Bones Lost His Body
Today our teacher told us October 4, 1957, is a very special day because the Russians launched their Sputnik and beat the Americans into space. “You’ll never forget this day,” she yelled as she hit the blackboard with her ruler. “It’s a day of shame in America. Imagine, to be beaten by the Reds. Unthinkable! Bow your heads and pray God’s blessing on our inept leaders.” When we finished praying for inept leaders, whatever that means, Mrs. Clapps told us to open our Weekly Reader and get to work.
I leaned over and asked Johnny Eel what a Sputnik was, and he said it was some kind of new doughnut the Russians had “dunked” not “launched” and that Mrs. Clapps had gotten her facts wrong again. Then he giggled, and I didn’t know whether to believe him or the teacher. Sometimes she does get mixed up.
Mrs. Clapps is a preacher’s wife and she’s always harping about the Cold War. She’s afraid there’s going to be a nuclear war and once a week she makes us practice saving ourselves by hiding underneath the art table. There’s only room for five kids so we take turns being saved. Mrs. Clapps hides in the broom closet and takes one kid with her. Nobody wants to go in the closet because she has a gas problem if you know what I mean. The rest of us squeeze underneath our desk which is easy to do if the desk is new, but impossible if it’s old because there’s no room. Today Mrs. Clapps yapped on and on about the Dawn of the Space Age and the Arm’s Race and Radioactive Fallout and the Lack of Space Commitment on the part of President Eisenhower. By late afternoon, I’d had enough.
After our spelling test, I raised my hand. “Mrs. Clapps,” I said. “Can I ask a question?”
“‘May I ask a question’ don’t you mean,” she corrected. “Yes, you may, if you’re quick about it.” She collected our papers and put them in a neat stack at the end of her desk. Her hair had gone limp and long strands hung around her shoulders like broken strings on a fiddle. Her red marking pencil was jabbed behind her ear like it always is.
“If you believe in God, why are you so worried about the Cold War?” Kids snickered. Mrs. Clapps stared at me. Her face got all wrinkled and instead of yelling at me, she began to cry.
“I don’t know,” she said. Her voice sounded like Mama’s when she’s all worn out from a hard day’s work. I felt bad.
“Gee, I’m sorry,” I mumbled, but Mrs. Clapps didn’t answer. She cried louder and left the room. Johnny patted my hand.
“You did good,” he said. “You did real good.” But I didn’t think so. I promised myself I’d be nice to Mrs. Clapps so she won’t fail me for making her cry. Then it was time for science class and I forgot all about her. Today Mr. Prichard is going to talk about cutting up a frog. We’re too young to do that, but he’s weird and wants us to know what to expect so when the time comes we’ll be ready. As if we’re going to remember anything he says a couple years from now.
Bones hangs in a corner of Mr. Prichard’s room. I hate that skeleton, standing there grinning his stupid horse-like grin, reminding me of what I look like underneath my skin. Bones gives me the creeps. I sit in the front row and Bones is directly to my left. I see him every time I look at Mr. Prichard. I don’t know if the other kids notice, but Bones has a way of slowly turning from side to side whenever Mr. Prichard opens the window to let in fresh air. He starts talking about cutting open a frog and taking out its innards. I watch old Bones sway in the warm breeze, and it takes my mind off the disgusting stuff I’m expected to remember.
“. . .slice it open and separate all the internal organs. Then pull out the intestines and make sure you get all of them. Then. . . .”
My mind floats away as I look at the empty head of Bones at where his brain would be if he had one. His skull is small. Then I look for his intestines, but I’m not sure where they are. There are lots of holes in his frame, and I figure his guts must spill out of some of them. In my mind’s eye, I see the long sausages that hold our manure in place until we get the urge to push it out. I imagine Bones sitting on a pot getting rid of his supper and without realizing it, I laugh
“Kathleen Sullivan, I’m glad you find this amusing.” Mr. Prichard’s voice is stern. His brown eyes glare into mine. I feel my face flame red.
“Sorry, Sir,” I said.
“Tell the class what you found so amusing.”
“Nothing,” I said.
“Nothing made you laugh?”
“It was Bones, Sir.”
“Bones?”
“Yes. He moved behind you.”
“What do you mean ‘he moved’?” Mr. Prichard turned and looked at Bones, who of course, was not moving. “Class, how many of you saw Bones move?” He asked the question in such a way that anyone who might have wanted to agree with me wouldn’t have dared. Mr. Prichard leaned forward and stared at us.
“Well, who other than Kathleen saw Bones move? Answer me.” His eyes roamed the room.
“No, I didn’t think so. Kathleen, you can stay after class when the bell rings.” He returned to his lecture. “As I was saying, it’s best to be prepared. Doesn’t Mrs. Clapps prepare you for a Russian attack? Of course she does, the same way I’m preparing you for science class when you’re older. If only you youngsters would pay attention you might learn something and not have to repeat grades.” The last bell rang before he could say anything more and everyone was out the door as fast as they could go. Mr. Prichard turned to me.
“Well, what have you got to say for yourself?” His arms crossed on his chest. Bones moved behind him.
“Nothing, Sir.” Bones swayed.
“Why are you smiling?”
“I’m not, Sir.” Bones swayed again.
“Why are you laughing?”
“I’m not, Sir.” Bones’ long fingers fluttered as the wind blew through the open window. My body was shaking from invisible laughter bubbling inside of me.
“I’m calling your parents and informing them of your rudeness.”
“We don’t have a phone,” I lied.
“Then I’ll write a note. Make sure you give it to your mother.” He scribbled something on a piece of paper, folded it, and handed it to me. As I reached for it, a gust of wind rocked Bones. I couldn’t help it. I laughed out loud. I thought Mr. Prichard would explode, but he didn’t say a word. He just turned and looked at Bones whose whole body was now flapping like Papa’s longjohns on our clothesline. Mr. Prichard didn’t look at me. He grabbed the note, tore it up, and told me to leave the room before I missed my bus.
When I got to class the next day, Bones was away from the window in a far corner at the back of the room and that’s where he stayed for the rest of the year. As much as I hated that skeleton, I missed him too. There wasn’t anything to look at except bald old Mr. Prichard who weighed about two hundred pounds and dripped sweat from his enormous ears. Even in January when it was twenty below outside, the sweat rolled from his ears. Sometimes I chuckled to myself, but I was careful not to laugh. When Mr. Prichard asked why I was chuckling, I lied and told him I was clearing my throat. Then he moved on to the next kid and left me alone.
I hope Mr. Prichard dies on a day when our country finally beats the Russians into space so nobody will pay any attention to him. I hope he doesn’t get much of a send-off. I hope everybody is glued to their television sets, and nobody knows what becomes of him. I hope some undertaker donates his body to medical scientists and when they finish with him, I hope they pass his skeleton along to some poor public school just like ours in Brimley. Mr. Prichard might hang in a science lab, sway in the breeze, and get another kid in trouble. I snicker at the thought.
“Kathleen,” Mr. Prichard yells. “Will you please tell the class what’s so funny.”
“Nothing, Sir,” I say. “Nothing at all.”
