.

It was important that it not show, that nobody know how she felt, how much she hurt.

How angry she was.

Especially at Susan Peterson.

Susan had said something to Jeff.

Said something that made him stop talking to Michelle.

Amanda was right — they weren’t her friends, not anymore. Michelle washed her face, then looked once more in the mirror. “It doesn’t matter,” she said out loud. “I don’t need them. Amanda’s my friend. The hell with them!” Then, surprised at her use of the swearword, she took a step backward and nearly fell. She caught herself on the edge of the sink, steadied herself. A wave of frustration swept over her, and she wanted to cry, but she wouldn’t give in. I’ll show them, she vowed silently. I’ll show them all.

Painfully, she started back to the classroom.

• • •

After recess, something in the classroom changed. The whispering stopped, and the children seemed to be keeping their minds on their work.

Except that every now and then, one of the children would glance surreptitiously first at Michelle, then at Susan Peterson. If the girls were aware of what was happening, they gave no sign.

Sally Carstairs was having a very bad time of it Every few minutes she looked up from her work, glanced at Michelle, then quickly glanced across both Michelle and Jeff Benson to Susan Peterson. When their eyes met, Susan’s lips tightened and her head shook almost imperceptibly. Sally went back to her work, her face flushing guiltily.

When the lunch bell rang, not even Sally Carstairs waited for Michelle. Instead, within seconds the room was empty except for Michelle and Corinne. Michelle reached under her desk for her bookbag and got out her lunch. Then she stood up and started out of the room.

“Why don’t you stay and eat with me?” Corinne suggested.

For a brief instant Michelle hesitated, then shook her head. “I’ll go outside,” she said.

“Are you sure?” Corinne pressed.

Michelle nodded. “I’ll just sit at the top of the steps where I can see everything.” She was almost out of the room when she stopped suddenly, and turned to face Corinne. “It’s important to be able to see. Did you know that, Miss Hatcher?” Without waiting for an answer, Michelle left the room.

Michelle sat on the top step, her left leg stretched stiffly away from her, her right drawn up against her chest. She rested her chin on her right knee and watched the children in the schoolyard.

Under the big maple she could see her own classmates, Susan and Jeff and Sally — all of them — clustered together in a group.

They were talking about her, and she knew it.

Susan Peterson, particularly. Michelle could see her, leaning over to whisper something in someone’s ear, then the two of them — Susan and whomever she had spoken to — glancing at Michelle, and giggling.

Once Susan started to say something to Sally, but Sally only shook her head and immediately started to talk to someone else.

Michelle made herself stop watching them. Her eyes wandered over the playground. Out near the back fence, some of the fourth-graders were playing softball, and Michelle felt a twinge of envy as she watched them run. She used to play softball. She had been one of the fastest runners in her school.

But that had been before.

Across the schoolyard, near the gate, Michelle saw Lisa Hartwick sitting by herself. For a second, she wished Lisa would come over and sit on the steps with her, but then she remembered — the other kids didn’t like Lisa, and even if they weren’t talking to her, she wouldn’t make things worse by being friendly with Lisa.