Eye of the Cricket Read Free Page A

resurface is the best way to put it, in various transfigurations."
    "Even historical figures like Edward the Seventh," Kyle Skillman said. Limp blond hair, face forever red as though recently
     scrubbed. A yoke of dandruff when he wore dark clothes.
    "Or Reuben J Antichrist the wandering jew." What was this one's name? Taylor, Tyler, something like that. Couldn't remember
     his ever speaking up in class before.
    "But why?" Skillman finished. His aching for a world where everything could break your heart. I found myself wondering, not
     for the first time, if he might be in some kind of emotional trouble.
    "Anyone want to answer Mr. Skillman's question?" I looked around the room. Eyes sank to the floor as though on counterweights.
     "Mrs. Mara?"
    "Obviously dreams are a kind of art, our most personal expression. One of the ways we make sense of our world."
    "Or, in a sense at least, re-create it: yes."
    Mrs. Mara swung her leg at all of us in approval.
    I, for one, beamed at our collective brilliance. But Skillman still looked worried. Loose pieces everywhere.
    "Let's look, then, at this most telling of resurfacings from the Night-town sequence: the sudden appearance of Bloom's dead
     son, which ends it.
    " 'Against the dark wall a figure appears slowly, a fairy boy of eleven, a changeling, kidnapped, dressed in an Eton suit
     with glass shoes and a little bronze helmet, holding a book in his hand. He reads fromrightto left inaudibly, smiling, kissing
     the page.' "
    And so our discussion continued for most of the hour, rain slamming down outside, pools of water from umbrellas flowing into
     one another, Sally Mara helping urge reluctant students from point to point like some fine intellectual sheepdog.
    Near the end, Kyle Skillman put down a well-mashed, half-eaten tuna sandwich to raise his hand.
    "Sir, you haven't told us when the firsttest will be."
    "I wouldn't worry about that just now, Mr. Skillman. There will be a final, at least; perhaps a midterm. Let's just wait and
     see how things shape up. I'm sure you'll all do fine, whatever.
    "Next week, we'll look briefly at Joyce's Wake —no, you're not expected to read it—and segue towards Beckett's Molloy —which you are.
    "If there are no further questions, I'll see you all on Wednesday."
    I replaced my notes in the satchel. Their own went into briefcases, book bags, folders and accordion files, backpacks.
    One by one, umbrellas left their posts at the back wall.
    "Mr. Griffin?" someone said as I stepped into the hall. "You have a minute?"
    Older than most of them, hair cut close, black suit giving him a vaguely Muslim look. Collarless white shirt buttoned to his
     neck. Left hand curved around a history text. He held out the right one.
    "Sam Delany."
    "You're not one of my students."
    "No, sir. Though I would be, if my schedule weren't so tight."
    "Walk with me? I'm heading for my office. Russian history, huh?"
    "I needed another history elective. It fit between Theories of Modern Economy and Dynamics of the Body Social IV. I'm pre-law."
    We went down the stairs and into a storage room the school insisted upon calling my office. I shared it with another part-timer
     who fortunately never used it You got both of us lodged in there, and a student by the door, I don't know how any of us would
     ever have gotten out "So what can I do for you, Mr. Delany?" I waved him into the chair across from the desk. He was thin
     enough that he almost fit there. Idly clicked on the computer to see if it might be working today. Nope.
    "I've heard a lot about you, Mr. Griffin. You're kind of a hero to some of the students, you know. They look up to you."
    I had no idea what to say to that, so I kept quiet.
    "I was born across from the Desire projects. First sixteen years of my life, I looked out the window, that's all I saw. Never
     guessed the world could be any different. Hard to relate to professors with their tenure and Volvos and their nice, safe homes
     out in Metairie. But you're