Parental Acknowledgment

Lunch was never the highlight of Harry’s day. The menu was pretty unimaginative, the serving cycles were repetitive, and Harry even found the workers’ faces to be boring. He saw the same eyes every day: they were either flickering with attitude for the women, or humming with dullness for the men. After just a few years, Harry was tired of them all. They were all the same, those cafeteria workers.

One woman stood out, though she hid herself away in the back. She hummed some old tune to herself while she scrubbed in the sink and dried on the counter. Through the serving counter window, her backside was only just barely visible, never turning to face the cafeteria dining hall. During slower hours, when students were filing out of the cafeteria before class (the mere thought of afternoon class made all students silent), her humming could be heard over clanking trays and chiming silverware.

She was the washer lady, and she usually didn’t talk to her coworkers too much. Harry assumed she was like the rest of the workers: sleepy looking and sometimes disagreeable. Worse than them, however, she was a terrible dish washer. Or maybe she was just too lazy to do the dishes properly.

“You’ve got a smudge.” said Kerry, fumbling with his milk carton.

Harry looked down at his plate. There were some scattered tater tots and broccoli, and to one side, a spot of something dark and sticky looking. Harry stared closely at the smudge until it started to blur in his vision. He looked back up to the serving line, where Ms. Jefferson was scooping tater tots onto plates and setting them on trays as disinterested youngsters waited. The line moved slowly, with a lot of stop-and-go traffic. Few were talking amongst themselves, which was strange, because the kids would usually fill the cafeteria with squeals and laughter. Today, those same students were suspiciously quiet.

Harry heard the familiar hummed tune.

“If she can hum and sing, then she should at least clean the plates right.” Kerry hadn’t noticed an equally large stain on his plate, off to the edge of the dish. He seemed happy enough complaining about other dishes, so Harry saw no need to ruin his meal for him. Carefully and slowly, Harry picked his way around the smudge, eating what he could.

“I wonder why,” Harry mumbled. It was like he was day dreaming, the hummed tune was so lucid. “Is it that hard to wash dishes?” Harry stayed quiet for the remainder of the lunch period, as Kerry and others joked and talked about whatever it is that they normally joked and talked about. The tune was drowned out in obnoxious chatter until Harry couldn’t hear the tune anymore, so instead he just replayed it in his head, or hummed it softly. He had a powerful urge to hear more of it, however, because he thought it was like listening to another person’s memory, private and revealing.

Old and laden with memories, it sounded like the kind of tune that got passed from mother to daughter, but never to son. Harry, whose mother had passed long ago, suddenly resented his own lack of family tunes. But the dish lady seemed to have had no shortage of such songs. She had a history to remember, and he envied that. His father, even if he had something to pass on, didn’t seem the type: he was a bit too private and formal to sit down and share something with a son. Maybe he would open up to a daughter, though.


* * *

Hall passes were like gold in Beckwith, and any student who received one successfully escaped the monotony of daily instruction and class work. It was like getting out of prison for a day, and having a freedom of life that had not been experienced before. A student with a hall pass could’ve gone off home, or for a ride on his bike. Most likely, however, he was so struck by the sudden coming of liberation that the student couldn’t help but walk slowly, and try to take every little bit in. So instead of having fun and horsing around, a student was much more likely to stroll down the hall way, looking at every locker just to see them all unattended; watching clocks with hour hands in strange places; and enjoy having complete privacy in the bathroom. It was like a dream come true.

Knowing full and well how special that hall pass was, there were still hall monitors out and about, once students like Harry or Kerry, looking for rogue students who might’ve cut class without a hall pass, or who had a weak excuse to be out of class. They enjoyed their appointed tasks, and they were so zealous in hunting down students, it was as if they were getting paid. But instead, they were all volunteers nominated directly by the principal.

It was like a student to betray his own kind by snitching to the principal. And then smile like a trained dog when the principal patted the hall monitor on his head and gave him a doggie biscuit thanks. Those orange sashes in the halls became a thing to fear. They would ruin your entire day by getting you in trouble, and even worse, ending that wonderful afternoon stroll through the halls. Harry was innocent, though. He was feeling ill, but not so much that he needed to go directly to the nurse. He just needed some time to himself. And in the halls by himself, he could hum out loud all he wanted.

Harry had gotten too free, though. An orange sash called to him from behind, and his stroll was ruined.

“Harry, you’re cutting again.”

Harry knew better than to argue with a hall monitor - they were the principal’s favorites, and so the Principal would certainly take their word over his own. Especially since he was a frequent class-cutter. Principal Henderson had told him he wouldn’t graduate until he was 35 at the rate he was going. Harry didn’t particularly care about that, though, if it meant nearly 35 years of freedom.


* * *

Ruth shifted her weight from one foot to the other, but her hips were still tight, and her feet were sore from a workday’s weight. Her once narrow frame had widened at the center in the past few years, and she still wasn’t used to the weight. Principal Henderson, who always insisted upon being called Principal rather than Mister (even by employees), shuffled papers on the desk and set them into piles to look busy or important. He was probably just eating or reading the paper before Ruth came in though, because as Principal, he had little to do during the day except discipline unruly students and troublesome employees. His job didn’t really start until the PTA meetings after hours, and the district meetings every month.

“Ruth, I thought you were working on your problem? But Ms. Jefferson has told me that things have not improved at all.” He said this as he finished filing away his sports section, and as he swept crumbs off of his desk. The Sox were up two games, with coffee stain to go.

Ruth shifted her weight back to her other heel. “I’m sorry, Principal Henderson.”

“Ms. Jefferson thinks it’s your eyesight. Or maybe it’s something else?” There was a long pause, while Ruth’s head bowed. “Is it something I can help, Ruth?”

“This job is very important to me, sir.” She seemed to whimper and waver in her speech like a frightened child to Principal Henderson, who didn’t know whether to discipline her or console her.

Ruth’s mind was elsewhere, thinking on her old family back home. Her brothers and father would do the field work because it was the most important work. Ruth would help her mother cook, and after meals clean up the kitchen, although she had no talent for it like her mother. The table was to be cleared, the scraps had to be taken care of, and the dishes needed to be tended to. Ruth would pull up an iron bucket half filled with water. Then she would take her cloth, dip it into the water, and scrub at those plates until they were clear, dip them in water, and scrub them some more. Her goal was to make them shine, but she never could get the hang of it. Never well enough to impress her mother.

The same mother who seemed to be watching over her back at all times, never speaking or commenting. The sum of Ruth’s entire childhood was nothing more than squatting on the kitchen floor over an iron bucket, scrubbing dishes. Her mother’s old phonograph would always wail in the main room, and Ruth would scrub with the rhythm, as if she could participate in the band with her bucket, plate and rag. Besides her frequent thoughts of her mother, it was her only distraction.

As Ruth grew older, she and her mother rarely exchanged words, except when something went very wrong. Her mother would come in with a furious look on her eyes, and she would stammer, which was proof that she was venomous. Her voice wouldn’t be raised, but it would be hushed and raspy like a screamed whisper. She no doubt wanted to scream, but she wouldn’t dare to disturb Ruth’s father. Then she would threaten to tell Ruth’s father, and that might straighten Ruth up. Most of the time, Ruth’s mother would do the whipping herself.

Her mother beat her until she bled, and her brothers could do nothing but watch. That was just what Ruth’s mother did, and they gave up trying to stop her. The beatings would just keep on happening, and so they kept on keeping on. Ruth’s mother was relentless, and when those old phonograph records were blaring, she seemed to strike on beat, like a percussion instrument. Ruth could anticipate the lashes by the tune that she had long since memorized.

When her mother fell ill the beatings stopped, and Ruth assumed all of the housekeeping duties for her family. Her mother didn’t even have the energy to get out of bed and yell, anymore. Her brothers maintained that their sister had poor sight, but Ruth never admitted why she kept leaving spots on her plates. When her youngest brother would complain to her, she could only muster an apathetic apology.

Through it all, the spots kept getting worse, as if she were making a point. As if it were on purpose. As if she were not only waiting for the whipping, but provoking it. Soon, her older brothers and father gave up correcting her. Her mother always let her know in the past, and it never did her any good. Her mother would address Ruth by her first name, and tell her daughter about her latest failure. And Ruth would go right back into the kitchen and do the same thing for the next meal.

After her mother, and later her father passed, Ruth moved north with her brother, and they rented a small apartment on the south side. Ruth hired on at Beckwith, on the north side, doing the only thing she knew how. Like her humming, it was just a habit. Or maybe a ritual or tradition that no one could understand. She didn’t even know the names of the song she hummed while she scrubbed - it was just what she did. After a few months, even her coworkers in the cafeteria gave up trying to stop her, or correct her. They figured it was a waste of time, because Ruth was just ‘doing what she did.’ And so the spots kept on keeping on.

“I do it on accident. But it’s getting better.” Ruth’s head tilted up, and she forced a straight face. She had spaced out for several moments, and the embarrassment of the realization made her blush. She desperately wanted to leave the office, and go back to the dishes. There were still so many left undone.

“I spoke with your brother,” Principal Henderson began. “You just can’t help it, can you, Ruth?”

Ruth’s ears perked at the sound of twisting doorknobs and creaking doors.


* * *

The secretary yelped. “Harry, you know you can’t do that!” But he could, and he did. Harry forced the heavy oak door open, and with one hand he held it open from slamming shut like it usually did. He spoke more deeply than he ever had.

“Don’t fire her!” His eyebrows were furrowed, and his mouth was scowling. Behind him sat a secretary caught off guard, and a genuinely shocked hall monitor who hadn’t even noticed Harry getting up and storming the office until it was too late. Everyone had overheard the conversation, the way words easily traveled through hollow Beckwith walls. Not at all like the cement wall between the cafeteria and the classrooms, which protected the instructors from the barbarous chaos of student dining.

Principal Henderson dismissed Ruth, and she obeyed. Harry stood there, the boldness leaving him with a feeling of foolishness for having barged in. And even worse, the sudden commotion left him with that rotten sense of having forgotten something precious. He was standing, blinking, staring into space and gaping as Ruth walked right past him and out of the office. The scent of tater tots and ketchup wafted through the door while Harry focused his attention on Principal Henderson, who avoided his stare. He was hesitant to lock eyes with the child, not because of the unforgivable look in Harry’s eyes, but because of the look in his own eyes, which he hesitated to share with the child.

Principal Henderson regained his composure and his thoughts at the same time. “Come in, Harry.”

The boy stepped forward, letting the door slam with its own weight, and he paced over to the guest chair. The seat was so deep that he sank into it, and so low that he could barely see over the desk. He was reminded of his short stature as he shrank in his sunbaked leather seat, relative to the Principal’s elevated position atop his high chair and desk. Still, the office had that familiar smell he was so accustomed to, and it put him at ease. He was a frequent visitor after all, though usually for the wrong reasons.

“I called her brother, Harry.” Principal Henderson assured his guest. “It’s been a problem of hers since she was little.”

“How did she get that way?” Harry was suddenly aware that he did not even know the dish washer’s name.

“Abusive parent, maybe some psychological disorder.” Principal Henderson clasped his hands on his desk, and looked over his young guest. He did not show any signs of anger on his face, despite the fact that Harry had barged in interrupting him: explaining matters truthfully seemed to be his only concern. Now that he was looking down on Harry, the boy seemed unwilling to return his stare. Something unseen was weighing down on Harry, like a burden of air.

“Didn’t her parents love her?” Harry spoke into his chest.

“Some people don’t know how to raise kids. That’s all.”

“Mom wasn’t like that, huh?”

“No, not at all. She knew how to raise a child.”

Harry remembered now. It was the hummed tune he had forgotten. His eyes rolled up just a little as he searched his mind for it, but he couldn’t recall even one note. It had completely escaped him.

“Does our family have any songs that we hum?”

Principal Henderson gave his son a smirk. He had anticipated a very different response. “What do you mean?”

“The lunch lady,” he turned and pointed over his shoulder to the closed door. “She had a tune, but I forgot it. And she got it from her family, I bet. It’s like, music for remembering.”

“Son, you don’t want that kind of remembering music.” Principal Henderson pulled out a cigarette and put it in his mouth. Just the taste of tobacco was enough to satisfy him for a few minutes more, at least until his son left. He never cared to smoke around Harry, because it got him coughing.

“They hum those tunes when they have bad memories. Not good ones.” He sat up in his chair, and refocused his attention on Harry. “Now get back to class, and don’t let me see you cutting again.”

Principal Henderson was too lenient, and he knew it. It was as if he was telling Harry that he didn’t care enough to punish him, because he was more concerned with his hall monitor-surrogate-children and PTA friends. Harry was dismissed as an unimportant troublemaker with whom he happened to share a home.

The father took the cigarette from his lips, and flicked it onto the center of his desk. Harry stood up, and slowly walked out of the office, his mind elsewhere. His short arms seemed so fragile to his father, it was a real wonder that they could open the oversized oak door every day. But Harry somehow managed, and he was gone in an instant and a door slam.

Principal Henderson sat back for a moment. There was a tune stuck in his head as surely as there was a stain on his lunch plate. And a stronger sense of guilt in his chest than there had been a moment ago.