Vibrant Village ™

When women my age get together and drink too much wine, the conversation eventually drifts toward sex or men who are not our husbands.

I generally lie when it comes my turn to tell all, not because I am a natural born liar or embarrassed by the story I have to tell.

No, I lie because it is a story about love of such kindness that I am afraid each retelling of the moment will spill some of the memory and I will have nothing to remember when I am frail, brittle like old porcelain china.  I think that way after visits to my mother in the nursing home; she wraps her memories around her like a worn quilt for comfort.

So I will tell the story today, and hope I remember where I have put this journal twenty years from now.

A wiry man with mahogany skin and gray hair like sea foam on wet sand edging his face stands at the door of my classroom, smiles, saying, “I’ll be ready in twenty minutes. Meet you down stairs Ms. Jensen.”

Jenny and Karen, the other third grade teachers, and I are celebrating Mr. Booth’s forty-fifth birthday and my last day teaching at William Clay Elementary School. We have rented a limo to take us to dinner in extravagant splendor.

The four of us are an unusual sight after school, three women in elegant long skirts and a man in a black suit, waiting after the last bell in the area designated for parents to pick up their children. When the limo pulls up slowly like a cat stretching in the sun, we climb in and smile as a few curious, lingering students wave after the sleek black ride.

Sitting on the leather seat beside Mr. Booth, I think about leaving this school in the run down part of town and wonder about my new life at the coast. Dreams will come true when the U Haul holding all our worldly goods leave the city and heads east in two days. My husband and I will live in an old, weathered cottage on the water, and I will teach science and English in a small town where everyone will know that I am from 'off.'

I have packed up the moments from the last ten years in my sky blue classroom just like I packed turtle shells, a round rock from England, the book on feathers, a red and yellow yarn bracelet given as a good bye, construction paper cards from each of my students telling me they will miss me, and a class picture of third grade boys with combed hair and girls smiling. Ten years in one school makes memories that will cover the first day in my new classroom like the dust leaking through cracks in the old walls that Mr. Booth fights each day.

The limo crunches down the circular drive in front of the Victorian house that has been gentrified from crumbling bricks to the most elegant supper club in town. Couples linger on the front porch that drips wisteria holding long stem glasses of wine, and the maître d' ushers us through the entrance to a table on the dance floor. Heads shift slightly as the four of us brush white table clothes, making gentle swishing sounds that mimic the tips of the tree outside my classroom soothing the window during a rainstorm.

We laugh as we slide into our chairs, and Karen says that Jake Gatsby would have loved to join our party as she flicks open her white linen napkin and settles it in her lap. Mr. Booth hands me the wine list, printed in gold on white cotton paper, and asks me to pick a bottle. Jenny orders oysters for all. The candle light, gentle hum of pleasure, and wine erase the day and suspend time. We eat, laugh, and open pages from our individual books of life to share with each other.

Slowly savoring dessert, lush strawberries splashed with May wine, we listen to the music from the band spill into the corners of the room. I push my cut glass dessert bowl aside and lean on the table so I can hear Mr. Booth.

He asks, “Ms. Jensen, would you like to dance?”

I love to dance and want to feel my soft skirt stroke the backs of my legs as the music entices me to float instead of walk purposely like I have during the day at school. I push back the chair and take Mr. Booth’s hand. He moves gracefully. I am not surprised because he waltzes the mop effortlessly, humming as he cleans the cafeteria after the last lunch class each day.

As we glide to the sultry melody that weaves through the dancing couples, I see my friends sitting at the table and again think how much I will miss them even while living a dream.

Mr. Booth’s voice catches my thoughts, and I look at him.

He smiles and says, “So you will miss us.” He looks at me with eyes the color of tawny port and calmly begins, “This is the only time I will ever say this, but I will think it every day…I love you."

"I have watched for ten years as you moved desks and bookcases, never asking for my help, and I know you have mopped up what those kids spilled so I wouldn’t have to at the end of the day. I’ve seen you hug a boy who just cussed you and be respectful to his parents who cussed you, too. I have looked through that small window in the door late afternoons and smiled when you let that useless rabbit out of her cage and sit on the floor with her in your lap. I have heard every 'Thank you Mr. Booth' you gave me and know you listen and care which of my grandkids is going straight and which one has problems with the law.”

He paused, then continued speaking. “Mr. Jensen loves you; I see how he looks at you when he picks you up at the end of the day. I know you love him because I study the pictures of you two cluttering your desk. I don’t know what I will do Monday morning when you aren’t there. I guess just be glad that I told you what I feel and think about this kiss.”

He leans down and places a kiss like the flutter of a butterfly on my lips, whirling us smoothly until the music stops.

My heart has held on tight to Mr. Booth’s gift. When I feel old, tattered, and ordinary or misplace my self-confidence, I pull his love from my pocket of memories and cherish it, an unexpected piece of sea glass held in the palm of my hand.