An Imperfect Librarian - Elizabeth Murphy [8]
“Because they tol–”
“I know they told you, Carl,” he said. He shook his head and smiled at the class. They seemed more relaxed after that. In the row on the side, Marianne let out a giggle then cupped her hand over her mouth to hide it.
“Tell me why you wanted to wait for the girl, but don’t say it was because the boys told you to do it.”
“No, sir. I won’t say the boys told me to do it, sir.”
He turned to face the class once again, shaking his head. The boys who’d made me do it shook their heads too.
“Tell me why!”
“Because you told me not to, sir.”
I put the half-eaten apple in the pocket of my jacket and looked up at him. He seemed to be trying not to laugh.
“One last time. Tell me why you wanted to wait for the girl. Was she going to bring you candy, a book, a message? Why did you sit on the bench to wait for the girl?” At that point, I’d almost forgot the conversation had anything to do with the bench.
“Because the boys–”
He let out a small chuckle. That was all the audience of six-year-olds needed. They broke out in laughter like a sudden applause at the end of a great performance. Even Marco was laughing and I don’t think I’d ever seen him laugh before. I laughed because I thought I should do what they were doing. That made it funnier for them, but I’d rather be laughed at than stand in front of the class and admit I was waiting for a girl to touch my dicky.
Not long after the incident, Papa decided it would be best for me to live with his twin sister Georgette. Tatie or Auntie is what I called her. When she followed her husband Philip to England not long after my ninth birthday, she took me with her. I couldn’t live with my mother because there was no mother beyond the one-night stand between Papa and another graduate student. They met at a party a few months after he arrived in Quebec to go to university. They got drunk, had sex and he never saw her again. Nine months later, she called him from the hospital to ask if he wanted to take the baby.
Her Catholic family in Spain would have disowned her if they knew. There were English-speaking, Protestant families in Montréal who would have taken me, but in 1950, no respectable French-speaking Catholic family would have anything to do with an illegitimate child. Papa didn’t care that the potential adopters were Protestant. And he didn’t mind the Irish. “We go way back,” he said. But he’d never in a million years allow his lineage to fall to anyone with Anglo-Saxon ties.
When I turned eighteen, Papa gave me her name. That was all he could remember. Then the web came along. Suddenly, the world was so much smaller. I typed her name into a search engine. Within a few clicks, she appeared on the screen. She’s a retired anthropology professor at the University of Barcelona. Her photo is on their web site. For a while, I used it for my computer background so I could see her picture every day.
I sent her emails. I thought she might want to know that her son bears a striking resemblance to her: pitch-black hair, dark eyes, olive-coloured skin. I tried a creative selection of subject lines. There was the variation on the Hola mamá plus Baby from Quebec hospital as well as Remember Georges Brunet? I’m his son and, towards the end when I was frustrated and said things I later regretted, You’re being selfish & cruel to your son. The caption on the photo read:Professor Margarita Xavier-Manzares, her husband Dom Fernandez, their daughters Gabriella and Maria and their only son Manuel.
CHAPTER SIX
i count, therefore, i am
HENRY’S STAND UP TO THE prick reminds me of Papa’s Fight back. I’ll stand up to the prick on the day Henry resolves to learn to use the computer. That’s not going to be anytime soon. The attendance lists come back to me after training sessions. Never do I see the name Henry Kelly. At Department Head meetings, if his name is mentioned, I make excuses for him: “He probably didn’t know about the session. I’ll work harder on publicising them.” Another time, I said I was training him privately. It’s a good thing Henry didn’t hear that.
He comes