The Unlikely Savior (The Unlikely Savior Trilogy)

by T. S. Seley Elliott

  It was the fall of 1986, late in the day, and a much younger Mr. Hoffstedder was in his deserted classroom. It had been one of the nicest days of the season and the school grounds had just quieted from football practice. His mood, however, did not suit such a beautiful day. As he cleaned the blackboard with unnecessary vigor, he thought about the humiliation on young Jerry’s face in the school stairwell less than an hour before. He recalled the events with fury.

  It was the end of the academic day, most students had departed and Byron was returning to his classroom from the front office when he rounded toward the second floor and nearly ran into the backs of three freshmen ranting at a concealed target on the corner of the landing.

  “Wha…wha…wha…wasss wro…wro…wrong, Ju….Ju…Ju…JERRY??” One sputtered dramatically as the others laughed. Before he even saw the victim, Byron knew it was one of his 7th grade students, Jerry Christensen, a shy boy plagued with a bad case of stuttering.

  With no thought whatsoever of the consequences, Byron had physically separated the bullies, but not before seeing Jerry, cowering and deeply flushed; the expression haunted him still. The image had fuelled his anger and he pinned one of the culprits against the wall while the other two stood frozen, petrified once they weren’t the ones in control. Byron had quickly regained his composure, released the pale teen and after a stern chewing and a promise for worse if they ever repeated their actions, he sent the dour-faced youths on their way.

  He had sat on the steps and tried to calm the shaken child, disgusted and regretful that he couldn’t do more to ease the boy’s pain. Jerry declined the offer to go to the classroom with a shake of his head. Not daring to try to talk, the boy showed his gratitude, albeit mixed with embarrassment, with a quick pathetic gaze and sudden hug before he ran down the stairs toward the exit.

  Back in the classroom with a well-punished, but spotless chalkboard, Byron wandered to the window, looking down on the large sports field. It was a perfect autumn day and he scanned the scene, trying to relax with the view.

  That’s when he spotted a young girl, alone, in the midst of the track field. She hugged what looked like a book to her chest and her too-warm sweater was tied around her waist. She walked slowly across the field toward the back fence. Although it wasn’t uncommon for students from the nearby grade school to cut across the field, there was something about this girl, about the scene in general, that made the English teacher pause.

  As she walked, the breeze shifted her dark blonde, slightly curly and unkempt hair, and she lifted her face to the sky. Even from the second floor window, he thought he saw her close her eyes and breathe deeply…then she dropped the book, extended her arms high and twirled alone on the grass, sweater swinging in her wake. His heart guiltily skipped a beat as he witnessed what should have been a private moment of pure whimsy…but he couldn’t turn away. Mesmerized, he felt as if he were watching a freeze frame of innocence, a moment of pure joy in the heart of a child. He leaned on the window sill, his mind sliding back into reality, and he wished that for just one minute, one second, Jerry Christensen could feel what this unknown girl had so effortlessly claimed.

  And just like that, it was over. He’d almost felt responsible, like his thoughts had driven her to stop in her tracks, drop her arms and stand completely still. Had she looked up at his window, he would have ducked, for sure...but instead, she stared, as if at nothing, across the grass toward a clump of trees that bordered the schoolyard. Then she walked that way, arms hanging and, even from his distant vantage point, it appeared as if she’d lost all expression.

  He shook his head and stepped away from the window. The moment was clearly over and although he wished he’d tuned out just a second sooner, he was still blessed to have captured that sweet scene, and if nothing else, it had broken his dark mood.

  He reviewed the next day’s classroom activities and gathered his things to call it a day. Recalling that Margie had a church meeting that night, he had just turned back to the desk to retrieve papers to grade at home, when he heard footfalls echo from the empty hall. He turned toward the door and to his surprise, Jerry burst in, red-faced, breathing deeply, hair splaying in all directions.

  Byron’s adrenaline exploded as he rushed past the boy, expecting to see the bullies somewhere in the deserted corridor.

  “No…,” gasped Jerry. Doubled over from exertion, he grasped Byron’s arm as he worked to control his breath. Confused, the teacher turned and looked down at the boy, realizing that although winded, this child was not traumatized.

  “Jerry?” He stood unmoving, hands suspended in the air inquisitively.

  “Listen.” The boy stood straight and stared up into the man’s face. His breath was under control and with perfect diction, he said, “Just. Listen. Mister Hoffstedder. I can talk!”

  And for the first time since Byron had known him, he watched as Jerry Christensen split into a full smile.

  Instantly sixty-two years old again, and feeling every year of it in the cheap hard chair, Byron smiled to himself; Jerry’s magical moment lingered in the dank room. He suddenly felt parched and stood.

  As Byron counted change to buy a Coke from the vending machine, a tiny reporter in the television screen spoke of a Presidential address scheduled for noon the next day. To his back, the voice noted how the world situation had certainly reached a point of alarming political contention and the President had remained quietly neutral on an array of events. Byron reserved opinion on the reporter’s speculation and made a mental note of the time of the tomorrow’s speech. Although, like all Americans, he was keenly interested in world affairs during this volatile time, he had more personal reasons to tune in when the President spoke.

  If the first three minutes of Johnnie’s shower was any indication of the promise of the full experience, it may have been newsworthy. The previous day’s long, hot drive, followed by a fully dressed slumber made the water massage even more delightful. Just as she was giving in to the thousands of hot jets under better than average water pressure, however, she heard a miserable, slightly muffled whine just on the other side of the shower curtain. In fact, the curtain was sticking to her wet legs because it wasn’t staying on the edge of the tub where it belonged, pushed in from an unseen snout.

  Her flash of irritation that this dog couldn’t give her a few minutes of privacy was rapidly replaced with guilt when she realized Betsy had been in this room since last night with no chance to relieve herself. The absence of soggy spots on the room carpet were an indication that the poor dog had patiently held her water and probably needed immediate relief in other ways now that she’d inhaled a large bowl of chow.

  “Crap, crap, crap…oh! That’s not a suggestion, Betsy….give me a minute,” she called through the curtain as she pushed the intruding lump back to the other side of the tub edge, only to be met with a petulant sigh. She quickly soaped and rinsed so she could take the poor straining pup outside to do her business.

  Although the dog still reeked of indignation at the use of a collar and leash, she tolerated the contraptions during the excursion and made quick work of her needs. Standing in the cool dawn in yesterday’s jeans and T-Shirt, no shoes and dripping hair, Johnnie wondered if this was her new norm.

  Holding the lead and staring up at the desert sky, she felt a fleeting measure of freedom in knowing she didn’t have to answer to anyone for the first time in over a decade, but was a little unsettled by the free-fall feeling of no plan, no responsibility and no discernible goals. Well, of course, there was that other thing; the thing in her life which made her feel like she was being stalked by a ninja intent upon jacking up her world. Faster than the eye, effective and dangerous; yes, a psychotic ninja thing. But other than all that, she figured she had nowhere to go from here but up.

  Johnnie dragged her pouting ward to the truck to get her personal bag filled with clean clothes, then headed back toward the dwelling which looked suspiciously more like a modest motel than an Inn or Lodge. Once inside, sh
e figured she would use her computer to plan today’s travel and find the closest place where she could have some breakfast before heading eastward. She also needed to make a call or two, although that would probably have to be done a little later in the morning.

  While her laptop booted up, Johnnie made coffee with the tiny in-room pot and dug around in her purse for a bottle of aspirin. In the wad of items she retrieved from the bag, however, was the envelope from Captain Stass, the napkin with big Sandy’s phone number and a couple hundred old receipts, ancient tissues and empty straw wrappers.

  She stared at the two less rumpled items and sighed, accepting there was no time like the present. Coffee in one hand, paper gob in the other, she settled on her bed next to the laptop.

  The note from the Captain was on a plain card, hand written, with two business cards stapled to the bottom. She immediately focused on the handwriting, steeling herself for potential disappointment.

  “Johnnie, there’s a lot I could say, or not say. I know I’ve not been a friend during this hard time for you, and I regret that. But I had to do the right things by the Air Force. I know you understand that. But it’s more than the job – honestly this whole thing scared the hell out of me and I still don’t know what I believe. I’m sorry if I let you down, but I’ve never known a stronger person and if anyone can get through this, it would be you.

  What you don’t know is that I’m close friends with Jon Benson (Major Benson), and I used him as a sounding board while I was trying to handle my conflicting feelings (Marta told me to just get over myself and be a friend, to hell with the officer thing, LOL). Jon finally told me that he’d seen you professionally and while he didn’t divulge anything about your case or conversations, he told me straight up that I probably gave you a raw deal and that you had not betrayed me. He asked me to give you his contact information. He wanted me to tell you that he’d like to hear from you and you could call him in any capacity, whatever that means. I think he’s willing to be an ear for you. He offered this at some risk, due to patient/client ethics and all, even with your discharge.

  I enclosed his card….and mine in case you already deleted my phone number. I won’t blame you if you never contact me again, and I don’t know how long it will be before I’ll even know what to say. But now that our positions aren’t an issue, I hope at some point we can be the friends we were meant to be. Besides, Marta will divorce me and the kids will disown me if you don’t eventually come back around…And for the record, you are a hell of a professional, NCO and great person. I know you would have done right by me if the situation were reversed. I wish you could see yourself the way everyone else has always seen you.

  Sincerely,

  Jerod”

  Johnnie stared at the note, with no notion as to what to feel. Part of her was relieved, she was also a little sad, and just a hair pissed off. She was inwardly elated to hear that his wife, Marta, had been in her court the whole time; she had enjoyed the time spent with his family over the past couple of years. A typical reaction would be to write him off as chicken-shit for being so weak; he had not even tried to take a stronger stance on her behalf. But she was keenly familiar with the failings of weakness and confusion, and these feelings drew on her sense of compassion. She also felt a true loss for friendship the second time in as many days. Inexplicably, she missed Sandy, the bartender.

  Shaking her head, she chose to take the Scarlet O’Hara approach to problem resolution. As she dropped the note on the bed, she looked at the snoring dog, quoting the southern belle, word for word, “I can't think about that right now. If I do, I'll go crazy. I'll think about that tomorrow.”

  She did, however, temporarily retrieve the note and detached the business cards. Discarding the note again, she focused on the name of Major Jon Benson, Clinical Psychologist. She allowed that she was very grateful he honored his professional commitment to her, even in an exchange with the one man they had in common--who also happened to be his friend. She also felt a twinge of validation that her trust and affinity for him had apparently been mutual. After a quick moment of consideration, she placed both business cards in a pocket of her computer bag, unsure if she was creating a contact file…or life-lines.

  After Map-Questing her general travel plans for the day and finding the closest restaurant, she powered down her computer, gathered her meager possessions and took everything out to the truck, retrieving Betsy last of all. She gave in to the pathetic, if not pleading, look when she prepared to snap the leash onto the already unwelcome collar. It was highly unlikely this dog was going to take off and the motel could no longer throw her out for failure to honor the leash-rule anyway. Betsy rewarded her by hobbling obediently by her side all the way to the truck when she unsteadily, but remarkably leapt into the cab, first try, and settled into her new place of honor in the passenger’s seat.

  As the Ram pulled out of the parking lot, an old Impala pulled in. Juanita saw the woman, and more markedly, the grinning dog, and knew her secret was safe. At this point, she was so renewed and jubilant, there was a part of her that really didn’t care who knew what had happened in Room 214 the day before anyway. God was good!

  ______________________________________________________________________________

  Byron had successfully contacted Homer Reeder and the farmer eagerly agreed to meet to discuss his recollection of the accident. Apparently few were interested in his ramblings of the miracle following his near-death, and he hadn’t even asked details of his caller’s identity. Due to the direction this whole thing was taking, Byron dropped the pretense of being the Angel Tracker, although he knew he’d have to produce a plausible role and justification if his interviews continued.

  Still in the motel room, he felt as if he were in an odd state of emotion-driven reverie. Over the years between the necessity of focusing on daily living mixed with his desire to control a potential obsession, Byron had kept his memories of the curious past events at bay. With time to spare before meeting Mr. Reeder, Byron dug in the innermost pocket of his wallet, carefully producing a small photo glued to a faded, folded blue paper flower. His index finger and thumb now held the only tangible link between the recent stories and those he knew all too well of Johnnie Cantrell...Carter. No longer inclined to keep the door to those years cautiously closed, Byron closed his eyes and allowed the fall afternoon of ’86 to come back once again.

  The excited, but haltingly well-spoken Jerry had told him he’d left the building after the teacher’s encounter with him and his bullies. Not yet wanting to go home, he’d sat by some trees on the school grounds and was unexpectedly joined by a little girl. He said she just appeared, sat next to him and held his hand. He’d thought it was kind of strange, but he felt comfortable with her, which didn’t happen much, especially with girls, and he was so lonely he didn’t object.

  “She put her head on my shoulder and I felt really dizzy, but good. Then all of a sudden, she let go and got up. When she walked away I didn’t know what to say and didn’t want to talk anyway…well, you know why. She was almost off the yard when I didn’t even mean to talk to myself, but I did, you know, because I was mad at myself for not saying something to her because she made me feel better.” The boy smiled sheepishly then, “I was calling myself a stupid idiot when the words worked and I wasn’t stuttering! She was gone so I had to come see you. I was hoping you’d still be here…I talked to myself all the way up…I think it’s for real, Mr. Hoffstedder. Just listen to me. I think it’s for keeps!”

  The boy was still flushed and ecstatic, hands around his mouth as if he could capture the perfect words he’d spoken. At a total loss for response, the teacher had given him a hug and suggested he share his news with his parents, although he suspected the boy would be met with great skepticism regarding his story. Just before Jerry left the room, his teacher had a thought and called out to him.

  “This girl…what did she look like?”

  “An angel! She was so pretty, but kind of regular…you know,
kinda blonde hair, sorta messy. She wore a dress and her sweater was around her middle. I know she was real, but, I don’t know…she didn’t feel real. Bye!”

  With that, Jerry Christenson, dashed out to start the first day of the rest of his life.

  It was the twirl-girl, Byron had thought as he walked to the classroom window. Was the moment he’d witnessed even more special than he thought? Still unsure, but even more unable to simply dismiss the connection, his eyes narrowed on a spot in the middle of the field below. The book she’d dropped lay abandoned in the grass.

  The next day in class, it was apparent that Jerry Christensen’s anomaly was lasting and genuine, and to everyone’s surprise, and not a little confusion, he spoke willingly and perfectly. While his teacher was delighted at the boy’s fate, he was also determined to explore the nexus to the ethereal little girl.

  The book in the field had been marked as property of the Garfield Elementary School, which was located near the junior high. It was over a week before he had time to get away during his lunch break, but days later, Byron drove the short distance, taking the book with him. The grade school secretary, an acquaintance of his, told him it was a first grade text book. There was only one first grade class, taught by Selma Gallagher. Although Byron didn’t know Selma personally, he knew who she was from school district events. It was still lunch time and the secretary told him Selma was probably in the teacher’s lounge or in her classroom.

  He found her alone in her classroom, eating at her desk. With the windows slightly open, shouts from the playground masked his entrance and she jumped when he spoke a greeting.

  The attractive young woman, slightly younger than Byron, blushed, hand to chest.

  “Oh, hello! I didn’t hear you.” She was charming and seemed the kind of person he’d like to be friends with. But Byron didn’t have time to tend to social pleasantries and got right to the point. Selma verified the book was from her class, and after a very short moment, she recalled which child had lost a book. And with the knowledge, her disposition changed ever so slightly. Although she didn’t elaborate, she held the book closely and gave Byron a long stare.