The Last Teacher (4 page)

She got roaring drunk. Of course she did. It wasn’t something she normally did, or even something she planned on doing, but no one could blame her for stopping by the liquor store after a day of teaching like the one she had just had.

Her cat—not really her cat but the cat that had shown up on her doorstep after being abandoned when its owner left during one of the migrations—walked back and forth over her lap as she sipped from the next can of beer.

In a way, the cat was no different than her students. It had shown up in her life one day, needing to feel as if everything would be okay, and she had done her best to make that happen. It was much easier with the cat, however—a bowl of food, a gentle rub under its chin—than it was with her kids.

With another can empty, she put it on the table beside her and popped open the next one.

What was she supposed to tell her students, that everything was going to be okay? They all knew that wasn’t true. Sure, there was no war or starvation or suffering, but mankind was slowly disappearing from the world all the same.

Why was she bothering to teach them about classic literature while the human population kept declining? In another few years, the population would dip below five billion. Then four billion. It could only end one way. Would any of her students care about
The Awakening
or
The Stranger
when they were wrinkly and old and alone? Definitely not. So why was she insisting on teaching them about those things instead of the few subjects that would really matter to them for the rest of their lives?

Another can was empty. She put it aside, scanned the cans next to her, counted ten, then opened the eleventh.

On Monday, she would go back into her classroom, toss a copy of a book, any book, out the window, and ask her three remaining students what they wanted to learn about. If they named something that she didn’t know anything about, well, then they could look it up on the internet and she would learn about it along with them.  Or they could just talk about life, about everyone they knew who had headed south so far, about the people they knew who refused to migrate even if it meant they would eventually be all alone.  They would talk about anything the kids wanted.

That was the last coherent thought she had before the room started wobbling. When she closed her eyes, the room still felt as if it were spinning around her. With all the proof she needed, she knew it was time to fall asleep and worry about the future another day.

“Ray, honey, if you’re there, please pick up. It’s your mother.”

All of the messages had been similar. As if Ray needed her mom to identify herself on the voicemail twelve different times.

She hadn’t bothered to turn her ringer back on the next morning until her headache went away. After listening to one message after another, each more worried and anxious than the previous one, the pain in Ray’s temples started to pulse again.

She was still in the process of getting the nerve to call her mother back when the phone rang again. The cat, her cat, jumped off her lap and disappeared.

“Hello?” she said.

“Ray?”

“Hi, mom.”

“Ray?”

“Yes, mom, what do you need?”

“I’ve been trying to call you all night and all morning. I thought something might be wrong.”

“You’re talking to me now, mom. What do you need?”

“I thought something might be wrong.”

Ray pulled the phone away from her ear, took a deep breath, then put the receiver back up to her mouth.

“Nothing’s wrong, mom. I didn’t want to be bothered. It’s been a long week.”

“You’re telling me. We just had two more caravans arrive.”

“That’s good, mom.” But even as she said it, she knew what was coming next.

“When are you coming down, honey?”

“I don’t know. I guess after the school year is done. I don’t want to abandon my students.”

“When will it be done?”

“I don’t know, mom.  When it’s over.”

When she closed her eyes, she thought of Eric storming out of her class, of Kelly and Debbie doing their best to be quiet while they cried. When she re-opened her eyes, her cat had returned and was rubbing against her ankle.

A steady stream of purrs could be heard after she offered her hand and the cat started pushing the corner of its mouth against her knuckles.

For some reason, she had never gotten around to naming it. It hadn’t been wearing a collar when it arrived at her doorstep, and she wasn’t sure if it was because the owner didn’t want anyone to know who had abandoned it or if it was because the cat had always been more of a neighborhood cat than a house pet. Instead of coming up with a new name for it when it arrived at her doorstep, she had simply begun calling it
You
.

“Hey, You, you want some food?” and “You’re so cute, You,” and so on.

She couldn’t think of what was keeping her from giving the cat a name.  It wasn’t as if she were going to leave it behind when she migrated south. The cat had come to depend on her. And her on it. She couldn’t just put it back out on the street when she decided it was time to start travelling down the highway with the rest of the caravan.

Trixie
? No.
Sprinkles
? No.
Fluffy
? Definitely not. She looked around at all of the empty beer cans.
Tipsy
? Maybe.

Then the name came to her and she was discouraged she hadn’t come up with it earlier.

Holding the phone away from her mouth, she whispered, “Where did you come from,
Stranger
?  Where do you want to go?”

In response, Stranger purred and circled, purred and circled.

A thought occurred to Ray then, and she pulled the phone back to her mouth: “Hey, mom, what did I want to be when I was little?”

“Is everything okay, honey?”

“Everything’s fine, mom.  I’m just curious what I wanted to be when I was young.”

“When you were little?” her mom said, her way of repeating something to make it sound absurd.

“I was trying to tell my students what I wanted to be when I grew up and I couldn’t remember.”

“Well, that’s easy, honey. A teacher.”

“No, mom. Not what I’m doing. What did I want to be when I was little?”

“A teacher!” her mother said again.  “A teacher!  A teacher!”

Ray shook her head, unsure why she bothered to ask questions like that when the conversation never went the way she wanted it to go.

Her mother added, “You came home from your very first day of Kindergarten and told your father and I that you wanted to be a teacher when you grew up. We laughed and thought it was the funniest thing in the world. But then you said the same thing in first grade when you were asked. And second grade, too. You don’t remember that?”

“No,” Ray said, frowning. “I don’t remember that at all.”

Rubbing the back of Stranger’s head, she wondered how she could forget something like that.

“You never said what subject you wanted to teach,” her mom added. “You didn’t even know teachers could focus on a certain subject back then. All you knew was that you wanted to be a teacher.”

“Are you making this up, mom?”

“No! I’m being serious. I wouldn’t joke about something like that.”

As if joking about becoming a teacher was something that should be off limits if you had any decency.

“Thanks, mom.”

“For what, honey?”

“For remembering.”

The rest of the weekend was spent thinking about the scientist’s report and the diminishing student population. She remembered the things Eric Tates had said before storming out of the room, and she also replayed the conversation with her mother over and over.

By the time school started on Monday morning, she was on a warpath. She stormed into the teacher’s lounge, ready to tell everyone there exactly what she thought about Al Flanagan and Harry Rousner and all the others who had left before the school year was finished.

The only person in the lounge, however, was Mr. Turkow, the janitor.

The man, hunched over his mop, looked up from the wet floor and said, “Another migration this weekend.”

“Oh.”

Next, she went to the principal’s office. She was on her way into Principal Wachowski’s office, without knocking, when a voice called out behind her: “She’s not in yet. If she’s coming in at all, that is.”

Ray turned around. The mousy-looking secretary was standing behind her, next to a metal filing cabinet.  The secretary had a stack of folders in her hands.  Looking down, Ray saw that two trashcans were already full of the folders.

“Permanent records?” Ray said, rolling her eyes.

“What?”

“Nothing.” If her class clown had been there, he would have laughed—or cried.  Ray said, “It doesn’t matter if Wachowski is here yet.  I’ll leave a note.”

She wrote down everything she had planned on saying to Wachowski’s face. She wrote so quickly that when she was done, she had to go back and make some of her handwriting more legible so the principal would be able to read it all. Her fingers gripped the pen as if it were a sword and she were fighting for her life. In a way, maybe she was.

Dear Principal Wachowski,

You may think it’s wrong to tell the students they can be anything they want. Some of their parents might even get upset and call you when I say such things to the kids. Make one thing clear, though: I will not stop telling my students that they can achieve anything they dream up in their young heads.

Yes, the human population is steadily declining. And yes, unless the scientists make some miraculous discovery, which none of us expect to happen, the decline will continue until there are only a few people scattered around the world. And then, no one at all.

However, that does
not
mean the students can’t be anything they want! It turns out I wanted to be a teacher when I was little. Can you believe that? A teacher! I didn’t want to be a teacher who won awards or a teacher who had a full class of kids every day. I just wanted to teach.

So, if one of my students wants to be a hockey player when he grows up, he can sure as heck be a hockey player. I admit, the NHL won’t be around. My student will never win a Stanley Cup. But that doesn’t mean he can’t be a hockey player, of some sorts, all the same.

If one of the girls in my class wants to become a lawyer, then she can do that! I’ll be the first to acknowledge the Supreme Court has already discussed disbanding and that some local courts have already begun to turn their lights off. But until the very last pockets of society break down, everyone will rely on people who can mediate differences.

Which brings me to my larger point: accomplishments do not make a life; our actions each day are what define us. No young kid says he wants to win the Stanley Cup when he gets older. He simply says he wants to be a hockey player. Well, let him! And no kid says she wants to win a case in front of the Supreme Court. She merely tells her parents she wants to be a lawyer. Well, let her too!

The world is changing. The human race is fading away. We all know this. But until the day I die I will continue to tell my kids that they can do anything they want as long as they keep trying and never give up. I will never tell them they can’t be anything they want.

And if you don’t like it, you’ll just have to fire me and go without an English teacher.

Sincerely,

Ray Phillips

It felt good to tell her principal how she felt. It felt even better to stand up for what she believed. But she wasn’t done.

Next, she raced down the hallway so fast that if she were a student one of the other teachers would tell her to slow down unless she wanted detention. She jogged past one empty classroom after another.  Al Flannigan’s room was dark.  All the lights were off in Harry Rousner’s room as well.

Maybe Eric Tates wouldn’t find a cure for what was causing the Blocks. But if he really wanted to be a scientist, then blasted, he would be a scientist. And whatever Kelly and Debbie aspired to be was achievable too, so long as they never gave up. That was what she should have been teaching all along. Not
The Awakening
. Not
The Stranger
. She was supposed to never let her students forget that they could do anything they wanted.

“It’s a new day, class!” she shouted on her way into her room. A new day indeed. Throw the books out. Forget about anymore quizzes. From now on, she would do things a little differently.

“You can be anything”—she said, then stopped.

Her last three students must have left in the latest migration.  Her room, like all the others, was empty.