His leg touched mine in the grass.
To this day I have not wanted anyone more.
And now. Big deal I'm grown.
I teach in Missouri. Outside the window is flat.
But look. First it's dark. I'm stuck in a ditch. A car stops up on the shoulder. The other car is not a car but a truck. No one gets out. The truck is still running. I'm standing in all that scratchy straw The cat is standing beside me. Here's what I first think: It's a man in the truck. And then: He will help me. And then: He will touch me. His nose will come nearer mine. His teeth. Then a kiss, a taste of something old. A taste of straw even, old and hard and covered in all that Missouri dirt. Then straw against my back, cutting into my back.
He opens the door to his truck.
He wears a hat.
He says, What's your name.
I lie because I'm a Jew.
My mother told me to always lie.
My mother said, There are no Jews in Missouri.
She said, They will treat you there like you're a Jew.
The teacher laughed every time he got my name wrong and the boys in class laughed too and I always laughed. Big deal my name. They called the teacher Glass-eye. It was Glass-eye they called him, okay. Big deal what they called me, laughing. Big deal the boy laughed too. I didn't care that he laughed. I cared about getting his face to press against mine and more. But he never tried anything on me except that one night against the headstone. And it was nothing that time.
Then why am I still thinking about it.
Good question.
Because we got arrested. Before it could turn into something more.
Before his mouth went lower.
Before my hands went to his hair.
The cops said, Look at this.
His hand was on my face.
I can't remember what I said.
Perhaps there was nothing for me to say.
Sometimes there was nothing.
When we went driving the teacher's son said, Are you on pills. And what was there for me to say. I was just euphoric. I couldn't press the brake I was so euphoric from drifting in that car. He had to press the brake for me. He put the car into park. We were near pressed to a tree out front of his house. He laughed at me. And when he laughed, I noticed lines around his eyes and that he looked older than he should have looked. I followed him into the house. He gave me a can of soda in the kitchen. He opened the can. He said, I'll be back. He went into the bathroom. I didn't drink the soda. There was a calendar on the wall. It had pictures of naked girls on it. Their tits were huge. He came into the kitchen and said, Come into the garage. He said that was where the other car was. The sports car the boys had talked about. It had a flat. He'd show me how to change a tire.
Looking back I realize I should have called my mother at work from his house. There was a telephone next to the calendar. I would have said where I was. I would have said, I'm at the drivers' ed teacher's son's house, Ma.
But this would have made no difference. He had a good last name, this one. My mother would have said so. Give him what he wants, she would have said. He had a good last name I can't remember. And a first name I also can't remember. The boys called him by his first name. The boys called his father Glass-eye.
And Glass-eye called me something. His son did too. The cops did too. The boys.
They called me Princess.
No. That wasn't it.
Yes. Because I was a Jew.
No. Something else. For another reason.
Now, really, though, this means nothing.
None of it's worth breaking down.
And straw was once hay, I'll guess. And hay was once grass.
It doesn't matter.
What matters is I was standing in straw with the cat. And look. When the teacher told us to keep a blanket in the trunk of the car, I didn't know what for. But on the roadside, I thought, A blanket, I'm supposed to have a blanket. I thought, Perhaps this man, if I had a blanket, would touch me on the blanket instead of in all this straw.
I was on my way to a school. I was a teacher.
I am a teacher. It's my living.
I stand in the front of a classroom.
I stand there talking to a hundred looking eyes.
And sometimes I'll be talking, and I'll look around the classroom, and something, perhaps a student, perhaps a boy in the back of the room, someone who spits tobacco into a cup when I am talking, someone who never says a word in class but sits there, rather, staring at me, will remind me of the man on the roadside.
He said, Looks like you shredded it good.
He said, I can help.
He came nearer.
The teacher never said to carry mace. But I thought of it once in the church basement. We were watching films of car wrecks. I couldn't look at the wreckage. I stared instead at the pitiful stain on the teacher's shirt, thinking how it looked like blood, thinking how his gut stretched the stain into cloud shapes, how pitiful it was. I was thinking how it could pin me down, that gut. I was so high that night I thought his gut was stretching toward me to get me and pin me down. And so I stared instead at that milky eye thinking, Fall out of the socket, Fall out of the socket, Roll onto the table. But it stayed stuck in the socket. And I thought of mace. I thought of how mace wouldn't hurt his eye. I knew it would just coat the eye like any other thing, like a spray of spit, that I would need to spray mace into the other eye to make the eye sting. I would need good aim.
Then the teacher couldn't touch me.
And his son with two good eyes stinging from mace couldn't touch me.
Regardless. I was high and thinking dumb.
The wrecks went on and on.
And his son and I really did change a tire. We did. It was flat, this tire. Nearly shredded. I helped him jack up the car. Every one of my nails had black under it after touching the greasy jack. He said, Listen. He twisted some metal thing around some other metal things. He had names for the parts, but I wasn't really listening. And he was mumbling. He wasn't really saying what he was doing. He was looking at my tits from below me. He was making jokes I didn't get.
He said, Are you Jew.
He said, You know what they say about Jew girls.
But I didn't know, and I still don't. And it never occurred to me to leave his house. I could have left. I wasn't locked in. It was Baltimore and I knew how to get home. There was a bus to take. It went from his corner to mine. I knew where I was. He was on the floor partway under the car. I was standing by him. He could have touched my legs with his face. I could feel him breathing on my legs. But he wasn't holding me there. I wasn't stuck. Look. I went into the bathroom. I looked in the mirror. I fixed up my lipstick. There was a towel on the floor. A smell of cologne. A stain in the bathtub. I cupped water from the sink in my hand and drank. I was beautiful in that bathroom mirror. Do you understand this. I was something else. There was my soda on the kitchen table. The calendar girls with the huge tits. It never occurred to me to leave his house. He called my name from the garage. He said it correctly. I said, I'm coming. It never occurred to me to leave his house, until I was walking home later with my shirt on inside-out. It was night.
My mother said, Would you look at this.
And this is what's funny. That now I'm a teacher. That I teach, that is. That I say how it goes. That all those eyes are looking at my eyes looking at the flat past the window.
They want me to tell them something true.
So this is what's true.
So this man on the roadside is true.
I can't say exactly what he looked like. He was big, I recall. Old, I suppose. His teeth looked rotted. But it was dark. He wore a cross on a chain around his neck. It swung when he leaned in toward me. He wore a hat. He changed my tire. He moved my car to the shoulder. He smoked the whole time. He was breathing hard. He said, Let's go for a ride.