Free Totentanz by Al Sarrantonio

Margaret had made that clear on the first
day. There was snow outside, the first snowfall of November, a
white dusting that was already melting.
    Christmas was coming, and he could almost
smell it. But he had to go to the bathroom so bad that he raised
his hand anyway. He was squirming in his seat now. "No," he wanted
to say. "No, Sister. I promise I'm not going to the bathroom to
smoke. My father smoked and he's dead now. I'll never smoke
cigarettes. Please let me go to the bathroom!"
    But Sister Margaret had her face turned from
him. She was printing on the blackboard, her tall, straight back
moving up in down in rhythm with her arm. In chalk she wrote The
Capital of Bolivia is La Paz. She underlined La Paz. He thought she
would turn around then, but she didn't. He dared not cry out
because if he did, he would not be able to face his friends at
recess. He didn't know if he could face them any-way: although if
Sister Margaret turned around and saw his weak, waving hand, she
might let him go to the bathroom and then he would be a hero. He
would go to the bathroom and his friends would think he had gone
for a smoke and he wouldn't say he hadn't. He wouldn't say anything
at all, which couldn't be a sin because if they thought he had gone
for a smoke, it would be their business and not his.
    "Sister!" he finally
blurted out, and she turned around. She was in the middle of
writing The Capital of Brazil is . . . , and by the look on her face, he knew she
would not let him go to the bathroom. And then it was too late.
When she turned around and glared at him, his bladder emptied, and
as he sat there with the half-finished sentence of "Please may . .
." he felt a warm flush around his crotch and a spreading wet
warmth down around the inside of his thighs. He wanted to cry,
wanted to pull his hand back down and sit till the end of class,
till they were all gone, Sister Margaret and his friends and all
the girls to his right and left, and then he would clean up his
mess and make his way to the bathroom. But it was too late for
that. Sister Margaret saw the look on his face; then she saw the
darkness on his navy-blue pants and the small, wet pool by his
shoe, and she made an "Oh" sound with her lips. She said, "Barney,
I think you should go to the bathroom."
    And here he was, and he had done the same
thing. He was on the ground in the dark, and he wanted to say,
"Please, Sister, may I go to the bathroom?" but he knew that
whoever might be near him would not say, "Barney, I think you
should go to the bathroom," and then call the janitor to help
clean up his mess. He struggled to his feet. His sweat shirt was
off, and his pants, and he felt the cold of a chilled wind around
him. The bulbs above, clacking against their braided wire, were
gone. There was darkness around him, and he shivered.
    He stumbled ahead. A light—dim and sickly
yellow—came into focus. He made his way toward it. Something
crossed the light for a moment, moving over it like a cloud, and
then he saw it clearly again. The cloud moved across it once more,
and he realized it was smoke.
    “Barney Bates," a voice said. It sounded like
Sister Margaret's voice, but it couldn't be. Like hers, it was
smooth and sure but brooked no opposition. It could help or hurt
him. He almost said. "Yes. Sister?" and then realized he had
already said it as the voice broke into a low, even laugh.
    "You wanted to speak with me?" the voice
said.
    Barney was on the ground
again. How did I get here? He pushed his body up into a half-standing
position and tried to see who the voice belonged to. But he saw
only that weak amber light behind a grille and that momentary
passing of smoke.
    "Yes," he said.
    "Well?" Again that laugh,
hidden in an in-sucked breath that Barney realized was a pull on a
cigarette. Cigarettes killed my
father. He was shivering badly now. He
realized that he was only in his underwear and socks.
    "My house,” he managed to get out. You . . ."
and then suddenly he wet