Interspersed among the volumes were certificates and trophies.
The brass plate on one was inscribed: SINCERE THANKS TO MR. C. L.
JONES III, FROM LOURDES HIGH SCHOOL ADVANCED PLACEMENT CLUB.
YOU SHOWED US THAT TEACHING AND LEARNING WERE JUST PART OF
FRIENDSHIP.
Dated ten years ago.
Right below it was a scroll presented by the Yale Tutorial Project to CHARLES “CHIP” JONES FOR DEDICATED SERVICES TO THE CHILDREN OF THE NEW
HAVEN FREE CLINIC.
On a higher shelf was yet another tutoring award, issued by a
fraternity at Yale. Two more plasticized plaques, granted by the
College of Arts and Sciences at the University of Connecticut at
Storrs, attested to Chip’s excellence in graduate teaching. Papa Chuck
hadn’t lied.
Several more recent testimonials from West Valley Junior College: the
Department of Sociology’s Undergraduate Teaching Citation, a gavel on a
plaque from the WVJC Student Council thanking PROF. 6. L. JONES FOR
SERVING AS FACULTY ADVISOR, a group photo of Chip and fifty or so
smiling, shiny-cheeked sorority girls on an athletic field, both he and
the girls in red T-shirts emblazoned with Greek letters. The picture
was autographed: “Best, Wendy.”
“Thanks, Prof. Jones-Debra.”
“Love, Kristie.” Chip was squatting on a baseline, arms around two of
the girls, beaming, looking like a team mascot.
Cindy’s got the tough job. I can escape.
I wondered what Cindy did for attention, realized she’d stopped
talking, and turned to see her looking at me.
“He’s a great teacher,” she said. “Would you like to see the den>”
More soft furniture, crammed shelves, Chip’s triumphs preserved in
brass and wood and plastic, plus a wide-screen TV, stereo components,
an alphabetized rack of classical and jazz compact disc .
That same clubby feel. The sole strip of wall not covered with shelves
was papered in another plaid-blue and red-and hung with Chip’s two
diplomas. Below the foolscaps, placed so low I had to kneel to get a
good look, were a couple of watercolors.
Snow and bare trees and rough-wood barns. The frame of the first was
labeled NEW ENGLAND WINTER. The one just above the floor molding was
SYRUP TAPPING TIME No signature. Tourist-trap quality, done by
someone who admired the Wyeth family but lacked the talent.
Cindy said, “Mrs. Jones-Chip’s mom-painted those.”
“Did she live back east?”
She nodded. “Years ago, back when he was a boy. Uh-oh, I think I hear
Cassie.”
She held up an index finger, as if testing the wind.
A whimper, distant and mechanical, came from one of the bookcases. I
turned toward it, located the sound at a small brown box resting on a
high shelf. Portable intercom.
“I put it on when she sleeps,” she said.
The box cried again.
We left the room and walked down a blue-carpeted hall, passing a front
bedroom that had been converted into an office for Chip. The door was
open. A wooden sign nailed to it said SKOLLAR AT WIRK. Yet another
book-filled leathery space.
Next came a deep-blue master bedroom and a closed door that I assumed
led to the connecting bathroom Cindy had told me about.
Cassie’s room was at the end of the hall, a generous corner space done
up in rainbow paper and white cotton curtains with pink trim. Cassie
was sitting up in a canopied crib, wearing a pink nightshirt, hands
fisted, crying halfheartedly. The room smelled baby-sweet.
Cindy picked her up and held her close. Cassie’s head was propped on
her shoulder. Cassie looked at me, closed her eyes, flopped her face
down.
Cindy cooed something. Cassie’s face relaxed and her mouth opened.
Her breathing became rhythmic. Cindy rocked her.
I looked around the room. Two doors on the southern wall. Two
windows. Bunny and duck decals appliqued to furniture. A wickerback
rocker next to the crib. Boxed games, toys, and enough books for a
year’s worth of bedtime reading.
In the center three tiny chairs surrounded a circular play table.
On the table were a stack of paper, a new box of crayons, three
sharpened pencils, a gum eraser, and a piece of shirt cardboard
handlettered WELCOME DR. DELAWARE. LuvBunnies more than a dozen of
them-sat on the floor, propped against the wall, spaced as precisely as