Draft, untitled

Mike stands at the head of the blue-matted studio, facing a small army of children, lined up and dressed in martial arts robes. He guides them through the routine, a kick, a punch—their tiny fists propelling forward, into their invisible enemy—yelling Hai-ya with each move.

On the radio, the morning weather forecast predicted afternoon thunderstorms, a possibility of rain, temperatures dropping below fifty. I took my chances, leaving behind my umbrella at home. Now I’m outside the dojo, under the awning—heavy with tonight’s rain—watching Mike through the window.

As the class comes to a close, parents begin to arrive and gather at the door. In low voices, they establish who has the busiest schedule—their heat fogging the window. In unison, Mike and his students bow. The class dismissed, the children disperse, retuning to their parents. And before Mike is crowded with mothers delivering payments, he catches sight of me and I meet him in the alley.

Tonight, Mike’s wife is away, in a bigger city across state. At his house, climbing the stairs to the bedroom he shares with his wife, we pass the other bedroom that remains closed, where his son doesn’t live anymore.

On top of Mike, I try to rub out the tension in his muscles under his skin. I begin at the small of his back, pushing my palms upward, spreading to the shoulders. But I know I can never get deep enough.



A year and a half ago I came to this town to student teach. There were twenty-four children in my first grade classroom. After the real teacher would give a lesson, I would go around the room, kneeling down beside the ones that raised their hand for help. I was still new and never good with names. I wasn’t perfect with names. I relied on touch.

The boy was in that class.

Once, after I finished helping the girl next to him, he asked me if my name was Miss Neer because I was always near people. I gave him a smile and touched his head.

It was the real teacher who told me what had happened. She pulled me aside, in the teacher’s lounge and explained that there was an accident, that the mother was fine but the boy didn’t survive. She said that we would have to explain the empty desk to the others.

When Mike’s wife recovered she took a job as a pharmaceutical representative that would keep her out of the house. In the new car she zig-zags across the state, her foot pushing down on the gas pedal to the floor. In the glove compartment she keeps the speeding tickets she’s accumulated as she drives to oblivion.

The day we had to explain to the class was the day I resigned. I had only made it through the winter break. The real teacher and the principal told me they knew it was hard, but that this is life. I told them that I wasn’t strong enough. That I kept getting the names wrong.

In the dead of night, when the trains cross town to the train yard, the house rattles. Mike is asleep, and I hold on to him until the house stops shaking.


I remember my sister’s funeral, her open casket, the white satin that held her face. Her skin had already become pale, powder. After the funeral my mother became hysterical. On her bed she held on to me, calling my sister’s name into my chest.