An Ocean in Iowa by Peter Hedges Read Free Book Online Page A

corner, low shelves overflowed with books of all sizes. On top, a textured globe of the world waited to be spun. Near theclassroom entrance, there was a pencil sharpener; a gray metal wastebasket; and a clock with a big face, easy-to-read numbers, and a red second hand that moved slowly. The speaker for the intercom system was secured to the wall, and an American flag extended at an angle from a metal holder. A fresh coat of beige paint had been applied to Mrs. Boyden’s classroom over the summer. Above the blackboard, the alphabet printed in large letters ran the length of the room. Each letter appeared twice—the first time in capitals, the second in lower case. On the blackboard was written in block print: WELCOME .
    Mrs. Boyden started the morning by introducing herself. She informed her class that she’d been teaching for over thirty-five years. “So,” she said, “I know a thing or two.”
    Then she explained that every day there would be certain procedures. Roll taking, the Pledge of Allegiance, a morning and an afternoon recess
if you’re good.
    “Why do we take attendance, class?” She paused and then answered her own question. “So we know if you’re here.”
    Scotty listened as Mrs. Boyden read the names of her new students. She appeared to be in no hurry. She explained that she preferred it if each person would answer by saying, “Present.” For it was no great feat for any of the students to be “here.” “Your parents made sure you were here. But to be ‘present,’ that is an accomplishment.”
    As Mrs. Boyden spoke, she’d look at a student, sneak a quick glance at his or her tag, and make a mental note that linked the face to the name. “Everyone likes to be known by their name,” she believed. And in thirty-five years of first days, she had never failed—she always knew each of their names by the end of the day.
    “Scott Ocean?”
    Scotty said nothing.
    “Scott?”
    She looked around the room, squinting as she searched for him.
    Scotty slowly raised his hand. “I am Scotty.”
    Mrs. Boyden made a mental note of his name. “You’re the brother of Claire and Maggie?”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “I was their teacher.”
    “You were?”
    “Didn’t they tell you?”
    “Yes.”
    “I want to say something to you, Scotty. Your sisters were special students, two of my favorites. It would be unfair of me to expect you to be like them. Wouldn’t it?”
    “Uhm,” Scotty said.
    “I think it would.”
    Scotty felt everyone looking at him.
    Mrs. Boyden smiled. “I want you to be you. I want you to be yourself.”
    Mrs. Boyden knew of the dangers of sibling comparison. Claire Ocean had been the brightest, most curious student in Mrs. Boyden’s experience. Though not as bright, Maggie was sweet and lovely, and a beauty-to-be. “I won’t be comparing you,” Mrs. Boyden said.
    Scotty smiled because she seemed to want him to.
    “Of course,” Mrs. Boyden continued, “if you’re anything like your sisters, that would be nice. There is much to admire about them.”
    Mrs. Boyden’s glasses were horn-rimmed, the frame a milky gray color. She looked large, with strong, thick arms, and whenshe turned around, Scotty saw purple blotches, grape jelly—like strands, colored lightning down the backs of her legs. Her age, he thought, was easy to guess. She was close to a hundred.
    “Yep,” he said at dinner. “She’s a hundred. At least.”
    His sisters laughed, for they knew she was in no way that age. “She looks old, but she’s not that old,” Claire announced.
    Scotty sipped at his milk.
    The girls had made a dinner of individual pot pies, which they heated in the oven. The Judge went to Kiwanis on Wednesdays and Joan was painting at her studio.
    “She’s working on her show,” Claire said.
    Joan would be displaying a series of new paintings at the end of the month.
    “She’s painting all the time,” Scotty moaned.
    “That’s what artists do.”
    Scotty said, “I know