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雨里去小宇家家访
雨是从放学路上开始下的。我撑开伞，沿着河边的步道往小宇家走。伞面被风掀得咯吱响，雨顺伞骨淌成一条线，裤脚很快就湿了。路灯把雨丝照成银色，积水里全是碎掉的光。
我其实犹豫过要不要改天。可这个星期小宇在课堂上三次把作业本推给同桌，说不会。他从前不是这样的。我还是来了。
敲门，门里先传来脚步声，然后是问话：谁呀。门开了，小宇妈妈拿着锅铲，围裙上溅着油星，愣了一下才反应过来，连忙说老师您快进，地上滑。玄关摆着几双湿鞋，她把唯一的干拖鞋往我脚边推，自己穿着湿袜子站在地上。
屋里很小，灶上还炖着什么，咕嘟咕嘟。小宇躲在房间里，被喊出来，眼睛红红的。他妈妈坐下，两只手在围裙上擦了又擦，才敢接我递过去的作业本。
谈起孩子，她的神情一点点变了。先是愁，说厂里这个月加班多，晚上回来晚，孩子的作业她看不懂，只能问一句写完了没有。说着说着，她把本子翻到一页，指着上面一幅小画：一只大鸟叼着一条鱼，底下歪歪扭扭写着爸爸辛苦了。她说小宇昨天把这张画塞到她枕头底下，她洗衣服时才发现，说着眼圈就红了，可嘴角是翘的，说这孩子嘴硬，心里有他爸爸。
小宇在旁边喊，妈你别说了。他妈妈不理他，转头问我，老师，他是不是在学校遇到什么事了。我说，他这几天上课总走神，我想知道家里是不是有什么变化。她沉默了一会儿，说孩子他爸上个月去外地工地了，走的那天早上，小宇装作睡觉，其实一直没睡着，她看见他睫毛在动。
我忽然明白那三次推本子是什么意思。不是不会，是想让人再看他一眼。
告辞时雨小了。小宇妈妈撑伞送我到巷口，伞非要往我这边斜。小宇站在门框边挥手，学着大人的样子说，老师路上慢点。我走回河边步道，伞面上的雨点稀稀拉拉。我想，明天上课，我要请小宇帮我把课文图画部分画个板书插图，他画得那么好，该让人看见。
A Home Visit to Xiao Yu's House in the Rain
The rain started on my way home from school. I opened my umbrella and walked along the riverside path toward Xiao Yu's place. The wind flipped the canopy with a creak, water ran off the ribs in a thin stream, and my trouser cuffs were wet within minutes. The streetlamps lit the rain into silver threads, and the puddles were full of broken light.
I had thought about coming another day. But this week Xiao Yu had pushed his exercise book to his deskmate three times in class, saying he could not do it. He had never been like that before. So I came.
I knocked. Footsteps came first, then a voice: who is it. The door opened, and Xiao Yu's mother stood there with a spatula in her hand, oil specks on her apron. She froze for a second, then said, teacher, come in quickly, the floor is slippery. A pair of wet shoes sat in the entryway; she pushed the only dry slippers toward my feet and stood on the tiles in wet socks herself.
The flat was small, and something was stewing on the stove, bubbling away. Xiao Yu hid in his room until he was called out, his eyes red. His mother sat down and wiped her hands on her apron again and again before she dared take the exercise book I held out.
As we talked about her son, her face changed little by little. First worry: the factory had been making everyone work late this month, she said, she got home late, could not understand his homework, and could only ask one question, whether it was finished. Then she turned to a page and pointed at a small drawing: a big bird carrying a fish, with wobbly characters underneath reading, Papa, you have worked hard. She said Xiao Yu had slipped this drawing under her pillow yesterday, and she found it while doing laundry. Her eyes reddened as she said it, but the corners of her mouth turned up: this boy is tough-mouthed, she said, but he carries his father in his heart.
Xiao Yu shouted from the side, Mom, stop talking. She ignored him and turned to me: teacher, is something wrong at school? I told her he had been absent-minded in class these days and I wanted to know if anything had changed at home. She was quiet for a moment, then said his father had left for a construction site in another province last month. That morning the boy had pretended to be asleep, but she had seen his eyelashes moving; he had not been asleep at all.
I understood at once what those three pushed-aside books meant. Not cannot do it, but please look at me once more.
When I left, the rain had softened. His mother walked me to the end of the lane with an umbrella tilted my way. Xiao Yu stood by the doorframe waving, imitating grown-ups: teacher, take care on the road. I walked back along the riverside path under a thin patter. Tomorrow, I decided, I would ask Xiao Yu to draw the board illustration for our text. He draws so well; someone should see it.
那晚的雨把门淋湿了
雨下得不小。我正在厨房翻锅，听见巷子里有脚步声，接着是敲门声。去开门，先看见一把黑伞，伞沿滴着水，再往上看，是女儿的班主任，李老师。她裤脚湿到小腿，头发贴在额头上，伞面上还汪着一层水。
我愣在门口，锅铲还拿着。我说老师您怎么这时候来，快进快进。她把伞收在门外，甩了甩水才进来，鞋在垫子上蹭了三遍。我家客厅小，沙发角上堆着没叠的衣服，我手忙脚乱往里挪，把唯一一把椅子擦了两遍才请她坐。她说不忙，站着说几句就好。我没敢让她站着，又把椅子往她跟前推了推。
她是从学校直接来的，书包还背着，拉链上挂着个旧钥匙扣。她掏出一沓卷子，最上面那张是女儿的，分数旁边她用红笔写了个小问号。我一看那个问号，手心里就出汗。我以为她要谈成绩，正要开口解释孩子最近晚上学到很晚。
她先问的却是别的。她说女儿这几天交作业的时候总把手藏在背后，问是不是家里有什么事。我这才想起来，上个月她爸住院，我白天上班晚上陪床，家里确实乱了阵脚。女儿那阵子每天自己热饭，自己上学，一声没吭。我说这些的时候声音有点哑，她听着，没插话，等我说完才点头。
然后她把卷子往前推了推，说女儿其实没退步，错的那几道是粗心的老毛病，可孩子这几天上课反而更认真了，笔记记得比从前工整。她说，这样的孩子，家里再难，也别让她觉得自己是负担。我坐在那把椅子上，手里还攥着锅铲，眼泪差点掉下来。我这个人嘴笨，当着老师的面不好哭，就起身去厨房把那锅汤端出来，说老师你吃点东西，雨这么大。她摆摆手，我又说，雨这么大。她最后喝了一小碗。
她走的时候雨小了。我撑伞送她，非要把伞举高些，她一路把伞往我这边推。巷口的路灯下她回头说，下周家长会见。我站在雨里看她的背影走远，伞面一高一低。
回屋，女儿从房间出来，说她看见李老师了，问老师是不是告状了。我说，没有。老师说你比从前认真。女儿哦了一声，转身回屋，走到门口又回头，问我爸什么时候出院。我说快了。她点点头，那晚她十一点就睡了，门缝里的灯熄得比哪天都早。
That Night's Rain Soaked the Door
The rain was heavy. I was in the kitchen turning the pan when I heard footsteps in the lane, then a knock. I opened the door onto a black umbrella dripping at its rim, and above it stood my daughter's homeroom teacher, Ms. Li. Her trouser cuffs were soaked to the calf, her hair clung to her forehead, and a sheet of water lay on the umbrella.
I stood there frozen, spatula still in hand. Teacher, why come at this hour, I said, come in. She closed the umbrella and shook off the water outside before stepping in, wiping her shoes on the mat three times. Our living room is small, with unfolded laundry piled on the sofa corner; I scrambled to clear a space and wiped the only chair twice before asking her to sit. She said she would just stand and say a few words. I would not let her stand, and pushed the chair closer.
She had come straight from school, schoolbag still on, an old keychain hanging from the zipper. She took out a stack of test papers, and on top was my daughter's, with a small red question mark beside the score. Seeing that mark, my palms went damp. I thought she had come about grades, and I was about to explain that the girl had been studying late every night.
But she asked about something else first. She said my daughter had been hiding her hands behind her back when turning in homework these past days, and asked whether something was happening at home. Only then did I remember: my husband had been hospitalized last month. I worked by day and sat by his bed by night, and our household had come unglued. The girl had been reheating her own meals and walking to school alone, without a word. My voice went hoarse as I said this. Ms. Li listened without interrupting, and nodded only when I finished.
Then she slid the paper forward. Your daughter has not slipped back, she said. The few wrong answers are the old carelessness, but in class she has actually been more serious lately, her notes neater than before. A child like this, she said, however hard things are at home, must not be made to feel like a burden. I sat in that chair, spatula still in my fist, and nearly cried. I am not good with words and did not want to cry in front of a teacher, so I got up and brought the soup out of the kitchen, saying, teacher, eat something, the rain is so heavy. She waved it off. I said again, the rain is so heavy. In the end she drank a small bowl.
When she left, the rain had eased. I walked her out under my umbrella, holding it high, and all the way she pushed it back toward me. Under the streetlamp at the lane's mouth she turned and said, see you at next week's parents' meeting. I stood in the rain watching her figure recede, the umbrella tilting now one way, now the other.
Back inside, my daughter came out of her room and asked if Ms. Li had come to complain. I said no. The teacher said you are more serious than before. The girl said oh, turned to go, and at the door looked back to ask when her father would leave the hospital. Soon, I said. She nodded. That night she was asleep by eleven, and the light through her door crack went out earlier than any night before.
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