Spring arrives to the Delta in sheets of water and the emergence of dragonflies. The swallows return to their frantic hunting routes over the Yazoo river. Overnight, a rush of gray moves the band field from muddy to a ridiculous green. I take to opening the windows, as the A/C in E Wing is out again. Fewer classes are held in our little Language Arts addition to the school. I reason it makes sense the custodians would prioritize the climate control in the main building with the cafeteria and offices. That doesn’t make those of us out here any more comfortable. My students beg me for a fan. Testing season is coming.
Students discuss conditions at the county high school, how it is flooded. They talk about custodians laying sheets of cardboard over wet tile so students can trudge their way to class. Some days, before classes start, I sit at my desk in the dark and look up at the mildew and mold spots on the ceiling tiles; I note how they are spreading or appear to be.
One afternoon there is a dog. She has freshly delivered puppies, judging by her stomach. I can see the purple of her teats hanging as she cuts a shadow across the coarse Bermuda grass. My students are doing district mandated testing drills, and I have developed a habit of standing with my back to the window during the quiet, so every now and again I turn to keep an eye on her as the clock moves.
The pattern of these drills is militant. The district calls it a “spiral review” of state standards. We start class with a skill review, then I hand out a short excerpted reading with multiple choice questions attached. The students are timed as they read and complete the questions. I’ve stopped thinking about their Lexile scores, about how the majority of the school is grade levels below target. I don’t feel shock anymore when my Honors scores come in and Mr. Morito states plainly to me that the only difference between classes is the lightness of skin. Early in the year I reported a few students I suspected of being functionally illiterate and Ms. Bryce told me to just do my best—“we don’t have the resources to help ‘em honey. That’s what you’re here for,” she says. I feel that terrible pressure like a vice squeezing, warping my chest.
But we correct the sheets in real time, the students and I. We discuss errors and brainstorm solutions. They sit in their ancient, wooden desks as I collect papers and hand out new ones. When I think to look back out the window, the dog is gone. I’m still thinking of her that evening as I stand from a squat in the copy room, brush the sweat from my forehead, and throw the jammed, crumpled paper in the waste bin. It takes over an hour just to make enough copies for the next day’s lesson because the copiers jam often. It’s too hot.
I run most nights. There’s not a lot of infrastructure out here, so I’ve taken to going along the raised gravel edge of the old C&G rail line that leads west out of town. I like the smoke and cherry smell of the pit as I pass Drake’s barbecue and the feed factory. I pass old neighborhoods with dirt roads where few people live, then skirt cornfields standing spearlike in formed rows. Three miles at a good pace takes me to the disused river bridge where I usually stop. The Yazoo is wider there, snaking through land in various states of heaving open and out. I stand and stare at the water, wondering what happened first, the white flight or the shutdown of the rail line.
The dog appears again the next day, under clouds. This time when I notice her she is already sitting out there in the field, facing the broad side of E Wing that must appear to her like one long, stretched out house. I tell myself spring is probably the best time for puppies, and I have no place trying to take in a stray, not that she’s asking me to take her in. But I look again and I think she is—she’s looking right at me. Her paws are muddy. She sits back on her haunches, her coat a sarcoptic mess of medium-length fur with dirty patches. Tattered by a bite at some point, one mangled ear sits permanently erect, as if she’s half listening to me fail to teach.
My students and I talk about her this time. They are collectively adamant in the wisdom that I don’t want to go fooling around with “them dogs.” I share how a few weeks ago I curved around a bend up on that raised rail line—tired from running hard—and in a gully maybe ten feet away, five resting wild dogs lifted their heads to look at me. I explain it was dusk and no one knew where I was. That I turned and jogged away as nonchalantly as anyone can jog away from potential death. It makes a good story—someone says “this white man,” and another “ah God, Black folk ain’t what you gotta watch out for,” and so on. One student jumps up to mime how I must’ve looked running away. We all laugh.
The third day I know she’s a messenger. Was it a Friday? She’s closer to the open window. Not within reach by any means, but no more than thirty feet away. She stares right at me, sitting again. I can see the color of her fur-shadowed eyes and the blue along the seamed center of her tongue as she pants. Her stomach hangs from her ribs like a rag: chewed on and kneaded for every last drop. Why didn’t I buy some dog food last night, or the night prior? I hadn’t expected to see her again, yet here she is. I know I won’t go get her something tonight. I’ll do what I always do, make copies after school, head home to smoke a few cigarettes, half-heartedly eat something, and then go running.
I realize no matter how many times she returns to the field and looks at me, I probably won’t feed her. I have nothing to offer. Would she take one of the Honey Buns from my desk drawer? Maybe, but I have hungry students who need those. Is this indifference? Can I say I care when I do nothing for her? It doesn’t matter. It’s not like I can leave my students alone; besides, by the next day I realize I’ll never see her again.
For about a week I keep my eyes on the window though my students tease. They say I’m worried that pack of wild dogs is coming to get me. One afternoon a wasp gets in and Destiny takes to the air with her textbook in both hands, screaming. As I shoo it out and latch the window shut, I look for the dog.
