Guidance

To Whom It May Concern:

I have had the pleasure of knowing Jessica Haufstrom for nearly four years through my position as academic advisor for the Bellingham School System. It has come to my attention that Jessica, though in possession of considerable talent, has the additional qualities of perseverance and dedication so often left by the wayside by individuals with a natural tendency to succeed. Jessica is a student of exceptional achievement, and her academic record is matched by her extracurricular successes in many fields as well as her pleasant demeanor and optimistic outlook. I have no hesitancy in recommending Jessica to your Dental Hygiene program.

Sincerely,
William Bennett

"That's terrible." The vice principal's secretary was often blunt, but William had never gotten quite so bad a review from her before.

"What do you mean, 'that's terrible'? Isn't that what a letter of recommendation is supposed to look like?"

"It's such . . . clichés!" Wanda shook her head slowly, pityingly, at William as she handed the paper back to him. "They won't take you seriously."

"What should I say? 'Jessica is a bubbly cheerleader type who manages to get great grades even though she's awfully busy with her boyfriend? Let her in, she'll surely be able to pay your exorbitant tuition fees, her parents idolize her and have never done a thing wrong by their precious darling?'"

"Well, no. But . . . I thought you didn't like Jessie Haufstrom."

"She's one of my favorite kids around here, Wanda."

The woman looked oddly at William, raising a lip into a semi-sneer. "If she's one of your favorites, then I think you're in the wrong job! You treat her like a cockroach!"

"I treat her just as I treat anyone else, Wanda. With courtesy--it's more than you do."

"Courtesy doesn't get far with these kids, not when they can see how much you hate grubbing around in their midst!"

William was floored. And she was right; he hated the high school, hated dealing with the kids' issues, hated being at work. "Well, you want me to go back and rewrite this so my personal prejudice shines through?"

"No." Wanda reached out, plucked the letter from his pale hand, and set it on her desk behind her. "It's lovely. I'll see that it gets off today."

William walked into his office after a break for lunch. Marty Jenkins was making himself at home in the chair across from William's desk. His 1:20 appointment.

"Hello, Marty! Good to see you!" He reached for his chair, attempted to settle in, and almost missed his seat as it swiveled beneath him.

"So Marty, you're a sophomore?" William winced--he'd been doing this for . . . what, four years?

"Yeah." The kid, bored, examined his cuticles.

"So you've been at Sehome High almost two years, huh? What do you think?"

"I think it sucks, man."

"Hmm. Well, a lot of kids say the last two years of high school are a lot more fun than the first two." William cocked his head to the side, a plastic grin on his face. It felt like an expression he'd practiced in front of a mirror. "Now that you've gotten most of your basic requirements out of the way, you'll have a chance to register for some classes that really suit your interests."

"I don't got interests . . . well, I mean, I'm interested in hangin' out and shit, but nothin' I could do in school."

"Have you talked to your parents about what you might do after you graduate?"

"My dad don't care."

The guidance counselor's hand moved absentmindedly to the rough scar that began at his temple. His fingers followed it down the side of his face and neck and stopped where it disappeared under the collar of his shirt.

"Oh, you'd be surprised," William said. "I bet your dad's got some opinions on the subject."

Pulling his hand away from the roughness of his cheek, William leaned on his forearms. "Have you ever asked your dad what he would like to see you do, Marty?"

"My dad's an asshole, kinda. He don't care what I do, long as I don't leech off him anymore after I turn 18. He thinks us Jenkins boys haven't got the brains for college, but I'm not gonna argue. I'm sick of school anyway."

"I hope you're not taking that attitude because of what your dad's said, Marty."

"He mostly just wants me outta the house. He don't care if I get a job at DQ or what, you know. Long as I'm outta his hair."

"Well, you're smart enough for college. I'm saying this as your friend, not as your guidance counselor. If your parents are trying to limit your choices, then that's a damn shame." William shuffled his papers; his fingers traced his scar.

"So you don't have interests, Marty?" The second hand crept slowly past 12. "Other than . . . skating, say, and 'hanging out'?"

"Right, man."

"Do you talk? With your friends, I mean?"

Marty exhaled loudly through his nose. A disdainful noise, William thought. "Yeah, man. We talk."

"Good!" Sitting up straighter, William picked up a ball-point pen. "Since I've only got 18 more minutes to help you choose the classes that you're going to have to sit through all next year, I suggest we start here: Communication 170. Rhetorical Communication--in other words, talking. Something you're good at, right?"

"No shit, man? Is that what that means?"

"Basically. It's about learning to speak, but since that's something you've been doing since before you could walk, I think you'll find that it comes naturally."

"Dude, whatever. Sign me the fuck up. I just wanna get outta here."

William wrinkled his forehead as he jotted the course title on the yellow form in front of him. "This is tentative," he said, although it seemed Marty had drifted into the world outside the office window. Three kids were skating outside, practicing again and again the tricks that gave them trouble. Marty's hands caressed the gritty surface of his own skateboard, which lay across his lap. "I think you'll like this course, but we'll talk for another quarter of an hour and if we come up with something better, we can cross this one off. But we've got five more slots to fill." William groaned inwardly as Marty turned to look at the clock over the door behind him, making the skateboard in the boy's lap thump hollowly against the desk.

If only this kid could apply himself to school the way he applied himself to skating. The way William applied himself in the kitchen.

"Do you have any ideas about what you'd like to do for a living?"

"I don't fuckin' know. What about you?"

"I'm a guidance counselor."

"You always gonna be a guidance counselor?"

"Well, I'm nearly 30. Sort of late to be deciding what to do with my life, right?"

Marty raised his right eyebrow. "But this ain't what you're gonna do your whole fuckin' life, is it? I mean, you didn't tell your guidance counselor that that's what you was gonna do when you grew up, right?"

"No."

"So what did you tell him?"

William felt stricken. Somehow this kid had seen inside him, had seen the misery of his struggle and had prodded his wound. He sorted and resorted the papers in front of him, and his answer was muffled. "I might go back to school. I'd like to be a chef."

"A cook, you mean?" The volume of the boy's voice made William wince and think of the secretary on the other side of his office door. "What, like a hamburger flipper?"

"No, not really. A chef." William's tone was curt. "But listen, Marty, we've got five more slots to fill and less than 15 minutes to do it in. What do you think?" William held out the list of class options for Marty to look over, but the boy's attention was on William's face. "You want to cook food for a living?" As William nodded solemnly, the boy began to chuckle.

William tried not to make eye contact with Wanda as he headed for the parking lot at four. She wouldn't try to walk with him to the parking lot, he hoped; today he was leaving early, and judging by the stack of papers on her desk, she'd be staying late.

"Will, wait up." Grabbing her purse, she scrambled after him in a hazardous high-heeled lope. "I'm gettin' out of here too. Walk me to my car?"

"After the mean things you said to me earlier?" He smiled, hoping the comment sounded more light-hearted than it felt.

"Come on, Will. You know I just want what's best for you and the kids."

"You're saying I'm bad for them?"

"I'm saying they're bad for you."

William thought about what she'd said as he wandered through the aisles of the food co-op on his way home. She was right. He'd made a mistake when he'd gotten his master's in school counseling. He'd thought that keeping kids on track, helping them realize their dreams, would make up for something. He picked up a bundle of basil whose fragrance was so strong that, for a moment, he felt light-headed. He placed the herb in his basket. Counseling had done nothing to distract him from his own broken dream.

Finally home, William went immediately to the refrigerator. A free-range chicken, calling to be cooked, awaited him. Rolling up his sleeves and washing his hands under the hot tap, he set to work. He had been home a little under two hours when he heard Leslie coming in the door. "Hello?" she called through the open door, "Will?"

"In the kitchen!" Ordinarily, William would have spruced himself up a bit, perhaps torn off his apron, upon the arrival of a guest. For his sister, William made no more effort than to stack the dishes in the sink a little more neatly. His dinner preparations had been made in a more lackadaisical manner than usual tonight, owing to his gloomy mood. Looking at the counter and sink as she arrived, he felt lazy for having let the pots and pans pile up. And to think, the meal wasn't even put together yet.

"Sit down, Les. How are you doing?"

"Oh, I'm all right. I hadn't heard from you in a while, so I thought I'd just stop in. You know, make sure you hadn't drowned in your stew or something." She looked exhausted, Will noticed, and as small as a wet kitten.

"Ha, ha. It's nice to see you too. Where's the sprout?"

"She's at her Dad's." Leslie's face was set in a forced half-smile.

"He's got her for the weekend?"

"No, just tonight. He's bringing her home after her soccer game tomorrow." Leslie ignored William's look of terrible concern--they'd already discussed, again and again, his conviction that she'd married a carbon copy of their father. Leslie was sure that, though Stan was a lout, he would never hurt Rachel.

"So what about you, Will?" Leslie sighed, sat on the couch, and melted into the soft cushions. "Why the long face?"

"I had a crappy day at work: it's registration week."

"And that means?"

"It means I'm in charge of getting last names A through L set up with classes they'll love and will help them achieve their career goals. What a joke. Today I saw all the kids who cut class last week, so getting their ambitions channeled toward a rewarding education and a lucrative career was more challenging than usual."

"Wow. No wonder you look wiped."

"I feel like shit."

Leslie raised an eyebrow. "Sorry, Les. Marty's language rubbed off on me a little, I guess."

"Marty?"

"Just some skater kid I met with today. I had to sign him up for a bunch of lousy classes that'll bore him to tears, but there wasn't a lot I could do about it. He was pretty worthless, really, in terms of telling me what he wanted, you know. A real jerk, too."

"What could the poor kid have said to cause you to say such mean things about him?"

"He teased me about wanting to cook for a living."

"You talked to him about that?"

"He brought it up."

"What, he said, 'So, Mr. Bennett, I've noticed your lunch always looks really gourmet. Are you hiding some secret chef within?'"

"No, he asked me what I wanted to be when I grow up."

Leaving his sister seated on the living room couch, William returned to the kitchen. He tried to remember the details of his conversation with Marty. What had the boy said? He replayed the conversation in his mind.

William opened the oven door, releasing the sweet aroma of baking squash and herbed chicken. "So," he called to his sister, "are you staying for dinner?"

"Oh, I don't know. I just stopped in, really."

"I had a date last night." Needing the company, and wanting her spirits to rise, he tried to tempt her. His sister would always stay for gossip.

"Why not, then. Tell me all about it!" Hooked.

William shut the oven door, satisfied with the chicken, and turned to glance under the lid of a simmering pot. "I really liked her. I've seen her four times outside of work now. She's a secretary at the middle school, so I only see her when I go down there on Mondays."

"Fourth date, huh? Sounds promising. The food smells great."

"I'm just finishing up the soup." He was out of view, but the sound as he sharpened his knife on a whet stone seemed tentative, somehow. "So we had a nice time. We went out for Thai food, and it got me thinking about the Super 88. You remember it, right?" His head poked around the doorway.

"That Asian market, right?"

"Right. I went shopping there Friday, so it's been on my mind. You remember it, it's fantastic. So I just couldn't stop talking about it."

"Ah."

"I told her all about it. I mean, I couldn't really describe it, it's just something you've gotta go do, but I tried to talk her into going some time. Want a glass of beer?"

"Sure. So when are you going to see her again?"

"Well, I kind of got the 'don't call me' vibe from her. Harp or Sam Adams?"

"Sam Adams." He came into the living room, opened the beer deftly, and ran back to his chopping block. "Don't you think you might be jumping to conclusions? You don't read women well. I'm sure she's sitting by the phone waiting to hear from you."

"I asked if I could call her soon, and she said she didn't think I should." Appearing in the living room again, shirt sleeves rolled up under his apron, William brandished a leek. "She said, 'William, I'm just not that into food.'" He paused, looking at the vegetable in his hand as though it were as perplexing as a woman, and wordlessly went back to work.

Leslie became absorbed in the insect-like chattering of his knife; when he spoke again, she started. "I didn't try to protect her from the facts. I mean I told her about the open freezers full of quartered squid, the marinated ducks' feet, the hearts, the intestines. I wanted to give her the flavor of the place, you know. It's just such an experience, actually grocery shopping there. It's indescribable."

"Oh, definitely. She should try it, just once."

"Right!" He looked relieved. "That's what I was trying to tell her."

As Leslie and her brother sat down to their first course at a beautifully laid table, William put his napkin in his lap and crossed his hands in prayer. "Good bread, good meat, good God, let's eat." He picked up a slice of steaming, freshly baked bread and sopped up a rivulet of garlic-sesame dressing from his salad greens. But before the first bite, he lowered his hand and met Leslie's eyes. "If she's not into food, then what's the point? I mean, how the hell can I date someone who doesn't like to eat? She should be thrilled to death, she should be grateful to know that she lives a mere ten minutes from the most fascinating grocery store in the Pacific Northwest, and that we, the proud few, are the only Caucasians in the whole city who know about it!" He cracked his knuckles, then sighed. His burden unloaded, William picked up his bread again. The pair talked little during the rest of the meal, but ate in earnest.

"Another beer?" William asked his sister. They had long since finished dinner and done the dishes, and were now deeply absorbed in an episode of Iron Chef on TV. William watched as iron chef Kobe Masahiko deftly slit a live pike eel down the middle with a boning knife. Then he turned to Leslie. "I'm getting up anyway."

"I'll pass, but thanks. I'll need to drive home soon."

"Right." William made as if to stand, but his sister put her hand on his arm and held him gently back.

"Will, Dad's secretary called today."

On the television, challenger Kandagawa Toshiro grinned under the clock and minced his eel with artful strokes.

William's eyes were frightened. "To say Dad's dead? Please say she called to tell you he's died, he's had a heart attack at his desk and can you come and get his things." There was a note of desperate seriousness in his voice.

"Actually, she called to say--"

"Leslie, tell me he's dead and you'll save my life. Lie to me--I'll believe you."

"Will, I can't make a fantasy world for you. Dad's secretary called because--"

"I don't want to hear about his affairs."

"I don't want to talk about them any more than you want to hear about them, but he's our father and he's sick and his affairs are our business. She said he's made a new will and he's written you in. Half of everything."

"I don't want anything to do with him or his money."

"She thought you should know . . . that it might help you . . . help you feel friendlier toward him. She doesn't understand."

"I don't want a fucking cent." William's voice was tight, and as his complexion reddened and his eyes narrowed, he knew Leslie was thinking how much he looked like their father when he was angry. Will pulled his arm out from under hers and stood. "I've got to pee."

His chest tight and his eyes stinging, William looked at his image in the bathroom mirror, then leaned closer. He tried to remember, could remember every other moment of his childhood. Nothing came to him. He began to rub his cheek and neck, the motion of his hand becoming more and more frantic. The scar tissue felt numb. As his skin grew red under the assault, he stared at his face until it began to appear foreign to him. This was not him, this was not what he was meant to look like. His skin, where it should be smooth, was callused and cracking like a russet potato.

William pulled the bathroom door shut behind him. "I'm sorry, Les." He stepped quietly, like a cat, down the hall and into the living room. He turned off the TV, then sat. "I'm just so scared of him. Every day, I'm still so scared."

"I'm sorry."

"Les. Do you remember what I looked like before?"

The sky was the color of wet concrete when William left the high school the following afternoon. He began walking quickly up Sehome Hill. When he arrived at the open marketplace ten minutes later, he was out of breath, but dry. The threatened downpour had not yet begun.

"Nasty day, eh? Shoulda known you'd be one of the faithful few. Take a look at these here raspberries. These babies came down from the county just this mornin'. Knowin' your habits like I do, I'd say you'd better take home a few of them raspberries and make yourself a pie."

Wandering along the produce stand, William discovered a pile of dark, ripe avocados. Homegrown, the sign said, and he reached for some.

William walked back to his car in the pouring rain. Approaching a service station where a couple of the local high school boys worked part time, William noticed his low gas gauge and decided to stop in. Seeing Marty Jenkins standing at the pump, wiping his hands on his voluminous coveralls, he pulled up to the full-serve pump and unrolled his window.

"Yo, Mr. Bennett."

"Hey, Marty. Regular unleaded, please."

"Fill 'er up?"

"Yes, please."

Watching the movements of the boy's grease-stained hands, William wondered what would become of him. "It's great to see you've got a good job, Marty." The statement, offered like a peace pipe, seemed hollow.

"Yeah." The boy kicked the pavement with his scuffed sneaker. "But this shit ain't really what I want to do."

"What do you want to do?"

"I dunno, man. If I knew what the hell I wanted, things wouldn't be like this. I'd fuckin' go do it, you know. I'd get out from under my old man, get outta this damn town. But I don't know."

"You've got time. You're only--what, 17?"

"Yeah."

"Hey. If you hit 30 and you're still pumping gas in Bellingham and living with your folks, I'd worry. But you've got time." William felt concerned for the boy and rather fond.

As he pulled out onto the highway, William reached one arm inside his drying canvas shopping bag. Making sure nothing was being squashed by the wooden flat of raspberries, he let his hand linger on the smooth surface of an avocado. The feeling settled him. This was real, he thought. This was not like worrying whether the stoners at Sehome High would go to college. This avocado, cool and heavy in his hand, these berries, calling out for shortcake and heavy cream.