Are You Nuts?

by Mark Richard Zubro

  “We’re going to randomly skip from topic to topic without discussing any of them rationally?”

  “What kind of loyalty is it to tell a member to just quit?”

  “We’re going to be taking loyalty oaths? Weren’t you the one running around saying first-year teachers shouldn’t join the union? I never did understand what put that hare-brained idea into your head.”

  “You can’t talk that way to a member.”

  “You mean to you or to Beatrix?”

  “I want this to be like a real union where members can file grievances against each other. That would give us strength.”

  I know some unions do this. “It could make for bitterness and chaos.”

  “I don’t want to fight with you.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “You have no right to be mean to Beatrix.”

  “You know what she’s like.”

  “She has a right to file a grievance.”

  “I told her that.”

  “That’s not what she said,” Jerome stated.

  “I offered to help her fill out the paperwork.”

  “That’s not enough.”

  “I’m willing to hold their hand through the process. I’m not willing to treat what should be an intelligent adult as if they were a moron.”

  “You can’t be planning to endorse Seth. He and those elementary teachers will try and take over and run everything. They’ve been dragging down our salaries for years.”

  This was another problem with the school districts in Illinois. In most of the Chicago suburbs, the school districts usually had either all grade schools or only high schools. Teachers in districts with only elementary schools were the lowest paid. The unit districts, such as mine, the next highest. The solely high school districts paid the most. It was an odd system. Part of the reason for the disparity, I suspected, rested in the sexist notion that more elementary teachers were women and so “didn’t need the money” since what they earned was supposedly a second income. An outdated notion, but one that no one had been able to dynamite out of existence. Many high school teachers in unit districts blamed the lower-grade teachers for keeping their salaries down. This did not make harmonious relationships between the staffs any easier.

  I said, “Speaking of confrontation, have you gone to Seth to at least talk to him?”

  “Why?”

  “Strength and unity? Maybe you have common ground on which to work together.”

  “I haven’t had the time.” Which I took to mean that he didn’t want to.

  I asked, “Are you going to the PTA meeting tonight?”

  “I think teachers, especially the union president, should be involved in all aspects of a community. Not only that, I’ve lived in River’s Edge for years. It’s a responsible thing to do. I’m going.”

  Kurt rarely attended anything but union meetings. This sure sounded like a slam on my friend. “Meaning Kurt was doing a poor job?”

  “You just don’t understand.”

  “What is it I don’t understand?”

  “You’re Kurt’s friend. I can’t expect you to comprehend what I’m saying.”

  “I sure wish you made sense. I think you’re just searching for an excuse to make trouble.”

  He went back to packing and ignored me. I left.

  By the time I got to the library it was four o’clock. Meg was on the phone in her tiny office. She saw me and motioned me inside.

  Into the phone she said, “Yes, Agnes, you have to be there. It’s important. You know what these people are like. Look what happened to you.” She listened for several moments, then said, “Great. Thanks, I’ll see you there.” She hung up.

  “Marshaling the troops?”

  “Yes.”

  “How is Agnes?” Agnes Davis had retired five years ago. She used to teach first grade in the district.

  “This year she spent four weeks in South America looking for exotic birds.”

  “I remember she liked to take vacations to out-of-the-way and off-the-wall locations.”

  Agnes and Meg had been close friends for years. Before she retired, Agnes was famous for the parties she threw on the evening of every New Year’s Day.

  Meg said, “I’ve lived in this area a long time. I’ve called movers and shakers I’ve known in every group I can think of. People are concerned. More than a few teachers are going to be there.”

  “Maybe I should have helped make the calls.”

  “I don’t think so. It looks better if you are on the sidelines. The issue should be who is the best leader for the PTA, not some right-wing political agenda. Belutha and her bunch will try and inflict their beliefs on all of us. However, there will be a crowd on the side of the angels there tonight. It will be dynamite. I hope Belutha tries something. I haven’t been able to stand that woman since she proposed basing the library acquisitions budget on strict fundamentalist principles.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’m not sure. Buying Bibles for every kid in the school? Who knows? She’s a raving loony, so it could mean anything. She’s been off her nut about filth in the library since she moved into the district in the early eighties. She hasn’t gotten anything banned yet.”

  I remembered Meg telling me about some of the battles. “You still think I shouldn’t go to the meeting?” I asked.

  “Definitely not. It’s going to be chaotic enough. If somebody has notified reporters, it could become a total circus. You want to be in the middle of that?”

  “No. Especially not after this summer.”

  “You leave it in my capable hands.”

  I did trust Meg. I wasn’t expecting her to fight my battles, but having her on my side was worth several tank divisions.

  “Thanks,” I said. “Call me after the meeting. I’ll be up late tonight.”

  “Definitely.”

  “Something else I wanted to check with you. Do you know a guy named Trevor Thompson?”

  “Second-year teacher, skinny, twenty-four, gay, teaches math, popular with the kids, does not have a lover, has the aura of a party person, thinks he’s a stud. Other than that, no.”

  “He’s worried about the meeting tonight. He thinks it might set off a gay witch-hunt and keep him from getting tenure. He was thinking about trying to hide in the closet to save his job.” I described my encounter with him.

  Meg said, “Perhaps he just wants to be friends.”

  “Possible. He didn’t act studly so much. I’d put his actions in the category of blatantly offering himself. I don’t need some twenty-something guy chasing me.”

  “The price of fame.”

  “I’m not ready for my close-up yet.”

  “He really thinks hiding in the closet is going to save his job?”

  “I don’t know. Some people get very frightened very quickly. I don’t think I care much for Trevor. I know I don’t want to be involved with him.”

  “If they go after the gay teachers, you may have no choice but to make common cause with him.”

  “I hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  4

  To get to my new home you take Interstate 80 west to the second exit past Interstate 55 and then go south. After my last home burned down, I brought fifty acres of prime farmland within an easy commute of work. I was out of Cook County now and in Grundy County. I’d picked the location because of its distance from any town. I enjoyed the peace and quiet. I love Chicago and Scott’s penthouse on Lake Shore Drive, but for real living, give me a nice flat prairie and lots of space.

  The house is a ranch style with three wings forming a U. The open end faces west with picture windows at the tip of each leg. I get a spectacular view of the sunset from numerous vantages. A center courtyard enclosed by the U had what was supposed to have been a flower garden. I took a course in basic plant how-to. Everything I planted died within a month. Finally, I’d rototilled the whole thing and planted grass seed. I thought in the future I might hire someone to put in a wooden d
eck.

  The north wing has the master bedroom, library, and electronics center. The opposite wing has the kitchen, office, and guest rooms. The center core is a vast living room.

  I furnished the new house carefully. Losing everything in a fire is horrific, but it does give you a chance to start totally fresh assembling a household. The best example I can think of to illustrate my decorating style is my search for furniture. I was looking for a couch, so I became a denizen of every furniture store within fifty miles. I sat and/or laid on one davenport after another until I found the most comfortable one and then bought it. I used the same method for finding recliners, love seats, our king-sized bed, and other odds and ends. After picking out something, I would then tell the salesperson that I wanted items to match what I had just purchased. The result is I have clumps of furniture that match perfectly in juxtaposition with nearby groups that don’t necessarily go together. On the other hand, nothing is extravagantly flashy, so nothing clashes horribly. However, my goal was achieved. All of it was immensely comfortable and based on what I wanted.

  Sometimes I’d bring Scott with me on these buying excursions. He has less taste than I do, but his place has an organized-to-perfection look. That’s because he cheated and hired a decorator to help him. This I refused to do.

  For the walls, I picked out the posters or prints I liked the most and had them framed. Hanging in the library are my favorites of the moment—posters from the movies Stonewall and Beautiful Thing. I have on order an action shot of Scott pitching. He looks incredible with his muscles straining, crotch-cup bulging, full color, one of a kind. A friendly newspaper photographer gave me the original.

  I had spent most of the last spring working on the design for the fields within two hundred yards of the house. With the help of various nursery personnel and landscape artists, I had planned carefully. I took great care to assure tons of shade for the house without blocking any of the view. By the time all the trees and bushes that were planted grow, it will look like a well-organized miniforest. Scott and I looked very butch in late winter and early spring, muffled to the eyes against the cold as we helped plant some of the flora.

  I discovered the keys to a successful forest were don’t overplant and have patience. The drive to the front door is going to be shaded by poplars and oaks that will meet overhead. Quite often I picked trees that bloomed most gloriously in spring—crab apples and dogwood—or that turned the most vibrant colors in fall—tupelos, sugar maple, hickory, along with stands of sassafras bushes.

  One-third of the basement is a workout room. Before supper, I spent an hour down there using the new equipment Scott had bought me as a housewarming present.

  A little after ten, Scott called from Seattle. He gave me the nightly report. “I did two sports-radio call-in shows and an early-morning television program. It is a good thing I’ve learned the answers and the questions by heart.”

  When I was with him, I had experienced the same phenomenon. The difficulty was the questions might be the same to us, but the answers were generally fresh to each audience that was listening.

  I said, “You sound exhausted.”

  “I’m whipped. I walked out of another interview before it even started.”

  “What happened?”

  “The usual.”

  From the first show we did, both he and I had refused to be on any program with a representative from the religious right or any other hate group. We made this clear before agreeing to be on any program. Three times, when we walked in, a host had said something like “By the way, I just happen to have so and so from …” And it would be some loon from an antigay group. The people on the programs were stunned when we reiterated our refusal and walked out. Neither Scott nor I were about to debate our rights, our sexuality, or our lives with anyone, much less some religious fanatic.

  Scott continued, “What I’d really like to do is go off to our cabin up north. Better yet, I could buy us a home in the Vale of Kashmir, where no one knows us.”

  “I’ve got a phone message here from the Kashmir Post-Gazette. They want to interview you.”

  That got a small chuckle out of him. “I’d give my left nut to be in your arms right now.” For the next few minutes, we were as tender and endearing to each other as any two people could be without being in each other’s presence.

  I felt a pleasant glow after the call. When he’s gone on road trips in the summer, I like to stay up late reading. Perhaps the most relaxing thing in the world to me is having the window open late on a summer evening, lounging in oversized T-shirt, gym shorts, and sweat socks, my feet up, one lamp on in the whole house, sitting in my chair reading a book. The glorious silence interrupted perhaps by the rustle of the wind, or a distant train whistle, the rare swish of a car on the far-off road, accompanied by a night-bird or insect serenade. Capped off with a good book, it is totally perfect.

  This time I picked up volume three of A History of Private Life.

  At midnight I wondered briefly why Meg hadn’t called. Certainly the meeting couldn’t go that late.

  I don’t remember what time it was when I fell asleep in my easy chair with the book on my lap. I woke to the ringing of the phone. It was nearly 4 A.M. My first thoughts were that something terrible had happened to Scott or my mom and dad. I leapt up quickly. My book clattered to the floor.

  When I picked up the receiver, the line crackled for several seconds. It sounded as if I were being called from a pay phone in a crowded bar on the far side of the moon. I said hello but got no answer. I was about to hang up when a muffled and distant voice came over the line.

  “Tom Mason?”

  “Who is this?”

  “Agnes Davis. I was at the meeting tonight with Meg.”

  Then I heard nothing for several seconds, but finally Agnes’s voice came through much clearer and louder. The background noises receded somewhat. Agnes sounded exhausted and frightened.

  “I know you’re Meg’s closest friend. I’ve been trying to find out what they’ve done to her. She’s been arrested for murder.”

  Someone in the background of where she was shouted, “Stop that, you son of a bitch.” This was followed by several loud thumps and crashes.

  “What’s happened?” I asked.

  “Jerome Blenkinsop is dead. Meg needs help. Can you get here?”

  “Where are you, Agnes?”

  “At a pay phone in the visitors’ section of the River’s Edge police station.”

  A deep, gruff voice shouted, “Hurry it up.”

  I heard Agnes answer, “Back off, you tub of goo.”

  I said, “I’ll call a lawyer and be right there.”

  “Thank you. Try to hurry.”

  I hung up and dialed my lawyer. Todd Bristol was a good friend. He’d been my lawyer since before I met Scott. Now we kept him on a yearly retainer. He was a partner in one of the big law firms on LaSalle Street in Chicago.

  I woke him up and explained the situation. He’d met Meg and knew how close we were. He said he would drive out from the city immediately.

  I changed clothes, grabbed my keys and wallet, and hurried to meet Agnes.

  River’s Edge is one of the oldest southwestern suburbs of Chicago, founded soon after Blue Island. From its outward appearance, you’d guess the police station was the first building erected after the founding. Across the street a new headquarters was under construction. The same population increase that had required new schools had forced them to build a new police station. Due to cost overruns, environmental lawsuits, weather delays, and bureaucratic snafus, it might not be finished until the middle of the next century. One forlorn, windowless wall was up. The builder seemed to have matched perfectly the dirty-yellow, grime-encrusted bricks of the original. Three of the mayor’s opponents had filed a lawsuit accusing him of mismanagement of the construction.

  Shattered glass, broken bottles, and rusted beer cans decorated the ground from the heaps of dirt near the new edifice to the unmown lawn and scrag
gly bushes around the old building. Inside, the first floor continued the ugliness scheme begun outside. Chips of paint peeled off the walls. Scratches and nicks beyond counting scored the solid-mahogany admitting counter. The smell of mold and mildew struck offensively. The windows were open, but no breeze stirred to relieve the beastly humidity. What had been pleasant at home amid the fields and trees became oppressive here in the confining enclosure. Five in the morning felt as awful as high noon. Strips of tape with dead bugs clotted on them hung from the ceiling.

  The few times I’d been in the station recently, the same cop seemed to be working the admitting desk. He saw me and carefully put down his paperback book Total Blather by Daisy Merdette. With loud grunts and groans suggesting he would die if forced to move faster than slow motion, he stood up, hitched his belt over his sixty-year-old paunch, and harrumphed over to the counter. Retirement had to be a day or two away. The only fan in evidence sat in the middle of his desk. It was small but aimed directly at his dry armpits.

  I asked for Frank Murphy. He and I used to work together with whacked-out teens when he was in the juvenile division. He’d been in homicide the past few years. During that time we had seen much less of each other, but he was still a friend and the only contact I had in the department. I doubted if he’d be in at this hour, but it was worth a try.

  Frank was not available, and I would not be able to see the prisoner. They were processing her. I desperately wanted to know what had happened. Meg was probably less than fifty feet away, and I couldn’t speak to her.

  Unable to see Meg, I said, “I’m looking for Agnes Davis, a friend of mine.”

  “She arrested too?”

  “No. She’s a mutual friend. She called me from here.”

  “We don’t keep a record of friends’ phone calls.”

  “Where do friends of arrested people usually make phone calls from?”

  He pointed down a gloomy corridor.

  I finally found Agnes in a waiting room with two pop machines that both had out-of-order signs. The dingy space smelled like burnt coffee. Two of the overhead lights blinked on and off at random intervals. Outside the pale, streaked window early gray dawn was breaking. We were the only ones in the waiting area. The rest of the friends of the criminals of River’s Edge, like sensible people, were home in bed. As I walked into the humid holding room, Agnes stood up from a folding chair. She hugged me.