A master of the double entendre, Mr. Reid hilariously and inappropriately used the guise of a sotto voce to make his cleverly quick asides. And we rewarded him with blushes and giggles. He had an impishness that was endearing, and a gentle manner that made each one of us feel secure and significant. His melodiously deep baritone voice was seductive and captivating. We admired him both as our teacher, and as our friend.
Known as “Mr. Reid’s Girls,” we were the elite of the elite female members of chamber chorus at our public high school in Galveston, Texas. And though this was Bible thumping country, the intrigue and mystery of being singled out for his attention made us forget our Sunday School lessons. A Lolita would never do for Mr. Reid. His signature aphorism, “Patience is a virtue,” was key to understanding the type of girl that attracted him—one whose sense of self was still in its pupal stage.
Mr. Reid’s description—mid-40s with balding gray hair, and a distinctive paunch—belied the danger of his charisma, for it was not physicality that held us captive to his charm. Before chamber chorus practice, we girls would vie for his attention. There might be as many as four or five of us crowded around his desk joking and matching wits with him. Oh, how we all would laugh.
CiCi was the quickest to laugh at his dry sense of humor. Krys, who was often chosen to sit in the coveted passenger seat of Mr. Reid’s car while en route to off-campus performances, was best known for a facial expression that clearly indicated a failure to grasp the joke’s meaning. But Mr. Reid’s flash of a smile turned the light of dawning on so that she, too, would laugh. And though I usually started laughing right behind CiCi, it often wasn’t until much later that I actually perceived the meaning. I just couldn’t . . . wouldn’t let Mr. Reid know I was so dull.
Because CiCi and I were the only two girls who not only were in chamber chorus, but were also involved in the spring musicals (both junior and senior year), our exposure to Mr. Reid as musical director was greater than the others. There may have been the smallest feeling of competition between us, though I was barely aware of it. I do, however, remember feeling something close to triumph when I earned the distinction of an invitation to his home for lunch.
For our lunch date, he fixed Campbell’s Tomato Soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. Mother always made the soup with water, but Mr. Reid made it with milk. It was comfort food, and I thought I had never had such a delicious meal. Afterwards, we sat on the couch in his living room and talked. He told me how much he admired my voice. He told me how much musical potential he thought I had. He asked me what I was thinking in terms of college applications. He smoothed a wrinkle in my skirt with his hand. He put his arm around me, gave my shoulder a squeeze, and said it was time to get back to school. My heart pounded hard in my chest.
Over the next several weeks, during rehearsals for The Sound of Music, Mr. Reid helped CiCi and me prepare for our performances. CiCi was adorable as five-year-old Gretel. I played Liesl, and each night helped CiCi, whose friendship had become very important to me, wrap an ace bandage around her body to bind her double Ds tightly against her chest. On the night of the last show, Mr. Reid came back stage to give “his girls” a big hug of congratulations. He put his arm around me and bussed the top of my head with a kiss. “You were fantastic,” he praised. “Wish I were eighteen,” he said with a wink making reference to my solo performance of “Sixteen Going on Seventeen.” At that, he brushed his elbow against my breast and whispered, “soft,” as he nudged his shoulder against mine in playful intimacy. In that instant I felt the thrill of a frisson surge through my body. But in the next instant, the momentary delight turned to fear as a memory snapped into my head.
Mr. Calbert, my eighth grade art teacher, was infamously known for his penchant of putting his hands on young girls’ breasts. Consequently, we began the term with an intense dislike and distrust of him. He was 60-something, rail thin, unkempt, and smelled of alcohol. He didn’t even bother to learn our names. Though we were mostly an untrained group with regard to drawing, Mr. Calbert expected us to attempt to draw the human form. Each class meeting, he would select, from among the ranks, a girl, who was then expected to pose for the class. When my day came, I apprehensively took my place as the model, and hopped up on the counter in the middle of the classroom. I telegraphed my despair to my friend, Lynne, who took up her pencil knowing what my fate was likely to be. Mr. Calbert slithered and oozed his way around the classroom making suggestions to his pupils on technique. Ten minutes into class, I began to relax. Twenty minutes into class, I began to hope I might escape the inevitable. The oily Mr. Calbert continued his critiques until with just three minutes left in class, he scurried over to me as if he’d almost forgotten the most important thing. “Now class,” he began as all eyes now looked up with rapt attention, “don’t forget the shadow under here.” At that, Mr. Calbert slid the palm of his hand along the crease in my dress made by my right breast, thereby cupping its underside. My humiliation was palpable. Lynne’s eyes grew wide as she helplessly watched. The bell rang. Mr. Calbert solicitously offered me his hand as an aid in getting down from the counter. The sardonic grin on his unshaven face was proof enough of the pleasure he took from his conquest.
After the cast party for The Sound of Music, after the set had been struck, after I was safely back in my bedroom, I considered whether there was really any difference between Mr. Reid and Mr. Calbert. I wasn’t sure.
Texas graduations are held at night to escape the June heat, and evenings were often quite breezy on the Gulf. I wore my sweater into the choral practice room for chamber chorus rehearsal prior to graduation, but decided it would be unnecessary to have it with me during the performance and ceremony. My graduation robe would be more than enough. I left the sweater draped on the back of a chair as we all headed to the stadium. We were a raucous group—the awarding of diplomas was accompanied by the sound of firecrackers and M80s. The chaos that ensued after we were pronounced graduated was something akin to a major athletic event. A sea of bodies, flash photography, flying caps, and shouts of congratulations all contributed to the cacophony.
Later, as I was about to put the key in the ignition of my car and head to the first of many parties, I remembered my sweater and hoped the choral room was still open. The buzz from the fluorescents added to the eeriness of the near-deserted campus. I slipped soundlessly into the dimly lit choral room, and picked my sweater off the chair. I turned to leave only to become conscious of the fact that I wasn’t alone. A low murmuring of voices could be heard coming from the open door of Mr. Reid’s office. Mostly out of curiosity, I cautiously approached. There, framed by the door stood Mr. Reid and CiCi in the middle of a passionate kiss, oblivious to everything around them as hands feverishly groped and fondled.
I left quickly, but not soundlessly, letting the door to the choral room slam shut behind me. I scurried out to my car, tears stinging my eyes. In that instant, I knew there was nothing special about my relationship with Mr. Reid.
His life at the school had stretched out over a twenty-year period; we girls were just the girls of the moment; there had been years and years of girls. And even after what I had seen, I still wanted to believe that Mr. Reid was just a Peter Pan that didn’t want to grow up. I didn’t want to know that we girls were his victims. I didn’t want to know that it was wrong for him to take advantage of his power as a revered adult figure. I didn’t want to accept the notion that, as our teacher, he was responsible for keeping himself in check, and that though we might think ourselves willing, he was completely wrong to use his influence in such a self-serving manner.
Graduation night was the last time I saw CiCi. She never returned my phone calls, and though I have, over the years, tried to reach out to her at various times . . . after the death of her mother . . . and then after the death of her sister, silence has been her only response.
Copyright DJ Anderson, 2011
