comforting, even playful. It was an undeniably chic little school. The gymnasium was a soaring space where we sat on concrete bleachers and listened to the principal make a compact but contrived speech about efficiency and organization, about the linking of mind and spirit, about safety and challenge, about our children’s yearning for a greater sense of the unknown. The following lecture was given by a behavioral pediatrician who had made numerous TV appearances, a silver-haired, soft-spoken Canadian who at one point suggested a Bring Your Stuffed Animal to School Day. And after the desultory applause we went to brief meetings with the teachers. We were shown samples of Robby’s artwork (all moonscapes) and we were told what was positive (not a lot) and what needed improvement (I zoned out). The teacher who worked with Sarah on language skills and word recognition and counting and primary numbers explained that Buckley tended to students’ emotional needs as well as their educational needs and after observing that children are not immune to stress she suggested that we enroll both Sarah and Robby in a confidence-building seminar and we were handed a pamphlet filled with photos of garishly dressed puppets and tips on such relaxation techniques as how to master bubble-blowing (“steady breaths will produce a nice stream”) and a reading list of books about positive thinking, texts to help children find “the quiet on the inside.” When Jayne began protesting charmingly, we were told, “Ms. Dennis, children are often stressed not because they weren’t invited to the right birthday party or were threatened by a bully, but, well, because their parents are stressed too.” Jayne began protesting again, this time less charmingly, and was interrupted with “How well a parent copes with stress is indicative of how well a child will deal with it.” We didn’t know what to say to that, so the teacher added, “Did you know that eight and a half percent of all children under the age of ten tried to kill themselves last year?” which rendered me silent for the rest of the meetings. I overheard another teacher tell a concerned couple, “That could be the reason that your child may end up developing interpersonal difficulties,” and the couple was shown a drawing of a platypus their son had made and was told that an average platypus should look “less deranged.” At one point Jayne muttered softly, “I practice yoga,” and we read a disturbing essay Sarah had written called “I Wished I Was a Pigeon,” which reduced Jayne to tears, and I just stared mutely at the drawings of the Terby—there were dozens of them—swooping down on a house that resembled ours, angry and in full attack mode. Parents were handed complimentary “stress baskets,” which included, among other items, a book called A Weed Can Be Transformed into a Flower. These meetings had wounded me sufficiently. I needed a drink more badly than I ever had. The dream was cracked and I needed it to keep streaming. There was no recourse except to smile darkly at everyone.
Finally, at the reception in the library, after four glasses of a sour chardonnay, I had to excuse myself from the proceedings.
Outside, I nodded at the armed security guard patrolling the stone walkway leading to the library and asked if he had a cigarette. He just said no and that smoking wasn’t allowed on school grounds. I tried to make a joke but the security guard didn’t smile when he stepped away from me and into the darkness. The average platypus, I thought, wandering off. The average platypus.
The library was three stories tall and framed one side of a large open courtyard. The windows of the building were translucent panels emitting a soft white light that filtered out into the darkness. From where I stood I could see the shadows of parents milling around, their murmurings from inside the building a distant soundtrack, and behind them were the long rows of bookshelves carving through the space. In the courtyard was a bronze statue of the Buckley Griffin, the school’s half-eagle, half-lion mascot, and it rose up out of the courtyard,