Catch Me When I Fall by Westerhof Patricia

“Nothing will change Stan Ellis.”
    Helena set her teacup down to put a hand on Eliza’s arm. “That doesn’t sound like you.”
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    Eliza believed teaching poetry to teenagers should resemble cheerleading more than literary criticism. She chose Elizabeth Barrett Browning as the first author in the unit and rehearsed the poems in her living room. She strove to know the words well enough that she could almost recite them, thus keeping her arms free for interpretive gestures. Her voice trilled and skipped, emphasizing the words the students would relate to the most. “How do I LOVE thee? Let me COUNT the ways!”
    This morning, she had positioned herself in front of her desk, placing the poetry anthology on Matthew Post’s front-row desk. “Elizabeth,” Eliza began, “had a beautiful romance. She married Robert Browning, also a poet. Her most famous poems are her love sonnets.” Eliza sometimes felt teary when she spoke about romantic love, perhaps because it had not yet happened for her. She steeled herself. “Today’s poem is her famous sonnet, ‘How Do I Love Thee?’ Some of you may have heard it,” she said, beaming in Clara’s direction—Clara read a lot—“and if you haven’t, well, you’re in for a treat.”
    She began reciting, aware of the interest on many of the students’ faces. Yes, she thought, love will always win out. Addressing the students in the back row, she threw her arms wide. Her blouse stretched tight as a drum across her breasts as she took a deep breath. “I LOVE thee to the height and breadth and depth / My SOUL can reach, when FEELING—” A series of muted pops interrupted her. The tension across her chest released with the speed and force of a pricked balloon. Something—a button—flew sideways and hit Antonio on the cheek. She heard a gasp. A giggle. Her eyes flickered downward. She stood exposed in her catalogue-order lilac corset. She yanked the blouse together. “I’m sorry!” she mumbled and fled the room.
    She dashed to the staff lounge, flew in, one hand gripping the blouse, one hand wiping her wet eyes. And there was Stan Ellis, sitting at a table facing the door. He looked up from his newspaper, eyes on her chest. She veered sideways into the teachers’ washroom.
    The rest of her school day was unspeakably miserable.
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    Eliza sat on her sofa in the semidarkness. She pulled a needlepoint cat cushion onto her lap and kneaded it rhythmically. At 11:00 PM the songbird clock in the kitchen tweeted the hour. She winced—she had never thought of finches as scornful birds. She hauled herself up and trudged across the room to her roll-top desk. Switching on the computer, she waited for the dial-up to connect, logged into her email program, and typed,
    Dear Samantha,
    School was difficult today, but this evening I enjoyed a lovely book club meeting, full of good discussion and laughter as usual. Friends are a balm to the heart. I hope you are doing well, and that your marking pile has diminished since your last email! Looking forward to hearing from you.
    Eliza
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    Stan Ellis smeared butter and jam on his bedtime toast. Homemade raspberry jam tonight. It had come in a little Christmas basket last month from one of his students, Rodney VanEng—well, more accurately, from Rodney’s mother, Vicky, who sent all the teachers gifts. Stan was grateful. He’d used up the last jar of jelly from the cold cellar last fall and now had to buy commercial jams. He didn’t care so much about the inferior taste, but a Smuckers jar in the fridge was one more tangible reminder that Lucy was gone.
    Stan chewed the toast methodically as he fingered a tiny plastic soldier, part of a set his sister had sent for Christmas, along with a book he hadn’t opened, Painting