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Authors: Camille Minichino
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would be playing at the North Shore games on Thanksgiving.)
I felt uncomfortable putting MC through yet another interview, but she seemed willing enough to talk. Once or twice I had the feeling MC didn’t want to remind her mother how close she was to a “situation,” as Matt might call it. Neither did I.
The rain continued falling at a slow rate as the streetlights came on. Up and down Prospect Avenue, all the cars looked highly polished, every leaf glistened, shiny patterns played on fences and on the Galiganis’ special rosebushes. Tiny lamps sat on small tables in the back corners of the porch, creating an intimate setting that would be impossible to read in. “It’s for atmosphere,” Rose had said often. “You’re supposed to be musing, not reading.”
Rose adjusted the lamp shades as she made her way to the kitchen, where she’d prepare dinner for ten, though she was expecting only five. Matt and I would join MC and her parents. Like my own mother, Rose claimed you never knew who might drop in, and God forbid there wasn’t enough food.
MC moved to the chair her mother had used, and pulled her legs
up under her—a position my always-chubby body would have had trouble with even in kindergarten.
Alone at last. But start slowly , I told myself.
“How did you like teaching?” I asked MC.
“I liked it enough to want to do more, but maybe something more advanced. These students were all …”
“Poets,” I said, and she laughed. “I taught a class called ‘Physics for Poets’ for several years. It’s frustrating, because you know most of the students don’t want to be there.”
She nodded. “On the other hand, there’s this great opportunity to change someone’s view of science. So you try to make it fun.”
“Did you do the banana trick?” I asked.
MC rolled back in laughter. “How did you know?”
Together we mimicked immersing a banana into a vessel of liquid nitrogen, pulling it out, stiff as a board, then cracking it in half by slamming in onto a desk or chair in the classroom.
“I used a hammer,” MC said, seeming embarrassed that she’d succumbed to the gimmick.
I’d always wondered if students learned anything from the tricks science teachers came up with to make the subject seem more fun than the amusements that used to line Revere Beach Boulevard. If nothing else, I figured, it showed we had a playful side.
Sharing science teaching anecdotes with MC was fun, but I needed to talk about the recently deceased Nina Martin.
“Had you been in touch with Nina at all since you came back to Revere?” I asked.
She shrugged, apparently not surprised that I’d changed the topic. “Just an email or two. I glanced at them when I went through the list the other night for the first time, but I haven’t read hers closely. They seemed to be about her Incomplete , and could wait. I have till the end of the year to post the grades.” She threw her hands up. “Not that she’ll be getting a grade.” MC paused to catch her breath. “I’m sure I would have noticed, Hey, Ms. Galigani, I’m coming up to Revere to visit .”
“Well, Nina obviously had some intention of contacting you,
MC, or she wouldn’t have been carrying the Galigani card. Do you even remember giving it to her?”
She nodded. “Vaguely. She said something about keeping a file on all her teachers, for potential casework when she was in law school, and she’d like to be able to contact me after I left Houston.” MC banged her fists together. I saw sadness mixed with frustration. “She sure fooled everyone.”
Except for her killer, I thought.
“Have you had a chance to look at all your emails, MC?” My way of asking if she had any clue what Wayne Gallen had been warning her about, and whether Nina’s murder might be connected to it.
MC nodded. “I went through them all. I didn’t find anything in Alex Simpson’s emails that would explain what Wayne was talking about, if that’s what you
I felt uncomfortable putting MC through yet another interview, but she seemed willing enough to talk. Once or twice I had the feeling MC didn’t want to remind her mother how close she was to a “situation,” as Matt might call it. Neither did I.
The rain continued falling at a slow rate as the streetlights came on. Up and down Prospect Avenue, all the cars looked highly polished, every leaf glistened, shiny patterns played on fences and on the Galiganis’ special rosebushes. Tiny lamps sat on small tables in the back corners of the porch, creating an intimate setting that would be impossible to read in. “It’s for atmosphere,” Rose had said often. “You’re supposed to be musing, not reading.”
Rose adjusted the lamp shades as she made her way to the kitchen, where she’d prepare dinner for ten, though she was expecting only five. Matt and I would join MC and her parents. Like my own mother, Rose claimed you never knew who might drop in, and God forbid there wasn’t enough food.
MC moved to the chair her mother had used, and pulled her legs
up under her—a position my always-chubby body would have had trouble with even in kindergarten.
Alone at last. But start slowly , I told myself.
“How did you like teaching?” I asked MC.
“I liked it enough to want to do more, but maybe something more advanced. These students were all …”
“Poets,” I said, and she laughed. “I taught a class called ‘Physics for Poets’ for several years. It’s frustrating, because you know most of the students don’t want to be there.”
She nodded. “On the other hand, there’s this great opportunity to change someone’s view of science. So you try to make it fun.”
“Did you do the banana trick?” I asked.
MC rolled back in laughter. “How did you know?”
Together we mimicked immersing a banana into a vessel of liquid nitrogen, pulling it out, stiff as a board, then cracking it in half by slamming in onto a desk or chair in the classroom.
“I used a hammer,” MC said, seeming embarrassed that she’d succumbed to the gimmick.
I’d always wondered if students learned anything from the tricks science teachers came up with to make the subject seem more fun than the amusements that used to line Revere Beach Boulevard. If nothing else, I figured, it showed we had a playful side.
Sharing science teaching anecdotes with MC was fun, but I needed to talk about the recently deceased Nina Martin.
“Had you been in touch with Nina at all since you came back to Revere?” I asked.
She shrugged, apparently not surprised that I’d changed the topic. “Just an email or two. I glanced at them when I went through the list the other night for the first time, but I haven’t read hers closely. They seemed to be about her Incomplete , and could wait. I have till the end of the year to post the grades.” She threw her hands up. “Not that she’ll be getting a grade.” MC paused to catch her breath. “I’m sure I would have noticed, Hey, Ms. Galigani, I’m coming up to Revere to visit .”
“Well, Nina obviously had some intention of contacting you,
MC, or she wouldn’t have been carrying the Galigani card. Do you even remember giving it to her?”
She nodded. “Vaguely. She said something about keeping a file on all her teachers, for potential casework when she was in law school, and she’d like to be able to contact me after I left Houston.” MC banged her fists together. I saw sadness mixed with frustration. “She sure fooled everyone.”
Except for her killer, I thought.
“Have you had a chance to look at all your emails, MC?” My way of asking if she had any clue what Wayne Gallen had been warning her about, and whether Nina’s murder might be connected to it.
MC nodded. “I went through them all. I didn’t find anything in Alex Simpson’s emails that would explain what Wayne was talking about, if that’s what you
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