Smoking.
Miss Feely crept to the bedroom door like a cat and slipped her thick firm hand around the brass door handle.
“Aha!” she yelled, springing the door open in triumph.
Amber was right where Miss Feely expected her to be. Smoking a cigarette by the open window. Amber took one last drag on it before tossing it outside.
“Too late, Amber. You’re busted. One week of laundry duty,” Miss Feely said as she closed the window. “What's the matter with you? You want to hurt the baby?”
“I’m training it to smoke when it grows up.” Amber crossed to her single bed and plopped down on it.
“Shouldn’t you wait until you grow up first, Baby?”
“Ha-ha. You're a hoot, Miss Feely.”
“Your school called today. They’re still looking for a volunteer teacher.”
Amber rolled over onto a pile of opened books and magazines. “Big deal. I can teach myself.”
“Right. You and Abe Lincoln by candlelight. Next time I catch you smoking, you get ‘in-house’ for two weeks, young lady.”
“Like I care.”
Miss Feely shook her head. “You’ll learn to care. Maybe someday. If someone doesn't murder you first.” Miss Feely started out.
“Dike,” Amber said loud enough for the stocky woman to hear.
“Self-absorbed little bitch,” Miss Feely said loud enough for the pregnant brat to hear.
Amber followed the counselor to the door and closed it behind her. She went to the window next and retrieved a concealed pack of cigarettes from a tissue box, begging aloud. “Will someone please rescue me from my youth!”
She was about to light up. She really was. But when she reached for a cigarette she saw her little belly. It was sticking out. She could see that now. Her tight little girl stomach was swelling. It wouldn’t be long before everyone else knew, too. She lifted her sweatshirt and faced the long mirror attached to the door.
“My belly button’s starting to stretch,” she moaned.
The girl turned in silhouette, took a deep breath and sucked in her stomach as far as it would let her. Amber watched herself in the mirror until she turned a deep red and exhaled. The belly pushed out again.
“I’m screwed,” she said. “This baby is screwed even worse.”
CHAPTER NINE
Toby Chambers faced the kitchen sink, rinsing eggs and grease off breakfast plates with a scrubbing sponge. His back was to his parents, which was fine with him. They were just grunting and groaning anyway, using their hands and big gestures to talk. They both started laughing, but it didn’t sound like laughter. They laughed like open-jawed gorillas, hands flapping and heads rolling. It didn’t make any sense.
His mother balled up a paper napkin and threw it at her son. It hit him in the ear and he turned towards her.
“Honey, can we have more coffee?” she asked with her hands, still smiling from the joke her husband had told.
Toby found the pot on the counter and poured his parents their coffee at the kitchen table. They always drank coffee for breakfast.
“What are your plans today, Toby?” His dad asked, speaking with a thick tongue.
Toby understood what he said because he had been listening to him since forever. But it sounded like, “wha ear plane ooday, Oboy?”
“I thought I'd jump off a building,” Toby said as he turned his back towards the sink.
“What did you say? We can't see your lips,” his mother said spoke with a marbled mouth.”
Toby pretended not to hear her. For a moment he was deaf
- just like his parents.
It’s bad enough I’m black, he thought.
He thought about school. Maybe it was time to move on, leave his friends behind. He heard about something called Job Corps over in Grand Junction, on the western slope. Or maybe he could walk on to a basketball team at one of the other schools in town. He heard that coaches let kids back in school all the time if they were proven athletes. They didn’t care about grades or attendance. They just wanted to win. At least, that’s what Toby heard somewhere once.
CHAPTER TEN
Wearing his tattered camouflage jacket to fight off the wind, Matt Golden sat in a mildewed recliner near the stoop of the trailer. He listened to his parents playfully arguing from inside. Using his booted foot, he rocked the baby in its carrier. The one-year-old was wrapped in a stiff wool blanket.
“They’re yer damn dumb kids! Do sumpin’ ‘bout it!” the old man yelled.
“They’re yer kids too!” his mom yelled back.
“Only one’s mine, the rest are yours! You do sumpin’ afore
I get riled now! You don’t wanna see me riled! Not with my temper and all!” The voices became faces as Alice and Pete came out of the trailer and headed towards a wreck of a sagging car with bald tires and peeled paint. Both parents were carved up with vicious Goth tattoos on their arms, shoulders and backs but neither seemed to mind. Alice made her modest living as a tattoo artist.
“When I married you, you promised to take care of all of us. But we get nothin’. Why don't you move away, Pete? Move far, far away.”
Pete held the car door open for her while she squeezed in. Alice was an extra large lady. Getting in or out of any vehicle was a chore.
“After I put you out of my misery, baby,” he said sarcastically with a half-toothed grin. “Remember what the preacher said, ‘bout stickin’ together through thick and thin? Just how thick you plan on gittin’?” Pete climbed behind the wheel.
Alice punched her runt husband’s twiggy arm real hard. “You shet yer scrawny ass up,” she grinned. Pete leaned across and kissed her. “You knows I love you,” he said.
“I knows,” she said. She closed her door and rolled down the window. “Matthew, honey? I’ll send the old man back after lunch so you can have a break.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Any news on the education?”
“Still on hold.”
“I didn’t need no pigskin to get where I’m at,” Pete yelled from the car. “By the by, there’s ants in the house. See if you can sweep ‘em out, boy.”
“Just dust ‘em with kitchen cleanser,” Alice advised.
“And dump the live ones in the neighbor’s yard.” Pete coughed.
“Okay.”
Alice and Pete twiddled their fingers at Matt. It was a family affectation for saying goodbye. After their jalopy smoked off down the street, two small children in dirty underwear and tee shirts came out from the trailer.
“We’re out of Sugar Pops,” the little boy said.
“And there’s ants in the sink,” said the girl.
Matt set the kids on the recliner. They were both redheaded and freckled like him, but without so many dots to connect. Matt took his jacket off and covered their skinny legs.
“Watch the baby,” he said to the little boy.
“Why?” the little boy asked. “He can’t even walk yet.”
“Just watch him,” Matt said, slightly irritated. “He just might get up and start runnin’ any minute now.
The children giggled.
Matt went inside the trailer. There was filth everywhere: piles of smelly clothes, stacks of grocery store magazines about celebrities and aliens, Sunday newspapers still in their wrappers, and enough junk mail to build a paper house.
Pete and Alice didn’t care, but Matthew did. He used to try cleaning the dirt box of a trailer, but between his parents and the three little ones, there just wasn’t any getting ahead. Only a month ago, he had packed a runaway bag and stashed it behind the Dumpster at the end of the trailer court. When night fell he intended to escape the pigpen forever.
But then Pete and Alice came home with hot store chicken. They let him play a card game called Texas Hold ‘Em and drink beer that they said was from Texas, too. He forgot about leaving just then.
But now the feeling to escape was back.
“Maybe, if they find a teacher real soon. Maybe I might sti
ck around some more,” Matt decided. “Otherwise, I’m long gone. Texas mebbe. Alaska, too… someplace where no one will ever find me again… if I can figure out a way…”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Big Bill Hogan read the job posting from Battle. “You’re not serious?”
“I’m serious,” John said.
“You want to spend your end of days as a substitute teacher in an after-school program for those five deadbeat kids?”
“Yes.”
“You’re a crazy man. Out of meds already?”
“I can do this job, Hogan. Or at least fake my way through it.”
“You’re supposed to be dead any day now. What about that?”
“Look. I’m fate’s hand now. Besides, I worked fifteen years in a prison library. I helped at least a hundred guys get their high school diploma or GED.”
“You can do that in jail?”
“Some jails. I touched every book, encyclopedia, dictionary, catalogue and magazine that ever came in and out the library door. And at least twice.”
Hogan drew up his pants around his belly. “Okay, wise guy. What’s the state flower of Colorado?”
“Columbine. In Texas, it’s the bluebonnet.”
“Feet in a fathom?”
“Six.”
“Ever use a cell phone?”
“Not yet.”
“Know how to use a fax machine?”
“Not yet.”
“What about the Internet?”
“We had one in the library. Limited access. I used it for research. Legal pleadings to help other prisoners, mostly.”
“Own any CD’s?”
“I’m still a vinyl man,” Battle smiled.
Hogan frowned. “The universe has changed drastically, John. These kids? They’ll expect things you don’t know anything about.”
“I know.”
“This isn’t like lawyering,” Hogan said. “It’s nothin’ but cry-babies and brats now!”
Battle held up the job posting. “In a nutshell, how do we pull this off?”
Big Bill Hogan growled and took up occupancy at the edge of his desk.
“One of my old employees left behind her notary stamp. I have a good copier. Faking letterheads is one of my fortes. I’ll have to work your real college education into a fake one, change your MBA from Law to Education and manufacture some teaching credentials at defunct institutions to eliminate the paper trail.”
“You left out the part about breaking and entering into offices to plant dead paperwork, hacking databases and accessing cold files in warehouses,” Battle smiled.
“Minor details,” Hogan said, point blank.
Battle pulled a wad of money from his coat and tossed it at Hogan. “Will that cover your new expenses?”
Hogan took half the stack and tossed the rest back at Battle. “This isn’t brain surgery but it will take me a couple of days. Now, what kind of teacher do you want to be?”
“Just like the flyer says. ‘Special Education.’ Just what is a Special Education teacher responsible for, anyway?”
“Beats me, but I’ll find out.” Hogan wrote down a list of things to do, opened the filing cabinet with his foot, reached in and pulled out a whiskey bottle and two glasses.
“Care to imbibe?”
“No,” John said bluntly.
“Let me ask you,” Big Bill said, pouring himself a stiff drink. “Aren’t you scared about tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow? I never think about it. Only today.”
“Good answer, John.” Hogan leaned in towards him. “But you’re full of it.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You can honestly sit there and say straight-faced that you’re not afraid to die?”
“I’m not afraid to die. I’m disappointed that I’m going to die. There’s a difference.”
“Once a lawyer, always a lawyer,” Hogan chugged down his glass and grumbled. “You said you wanted to come back here and fix your little problem. Instead, you’re taking on five problems. I don’t get it.”
“Neither do I,” John said. “Neither do I.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
John Battle leaned against the SUV at the Garden of the Gods overlook. Down below, sandstone formations rose like jagged pinnacles from the valley floor. He felt like he was standing on the division of a topographical map. The high mountains supporting Pikes Peak hung from the sky to the west while rolling prairies to the east seemed to devour the windblown remains of half-dead riverbeds.
A Winnebago camper pulled up to the overlook. An elderly couple from Ohio climbed out. The happy wife carried a plate of sandwiches to a large flat rock nearby while her husband restrained a panting old dog on a leash with one hand, careful not to spill a metal water bowl in the other. The dog was in exploration mode, its nose intent on parking lot gravel, dirt, rocks and lunchmeat. The couple noticed John and smiled brightly.
“Beautiful view, isn’t it?” said the wife, striking up a conversation.
“Yes,” John said.
“Twenty rock formations and eight miles of trails down there,” the husband said. He set the bowl down for his Labrador Retriever. “You like dogs?”
“Love dogs.”
His mind flashed to a distant memory of the three dogs he had in his youth. They were all mutts but each loved him unconditionally.
The old man stared at the southern landscape. “Plenty of trails along those ridges and canyons. A man can get lost real easy.”
“I imagine so.”
“You don’t want to be on ‘em in the rain. They’re muddy and slippery as hell then. Especially Cheyenne Canyon. We got stuck up there in the afternoon yesterday. Shower only lasted ten minutes, but I near killed myself coming down the trail on that wet red clay.”
“Like glazed potter’s clay,” said the wife.
“A regular slip and slide.”
Battle looked at the time on his watch and adjusted the collar of the blue sport coat Mrs. Powell had given him. He studied himself in the window of the vehicle and decided to take off the loud tie he was wearing.
“Thanks, Mrs. Powell, but the tie doesn’t cut it.”
“You say something young man?” asked the eager wife.
“Just talking to myself.”
“I do it all the time,” the old man said. “Been married forty-five years and she don’t hear a word I say.”
John gave the old couple a friendly smile. If Kathy were still alive, he’d be married twenty-two years. Katherine. He thought about her every day even though she died over fifteen years ago.
“You folks have a great day. And many more years together.”
“Why, thank you kind sir,” the old man nodded.
“We have many mountains to climb,” the wife reminded her husband.
“Avoid the wet clay,” John said.
He climbed back in his vehicle and drove along curving Mesa Road back towards the heart of town. There were occasional views of Colorado Springs spread before him from hilly vantage points. Mrs. Powell had given him a brief history of the area over a hearty lunch of green pea soup with ham hocks and fresh-baked bread the other day.
Located on an arid plateau, Colorado Springs had been established in 1872. With a population of twelve hundred and three hundred houses it was almost completely devoid of trees back then.
Without irrigation, only cactus, yucca, and native grasses survived in the thin, parched topsoil.
As the city began growing, so did the trees. But trees needed the resource of precious water. Within a month of the town’s founding, water flowed through an open canal from a dammed creek a few miles west.
With water available, city founder General Palmer shipped in six hundred cottonwood trees to line downtown and residential streets and parkways. The city hired a man to plant the trees and paid him ten cents a hole.
Besides street trees and new residential lawns and gardens, the water fed four small city lakes, irrigated parks, the courthouse lawn, the first cemetery,
orchards and parkways. It was a great idea for a new city. The trees kept the air cleaner and made a stunning visual difference.
In its first annual city government meeting, twelve hundred trees, mostly elder and cottonwood, were counted. Today, there were over a hundred thousand trees and thirty different species, especially Norway and silver maple, American elm, green ash, and American linden.
Mrs. Powell had been very thorough in her history of the city.
Battle drove the last mile along a tree-lined boulevard and arrived at the old high school. Dozens of teenagers were dancing down the steps of the school when he pulled to the curb by the main entrance. It was the end of their school day. He slid out from behind the driver’s seat, locked the car and entered the building. A tired teacher in her late thirties was roaming the main hall, barking orders to departing kids.
“Let’s remember to wash our school shirt, Keith!” she said to a nervous skinny boy in a wrinkled shirt. “Shelby, let’s leave the flip-flops at home tomorrow! James, do not under any circumstance, do not bring your snapping turtle to science class tomorrow!”
Battle pulled a handwritten note from his pocket and approached. “I’m looking for Mrs. Weed.”
“Our mighty principal?” the woman asked without taking her eyes off antsy students wriggling past her for the exits. “Last office on the right.”
John thanked her and went to the office. The door was open. Inside, at a large gray metal desk sat Mrs. Weed, a savvy political survivor of school bureaucracies. She was buried in paperwork. John guessed her to be in her fifties. He knocked on the doorjamb and she looked up.
“Mr. Battle?” she presumed.
“Mrs. Weed?”
“Please, come in.” She offered him a seat facing her desk.
They small-talked about the weather and as Hogan predicted, his past successes as a teacher before he handed her his resume. Suddenly, the interview turned into a cat and mouse game. He sat and waited, controlling his urge to flee as Mrs. Weed read his teaching resume. Fortunately for him, Battle did a practice interview with Mrs. Powell prior to coming. The fake teaching credentials Hogan had given him seemed to be working. But then Mrs. Weed suddenly picked up a red felt-tipped marker and made several bold check marks on the resume. Battle prepared himself to assume the worst and flee the building before police arrived. He remembered his own days as a student in elementary, high school, and college. Eighteen years of education mashed together in a brief flash. When she finished reading and editing, Mrs. Weed locked her hands together and cracked her knuckles. Then she spread her hands on the desk and leaned forward conspiratorially.
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