The principal retrieved a copy of the school yearbook from a bookcase beside his desk. “Oh, let me show you Kay Wilson’s picture.” He flipped through several pages. “Here it is. Top row on the right.”
Dr. Lassiter handed the book to Scott. On the opposite page from Delia Willston was a small color photograph of a young woman with long blond hair. Now that he knew her first name, it didn’t take Scott more than a second to make the leap back in time twelve years to another time and another place.
“Do you remember her?” the principal asked.
Scott nodded. “Yes, Kay Laramie. She was a couple of years younger than me.”
He handed the volume back to the principal.
“She’s a good teacher, very creative,” Dr. Lassiter said. “I know she’ll be a big help.”
“Does she know I’m the lawyer who is volunteering to work with the mock trial program?” Scott asked.
“Not yet. I’ll tell her later today and ask her to call you.”
Scott handed one of his business cards to the principal. “Give her this. I’ll be in the office all afternoon.”
In the hallway outside the administrative offices, Scott didn’t notice whether any of the students brushing past him had studs through their tongues or purple streaks in their hair. He didn’t glance at the trophy case. He was deep in the archives of his memory, recalling images in which Kay Laramie appeared.
In the winter of Scott’s senior year in high school, a tall, slender, blue-eyed sophomore arrived at Catawba High School and walked through the door of Mr. Myer’s English class. Barely sixteen, Kay Laramie was a language whiz who wrote poetry. At first, Scott didn’t pay much attention to the new student, but that spring Kay made the magic leap from girl to young woman. And Scott Ellis was sitting next to her in class when the transformation took place.
Everything between them happened fast. In his memory, it was like time-lapse photography. They did the typical high-school things: walking together in the halls, meals at fast-food restaurants, and going to the movies. Scott wasn’t much of a conversationalist, but they had phone calls that lasted for an hour, and he surprised his friends by asking Kay to go to the prom. He couldn’t remember what she wore, but the pictures from that night were still in a plastic box somewhere at his parents’ house.
Kay’s father kept her on a short leash. Otherwise, things might have gone farther. Then, after a few weeks, Scott was caught up in the swirling activity of high-school graduation. Kay was there, but his focus shifted to his longtime friends who were about to scatter to the winds. After he marched down the aisle of the auditorium in his cap and gown, Kay’s family left for summer vacation. When she returned, Scott and his family were out of town at the beach. They were together for one week before Scott left for basic training. But their relationship was strained, and Scott questioned whether it wasn’t better to let it go so they could both move on. How could he expect to hold her affection and see it grow into something more when he could be stationed halfway around the world?
So he was cool. And she thought he was cold. She came to see him on his last day in Catawba and handed him an envelope containing a poem she’d written. He read it alone in his room after she left. She had bared her heart, and it gave him the courage to reciprocate. He dialed her number. It was busy. He tried twice more without success. An hour later he was on his way out of town.
He started four letters to her on different nights while he lay in his bunk during basic training. He thought about her during long marches and while standing guard in the middle of the night. His feelings were real, but he couldn’t express them on paper. Her poem had been so powerful; his letters sounded so phony. Frustrated, he decided to wait until he could see her in person and tell her how much she meant to him.
During his first leave at home, he phoned her house as soon as he woke up from a comfortable night in his own bed. Her father answered and told him that she had gone to Charlotte with Bill Corbin. Scott knew Bill. He was a good guy. Scott was devastated. He should have known Kay would go on to someone else. Maybe his doubts were more real than his feelings. He was being trained to fight, but he decided not to fight for Kay. He didn’t leave a message.
Now, her last name was Wilson.
4
Summon up remembrance of things past.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, SONNET 30
Kay Wilson glanced up from her desk and checked the time on the clock hanging crookedly on the back wall of modular unit number three. It was the last class period of the day. Several wild strands of the teacher’s long blond hair had escaped the grip of the clasp she’d used to gather it together at the back of her head before rushing out of her apartment that morning. Her makeup was an afterthought applied at two stoplights on the way to school, and she’d forgotten to wear the gold hoop earrings that still lay on the corner of the dresser in her bedroom.
Kay enjoyed the popularity reserved for new, young teachers and cultivated relationships with her students by getting to know them as more than names on a seating chart. Friendly and interested in others, she nevertheless kept her personal life private—a practice that fueled the curiosity of female students who wanted to know more about the teacher from California.
“Five minutes!” she called out to the class of twenty-eight eleventh graders writing their final thoughts about Thomas Wolfe’s use of imagery in the excerpt from Look Homeward, Angel printed on the quiz. While the students worked, Kay continued grading papers from a test given the previous week to another class. She finished Lester Garrison’s paper. He made a C, not because his answers were wrong, but because he didn’t write enough. His ability to understand and analyze what he read was clear; he just needed encouragement to put his thoughts on paper and improve his understanding of grammar. Lester had been absent from class earlier in the day, and Kay determined to talk to him as soon as possible.
“Time,” she announced. “Make sure you’ve written your name on the top of each sheet and pass your papers to the front.”
Janie Collins, a short brunette with brown eyes and a deep dimple in her right cheek, handed a stack of papers to the young English teacher.
“Janie, can you stay after class for a couple of minutes?” Kay asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” Janie answered politely with a rural twang that revealed a family heritage on tobacco road. Modular unit three was like home-schooling for Janie. She lived with her mother and two younger brothers in a twelve-by-seventy mobile home in a trailer park.
Kay sat on the edge of her desk. “There is a new extracurricular activity starting next week—a mock trial program, and I thought you might be interested.”
“What is it?” Janie asked.
“Pretend court. I’ve never been involved, but I’ve read the materials enough to understand the basic idea. A group of students learn about the legal system by acting out a court case. They serve as the lawyers and witnesses based on facts provided to them. After practicing for a couple of months, they compete against students from other schools before real lawyers and judges.”
Janie looked skeptical. “I don’t like talking in front of groups, and I’ve never thought about becoming a lawyer.”
“It’s not limited to people interested in a legal career. You write well and speaking in public is the next step. The first meeting is next Tuesday evening at seven o’clock. If you don’t like what you hear, I won’t ask you to come back.”
“Are you going to be there?”
“Yes, I’m the faculty advisor. Dr. Lassiter is trying to find a lawyer who will help me.”
“I’m not sure my mom can bring me to the meetings,” Janie said hesitantly. “It depends on her work schedule.”
“If you need a ride, let me know and I’ll help,” Kay offered. “Think about it over the weekend, and we’ll talk on Monday.”
After Janie left, Kay returned to the tests on her desk. On top was Dustin Rawlings’s paper. The football player’s perspective on American literature always mad
e her smile. Picking up her red pen, she began. An hour and a half later she was almost to the bottom of her stack when there was a knock on the door. Dr. Lassiter stuck his head inside the room.
“I’m glad I caught you,” the principal said. “I had lunch today with a young lawyer who has volunteered to help coach the mock trial team. His card is in your faculty mailbox. Give him a call in the next few days. He knows the first meeting is scheduled next Tuesday.”
Kay put down her red pen and rubbed her eyes. “Yes, sir. I need to grade a few more papers, but I’ll do it before I go home.”
She worked her way steadily through the remainder of the test papers. The final entry was Janie Collins. The young woman wrote a very insightful and fresh commentary on the Wolfe excerpt. Kay wrote “A -94” on her test.
There was a short, covered walkway from modular unit three to the main building where the teachers’ lounge was located. In Kay’s mailbox was a sheet of paper announcing a car wash for the Spanish club and a small, ivory-colored business card. It took her a couple of seconds to sort out the names. Humphrey, Balcomb & Jackson - 319 Lipscomb Avenue -Scott W. Ellis - Attorney at Law.
Scott Ellis. She held the card lightly between her fingers.
Scott was still sorting through teenage memories of Kay Laramie when he arrived back at the office. It might take a little effort, he thought, but it shouldn’t be too hard to put aside ancient, romantic feelings, especially since the tall, blue-eyed girl with the quick laugh was now Mrs. Wilson, the married English teacher.
He spent the rest of the afternoon preparing for the deposition of an automobile accident reconstruction expert. The firm’s client suffered a concussion in a collision with a dump truck and couldn’t remember what happened. Scott was finishing up the lengthy memo when the phone buzzed.
“Kay Wilson on line 5.”
Scott picked up the phone receiver and in what he considered his friendly, yet professional voice, said, “Hello, this is Scott Ellis.”
“Hi, Scott. It’s Kay Laramie Wilson from the high school. Remember me?”
The voice was instantly recognizable, just less girlish. Not at all grating like Mrs. Willston.
“Of course, I do,” Scott replied. “Your married name didn’t register when I talked to Dr. Lassiter, but he showed me your picture in the yearbook. I didn’t know you’d moved back to Catawba.”
“I’ve been here a year and a half. How about you?”
“The same. I came back after graduating from law school. When did you get married?”
“Five years ago. And you?”
“Still single. Do you have any kids?”
“About a hundred and ten every day at school but none of my own.”
Scott paused. The conversation felt as stiff as a newspaper interview. They were both silent for a moment, and he decided to get down to business.
“I’m looking forward to working with the mock trial team,” he said. “At first, I had some reservations about the time commitment, but I’m sure it can be a good program.”
“I’ve been telling the students it will be fun,” Kay replied. “But I’m also trying to recruit kids who will be serious about the competition.”
That sounded good to Scott. He picked up the mock trial materials he’d put on the corner of his desk.
“I haven’t had a chance to look over the packet of information Dr. Lassiter gave me. Have you gone through it?” he asked.
“Yes, but I have a lot of questions.”
“Do we need to go over anything before the first meeting?”
“I’d like that. Tomorrow is Saturday. We could meet for breakfast.”
Startled, Scott said, “Breakfast?”
“Yeah, someplace in the area would be fine with me.”
Scott occasionally ate breakfast at a local restaurant not far from the courthouse. “How about the Eagle?” he suggested.
“Sure. Is 9:30 all right? I don’t get to sleep in during the week.”
“Okay. I’ll look over the materials tonight and see you then.”
“Good. We can catch up with one another and get organized.”
Scott hung up the phone. It was Kay’s voice all right, but a bit more assertive than when she was sixteen and couldn’t decide which movie she wanted to see.
It was seven blocks from Scott’s office to the one-story brick house where he lived. Built in the early 1950s, the compact dwelling with black shutters had a detached, single-car garage that was barely large enough for Scott’s small SUV. He pushed the remote-control button and waited for the garage door to creak slowly open.
Scott bought the house from an older couple who spent the years after their children left home turning the small backyard into a secluded paradise. They built a five-foot-high brick wall around the entire area then carefully landscaped the enclosed plot of ground. It was a perfect refuge for Scott. He lifted the latch on a black, wrought-iron gate and pushed it open. Waiting excitedly on the other side was Nicky.
“Hey, big guy.” Scott knelt down and rubbed the curly white fur that covered the dog’s head and neck. Nicky, a two-year-old, twelve-pound Bichon Frise, rested his front paws on Scott’s leg and closed his eyes in contentment.
It was only a few steps from the gate to the back door of the house. Scott set his briefcase on the kitchen floor and took a dog treat from a glass cookie jar on the counter. When he saw the treat, Nicky sat down and waited until Scott tossed the little bone-shaped biscuit in the air. The dog expertly caught it and scampered from the kitchen to his favorite spot on a narrow oriental rug in the foyer, where he proceeded to munch his reward with as much relish as his ancient, wolfish ancestors would have crunched a deer bone.
Scott turned on the oven and put a frozen pepperoni pizza on the kitchen counter. Ever since he was a little boy, Scott had fixed frozen pizzas. He’d graduated from the cardboardlike varieties of his childhood to the fancier versions in the deli section of the local supermarket. He would eat anything from anchovies to zucchini on a pizza, but basic pepperoni remained his favorite. By the time he’d changed into a T-shirt and jeans, the oven was ready, and he slid the pizza onto a metal rack he always kept positioned for best pizza-cooking results. He sliced pieces of pepperoni from a long stick he kept in the refrigerator and tossed the extra meat on top of the pizza before the cheese began to melt. Nicky came into the kitchen sniffing the air.
Scott shook his head. “None for you, my friend. Puppies don’t need pepperoni.”
Nicky ran to the back door, jumped through a dog door Scott had cut in the bottom panel, and, in a couple of seconds, jumped back inside.
“I’m coming,” Scott said.
Scott took a bottle of beer from the refrigerator and followed Nicky into the backyard. The little dog quickly checked the area around the base of the trees for signs of the squirrels whose many years of peace and quiet had been shattered when Scott introduced his pet to the backyard environment. The enclosure was an ideal size for the little dog that reigned as the biggest, most fearsome creature in his protected world.
It was still warm in the late afternoon sun. In a few months, the leaves on the two maple trees close to the back wall would explode with red and orange, and the large heart-shaped foliage of an ancient redbud would begin turning a brownish purple. Scott sat on a park bench at the edge of a slate-covered patio and sipped his beer.
The previous owners had built a small fishpond on one side of the patio and stocked it with two large goldfish. Scott tried to introduce some smaller fish to the tiny pond, but his stocking experiment abruptly ended when a blue heron dropped out of the sky one cloudy day and ate the new arrivals as an afternoon snack. The two remaining fish, hoping for a handout, swam toward Scott.
Nicky disappeared beneath a bank of azalea bushes that bloomed in early spring like a great white island in a sea of green grass. Scott could hear the dog rustling through the leaves underneath the bushes. In a few seconds, he burst forth and raced around the patio area in a large ci
rcle. Scott watched Nicky’s antics until it was time for the pizza to come out of the oven.
Scott ate at a shiny table in the dining room adjacent to the kitchen. The kitchen in Scott’s house was built before large, live-in kitchens came into vogue, so there wasn’t room to set up the table and chairs his grandmother had given him except in the formal dining room with its tall, narrow windows. The room wasn’t designed with pizza and beer in mind, but nobody was around to report him to Martha Stewart.
Scott could easily finish off a medium-sized pizza by himself, and after the paltry lunch he’d eaten with Dr. Lassiter, he quickly devoured his food and drained the last drops of his beer. He read the local newspaper while he ate. Nicky lay passively on the wooden floor near his master’s feet.
After supper Scott took his briefcase into the living room. The only fully carpeted area in the house contained two pieces of furniture: a big, gray recliner that Scott had selected after sitting in fifty different chairs, and a large-screen TV whose chief purpose was to display Atlanta Braves baseball from March to October and ACC basketball from November through March. Scott would be making payments on the TV for another twenty-two months. He turned on a baseball game and for the next several hours divided his attention between the game and the mock trial materials. Nicky jumped into the chair and lay down in the open space beside Scott’s left hip and the armrest. Within a few seconds he was asleep.
The lawyers who prepared the materials had done a good job. The witness roles were humorous and flexible enough to allow for creativity, and the legal issues weren’t too complex. When his eyes grew heavy, Scott escorted Nicky to the backyard before putting the little dog in a small cage in the laundry room. Scott enjoyed Nicky’s companionship, but he didn’t want a furry bed partner licking his ear in the middle of the night.
Lester Garrison had memorized the details of every tree that could be seen from the slit of window that gave his narrow room its only glimpse of the outside world. At night, the glare of a bright light positioned on a metal pole outside the window cut a sharp path across his face if he lay too close to the edge of his cot.
The Sacrifice Page 4
