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the staR
By W. Christopher Epler (about the author) Page 5 of 5 page(s)
She was accepted by her fellow teachers, albeit subliminally mistrusted. People learned not to talk to her about issues, since by the end of the conversation they always felt more part of the problem than the solution. Plus, now that she was saved (certainly not from herself), the word 'godless' had become her denunciation of choice. Even football players were godless, or Catholics, or people who mowed their lawns too infrequently. Once in a conference with parents, she let it drop that people who didn't have cats were probably Satanists, but received looks which warned her not to be so honest in the future. "Folks just don't want to hear it," she told her felines that night, and discussed the matter with the electric confidant.
In due course, things came to a head. Christmas was approaching and the children were beside themselves. The music teacher was rehearsing a program in which the 3rd graders were winged and haloed. Mrs. T listened from her desk in the classroom, while doodling the word Antichrist on her lesson plans (she heard Billy was going to play the role of baby Jesus in the 3rd grade offering). He was asked to do this because the scene required someone to sing several solo Christmas carols from inside the crib and he had a sweet singing voice (and a reliable memory), so he was the logical choice. When his parents were asked for their permission, they seemed startled, but then said, "Well, he's still OUR angel, so why not?"
The evening of the performance, the gymnasium/auditorium was festooned for Christmas and the children buzzed around like hysterical, sweaty mice, waiting for the magic event-an event, of course, almost immediately followed by CHRISTMAS VACATION, bejeweled with the night of nights and day of days of childhood.
Mrs. T had positioned herself close to the front and sensed she was running out of time. Who knows what might happen during Christmas vacation? She always dreaded being locked up TOO long with her television set and cats, since it's hard to blame tornadoes in Kansas on TV dinners. Linda was giving one of her interminable pre performance speeches, "Welcome, welcome to you all-and Merry Christmas! Fifteen minutes later she was still making announcements and acknowledging school board members (who were never there) and FINALLY concluded with, "And thank you so much for lending us your treasures. I can assure you, Mrs. James (the music teacher) has been diligently working with them and the title for tonight's program is, 'On Our Way', from Porgy & Bess." And sure enough when the curtain went up (or at least moved out of the way), the full school chorus launched into song.
Mrs. T was thunderstruck! She knew this was a BLACK PERSON'S song from a BLACK PERSON'S musical. She had mistakenly seen the movie version a few years ago on the advice of a friend (a vegetarian) and the best she could come up with was, "Well, they've certainly got rhythm." But tonight, it was UNTHINKABLE the program would start in this manner. She even thought, "My God, what if Billy's in black face!"
Then things went from bad to worse when one of the older students began reading a passage from Lazarus. This odd dramatic ploy was introduced by Mrs. James to set the stage for the 'good news' birth of Jesus, but it was lost on Mrs. T, who glommed onto the 'tomb' word and at once found herself back in busses disappearing into grim reaper eye sockets. The thing about Mrs. T is that she feared death considerably more than she loved Jesus, so her raison d'être was dump or die.
Things were starting to unravel. This was DEFINITELY the time to be watching television, but she was trapped by her righteousness into some vague plan to expose Billy by saying things like, "Look, look, this isn't baby Jesus. This is really some little gnome who lived in Germany and laughs at President Bush. He's not REALLY Jesus, he's just BAD little boy and if you want to hear about what it's like to be saved, I can tell you all about that!"
However, she was exceedingly nervous about witnessing at school under the best of circumstances, even though the shepherd kept reminding them, "Being saved isn't a free ride. If necessary, you've got to JAM IT DOWN THE WORLD'S THROAT. These people are damned; they're DAMNED without your help!" But talking missionary talk in church basements was one thing, whereas tonight, here in this auditorium, inundated with death talk, Negro songs, and people wearing ties and carrying purses, she felt like St. Peter after Jesus' crucifixion. "Lord, Lord, why hast Thou (she always mentally capitalized Thou) forsaken me?" she whispered to herself, a little too audibly, since the man sitting next to her asked her if anything was wrong. She perfunctorily said no, pursed her lips, and pretended to be carried away by the performance.
Then suddenly, Mrs. T felt like she was on Mars. Her life, her psyche, her body, and the auditorium JUMPED elsewhere and everything was different! "My child, my child, at last you've come home," she heard a voice singing.
"Why, where am I? My goodness, what's happening?" she asked like a child. "Surely you know, you've fallen through the eye socket into the Great Bye Bye," the voice continued to sing to her. "Through the eye socket," she thought, "I knew it would happen, I KNEW it would happen . . ." More singing.
"Be not afraid Tammie (this was her childhood name-nobody knew it), everything is fine, everything is fine, and everything is fine." Then she heard someone crying. It was Billy who had dashed off the stage when he saw her crumble to the floor. "But she's my TEACHER," she heard him trying to tell some hovering beings, and little angels too, with wings (she could see the glow of their pretty wings and haloes). Then his voice got dimmer, and she heard the singing again, "It's time to stop hating, Tammie. You don't need that anymore."
The staR became everything. Voices drifted through it like echoes from the abandoned, sometimes making sense, sometimes not, but the voice with the rainbow ring to it was Billy's crying. It was the last sound the body heard.
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more political Op-Eds, fiction, poetry, and essays from Bill at . . .
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