year of school atBrooklyn College, and because he had no idea what he was going to do after graduation, he went to see the career counselor, who suggested he fulfill the required number of education credits so he could teach high school math. “They always need math teachers,” she said. “Math and science can always get a job.” If nothing else, the job provided him with the relief of his own apartment. Although his own place was not a cheerful one, it was not oppressive; no longer would he have to bear witness, every morning, to the circles under his mother’s eyes, or be confronted with her collarbone, jutting out from the top of her ratty bathrobe, vulnerable like a wishbone to be snapped but without the hope attached. He was free from his father’s temper and his misery and his fat face. What went so terribly wrong for these two people? John often wondered, Were they ever once in love? Or like so many, did they come together only because the timing was right and the fear of being alone was too great, too much?
Valentine Kessler folded the Ski Club flyer in half and in half again before tucking it away in her purse. She spent the remainder of the homeroom period, which was but a matter of two minutes more, making an addition to her Hanukkah Wish List.
Between the first and second periods, the woeful Joanne Clarke popped into Mr. Wosileski’s room. She did this at least once a day, stopping by on some pretense or another: Does he have an extra piece of chalk? What time is the faculty meeting on Friday? Would he like a homemade cupcake? She baked them herself. Yet, for allher efforts, Joanne Clarke was no further along on the road to romance with John Wosileski. He didn’t want a cupcake.
“Thirty-five dollars and you have to sign the permission slip.” Valentine placed the paper beside her mother’s plate and pointed to the dotted line. “Here. You have to sign here.”
It was not the money which caused Miriam to hesitate signing the permission slip for a one-day ski trip to Hunter Mountain. For all the hardships in her life, the lack of money, thank God, was not one of them. True, she was no Mrs. Rockefeller, but she was comfortable. She owned the house outright. And when, the year after Ronald left, her parents, may they rest in peace, died in a car accident, a head-on collision with a truck whose driver had fallen asleep on Interstate 95, Miriam, their only child, inherited their savings account, their insurance policy, and the condominium in Florida, which she sold. Also there was a settlement with the trucking company, but that money was tucked away for Valentine’s college education. On top which, Ronald’s parents were very generous. Each and every time they came to visit, which was often because Valentine was their joy, Sy Kessler would press an envelope upon Miriam, an envelope containing cash. “Please,” Miriam would say. “I don’t need it. We’re fine.” Nonetheless, after her in-laws left, Miriam would find the envelope in the silverware drawer or in the coffee canister. Plus, there was Ronald’s check, which he did send regularly. It wasn’t much, but it was something. Miriam kept this particular source of income from Valentine because, as Miriam had told The Girls, “I don’t want to get her hopes up that maybe he cares about her.” Although he never missed one paymentof child support and alimony, Ronald Kessler made no attempt ever to see or to speak to Valentine. He lived somewhere up in Canada, way north of Brooklyn.
No, the expense of the ski trip was not the cause for Miriam’s hesitation. It was simply the oddity of it, the sudden desire springing from nowhere on Valentine’s part to engage in an athletic activity. Out of doors. In the cold.
“Does this have to do with a boy?” Miriam wasn’t born yesterday.
“No. I just want to go because, you know, all the kids are going.” Was Valentine Kessler becoming something of a prevaricator?
Although she
Valentine Kessler folded the Ski Club flyer in half and in half again before tucking it away in her purse. She spent the remainder of the homeroom period, which was but a matter of two minutes more, making an addition to her Hanukkah Wish List.
Between the first and second periods, the woeful Joanne Clarke popped into Mr. Wosileski’s room. She did this at least once a day, stopping by on some pretense or another: Does he have an extra piece of chalk? What time is the faculty meeting on Friday? Would he like a homemade cupcake? She baked them herself. Yet, for allher efforts, Joanne Clarke was no further along on the road to romance with John Wosileski. He didn’t want a cupcake.
“Thirty-five dollars and you have to sign the permission slip.” Valentine placed the paper beside her mother’s plate and pointed to the dotted line. “Here. You have to sign here.”
It was not the money which caused Miriam to hesitate signing the permission slip for a one-day ski trip to Hunter Mountain. For all the hardships in her life, the lack of money, thank God, was not one of them. True, she was no Mrs. Rockefeller, but she was comfortable. She owned the house outright. And when, the year after Ronald left, her parents, may they rest in peace, died in a car accident, a head-on collision with a truck whose driver had fallen asleep on Interstate 95, Miriam, their only child, inherited their savings account, their insurance policy, and the condominium in Florida, which she sold. Also there was a settlement with the trucking company, but that money was tucked away for Valentine’s college education. On top which, Ronald’s parents were very generous. Each and every time they came to visit, which was often because Valentine was their joy, Sy Kessler would press an envelope upon Miriam, an envelope containing cash. “Please,” Miriam would say. “I don’t need it. We’re fine.” Nonetheless, after her in-laws left, Miriam would find the envelope in the silverware drawer or in the coffee canister. Plus, there was Ronald’s check, which he did send regularly. It wasn’t much, but it was something. Miriam kept this particular source of income from Valentine because, as Miriam had told The Girls, “I don’t want to get her hopes up that maybe he cares about her.” Although he never missed one paymentof child support and alimony, Ronald Kessler made no attempt ever to see or to speak to Valentine. He lived somewhere up in Canada, way north of Brooklyn.
No, the expense of the ski trip was not the cause for Miriam’s hesitation. It was simply the oddity of it, the sudden desire springing from nowhere on Valentine’s part to engage in an athletic activity. Out of doors. In the cold.
“Does this have to do with a boy?” Miriam wasn’t born yesterday.
“No. I just want to go because, you know, all the kids are going.” Was Valentine Kessler becoming something of a prevaricator?
Although she
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