by Barry Rachin
“You’re dating the school janitor?”
“This has nothing to do with Carl’s position here. You’re in a snit because he caught you with your academic pants down.”
“You,” Ed Gray shook a finger menacingly in her general direction, “are totally out of line.” His eyes glazed over with rage. “Insubordinate!”
“What I do with my personal life is none of your business.”
He made a motion to leave but turned back almost immediately. “You’re not the least bit embarrassed? It doesn’t bother you that the other staff at Brandenburg understand what’s going on?”
Grace was sorting a pile of test that she would grade at home over the weekend. “Those teachers who care about me will wish me well and perhaps take a genuine interest in Carl. The rest can go to hell.”
******
Sunday Carl replaced the mailbox. He dug out the old pole down below the frost line and wedged a four-inch, pressure-treated post in the hole. Emptying a bag of Quickrete into the pit, he flooded the gray powder with water. Satisfied with the way the cement was curing, he spread a thick layer of straw over the ground covering the hole.
“What’s that for?”
“Keeps the cold out so the cement can cure properly.” He leveled the post making minor adjustments. “It’s just a precaution. Don’t want the mix to freeze overnight.”
Short of attacking it with a chain saw, no one, not even the demented Dwight Goober, was going to destroy the four-inch post. “Put your tools away and come in for a while.” Grace put a pot of coffee on while Carl washed up. “Our little secret isn’t so private anymore.”
“Figured as much.” Carl picked a strand of loose straw off his flannel shirt. “Teachers who never knew I existed, are all goggle-eyed.” He chuckled in a deep bass. “You’re blue-collar boyfriend’s assumed celebrity status.”
Grace straddled him on the chair. “Dr. Rosen stopped by my classroom Friday.” The psychologist looked in shortly after Ed Gray stormed off. “He talked in circles, smiled a lot and went away.” Grace could feel Carl’s arms come up under her sides. “Moral support, I figure.”
“Where’s your daughter?” Carl was kissing her neck.
“Spending the weekend with her father.” Pushing him away momentarily, Grace reached into her pocket and laid a small gift-wrapped package no bigger than a pencil on the table.
Carl picked it up and turned it over in his hand. “For me?” She nodded and settled back comfortably in his arms. He pulled the paper off carefully. The toothbrush featured soft nylon bristles and a rubber flossing pick.
******
With the cement curing under a six-inch bed of straw, they went upstairs and took their clothes off. They made love quickly and quietly then, for good measure, did it again. In the morning the couple rose early and ate a leisurely breakfast. “When is your next craft fair?” Grace pushed a plate of buttered raisin toast across the table.
“Two weeks on a Saturday. That’s the juried show.”
Carl was sitting at the kitchen table in his underwear, his strong lean body hunched over the food. Nothing could have seemed more natural. Grace stared at him intently. “Are you nervous?”
“There will be artists who display regularly in expensive galleries.” He fidgeted in the chair. “Maybe I’m just kidding myself.”
She came up behind him and draped her arms over his chest. “Or maybe like the unassuming Chickasaw basket weaver, you’ll knock them all dead.”
******
A week past and life at Brandenburg Middle School drifted back to normal. Teachers who had treated Grace like her bra was on backwards, greeted her pleasantly enough now and even made small talk between classes. Ed Gray was in a habitually foul mood and held impromptu daily meetings with Principal Skinner in the hallways or the administrative office. Pam Sullivan seemed contrite, almost apologetic - not that such a woman would ever give Carl Solomon the right time of day much less credit for having a reasonably endowed brain lodged between his ears.
When Grace arrived at school on Thursday morning, Pam muttered, “Principal Skinner wants to speak with you ASAP. I sent an aide over to cover you class through first period.” She glared at Grace haughtily before turning her back.
So this was it. Out of shear spitefulness, Pam Sullivan had spilled the beans to the principal about her office romance. Or maybe Ed Gray had given him an earful describing behavior unbecoming a professional educator. Insubordination, rash and reckless—
“Grace, would you come in please and close the door.” Principal Skinner was waving at her from behind his desk. The cap on the Maalox bottle was lying on its side, a moist, pink ring circling the inner edge. He rose and, with his back to her, stared morosely out the window. “WJAR Channel Ten weather team is calling for snow tomorrow. Two to four inches on the ground by daybreak.” He pivoted on his heels and picked up a football that was perched on a shelf. “Less than half a foot of snow by dawn. Do we close the school and tack another day on at the end of the year? Decisions. Decisions.” Without warning he lobbed the ball to Grace. “Nice catch!”
“This bad weather, it’s not a storm, per se,” he rambled on. “Nothing like the nor’easter we had last December. What would you do?”
Grace rubbed the raised surface of the ball with her finger tips. Football mementos plus several rows of varsity championship trophies littered the office. “Close the school. It’s not worth the risk. But you didn’t call me here to discuss the weather.”
On the far wall hung a picture of a trim and robust Principal Skinner in full varsity gear with his college squad. A mop of shaggy brown hair fell down over the handsome, young man’s ears. Principal Skinner gestured at the football in her hands. “Did you notice the inscription?”
Grace glanced at the writing on the side of the ball. ”Sorry, but I don’t recognize the name.”
“Roosevelt ‘Rosie’ Greer. Played for the Penn State Nittany Lions. All pro with the New York Giants then went to first string right tackle with the LA Rams.”
“The bruiser weighed over 300 pounds,” the principal took the ball from her hands and returned the pigskin to its place of honor on the far shelf, “but always went out of his way to avoid injuring another player. Rosie had a unique hobby. Needlepoint. Use to stitch on the sidelines toward the end of his career while he was still an NFL, first string player.”
“Well, that’s very nice—”
“I visited the art museum last month when they featured the local artisans. Carl Solomon’s box was on display. Meticulous handiwork.” He cleared his throat. “Ed Gray gave notice yesterday. He’s leaving the Brandenburg school system by the end of the month. Two weeks to be exact. You’re my first choice for Chairman of the English Department.”
Grace’s head was spinning. She couldn’t connect the dots; nothing the man was saying made any sense. She stared at the principal like he had been speaking in tongues. “Ed took another job?”
Principal Skinner reached for the pink liquid and filled the plastic cup to the brim. “The turncoat deserted to the enemy camp.” He put the cup to his lips and tilted his head back. Principal Skinner wiped his mouth with a handkerchief. “Took a position in Boston working with MCAS.”
******
“Let’s take a ride,” Carl said.
Angie just arrived and hadn’t even removed her jacket. “Where to?”
“Providence,” he replied without elaborating.
“My mother’s upstairs with Mrs. Shapiro. Can she come?”
Carl grabbed his coat and headed up the basement stairs. “Sure thing.”
They drove down Cottage Street and hooked up with the highway heading south. There was no place to park downtown so he found space on a side street off College Hill and plunked four quarters in the meter. They backtracked to North Main Street. Carl pulled up in front of the Rhode Island School of Design Store. A girl standing in the doorway was wearing a blue military coat with epaulets and brass buttons. Her boyfriend s
ported a spiked Mohawk and his tongue was pierced. Each time he spoke, a silver ball danced up and down in his mouth. Angie tugged at her mother’s blouse. “Why is everybody dressed weird?”
“It’s RISD. The school attracts a lot of artsy types.” She turned to Carl. “I didn’t know they sold woodworking supplies here.”
“They don’t,” he confirmed. Sauntering into the store, he cornered a salesgirl. “Handmade papers?”
“Over there by the bookbinding supplies.”
On a six-foot high rack, row after row of handmade papers with different themes and textures were neatly hung. “I need a new look for the Boston show. Something totally original that will knock the gallery owners’ socks off.”
“You got the amboyna burl veneer,” Grace countered.
Carl smiled faintly. “And that’s all I’ve got. Except for the bird’s-eye maple, none of the other woods look half as nice.”
Angie fingered a paper that was tissue thin and covered with dried leaves and stems. One of the gossamer leaves, which extended above the surface of the paper, broke off in her hand. Carl immediately grabbed a similar sheet off the rack and placed it to one side. “You can’t replace wood with paper.”
“Why not?” Carl shot back. “Artists experiment with new techniques all the time. Some mixed media work. Some don’t. Until you actually take the leap of faith, you’ll never know.”
“But,” Grace said hesitantly, “that paper’s much too thin. I can see right through it.”
Carl seemed momentarily stymied. A pad of writing paper was sitting abandoned on a shelf. He grabbed the pad and held it underneath the decorative, handmade offering. “You’re going to use plain white paper for a background?” Angie said incredulously.
“Substrate not background,” Carl countered with a defiant smirk. “It’s sounds more professional.”
“You know,” Grace observed, “against the pale, eggshell white, it’s really quite attractive. But how do you protect it from stains?”
Carl was pulling other sheets off the rack. “Don’t know. I haven’t thought that far ahead.” He bought five sheets of paper plus an assortment of acrylic paints and sable brushes. When asked about the paint supplies, he shrugged and changed the subject.
The following Tuesday afternoon when Angie arrived, Carl had already glued up a half dozen pieces of scrap wood with an assortment handmade papers. “You do the honors.” He handed her a block of wood with the transparent tissue glued to a white background. Angie loaded a carbide round-over bit into the chuck and tightened the collar on the router with a wrench. Turning the motor on, she eased the bearing snugly up against the wood. A blur of wood chips flew up in the air. The engine grew louder as she navigated the cutter freehand around the perimeter. Finishing a second pass, Angie pulled the router away from the wood and killed the motor. “Nice,” she murmured, surveying her work. “Except over here on the far side where the blade was cutting across the grain.”
Carl glanced over her shoulder. The cut was clean and silky smooth. “Where the cutter pulled the paper up a little, we can tack it down with glue.”
After the success of the leafy tissue, the next offering was a bust. The paper was far too thick and pulpy. The whirling blade threw puffs of cottony fiber all over the room. To strengthen the sheet, Carl sprayed the surface with lacquer, but the chemicals bled through to the front creating a series of ugly blotches and stains.
Angie wagged her head from side to side. “Think wonders, shit blunders. It’s hopeless.” She flung the soggy mess into the trash.
The next sheet boasted delicate magenta flower petals along with flecks of dark green leaf stems peppering the deckled, ivory surface. The blade bit into the wood trimming away the topmost edge but the spongy paper tore at a jagged angle as she negotiated the final corner moving against the grain. A patch the size of a grain of rice had ripped away. “What a shame!” Angie set the router aside.
Carl stared at the damaged surface for the longest time then foraged about in a drawer and removed several tubes of paint he had bought at the RISD store. “Can you paint?”
Angie scrunched up her face. “Had a paint-by-numbers kit when I was in fifth grade.”
“Which is all the skills you’ll need.” He handed her a magnifying headset. “Here, put this on.”
Angie placed the device over her forehead and tightened the band. Carl squirted a glob of reddish paint onto a scrap of wood. “It’s too bright,” Angie protested. “The colors don’t match.”
Handing her a fine sable brush, Carl placed a dab of gray paint next to the red. “If you look closely, the flower petals are two, separate colors. Mix a little of the gray in with the red, but let both colors show.”
Angie lifted a gooey drop of gray paint and deposited it in the center of the red. Both colors melded together in a streaked, purplish glaze. “Don’t mix the paints. That’s the look you want.” Carl reached up, grabbed the visor and lowered the magnifying lens over her eyes. “Now paint a tiny petal over the torn paper and hide the defect.”
Angie pulled away from the table. “What if I screw up and ruin everything.”
“For cripes sakes! It’s not the Mona Lisa; it’s just a piece of scrap wood.” Carl nudged her forward. “Don’t agonize. Put your brain on automatic pilot. Just do it.”
Angie took a deep breath and blew all the air out of her lungs. Propping her left arm on the table for added support, she lowered the feathery bristles. The girl ran the brush over the paper. Three quick strokes. The ersatz, magenta petal was indistinguishable from the rest. Perfection. Angie removed the magnifier, and dabbed the salty moistness from her eyes with a paper towel.
“Was it something I said?”
“Shut up!” She muttered gruffly, the tone more benediction than reprimand.
******
Grace hadn't noticed the police sirens blaring in the distance. Even when the first cruiser pulled onto Bovey Street the noise made no impression on her.
“Something’s wrong.” The urgency in her daughter’s voice finally hit home. An ambulance careened onto the street trailed by two more police cars, their red lights and sirens turning the quiet evening upside down. Grace threw on her coat and ran outside. A shrill caterwauling arose from the far end of the street. Like the death throes of a mortally injured animal, the sound rippled through the cold night air, died away to nothing before repeating with renewed intensity. Grace could see the ambulance, doors ajar, abandoned in the middle of the street at an odd angle. Now another sound, a woman’s shrill voice joined the first in a chorus of bedlam.
Grace edged down the darkened street. A policeman was methodically scouring the shrubs on a neighbor’s front lawn with a flashlight” What happened?”
“Local kid got beaten up. Real bad.”
The medics suddenly emerged from a wooded area in back of the property with a body on a stretcher. “My baby! My darling baby boy!” Dwight Goober’s mother fought her way through the crowd of onlookers and threw herself on the stretcher, smothering the boy’s blotchy face with kisses. An officer had to physically restrain the woman while the medics loaded Dwight into the rear of the ambulance. The distraught mother collapsed on the ground, moaning loudly. “Who could do such a thing to my darling baby boy!”
The swirling strobe lights on the roof of the cruisers illuminated the street with an eerie glow. Another officer approached from the woods balancing a soggy bag of potato chips between a thumb and index finger. It was the same policeman who had responded when Grace’s house was egged. “Dwight Goober’s last solid meal,” he said with an inscrutable poker face.
“What’s that?”
“In addition to other injuries, he’s got a broken jaw,” the officer stomped his shoes, which were caked with mud, on the ground. “Did you call Hubert Fenton?”
“Yes I did. He stopped by on Wednesday to give me an estimate.”
The officer crumpled the bag - Lays Sour Cream and Onion - in his fist before stuffing it in
a pocket. “Hope you didn’t sign a contract.”
“No, not yet.”
“Good. Keep the money you were going to give Hubert in the bank and let it collect interest. Judging by the extent of injuries, Mr. Goober is going to be out of circulation for a very long time.” He scraped the heel of his shoe against the curb.
“What’s that awful smell?” Grace felt nauseous, sick to her stomach.
“We had to haul his waterlogged carcass out of that filthy swamp back in the woods. My shoes and sock are covered with muck.” The wooded area the officer was referring to lay at the end of the cul-de-sac. The builder who owned the land originally wanted to put up new housing units, but the environmental protection agency objected. They claimed the fifty acre plot was wetlands and vital habitat for migrating birds and other indigenous animal. The EPA insisted that the swampy wooded area be left in its pristine, natural state.
“Any idea who did this,” Grace asked.
“No, not a clue.” the officer didn’t seem overly concerned at the prospect of an unsolved crime. He pointed to a spot in the snow where several plain clothes detectives were huddled together making notes. “Someone jumped Dwight over there and knocked him to the ground. The assailant dragged him through the snow down to the wetlands.”
“Maybe it was a gang.”
The officer shook his head vehemently and rubbed more crud off the sides off his shoe. Acrid clay was mixed in with the dirt. “There’s only the trail of Dwight’s body being hauled, feet first, down to the swamp. The attacker left no prints, because the body obliterated his own tracks. Only one set of footprints emerges from the woods. Just one.” The officer blew into his clenched fist to warm the frozen fingers. “The assailant threw him in the middle of the swamp, face down in a foot of freezing water. It’s a miracle the creep survived.”
Dwight Goober just got beaten within an inch of his life and I feel … pleasantly surprised. Exhilarated. Relieved!
And Grace didn’t feel even a smidgeon of sympathy for the slobbering shrew of a mother. Retribution provided a sense of completeness. It balanced every offense with an appropriate punishment. Dwight Goober had vandalized and terrorized the community for years. Now some community-minded bounty hunter had broken his jaw and left the youth for dead in a pool of frigid water. That seemed fair enough. It balanced the ledger books. Maybe Father Callahan or the enlightened yogi with the silly chalkboard wouldn’t agree, but rich people and God-crazed holy men didn’t generally have to contend with the likes of Dwight Goober. Case closed.
