We Saw the Blood

He looked at us with surprise just before he let his head drop to swing in cadence with the teacher’s gate.

During the sixth grade, I attended classes in an old brick school building built in the 1920s. It was two stories tall yet somehow squat and square—a fine example of bureaucratic symmetry. Inside, the warren of classrooms were obviously utilitarian, built to be used and, likely, abused.

There was one place I liked in the old jailhouse of a building—the gym. And whenever it rained or snowed, that is where we would have recess.

On a blustery late winter day in early March, we ate lunch in our classrooms and then were corralled in the gym. The noise was deafening when my class walked through the door and down the steps. The shiny maple floor glowed warmly under the sodium bulbs dangling from large caged light fixtures screwed to the cracking ceiling. At one end of the gym was a stage. Dark blue curtains hung heavily on each side of the opening. Mats were laid down for students, usually the girls, who wanted to do cartwheels or back springs.

We spread like quicksilver to every corner. I walked toward some older boys dribbling a basketball near the stage. They looked like they were up to something, and I wanted in. Two of them climbed the steps to the stage and casually started doing forward rolls on the thin mats. No one said anything as we passed the basketball slowly around the circle.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“Watch,” one of the boys said while the others cut furtive glances at the stage.

For a few minutes, nothing happened. Warren and Daniel, the two boys rolling on the stage, talked to a few of the girls until it was their turn to tumble. We passed the basketball with a discouraging monotony.

Then, a scream ripped through the gleeful noise of playing children.

“Mr. Hammer! Mr. Hammer! Help,” Daniel cried.

The noisy recess quieted with a tense gasp. Mr. Hammer, a chubby and graying eighth-grade teacher, ran across the gym in a sprint. Driven by fear, he leaped onto the stage with the flowing stride and springing bounce of an Olympic hurdler.

Our teachers, beads of sweat glistening on their foreheads, gathered us for the walk back to our classrooms.

The quiet of the gym was broken only by questions whispered to classmates.

In seconds, Mr. Hammer stumbled from stage right with Warren’s limp body cradled in his arms. Blood covered Warren’s forehead, dripping down his face and onto the teacher’s white shirt.

As Mr. Hammer quickly moved up the steps toward the door, Warren’s face turned our way. He looked at us with surprise just before he let his head drop to swing in cadence with the teacher’s gate. He looked dead as he was whisked towards the office and possibly a waiting ambulance. Some small children started to cry.

I heard hushed sniffles as Daniel climbed down from the stage. Our teachers, beads of sweat glistening on their foreheads, gathered us for the walk back to our classrooms.

Though my teacher tried to begin class, she would look at Warren’s empty desk, tighten her brow, purse her lips, and pause to regain her shredded composure.

Curiously, a couple of the boys choked back giggles. I squinted at one. He caught my eye, looked for the teacher, and looked back at me. He mouthed something. He did it again. “Fake.”

The classroom door swung open wide with an abrupt snap. The principal, a slightly built woman hardened by years of adolescent turpitude, stood ramrod straight, peering into the hush. She said one word, “Daniel.” But she enunciated each short syllable. Her face was blanched, and her suppressed wrath was terrible.

There was silence in Heaven for about five seconds. Then, slowly, Daniel rose from his desk and walked purposefully to the yawning door and the stoic principal. She stepped back as he walked through the door and down the long hall to her office.

Our teacher, as curious as the rest of the class, told us to read a lengthy passage on Eli Whitney and his system of mass production. She then went to her desk and waited.

For 20 minutes, our eyes roamed the pages, the walls, and the expressions of our classmates. We were still. We were quiet. Those of us who had dribbled the basketball near the stage looked around with a growing concern.

When we heard the door squeak—a slow, deathly sound—we all turned with the speed of a cracking whip.

Warren and Daniel stood side by side. The principal stood behind them with a small but chiseled hand on each of their shoulders. Their eyes were red and swollen from crying. She directed them through the door and into the classroom. Both looked at the floor as they walked to their desks and gingerly sat down. The principal whispered to our teacher, and then the door closed.

The dark clouds lowered that afternoon. Rain ran down the windows, then dripped off the concrete sills and into the bushes below. Warren sat on my left and Daniel to my right. After an hour, their tears dried, and their faces faded to their pale, freckled complexions. Our teacher had unrolled a world map and energetically pointed out small countries engulfed by the Soviet Union. Between the sharp staccato taps of her pointer, I looked for openings to ask questions.

“Did you get paddled?” I asked. Warren nodded a somber yes. “Both of you?” He nodded again. I paused and considered Warren and David, hands flat on the principal’s desk, waiting for the painful crack and the hot flash that forced a rushed gasp of air into your fearful lungs. Then, I remembered Warren’s shocked eyes as Mr. Hammer carried him out of the gym. My mouth bent into an involuntary smirk.

I waited until the smirk faded.

“Was it worth it?” I whispered.

He slowly turned his head toward me. A grin filled his face. “Yes,” he said.

I slowly swung my head toward Daniel. He was smiling, too.