My Monticello(17)

An impressive number of people are gathered. For me, Mr. Attah thinks, his chest puffing up with the memory of pride.

Ms. Vasquez clears her throat. “Take a seat,” she says.

Mr. Attah looks again and begins to understand. These Xandrians—with their badges and titles—have more likely come to intimidate, to diminish. He answers in his most decorous voice. “I prefer to stand,” he says.

Then in quick succession, the staff delivers its presentation. They allege that Alex is “immature,” “unfocused,” all the while their sidelong glances mocking his devotion to his boy. They say that Alex needs support and further evaluation, at the end of which he may receive a designation on his permanent record of “learning disabled.” They take turns at the screeching whiteboard, their mounting claims flying at Mr. Attah like shrapnel, peppering the exposed skin of his neck and face.

Finally, Ms. Vasquez offers a conclusion. “This all means Alex is at least of normal intelligence.”

“Of course! Of course!” the others say.

But Mr. Attah is coughing now, struggling to breathe. The room has grown unbearably hot, so hot he squeezes his eyes closed against it. In the darkness that follows, a long mournful note invades his body. Not a tune so much, more like the absence of music: the eerie ringing silence that chases an obscene and brutal clamor.

Finally, Mr. Attah hears his own voice rise and shimmer. “This is what you have to say to me?” he bellows. “You dimwits! You mutton-headed fools! Don’t you even know who I am?”

When he blinks his eyes open, he sees only white faces, white eyes bulging. The uniformed officer has taken a step closer, his face blanched and floating above his navy uniform. Mr. Attah presses his eyes closed and slackens his mouth: Today he will not be silenced.

“You mean to demean me…” Mr. Attah tells them, his voice enormous. “Just because that backstabbing brood of malingerers finds me difficult! Who does a thing like this … a child blowing up a mother! No … do not touch me … No, you listen: My son is perfect just as he stands!”

Now Mr. Attah realizes he has drawn in all the air in the room. Still standing, he expels it, his heart a bit less weary. A knock trembles the door.

He opens his eyes and here is Alex—his Alex—thrust into the room.

The boy wears his backpack hanging limply from one shoulder. His new school jacket puffs around him, cardinal red although he’d wanted black. Also, Alex must have heard the commotion: The boy’s head is lowered. He peers at Nike Air Pegasus–ed feet.

“Son?”

Before Mr. Attah can say more, Ms. Vasquez swoops in. She hovers near the boy’s ear, speaking to him at a whisper, as if to a frightened animal. That look she’d given him earlier, in his office, the one that came alongside her fear—it was pity. “You know why your father is here—what we’ve been speaking to Miss Mann about…”

Alex looks up at the ponytailed teacher and nods.

“Tell your father,” Ms. Vasquez instructs, and Mr. Attah feels the tender stab of Alex’s dark eyes.

“Let me do it, Papi,” Alex says. “I’m a failure at reading. Math is worse. My head’s all messed up.” Alex toggles his jacket’s silvery zipper.

“Justina’s always been the smart one,” Alex says, and Mr. Attah cannot help but picture his daughter, two small bowls beside her on the sofa, whole sunflower seeds in one and their gnawed striped husks in the other. Justina’s jaw working dutifully, and what does she have to say to him anymore: nothing. “Justina says it could be good here,” Alex continues. “But for now it’s up to me.”

Now everyone is watching. All Mr. Attah can do is stare at his son. Alex with his backpack half-opened and papers erupting willy-nilly from its gape. Alex whose shoes are untied, both of them, who has his mother’s heart-shaped face. Mr. Attah clasps his own chest to keep himself from reaching out to touch the boy’s uncapped head.

“Then I can have seventh period with Miss Mann. But first you have to say okay.”

Now Mr. Attah does sit, backing into a cushioned rolling chair, which squeaks and wobbles beneath him. Out in the hall a bell dings. A chain of silhouetted young people blows past the frosted windows. For once, Mr. Attah does not feel able to speak, although he manages one tremulous word: “Okay.”



* * *



Mr. Attah follows his son through a throng of students funneling toward the buses. Out front, he tries to hug his boy, but it comes out all wrong, like a dance for which they no longer have the rhythm. Alex backs away, red-faced, and Mr. Attah announces he will drive them home.

“How come you aren’t at work?” Alex says, a tuft of cold escaping from his mouth. “Ever, Papi,” he adds.

“Ride with me,” Mr. Attah says again, but his voice falters, and he cannot meet his son’s gaze.

“It’s true, then,” Alex whispers. “What’s going to happen to us?” The boy’s eyes flash panic before fixing into a shaky resoluteness that Mr. Attah all but misses. “You brought us here,” Alex says, pulling his bag squarely onto his shoulders. “I can get myself home.”

Mr. Attah’s limbs grow heavy. The place behind his sternum throbs with shame.

By the time he looks up, his son is shuffling toward the buses, his slender back stiffened. Mr. Attah watches fervently as Alex falls in with a group of young men whose profiles he cannot recognize.