The Last Teacher

by Alan Lee

  “Can’t believe it,” he said, watching me. He had bags under his eyes and his hair looked greasy. Rough night. “I can’t fucking believe you’re a middle school teacher.”

  “During the day. At night I wear a cape and fight crime.”

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “I was going to ask you the same question,” I said. “Classy guy like you, in a place like this?”

  Murphy swung off of the cot and walked over to the bars. He threaded his arms through and leaned against the metal.

  “Why you standing so far back? Prima donna. Worried about getting hit?”

  “Heavens yes,” I said. “If I stand this close will you hit me?” I asked, and got a little closer. “This close? Thiiiis close?”

  “Think you’re funny?”

  “I’m glad you asked. I really, really do. Wit is educated insolence, you know.”

  “I get out on bond soon,” he sneered. “You won’t be laughing then.” I gave him credit. It’s difficult to appear tough while standing behind bars looking at your captor.

  “Let me save you some bruises. Even if you bring a friend you can’t take me.”

  “Yeah right. Your ass is mine.”

  “Honest to goodness. Not trying to brag,” I said and held up my hands in what I hoped was my “Look how honest I am” stance.

  “How do you know?”

  “I used to fight competitively for a couple years. Cage matches.” I shrugged. “I took one on the kisser from you, and now I know I could take several of your best shots and keep ticking. You couldn’t take one of mine. Just the way it is.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “Came to apologize.”

  “You gotta be kiddin’ me.”

  “Nope. For real. I’m glad you’re behind bars. I’m not sorry I put you there. But I feel a little bad about lying to you.”

  “You’re messed up, man. Sick in the head, get it? Messed up.”

  “I’ll bring lunch, make it even. Tell me where and I’ll buy.”

  “Go to hell, man. Think that makes us even?”

  “Probably not, drug dealer. Probably not,” I said, and turned to leave.

  “You’re the ugliest damn teacher I ever saw.”

  Ouch.

  * * *

  Testing day at school. Subject-verb agreement assessment. I had a feeling the scores were going to be brutal. However, the classes were quiet all day as the students took the test and passed notes afterwards. A handful of students inquired about the source of my busted lip. Taylor’s class was testing also, so she emailed me dirty jokes all day and made suggestive comments. The guidance counselor stuck her head in twice to pull out students she suspected were still struggling with the murder.

  My mailbox in the office contained a few notes asking me to call the local newspaper for an interview. The drug raid was receiving exaggerated coverage because of the recent murder and potential connections. The local, small-time newspaper ran the story every day, including a grainy picture of me smiling for the yearbook photographer. I received emails from teachers who read the paper and wanted details. I told them I’d only answer if they bought me corndog nuggets from the cafeteria. I grew tired of being famous, but corndog nugget day made everything better.

  The agriculture class, led by Roy the agriculture teacher, dug holes around my trailer and planted bushes. I wondered if I should be offended. A clog of dirt hit the window now and then, and I’d have bet someone a dollar Roy started it. He was still angry over Taylor’s interest in me.

  The aching in my lip forced me to ponder the ethics of yesterday’s bust. Not exactly entrapment, but neither was it the most honest way of bagging a dealer. If Murphy’s lawyers got nasty, we had a picture of me with a busted lip and a picture of him spotless. Chances were good, though, that a plea bargain would be reached quickly. Not a lot of wiggle room for the culprit, he was caught red-handed.

  During my planning period, some unknown force propelled my steps in a meandering search around parts of the school where I had not yet ventured. Eventually I wandered into Mr. Suhrs room. I’d met him only once, the giant in the workroom. His classroom was more like a large workshop. Something masculine deep inside of me grunted. His students worked in groups, building small robots capable of obeying simple commands. The groups were deep in thought and conversation. Mr. Suhr came to lean beside me on the windowsill.

  “I wondered when you’d come see me,” he said. He still possessed a great smile and short, shocking white stubble beard. I hadn’t learned much about him. He’d been teaching at the school for as long as anyone could remember; Kristen Shortt thought he drove a van for the local YMCA after school; Mr. Charlie said he went to a local church. Everyone respected him, that was certain.

  “Didn’t know you’d been waiting.”

  “Not waiting. Only curious.” He put one of his great big arms around my shoulders and gave me a side hug. Which was weird. “I know you are under quite a bit of stress, my friend. How are you feeling?”

  “Blue, I suppose,” I said. “I’m always a little down after action.”

  “I heard about you on the news.”

  Several of his students were also my students. As they saw me, they called out or waved. I waved back.

  “You’re popular, you know,” he said. “They all like you.”

  “Means bupkis unless they pass their SOLs.”

  “Doesn’t mean bupkis. Means you’re making a difference.”

  “Aw shucks.”

  “Nervous?” He grinned. “About the SOL tests?”

  “Seems like the students don’t care, most days.”

  He laughed that big, warm laugh of his, and said, “It will be okay. We all feel like that. Most days.” We watched them work silently for a few minutes, and then he said, “Do you know why you risked your life yesterday?”

  “Not much risk.”

  “But a little.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “A little. Trying to do the right thing, I guess. Help catch a killer.”

  “That is not your job anymore,” he said.

  “I’m good at it.” I shrugged. “And I’m used to it.”

  “So?”

  “You saying I shouldn’t help?”

  “No, no. Not at all, my friend. You are big for a reason.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He smiled and didn’t answer.

  “What’s your point?”

  “I think that even if you were not good at it, or not used to it, you would be looking for a way to help.”

  “So?” I said.

  “My question is…do you know why?

  “Do you?”

  “I think so.” He nodded

  “Save me some time. Tell me.”

  “Guilt.”

  “Guilt,” I repeated.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “What do I feel guilty about?”

  “You are under tremendous guilt,” he said. “Because you think you have failed God.”

  I took my time answering, stunned at the man’s boldness. Everyone around here seemed to be a baptist, but Mr. Suhr was one of the few who talked about it. Even working for a church, God hadn’t always come up regularly. Why do these things make us feel awkward?

  “How’s that?” I asked.

  “You feel guilty,” he said. “Because you think you have failed Him. And you feel angry, because your self-image has only gone downhill since you began to follow Him. And you feel guilty about feeling angry.”

  “Got me figured out, huh.”

  He smiled and hugged me again with the arm that still rested around my shoulders.

  “No,” he said. “I listen. And watch.”

  “Listen? To what?”

  “You. Not necessarily your words, though. And I listen to our Creator.”

  “Mr. Suhr,” I said. “I’m not used to conversations like this. Not even when I worked at a church. No one talks like this.”

  “However,” he said. �
��When is the last time a conversation stirred your soul as much as this?”

  I couldn’t say anything. So I didn’t.

  “Before you leave, you must promise to return. And talk with me.”

  “Sure.”

  “Good, then I will tell you this. You have not failed Him. You, Mack, are very loved. And you are doing great.”

  I turned and walked out of the room, heart pounding.

  * * *

  No golf practice, home early for a change. We went for a jog around our neighborhood. Fall was beginning to mature. The leaves were not yet brilliant but the sun had lost its sting. A breeze blew in from the lake and pushed around the lofty tree branches shading us as I pounded up and down the hills around our house, Kix quietly watching in his jogging stroller. Moving to this neighborhood continued to prove healthy for me mentally, physically, and emotionally.

  Every time I replayed the tape of my conversation with Mr. Suhr, my chest tightened and I had to fight off crying. I felt as though he’d tapped into waters I didn’t know existed, and I couldn’t suppress them.

  I’m a softy.

  Afterwards, while I prepared dinner, Kix sat in his playpen and inserted plastic coins into a musical piggy bank. My son kept passive-aggressively telling me I needed to sharpen up our finances. I took two steaks out of the fridge and was grinding in salt and pepper when the front door opened.

  “All the August boys,” my father said, dropping his travel bag onto the couch. “Under one roof.”

  Kix just about hyperventilated.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “Has your principal reviewed you yet?”

  “She observed class a week ago. No warning. Then went over it with me last Friday.”

  “Good review?”

  “Yes,” I said. Kix sat in my father’s lap and kept guessing which big hand his pacifier was hiding in. He smiled but it looked like a really frustrating game to me.

  “Think you’ll be back here next year?” he asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Nope?”

  “I’m moving back to Roanoke over the summer. Our family is so small, we gotta stay in the same city.”

  “I like your thinking.”

  We had finished our salads, steaks and iced tea, and sat at the dinner table fat and happy.

  “This has been good for you, hasn’t it?”

  “Extremely.”

  “Ever fully figured out why you moved to California in the first place?” he asked me.

  “I think so.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  I poured myself some iced tea, took a drink, and collected my thoughts.

  “Mom died that spring. I was demoted to second string during training camp in July. Krystal moved to New York in August, and we were having problems. Then she died in September. That was a rough year.”

  “Duwayduway,” Kix said, holding two of his grandfather’s fingers in his little fists.

  “Looking back on it, I’m embarrassed to say that the move to California was probably most influenced by the demotion on the football team. I found my self-worth in the eyes of the people I impressed with superficial achievements. When that faltered, so did my worth to the world and to myself. I became less of a man.”

  “In your own eyes.”

  “And probably in no one else’s,” I agreed. “Krystal tried telling me that, but I assumed she valued me less too. I think most of our fights were based on my insecurity.”

  To my father’s credit, he managed to keep from nodding.

  “I moved to California to get away from the eyes in which my insignificance reflected. And to impress those eyes from afar. I’m still not sure exactly whose opinion I valued so much or who I was trying so hard to impress. Teammates, coaches, teachers, classmates who wanted me to sign their hats, girls I suppose.”

  “You’re smarter than you look.”

  “I’m gorgeous, so that’s saying something.”

  “How long did it take you to realize California would not bring relief?” Timothy August asked.

  “Not long. Waiting in California was a whole new batch of eyes I needed to impress. That realization was horrible.”

  “I think you left something important out. Something you should probably know.”

  “What’s that,” I said.

  “Graduation. You were graduating that fall. Don’t underestimate the significance that oncoming date had in the back of your subconscious. The threat of growing up has done in mightier men than you. A lot of guys put off maturity by tying themselves to a snowboard, living on a mountain, and refusing to accept responsibility for anything after graduation.”

  “Running from responsibility, running from failure.”

  “Running from pain,” my father said. “And running to adventure.”

  “A new proving ground.”

  “Keep in mind, son,” he said. “Not all of your motives for running were cowardly or based on pain. A lot of them were natural and very understandable. The great challenge of your adolescence was football. And you conquered it for years, until that summer. Considering life was dog-piling you, it’s not hard to understand why you ran to something else you could conquer. That stage of life is about adventure, hard work, independence, which you found in the Highway Patrol. You acted like a man.”

  “Maybe not the wisest man.”

  “Agreed. But the two most important women in your life had died recently. Acting out is realistic.”

  “You’ve thought about this a lot.”

  “Maybe more than you have,” he said. “It’s what dads do.”

  “So what’s the next question?” I asked.

  “What’s your evaluation of your time in California? What was good, what was destructive, what was both.”

  Another drink of iced tea. My brain hurt. I hadn’t talked this much in a while. I hadn’t talked this much about myself in years. Every so often, though, we had this talk. I verbalized my mental processes, reflected on growth, admitted problem areas. He listened, commented, approved, and helped me mature. My conversation earlier with Mr. Suhr had left me raw and emotional, so I was using significant resources to abate tears.

  “Highway Patrol was a good confidence builder. I was the best. Worked really hard, helped a lot of people, hurt a lot of bad people,” I said. “My life was my job, though. Everything else suffered. I had nothing. No one cared about me, including myself, no hobbies. I’d take racing classes on my off days to become a better driver. No one wanted to ride with me. It got worse when I joined LAPD. I’d get up in the morning and go to the shooting range. If someone had better marks than me I couldn’t sleep. During breaks I’d run or hit the weights. Took anything I could to make me faster, meaner, stronger. I attended martial arts classes at nights. Kung-fu, Jiu-Jitsu, Judo, karate, whatever I could fit in. Started fighting in cages. I never lost. Wouldn’t sleep. Instead I’d go on stakeouts or bother informants. After injuries, the hospitals could never keep me as long as they wanted to.”

  “Wow, you’re a mess.”

  “Ugh,” I said. “It was terrible. An eight-year blur of pain and self-doubt. I won every award, got every promotion, slept with every girl I saw, drank all the time, beat all the people I wanted to beat. And all of it fell like bags of cement at my feet. Worthless, dead weight. Hollow. I was the most arrogant and insecure and lonely person I knew.”

  “Was anything positive?”

  “Got to play a lot of golf. When I wasn’t destroying myself.”

  “How’s your game?” he asked.

  “Eh,” I said. “Can’t get under a fifteen handicap. I enjoy coaching.”

  “What else was positive?”

  “My partner, Richard. That was really positive. Other stuff too, strength, work ethic. Friends, like Manny. But mostly Richard.”

  “He was a good man.” My father nodded.

  “The best.”

  “And Kix,” he said. Kix murmured in recognition. “Kix is positive.”

  “Whatev
er is better than positive,” I said. “That’s what Kix is.”

  “He crawling yet?”

  “Nope, not sure if he ever will. Lucky he’s cute.”

  “I never met Melynda,” he said. “She must have been an attractive girl.”

  “A knockout. He looks like her. A lot. Have you never seen a picture?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll find you one. Kix would have had really attractive parents. In a lot of ways. I have a couple pictures in the box with Richard’s stuff. Haven’t gone through it in a year, though. I don’t even like that side of the closet. Too many emotions. I wish Kix could have met her.”

  I wiped tears off both cheeks and took another drink, wishing it was beer.

  “Haven’t thought about it in a while, huh,” he said.

  “Only objectively. And not often.”

  Kix was reclining in his grandfather’s arms, sucking on his pacifier, watching me with concern. He grunted a question. I winked. He understood.

  “And,” I said. “Those seven years, eight years, whatever, were selfish and stupid and self-centered and destructive, but I’ve come out the other side stronger and ready to move on.”

  “Because you found religion.”

  “Because I found peace,” I said.

  “You know, son, just because I’m not religious doesn’t mean I don’t like that part about you.”

  “You know, Pop, just because I worked at a church doesn’t mean I’m religious.”

  “What do you call it then?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t go to church, I don’t have any religious friends, I don’t like the christian radio stations, I drink, I don’t feel like baptists would like me anymore than I like them. I read but cannot understand the Old Testament. Sometimes,” I said, and paused. “Sometimes I don’t even think God likes me very much, though I know that’s not true. Whatever that is, that’s what I am.”

  “Wow,” he said. “I bet you really were an awful preacher.”

  “Unbelievably bad. I went from being a self-destructive cop to the head of the youth outreach at a church in two weeks. I was awful.”

  “They must have been desperate.”

  “We both were.”