PhilYouIn.com

One Spring Day in second grade I was sitting at my desk, wondering where I was going to find the 12 cents I would need for that month’s Superman comic, when the front door opened. Some kid came in – must have been a ‘monitor’ from the office – and handed my teacher, Mrs. Levine, a note.

After glancing at it, she shooed the kid out the door and looked up. Straight at me.

“Philip, Mr. Shapiro would like to see you.”

I stayed seated, certain that I had misheard what I had clearly just heard.

“Philip!” (Mrs. Levine had very little patience.) “Is your hearing okay? Do I need to send you to see the school nurse, as well?”

One day, very soon, someone would give me a break. It would only be fair.

My father had just died four months earlier, and Mrs. Levine could not have cared less. Nor could my classmates. My mother went looking for a job every day and was never in a good mood. I felt that a ‘break’ would certainly be in order.

Anyway, I stood up, feeling very confused. Mr. Shapiro, the principal, hardly ever asked to see a student; I mean, the man could barely communicate. When he addressed the school in the auditorium, no one could understand a word he said.

Mr. Shapiro, you see, was a mumbler. Actually, he was a low-talking mumbler.

When I got to the office, the secretary asked me what I wanted. I told her I didn’t want anything (to be clear, I was not being sarcastic; I was eight years old! I just took things literally). Then she asked me why I was in the office. So, I told her, and she said I should have a seat.

That is when my mind began churning; if Mr. Shapiro asked to see me – me! – something terrible must have happened.

I convinced myself that my mom must have died, too. Why else would he have sent for me? (Interesting. There were literally dozens of reasons why he might want to see me: bad behavior. Good behavior. School work. Test scores! Anything! And yet, this was the only conclusion I could arrive at.)

Now what would happen? My brother and I would be orphans and have to be adopted! Or worse, we would have to go live with our aunt – my mom’s younger sister – in her one room apartment in the city!

I would have to go to a new school. Meet new kids. Plus, there would be three of us living in one room! Not to mention that the times we had visited my aunt, we always looked forward to leaving…

Eventually, the lady told me to go into the office. So, I got up and slowly made my way in. Mr. Shapiro was seated behind a big desk. I was very jittery.

He looked at me, then mumbled something.

I had no clue what he said, but he motioned towards the chair in front of his desk. So, I sat.

Then he mumbled something else, which sounded like it ended with the word ‘mother.’ Crap. I knew it!

I looked at him and said, “Huh?” Remember, I was eight.

He mumbled something else, which sounded like it ended with the name, “Bernard.”

What?! Maybe he had said the word brother, not mother. So, what was this about my brother?

Some more mumbling, which sounded something like, “Did your brother, Bernard, go to this school?”

“Yeah,” I replied. “He’s in Junior High School now.”

Apparently, he really was not interested; it was enough small talk. Mr. Shapiro quickly arrived at the reason for sending for me. He said something with the word ‘die’ in it.

What? What was he trying to say? Couldn’t be ‘your mother die,’ because I knew that that would be bad grammar.

“Huh?” I asked.

Slower this time: “Did your father die?”

Now why would he call me to his office four months after the fact to ask me an upsetting question that he already knew the answer to? What was the point in all of this?

“Uh…yeah,” I said.

“What?

“Yes, my father is dead.” This was getting silly.

After three attempts, his next sentence turned out to be, “Well, if there is anything I can do for you, let me know.”

Now, I have heard this meaningless offer many times in the past 60 years and have learned to ignore it. It’s just something people say; there is nothing anyone can actually do, and even if there was, they really wouldn’t want to do it. This, however, was my very first time hearing such an offer, so I did not realize Mr. Shapiro was simply making a rather awkward attempt at politeness.

Again, I took what was said literally. I thought he was offering to help get my teacher off my back. Or teach me to throw a ball. Maybe even buy me that Superman comic.

I knew so little.

After two more uncomfortable minutes, with his head buried in a book, he told me to get back to class. Didn’t even look up.

I spent the remainder of the day uncertain of what had actually transpired. Plus, I was still extremely upset. In a daze. What if I had misunderstood what the low talking mumbler had said? Was I an orphan, after all?

When 3pm finally came around, I went down the school’s steps as quickly as I could and ran out onto Nostrand Avenue. Peering down the street, I was relieved to see my mother waiting for me at the end of the block, which was her usual spot.

She wasn’t dead, after all!

I ran to her, smiling, and motioned for her to bend down so I could give her a kiss on each cheek. Which was not something I never did in front of other kids.

She was pretty surprised. And she seemed to be in a good mood, which made me pretty surprised. Then she told me why: she had found a bookkeeping job, close to home. Wow, I thought. My mom was going to be a librarian!

As we began our short walk home, I grabbed her hand. I was so happy she was still there. She told me I was acting strange; had anything happened at school?

“Nope,” I lied.

“It was a great day,” I said, turning my head to look up at her. I continued to look up at her for a very long time…