3Souls: Chapter XXIX
An Insurrectionary Deed
It was Tuesday, September 6, the day had arrived. Mitkin woke with a start. He had slept poorly, yet, in his eyes darted a wild, reckless, reverent awe.
A dying summer breeze slid in through the window as Mitkin peeked out and met the sun. It was getting hot, and the sun burned away at the gray city haze. He could smell the pavement stew and warm. Mitkin watched as little children waited alone at a bus stop.
“Finally,” he said aloud.
He slipped into the shower and washed. His soapy washrag darted across his lithe, pale body. A giddy smile rose to the surface. His stomach fluttered. He had not felt this way in years.
“There is only one thing needful now.”
Then, as if from a Rolodex, he ran the day through the index cards of his mind.
“First LaFollete High. Get there and get into the classroom. LaFollete is the linchpin, the screw holding the second day together. Second. Get ahold of Rutledge and the other teacher martyrs at LaFollete. They need a briefing, as they’ll be worthless without it. Go over rendezvous points and riot orders, and all the details they have not been privy to for the last six months. The key is for each teacher to get his kids into the streets by ten o’clock, the second day, Thursday. Then the second briefing with the student martyrs at LaFollete, no more than ten minutes together in one place, and nothing but a bare minimum of facts, and none of them damning. Don’t chance a snitch. The key here is to vitalize them for the coming day when they all will raise their fists high, exalting their own will and themselves as the arbiters of their own destiny.”
His detailed planning came slowly to a stop as he stepped out of the shower and patted himself dry. Looking into the mirror and rubbing his head dry, he found his own eyes and said, “Give the speech.” Dropping the towel and exposing his nakedness, he stood up very straight, very proud. He began aloud, his voice formal, his frame officious.
“The worst thing that can happen tomorrow is that you collapse under the weight of doubt and fear. The worst thing that can happen is that you become a coward. You, every one of you, and I know you well, have nothing to lose. The worst thing is not arrest. All of you, hundreds, together in jail? How bad could that be? And what, by the way, would they arrest you for? Searching for truth? Resisting oppression? Refusing to obey an army of flunkies and the corrupt system they are obedient to? Would they arrest you for wanting to be free? And what if they did, again, how bad could it be? ‘Hey Mom, I got arrested for standing up for my rights, like Martin Luther King and Malcolm X. Sorry. Am I on punishment?’ Who wouldn’t gladly accept punishment for that, and what good mother would dole it out? This is history, this is for us, the good, fighting them, the bad, and making history forever.”
He ran his hands over his face, digging at his eyes like a man waking up, then, using his fingers as a comb he brushed back his wet hair and grinned. It was a good speech. All was just as it should be.
He dressed in cool linen pants and a blue suit jacket, clothes he had shunned for a full year. He looked in the mirror one more time and thought, “For the cause.” He tightened the knot on a forest-green tie. At 8 a.m. he walked confidently out the door and into a humid morning. He reached LaFollete by 8:30, right on time. His first contact was with a school security officer. Mitkin knew him as Fred. Fred stood about six feet six inches tall with a short-cropped Afro and a fat mustache sitting squarely on top of his thick lip. He was very good friends with most of the students at LaFollete. Most of the teachers thought he was too close to them, too close to do his job. Mitkin approached the front door and made a note of Fred’s mood. Jovial.
“Mr. Mitkin.”
“Fred.” Mitkin nodded.
Two other guards sat idly by. On any given day, LaFollete employed as many as ten guards. At least that many would be there tomorrow and Mitkin wanted to know which ones.
“Fred, how many students do we have coming tomorrow? How many you think?”
“More than usual this year. I hear we’ve got thirty-five hundred.”
Mitkin nodded. “Wow, how many of you guys are required here by law? Isn’t there some number?”
“I don’t know about that, but we’ve got nine full-timers.”
“And tomorrow?” asked Mitkin.
“I think twelve here. The Board wants a good tight start here, you know, after the craziness last year. Course there would be fewer problems if they let us throw some of these crazy mothers out of here for good. None of this fourteen strikes and you’re out shit.”
“Yeah, well,” said Mitkin, “the law is,” he tried to think of an appropriate phrase, one that would go along with the conversation, “a bitch.”
“Ain’t it, though,” said Fred. Mitkin gave him a quick upward nod and left.
He passed the program office. A large, crooked line of older students snaked out and into the hall. Shouts could be heard coming from inside. Suddenly the whole line backed up. People piled into each other and onto one another’s shoes and then a door slammed shut. On it hung the sign: COME BACK AFTER 1 PM. Curse words rattled through the hall. Mitkin snickered. “Tomorrow can’t come soon enough.”
One by one, he dutifully finished his administrative obligations, and as he did he encountered teachers he knew. A little woman, blonde and built like a lazy gymnast, careened by. He had taught her class for two weeks the previous spring, and she had been impressed. She yelled for him.
“Ms. Hill,” he answered over his shoulder.
“How was your summer, Mitchell?” she asked in a tenor voice.
“Good.” He affected a smile and even a gentle handshake. “And yours?”
“Good.” She looked him up and down, head to toe. “I’ve never seen you in a jacket, Mitchell. You look like you’re looking for a job.”
“I am.”
She smacked him amiably on the back. “You can have mine. Those kids loved you last year. I’ll be honest with you, they said I should teach more like you.” Then wagging her head from side to side, she said, “I told them we have something called a curriculum, something called state-mandated bodies of knowledge, things like learning to read, exams. Anyway, they weren’t too happy that I was back. Thanks a lot, Mitchell.” She smiled somewhere between friend and foe. “Hope you get a job.”
“Thanks.” His flat eyes wished her goodbye. “See ya around.”
She turned and Mitkin pinched his lips with scorn. Another acquaintance fell on him, tapping him on one shoulder while standing behind the other. Mitkin turned the wrong way and was met with a giggle. “Over here, Mitkin.”
A woman named Gloria beamed at him. Mitkin feigned excitement. “Gloria, you’re back.”
“Sure am. And for a while. I just got finished talking with the honcho and she tells me I’m in for at least the first semester, and she said I was lucky, said there is an overage of fifteen teachers right now.”
“Fifteen?”
“Yep, she said she’s got to excess some of them.”
“Did she mention me?”
“No. But you teach science so you should be okay.” She smiled at Mitkin even as he went white with worry. “You could always teach art like me, an art teacher with an English certification, go figure.”
“Yeah,” Mitkin said, “go figure.” He simpered and with his eyes darting, asked, “Where is the principal right now? In the office?”
“Yeah, or at least she was ten minutes ago.”
Mitkin dismissed himself and charged to see the principal, Rochelle Dandino. He had to have a job, a classroom, and tomorrow, people were counting on him. He nearly slammed into the principal’s secretary who was bent over and fiddling with her stockings. Straightening up she met a wide-eyed Mitchell Mitkin.
“Yes, excuse me, how can I help you?”
“I need to see Ms. Dandino, it’s about my full-time position.”
“She’s in a meeting right now, could I leave a message?” Mitkin looked around anxiously. The door to the principal’s office remained open. He craned his neck to see in. He saw Dandino. An annoyed voice met him from behind. “Sir, she’s in with someone right now, I can leave a message.”
Mitkin got up and headed for the open door.
“Sir,” she was yelling, “she’s in a—”
He gently pushed the door open and Dandino looked at him directly. “Mitchell? Hello. Welcome back.”
“Hello, Ms. Dandino, I’m sorry for interrupting but I just thought I could get some quick verification on my position and then not have to bother you anymore until the end of the week.”
Mitkin took a quick peek around the room. Two men. One, a man with beefy thighs and a jacket too small for him smiled simply and nodded. Mitkin nodded back. In the chair across from Dandino the other man sat comfortably, his heavy body sinking deep into the beige, faux leather couch. Mitkin’s stomach sank.
It was Borly.
He felt his throat tighten.
“So what is it then, Mitchell? What do you need?” Dandino was carefree.
“Ah,” he stammered, “I want to know if I should report tomorrow?”
“Did you talk to Stone yet? He’s got the final numbers. I think you’re on the list.”
Mitkin snapped a glance at Borly. He nodded politely, but in Borly’s eyes, met a sweet satisfaction.
“Okay then, I’ll check with Stone.” Mitkin hurried along hoping Borly would not remember him. “I’ll get back to you.” He turned to leave.
“Hello Mr. Mitkin, we meet again, and again you seem to have found your way into an office not your own.” Borly’s voice was ridiculously baritone. “You’re quite a character, Mr. Mitkin, quite a character. I could never forget you, son.” He looked at Dandino. “I used to have Mr. Mitkin over in the Bronx.”
“Really?” said Dandino. “Last year?”
“Yes, last year.” Borly looked at Mitkin again. “He turned out to be a fairly good teacher.”
“Fairly good indeed,” said Dandino. “Kids love him.” Mitkin nodded a thank you and smiled. He was pulsating with a resolute desire to leave, yet he found it in him to politely nod again.
“I’ll check with Stone then, Ms. Dandino?”
“Yes, he’ll have the numbers.”
“Thanks again.” Mitkin again turned to leave.
“Mr. Mitkin,” came Borly’s hale voice, “have you made any inroads with your student movement of late?”
With his back to the administrators, Mitkin’s eyes darted side to side like an animal hunting safety. “We’re going slowly,” said Mitkin, turning around. “Still looking for good kids willing to work hard.”
Borly nodded and turned to Dandino. “Have you heard of Mitkin’s hard work with students?”
“Oh sure. He’s involved with at-risk kids. I love it, not that I love all that ranting. Still, better to give the students a voice and the rights due them than coop them up, you know stymie them, don’t you think, Rich?”
Mr. Borly grinned. “Sure.” He looked at Mitkin. “Keep me up to date on your work, Mr. Mitkin. You’re getting quite a following around the city. What’s the little group called again?”
“Student Coalition.”
“At every school it’s called that?” asked Borly.
“Some schools are different. It’s a loose alliance.” He smirked slightly and fought back an urge to do again what he had done before. The images of that day, in Borly’s office, the students and the cheers and the courage, it all simmered just below his calm exterior. “Students,” he said calmly, “choose the names for themselves, it—”
“Goes with the philosophy of the group, yes, I know,” said Borly sarcastically. “Good luck then, Mr. Mitkin. Goodbye.” In silence, Borly waited for Mitkin to leave.
Dandino chimed in, “Stone, Mr. Mitkin. See him and for God’s sake get me something official on this coalition please, a schedule of events, or a blotter of some kind, you know, a blurb with activities for the month.”
“Okay,” said Mitkin. “Tomorrow.”
“Too soon, we’re busy all week. Next week. I’ll see you here next week.”
Mitkin left. The secretary glared at him.
In the corridor he worried, “What the hell is Borly doing here?” He climbed the stairs to the fourth floor. “This is bad. I don’t like his tone, he knows too much. I don’t like this at all.” He had not gotten rid of the tightness in his throat. “I think he knows something. I think that’s why he’s here. He was bluffing in there, something’s not right.” He turned the corner and entered a big room now made smaller by cluttered equipment and cardboard boxes. In the back, he saw Del Stone. Stone was the science department’s assistant principal, and the only established black administrator in the building. As a substitute the previous year, Mitkin had seen him in the halls, but he had never worked for him. Stone looked up from his desk as Mitkin knocked ceremoniously on the open door. Stone waved him in.
“You’re the coalition guy, Mitkin, right?” said Stone, getting up. He wore reading glasses and a graying black beard. “You’re full-time, Mitkin. Welcome.”
Mitkin shook Stone’s hand exultingly. “Thank you.”
Stone shrugged. “No, thank you. Finding science teachers for this school is like, well, it’s one of my least favorite jobs, and I’ve got lots of least favorites.” He put his hands on his hips. “Forgive the mess. We’ve finally received the equipment I ordered two years ago, and I bet we can’t even use most of it anymore.” He shook his head despondently. “Another year of confusion, I can feel it. It seems like we’re in constant transition.” His stare was blank. “Anyway,” he snapped to attention, “here’s your schedule.” Stone handed Mitkin a pinkish piece of paper. “You’ve got an extra class for right now, but I’m looking to trim it down. Sorry.”
“No problem. Thanks.”
“As for class size, well, don’t thank me. It’s only gotten worse. Here are your lists, tentative.” Mitkin glanced at the pink and gray sheets and counted the students on each, skimming in bunches of ten. Each was over forty. One was fifty-one.
“Fifty-one?” asked Mitkin.
“For now. It’ll change.”
“Before Christmas?”
“It’s not me.”
Mitkin relented. He remembered the day, what it meant, the great changes to come and he experienced a vindicating freedom, a contentment that surpassed joy. He didn’t care that he had fifty-one students in his class. What difference did it make now? He wanted to tell Stone to give him more students as a sort of code word, a way of letting Stone rest, too. He wanted to stop all the madness of a lurching system, a system that nearly burst from ineptitude every fall. “And,” he thought, “today we will stop it.” Peace settled over him and he spoke aloud, “I know it’s not your fault, Mr. Stone. I know. The whole system is a mess.”
“Yes it is.”
“What can be done?”
“Lots,” said Stone. “We could start by lowering class size. But hey,” he smiled sarcastically, “that takes money.” He itched his cheek and sat back. “Anyway, forget about it. The worst part about this system is not that you can’t make it any better, it’s realizing that you can’t even make it any worse.”
Mitkin burped an airy laugh. “Yeah, you almost have to tear the whole thing down.”
“Not almost, must. Tear it all down and start over. Clean out the roaches, you know?”
Mitkin nodded. He longed to tell this Mr. Stone of the day to come, the urge welled in him and he was sure it broke through and shone on his face. He looked at Stone hesitantly wondering if he sensed his secret. “Tell him,” thought Mitkin, “he can help, he’s in a position to help.” Mitkin did not move. Tell him, he seems like a tired warrior. Tell him. Stone was flat-faced, his dark, purple-brown eyes staring out from a handsome brown face. They hinted of exhaustion and the experience of many difficult years. Mitkin noted the sagacious lines on Stone’s face, and then, suddenly, Stone reminded him of his father. It was Stone’s apparent wisdom that attracted Mitkin. Mitkin glared and then started.
“Mr. Stone, how long have you been working in the system here?”
“In New York City?”
Mitkin nodded.
“I’ve been here about two years. I came in the middle of the school year two years ago.”
“From where?” Mitkin was surprised.
“From upstate, Albany.”
“Why did you move here?”
“My wife got a job here, she’s a pediatrician. We never would have moved here, ever. The money was good for her though, and it was her dream to work at Mount Sinai.”
Mitkin felt his stomach sink. The mask he had constructed for Stone was peeling away. Stone continued.
“My boss from Albany knows Dandino’s husband, Chuck. He got me the interview as soon as Kelly left. Did you know Harry Kelly?”
“No,” said Mitkin, nearly under his breath. He paused, and with a transparent civility, waited.
Stone leaned all the way back in his swivel chair and motioned Mitkin to find a seat. Mitkin cornered a box with his buttocks.
“This system is clearly bankrupt, that’s why I’m getting out, see. Between you and me,” his voice lowered slightly, “two years is two years—”
“Too many, yeah, I’ve heard that before,” said Mitkin. The mannerly respect Mitkin had afforded Stone receded and he began to manipulate the conversation. “Two years too many, but, you can leave, right? What about kids in the system? They’re stuck here for at least four. Doesn’t seem right, does it?”
“It’s like anything,” said Stone. “These kids get what they deserve, they chase the good people out, drive them crazy and eventually, well, their school system is a joke. That’s what this boils down to. Teachers are like anybody; we’re all out for self ultimately and who wants to work in this system when you can work in another and enjoy life. Hell, there are a hundred thousand public schools out there. Find one you like, I say.”
“So then what about the kids?” Mitkin boiled.
“Fix the parents,” said Stone.
“Schools don’t do that.” Mitkin began to hate this conversation.
“Sure seems like we try. Aren’t we constantly trying to redo all the wrong the parents do, I mean nobody here trusts what these kids are being taught at home, face it. We all think we’ve got more to fix than to teach. It’s like having thirty-five newborns all screaming for attention and you’re the daddy and they need some real, never-ending attention, some moral education. Anyway,” he waved a hand, “I don’t know how I got started on all of this. I don’t want to think about it. Like I said, the worst part is not knowing you can’t fix it, it’s knowing that you can’t even make it worse.”
Mitkin was silent.
“So let’s try this again another time, huh? Over lunch maybe? But to tell you the truth, Mr. Mitkin, these things are better left unsaid. They just make you crazy, especially if you work here day in and day out. They make you want to snap, you know, shoot somebody. Better just to leave them alone.” He smiled slightly. “You understand. Stick to the science. That’s the easy part, the clearest part of all. No gray.” Mitkin looked at Stone. His face had changed, his wise lines giving way to seasoned villainy. “Stick to the science,” Stone repeated. “Stick to the science.”
“Yeah, I’ll try,” replied Mitkin, a traitor to his soul. Stone stood up and politely escorted Mitkin to the door.
“Have a good year, I mean it, and don’t forget the department meeting tomorrow after school. There’s a memo in your box.” Mitkin nodded and walked into the empty hall.
“I am stupid,” thought Mitkin. “This is the enemy.” He took drowsy steps toward nowhere. “I am too soft, too susceptible, still.” He began to question himself, the doubt coming like a peep from his soul, quiet and small and then bigger, faster, infectious. He recalled how his life had been lived in delusion, how science was his god and how pompous and self-assured he had been, how unclouded life had been and how ridiculous he was for believing it all. He felt embarrassed and angry. He repeated Stone’s words under his breath, “Just stick to the science. Stick to the science... asshole.”
An anonymous teacher passed him in the hall, but he did not say hello. He grew onerous. Then thankfully, an enormous sense of superiority washed over it all like a savior and he thought, “At least I’ve done something to change it all. I’ve put my life on the line, today, right now.” He swaggered into a stairwell and ran down the stairs. He was a time bomb.
Mitkin looked up and saw Dandino escorting the fat-thighed bureaucrat out of the building. They chatted smugly with a school guard as they went. Mitkin’s eyes darkened. “F them,” thought Mitkin. “Fuck ‘em all.”
Then he met with the other teacher martyrs. First there was Terry Rutledge, the young chin-whiskered Brooklynite who loved girls and the idea of being important. They met on the front steps of the school courtyard, the one through which students would pour after a day in school. Rutledge was sucking on a cigarette. His face was young, and in the sun his squinty eyes betrayed a childish innocence, a look of everlasting inquisitiveness. He had the appeal of a knave. He walked on the balls of his feet and wore baggy pants. He was nearly thirty years old and taught remedial math.
“So here we are,” he said knuckling a cigarette and blowing a large plume of smoke. “Today’s the day.” He looked around mistrustfully. “Anybody been acting funny like they got ideas?”
“The Lip’s here.”
“Borly? The guy from your old school in the Bronx?”
“Him.” Mitkin looked over Rutledge’s shoulder and stayed staring.
“What,” said Rutledge. “What is it?”
Mitkin did not respond immediately.
“What?”
“Turn around and see for yourself.” Mitkin’s voice was condescending.
“The bushy-faced guy? That’s Borly,” he said slowly, his body contorted but his face remaining still and dumb. “What is he doing here?”
“I have no idea.”
Another of Mitkin’s martyrs came out of the building and into the sun. He was a young teacher, younger than Rutledge even, but dressed nattily. Short and built low to the ground, his complexion was dark. With small glasses barely covering his eyes, he appeared adroit and learned. He held out a hand. His name was Sinclair Freeman. “Mitchell, did you get the note from Taughtauer?” Mitkin shook his head. “Judy Strand brought it by about an hour ago and gave me my copy.” He furrowed his brow. “You sure she never found you?” Mitkin shook his head again, still looking past Rutledge toward Borly. “The note was clear. All is go. No hitches, Mitch. They’ll be inside before nightfall.”
“The Chancellor is still on site?” asked Mitkin.
“Yes. So is the Deputy. They’ll get them both.”
“Good,” said Mitkin. Terry Rutledge sucked hard on his cigarette again. Mitkin looked at him. “Did they confirm your math position?”
“Sure did. Start tomorrow, as planned. Nine sharp.”
“What about the literature and banners. Are they safe?”
“Yep,” assured Rutledge.
“And the mace? Five cases?”
“In my car, ready to go.”
“Where’s your car?”
“At home.”
“Nobody sees a thing until morning,” said Mitkin. Rutledge nodded, smoke crawling out of his nose. “Remember we are the key to this whole operation. Six pissed off students and one crazy teacher is not a revolution. We must have at least two schools by day’s end tomorrow. This must be one of them.”
Freeman got closer to Mitkin. “Are you sure we can count on two hundred here? That’s a big number, Mitch.”
“It’s an estimate. They can’t know about the rebellion, so I can’t know about the numbers yet. Tomorrow. Everything will be clear tomorrow. They’re as prepared as they can be, at least here.” He pointed to his head. “I just hope they have the courage here,” he said, now pointing to his chest. “Now, let me see what Dandino’s got you two doing tomorrow.” They handed him their schedules.
He looked for the best time for the march, for victory. Kids in the streets meant victory. He would gladly rot in jail, a hero, if in return he saw kids in the streets. If the march failed, he failed, his movement failed and hope failed in him. So he doted, and dallied and decided finally that they’d go into the streets third period, during homeroom, when things were a bit crazy to start with. Mitkin would have a holdover class, a group of flunkies he knew well. Freeman was a special education teacher and was entirely confident about his troops. Rutledge had a giant group of freshmen in his homeroom and worried that he could not count on them. Mitkin held out his schedule and shook it.
“Don’t worry about what this says for third period. Forget the freshmen. I’ve already arranged for you to be in the cafeteria. You’ll have lots of real rambunctious company too, somewhere in the neighborhood of two hundred. And all of them will be outfitted with fliers. A few, maybe twenty, will have mace.”
“For the cops?” asked Freeman.
“Yes,” said Mitkin. “The fliers will get them out there, the mace, if they don’t let us march, will make it a riot.”
“I’ve seen the fliers, they’re perfect,” said Rutledge.
“What do they say?” asked Freeman.
Mitkin smiled a satisfied smile. “TAKE THE CITY HOSTAGE AND MARCH FOR FREEDOM, and then directions for where and when to march.” He continued, deadpan, “It says that one million students are poised to march in ten minutes, and then it asks the question, DO YOU WANT TO BE THE ONLY ONE TO MISS THIS?” Mitkin feigned holding a piece of paper in his hands, pointing to it and pounding it with his forefinger. “Go march or miss the boat of salvation.” He looked at Rutledge and then at Freeman and grinned, slightly. A stultified silence invited him to continue. “Look, they’ll go. Besides, I know most of them personally and they’ll go. I know it. They’re waiting for this. I can feel it. They’ll go.” Mitkin pointed to Rutledge. “The key to big numbers will be the lunchroom kids. Get them into the courtyard quickly, Terry. No later than ten after ten. Tomorrow.”
“And then all of us into the streets?” asked Rutledge.
“Yes. As many as possible, but don’t go far. We must get back to help with the principal’s office. Two martyrs, Melinda and Shakina, will already have secured it.”
Freeman lowered his chin an inch. “Girls with guns, I love it. So our job is to return to the school after the march begins?”
“That’s right,” said Mitkin. “If we can, we come back here.”
Rutledge finished his cigarette and threw the butt on the ground. “And then in Dandino’s office for how long?”
Mitkin’s nose flared and he sucked up a deep breath. “Until Taughtauer burns down Livingston Street.”
They walked back into the school, apart and alone, carrying their secret, bursting to act, bursting to tell. Quietly they inched further and further toward fame, but Mitkin walked closer to his soul and nearer his spirit than the others. Again and again, he ran the whole thing through his mind. Action. Cut. Action. The day’s significance revealed itself, shuddering and heaving inside a mind already filled with so many decaying hopes that barely any room could be made for happiness.
It was just after 2:30 p.m., two hours until Taughtauer was scheduled to lay siege to the building. One hundred and twenty minutes kept Mitkin from his dream. He checked every clock in every room as he moved from floor to floor, nervously doing nothing. Unable to concentrate on the little things he had been assigned to do on this day, the before the opening of school. He finally came to rest in the yearbook office across from his classroom, a place he went often in the latter months of the previous school year. There he picked up the phone and dialed.
“Hello.” A dull-voiced girl answered the phone. “Who’s this?”
“Mitkin. Where are we?”
“On schedule. The van is gone. They should arrive by four, no hitches.” A pause and then a giddy, “All is go, that includes every TM at every school. No changes.”
“Are you sure, Alysha?” asked Mitkin.
“It’s all good.”
“And the house? Is it cleared out entirely?”
“Almost. I should have it ready within the hour.”
“Be meticulous, you know, thorough, take it all, leave nothing behind. Be smart, please. Please.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“Where will you stay tonight? You cannot stay there.”
“I’m going to stay at Richie’s, most of us are. We’ve got the whole place to ourselves. We’d love to see you there, Mitchell.”
“What about his mother?”
“He says she’s tripping,” said Alysha. “Good thing for us too, I didn’t know where we’d stay. You got the number, right? Please call.”
Mitkin said that he would and hung up. Next he reached each of the teacher martyrs. One by one, each confirmed what the students had been telling him all day. Judy Strand sounded jubilant.
“It’s gonna happen, Mitchell. They’re on their way. Not one hitch all day, great. The police have never been a problem, the FBI is nowhere to be found and the schools themselves are clueless, even when kids like Rich scream at them from their own courtyard. Amazing, truly amazing. It’s almost too easy.”
“Don’t get overconfident, Judy. It’s been easy because nobody takes the system seriously, everybody figures it’s such a waste that people like us could not exist. Well, we do, and the only ones who need to know about it for the next forty-five minutes are us. After that, the whole world.”
“And they will…” Her voice trailed off. “Have you heard from Roger and Terry?”
“I saw Terry today and Sinclair Freeman too, I’m waiting for Roger to call back.”
Judy Strand nearly screamed into the phone. “Who the hell is Sinclair Freeman?”
“A teacher martyr.”
“Since when?”
“Since last week. Terry recruited him.”
Judy Strand paused over the phone. “Does Ed know about him, I mean, I never heard about him getting baptized?”
Mitkin hadn’t either. “Terry told me Ed knew about him, that Ed had given the go-ahead for him to be a martyr. I think he even said he’s baptized. That’s what Terry said.” He tried to remember. “That’s what he told me, he’s legit, I’m sure.”
“Then why wasn’t he baptized properly? I wasn’t there.” Strand didn’t wait for an answer. “Where is he now?”
“Still here I think,” said Mitkin, glaring out over the phone at the empty room. “I’ll find him, right now.” He hung up. An image of Freeman’s visage hung in the air, his little learned glasses and fickle eyes there in front of Mitkin. He spoke aloud to himself. “He’s genuine, he’s got to be.” He balled his fists and flew into the hallway. Mitkin clacked down the stairs and into Terry Rutledge’s burrow, the teachers’ lounge. There he found Rutledge, alone, sipping on a cold can of fruit juice and playing solitaire.
“Where’s Freeman?” asked Mitkin.
“I don’t know, he may have gone home. What’s up with you? You look crazy.”
“Was he baptized?” asked Mitkin fiercely.
“Of course he was.”
“Submersed? In the basement?” shouted Mitkin.
“Well, sort of, I mean he might have—”
“Who baptized him?”
“What’s the big deal, Mitch? Geez. He was approved by Ed, what else do you need to know?” Rutledge’s drawn temples betrayed resentment.
“I need to know everything, Terry. Now. We are thirty minutes away from D-Day, thirty minutes. Do you understand? I don’t get the conflicting stories. Why wasn’t he baptized like he was supposed to be?”
Rutledge smirked, “Because, we didn’t have time. Come on Mitch, calm down. Ed felt like we needed another teacher martyr on the ground here, someone who could help us tomorrow. I mean come on Mitch, Ed okayed it all.”
Mitkin ground his teeth. His stare was fierce. “Did he, or did he not go down and get baptized?”
“No. Damn, lighten up, Mitchell. So what? It’s just water, Mitch, no, so what?” Rutledge was loud.
“So what?” repeated Mitkin through gritted teeth and red-hot lips. “How about this for one? Our lives are on the line today, Terry. Every one of us has been quiet for months, some of us years, and now, just like that, two weeks before D-Day I’ve got some uninitiated guy working close enough to ruin everything. It’s not just water, Terry, it’s deeper than that. Deeper.”
“You’re crazy man, relax. It’s frickin’ water, and it’s not the point of this all. Relax, shit.” Rutledge’s young face fell flat, his eyes dimming as if losing power. He seemed unwilling to accept Mitkin’s spontaneous analysis, content to just shrug his shoulders and raise an eyebrow. “C’mon Mitch. Freeman’s legit. Someone in his family was killed in school, the Tom Jefferson case. You know about it. That was Freeman’s baby brother.”
Mitkin did not say a word.
“Don’t worry, he’ll be with us tomorrow and he’ll kick some ass. Don’t worry. Relax.”
There was no relaxing, however. Things were getting dangerous. Mitchell jumped to the most lurid of conclusions, the conclusion that all of it would end without a peep, at the front door of Livingston Street, a huge army of helmeted policemen clubbing silly a bunch of half-crazed lunatics whose only goal was to kill the Chancellor. They’d probably even say something about special education and broken homes, and suddenly it wouldn’t be the system at all, it would be them, the fixers, at fault. He cringed and then recalled the many months of preparation, months that for Taughtauer were years. He saw Taughtauer as a young man hatching the plan and now, this day, this momentous day was at hand. How terrible it would be if it all ended that way, unceremoniously, at the foot of the dragon’s lair. Mitkin looked at Rutledge and wondered if he thought this way too. He wondered if it was his life that he had given. Because that is what it was for Mitkin. It was his life, his entire being, given in the service of an idea. He had come to worship at the altar of freedom and genuine love for children. The idea had rescued him. The ideas of freedom and service had made him great again and had given his life design. He had gone from hopeless animal to hopeful spirit and was grateful. Wasn’t Rutledge grateful too?
“Is he genuine, Terry?” he asked one last time, tired from thought. “Tell me he’s truly committed.”
“I already told you, yes.” Rutledge saw Mitkin’s fervor and put his hand on Mitkin’s shoulder. “He’s not gonna ruin anything Mitch. It’s good, don’t worry.”
Mitkin looked at him sternly. His fiery confidence returned. “Good then. I’m leaving now. Where will you spend the night?”
Rutledge looked calm. “At Sinclair’s. We’ll be there all night, call us.”
“I will,” said Mitkin. “I’ll call you when I hear about the takeover. Listen to the radio, seven seventy. When it comes over, then I’ll call.”
As Mitkin turned to leave, Rutledge said, “You were made for tomorrow man. Cheer up.”
Mitkin walked the two flights of stairs down to the main floor. He shook his head and rolled it around on his neck and then entered Dandino’s office. Her secretary had gone for the day. Mitkin peered into the office.
Dandino was in a leather armchair reading. She had reading glasses shaped like cat’s eyes and bejeweled with emerald studs of some sort. A long pearly chain attached to her glasses hung around her neck and swayed a U on either side of her face, just below her ears. She looked up and saw Mitkin. She stared for a moment and then invited him in. Her gray hair bounced slightly on her head. “You’re still here? You’re probably one of the last.”
“Not quite,” said Mitkin.
“What brings you back, Mr. Mitkin?”
“I wanted to talk to you about Mr. Borly, the gentlemen I saw here earlier. I wanted to give my side of the story.” He mimicked meekness. “I really love this school and I don’t want anything to be misunderstood, anything that might jeopardize my position here.”
She nodded. “What is it then?”
“I was released from SBHSS after an altercation with Borly. He and I argued over his misuse of power. The kids, and I, felt he was unfair.”
“Yes, I know. I already had that talk with him, long before today. He told me about your run-in. He said you were a trouble maker.”
Mitkin nodded.
“He said you were inciting the students. Were you?”
“No.”
“You were helping students express themselves then?”
“I was just trying to do what was right. Some students expressed dissatisfaction with Mr. Borly, so I told him about it. I tried to be polite, but if you knew the situation there you’d know he, well, runs a tight ship.” Mitkin wanted to retract his last statement; it didn’t go well with obsequiousness.
“Too tight perhaps?”
Mitkin nodded, confused. She seemed to lead him against Borly.
“You could say he did a disservice to his students by treating them like voiceless creatures, couldn’t you?”
Mitkin hesitated. Then he nodded.
Dandino waved her reading glasses like a handkerchief and spoke up, “I couldn’t agree more, Mitchell. That’s partly why I hired you here. I’m not afraid to hire teachers who believe in students’ rights. Children must have a voice in their education, a strong voice. I feel like every student gets an education when they get to know themselves and their inherent rights and responsibilities, and all the rest. You can’t just treat them like empty vessels.” Mitkin’s lips parted. His chin fell. “And besides, between you and me, Borly’s an old windbag.”
Mitkin cocked his head. “So he didn’t come to tell you about me?”
“Oh, don’t be so presumptuous, Mr. Mitkin. He came for other reasons that have nothing to do with you whatsoever. In fact, it is safe to say he has forgotten your name already. He’s like that, the system comes first for Mr. Borly, teachers second.”
Mitkin stood up before it was time, propelled by his reprieve. But Dandino glared and he sat back down.
“Now, as for your Student Coalition thing, I have only one thing to say.” She paused and then jerked with a malformed thought, her hand to her mouth. “Let me back up first.” She flittered her fingers. “What is your position with this group again? If I remember right you’re the coordinator for the whole city, and have been?” She paused and gathered her thoughts. “But you weren’t even a full-time teacher, right?”
“I’m just a coordinator. I don’t really do much but give them a little teacher credence, you know some legitimacy.” He tried a smile.
“And what exactly do the kids do?”
“We, well, we are, uh… a group committed to…”
She interrupted, “To student politics and leadership, I hope. Isn’t that it?”
“Yes, absolutely, yes.”
“Well,” she said quickly, “you are welcome to use the rear courtyard whenever you think it is necessary. However, I don’t like the kids cursing on the loudspeaker. That was your group last spring, wasn’t it?”
He nodded.
“Well, that must stop. And as for the message, I respect it, the underlying element that is, but I don’t like the way it came out. It needs to be more constructive, as I am sure you will agree. I know these kids have lots of hang-ups and anger and I know that you are teaching them how to release some of it. But I don’t think yelling curse words at just anybody counts as constructive. So, do what you can. Get the kids to be a little more subtle maybe, less political perhaps, but do it without taking away the sense that they are in control. It’s a fine line, Mr. Mitkin, but that’s what you’re there for, it seems. You’re a kind of rudder. Get them to hold the wheel while you do all of the driving, it’s the way we learn.” A Pollyanna smile oozed out. “Again, I am not saying I don’t like their enthusiasm and passion, it actually reminds me of when I was young, with dreams. Still, keep it from being some crude display of rage, please. That is all. Now,” she smiled, “you may leave.”
Mitkin got up and shook hands, turned, and walked calmly toward the door.
“Oh, and by the way. One of my assistant principals tells me the kids are having some kind of march tomorrow. Is that true?”
Mitkin froze.
“If it is,” she added, “why haven’t I been told?”
Mitkin’s lungs filled with air, his stomach with panicky pinpricks. “Ah, there’s no march tomorrow.” His head pulled back on his chin in feigned disbelief. “I haven’t heard a thing about a march.”
“Good, I just wanted to make sure.” She stretched out her hands palms up, like an island despot receiving a guest. “Remember what I said now and have a good day.”
He walked as fast as he could out of the building. An urgent voice called to him from behind.
“Mitch!” Terry Rutledge ran to catch him. “Did you hear?”
Mitkin stopped.
“It’s on the radio. They’re in. They’re in, Mitch. They’ve got the Chancellor.”
Mitkin took a step closer to Rutledge. “Who told you?”
“I was in Freeman’s office upstairs. I heard it on the radio. They’re in, I’m not bullshitting you, Mitch. They’re really in. It’s on!” Rutledge held Mitkin’s shoulder, his grip a mix of fear and elation. Mitkin became emotional. A wild loosening of everything rational overtook his soul. Triumph swelled. He grabbed Rutledge by the shoulders and together the two stood, neither particularly sure what to say but both wrought with a deep sense of mission. “Call me tonight,” said Mitkin. “Be ready for anything.” He turned and walked away, his hand high in the air, a fist to the sky. He lived a renaissance as he walked through the courtyard, a magnificent brightness hanging over him and following him like the halos of old, signaling his acceptance among an elite group of individuals who in the course of history have taken their cause beyond thought and words and into action, into reality. For it was, he knew now, true what Taughtauer continuously hymned: The only thing real is man’s will, his will to action. Everything else is subjective and prey for the labyrinth of despair. It was true.
Mitkin came to the edge of the elevated courtyard and looked down on the traffic below. Like spit, cars shot past. They roared from one light to the next. Mitkin watched as pedestrians streamed unevenly through the crosswalks, scurrying from one side of the street to the other, some with, some against the light, but all endeavoring action, no matter how inconsequential. This was life, Just Do It. He plunged down the steps and onto the sidewalk. He too entered wildly into the street, dodging in and out of traffic and loving it. He yelled for no reason. He caught a glimpse of the big, digital clock hanging over 72nd Street, it read 4:00 p.m. A zephyr of raw emotion blew through him as he pictured Taughtauer calmly walking into the Board of Education and nimbly heading upstairs, his stealthy martyrs at his side, all ready to act in defense of the idea. They, like him must be feeling the joy of action, of being meaningful in the world. “It’s perfection,” he thought as he scampered to the bus stop, jostling playfully for a place in line.
The bus pulled in and settled with a high-pitched sigh. The straphangers swarmed and tangled together trying to get on the bus, and like this, Mitkin could feel the press of bone-backed flesh on all sides. It rubbed and stroked his spirit, his soul dancing freely among the crushing humanity. The breath, the sweat, the hair and the sweet aroma of the human body all saturated Mitkin as he lived, really lived, between them all. He shuffled on with an imbecile’s smile, eyes half-open, cheeks high and tight and rosy. A woman mistook him for inebriated, another for a fool. He stared with perfect cheer at everyone on the bus, one by one. He was happy, rejuvenated and free from the pain of trying to know everything, of trying to plan life. “The planning was over now,” he thought, “life begins now.” A man, trying to pass Mitkin, stepped hard on his toes.
“So sorry, excuse me,” said the big man.
Mitkin nearly yelled through his ebullient smile, “For what?”
“I stepped on your foot, I hope I didn’t scuff your shoes,” the giant said, gently.
“These?” Mitkin took off his shoes. “These are nothing.” And he flung his shoes out the side window of the bus. “Thank you,” he said and gave the man a Russian-style peck on the cheek. A woman snickered in the seat below and Mitkin looked at her with a beggar’s smile before kissing her, too. She snickered some more, liking it. He made his way to the back of the bus and as he did, his thin black socks began to come off his shoeless feet. They flopped back and forth as he walked, yet he went on unfazed. His tie was undone around his neck and the sport jacket he wore to impress the administrators hung unevenly off his shoulders. Mirth was undressing him like a lover. The bus crossed Central Park and rolled onto Manhattan’s Upper East Side.
A strong young teen wearing a Walkman stood near Mitkin on the bus. He stood taut, like a centurion. Mitkin looked at him with fascination, slowly making his way close to the boy and leaning in, conspicuously close now, his ear nearly against the big headphones and his cheek slightly rubbing the cheek of the tough boy. The boy jerked away.
“Yo, why you buggin’ motherfucker?”
“Listen to the radio,” said Mitkin softly.
The boy upped an angry lip.
“Listen to it, could you? Just a moment. Seven seventy.”
The boy stared.
“Please? It could change your life.”
“What white boy, President got took hostage? Get the hell outta here shoeless fuckin’ Joe.”
“No, but Chancellor Romero did,” said Mitkin flatly.
“Oh yeah? Really. And what makes you think I give a shit?”
“Because you should.”
“And you ‘bout to catch an ass whoopin’.” The boy pushed Mitkin back very hard, by his forehead, wrenching his neck and clubbing his head against an alloy handrail. Everyone on the bus recoiled, one by one, like dominoes. A scream went up. The bus stopped and the big boy got off. Mitkin’s head bled from a cut above his eye.
A woman offered an infant’s handywipe. “You need this, baby.” Mitkin grinned and wiped his face.
Another woman, this one with a West Indian accent, pointed and said, “There’s some on your neck, here mon.” Mitkin wiped his neck too.
“He’s right, yo,” came a squeaky voice from nearby. The bus lurched forward and Mitkin recoiled like a rag doll. “Yo, dude with the bloody head, you’re right.” It was a girl’s voice, and now everyone was looking at her, a bag of bones draped in a heap of jeans and designer wear.
“They say some radical Puerto Ricans kidnapped the Chancellor, they got guns.”
Mitkin laughed. “Puerto Ricans? Is that what they decided to say?” He looked at the girl and she looked back, blankly. Mitkin pointed slowly to his ear and rolled his finger as if asking for more.
“They cleared the building and they don’t know how many perps. It all just now went down now.” The girl was announcing it all as if calling a baseball game. “What a trip, yo.”
The bus pulled to a stop and Mitkin ran off, his hand still pressed against his bloody forehead. Suddenly he stopped, just beneath the big back window of the city bus. He searched the tinted window intently and felt the eyes of the passengers looking out at him and imagined that they were waiting for him to say something, do something, and so he did, he raised his fist and then, comically, raised his thumb, a thumbs-up for all those on the bus. And he smiled again too, brightly, like a clown, just like a clown with floppy socks and a bloody head and an eyeful of hope. He ran down the block and onto the stoop of his home, flung the doors open and careened up to his second floor apartment. He got inside and turned on the radio. It blared the same news over and over again:
We think five hostages, but that remains unsubstantiated… Now we are hearing ten assailants and all of them apparently from a Puerto Rican nationalist movement. Quite a scene here, Vincent. We’ll keep you up to the moment.
Mitkin grinned and then curled his lip. “Not quite,” he said under his breath. “Try again, morons.” He laughed wildly.
So everything was going according to plan. Taughtauer had gotten in without a hitch. The building had been cleared and all ten martyrs were safe and accounted for. Each, apparently, had taken up post and now, on the fourth floor, just like they had planned, Taughtauer and Ricky held the Chancellor and his deputy hostage. “Unprecedented,” thought Mitkin. “Perfect.” And the rest of the plan crystallized in his mind. Two things: Taughtauer could not give in until the fire. Secondly, he could not identify the students involved or the breadth of the movement. Not yet. But Mitkin knew Taughtauer would succeed, it was working. It would work.