The Morning Of

by S. B. Cody

  And then there was when Kristin announced that she planned on becoming a teacher. Kristin had called her one evening, practically shouting. She had started volunteering at an after-school program where she tutored kids. She went on and on about this kid who came in every day in tears because he didn’t understand anything and felt convinced that he would fail every class. Every day she’d take him through his work and then one day he ran in waving a paper in his hand. He’d gotten his report card back and what had been straight F’s at the start of the year had become all A’s and B’s. The sight of this made her weep. In that moment she knew that she wanted to be a teacher. That she needed to be a teacher. She wanted to make this moment possible for all kinds of kids. But now… now if Diane couldn’t see Kristin’s chest rise and fall she might very well had assumed her daughter had died. Because there certainly didn’t seem to be any life behind those eyes.

  Diane watched as her daughter threw on a baggy hoodie and hid her face away. From there she stomped out to the car and slipped into the passenger seat. The two of them drove off. Diane had attempted to put on the radio, but Kristin turned it right off, apparently content to listen to the voices in her head.

  When they got to the mall, Kristin followed Diane around, always a few paces behind. Every time Diane asked where she wanted to go, the only response she got was, “Home.”

  The two walked around for all of about fifteen minutes when the staring began. Just because no reporter had gotten the much coveted interview with Kristin didn’t mean that they didn’t print the story. It didn’t take long for Kristin’s face to become instantly recognizable around town. So now all looked upon her as though Scarlett Johansson had graced them with her presence. And while it began with simple stares, the whispering soon followed. People would lean over to their companions and relay a message about this local celebrity, all the time never letting their gaze leave Kristin.

  With every turned head and hushed conversation, Kristin fidgeted more and more as though a cascade of bugs had crawled on her. And then she noticed a stare not from some random person, but from a woman whose hair hung down in greasy clumps from having not been washed in days. Her outfit consisted entirely of stained sweats. A look of confusion soon transformed into one of absolute hatred. Her name was Ms. Perry. Kristin recognized her from the Back to School night at the start of the year. She was the mother of Kevin Perry, who had last been seen having his brains splattered on the wall outside of Kristin’s room. Kristin had led this woman’s son to his death, and now it appeared as though his mother would soon be knocking at the same door. Kristin sank into Ms. Perry’s eyes, the blue of them washing over her like an ocean. An ocean that threatened to drown her. And Kristin was inclined to let it. It hadn’t just been those two kids who had died, but so many more. A line of bodies piled up, and it all led right back to her. She wished she’d never stepped foot into that school, into their lives.

  Ms. Perry’s mouth began to drop open, looking as though a scream would soon emit. Kristin didn’t wait for this. She just took off at a run and headed back to the car. Diane struggled to keep up, but once she did they headed home. Once there, Kristin retreated back to her sanctuary.

  The third time that Kristin emerged was three days after that. Those days had been filled with the ceaseless ringing of the phone with reporters once again begging for the opportunity to speak. They even offered money now. Diane wouldn’t even entertain them, hanging up immediately.

  One evening, Diane awoke to the sound of a soft beating against her door. She headed downstairs and peeked her head outside. Running down the door and the sides of the house was egg yolk mixed in with bits of shell. She threw open the door to scream at whoever had done this but they had vanished into the night. She knew that she should call the cops, but bringing more people around the house wouldn’t be good for Kristin. So, instead, she cleaned up in secret and didn’t say a word about it to anyone.

  The next day, Diane sorted through the mail and found a letter addressed to Kristin. She walked over to her room and knocked on the door.

  “Kristin, honey. You have a letter out here,” she called.

  “Just slip it under the door,” Kristin yelled back.

  Diane reached down to do so, but then she froze and stood back up. She couldn’t encourage Kristin’s self-imposed exile like this. “No, honey. You need to come out and get it.”

  “Seriously? Just put it under the fucking door!”

  A single tear leaked from Diane’s eye. Her daughter had never cursed at her before. “No! You come out here and get your damn letter!”

  The door swung open and Kristin stormed out, yanking the letter from her mother’s hand. She ripped it open, unfolded the letter inside and read. As she read, her face turned into something ghastly. It almost seemed as though a gun had been stuck right against her forehead. Her mouth began to open and close as she attempted to catch her breath. Finally, she took in huge gulps as though she’d just surfaced from being stuck underwater. Kristin crumpled the paper in her hand and took off back into her room. The door slammed and this time even locked behind her. She had now barricaded herself inside leaving Diane feeling more helpless than ever.

  The fourth time would come a little further down the road.

  Fear may be the strongest emotion of all. It has the power to drive the best of friends apart. Fear has been the underlying cause for many of the terrible acts that have been done throughout history. It can force people to do irrational things; things that hitherto would have been unthinkable.

  One thing that could be said about Stanford at this point in time, is that it was a town gripped by fear. Since the shooting of Noah Spaulding and the protests, things had become tense. The shooting at West had only added to this. The idea that people that walked their streets could have gunned down so many, made them feel vulnerable. It could be someone that passed them in the supermarket, at the movies. All of it was a vice squeezing tighter and tighter around their skulls. At times of tragedy, people need someone to blame in order to feel safe, and if someone has not been made available to blame, they will find someone.

  Most people in the town couldn’t have indicated any evidence that existed to implicate the SSPA in the shooting, but they had seen the headlines. And that was enough to light the match, igniting the fear that had spread through them like methane.

  Eight days had passed since the shooting when Toby Henlon walked the streets of downtown at midnight, a backpack slung over his shoulder. Ever since he saw that sickening display of a protest, he dreamed of ways he could make his voice heard. Then with the shooting happening that very same day, he knew in his heart that all those black sons of bitches were to blame. But still they stood, protected, because these days everyone was too afraid to offend. Well he wasn’t. He would do what needed to be done. So he stuffed his backpack with a can of spray paint, a can of lighter fluid, and some matches.

  He stalked through the streets, making his way towards the SSPA headquarters and leaving a trail of beer cans in his wake. He didn’t waste any time once he got there, knowing that the second someone came along he would be done for. Out came the can of spray paint and he went to work. Right on the door that led into the SSPA’s basement headquarters, in dripping red paint, Toby wrote the message, “Fuck You Niggers!” With that done, he dropped the spray paint and pulled out the lighter fluid and matches. Toby drew two intersecting lines on the sidewalk, lit a match, and threw it down. A flaming cross erupted, throwing light onto Toby and his message. He admired his work for a moment before heading off for home.

  PART III

  A Town on the Edge

  22

  The shooting of Noah Spaulding had brought a number of national reporters to Stanford. After the shooting, even more made the pilgrimage. After more than a week went by without much in the way of developments, most started to leave. Any articles about Stanford had started getting pushed back a couple pages in the paper. The TV reports started appearing in the second half
of any program if at all, so it no longer required the man on the ground. However, they were soon given a reason to stay.

  One such reporter was Heather Morrison with CNN. Thursday morning, she stood outside the SSPA headquarters with a microphone in hand and a camera in her face.

  “This is Heather Morrison with CNN. We are here, live, outside of the headquarters for the Stanford Society for Police Accountability here in Stanford, Missouri. This place appears to have been the subject of a hate crime. Last night, an unidentified man came here to spray paint a racist message on the door. In addition, a cross was made with lighter fluid on the sidewalk and lit ablaze. Over here, we have Mr. Thomas Conway who lives across the street and was the first to report the incident.” Heather headed over to an older man who stood up straight and kept trying out a different smile on his face.

  “Mr. Conway, will you please tell us what you saw?” Heather asked as she placed the microphone near him.

  “Well, I had just gotten up in the night to get a glass of water,” Thomas said, his eyes darting all over the place attempting to find a place to fix them. “I saw someone out front of the… the…” Thomas pointed behind him, trying to make sure his hand went in the right direction. “I saw him drawing something on the door and then messing around on the sidewalk. Then all of a sudden, this cross just went up in flames right over there.” Thomas turned to show off the area he spoke of. Then he realized he should still face the camera and turned back around. “It, it was so scary. Then I ran and called the cops.”

  “And did you get a good look at the vandal?”

  “No, it was really dark, so I couldn’t see much.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Conway.” Thomas stepped away as Heather took center stage again. “This town has been rocked with controversy as of late. First there was the shooting of fifteen-year-old Noah Spaulding which sparked nationwide protests as part of the Black Lives Matter movement. This was then followed by what has been called the Stanford Massacre when twenty-eight people lost their lives in a school shooting, which has yet to be solved. Many have wondered if the SSPA could have been connected with the shooting due to some controversial remarks that SSPA head, Denise Liman, made at a protest being held at the time of the shooting. We’re here with Ms. Liman now. Ms. Liman, how do you respond to this vandalism?”

  Liman stared down the camera like it was the barrel of a gun. She struggled to keep a dignified face on, but the fire behind her eyes could not be masked. “This isn’t just a case of vandalism,” she said. “This was a hate crime. And it appears to be indicative of the kind of attitude towards people of color that pervades every inch of this town. It is that same kind of attitude that led to Noah’s death.”

  “Now, Ms. Liman. Your name has been mentioned in relation to the Stanford Massacre due to some comments that you have made. Did you or any member of the SSPA play any part in the shooting?”

  “Absolutely not. I’m offended by the assumption.”

  “There have been reports that the police have looked into your organization as part of their investigation. Is this true?”

  “They will investigate anyone and everyone. I can tell you that they won’t find a thing. I can only hope they show the same determination in finding the bigot who has disgraced our property.”

  “Thank you very much for your time, Ms. Liman.” Heather took her place center lens of the camera again. “Time will tell what effect this will play on the cultural climate of Stanford. As updates on this situation and the Stanford Massacre become available, we will have them for you. Stay tuned to CNN.”

  Around town, people sat horrified by what they saw. Many felt heartbroken to see all of this happen in their town. The only comfort that they gave themselves was the assurance that things could not possibly get any worse. But if human nature has taught anything, it’s that things can always get worse.

  23

  The cliché says that “idle hands are the devil’s playthings.” This often proves to be particularly true for children and with Stanford’s youth, that was the case. Without the daily routine and structure of school in place, they found other ways to occupy their time. It began innocuously enough with some calls of disturbing the peace. The kids found themselves celebrating the fact that they had time off school, oblivious to how inappropriate it might be to engage in frivolity at a time like this. Parties were thrown and students went around at all hours of the night causing a cacophony on the streets. From there, some started engaging in various forms of vandalism. While not hateful in nature like Toby Henlon’s, it still resulted in plenty of property damage. Kids drove around town smashing mailboxes, tossing rocks through the windows of abandoned buildings, even slashing the tires of some cars. The most dramatic incident happened the night after Henlon left his message. Several kids from West went around town driving and throwing back some beer. Failing to pick a designated driver, they ended up getting into an accident with another car. Thankfully, Stanford’s death toll didn’t rise. However, of the five kids in the accident, only two didn’t have prolonged stays in the hospital.

  This accident ultimately convinced the school board that having school suspended might be doing more harm than good. Fearing that more students may be injured or worse, they decided that they needed to explore how they could send everyone back to class. Of course, this decision couldn’t be made without first addressing the public. The Monday following the accident, a school board meeting was held. Prior to this, the record turnout for a meeting had been about a dozen people. This time, that number increased to over 100. While the meeting would typically be held in a conference room of the central office, it was now moved to the auditorium of East High School.

  The board arranged a table on the stage while the crowd filled in all of the seats. Sherri Hill banged her gavel and called everyone to order. The talking in the crowd died down and they all looked up at the board. Many eyes hung low as they drilled into each person on the stage, abhorring every word that they had yet to hear.

  “Thank you for coming, everyone. This turnout is quite impressive,” she said with a nervous laugh. No one else joined in. “So as we mentioned in the announcement for this meeting, we are exploring the possibility of resuming classes for Stanford Public Schools. Now we obviously understand that there is some trepidation among the community over this, which is why we asked to hear from all of you. We would never dream of making any important decision without first hearing the thoughts of the community.” While this hadn’t been intended as a joke, there were a few laughs from the crowd. Probably in response to the numerous times over the years that the board had cut programs for schools without asking a soul.

  “Before we open it up to your questions and comments, we would like to explain to you the basis for our decision. First, we must acknowledge that we cannot keep the schools closed indefinitely. While we would all be more comfortable with this once the people behind this terrible tragedy have been brought to justice, there is no guarantee of when this may occur. We have been in contact with the police, but they can’t comment on the investigation one way or another. Second, with the recent spate of incidents involving our students, we believe that it is in their and the community’s best interests to make sure that a routine is established for our students once again.

  “Our plan would be to begin classes one week from today. We understand that returning to school after such an incident could be troubling to our students. We are sensitive to this and want to help our students through this difficult time. We are in contact with several grief counselors who will be available to students throughout the first week back should they feel the need to talk to anyone.

  “Also, we are in arrangement with the Stanford Police Department for an increased security presence at the school in order to make everyone feel safe and secure. We are even exploring the possibility of having metal detectors at the entrance to the school. The safety of your children is and will remain our number one concern. Now we know that many of you have your own question
s or comments, so we would like to open it up to you to share your thoughts. We have microphones on either side of the room, so if you have something to share then please line up, and we will get to each of you in turn.”

  Once Sherri stopped speaking, about half of the people in attendance stood and lined up behind the microphones. An unnerving silence palpitated throughout the room. Looking at the long chain of people ready to pounce, Sherri swallowed and took a look at the other members of the board who all tried to avoid looking at the onslaught that awaited them.

  A young woman stepped forward, her eyes bloodshot, her hair unkempt. It was the same woman whose presence at the mall forced Kristin to break down. “My name is Helen Perry. My son Kevin was killed in the shooting, and it seems to me like you want to sweep all of that aside just so you can go about business as usual.”

  “Ms. Perry, I can assure you that we have no desire to sweep anything aside. We are gathering a number of school officials to determine what is the best way to honor the memories of all those lost, including your son,” Sherri responded.

  “Uh-huh,” Helen Perry said, doubtful of the veracity of what she had been told. “Well, another thing I want to know is what you plan to do about Ms. Benson?”

  The name rang a bell with Sherri, but she couldn’t place it at the moment. “Would you please remind me who Ms. Benson is?” Sherri asked, cursing herself for this.