Caleb J. Ross
Norman Rockwell Nostalgia
In lieu of recess, tiny Brian sits alone with Mrs. Bellin in a classroom outfitted for nurtured optimism. Nowhere, office cubicle grey. Nowhere, the latex smell of nursing home corridors. Nowhere, prison steel sweat. Everywhere, colors, vivid unnaturals. This childhood dreamland frames perfect Mrs. Bellin at the front of her classroom, overlooking her delinquent tiny Brian as better children play outside. Behind Mrs. Bellin, a Norman Rockwell print of a boy, his father, and a bandaged knee. “Where is that?” tiny Brian asks.
“That’s just a picture, Brian.” Mrs. Bellin claimed a headache this morning, would rather sit quietly with tiny delinquents than govern children outdoors. She’s had headaches a lot lately, ever since the car lot closed, giving her husband rec time at home.
“But where is it. Where do they live?”
Honesty breeches Mrs. Bellin’s tempered exterior. “Nowhere, Brian. It’s good that you learn this now. That scene,” she cranes toward the painting above her, bruised flesh revealed at her clavicle, “never happened.”
Tiny Brian approaches his teacher, his own bruised clavicle forcing a wince at every step. Mrs. Bellin takes note. “If that were a picture of you and me,” he tells her, “it probably wouldn’t sell very well, huh?”
“Nobody would buy it, Brian.”