Absentee List_An Old Horse Mystery

by Elskan Triumph

  Entering the computer lab, Jones’ own students were busily tapping away at computers, chatting electronically with the student two terminals down.

  After school, Horse and Wells sat in the small student chairs in Horse’s classroom and spoke with a parent, Ms. Moreston, about her underperforming son. The mother was near forty years in age, while her son was the younger one of two and it was clear from previous conversations that she was looking forward to this one being old enough to take care of himself. A tired face, her clothes were too nice for work in this part of Vermont. ‘She’s either a realtor or commutes to Chittenenden County,’ Horse thought.

  She looked at the white board.

  “That is an interesting topic group.” On the board was a list: Homicide, Patricide, Matricide, Regicide.

  “I was impressed by omnicide,” Horse said with a calm enthusiasm. “It’s the total destruction of the human race.”

  “Isn’t that a bit grim for seventh grade?”

  “When should they start thinking about it?”

  “This was part of a lesson on Latin suffixes,” Wells put in. From her frown, he could see the wheels turning in Ms. Moreston’s head. When they stopped, he knew, they weren’t going to come up with anything positive.

  “Oh,” the mother said. “I just thought with the Johnsons…”

  “Yes,” Horse interrupted. “That, in fact, is how it came up. A kid asked about murder, and someone mentioned the word homicide, and if it was homicide if you killed your father…” Horse smiled, letting the lesson sink in. “Well, you can imagine how fast that can get out of control.”

  “So, you decided to feed it.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Nothing distracts a child from something inappropriate than turning it into a vocabulary exercise.”

  “So, you came to omnicide?”

  “Did your son mention murder when he got home?”

  “No.”

  “Then I think I distracted him.”

  “He knows not to,” she said, peering at Horse with narrowing eyes that said, I’m not stupid; I know something, so stop talking down to me. “I’m just concerned about the boy.”

  “Peter.”

  “It’s a tragic situation. Perhaps I’m a little too close…”

  “Do you read?” Tired of his lessons being questioned, Horse decided to change the subject.

  Wells spoke up for the first time in minutes. “What Horse’s concern is...”

  “Of course you can read, but do you read? Do you pick up a book and read it? How often? That’s my concern.”

  “Are we talking magazines, too?” Ms. Moreton asked.

  “Magazines do not count.” Horse leaned forward. “I would imagine that the pictures get in the way.”

  “He is not implying...” Wells began to explain.

  “I am not implying that you are reading a narrative text.”

  She blinked.

  Ms. Moreton just sat there and blinked and sat and said nothing. She had heard about Horse from the other mothers, and pushed for her child to be in his class. Her son was a bit of a lay-about, and, in her opinion, needed a swift kick that she was unwilling to give him. ‘I’m weak,’ she thought and knew to be true. After the divorce, after going back to work, after keeping the father at bay when he wanted to get the kids to spend more time in his small apartment in town—she just grew tired of saying “no”. As her son hit the stage where rebellion began, she had to say “no” and now she was tired. Still, she was shocked.

  “That’s pretty blunt,” she finally said.

  Horse read all of this. From the moment she walked in the door, he read her inventory. In her face, he could see she was tired.

  No wedding ring.

  Two boys.

  The suit leaned towards a long commute; she was not peppy enough to be a realtor.

  Tired of corralling and nudging and demanding, but knowing her son was a bit of a putz and still needed it. Ms. Moreton expected him to do the work,.

  “I’m to blame for his not being a strong reader?”

  “That’s not what we’re saying,” Wells replied.

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Horse followed.

  “And what do I pay taxes for?”

  This was a rhetorical question that came from not knowing what else to say. From her work, Ms. Moreton knew that schools were the last hope for many kids, and a leg up for those coming from average families. Even those few families who pushed too hard, their children benefited with a bit of relief from the high pressures they met at home by the daily methodical grind they found in school. Still, she wasn’t going to be pushed without pushing back, first.

  “You read in bed,” he said. Now that he knew which way this conversation was going to go—no reason to fear for his job—he could be honest without hostility. His voice lost its edge. “Let’s assume this is regular. Let’s also assume your child is not in the room at the same time.”

  “By which...” Wells began.

  Although Wells was sure that Ms. Moreton was not in a litigious mood, he had seen parents turn fast. Not only with Horse, but with sweet and nice first grade teachers who were mere does caught in a headlight. In the wrong mood, Horse could pick and pick and pick at a scab until it bled all over his own shirt; it was the best metaphor he had come up with, although Horse said it was just gross.

  “You are a role model.” Horse again cut off Wells. “You came today because you are concerned that your child does not read. Cannot read, really. His scores, well... he is functionally illiterate.”

  “We have been thinking of scheduling a few support classes...” Wells inserted

  “Or, he could read. You see, the funny thing about reading is that the more you do it, the better you get at it. Or is that golf?”

  “I think it’s both,” Ms. Moreton replied.

  “And the way that your son knows that reading is valuable is that he sees someone he respects doing it.” Horse looked her in the eye. “That would be you.”

  There was silence.

  “Unless you don’t value reading.”

  Again, silence.

  Then Horse filled it with sarcasm: “I mean, really, who really reads in their jobs? I mean, beyond functional reading? I mean, really?”

  ‘This is where you stop,’ Wells thought. His stare at Horse was a loud one, making his point. Horse looked away. Wells said out loud, “Of course we know that you value reading...”

  “If you don’t read, fine,” Horse said. “I don’t judge you. I’m not mad. You are clearly successful. It works for you. I assume it will work for your son. But, if you don’t value it at home, what do you want from us? What do you want?” He knew what she wanted—Horse to say “no”.

  But no one said anything. There is nothing else to be said, even as Wells felt the need for a more formal resolution.

  “What did you mean that your son knows not to mention this case at home?” Horse asked, finally.

  “I don’t bring work home with me, and I can’t discuss my work with him for obvious reasons.”

  “What do you do?” Horse asked, genuinely interested.

  “I work for DCF,” she replied.

  The Department of Children and Families. Family Services. Foster Care.

  ‘Ms. Moreton, my new best friend,’ Horse thought.

  And Wells gets the resolution he was looking for.

  “Are you busy?”

  Ms. Moreton had just left, and Wells looked out the window to see her make her way across the cleared parking lot. Horse was bent over a pile of spiral bound notebooks, writing comments in red ink. ‘He is the last teacher to use red ink,’ Wells thought. Years ago a few studies had shown that students who received comments in red ink—even positive comments—took away only negative feelings. The staff at Grace Haven, and around the district, switched to green and purple and blue pens. All but Horse. ‘I want them to feel bad about the crap work they did,’ Horse had told him. Wells wasn’t sure if he was joking or not.
Every summer, when supplies are ordered, three boxes of Papermate medium point red stick pens are ordered for one teacher: Horse.

  “Jeffery Boocher.”

  Wells snapped from his thoughts. “That was Ms. Moreton. And, I’m impressed how helpful you got the second half of our meeting.”

  “I’m here to help,” Horse said, looking up from his desk with a smile.

  “How is she helping you, then?”

  “Can’t a man speak to someone with the inside track on foster placement without it being misconstrued as opportunistic?”

  “You suddenly have an interest in being a foster family?”

  “I want to make sure Peter stays in contact with his school.” Horse returned to the pile of spiral notebooks. “After all, when his father returns he’ll be pretty far behind.”

  “I’m not sure…”

  “But I’m thinking now of Jeffery Boocher.” His voice snapped.

  “Ah, Jeffery. What is it this time?”

  “He’s disorganized.”

  Wells moved from the window and began examining items he’d seen a hundred times before. In his mind, he tried to figure out where this conversation was going. On days such as this, Horse was exhausting. Correction, he thought: Horse was always exhausting. Picking up a shuttlecock from an old loom—how did this wind up here—he thought about a drink. Yes, this conversation might go better with a pint. But Horse was waiting for an answer.

  As principal and friend, Wells was the sounding board.

  He obliged.

  “In second grade they called him Pigpen. In third it was The Tornado. His desk was a hazard area. He’d forget his...”

  “Head... Yes, yes...” Horse made a wave with his hand. “I listened to his third and fourth grade teachers use the same expression. Wonderfully supportive, those teachers and their nicknames are. I’d be surprised if it’s not stamped in his file. No. He’s not like that.”

  “No?”

  “No. There’s something more. His disorganization is selective. I went to his soccer practice and he was Johnny on the Spot.”

  “Kids do that.” Wells put down the shuttlecock and looked at a postcard that was tacked to the wall. “They care more about one thing than another. They tend to do what it takes to participate in that activity.”

  “Why soccer? Why not reading? Or math?”

  “Reading or math... over soccer?” The principal looked away from the postcard for a moment. “Gee. Perhaps he’s a seventh grade boy.”

  “No. That’s not it. He was a second grade Pigpen and third grade Tornado. Have you seen his card collection?”

  “No.”

  “Show and tell day...”

  “You still do show and tell? The rest of the school stops that in second grade.”

  “Of course they do. The other teachers think it’s about sharing, and by third grade no one cares what students think.”

  “And you do?” Wells walked over to Horse’s desk.

  “God, no.” Horse smiled. “But, they bring in all sorts of hints about their life outside of class. It clears up a lot, and gives me things I can exploit later. You know... to help teach them.”

  “And I thought it might be to let kids show off a different side of their personality.”

  “Why would I care about that?”

  “Anyway, Jeffery Boocher...”

  “His card collection is organized. More important, he knows how it’s organized. I talked with him about it for twenty minutes and watched him carefully and efficiently find each card and share the details of it to the class.”

  “I’m sure they were fascinated...” Wells himself looked bored. “Again, when a kid is interested in something...”

  “Why cards? Why soccer?”

  “I give up.”

  “So did teachers in grades K through six.”

  “Ah, a mystery.”

  “Yes. It holds the key to this kid.”

  Wells went to the window while Horse returned to correcting. He could hear the scratch of the pen.

  “I didn’t come here to speak with you about Jeffery Boocher...”

  “Is this about the visit from the state trooper?”

  “No, although we should talk about that, too.” Wells drew a breath. “Amanda Tomlinson’s dad came to speak to me...”

  “I take it she got the abortion.” His voice was matter-of-fact.

  “Yes.” Wells turned to face him. “On your advice, apparently.”

  “I’m not the father.”

  “That is the one fact everyone seems to agree on.”

  “I gave no advice.”

  “Apparently, Amanda told her dad that you recommended it.”

  “Poppycock.”

  “When we all have to sit down with lawyers, I’m going to leave out that you said ‘Poppycock’ to the allegations.”

  “How many lawyers are in this school district?”

  “Too many, and they all have the superintendent’s office on speed dial.”

  “She’s not a student here.”

  “She was.”

  “So, I can’t have a conversation with anyone who ever went to this school for the rest of their lives?”

  “Or your employment here.”

  “So, during my twenty-some-odd years tenure I’ve taught...”

  “Plenty of students, yes. And they always remain students.”

  “So, last night I was speaking with…” The name—Travis—suddenly popped into his head. “Travis. I taught him. Now, he has a girl in sixth grade. She might be mine next year. How do I talk to him—as a student or parent?”

  “This is different.”

  “I don’t want to speak with any of them. Does that matter to anyone?”

  “No. But you did... speak to one.” Wells leaned against the window sill, his body deflating with resignation. “And, she’s a minor.”

  “She’s sixteen.”

  “Seventeen.”

  “An adult.”

  “Not quite.”

  “She didn’t break the law.”

  “No, she didn’t, but she’s not the one the lawyers want to speak about.”

  “I didn’t perform the abortion.”

  “The lawyers don’t want to speak to the doctors, either.”

  “So, I’m not the father, didn’t get the abortion, and didn’t perform the abortion...”

  “You gave advice about the abortion.”

  “I gave information about where to get a safe, legal abortion. I also gave information about adoption and keeping the baby. I even told her to speak with her father.”

  “She’s done that.”

  “Yes, but my advice was for the conversation to happen before she made a decision.”

  “The lawyers will want to know that.”

  “You keep saying lawyers; plural. Are there more than one?”

  “Honestly, I don’t know.” Wells scratched his head.

  “Great.”

  “She says you told her to do what she thought was best.”

  “I pointed out that she had already made a decision, and that she was looking for me to sanction it.”

  “Did you?”

  “No,” Horse said bluntly. “I laid out legal options. I told her she already knew what she was going to do. I wanted to emphasize she should do what was right for her.”

  Then Horse made a sound.

  ‘Did he just snort?’ Wells thought. He was clearly feeling indignant. Inside he laughed a bit; it was usually Wells who felt put out in their professional relationship. The principal stood for a moment, thinking how he wanted to continue.

  “Well, you should have said nothing,” he finally said.

  “Ignorance is not our business,” Horse said quietly.

  “Neither is morality.”

  “I didn’t advocate anything.” The bluster returned to his voice.

  “By discussing it you waded into a moral morass.”

  “So schools aren’t supposed to talk about anything like this?”<
br />
  “We teach reading, writing, math, and science.”

  “I pledge allegiance, to the flag...”

  “That is not morality.”

  “Patriotism is not morality?” Horse did snort this time. “It’s not math.”

  “It’s not religion, either.”

  “One nation, under God..."

  “A relic of tradition.”

  “That you lead on the announcements each morning.”

  “I’m touched that you listen.”

  “It’s an expectation of teaching here, right?”

  “Reciting the Pledge? This is the rule you decide to follow?”

  “I follow all of the rules. I just push the edges.”

  “Well, you pushed this one.”

  ‘And there it was,’ Wells thought. The balance in their relationship had returned, with Horse retaking the moral high ground while Wells was left to hold together the practical bits of educating students. There were feathers to smooth and he was going to have to do it.

  “She is not my student,” Horse began. “Nor a student of this school. I gave information, not advice. All of the options were legal options.”

  “Arguments that our lawyers will no doubt use.”

  The conversation was done. Both knew it. Horse got up and looked out at the parking lot. Ms. Moreton’s car was gone. He thought about the conversation he had had with her, after Wells had left the earlier meeting. About her work.

  The Johnson boy.

  Beyond the visitors’ spaces was the faculty lot. It was late, and the snow glowed with the last light the sun was willing to cough up, filtered through the clouds. A few halogen lights turned on with a light glow, not yet throwing light onto the three cars that remained in the lot—his, Wells’, and the janitor’s.