Free Elena by Thomas H. Cook

as Elena wrote to Martha Farrell not long before she died, “is the coda.”
    And so I gave this poem to Martha after she first posed the inevitable question. We were sitting in the house on the Cape. To the right we could see the first buds in the flower garden Elena and Jason had planted together many years before. Martha was having a cooler, something made of white wine and seltzer. She was dressed in summery yellow pants and a white blouse, but her mood was deadly earnest.
    â€œI’m after that first spark of creativity,” she said, “that very first spark. Was she two or five or twelve? When?”
    â€œYou mean when did she actually produce something?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œShe was ten.”
    â€œAnd what was it?”
    â€œA poem.”
    â€œA poem. Really? Go on.”
    Elena was ten, and when I first read that strange poem about a threatening wood, I could not imagine that its author was my sister. She had handed it in to Mrs. Nichols, her fifth-grade teacher, and something in it so alarmed her that she came to visit my mother.
    I answered the door. Mrs. Nichols was wearing a dark blue dress which reached to her ankles. There was a thin line of white piping at the hem and collar, but otherwise the dress was quite plain. I remember how homely Mrs. Nichols appeared to me, even at this time in my life, when the humblest female form was beginning to inspire more than a little interest on my part.
    â€œI’m Mrs. Robert Nichols,” she said, “Elena’s teacher. You’re William, aren’t you?” She was speaking very rapidly. “I wonder if I might speak with your mother.”
    â€œSure,” I said. “Come in.”
    I walked into the kitchen and brought my mother out into the living room. She was wearing a loose-fitting house dress, and I remember feeling somewhat ashamed of her appearance.
    â€œThis is Mrs. Nichols,” I told my mother.
    She said nothing; nor did she offer her hand. It had been perhaps a year since anyone had been to our house.
    Mrs. Nichols cleared her throat. “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Franklin,” she said.
    â€œPleased, too,” my mother said, almost in a whisper.
    â€œShe’s Elena’s teacher,” I explained.
    Mother glanced about the room. “Where is she? Where’s Elena? Is she lost?”
    â€œMrs. Nichols just wants to talk to you,” I said.
    â€œThat’s right,” Mrs. Nichols said quickly. I could tell by the apprehensive expression on her face that she already understood that poor Mrs. Franklin was one of nature’s oddities.
    â€œWhy don’t you ask Mrs. Nichols to sit down,” I told my mother in a gentle coaxing voice.
    She responded by doing nothing at all. She simply continued to stare mutely at Mrs. Nichols. It had been so long since she had received a guest that she had no idea what to do with one.
    â€œSit down, Mrs. Nichols,” I said. I pointed to a chair. “Over there.”
    â€œYou sit there, Mother,” I said, again pointing to a chair.
    Both women took their seats.
    â€œMrs. Nichols came to talk to you about Elena,” I reminded my mother.
    â€œYes,” Mrs. Nichols said, “I did. It’s about a poem Elena wrote for a class assignment.” She pulled a piece of lined white paper from her purse and handed it to my mother. “This is the poem.”
    My mother took the paper from Mrs. Nichols and read it, her lips moving as she did so, a crude, ignorant gesture which Mrs. Nichols did not miss.
    When my mother had finished, she handed the poem back. “That’s nice,” she said happily.
    â€œNice?” Mrs. Nichols asked, astonished.
    â€œIt rhymes,” my mother explained. “It all rhymes.”
    Mrs. Nichols leaned forward, raising the pitch of her voice a bit, as if talking to a small child. “Mrs. Franklin, this poem disturbs me.”
    My mother stared at her dumbly.
    Mrs. Nichols