Byrne 1982
Overtly Lit/June 2023
The Blessed Mother statue in front of our school received a blow when I was in seventh grade. Her head, knocked to the ground, was left sitting in a puddle of rubble. Principal Parisi sent a letter home, decrying the horror of the act and the broken-hearted feelings of the old priests at the rectory, but no one did anything. Every day, I observed from my classroom window Mary’s chipped head abandoned on the ground, her eyes staring off into the garden.
***
Our math teacher, Miss Byrne (we reduced her name to just Byrne) was awful, or so we thought. I once heard Mr. Cope, the religion teacher, saying as much to another teacher on the playground. He said, “Theresa is awful.” Mr. Cope, a layman, not a priest, led the folk group with his guitar and taught us fun songs - The Lord said to Noah, we’re gonna build an arky arky…- and about the birds and the bees. Mr. Cope, a gentle soul, a free spirit, was not awful. His opinion seemed valid.
Why was Byrne so awful? Something just seemed missing -half there- with her. Even when she forced herself to be nice, we kind of got the feeling that she wished she were somewhere else. She inhaled deeply when we didn’t understand something. She slammed the text book with her hand right before forcing a fake sweet voice through clenched teeth, “OK, let’s do some quiet desk work.” On top of all of that, her explosive anger over miniscule occurrences was legendary. If we, say, didn’t return her scissors, her tiny coral-colored lipsticked mouth, the mouth with the wrinkles all around the outside like Gran’s, would expand in epic proportions and she’d just let it rip. Byrne could blow up into a terrifying teacher blob monster very quickly.
***
I already mentioned the Mary statue, the one that got vandalized. Before that, she was so beautiful, her white head crowned with stars, her dainty feet stamping out a snake. The whole school used to gather around her for the May crowning, a common event at Catholic schools and churches, where a junior May Queen places a floral wreath on the head of a Mary statue. I loved those years when we stood and sang out in the sunlight commemorating spring and the Blessed Mother. Mr. Cope strummed his guitar as we shouted out the lyrics to Immaculate Mary and Hail Holy Queen.
By the time I got to seventh grade, the school’s neighborhood - the place my father grew up - had deteriorated. Industry had been replaced by drugs and poverty. Lewd drawings and swear words sprayed on the side of our building caused us to poke each other in the side, smile and look down, perhaps giggle a little in embarrassment.
***
One day, I stood on the playground waiting for my bus when I saw Byrne walking to her car. A light rain sprinkled down. A plastic hat covered her greying hair and her khaki raincoat hung wrinkled and limp on her boney frame. She held her leather briefcase in one hand as she limped and slouched through the parking lot. I watched as she fumbled with her keys and opened the door of a dented Chevrolet Caprice Classic, surprising myself with a slap of pity. Where did Byrne live? I never thought of the details of her life before.
From that point, I began to look for Byrne at the end of each day as she slumped out to her car. Eventually, I caught her back walking in a different direction, carrying stuff. I kept my distance, following her slow tracks as she made the way around the school to the front garden.
I hid behind a brick protrusion, watching her put down her things and place her hands on her hips. She stared at the broken Mary statue, contemplating it, her eyes squinting up. She crouched and pulled weeds, moving on her hands and knees right and left, her head low and focused on her work. She swept up some of the crumbly stones around the statue, struggled to lift Mary’s head, moving it to a place behind the statue, hiding it from view.
She continued working, removing her rumply jacket, her knees stained with dirt. I noticed she shed her sensible, low-heeled pumps and wore a pair of discolored Keds. When she glanced up again at the statue, I thought I saw something different on her face, not quite a smile, something else. I never saw Byrne look happy before. I smiled, too.
