You just have to promise, he said, eyes flashing brown and clean.
I can’t promise, I told him, if I don’t know what it is.
But I can’t tell! he said, hitting the bench with his fist. The bench bounced back. I hadn’t seen Danny so excited since I’d told him that on Veteran’s Day we would be spending the whole class doing word problems about soldiers.
Other than that, since Mimi’s 9, things had been uneventful with the second-graders. No one brought any Numbers and Materials during lunchtime, and I didn’t really do any fun activities. I was the regular leader of a tight ship. I put names on the board at the first sign of chaos.
Friday morning, Danny stumbled into class with a pillowcase over some kind of large hard rectangle. He greeted the flag as usual, and we did our usual pages in workbooks and even had a quick Friday quiz. I called him up in the last twenty minutes of class.
Lumbering over to the front, he placed his item horizontally on the side table. He stared at Lisa and Ann and me for a second, then whipped off the pillowcase, revealing a long case of pale blue glass, frozen inside of which was none other than a left arm.
The famous O’Mazzi arm.
He glanced over at me fast, scared, wondering if I’d stop him.
But I nearly clapped my hands with delight. I’d never seen the rumored arm, had only read about it repeatedly in my mother’s History of the Hospital brochure. I nodded at Danny, and his face lit up.
This is my dad’s arm, he said. It’s kind of like a big i.
5 He lifted it on its side, vertical.
The class was totally silent, staring. Ellen drew in her breath in a thick heave. Danny kept glancing at Lisa expectantly, but she was quiet and seemed impressed. Ann had her arms folded. In the bottom right-hand corner of the glass, I could see the fancy engraving that read FIRST SURGERY.
I’m so glad you brought it in! I said. Danny beamed, all ready to start with the subtraction when I told him that today for a change how about trying some multiplication. His face lit even more; Lisa made an enraged sound from her desk. Danny picked up the glass case, and hugging the bottom he held it as high as he could; inside, his father’s arm was slightly bent, with the palm half open in a vulnerable kind of way, like a bud crumpling out to the sun. 1 times 88 is 88, Danny said. There was a tan mark where his father’s watch had once been, and a neatly sewn-up shoulder. I saw no sign of blood.
What’s 1 times 156? I said. 156, he said, shifting the weight of the arm on his knee. I times 387? I asked. 387, he said.
Your dad has hairy arms, said Ann from her chair.
It’s not fair that he gets to do multiplication! said Lisa. All the other kids were shifting in their seats, and Ellen’s face was whitening by the minute, so I told her to go use the bathroom be cause she tended to pee when upset. She left quietly but I heard her run as soon as the door shut.
What’s 1 times the world? called out John Beeze.
The world, said Danny O’Mazzi.
He balanced the arm again on the table by the chalkboard and showed us where it was cut off at the shoulder. My dad got stuff in it in the war, said Danny. But it only got really bad in the hospital. He spent the first night of anyone in there, before the elevator even worked.
Does your father use a wooden arm now? I asked. No way, said Danny. He’s no cheater.
Elmer raised his hand. Can he eat? he asked.
Danny rolled his eyes.
Does he have cancer? Lisa asked. No, she answered herself.
VVIat war? I asked.
Danny shrugged. The one, he said. In another country. The whole class nodded sagely, so I didn’t press it further.
He did a few more multiplication problems, and then stood proud next to the arm, a small sergeant with his glass flag, when Ann raised her hand.
Yes Ann? I said.
I don’t think it looks like a 1 at all, she said. It just looks like an arm. I don’t think it should count for Numbers and Materials.
You should talk, said Danny, gripping the glassy blue corners.
So far I’ve brought in a stick ii and a gelatin 4 but you haven’t brought in anything all year except that bad 3 of nothing.
Ooooh, said John Beeze.
Kids, I said, walking to the board.
Well, I have something today, said Ann, voice priggish, as if it were the most normal thing ever.
I raised my eyebrows. At the table, on a piece of scratch paper, Lisa was writing out her multiplication tables at a breakneck speed.
I have a great number today, said Ann. I really do. It’s way better than that arm that is not a i.
Ann, I said. Cut it out. I put her name on the board: Ann. Danny, I said, thank you for a terrific addition to Numbers and Materials.
I’m done? he asked.
I smiled. Do you have anything to add? I asked.
He put his arm around the arm. One times a million billion trillion is a million billion trillion, he said.
Very nice, I said. Maybe the rest of you can look more at Danny’s dad’s arm at recess.
Danny nodded, smug. I led the class in a short round of applause, and he returned to his seat where he stuck out his tongue at Ann.
Enough, I said. Lisa stopped writing, and put down her pencil.
Then Ann DiLanno stood up.
So can I go? she asked. We still have ten minutes, right? You really have a number today? I said. A solid number?
She glared at me. I’m not a LIAR, she said. Of course I have one. I have the best one of all.
I leaned against a bookshelf.
We hadn’t had a peep from Ann since the loo of rhinestones that I still was irritated about, and which turned out to be stolen. It belonged to some old lady who baby-sat Ann and her sister on Thursday afternoons.
All right Ann, I said. Show us what you got.
I waited for her to wave her arms and produce another 3, this time made of noxious gas from science class, but instead she walked straight over to her blue backpack and very carefully unzipped it.
And … here … it … is! she said.
She raised her arms and held up a 42 made of wax.
See, she said. Look. Look at this perfect number I brought.
It was about the size of a tennis ball, hanging from a dirty string. I recognized it instantly.
Isn’t it beautiful? she said.
Bo — ring, said Danny O’Mazzi, clutching the blue glass arm. Now.
As much as I was supposed to be the same to all my students, I wasn’t, and Ann had made me annoyed first by the 3 and then by the fickle rhinestone loo, but far more than any of that, most of all, I did not like seeing that V separate from its obvious owner.
Where did you get that? I asked, sharp.
I made it, she said. Out of beige crayons. There are no beige crayons, said Lisa.
Ssht, Lisa, I said. Ann, I know you didn’t make that. I know who that belongs to, I said. Here. I’ll give it back today.
No, said Ann, hugging it to her. It’s my number. I brought it in.
I made it out of beige crayons. There are too a lot of beige crayons. I want to do some adding and subtracting and multiplying with it, she said.
Lisa held up her page with all the problems and cracked it in the air. No multiplying allowed, she said.
Ann took a deep breath42 + I = 43, she said42 + 0 = 42Okay, I said. Now42 + 6 = 48, Ann said.
Good adding Ann, I said steadily. This number belongs to my neighbor. It’s very important. Where did you find it? Hand it over. She clung to it42 + 3 = 44, she said. Now, subtraction.