The sun seemed adamant about frying him to a crisp as he limped towards the school, cane in hand. Soon he could feel his skin leathering and the band of flesh beneath the gold watchband growing sweaty. Pushing open the door, he understood immediately that he was overdressed in his white button down shirt, even without a tie. Too much had changed since his own third grade days. Blackboards had been replaced with whiteboards, the slide projector with a contraption to be attached to a laptop computer. This baffled him. How was he meant to use this machine when he still used a typewriter? Soon the bell rang and the children swarmed in. They did not line up and did not allow him to assign their desks, continuing to giggle as they chose the best seats. He realized, without much surprise, that these were those in the back corners of the room, the desks farthest away from his own at the front. Without bothering to insist that the children stop speaking, he uncapped a red Expo marker and inhaled its pungent, deeply chemical, scent.

Ruth had passed away in April. Without his wife of forty years he’d found himself living life much like an infant. Sleeping occupied the better part of his days; eating or crying filled what was left. They’d both retired five years prior, and had loved the days they’d spent in each other’s company, walking to the bakery, buying fresh pastries, and sitting on the porch late into the morning. He sipped hot coffee with milk, she nothing but herbal tea. It was an easy transition. Reading books and volunteering at church kept old age satisfying if not terribly entertaining. His days as a professor and hers as a lawyer faded quickly; a completely carefree life took their place. Months would pass without a deadline or worrying thought. They had nothing to write but stories and diaries. He had no essays to grade. She had no briefs to type. The long days and a fat retirement fund offered seemingly endless freedom.

After her death, retirement held none of the same comforts. At 74, he knew his prime was long gone. He knew he had little left to contribute to society and he ought to be enjoying himself. But with nobody to converse with the days grew longer than ever. His own thoughts rattled around in his head. The same ideas ran on in a loop, keeping him awake at night and tormenting him through the day.

Though he’d once felt acceptance, even comfort, at the thought of death, by June he had grown standoffish at the mere mention of his will. He sat on the deck one morning with his mug, and couldn’t shake the feeling that the skin on his hands was shriveling before his eyes. He could hear his bones crumbling and was convinced that a certain musty smell was his own rotting flesh. Trembling with unease, he’d gone inside, but nothing could quiet the thoughts. He was not reassured by the rooms of books, the movies, the walks, or the recipes. The watch Ruth had given him for his fiftieth birthday sat atop the dresser gathering dust. He couldn’t bring himself to put it on. The circling hands had become a constant reminder of the hours and days ticking away until he joined her underground.

In their forties, they’d strolled through the cemetery, hand in hand, choosing twin plots on the hillside. Thoughts of funerals had skittered through his head as he’d wandered off, reading names and dates of birth. Several minutes later he heard Ruth calling and looked over his shoulder. She stood on one foot by an empty, open grave, arms spread wide for balance and her short leg dangling above the deep hole.

“Arthur, look! I’ve got one foot in the grave!” she shouted. He ran to her and kissed her, laughing, right there among the gravestones.

He didn’t laugh, three decades later, as he sat at his ancient typewriter and estimated the months before all four of their feet were in the grave. Countdowns and decaying flesh swirled through his mind as he stared at the round keys, and he decided, right there, that he needed to go back to work.

He missed the sweet intellect of young people’s minds. They were eager to absorb new information in the exact way that his mind seemed eager to forget it all. He considered returning to the university, to his old class, but he found the idea discomforting. He realized he’d never worked there without Ruth to return to each night. The idea of driving home from the university to an empty house, of sleeping alone between flannel sheets after lecturing all day, was unsettling to his old bones. It was a return to newlywed life with the elimination of the most critical detail. Instead, he decided, he would submerge himself in a foreign world. That world presented itself, oddly enough, as teaching children. It was new, that was true enough. And, he figured, if it didn’t work out, if their youth only served to remind them of his own decrepitness, it wouldn’t bother them if he made a quick getaway several months into the year. Children bounce back. Nobody gives them enough credit. Ten adults would be lucky to share the strength of your average child.

He’d telephoned the headmistress in late August. School began the first week of September.

“Don’t you fancy yourself a tad overqualified, Professor Thompson?”

“Perhaps.”

“But you would like the position anyway?’

“I would.”

He took a deep breath, gripped the fat marker and touched its tip to the vast surface. It squeaked loudly, incessantly, as he printed in large, square letters.


Hello class, my name is Mr. Thompson.