A Redeeming Quality
by
T. J. Robertson
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 T. J. Robertson
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In the course of her long career Priscilla Pillsbury, a stern, spinsterish teacher of English, had come across several students she hadn’t liked, but she had met only one she couldn’t stand—Benji Wilson.
Everyone knew he was a genius. What bothered Priscilla was the way he flaunted it. She likened him to an exhibitionist, wearing an expensive watch—not to tell the time but to show it off to others.
She tried to understand him. Really she did. Her sense of fairness, insight into human behavior, and dry humor were sources of great pride to her. Those same qualities also won her the admiration of both her students and fellow teachers.
But she had trouble coping with Benji’s searching mind. Like a computer, it was capable of spitting out information on every conceivable subject. Whether the topic concerned the spraying mechanism of the American striped skunk, the musical technique of Thelonious Monk, or the life cycle of a North-American cicada, he had something to say about it. She had to admit, however, that, more often than not, his comments were insightful, if not informative.
Because learning came so easily to him, at times she wondered whether she was jealous of him. She had worked so hard to get where she was in life. Mathematics and science, in which he excelled, had been formidable obstacles for her. So, she had shunned them and concentrated, instead, on mastering English grammar, writing, and literature. Struggling academically and financially—she had worked full time while attending college—she had managed to get her degree and become certified to teach English. How long and difficult that struggle had been! Jealous of Benji Wilson? She quickly put the thought out of her mind.
One day while discussing some short stories by William Saroyan, Priscilla made mention of his birthplace in Fresno, California, and his Armenian-American background. “Class,” she asked with a burst of enthusiasm, “can anyone tell me where Armenia is located?”
Benji’s hand shot up. “Benji, let’s give the others a chance to answer.” This last sentence had become an automatic response whenever he raised his hand.
Unfortunately, she saw no other hands. With a sigh of resignation she nodded to the young genius who declared, “Armenia is a landlocked, mountainous country in the Caucasus region of Eurasia, bordered by Turkey to the west, Georgia to the north, Azerbaijan to the east and Iran to the south. As a former republic of the Soviet Union—“
“Very good, Benji.” Had she not interrupted him, she feared he might have gone on forever.
Then there was the time she had used the word, “herb,” clearly enunciating the letter “h.” Up went Benji’s hand.
“Yes,” she said with a sense of foreboding.
“Miss Pillsbury, I believe the accepted English pronunciation should be ‘erb’. The ‘h’ is silent.”
“Just as I sometimes put the accent on the wrong ‘syl-la′-able,’” she replied, purposely mispronouncing the word for dramatic effect, “so do I occasionally forget those silent ‘h’s.’” The class laughed.
Like her students, she, too, always looked forward to the annual excursion to Pleasure Cove. It was a ritual marking the end of the school year and the passage of another class of eighth graders from the middle school to the high school.
For the pupils, the amusements—the Ferris wheel, bumper cars, and fun house—were the most appealing part of the outing. Priscilla enjoyed the picnic tables, the small zoo, and the ducks on the pond. Too, the whole park was surrounded by a fence which put a limit on any shenanigans and made student accountability easy.
Together with Esther Taggart, a young social-studies teacher, Priscilla sat down at a picnic table under some pine trees, which, like sentinels, sheltered them from the warm rays of the late June sun.
“Aren’t those Canadian geese beautiful,” Esther exclaimed, pointing toward the pond.
“They’re not Canadian geese, Mrs. Taggart. They’re members of the American black duck species.” Those words of wisdom came from Benji, who had left the amusements and was heading toward the edge of the pond.
“Oh, come on, Benji. This is supposed to be a day of fun and relaxation---not one of erudition and lecturing,” Priscilla chided.
Esther watched him move away, saying, “That Benji knows everything, doesn’t he?”
“Everything except when to shut his mouth,” the older woman blurted out.
The social-studies teacher chose to ignore the hostility in Priscilla’s last remark. “He has a photographic memory, you know?” she said matter-of-factly.
“That’s not all he has,” Priscilla replied, continuing to vent her exasperation.
“He memorized the entire eighth-grade social-studies textbook in one afternoon,” Esther went on in a calm voice.
“I just wish he weren’t so cocky,” Miss Pillsbury said, getting her anger under control.
“Cheer up, Priscilla,” her younger co-worker consoled. “Next year the faculty at the high school will have to put up with him.” As an afterthought, she added, “But I’m sure we’ll get someone else to take his place.”
The English teacher smiled woodenly and shook her head in the negative. “Fortunately, precocious know-it-alls like him don’t come along too often.”
“How about some cookies?” Esther asked, anxious to change the subject. “I baked them myself.” She opened her plastic shopping bag and took out the oatmeal-raisin treats, neatly wrapped in tinfoil.
“Don’t mind if I do.” Priscilla reached over and took one. “Mmm,” she complimented, taking a bite, “this is delicious.”
No sooner had she uttered those words than she began to choke. A raisin had become lodged in her throat. Her face turned ashen.
“Priscilla, what’s the matter?” Esther demanded.
Struggling to her feet, the English teacher clutched her throat with one hand while steadying herself against the table with the other. Words failed her.
“Oh, God, she’s choking,” her friend screamed, trying to keep her from falling. “Someone, please help her.”
As a small group of onlookers stood helplessly by, Benji rushed forward and grabbed her limp body from behind. Holding his right wrist tightly with his left hand, he began pulling his fist forcefully against her abdomen.
For what seemed an eternity, all was quiet. Then, suddenly, someone in the crowd shouted with jubilation, “She’s upchucked and’s breathing again.”
“She’s going to be all right,” another voice exclaimed.
Lying on the picnic table where she had been placed, her eyelids fluttered and she could distinguish, amid all the chatter, a familiar voice. “As a boy scout, I know choking is the sixth major cause of accidental death. When food is sucked into the windpipe instead of being swallowed, asphyxiation may result in less than four minutes. The Heimlich maneuver is the most effective treatment. Furthermore . . . .”
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