by Alan Lee
Monday. Second week of school. Only thirty-five more to go. Holy moly, that’s a long time.
The second period bell rang, and I was ready. Because I’m an opportunist. The hallway surged with students. Red Backpack sauntered my way and went into the bathroom. This time he disappeared from view and emerged a minute later. He passed me and I dropped a heavy box into his hands. It was such a shock to him that he almost dropped it and bolted.
“You look strong,” I said. “Help me carry that to the office?” I had a similar box in my hands.
“Say what?” he said.
“I can’t carry both. You’re the strongest kid I saw. The office is right there.”
“Oh. Aight man. Sure.” But Red Backpack wasn’t happy.
We walked around Reginald Willis, who from his doorway extolled the virtues of meticulous grooming. We got to the office and Backpack was about to set the box by the entrance. Instead I bumped him through the door and said, “Put it on the counter. Thanks.”
He did so, looking pained. Both the secretaries glanced up at us.
“Thanks…what’s your name?” I said. I clapped him on the shoulder and held him still a moment, so the office got a long look at him.
“Eddie, man.”
“Thanks Eddie.”
Eddie Red Backpack left in a hurry. I watched him a moment.
I removed the boxes and looked at the two women behind the counter. They looked back.
I smiled. A big smile. And was surprised it didn’t set off the fire alarm.
“I need to know the name of that young gentleman. Do either of you know?”
“No.”
“No.”
“He must be new,” said the lady in a turtleneck and ugly necklace.
“He’s not new, else I’d recognize him,” said her cohort. “I handle registration.”
“So,” I said. “You don’t recognize him. But he’s not new. Hmm.”
“How odd.”
Turtleneck frowned. “I’m not sure he goes here.”
“Ah hah.”
“What?” she asked.
“A clue.”
Blank faces.
“Are you not impressed?”
They went back to work on their monitors. Probably too overwhelmed to express admiration.
* * *
After many failed attempts and curse words, I finally remembered the passwords to my social media accounts. A girl I dated set them up for me a few years ago in California, and I’d neglected them.
Now I used their search features to learn more about Trevor, the kid in my class who purchased cocaine. Seemed like a normal guy. Pictures of him at Smith Mountain Lake. Of him with a girl in an American-flag bikini. Of him at a concert. Nothing which hinted at major drug use or distribution.
In reality, Trevor was small potatoes. The system was full of Trevors and busting them didn’t do a lot of good. Eddie Backpack was probably small potatoes too, but Trevor even more so because he was further removed from the supply. After this was over, though, Trevor and I would have a long chat.
* * *
I collected Kix from Roxanne’s after school. He was asleep so I drove to the Greenway at Wasena Park, put him in his stroller, changed shoes, and walked all the way from the ballfields to Mill Mountain.
The Greenway meandered east to west for miles, and I moved through several distinct neighborhoods by the time I passed Carilion Hospital. Temperatures were in the eighties with a faint breeze, and the path was clotted. We navigated through joggers in active wear, strolling families, and irksome bicyclists. Kix woke up in time to point out nearby dogs.
On our return trip we stopped at the Green Goat, only a stone’s throw from Ronnie’s apartment building. The Goat was trendy and popular, but our wait wasn’t long. The hostess was equally charmed by my son and my rugged good looks. We got a table and ordered pizza. Kix fussed. He thought pizza was too bourgeoisie. The Nationals were about to throw the first pitch on a television over the bar.
“Mr. August. What’s up, man.”
Jeriah Morgan was here. The varsity running back with a big mouth in my first class. He wore a purple and gold letter jacket, despite the heat. He came over and shook hands and met Kix.
“Mr. August, man, I didn’t know you had a kid.”
“I’ve only mentioned him a dozen times in class,” I said.
“Ah. Well. I don’t really pay attention. It’s cool. Do you live around here?”
“Not far. You just get off practice?”
“Weight lifting only today. Done quick. Mr. August, this is my old man, Marcus.”
He indicated the man coming our way. Jeriah’s father was my height, which is hard. Gleaming shaved head, strong hands, long fingers. Dressed in jeans and a sports coat. He wore a silver Tag Heuer watch that matched his silver buttons. I felt sophomoric in my sneakers. Dang it.
His voice was Darth Vader deep.
“The fabled Mr. August. I’ve heard about you. And not only from Jeriah.”
“Lies. Although you can see I’m almost as handsome as the rumors.”
“Funny, is what I heard.”
I knew it.
I made an attempt at modesty.
“Won’t you come join us?” He indicated their table, at which sat a woman. The woman, whom I assumed was his wife, was shockingly pretty. Halle Berry pretty but with better makeup.
“Thank you, but my son Kix is upset we aren’t eating at Frankie Rowlands, and he’d be a terrible dinner companion. His language tonight is filthy. I’ll take a rain check.”
He chuckled. “This gorgeous young man here? Never. Frankie Rowlands is high end for a little guy.”
“He loves their pineapple martinis.”
“Don’t we all. Isn’t raising a son the peak of life? My greatest achievement.”
“Mine can’t walk yet. Jury’s still out.”
“Raising boys is hard. It takes a village. Some days, makes me furious.”
“The father is always a Republican toward his son,” I said.
“And the mother is always the Democrat,” he finished. “I quote that line to my wife. Robert Frost.”
“We’re soooo smart.”
“Sure you won’t join us? Good company is hard to find.”
“Next time. My son might not last until the pizza arrives,” I said.
“I appreciate your work at the high school. I know you’re busy beyond the classroom and I’ll be keeping an eye on you. You’re a good man.”
We shook hands again and he went back to his table. I sat down.
“Did you hear that, Kix? I’m a good man.”
Kix fussed.
* * *
Manny was in the living room. I put Kix down for the evening and joined him. He sat in the leather reading chair with his feet on the ottoman. Beer in his left fist, television remote in his right. He still wore his blue deputy marshal shirt. Looney Tunes was on the television.
I sat on the other chair.
“First day of work.”
“Yep,” he said. He held up thumb and forefinger. “Got a caseload this big. Grande. Virginia not so good at tracking wanted felons.”
“We’re still tired from fighting the British.”
“All these criminals, amigo. Lightweights. Not like Los Angeles.”
“Catch any?” I asked.
“One. Nasty woman. Tried to bite me.”
“Who can blame her.”
“Call Ronnie?”
“No,” I said.
“Why not?”
“I’m not sure, Manny. I’m not sure.”
“I looked her up. One hot mamita.”
“I haven’t seen the online photos, but assume she’s better in person,” I said.
“So what’s wrong?”
“I like her. That’s what’s wrong.”
“Ay dios mío.”
“I think she’s not in a place where she can like me back,” I said. “Hard to believe, isn’t it.”
“You wh
ite people.”
“I’m happy. And she’s not the kind of girl you invite into your life without it causing waves. I dislike waves.”
“You aren’t scared of being hurt,” he said. “You are scared of wasting time. Of losing focus. This girl, maybe she wastes your time.”
“Well put.”
“Maybe you need to have sex, hombre.”
“You can’t talk like that while Bugs Bunny is on screen. It’s weird,” I said.
“Think Ronnie needs sex too?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“Maybe,” he said.
“Maybe. But do I want to? With her?”
“Yes.”
“Yes. Yes I do,” I agreed.
“But you aren’t. I know. I know you.”
“You know nothing.”
“Unless you got drunk or high, back in the city, you had this nobility. Couldn’t relax, you know? Couldn’t have fun.”
“Think about our friends, Manny. Our friends in Los Angeles. All our friends had fun.”
“Sí. All our amigos are divorced and broke. But they were stupid, Mack.”
“And we are not?”
“You are not,” he said.
“What happened over there, Manny? Why’d you move here? Why the gun at night?”
He drank his beer. Stared beyond the screen at memories. Took his time answering. “One too many meth houses. Too many bodies. You know? One too many victims.”
“You got people after you?”
“Only nightmares.”
Chapter Eleven
I took Tuesday off. It was too early in the school year for a sick day, but the school administration had been prepped for my absences. I was in hot pursuit of justice and the American way.
I wanted to follow Eddie Red Backpack. I had a hunch he wasn’t a student at Patrick Henry, but the campus was so big and the student population so diverse he could slip in and out with ease. I’d only seen him before first lunch, so most likely he spent time in the cafeteria and then split. Otherwise he’d get caught in the hallways.
Arriving at nine, I parked my car in the teachers’ lot behind the main building. I had Dunkin' Donuts coffee and Krispy Kremes and I listened to Tell Me More on NPR. So invigorating I nearly fell asleep.
While I waited, I texted Ronnie.
When shall I make you dinner?
>> Three days, Mackenzie.
>> It’s been three days since our date.
>> I’m the kind of girl you text later that night
>> I considered issuing you a subpoena
I am playing hard to get.
>> It’s working. =)
>> Saturday? Your place?
Saturday? That was forever. My thumb held steady over the phone screen, waiting for wit and inspiration to strike. Any minute now…
>> All my other nights are booked. =(
Saturday it is. 7pm.
Steaks? Chicken? Burgers?
Tacos? Salmon?
>> Chicken!
>> I’m going to shop for a new outfit
>> If you’re lucky, I’ll send you pics.
Objection. Leading the witness.
>> Ha ha!
I almost missed Silva. Master Nate Silva, my sparring partner. He parked in a black Toyota Tacoma, lifted high on hydraulics, and strutted inside wearing the same white Nikes and baggy Levis.
Note to self — find out why the heck Silva keeps showing up at a high school.
Eddie Red Backpack slipped out of the woods south of campus three minutes before the bell rang. Students emerged and he filtered in immediately. Lost in the crowd.
The woods. Interesting. Had to give him credit. He was a smooth operator.
I pulled up Google Maps. A stealthy reconnaissance of his journey home would be close to impossible. The woodland area adjacent to the campus was not small. He could park his car at fifty different points and walk here, or maybe he lived nearby.
I waited. And waited. And waited.
And thought about Ronnie’s new outfit.
And debated Dak Prescott’s chances of initial success without the Dallas Cowboys offensive line.
And tried to make sense of predestination.
And hoped Kix would start using more words soon.
And thought about Ronnie some more.
Eddie Red Backpack reappeared after second lunch. He exited through the rear doors and vanished into the trees. Gone, just like that. I charted his path from a few final glimpses, gave him a five-minute head start, and then followed.
He’d gone straight up the rise, so I did too. A small beaten trail wound higher through the pine and maple and poplar. It was a hot day but the shade was good. Squirrels scampered below and robins tweeted above.
Eddie might turn out to be nothing. Only a small-time peddler. If so I’d turn him over to the authorities, or maybe handle him myself. But there was also the chance he served a significantly higher authority, and he was as good a lead as I had so far.
Soon I found myself on Murray Run, a greenway curving through Woodlawn Park. Interesting. I wiped the sweat from my eyes and opened up Google Maps again and traced the greenway both directions. If I followed it another half mile, I’d eventually walk onto the big Shenandoah Life Insurance parking lot on the far side of Woodlawn. An ideal place to park.
“Ah hah,” I said.
Chapter Twelve
The Salem Red Sox played the Lynchburg Hillcats that night. Timothy August’s financial advisor had a private luxury box which was offered up for our use periodically. We sat in the shade and ate hot pretzels and drank cold beer from big plastic cups.
Most widowers who work as elementary school principals do not require financial advisors. Dad, however, had been married to a very successful realtor with a big life insurance policy. He also owned various rental properties. As with most ball games, he brought a portion of his school’s staff to the game, and our private box was full of teachers cutting loose. Dad never dipped his pen into company ink, but tonight’s cast was mostly unmarried young women. For my benefit.
Manny was a big hit. He tried keeping a scoresheet for tonight’s game, but that required concentration and focus, two things soon wrested away by a determined kindergarten teacher named Alexa. Manny politely entertained the entire group until Alexa took the scoresheet away and requested he teach her. A professional move.
Kix was…somewhere. Upon my arrival, he’d been taken by women who referred to themselves as his aunts. I sat at the front, watched the game, made small talk with people I didn’t know about life inside a school, and kept score. Nothing better than live sports. Somehow, even the colors are more intense. Almost photoshopped.
Three of my students were sitting behind home plate. Joshua, Zach, and CJ. Zach and CJ were in my last class together, and I had Joshua second period. I didn’t realize they knew one another. They didn’t even glance at the field, so absorbed were they with their phones and laughter. That was a good age. Fun and friends mattered most.
On my phone, I pulled up Trevor’s social media pages again and scanned through his list of friends. The three knuckleheads below were absent. Trevor had lost his innocence sometime, voluntarily or forcefully; either way he was now in the drug community. Joshua, Zach, and CJ still existed in the innocent glow of halcyon days. I hoped.
Between innings I got another beer and verified Kix was alive. He was, though sleep beckoned. We could last one more inning, perhaps, so I seized the day and got a hotdog.
Timothy August sat next to me. He was still dressed for work, though his collar was loosened. “What’s better than this.”
“Not much.”
“We should do it more often. I don’t know why we don’t,” he said.
“Because this box is expensive.”
“I don’t mind sitting below, in the stands.”
“With the peasants?” I gasped.
“Remind me, who was the player we saw last year? He plays in Boston now.”
“Either Xande
r Bogaerts or Mookie Betts. The guy at second base is Yoan Moncada, signed out of Cuba. He inked a deal worth thirty-one million dollars, and he’ll be in the bigs soon.” I pointed Yoan Moncada out, the player chatting in the outfield at the moment.
“That kid has got some powerful glutes, doesn’t he.” Dad shook his head, a wistful gleam in his eye. “All that money. Sitting in Salem. What a waste.”
“Most of these guys have second jobs to pay the bills.”
“Not Yoan.”
“Not Yoan,” I agreed.
“Have you talked with Julie Coleman? She’s our guidance counselor. Red tank top, drinking white wine.”
“I have,” I said.
“And?”
“No way. Bad ankles.”
“What a twisted individual you are, son. Look at your friend, Manny, and how well he’s going with Alex.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the happy couple.
“Alexa.”
“Whatever.”
“Alexa has better ankles,” I said.
“You’re joking about the ankles so I’ll shut up. I know it. And I will. Shall I take Kix home? So you can stay longer?”
“I read somewhere that both The Rock and Tom Brady go to bed at eight thirty. So maybe I will too.”
“Those two gentlemen are already married, I believe.”
“Because women are drawn to men with early bedtimes, perhaps?”
He sighed and shook his head.
I hoped Kix would be a more rational son than I was.
Chapter Thirteen
Jeriah Morgan was running his mouth Wednesday morning. His buddy on the football team sat two chairs in front of him, too far for whispering, but today they chatted while I waxed eloquently forth on the perils of weak essay conclusions.
“Jeriah. Kevin. Hush.”
Kevin, big guy with sunken eyes, said, “What?”
“I’m teaching. You’re being rude to me. And to your fellow classmates.”
“No one tells me hush who ain’t my granny.”
“I beg your pardon, Kevin, and I’m greatly distressed to hear I’ve used a word of which you disapprove. Oh no. I retract my hush and instead request you zip it.”