Free Shame by Greg Garrett

losses, trudged back up the hill, down the other side and around the bank to my truck, and then I drove on into Watonga, although practice wouldn’t start for hours. On the way, a Harley passed me, bearing an old man in ostrich boots and a Levi jacket and a woman I presumed was his wife, who certainly was the largest old woman I’d ever seen on the back of a hog, wearing an electric blue jumpsuit. They looked like they were having a great time, off on some kind of adventure. I wondered where they were going, when they would get there, and if I would ever be bound someplace like Montana—someplace besides church, school, the pond.
    I couldn’t imagine what it would feel like. But I guessed it would make you feel like wearing electric blue.
    I pulled into the parking lot behind the gym as the sun went behind a cloud. When I got out of the truck there was a noticeable chill in the air, and I rolled down the sleeves of my denim shirt and buttoned them at the wrists. I thought I might wander by Michelle’s classroom to see if she could get away for lunch, so I crossed into the main building and down the long hallway, empty except for the echoes from my boots on the tile.
    Outside Michelle’s partially opened door I heard her voice and paused to listen. “This next poem is a prayer.” A communal groan followed. “Now, don’t lose your cool. You know I’m not here to preach to you. But this is beautiful and should make you think. And I’ll bet you can’t guess where it comes from.”
    â€œI’ll bet you’re right about that,” a girl muttered, and everyone laughed.
    I heard Michelle walk back to her desk, and without seeing her, I knew she was sliding up onto her desk, crossing her legs at the ankles, looking out at her kids, and preparing to declaim. “New Hymn,” she said, cleared her throat, and began to recite.
    Halfway through, when wild men were clawing at the gates for bread, a male voice said, “That’s dark, man. It don’t sound like no prayer I ever heard.”
    â€œHush up, Tyrone,” said a female voice, not Michelle, and then Michelle said, “Give it a chance. There’s more,” and she went on, ending with an invocation to whatever Presence and Maker there might be to be here—now.
    There was a hush as she finished. I felt the moment too, and there was some kind of wetness in the corner of my eye through the last eight lines; the woman could recite a poem, and this was a fine one.
    She let the silence last as long as it would, and then when some rustling and shuffling began to surface, she asked, “Anybody want to guess who wrote this?”
    â€œU2?”
    â€œAmy Grant?” asked a sweet voice.
    That suggestion was hooted down.
    â€œReynolds Price,” I said quietly into the silence. But it was loud enough to be heard inside, if just barely, and then there was the sound of footfalls proceeding purposefully toward the doorway, the sight of Michelle’s smiling face, and the tug of her hand urging me to follow her back into the classroom.
    â€œThe ultimate result of a life lived in close proximity to poetry,” she said, presenting me to her class. “This, ladies and gentlemen, is an educated man.”
    â€œOne of my many skills,” I said, while inside, I winced. Uneducated, you mean . “How is everybody?”
    A chorus of replies drifted back, ranging from “Okay” to “Cool” to “Hey, Coach!”
    I looked around, saw some kids I knew. “I thought maybe I could drag your teacher off to lunch. When is lunch, anyway?”
    â€œNow,” Michelle said, looking at the clock with a rueful expression. She turned back to the class. “I wanted to talk about the song. Tell you what: I’ll play the James Taylor recording for you tomorrow and we’ll get back into it that way. Okay?”
    If there was acquiescence, it was granted en masse and