by Joan Dempsey
When Tommy arrived at the high school that evening, Abe Goodman was waiting for him outside the brightly lit main entrance, talking on his cell phone. The glassed-in rafters of the gym were also lit up, and as Tommy emerged from the parking lot, he could hear echoey banging basketballs in the thin winter air, a coach’s muffled whistle, and muted shouts from the boys’ team as they began their practice. In the past these sounds would have loosed all kinds of demons from his own tenure as a student in this very building, but the job of teaching here for ten years had stripped them of their power. A trio of girls burst out of the main doors and, as if they’d left their dexterity behind them on the basketball court, they awkwardly bumped into each other as they tried to choose a direction for getting around Abe. Despite the frigid temperature, their hair was wet and their parkas unzipped, slung back off their shoulders by the pull of fake fur-trimmed hoods. Bulky gym bags bumped against their thighs as they headed to the parking lot.
“Hey, Mr. Zeilonka,” called the tallest one. All three gave him a wave as they walked off to their car, and that was that—exactly what they would have done had the past week never happened. Tommy felt a surge of gratitude, and for the first time since this hearing was scheduled, he allowed himself a moment of hope. He shifted his grip on his new Kenneth Cole briefcase—leather glove on leather handle—and swung it slightly with what felt like courage; Robert had presented it to him last night, a soft leather case, rich acorn color with brushed metal hardware, more casual than the one Robert carried to his law firm each day. Inside were two crisp pads of lined yellow legal paper, a black and silver Schaeffer ballpoint pen, and a bag of Werther’s hard caramels. In the public library’s reading room on a Saturday afternoon more than six years ago, Robert had unwrapped a Werther’s, the crackling plastic too loud for the quiet space, fashioned the wrapper into a sort of vessel, laid the candy inside, and pushed it across the table to Tommy, who’d been trying to stifle a cough. This was how they’d met.
Abe had advised that for now it was best if Robert stayed out of view, and worked on the case behind the scenes; the focus should be on Tommy the English teacher, not Tommy the gay man. Robert, whose legal expertise was in consumer protection, had at first been furious, but had finally acquiesced, deferring to Abe’s seniority and experience. Now, in front of the high school, Abe acknowledged Tommy with a small lift of his head, said something else into the phone, ended the call, and reached out to shake Tommy’s hand.
“Guess we kept it under wraps after all. Is this the first time you’ve been out without the press?”
“We prefer paparazzi.”
“Ah yes, I’ll be wanting your autograph before this is over.”
Abe broke into a smile, warm and direct and reassuring. Then his expression turned serious.
“Anything I need to know, Tommy, before we walk in there? You know the drill, right?”
Tommy gave him a wry smile. “The hearing’s pro forma. Don’t expect a thing, just get through it. Be polite, professional, say as little as possible, see what we can learn. That’s it.”
“Perfect.”
Principal Ed Shaw’s office, bright with fluorescent light, was overly warm. Superintendent Arnie Dengler’s large face was pink and damp, his hand clammy. Shaw made introductions all around and showed them to a bright blue pedestal table, barely big enough around for the four of them and the same table where Tommy had sat for his annual reviews, all of which had been exceptional. Shaw had only been principal for the last two, and his knowledge of Tommy’s work had been poor at best, but still he’d given Tommy highest praise.
Tommy sat, lifted his briefcase onto his lap, and took out pen and paper, enjoying the pleasing smell of the expensive, dyed leather. Dengler took the chair next to him and had to work to get his hefty legs under the table; he rammed Tommy’s knee.
“Pardon me,” said Dengler. “Feels like we’ve been relegated to the kids’ table here.”
He smiled around at all of them. Shaw began to sit down, but halfway into his chair he hesitated and looked around the room as if he were expecting someone else.
“Do we need drinks? Coffee? Soda?”
Tommy shook his head, but Abe, who was draping his overcoat on the back of his chair, requested water for both of them, and Tommy understood why when Shaw seemed a bit put out.
“Get me a Diet Coke then,” said Dengler. “Thank you, Ed.”
Shaw stepped out of the room, and Dengler leaned forward to retrieve a handkerchief from the back pocket of his slacks. He dabbed it over his broad forehead and well back to the edge of his receding hairline, then set it on the table. He noticed Tommy staring at it and put it back in his pocket. He folded his hands and perched them on the edge of the table. Shaw came back with two bottles of water and two Diet Cokes.
Abe thanked him and took a silver handheld tape recorder from his overcoat, slid it to the center of the table, and pressed record. Shaw started to say something, but Abe interrupted and directed his comments toward the recorder.
“Gentlemen, we are four of us here at Adams River Regional High School in Hampshire, Massachusetts, on Monday, February 16, 2009—Principal Edward Shaw and School Superintendent Arnold Dengler along with English teacher Thomas Zeilonka and myself, Mr. Zeilonka’s counsel, Abe Goodman—for a review of Mr. Zeilonka’s dismissal on Friday, February 6. This meeting is being recorded.”
“Is that really necessary?”
“Just a formality, Ed; I’m sure you understand. Shall we begin?”
And just like that Abe commandeered the meeting. Tommy suppressed a smile; this was only the beginning, he knew, but Abe’s confidence infused him with a sudden and determined energy he felt could propel him all the way to the Supreme Court, should it come to that. Tommy lifted his round wire-rimmed glasses higher up on the bridge of his nose. He jotted down the date and all four of their names. He glanced expectantly at Abe. Dengler twisted around in his seat and cast about in a pile of papers on the bookcase behind him. He turned back and fanned a thin pamphlet in front of his face.
“Judas Priest, Eddie, can’t we turn down that heat?” He retrieved his handkerchief and mopped his neck. Shaw shook his head.
“It’s tied into the whole system, I’m afraid. Nothing I can do.”
“Let me open a window, at least. Sorry. Please, Abe, carry on.”
Dengler pushed up and out of his chair, squeezed behind Shaw, and opened the large window behind Shaw’s desk. He bent over to breathe in the cold air. Abe leaned back in his chair and directed his comments toward Dengler.
“Actually, Arnie, I’d like to hear from you. This dismissal is without merit. What, exactly, was your rationale? And don’t tell me conduct unbecoming.”
Dengler turned to them and leaned against the windowsill, his ample stomach pooching out. “But conduct unbecoming is the reason.” Dengler considered Tommy with a soft expression.
“I know you’re a good teacher, son. You’ve given this school district ten years. But we simply couldn’t ignore the complaints any longer. I’m sure you understand that your lifestyle is a cause for concern for many of our students and their parents. Your classroom had become unsafe for a large number of kids. They felt targeted by your agenda.”
Tommy winced. He sat back in his chair and propped the pad of paper on the edge of the table. Unsafe, he wrote. Lifestyle. Agenda. A trickle of sweat inched down the small of his back.
“Please don’t be obtuse, Arnie,” said Abe. “What specific complaints did you receive about my client? What behavior are you talking about?”
Dengler came back to the table and sat down. He carefully twisted the plastic cap on his Diet Coke, which released the constricted air with a long, slow hiss. He seemed to think a moment, then turned to Shaw and held out an open hand, indicating Shaw should answer. Shaw shifted in his seat and tugged at the knot of his green necktie. The skin under his eyes was loose, bluish, and he rubbed at it with both hands, then sighed and addressed Tommy directly.
&
nbsp; “I’m afraid many of our parents feel you’ve promoted what they call—and I’m quoting here—your ‘homosexual agenda.’ You’ve not allowed their kids to express their sincerely held Christian beliefs that homosexuality is a sin.”
“And it is a sin, son, make no mistake about that,” said Dengler. He leaned closer and Tommy could smell the Coke on his breath. His eyes were kind. “We know you’ve gotten trapped in homosexual behavior, and I’m very sorry about that. We can help you, you know. I’d be more than happy to facilitate a process to that effect.”
“Arnie.” Shaw frowned and shook his head.
Tommy looked at Dengler in disbelief and opened his mouth to speak, but Abe put a hand on the back of Tommy’s chair and tapped him just once: say as little as possible. Tommy clenched his jaw and drew a box around Dengler’s name.
“And at what point did you seek out my client to talk with him about this issue? Was he informed about the complaints, given a warning, given an opportunity to address any concerns as, by the way, is required not only by law but also by the rules in your own school handbook?”
Shaw exchanged a look with Dengler and pulled at the knot of his tie.
“Shame on you,” said Abe. “Ten years of exemplary reviews and not even the courtesy of a conversation? Does he have that chance tonight, gentlemen, or are we just going through the motions here?”
“Please, Abe,” said Shaw. “We’re as concerned as you are.”
For a moment Tommy felt sorry for the principal, who was again rubbing his eyes. He’d not been a bad head of school, just a tired one, a man who’d been around the block one too many times, a man counting the days until retirement. Shaw looked beseechingly at Tommy.
“There was too much pressure, Tommy. I’m afraid the school board’s vote was unanimous.”
Abe held out both palms and raised his eyebrows, asking for further explanation, and Shaw sighed and ticked off the reasons on his fingers.
“Whitman’s Leaves of Grass, Ginsberg’s Howl, Carson’s Billy Boy, Anderson’s Find Me—all of which were protested by parents.”
He turned around and retrieved a manila file folder from his desk and opened it on the table in front of him. He leafed through the contents and began to read in a tired monotone.
“Mr. Zeilonka held my daughter after class and berated her for expressing herself. Mr. Zeilonka told my son to shut up, that his Christian beliefs were hurtful to other students. I won’t have my son reading that filth. My kids have the right to opt out of his peculiar curriculum.”
Shaw looked up. “Shall I go on?”
“I’ll need copies,” said Abe. “I assume you’ve noted the specific parties who made these complaints?” Shaw nodded.
“I’d never tell a student to shut up,” said Tommy.
“I’m just quoting,” said Shaw.
“Tell me something, Ed,” said Abe. “How long have you been getting these complaints?”
“I’d say the last couple of months?”
“And that didn’t strike you as strange, that after ten exemplary years there were complaints coming in, all of them similar in nature?”
Shaw threw a glance at Dengler.
“I just assumed they were new classes of kids, with different experiences than earlier classes. It happens. What I know is that these kids and their parents were distraught.”
Dengler briefly laid a hand on Tommy’s forearm.
“It’s all about fairness, son.” He spoke quietly, confidentially. “That’s all. Our kids don’t want to be told their beliefs are wrong, and their parents don’t want their kids indoctrinated into something they believe is sinful. Public school, by law, is supposed to offer a tolerant, open learning environment—for everyone. I’m sure you can understand that. We had no choice but to let you go. Our kids were at risk.”
Dengler’s sincerity surprised Tommy. He’d been prepared for animosity, disdain, even disgust. All he felt was compassion. He was suddenly aware of the sweat in his armpits. He drew his arms more tightly against his sides. At risk, he wrote.
“You do understand, gentlemen,” said Abe, “that everything you’ve said here is suspect under the Fair Employment Practice Law? That what you’re doing here is discrimination, pure and simple?”
Shaw and Dengler exchanged a look.
“It’s clear to me you might have worked something out with my client had you come to him, but here we are. I’ve heard nothing that leads me to believe you’d reconsider your decision. Am I wrong?”
Shaw lowered his head.
“I’m sorry, Abe, but our decision stands,” said Dengler.
“I expect those copies in my office by close of business tomorrow, Ed, along with Tommy’s performance reviews and anything else that’s in his personnel file. Now, since I rather suspected this meeting would conclude as it has, I’ve taken the liberty of drafting up an agreement on discovery for the arbitration process.”
Shaw made a low moaning sound, then cleared his throat. Tommy smiled inwardly, once again impressed by Abe, who pulled a set of papers, folded lengthwise, from an inside pocket of his overcoat. He handed out copies.
“Let me give you the highlights. Fifteen days for discovery. Three days for review, and one more day’s leeway before I have to meet the petition filing deadline, after which no further discovery will be allowed. I suggest we hold the hearing in my office, where we have a suitably large conference room, as I expect we’ll each want to hear from a fair number of witnesses. Will you be representing yourselves or will you have an attorney present?”
Shaw swallowed hard and appealed to Dengler, who mopped again at his face.
“Of course we’ll have a lawyer,” said Dengler. “And we need Connie to review these terms before we sign a thing.”
“Connie Clough?” said Abe. “I’m frankly surprised you can afford him.”
“Oh, we’re not paying him. He’s an old friend.”
Abe frowned. Connie Clough? Tommy wrote.
“We don’t have much time,” said Abe. “You’ll get back to us tomorrow? Excellent. Now, if there isn’t anything else? No? Good. Note for the record that Principal Shaw and Superintendent Dengler both shook their heads to indicate they have nothing further. This meeting is concluded.”
Abe retrieved the tape recorder and turned it off.
“We’ll see you at the arbitration hearing, then, gentlemen.”
Dengler rose, squeezed past Shaw, and went back to the window. He pushed it further open and leaned down to peer out, framed by the darkness of the night woods behind the school. In silence the other three men gathered up their things. Abe and Tommy put on their coats and went to the door. Tommy turned back. He felt the heft of his new briefcase and thought of Robert waiting at home. He spoke quietly.
“‘The sum of all known value and respect, I add up in you, whoever you are.’”
Dengler turned from the window and cupped a hand to his ear. Tommy repeated himself, louder, and Dengler smiled.
“A fine sentiment, son, thank you.”
Shaw shook his head at Dengler.
“You can thank Walt Whitman, Arnie. Leaves of Grass.”
Dengler appeared confused, and then bewildered.
“A classic,” said Tommy. “I’m a fine English teacher, Mr. Dengler. My only agenda is to facilitate a love of literature.”
He shifted his briefcase in front of him, held the handle with both hands.
“‘I exist as I am—that is enough; If no other in the world be aware, I sit content.’ Whitman again. The students—all of them—love that one.”
He turned and walked out. Abe followed without another word.
At home, Tommy parked his VW Jetta. He scooped his briefcase out of the back seat and circled around behind the car to cross the short lawn into the screened breezeway. The streetlight at the edge of the gravel driveway had little effect on the starless night, and Tommy could sense the raw air that precedes an imminent snow. He was thankful that the TV crews from last we
ek had turned their attention elsewhere. Inside the door to the kitchen he saw their tabby cat, Muriel, waiting for him as she always did. She opened her mouth, and he smiled as he imagined her scratchy meow, and then grew puzzled as she lowered her body and flattened her ears. Rapid steps approached him from behind. Two men rushed across the street, carrying themselves like soldiers. Swollen, shiny black parkas. Arms lifting as they hit the driveway. Guns, Tommy thought, but instead they were Maglites, as long as a policeman’s baton. Before Tommy could even turn to run, he jammed his eyes closed against a sudden blinding light, then heard the fast friction of nylon as the second man closed in. Tommy instinctively whipped his head away. He flung up the briefcase as a shield. A Maglite slammed into his left cheekbone and ripped off his glasses, which raked across the soft skin just above the bridge of his nose. He lost the briefcase and hit the driveway hard, his right knee taking the brunt. He curled tight, face down in a fetal position, arms instinctively clutched around his head. The frozen gravel pierced his knees and elbows. The jolt of the first kick to his side broke apart his clenched posture, the second broke his ribs. And as he gulped for air that wouldn’t come, as he heaved and squeaked with each attempt to breathe, he became aware of Robert screaming from the breezeway, and then there was a hand grasping his hair, yanking back his head, and the improbable smell of buttered popcorn and the feel of wet lips moving against his ear—“we know where you live, Sodomite”—and then the rush of retreating men. He pushed up onto all fours and frantically tried to gulp air; no air would come. Sparks of light shot through his peripheral vision. His shoulders quaked. Robert crouched beside him, saying something Tommy couldn’t hear. A chill cascaded over him. He dragged miniscule breaths of whistling oxygen into his lungs, strangled and too shallow but carrying at least the promise of depth. Finally, a brutal shard of air cut a jagged path down his throat, and he instinctively sat up on his heels, lifted his head, and at last caught one desperate breath, and then another.
11
Glory to the Fallen
Ludka laughed and set down her tumbler. Stanley Brozek had been sitting with her in front of the fireplace in their living room for only twenty minutes, and already she couldn’t remember when she’d enjoyed herself quite so much, especially after the past week in which the news was crowded with what some were calling a modern-day witch hunt and others were calling an overdue purge. More than once last week Tommy and Robert had come over for respite, unable to bear the news teams outside their home. The cameras had been here, too, but Izaac had calmly set them straight on exactly where the property line began, way up the hill at the start of the long driveway. The distance, closed blinds, and covered access between the garage and the house meant a zoom lens was of very little use. Besides, even though Izaac had been largely out of the public eye for the past several years, he still commanded a great deal of respect, and most reporters had been treated well by him throughout his long career; they weren’t that keen on invading his privacy, despite the story’s importance. Still, one photo had appeared in the Hampshire Gazette, taken by a dauntless photographer who’d braved the wetland by night to get a shot of Izaac and Ludka sitting at the dining room table with Tommy. “Former AG Shelters Ousted Teacher” ran the headline. Now, as Ludka and Izaac visited with Brozek in front of the fire, the curtains and blinds hemmed them in.