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View from the MudAuthor(s): Maria MitchellSource: The North American Review, Vol. 271, No. 1 (Mar., 1986), pp. 38-39Published by: University of Northern IowaStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/25124701 .

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N A R

VIEW FROM THE MUD Maria Mitchell

iVnabel tramped around the whole building in the mud, her toeless navy sandals slipping off her feet with each

squeegied step. But there was no way to peek inside: the windows were too high. She even tried climbing up on a

brick ledge at the bottom of the new building, part of the

foundation, but she couldn't get high enough. She hadn't wanted to send Tommy to pre-school to

begin with, which was why today, his first day, was weeks after the other children had started school. He was only three and had seemed perfectly happy playing with his

baby sister, Meghan: they fingerpainted pictures of the tidal saltmarsh and fed the Canadian geese on their front lawn. And each morning Tommy jogged with her hus

band, Charles, down the cove road along Long Island Sound. He was already a very busy boy.

But Anabel's mother had accused her of separation anxiety. Her sister had insinuated, "wouldn't you really rather have a career? Anyway, children need a social life of their own."

"No way!" Anabel laughed, incredulous. "Our chil

dren are going to be family-arized before they're socialized."

Then her neighbor said, "Tommy can't cut with scis sors! What's wrong with his coordination?" And Anabel crumbled. Charles laughed. "His coordination's just fine

when we play soccer." The doctor shrugged. "Boys nor

mally develop coordination more slowly. I wouldn't

worry." But she worried. For the first time she felt vulnerable.

Maybe she wasn't enough for her babies. Which is how she wound up that first day, weeks after

parents were permitted to observe, trying to climb the side of the pre-school to look in the window.

By noon, Tommy looked exhausted. He sat sleepily in the car as they drove home to lunch. Quiet.

"Did you have a good time?' "No."

"What did you do?"

"They read stories."

"Didn't you like the stories?" "I like yours better."

He napped for three hours instead of the usual hour of

talking to himself in bed. And that afternoon, he hit his sister. The next morning he didn't want to go back to school. Once was enough.

"Why?" "I'm still a baby, Mom."

But back to school he went. Tuesday, Wednesday. On Thursday morning, he told the family, "Cereal

sucks."

Anabel began rethinking her choice of school. She had taken her children to visit most of the pre-schools within

driving distance of their end of the island. Aunt Zooey's in Cold Springs Harbor was too structured-?too many rules.

Looney Years of Oyster Bay thought teaching anything was pressure, and St. James's of Skunk Hollow was too

selective, for "old families." All the schools disapproved of what all the others were doing! Anabel told Charles they might as well choose by flipping a coin. Finally, she'd

taken her neighbor's advice and settled on a new school,

not even landscaped yet, near Syosset. It was quiet and

well-run, and by a man. Role-model'was another new term.

Friday she asked for a conference. "How's he doing?" "All right. Of course, it takes longer to undo things

with some children than others." "Undo. Undo what?"

"Well, he really won't help himself much. Tie his

shoes, put on his own coat."

She laughed in disbelief. "He's only three."

"Now, about his coordination. He's improving. He can draw a recognizable circle and yesterday he mastered scissors."

Anabel was impressed. She thought of the afternoon she'd spent trying to show Tommy how to cut. She'd never gotten past which finger to put where. No matter

how carefully she'd closed the blades, the paper slid

38 March 1986

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MARIA MITCHELL

between them and fell slowly, in rock-a-bye movements

through the air. So she stuck with it.

The next week Tommy began pulling toys away from

Meghan. He would pull the square peg from the round hole where she was pounding and tell her, "No, no. Like this." By Tuesday, Meghan cried whenever Tommy came into the room.

Tuesday afternoon, Charles came home early and the whole family went out and slopped around the mudflats in boots. They dug for mussels. Meghan squatted over the

pail, her blond curls touching the rim, and pointed inside with a worried face.

"Crying."

Tommy looked over and laughed at her. Then he listened too. From the bucket piled with shells came a

low, grinding noise, like teeth gnashing. Gulls yawked overhead like street vendors and the air was fresh with the smell of salt water and fish. Meghan sank lower and began picking out the mussels, one by one, throwing them into the mud with a wiggle of her arm.

"No." Tommy grabbed her wrist and stared at the

heap of black shells. "You need to stop it." And then he frowned. "They're for dinner." Meghan looked at him and began to cry.

The family took the pail back and emptied it in the

incoming tide.

Worried, Anabel talked to Tommy Wednesday morning as they whizzed along the expressway.

"Do you like the other children?" "There's a yellow Volkswagen!" Tommy pointed. "Here's our turn-off, Tommy." She eyed the school

building, perched over the expressway exit on her right. "Do you know which way we turn, Sweetie?"

"We could go left." He pointed away from the school,

shooting a furtive look beneath his blond eyelashes. But she took him to the door, crisp in his new denim

overalls. The tow-white head cocked sideways and looked up at her, and he refused to step inside. Mr. Pater

nali leaned out. "Time to take your coat off, Tommy." "No."

"Come on in. Get started." Paternali's hand reached

through the door, took Tommy by the arm and pulled him inside. Tommy stiffened, leaned back to resist, then threw a desperate look at her. Feet off the ground, he

disappeared through the doorway. Anabel stared at the low, now-familiar building with

windows too high to see through and a huge metal door that locked with a crossbar. So what if her son was a klutz? If he ate with his fingers forever, couldn't she still keep him?

Both Thursday and Friday Tommy wanted to stay home and play with Meghan. "Rummy will be lonely," he said.

Rummy was the dog. Friday she asked for another conference. Paternali

frowned, but left the children with an attendant and came out to the vestibule. He looked down, straightening the

sides of a pile of papers with one finger. "We can't make a

habit of conferences."

"He's still so reluctant to go to school."

Paternali took a deep breath and spoke slowly. "Any new routine takes time to be comfortable. We have our hands full, these first few weeks, getting rid of all the bad habits these kids bring in."

"What bad habits?"

"Well, for one thing, his coat is too large." "That's a habit?"

He leaned forward. "Dressing himself would be a habit if he could do it. How can he button a coat with sleeves that cover his hands?"

"Oh. I didn't think of that. I buy coats large enough that he won't outgrow them too fast."

He sat back. "But can you understand the relief these children feel, not to need adults for something? Getting clothes too large simply sabotages his drive toward free dom."

"Freedom." She stared. Freedom from his family? Her neck flushed with rising anger.

He picked up his papers, as if to end the interview, and then gave her a consoling smile. "You know, I was the

youngest in my family and all my clothes were passed down. They were always too big." He paused, watching her carefully. "I never could get my hands through any thing. I always tripped over the cuffs of my trousers. Can

you imagine how humiliating that is for a child?"

"Listen," she straightened up, her face electric with

heat, "that's jw#." He stood abruptly, snapping the pile of papers on the

table to align the sides. Stalking to the doorway, he

turned, "He has his own life to live." His voice cracked. "We can help him here, if you'll stop interfering." He

spun away and latched the accordion-pleated doors that stretched across the vestibule. Silence settled around her.

Defeat.

But now she understood why Tommy was angry, and she felt her own need for freedom.

She jumped up, grabbed the door and yanked. Locked. She shook it so the whole wall of pleats rattled.

Nothing. He wasn't going to let her in. Panic. She had to get Tommy out of there! She

backed up and charged, lowering her shoulder. Just as she met the door, it opened and Paternali stood there, stern

faced, his thin mouth sucked into a surprised 'O'. She couldn't stop. Her shoulder caught him in the chest and knocked him over a desk.

The children turned to look from their potty-time line, which stretched into the open bathroom door. There a little girl sat, her overalls down around her ankles, her face astonished.

A young woman leaned over to help Paternali up. He

untangled his long legs with a great thumping of chairs. "You can't have him," he said hoarsely.

But Anabel took Tommy's wrong-size coat from

Tommy's own hook, walked over and took Tommy's own hand. Together they swung around the tight knot of

children, past Paternali, through the vestibule and out

into the sun. Behind her, Anabel thought she heard the children's voices: a low grinding sound, like teeth gnashing.

March 1986 39

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