Still Life with Flowers
Joe Madigan parked his car in the space reserved for him. A security camera gazed dispassionately at the small lot reserved for staff and administrators and at the graffiti-covered brick wall at the far end of it, dutifully recording the comings and goings at Springfield High School. Mr. Madigan had been promoted to the rank of assistant principal halfway through the school year when his predecessor abruptly quit and moved to Texas to work for a textbook company. No one else had applied for the position, and because Mr. Madigan had completed most of the necessary coursework to earn an administrative credential, he was given provisional licensure and an office. His English students were sprinkled into the classes of his colleagues and life went on.
Normally Mr.Madigan was the first faculty member to arrive. This morning the main door was already unlocked. The lights remained off except for the area where the custodian was working. In one of his first official acts as an administrator, Mr. Madigan had sent a memo to all staff implementing this policy as a cost saving measure. He had instructed staff who needed the lights to be turned on during off hours to make arrangements with the janitor. Fred, the custodian who had been employed at Springfield High since the end of the Vietnam War, had marched into Mr. Madigan’s office and told him in no uncertain terms that he was a custodian, not a janitor, and in future memos he was to remember that. Mr. Madigan was anticipating an unpleasant exchange with Fred about leaving the front door open when he saw a pool of light at the end of the hall near his office and a group of people huddled together.
As he drew closer, he recognized one of the teacher’s aides—what were they calling them now? Para-educators? She had been hired the previous year when class sizes had exceeded the maximums allowed under school district policy for one-teacher classrooms. She had been introduced to the teachers and made available to help with class projects and to work with small groups on remediation, but Mr. Madigan had never invited her into his classroom and could not remember her name. She was a tall, Hispanic woman with long, glossy, black hair. She wore colorful bracelets and skirts. Now she was supervising a group of four students, each representing a different race. He was able to identify only one of them, a frequent flier in the discipline office. They were trying to attach a large plaque of flowers to the wall under a banner with inscriptions in English and Spanish:
I love you Gela,
Te extraño Querida,
Rest in Peace Angélica, and an enlarged photograph of a pretty, smiling, brown-skinned girl with braces on her teeth. Mr. Madigan recognized her as the girl who had committed suicide last week.
Ignoring the students, who would have nervously avoided his gaze, he walked up to the woman. Trying to conceal his irritation, he said suavely, “I know you’ll understand, but the school district has a policy strictly forbidding floral tributes.” His insincere smile withered under the woman’s sharp glare. The students looked to her for guidance about what to do next. She held the silence for a long time, prompting Mr. Madigan to move toward the plaque of flowers and continue, “The flowers are beautiful—red and gold—our school colors. I can put them in my office until the end of the day. Would you all help me move them? I’ll be sure to water them to keep them fresh.” None of the students moved, but stared intently at the woman.
Finally, seeing the undisguised anger on the woman’s face, one of the students spoke up. “How you gonna water the flowers? They’re all stuck to the cardboard.”
“They’ll be fine until the end of the day,” Mr. Madigan replied brusquely. “Can you take it to the family for the memorial service?”
“The funeral was yesterday,” the woman said tensely. “One of her teachers was there.” Her tone implied that Mr. Madigan should have known that, and furthermore, that he should have been there.
Mr. Madigan felt defensive, surprised at how small he felt, at how the woman’s contempt for him had communicated itself to the students, who regarded him now with a mixture of disgust and amusement. He wanted to explain to them that the policy against memorials for deceased students, especially for suicides, was established to prevent glorifying the act and to discourage copycat behavior by other despondent students. He was, however, smart enough to realize that it would be better for him to say as little as possible. “I’m sorry for your loss. Please give her parents my condolences.”
The woman, who had already begun to walk away, stiffened and told the students to bring the banner and plaque with them. She did not look at Mr. Madigan or say a word to him. One of the students looked at him almost with pity. “Her father is dead. That woman is her mother.” The woman, followed by the four students carrying the memorial, left the school. Joe Madigan went to his office, hung up his coat, and sat at his desk, looking out the window for a long time.
He saw the group go to the little store across the street where students bought snacks and school supplies. The woman and the owner, a grandfatherly man, spoke briefly. Then the students set up the plaque and banner on the wall of the store. At lunchtime, the woman stood beside the memorial and a line of students—dozens of them, hundreds of them, most of the students in the large, urban high school—filed by, some hugging the woman and each other, some genuflecting in front of the flowers, a few making the sign of the cross as Mr. Madigan looked on from his office.
Still Life with Flowers
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