Demon's Door (5 page)

Jim looked down at Tibbles and Tibbles looked back up at him with supreme arrogance, as if
he
had asked the question, instead of Kim.

Jim didn't answer. He was very reluctant to meddle with spirits these days, because it always seemed that there was a price to pay. Real life wasn't like that TV program
Ghost Whisperer
, in which troubled ghosts were eventually shown the way to heaven, and everybody ended up tearful and happy. Once – reluctantly – he had helped his neighbor to talk to her recently dead husband. She had wanted to make up with him because he had stormed out of the house after an argument about the way she cooked chili and he had been cremated less than twenty minutes later in a fifteen-vehicle auto pile-up on the Golden State Freeway. When Jim had raised his spirit, there had been a highly emotional confrontation, with husband and wife both shouting and crying. Eventually they had sorted out most of their misunderstandings, and calmed their anger with each other, even if they hadn't found perfect peace. That same evening, however, the woman's sixty-seven-year-old father had suffered a stroke which left him permanently speechless and paralyzed.

Almost every time that Jim had put the living in touch with the dead, similar tragedies had followed, sometimes worse. He had never been able to prove that they were a direct consequence of getting in touch with the spirit world, but he no longer offered his services as a mediator between the living and the dead, no matter how much pain and loss anybody had suffered. Two years ago, he had contacted the late wife of one of his fellow teachers. She had died of breast cancer at the age of thirty-three, and all that her bereaved husband had wanted to do was to embrace her one last time.

At 3:33 p.m., with the drapes in their living room drawn together to keep out the sunlight, the teacher had held his lost wife in his arms. She had been shadowy, barely visible, but she had been sufficiently substantial for him to feel the warmth of her body, and kiss her lips.

At 3.33 p.m., less than five miles away, their four-year-old daughter had fallen from the seventh-story balcony at her grandmother's apartment on to a concrete path, and died later that night from severe head injuries.

Jim said to Kim, ‘What will I be giving this Kwisin, to make her so grateful? You could at least tell me that.'

‘You will find out, Mr Rook, when we reach the right time.'

‘Actually, Kim, I think I'd like to know now. In fact, I
insist
on knowing now.'

Kim shook his head slowly from side to side. ‘Not possible, sir. Kwisin can show people what will happen in the future, but even Kwisin cannot tell what they will think of it. Some people much braver than others.'

‘You're talking in riddles, Kim. I don't like that. I want you to talk straight. Why is Kwisin so grateful?'

‘You will know soon, Mr Rook. I promise you.'

Jim stood there for a few moments, feeling increasingly frustrated by Kim Dong Wook's refusal to answer him. But then he thought:
Let this go, Jim. For now, anyhow. This will all unravel itself, sooner or later. And the last thing you want to do is antagonize this young guy.

‘OK, Kim,' he said. ‘But I'm warning you now. Any more BS from you and you're out of my class.'

Kim pressed his hands together and bowed his head. ‘Of course, Mr Rook. Quite understand, Mr Rook. In Korea they say, do not throw dirt into the well from which you drink.'

After recess, Jim stood up in front of the class and said, ‘I'm going to read you a poem.'

‘Oh,
man
,' T.D. complained.

‘What's the matter, T.D.?'

‘Come on, sir. I don't object if you learn us how to communicate better. You know, how to tell our fellow human beings what we're feeling inside. But
poetry
? How cissy is that?'

‘T.D., rap is poetry.'

‘Sure it is. But rap aint all daffodils and birds twittering in the trees and how does I love thee. Rap is like expressing your
needs,
and how angry you is. Rap is like saying this is me you dumbass and you got to respect me. Otherwise I'm going to blow your dumbass head off.'

Jim said, ‘Listen to the poem first, before you make any judgments. It's called “Tomorrow Will Bring Me Roses” by Caitlin Livingston, who was a well-known poet from Marblehead, Massachusetts. And after I've read it, I want each of you to tell me what you want tomorrow to bring
you
.'

Teddy said, ‘It's OK, sir. Please! You don't have to read out the poem. I already know what I want tomorrow to bring me. Britney Spears. Naked, and smothered in molasses.'

The class whistled and laughed and Teddy sat down, clasping his hands triumphantly over his head like Rocky.

Leon leaned back in his chair, stretched his arms out, and opened his mouth in an ostentatious yawn. ‘Sleep,' he said. ‘That's what I want tomorrow. All day. And nobody waking me up by trying to read me any stupid poems.'

‘Hey – I want a phone call from the Raiders,' said Grant. ‘Like, “We want you to wear the number eighty-six jersey for Saturday's game against Seattle, and we'll pay you fifty thousand dollars if you say yes.”'

Elvira Thomas said, ‘You know what I want? These amazing boots by Antonio Berardi. They don't have heels. I mean who knows how you're supposed to walk in them, but they look so-o-o fantastic, who cares?'

‘Hey, hey, hey, hold up!' said Jim. ‘Before somebody tells me they want a recording contract with Sony or a house in Bel Air or a date with Jennifer Aniston, I want you to listen to this poem. It's not all daffodils and birds twittering in the trees, T.D. In fact it's pretty acerbic. Anybody knows what that means – acerbic?'

‘Is that like somebody from Serbia?' Arthur suggested.

‘Good guess,' said Jim. ‘But in this particular context it means bitter and harsh.'

He started to read, and as he did so he walked slowly up the aisle between the desks. Judii followed him with wide-open eyes. T.D. watched him, too, but kept jiggling his red-sneakered foot to show that he wasn't really all that interested in poetry. Teddy was already scribbling pages of notes, while Billy was persistently tugging at one of the holes in his gray T-shirt so that it was growing even bigger, and Arthur was staring out of the window at the grassy slope outside, where four or five girls from Mrs Daumier's art class were sketching the cedar trees.

Jim read:

Jim stopped next to Maria Lopez, a quiet, plump girl with long black braids. She hadn't said a word all morning, except to say ‘here, sir!' when he had called out her name. She was wearing purple jeans and a bronze satin blouse with puffy sleeves and a necklace made of multi-colored wooden beads. She sat with her head bowed, fiddling with her wooden-bead bracelet as if it were a rosary, but Jim stayed where he was, close beside her, and recited the last verse as if he were reading it to her alone:

Jim closed the poetry book and went back to his desk. In his basket in the corner, Tibbles restlessly turned around and around, making the wickerwork creak, as he tried to get comfortable.

‘So, what do you make of that?' Jim asked.

Judii said, ‘This woman is stone sick of the man in her life because he's a lying creep and so she decides she's going to dump him.'

‘Ah, yes. But
will
she?'

‘Yeah – she says so, doesn't she? She knows he's going to call her but she's not going to answer the phone.'

‘OK . . . but she's not going to dump him
today
, is she?' said Jim. ‘The whole point of the poem is that she's talking about what she's going to do
tomorrow
. But if that faded photograph is anything to go by, she's been forgiving this guy for more tomorrows than you can shake a stick at.'

‘I think there's something else, too,' Janice piped up, her cheeks flushing pink. ‘At the end of the poem she goes back home, doesn't she, and it's all silent and it's almost like she
misses
him, even if he
is
a cheat and a liar.'

‘That's very perceptive, Janice,' said Jim. ‘She knows for certain that she's going to get her roses tomorrow, by way of him saying sorry. And she knows for certain that he's going to call her. She thinks that she ought not to answer his call, and she thinks she ought to leave him. But when she imagines what tomorrow is going to be like, all on her own, without him, she's really not so sure that she will.'

Kim said, ‘What reason you choose this tomorrow poem, Mr Rook?'

‘That's a strange question.'

‘I am interested you want to talk about tomorrow.'

Jim thought about it. Then he said, ‘I couldn't tell you specifically, Kim. I guess I was interested to find out what each of you wanted tomorrow to bring you, if you had the choice.'

‘But none of us have choice. Tomorrow bring what tomorrow bring.'

‘I disagree with you, Kim. We always have
some
choice. If we choose to behave well toward the people we care for – if we choose to make the best of who we are and what we can do – then all of our tomorrows have every chance of being so much more rewarding.'

‘Sure,' said Leon. ‘So long as we don't step off of the curb and get hit by a four-one-three bus.'

Jim stared at him. ‘A four-one-three bus? Why a four-one-three bus?'

Leon pulled a face. ‘How should I know? It's the only bus in LA I've ever ridden on.'

‘Oh, really?' said Jim. He couldn't help thinking about that packer at Ralph's saying, ‘
stepped off the curb – right in front of a four-one-three bus – driver stood on the brakes but he didn't have a hope in hell
.'

He stared at Leon for a long, long moment, but Leon simply looked confused. He obviously had no idea of the significance of what he had said, and why it had made Jim react so sharply.

Jim turned back to Maria's desk. ‘How about you, Maria? What would you like tomorrow to bring you?'

Maria raised her eyes. She had a round face with heavy black eyebrows that joined in the middle and a spread-out nose. ‘I do not know, sir. I cannot tell you.'

‘You must have some idea. How about winning the lottery? How about getting married?'

‘You believe that this all Latino girls ever think about? Winning the lottery and getting married?'

‘Hey, of course not. Only kidding. But surely you have
some
dream, don't you?'

‘I dream only to be left alone, that is all.'

It was then that Jim saw the dark crimson bruises on her wrists – bruises that looked as if somebody had gripped her tight and twisted her arm. She had a bruise on her cheek, too, which she had covered up with foundation.

‘OK,' he said. ‘That's as good a dream as any other. Tamara – how about you?'

‘You know what I want tomorrow to bring me, Mr Rook. An offer from KTLA. Anchorwoman for the nightly news.'

‘Sure. But what about
you
? What about the way you feel about yourself?'

‘I feel fine. Tomorrow I will feel fine.'

‘Fine? Is that all?'

Tamara frowned at him. Her eyes flicked from side to side as if she were trying to focus on something inside of her head – something that unsettled her. ‘I feel fine,' she repeated. ‘I don't want to think about tomorrow. The bathroom. The bath's overflowing. There's too much red.'

‘Tamara?' said Jim. ‘What do you mean by that?'

‘What?'

‘What do you mean about the bathroom?'

‘What?' She didn't seem to understand what she had said.

Jim stood up straight and looked around the classroom. Outside, the sun was shining and the girls from Mrs Daumier's art class were still drawing. Yet he was aware of a strange feeling of dislocation inside Special Class Two, as if none of his students were sure what they were doing here. It was the same feeling that Jim had experienced after a bus crash, on a tour of Italy. Nobody had been hurt, and yet afterward everybody had milled around by the side of the highway, bewildered.

‘Maybe I shouldn't have asked you about tomorrow,' he said, returning to his desk. ‘You all seem to have enough problems dealing with today.'

‘Hey, I know what I want tomorrow to bring me!' T.D. volunteered. ‘An Uzi, so I can scare the living crap out of my mom's latest boyfriend!'

‘Yes, well,' Jim told him. ‘When I say that you all seem to have enough problems dealing with today, that's a prime example.'