Michael Daley
Mr. Sinclair had an awakening. Coming back from summer vacation, many other teachers noticed small things: almost out of earshot, faint music as he prepared his room behind a locked door; his absence at lunch those first days before students arrived. Though they ate almost furtively, anticipating scheduled meetings regarding the new school year’s list of experimental programs and procedures, they still could chat about books, music, movies, or summer travel. During a lull, the door opening down the hall sent them a chord or two from the Ravi Shankar singers, when someone, perhaps Mr. Terwillant, mentioned how Mr. Sinclair had spent his summer at an ashram in India.
Silence for a moment. “Oh?” asked stout Mrs. Vinstaad, leaning back in a metal chair. “What part of India?” As a girl she had tramped over Europe. The summer following her first year of teaching, Mrs. Vinstaad, then Miss Hildegard, had taken a walking tour of ancestral burial sites. During the spring of that year, she’d avidly researched her family tree and authenticated her lineage with a set of slides she presented to the faculty at that year’s first staff meeting. Now twenty years later, indisputably a world traveler, her question was motivated more by curiosity than personal experience. She had loved India from a distance and kept its well-worn Lonesome Planet, yet she would have been reluctant to admit, had anyone asked, she had never visited the country.
Bill Chambers—“Bill” to students—who always spoke of Mrs. Vinstaad as Mrs. Vinstaad and never, as he now addressed her, “Mizz. V,” added to Terwillant’s report by informing the table at large that Mr. Sinclair had summered in India, chanting and meditating. A close group of teachers, they had had lunches together for nearly three years. This change in Mr. Sinclair’s behavior—his self-imposed abstention from their collegial lunch and casual hallway conversations—signaled a sort of breach in their habits, and more malevolently, critiqued the worth of their group’s interdependence, while on a personal level, Mrs. Vinstaad, Mr. Chambers, Terwillant, and many teachers were disappointed. Mr. Sinclair would not only be missed, because presumably whatever called him to India took him from them and the immersion they’d all enjoyed in one another’s banter. Of which Mr. Sinclair had been an important part. His jokes, his ironic and irreverent utterances about students, administration, or ignorant and prejudiced parents, spoken from a seemingly bottomless cynicism, sometimes even at his own expense, buoyed their group up as they guffawed over yogurt in the lunchroom or choked on ale after work. Certainly no one thought he held such grim views about teaching as he pretended. His watery eyes gave him away, his inability to deadpan a one-liner about student intelligence without making himself laugh—that uninhibitedness—had persuaded them of his regard for them, had endeared him. That, and the stutter.
They were all protective, wouldn’t tolerate student jokes; although a cruel few from the Science Department and the coaching staff sometimes allowed a student to mention Mr. Sinclair’s speech pattern, most stood patiently in the hall while he got out a barked punchline that seemed by comparison to Bill’s deft puns all but epical. They wouldn’t interrupt or finish his sentences—impossible anyway, so unpredictable were his zingers, so out of everyone else’s depth. They all knew his observations, no matter how painstakingly uttered, how chokingly finally expressed, were worth the wait.
Jeff Fournier had an especially fond appreciation for Mr. Sinclair’s black humor, and he’d mastered the art of conversing within the rhythmic ebb and flow of the stutter to such an extent that Mr. Sinclair and Mr. Fournier could be seen frequently standing before the open door of one or the other’s classroom laughing to near hysteria, or exchanging a look, a word, or a shrug of some sort in the lunchroom that sent each of them and several other teachers into gasping, eye-wiping, choking-on-the-gulp-of-coffee paroxysms. Jeff would miss this. He would miss the jokes, but especially Mr. Sinclair’s laser on every foible of the “ruling team,” as he referred to anyone not a teacher but whose job it was to tell or teach teachers how business, academicians, parents, the “Research” (an entity he located between Princeton and Paris), in short, how the polls, instructed them to teach.
Always, it had seemed to Jeff, his and Mr. Sinclair’s were the somewhat affectionate observations of human frailty both had developed as a lifetime habit. Mr. Sinclair was amused by noting his suspicions confirmed, even in the excellent characters of high school teachers. He had no problem imparting his fellow-feeling with colleagues, always including himself in the joke, and sometimes, especially with Jeff, exaggerating his stutter as if to caricature himself, or anyone, as it might seem, in the role of a lust-ridden octogenarian, or a daffy but smitten first year teacher. The stutter became a tool, and although he couldn’t always control when he stuttered, he could direct it with his peculiar brand of humor, a sarcasm that at times brushed against outrage.
He didn’t stutter when he recited. Not with poetry, or dramatic dialogue, or when reading aloud, which he did often for students. Or when he sang. As choirmaster his own singing was usually confined to examples of the piece his choir would attempt. As if he’d been molded in the tradition of the Masters, his choir worshipped him. Whether it was his frequent snide one-liners between cantatas, or their unspoken desire to protect him from any whiff of ridicule or discomfort when he was forced into silence, to wait for his breath and the remaining thought in one of his sentences to coincide, it was difficult to say, but year after year, his students offered him unquestioning devotion.
And now, as the teachers speculated over lunch two days before the end of summer vacation, how could that possibly continue? They had heard the trailing, somewhat haunting voices emanate from the choir room. There had been the scent of incense. He was not speaking to them. When he saw Jeff for the first time, he stopped, smiled, placed his hands palm to palm, and bowed from the waist before quickly disappearing into his classroom.
The teachers appreciated these few paid hours before opening day. They prepared the room, planned the first weeks, but mostly they reoriented themselves to the building, its end-of-summer light bathing dusty classroom desks, while the emptiness and preparedness of each room, and an excitement each teacher knows as almost palpable, won out against the more pleasurable emptiness of summer. Despite hours of solitude, they looked forward to one another, to learning how the others spent the days, how the experiences had changed them or made them more familiar, these partners in the service of the children they were about to meet. So it was a disappointment that Mr. Sinclair kept himself apart. There would be no such time to visit when the long march began. They suspected him of disapproving of them, and in conversations which did not take place in Jeff’s vicinity, they began to wonder if religious conversion would lead Mr. Sinclair toward doctrines best left out of school curricula. There had been a campaign of letter writing only the year before regarding the school’s efforts to include alternative approaches to evolution. Textbooks incorporating Genesis were assigned to students, many of whom were more than willing to argue that science was simply another religion and evolution its erroneous tenet. These students gathered at dawn under the flag, held hands and prayed, the cuffs of their jeans and their tennis shoes soaked by the dew, their feet numb in frost or light snow and rain.
The day before school began, the staff was asked to meet in the cafeteria. Such meetings took place precisely when teachers craved most to be alone and put finishing touches on their classrooms and lesson plans. It was necessary and expected that the administrators would go over rules and procedures which pertained to all. What they would do in the event of an earthquake, for instance, was always a big waste of time, as Jeff saw it. While going through the steps of the procedure—the entire staff marching out to take up positions by department along the baseball field border—he found himself grousing to anyone who would listen, but not to Mr. Sinclair, with whom he tried to keep up on the five-minute walk but who was beaming at Jeff and at everyone else while striding along in his white shirt and white pants and beads, almost glowing in bright morning sun. Jeff was trying to point out the, as he saw it, obvious absence of logic in this ritual which could only have come about so that some form could be returned to the State Office of Education affirming that the staff had rehearsed an earthquake drill. Wouldn’t the reality be a bit too disorienting to trust that the baseball field would even be intact, or that the treacherous route through various campus buildings would still be negotiable, or that any of us, he was saying, to Berta Vinstaad, now walking slowly and stately and enjoying these last moments in the sun, would not be more concerned with the whereabouts of our own children and loved ones. And Berta was smiling tolerantly as Jeff droned on to her while the rest of the teachers gathered in small groups chatting about the summer, which was, today, all but gone. Mr. Sinclair, who made up the entire staff of the school’s Music Department, walked around at the far end of the field, pacing the territory afforded him and his students, who would have been in band or choir had this been an actual disaster, gesticulating and singing what Monsieur Letourneau said sounded distinctly like “La Marseillaise.”
Whereas after that first meeting, Jeff had felt only the loss of friendship and a vague sense of betrayal—although this was childish, he told himself—now he’d become protective, certain Mr. Sinclair was disturbed. What if this religious bent came off as silly to the students? What if they laughed, not only at his stutter as they might now that he was more vulnerable or because professed atheists among them felt betrayed, but at his oddly histrionic behavior? His past students would return expecting the bright confident smile, the somewhat sardonic glint in his eye, not to mention his gray suits and ties, his dignity.
After the drill, Jeff wanted to ask Mr. Sinclair if he thought such fears were justified. As he hurried down the hall, his friend entered the choir room and closed the door behind him. When Jeff reached the door he heard the strings of the sitar along with voices raised so loudly they seemed manic. He knocked before turning the handle, but the door was locked. This was so unnecessary. Jeff took the locked door personally this time, though he had willed himself not to the three other times he tried to visit Mr. Sinclair. His protective feelings quickly reasserted themselves, however, and he knocked again, somewhat more noisily, but it seemed to him the chanting became louder and shrill.
School began. The first day was a friendly day, a hectic day. At the end of it, when Mr. Fournier was staring out the window of his first floor classroom, it suddenly occurred to him that he hadn’t given a thought to Mr. Sinclair. His concern for his old friend had worn against his hurt at having been snubbed. Yet here was Sinclair now, happy, spry, on his way through the parking lot. Jeff watched him as he reached his car, a black 1959 Jaguar, the same car he’d driven ever since Jeff had known him—at least one thing had not changed. He hadn’t been surprised to see him stride, as always now, in his bright white shirt, bright white pants, and beads, or to notice that the cloth bag dangling from his shoulder sported the odd smile of some Eastern deity. He’d been somewhat surprised to see the lanky figure ambling down the walk well ahead of any other teacher, and certainly much earlier than he’d ever left school in at least fifteen years. Jeff was more surprised by himself. He kept watching Mr. Sinclair and didn’t know why. Obviously things change, but was he waiting for a sign that his familiar workplace was going back to normal, so to speak? Was he looking for some chink in his friend’s veneer of exotic faith? Sinclair stooped to the latch, placed the ugly shoulder bag in the boot, opened the driver door, and aligned his long legs in their weird white pants under the steering column. Then he noticed there had been a change to the little Jag. The license plate was new; it read B-HA-P. He couldn’t imagine the old Sinclair choosing to send a message at all, let alone one so clueless. Yet here it was, he could see what was going on; it was a disguise, a ruthless and sarcastic one, the Sinclair-Fournier humor still intact, he knew now, as he watched Sinclair use himself as the joke on them all. The convertible Jag, with the small sputter, pulled out of the parking lot, the white-clad saint’s black hair flourishing in sunshine and breeze, his license plate evoking the wide mustache and peaceful smile of Meher Baba like a chord above the entire scene.
At the first faculty meeting of the year, Jeff headed for his usual seat in the back row, but Mrs. Vinstaad and Ron Blescoe beckoned him to join them.
“Have you heard, Jeff?” Mrs. Vinstaad began. “There’s already been a parent complaint against Mr. Sinclair and it appears the District wants him out.”
“What?” He looked pained.
“They don’t want him standing before the whole community,” said Ron, “at football games and such, leading the band in white robes.”
“Oh, come on, they can’t just dismiss him without…I don’t know…suggesting he make some changes.”
Mrs. V allowed one of her thin smiles to suggest he was being naïve. “My dear, he has made some changes. Nobody likes them.”
Steve Bronsky, the vice principal, was trying to get everyone’s attention by waving both hands down in front of the crowd as if to stop a train. In his husky voice he let them all know it was time to get started.
Jeff scanned the teachers, close to a hundred. Since this was the first, there would be few people skipping. He was looking for Mr. Sinclair, and yet was certain that Sinclair would avoid the questioning looks, as he had avoided talking to other teachers almost completely.
But Mr. Sinclair entered just as Steve was asking, “Does everyone have an agenda? We have a lot to cover and I know you don’t want to stay late.” A few heads turned and several seemed to take note of his garb. He walked directly to an empty seat in the front row and smiled at Barbara Patterson, who was sitting beside him and who moved her lips uncomfortably as if to indicate a greeting.
“The first item is discipline,” said Steve.
“I’d like to talk about that fight in the cafeteria this morning,” said Harlan Miller.
“We’ll get to that.”
“But I think we should address how continuously and increasingly rude the kids are. I mean not only to me, but so painfully lacking in respect for one another.” This from the far end of the room, Mrs. Strothman.
“Okay,” said Steve, “we’ll talk about that too.”
“I think we should make them stop chewing gum in class,” said a female voice.
“…and no more baseball hats in class either,” said a deep male voice. Was he joking?
“Okay, okay,” Steve was saying. Mr. Sinclair was slowly raising his hand down in front. “But first, I just wanted to go over policy…oh…alright, one more comment before we move on.” And he pointed to Mr. Sinclair, who stood up slowly, as slowly as he had raised his hand. His tall thin frame seemed to be thinking itself into an erect posture. He turned away from Steve, to whom, of course, everyone had addressed the previous comments, and faced the members of the faculty. Jeff noticed the two new PE coaches exchange glances, almost invisible smirks, and Mrs. Vinstaad leaned toward Ron to whisper something.
“I…” he paused. The fidgeting stopped in the squeaky seats. “I…teach…the same…kids as all of you.” Jeff realized just as soon as Mr. Sinclair said these words that he hadn’t heard his voice in so long, and that this deadpan statement brought back to him again the black irony of all the in-jokes at the expense of so many people now in the room.
“But I don’t have any pr…” he stopped. Oh, Jeff thought, come on, don’t give in. “Pr..pr..pr…” The new PE coaches raised their eyebrows, covered their lips.
“Prrob..bl..blem…
“I don’t th…think,” he said, and Jeff, maybe only Jeff, noticed the twitches and weird tics in Mr. Sinclair’s forehead and around his eyes, the strain that had gotten his lips into a purse and creased his chin. “…discipline pr-pro…o..oblems,” the room was starting to fidget again, teachers were whispering. “…are NOT the f..f..f..fault of the k..k..k..KIDS.” And he sat down.
He became known as the stuttering holy man. Teachers joked about his bizarre presence. In halls, at lunch, sometimes in classrooms or beside their cars, they discussed the disruption his choking platitudes could cause. Some did impressions, for other teachers and for parents. There were phone calls. Children’s religious views would be undermined. They demanded equal time. Calls to school board members and to the Superintendent herself suggested Mr. Sinclair take a leave of absence. He obviously suffered from a psychosis.
So it was with apprehension that Jeff came to the first Open House. He knew Mr. Sinclair’s class would be performing, and what that entailed he couldn’t predict. Nor could he tell, standing at the door of the gymnasium where parents and teachers had already begun to arrive, whether rumors were true that a vocal minority demanded Mr. Sinclair’s resignation.
All he registered from that doorway was how bright the colors of the room were, lit by a flood of fluorescent ceiling lights, the dark October evening scudding wayward burnt orange leaves against the huge cafeteria windows. Inside, the bright blue and yellow chairs, where the parents would sit while the faculty were presented to them one by one, flamed out in rows. Jeff had chosen his only tie, his gray tweed jacket, and his faded jeans and tennis shoes. Every time he dressed for such a presentation he recalled how adamant Peggy Macross had been about dress codes for teachers. He hadn’t wanted to argue with her; it was only three years ago, he recalled now as he walked across the gymnasium floor to find himself an inconspicuous chair among the other members of his department. She had retired that year, but as the daughter of a teacher she was convinced that men in blue jeans did not command respect, nor did they give the impression of sincerity in their professional life. He remembered Peggy and how badly he wanted to say what he was thinking: teachers command respect if they are obviously educated people who dress as they see fit. Mr. Sinclair’s white garment, he would have said, more than a mere symbol of a clear mind, demonstrated he was a cultured educator and not some petty provincial lackey, or so he thought he would have said. He was passing a small group of three parents when a woman he didn’t recognize looked away from the conversation and directly at him for a moment. She seemed to be wondering if he was a single parent or a teacher, her face lined about the eyes and forehead, her hair a swept back tint of faintly reddish-purple and brown like crinkled paper, her jaw moving as to a metronome, while she chewed gum.
He spotted an empty orange chair—they were all the molded plastic kind adults couldn’t sit in for long without feeling the back about to give out and spill them onto the cold stained floor. He had only to pass a couple of parents on his right. The woman was whispering and the man—Jeff could only see the wide bald back of his skull—was nodding ever so slightly, rhythmically, to what she said, her lips moving but her teeth clenched. Her left hand at the elbow of her right, she extended the fingers of the right hand toward the man’s shoulder and occasionally touched him, but the two fingers Jeff imagined could have held an invisible cigarette. Her eyes were not focused on the bald man, but ahead on the little group of school administrators up front at the makeshift stage. One of them, Mr. Leads, began to tap on the microphone just as Jeff reached his chair.
The chorus of nine boys and seven girls entered through a door behind the stage, and the audience hushed as they briskly—and rather proudly, it struck Jeff, for what he knew would be a far too fleeting escape from the good of the order—filed through the door, letting in the cool night air and three orange leaves. They walked flapping their long magenta robes, and Mr. Sinclair stood only after they came to a halt. His starched white figure floated from one student to another, smiling, tapping chins upward, patting a shoulder or an arm. And then after three taps of his baton, parents came to attention. Utter momentary silence, and his sweeping right arm, while the chorus’s eyes followed, slowly rose, then fell and rose again as a first shower of high notes poured over the room, raced along the stucco walls, the low ceiling. “All We Like Sheep,” brisk concentration of every sound, their mouths in unison, in rapt attention to the meaning of the words; allegro moderato up and down to Mr. Sinclair’s right hand, at “have gone astray” the sopranos and tenors themselves took delirious flight, their crisp chords mounting above the figurative path where music rushed away with them, with his students—their ecstatic voices all astray together.
Michael Daley was born and raised in Dorchester, Massachusetts. He entered religious life at a young age, and upon leaving, was wild in the streets, protesting wars and seeking a life of experience. He holds a B.A. from the University of Massachusetts and an M.F.A. from the University of Washington. His work has appeared in American Poetry Review, Hudson Review, Ploughshares, New England Review, Rhino, North American Review, Writers Almanac, Raven Chronicles, Seattle Review, Jeopardy, Prairie Schooner, Cirque, Alaska Quarterly Review, Cascadia Review, and elsewhere. His reviews and essays have appeared in Pacific Northwest Review of Books, New England Review, Raven Chronicles, Port Townsend Leader, and Book/Mark Quarterly Review. He has published three full-length collections of poetry: The Straits, To Curve, Moonlight in the Redemptive Forest, and a book of essays: Way Out There/Lyrical Essays. He has been awarded by the Washington State Arts Commission, Seattle Arts Commission, Artist Trust, Fulbright, and the National Endowment of the Humanities; recently, Pleasure Boat Studio published his translation of Alter Mundus by Italian poet Lucia Gazzino. Of a Feather has just been published by Empty Bowl of Port Townsend, a division of Pleasure Boat Studio, New York.