It seemed to me, possibly Mr. Sandman was close outside the door. Leaning against it. The side of his head against it, listening?
Trying to use the toilet as silently as possible. An old, rusted toilet, with a seat made of dark wood. Stained yellowed porcelain at which I did not want to look closely.
Was Mr. Sandman outside the bathroom? Listening? I was stricken with embarrassment.
And then, flushing the toilet. A loud gushing sound that could have been heard through the house.
Washing my hands was a relief. Though the water was only lukewarm I enjoyed scrubbing my hands. Several times a day I washed my hands, took care that my fingernails were reasonably clean.
Noticing now that there were books in the bathroom, on the window sill. Crossword Puzzles for Whizzes. Favorite Math Puzzles. Favorite Math Puzzles II. Lewis Carroll’s Math Games, Puzzles, Problems. The books were small paperbacks with cartoon covers, that looked as if they’d been much used.
When I left the bathroom it was a relief to see that Mr. Sandman was not hovering outside the door after all.
In the kitchen he awaited me with his wide, wet smile that made you think of meat. He’d placed two large coffee mugs on a counter and was preparing hot chocolate on the stove, shaking powdered, dark chocolate out of a container and into simmering water.
In my hands the mug of steaming hot chocolate was consoling. Shyly I lifted it to my lips since Mr. Sandman expected me to drink it; he would observe closely, to see that I did.
The liquid chocolate was thick, slightly bitter. Almost, I’d have thought there was coffee mixed with it. But I was weak with hunger, and with relief that Mr. Sandman had not followed me into the bathroom. And now that I had used the bathroom and washed my hands I could see that Mr. Sandman meant to be kind.
“Would you like to borrow these, Violet? Of course.”
Mr. Sandman was leafing through Lewis Carroll’s Math Games, Puzzles, Problems. Many of the problems had been solved, in pencil. On some pages there were enthusiastic red asterisks and stars.
“See here, Violet. This section isn’t too difficult for you. Shall we do these together?”
Mr. Sandman sat me at the kitchen table. Gave me a pencil. I puzzled over the (comical, far-fetched) cartoon problems as he leaned over my shoulder breathing onto my neck. My head began to swim. “Careful, Violet! Let me take that cup from you.”
Could not keep my eyes open. Would’ve fallen from the chair except Mr. Sandman caught me.
Light was fading. Small spent waves lapped at my feet. Whispers, laughter at a distance. My eyelids were so heavy, I could not force them open...
Waking then, some time later. Groggy. Confused. Not in the kitchen but in another room, and on a sofa. Lying beneath a knitted quilt that smelled of moth balls, my sneakers removed. (By Mr. Sandman?) Across the room, in a leather easy chair, Mr. Sandman sat briskly grading papers by lamplight.
“Ah! At last Sleeping Beauty is waking up. You’ve had a delicious little nap, eh?” Mr. Sandman laughed heartily, indulgently.
My neck was aching. One of my legs was partially numb, I’d been lying on my side. Still very sleepy. A dull headache behind my eyes.
“Dear, it’s late — after six P.M. Your aunt will be worried about you, I will drive you home immediately.”
How long had I been asleep? My brain could not calculate — an hour? Two hours?
Mr. Sandman set aside his papers. He seemed anxious now. His breath smelled pleasantly of something sweet and dark, like wine.
When I stumbled getting up Mr. Sandman gripped me beneath the arms, hard. “Oops! Enough of ‘Sleeping Beauty.’ You need to wake up, immediately.”
Walked me into the kitchen, turned on a faucet and splashed cold water onto my face, slapped my cheeks — lightly! — but enough to make them smart. Bundled me into my jacket and walked me outside into the fresh cold air. My knee had begun to ache, I was limping slightly. Quietly Mr. Sandman told me in the car, “This is our secret, dear. That your math teacher has given you — lent you — the Lewis Carroll puzzle book. For others would be jealous, you know.”
And, “Including adults. Especially adults. They would assuredly not understand and so you may tell them ‘Math Club.’ It’s quite an honor to be selected.”
Cautiously Mr. Sandman drove along Erie Street. When I pointed out my aunt’s and uncle’s house he drove past it and parked at the curb several houses away.
“Goodnight, my dear! Remember our secret.”
Lights were on at the house. An outside porch light. I feared that Aunt Irma would be looking out the window. That she’d seen the headlights of Mr. Sandman’s car pass slowly by.
But when I went inside Aunt Irma was in the kitchen preparing dinner. She asked where on earth I’d been and I told her without a stammer — “Math Club.”
“Math Club! Is there such a thing?”
“I’m the only girl who has been elected to it.”
If Aunt Irma had been about to scold me this declaration intimidated her. “They’d never have let me in any math club, when I was in school.”
And, “Oh, Violet! Did you go out this morning with your shirt buttoned crooked? Look at you...”
I did. Cast my gaze down on myself, seeing that indeed my shirt was buttoned crookedly. Shame.
But why would you go back with him again, Violet? Why — willingly?
5.
Soon then, announcing to Aunt Irma that I’d not only been selected for Math Club but elected secretary.
Which was why I was often late returning home after school. In winter months, after dark.
(And it was true. True in some way. From his several classes Mr. Sandman had “elected” eight students to comprise Math Club. Six boys, two girls. Boys were president and vice president and I was secretary.)
Uncle Oscar seemed impressed, too. When I showed him Lewis Carroll’s Math Games, Puzzles, Problems he leafed through the little paperback with a wistful expression.
“... once, I could probably figure these out. Now, I don’t know...”
Later I would find the little book on the kitchen counter where he’d left it.
Living with adults you live with the husks of their old, lost lives. Like snakes’ husks, or the husks of locusts underfoot. The fiction between you that you must not allow them to know that you know.
How many times Mr. Sandman drove me after school to the stone house on Craigmont Avenue. When I was asked I would say truly I did not know, could not remember for always it was the first time and not ever did I seem to know beforehand what would happen nor even, in retrospect, what had happened.
How many times do you dream, in a single night? In a week? A year?
Snowy nights. The heater in Mr. Sandman’s car. Windshield wipers slapping. Sheepskin jacket, boots. Mr. Sandman taking my hands in his and blowing on them with his hot, humid breath — “Brrrr! You need to be warmed up, Snow White.”
Hot chocolate, with whipped cream. Spicy pumpkin pie, with whipped cream. Jelly doughnuts, cinnamon doughnuts, whipped cream doughnuts. Sweet apple cider, piping-hot. (Mr. Sandman’s word which he uttered with a sensual twist of his lips: piping-hot.)
One evening he had a favor to ask of me, Mr. Sandman said.
For his archive he was taking the measurements of outstanding students. All he required from me was a moment’s cooperation — allowing him to measure the circumference of my head, the length of my spine, etc.
“An archive, dear, is a collection of facts, documents, records. In this case, a very private collection. No one will ever know.”