Big Clark Who Taught Phys. Ed.
Taylor Thornburg (he/him) is an author and essayist based in Chicago, Illinois. His fiction explores strange yet humane ways of being. His other fiction can be found in the Garfield Lake Review, Thirteenth Floor Magazine, L'Esprit Literary Review, Valley Voices, Heartwood Literary Review, and elsewhere. You can find him on Instagram @midwesttaylor
Big Clark Who Taught Phys. Ed.
By Taylor Thornburg
Big Clark taught physical education until he turned sixty-seven. Then he had a heart attack in the high school gymnasium. Another teacher found him thrashing on the floor. He was grateful that none of his students had seen. Big Clark quietly retired when he got out of the hospital, fondly remembered by some and quickly forgotten by others.
He maintained a strict regimen after retirement. He awoke at five every morning and slipped into sweatpants and a sweatshirt. He jogged two or three miles and returned home by six. He showered and put on something comfortable – usually a t-shirt and overalls. Then he made breakfast. He ate light after the heart attack. After breakfast, Big Clark took a second cup of coffee to the living room where he drew the curtains and watched the sun rise. Sometimes he stood by the window. More often he sat in his recliner chair.
In the spring and summer, Big Clark donned an old pair of work boots and walked around the corner to the community garden. He kept a large plot with a variety of flowers. Never produce. Produce was too hearty. It was too certain to survive. Big Clark gardened for the thrill of it. Delicate flowers and the time and attention they required suited him better. Some years went better than others. Some flowers needed more and others less. He only ever yielded what he could.
Big Clark never said much in the garden. He never had to say much of anything. His flowers never talked back, and very few people visited when he visited. Martha, who lived on the other side of the block, was often his sole companion. Martha had been gardening for longer. She had been retired for longer. She had been widowed longer too.
Martha worked the plot next to Big Clark. They worked side-by-side for several years. Over time, she watched him get smaller. He tried to hide it under long sleeves and work gloves and wide-brimmed hats, but no matter what he did, he could never hide his wrists. When he reached for weeds or watered his flowers, Martha saw his wrists between the gloves and shirt sleeves. She watched them get thinner and thinner. She pretended not to notice.
They talked about baseball when they spoke at all. They talked about their favorite teams and the high school boys. Big Clark kept up to date on both and had strong opinions. He knowingly called them his “professional opinions,” and he never failed to tell Martha exactly how he would win the games his teams lost and win better when his teams won. Sometimes he winked and smiled at her much to Martha’s relief. She wondered about him. He said little else. Sometimes he said nothing. Sometimes he cried. Sometimes she held his hand. He still had his wife’s name on the garden plot. Sometimes he thought about taking it down even if he never would.
+++
Near the end of the gardening season, Martha invited Big Clark to coffee at the coffee shop in their neighborhood. He quietly agreed and got up off of his knees by the garden bed. They sat outside with full steaming mugs on the patio when they got there. Big Clark fiddled with his sleeves. Martha looked at him from across the table.
“Clark, I’m worried that you’re not doing well,” she said.
“Oh, me?” he removed his sun hat and fanned himself. “No, I’m fine, thank you. Really, I’m fine.”
“Okay,” she settled into her seat. “It’s just that you used to be Big Clark,” she said abruptly. “And now that’s just something people call you.”
“Every leaf has its season,” he continued fanning himself. Martha mumbled something under her breath. Big Clark leaned in to listen.
“I said, ‘if you say so,’” she said it louder. Big Clark nodded.
“Are you really so worried?” he asked her. She said that she was. Big Clark rocked his head back and forth like he was nudging an idea out from under his brain. “Martha, why don’t you come by sometime tonight? By my house? Come over after nine. I should be done by then. I’ll show you how I’m going to be alright.”
Martha asked what it was. Big Clark put a finger to his lips and shook his head. He refused to say anything aloud in public. Instead, he changed the subject. He spent the rest of the afternoon with her and their coffees complaining about their high school baseball team’s lousy coach.
That night, Martha dutifully left her house at nine. The weather turned when the sun set, so she bundled herself in a coat and scarf. She trudged the way to Big Clark’s house with her hands thrust deep inside her pockets. The clouds in the sky chopped through the moonlight so that it fell in uneven beams and shafts. Martha watched where she put her feet carefully. Along the way, she crossed the community garden. She stopped at Big Clark’s plot. The flowers around the periphery had been ruined. Someone stepped all over them. Something else seemed odd. There seemed to be nothing in the middle. It seemed like someone or something voided out most of the garden. As she peered into the dark, the clouds passed from over the moon, and she saw that someone dug a deep hole in the garden. She stepped up to it and looked and saw that it was seven or eight feet deep. The earth from the hole was piled high on either side of the plot.
Martha hurried to Big Clark’s house. When she reached the door, she knocked furiously. He opened the door a crack.
“Clark,” she gasped. “Your garden.”
“I know,” he said and opened the door wider. Martha stepped inside. As she unwound her scarf, she saw what was in the recliner chair and stopped. It was a massive root. She guessed it was between five and six feet long. It looked human with a head and arms and legs, but it was a wooden root.
“Clark,” Martha gasped. “What is this?”
“This is my wife,” he answered.
“Your wife?” she asked. She looked back and forth from the root to Clark.
“Yes, my wife,” he said. “I wanted you to see that I’m going to be okay after all. She’s still with me.”
“I don’t,” Martha sputtered. “What is this?”
“This,” Big Clark said resolutely, “is love.” He walked from the door to the chair, put his hands on the root where a person’s shoulders would be and massaged them. “I know this isn’t really my wife,” he continued.
“This is a conduit. For love. Love is like energy. It can neither be made nor unmade. It lingers, and it waits. When we love another person, that person connects us to what is waiting,” he waved one hand in the air. “I lost touch. This is how I get it back.”
“But Clark,” Martha softly interrupted.
“I’m not naïve,” he continued. He patted the root on its shoulders. “She’s going to wither and die too, but by that time, I will have grown another and another and another and so on. It’s an infinite connection.”
“And this is going to make you happy?” Martha asked.
“I think happiness is simple for what I have in mind,” he said. “But for lack of a better term, yes, I am going to be happy again. I’m going to be okay.”
“In that case, I’ve seen enough. I’m going to go home,” Martha said. Big Clark nodded. Martha reached for the door without looking. When she found the knob, she turned it, opened the door, and left. The night was as dark as it had ever been.
+++
Big Clark’s routines remained largely unchanged. He awoke every morning at five and put on his sweatshirt and sweat pants. He jogged two or three miles a day even in winter. He showered and wore comfortable clothes. He ate healthy meals, especially at breakfast. Then, he drew his curtains and watched the sun rise from his living room. He no longer sat and stared out of the window from his recliner chair. He sat on one end of his couch nearest to the recliner where the large root sat with its feet resting in a basin of water. Big Clark never spoke to or about the root that lived in his living room. It was just there, and it did what it needed to do.
In the spring, he returned to his garden. He still gardened early. When his neighbors saw him, they greeted him gladly. He looked healthy. He put on ten pounds over the winter, and he wore it well. Martha forfeited her plot. She saw less of Big Clark than she used to see. She walked to the park instead where she watched children play and lovers stretch towards each other on picnic blankets. She wondered to herself what she was stretching towards. Then she went home to make herself lunch and think about other things.