Hunched over a student desk at the back of the classroom, Mr. Marc Krause managed to write only a few words about each senior presentation before his next student stood up.  Drops from his water-soaked towel draped over his neck created more ink-smeared stains in his faculty notebook than notations.  Cheers from the class after each student’s mathematical demonstration made the past three days more like a pep rally than a high school calculus class.

            “Settle down,” he told his students, his nausea reducing his rebuke to a wheeze.

            Mr. Krause could muster only enough energy to utter one or two words, such as “excellent” or “good work.”  His students deserved more than that.  The stories he’d given his students over the year had made math come alive for them.  However, with his flu, he lacked the energy to control the class.

            Two girls glanced back at him and then turned to shush their classmates.

            A heavy knock came from the classroom door, and the room fell quiet.  This gave Marc such relief that he momentarily forgot he was sick and glanced up from his notes to see the classroom door open a few inches.

            “Listen!” Principal Richie’s voice said.  The man always sounded like a cowboy in the process of dying of thirst.  “Your schooling is up to you, and only you.”

            Marc fingered back his matted, black hair.  It was never good when a principal had to take over a classroom because the teacher couldn’t control the students.

            One youth stood and looked left and right.

            “Sit down,” the voice said, “and think smart for a moment.”

            The young man sat back down.  He then turned around and asked, “Mr. Krause?”

            “I promise that your life will improve if you commit to your schooling,” the voice said.

            The student closest to the door stood up and peeked through the doorway opening.  “There’s no one out there,” she said and slunk back to her desk without Marc having to tell her.

            Other than Principal Richie’s voice, it didn’t sound like what he would come into a class to say.

            Marc rubbed the front of his neck.  A substitute wouldn’t have sufficiently appreciated his students’ presentations.  He slid the towel off his neck and stood up.  The students watched him shuffle to the front of the classroom and look out through the open door.

            “Is he out there?” a young man asked.

            “No one is,” Marc answered, closing the classroom door.  Marc was weaker than he was in the morning and more nauseous than the day before.  The neck and shoulders of his shirt were drenched from his towel.

            The voice said no more.

            Marc leaned forward onto his front desk with the fingers of both hands splayed.  None of his students made a sound.

            “Please keep your voices down for the rest of the period,” Marc said.  “I haven’t been feeling well, as you know.  Especially today.  I want to be here for you and am proud of you.  Let’s keep quiet for another ten minutes.  Then we can all go home.”

            His request produced a chorus of soft yesses.

            Marc reached up and felt the excessive warmth in his cheeks with his palms.

            “Are you going to be all right, Mr. Krause?” a student in the front asked.

            Marc nodded.  “Yes.  Thank you for asking.”  He returned to the back of the classroom and sat down, putting the wet towel over the back of his neck.  “Who’s next?”

            In the third row, Kyle stood up, holding his notes under his right arm.  The rest of the class watched as he walked to the front.

 

 

*     *     *     *

 

            The alarm clock jerked Marc awake on Friday morning.  His mental cloudiness was even worse than the day before.  He couldn’t have only imagined Principal Richie’s voice in class because his students also heard it.

            Sitting upright made his bedroom tilt considerably until he lay down again.  Consigning himself to his bedroom, he reached for his cellphone from his nightstand, which lay in front of a picture of his wife, Gwynn.

            “Erica,” Marc said to the office secretary.  “This is Marc Krause.  I regret to inform you that I have a severe case of the flu.  I’m calling in sick today.”

            “I’m sorry you’re feeling bad.  I’ll notify scheduling.”

            “Thank you.”  Marc hung up and lay with his eyes closed until the swirling went away.

 

 

*     *     *     *

 

            When Marc became aware again, he found himself upon twisted, drenched sheets.  To his relief, his fever had broken.  The shackles of sickness had fallen, and he could think clearly again.

            The bedroom clock illuminated 4:05 in the afternoon, which meant the last day of school for the week had already ended.  His remaining students had presented their senior projects to a substitute.

            Marc poured chicken soup into a bowl, microwaved it, and then drank it.  He’d nearly forgotten what it was like to be well.  How enjoyable it was to reach, bend, and walk about freely again.  His wife never believed him when he said he always felt strong after overcoming the flu, as if he had been given a new body.

            Two glasses of water restored his full energy.

            The sun called him outside, where there were no deadlines, vague academic policies, or managerial lecturing.  Marc’s wife was in Las Vegas helping her mother for the past week, so no one was at home to keep him indoors.

            With a water bottle on the seat beside him, he drove to where he had spent many of his Saturdays as a youth, where he would get away from classmates who had no interest in him.  The chaparral-lined canyon bordering his old neighborhood was one of the interconnecting rifts that once separated San Diego into small communities.

            The dusty path snaked downward between prickly pear and tarweed.  The walk was more invigorating than hobbling between student desks under stale air conditioning.

            From beyond the scrub oak in front of him came a dog's yelping.  The crying created a wedge between his joints, draining his newfound energy.

            Anyone with better judgment wouldn’t have ventured out so soon after feeling ill.  Yet, there he was, surrounded by craggy plants and parched dirt.  What would veering a few yards off the trail matter to him?  He should show his appreciation for his restored health by helping the poor creature.

            Despite all the advice he had ever received against approaching wounded animals, he left the trail.  He pushed through the brush until he came upon a clearing.  On its far side lay a black Labrador retriever that quieted when it saw Marc.

            Marc’s vision blurred, and he began to feel dizzy.  He closed his eyes and bent down with his hands braced against his knees until the nausea passed.

            “Hey, fella!” he said, looking up, his nice-doggy voice making him cough.  “Why the fuss?”

            The dog responded with a fit of growling so severe that Marc retreated into the brush.

            Thorns and desert leaves pricked through Marc’s sweaty clothes.  He could turn around and return home to his soft couches and plush carpet, but he felt for the unfortunate creature, who, on an ordinary day, probably would have had a better disposition.

            Half-buried trash lay scattered about along the bottom of the canyon.  Marc squeezed between stalks of towering pampas grass to reach an old metal hub cap.  The black lab watched Marc pour water from his bottle into the makeshift bowl and set it out in the clearing as far as he dared.

            The dog showed no interest in Marc’s offering.

            More dizziness.  Marc backed away and put his hands over his eyes.  From behind him came a hiss like a running faucet.  His feet jerked together so quickly they flung sand into his shoes.

            “Git, stupid dog!”  Marc turned around to try to see the rattlesnake, but the sound seemed to come from everywhere.

            Then, Marc heard a second snake rattling.  He spun around again.  That’s when he discovered that the dog had run off.  The shrubbery was suddenly thicker where the poor creature had been.

            A shadow gathered over Marc.  Maybe he was losing his vision.  No clouds were above him, even though the sky had gotten darker.

            Something touched the back of his shoulders.  Panic overcame him, and he sprinted down the clearing twenty or thirty yards until it ended in a mass of thick shrubbery.  He reached around to feel what might have touched him when he saw something on the ground.

            It was a glass sphere larger than a cue ball, its polished surface glittering under the sun.

            The rattling behind him stopped, and the shadow dissipated.

            Perhaps he only thought the ball was glass because it now looked metal.  His fish-eyed reflection looked back at him as he bent down to pick it up.  The ball slipped from his hand like wet soap.  He lunged down to catch it but aimed too low.  The sphere took its time before landing on the ground.

            Rubbing his fingers together, he was surprised to find them dry.  He cupped the ball with both hands and lifted it, standing up, realizing he could not hold it securely no matter how firmly he tried to grip it.  Its solid surface was not cold, perhaps because it had been under the sun.

            From eye level, he let it go on purpose.  Counting aloud, he estimated eight seconds before it touched the ground before him.

            It was too hefty for an object to fall so slowly.  What a story he would tell his students on Monday as he showed them the ball.

            The ball fit snugly in his shirt pocket.  Marc peered down at it, half expecting it to jump out on its own.

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