by Ginny Aiken
“Mommy, don’t cry. You said Daddy’s in heaven.”
Yes, Reba had told Ray’s five-year-old daughter that. Believe it? She wasn’t sure, but no way was Reba going to allow Hannah to be hurt by any of this. It had been six months since Ray’s death. Reba was mourning a home; Hannah was mourning her father. There were two Rays, and Reba didn’t know which one to mourn. She loved the one who had sat in the peach-colored room, with his feet on the coffee table, stroking his daughter’s hair while Hannah told him about sticking her face in the grass, pretending it was water, and seeing how long she could hold her breath. The other Ray was the man who had put a lien on the house—had it ever really been a home to him?—without her knowledge. That Ray had also borrowed against a life insurance policy before it matured. He’d owned three credit cards she wasn’t aware of, although her name was on the plastic, and now she owed money she never knew had been spent.
What kind of wife was she? Her husband had a gambling problem, and she hadn’t a clue.
“Mommy, are we leaving yet? Bark wants to go.” Hannah stood, forlorn, in the empty hallway with her shirt half tucked in, and the dog’s leash clutched tightly in her fist.
Reba took one last look around. “I’m just making sure we didn’t leave anything.”
“Like what? All the rooms are empty. We sold everything.” Hannah’s bottom lip trembled, but she didn’t have the maturity to use her top teeth as a clasp. “Even my bed.”
I’d lament a princess bed, too, if I were five. Sometimes Reba wondered if she’d ever been five. At that age, she’d already been in second grade, her father calling her profoundly gifted. At home, she’d shared a room with her sisters who all wanted a private room. None of them wanted to share with a little girl who still wet the bed. Reba gathered Hannah into her arms and walked out the front door for the last time.
Hannah wiggled to the ground. “Let’s go.”
The station wagon started on the second try. Bark, the chihuahua with nerves of steel, yapped angrily at the house disappearing from his view. Was he telling it not to follow or barking his disappointment at its failure to remain a home?
“Where are we going again?” Hannah’s long blond hair needed washing. Her stubby fingers left a streak of dirt that smudged the map of New Mexico, the state they were leaving.
Reba gripped the steering wheel. As soon as they arrived at their new home and got a few paychecks behind them, she’d work on Hannah: Shine her daughter up; take her for a haircut; buy her new clothes—clothes that would do a future kindergartner proud. Hannah glared fiercely at the map, trying to mimic her father. Since the child couldn’t read, the map was nothing but a prop for a little girl who needed to feel important, loved.
“We’re going to Iowa. Creed, Iowa. Say it,” Reba urged.
“Creed, Iwa.”
“Close enough.” Pulling out on the interstate, Reba set the cruise control and pointed the car in the direction of a place she’d planned never to return to. Her undergraduate days were memories best forgotten. This was not a full circle she’d ever imagined completing. She was going back to help a dear friend in a bind. The regular English teacher at Shiloh Christian College left on emergency leave just one week before classes began. Reba had an advanced degree in English and needed a job. Most of all, she needed to get away from Albuquerque, New Mexico, and the pall of a life that hadn’t really been hers.
When Hannah wasn’t looking, Reba slipped off the wedding ring Ray had placed on her finger and dropped it in her purse. She’d worn it through the funeral, through the burial, and during the meal she’d shared with Ray’s parents last night. They, and Hannah, needed to see the ring; Reba didn’t.
A college freshman sat opposite Mason Clark. Mason squinted. Was this really his college roommate’s brother? Mason could see no resemblance between this pierced, wacky-haired teenager and Mason’s one-time valedictorian suite-mate.
“So, like, what I want to do is transfer from the morning class into a different afternoon class.”
Mason fought the urge to tell the young man about proper campus attire. School didn’t officially start until Monday. James—who insisted he be called Jag—was checking in early and calling on his big brother’s best friend.
“Why?”
“Well, like, I hear this Mrs. Robards is, like, really strict and hard. I want a different English teacher. I, um, well, English is not my favorite subject.”
Jag leaned forward. That’s when Mason saw the tattoo peek out from under the T-shirt sleeve. Praying hands? Was that covered in the student handbook?
A tattoo? Unbelievable. Mason had met Barry’s parents. They were conservative types from Blair, Nebraska. They’d frowned at Barry wearing his baseball cap backward.
“You sure you’re Barry’s brother?” Mason asked.
“Yep, I got a picture to prove it.”
The smile did it. Mason could see a hint of his old roommate’s smirk in that slight uplift of the lips. Mason wanted to bury his head in his hands. His superiors thought he could relate to this generation; he was only twenty-seven, and at one time he thought maybe he’d be able to. But he’d never been as daring as them. The closest he’d come to rebellion was one night—best forgotten —just two weeks before his college graduation, and that had been an accident.
Jag’s record didn’t read like the felony report Mason expected. According to the references, James Aaron Gilroy was an “A” student who worked summers at a camp for the mentally challenged and nights at a video store. His COMPASS and SAT scores showed he was more than ready for college. English should be no problem for this kid. Under the heading “high school activities” Jag had included both football and chess club.
“So, the only reason you want to transfer is because you’re afraid of having Mrs. Robards as a teacher?”
“I’m not afraid!”
“Okay, you hope to avoid having Mrs. Robards as a teacher?”
“That’s better.”
“Mrs. Robards no longer teaches here. I’m not sure who is taking her place. You’ll have a different teacher.”
“That’s cool.” Jag visibly relaxed. Sitting back in the stiff, wooden chair, he studied Mason’s office with interest.
“Ah, Mr. Clark. I couldn’t help but overhear.” Cindy, the history department’s work-study student paused at the door. She sent Jag a look that was clearly an invitation to chat later. “The new lady is moving into her office. I think her name is Mrs. Payne.”
“Wow,” said Jag. “Maybe I should check her out. See if she looks easy.”
The word choice was not the best, but Mason knew what the kid meant. What Jag wanted was to transfer into Mr. Hillman’s English class, and not because Jag had problems with his mother tongue. Jack Hillman was in charge of the school newspaper and often dismissed class early in order to get back to putting out the latest edition of the Shiloh Reporter. He was also a notoriously easy grader, which was why that particular English class was full. Jag’s transfer couldn’t happen.
Jag was out of his seat and down the hall, following Cindy, in seconds. Mason frowned as he walked behind the girl. There was only one empty office down this hall. It had been Mrs. Robards’s. After she left, it had been allotted to him. Two days ago, he’d rolled fresh, white paint on those office walls. If not for the paint fumes, he would have moved in this morning.
Cindy stood at the door to that office. Jag balanced on tiptoes and stared in. The look on the kid’s face said he’d found the English teacher of his dreams!
Great, thought Mason. The English teacher of Jag’s dreams has taken residence in my new office. Well, even if it made him an ogre, he’d let the new woman know her mistake before she had too much moved in.
“Excuse me.” Mason sidestepped Jag’s feet and got his first look at …
“Rebecca Harper,” he whispered, loud.
“It’s Payne now,” she said, turning around. Reddish-brown hair caught the sunlight. Her head tilted in the inquisitive angle h
e remembered so well. The pug nose—he’d once dreamed about kissing that nose—was as cute as ever.
Reba still had the ability to make him tongue-tied with simply a look. Yep, thought Mason, relinquishing his new office and any hope of having a coherent conversation.
She’d come close to ruining his life—well, maybe he was exaggerating a little—just two weeks before he graduated from college. Worse, he could tell by the look in her eyes, she didn’t remember him.
Chapter 2
Jag immediately entered the small office and took the hammer out of Reba’s hand.
“I’m Jag. I’ll hang the curtain for you, ma’am.”
“I’ll help,” Cindy offered.
Reba surrendered the hammer but didn’t move. “This office isn’t big enough for four people.”
“I’m in your nine a.m. English class.” Jag pushed aside the chair Reba had been about to stand on. Sticking two nails in his mouth, he held up the white curtain rod and aligned the end with the pencil lines Reba had marked.
Cindy shrugged and scooted out into the hall to watch.
“What are you doing here?” Mason asked. Not that he wanted to have a conversation in front of Jag, but waiting was impossible.
“I’m going to teach English. I didn’t catch your name.”
My name; she wants to know my name. “Mason.” He meant to sound annoyed, but did he intend to sound angry? “Mason Clark. I know you’re going to teach English, but why here?”
“This is where I received the job offer, Ma—” Recognition dawned in her eyes.
Mason watched as her fingers went together, a tight resemblance of praying hands, then fidgeting hands, finally nervous hands. She didn’t really remember him, did she? What she remembered was his name.
“You two know each other?” Jag had the rod attached and was reaching for the curtain. “Yes,” said Reba.
“Not really,” said Mason.
“Not really,” echoed Reba.
“Yes,” said Mason.
Jag looked at them both and summed it up. “Cool.” He stuffed the curtain in Reba’s hand, gave a two-fingered salute, and exited.
“I didn’t know you taught here.” Reba sat the curtain down on her desk.
“Would that have stopped you from coming?”
“No.”
“But people might find out—”
“Mason, that night was over six years ago. I don’t think it’s currently a hot topic for dinner conversation.”
“I remember.”
She stepped around her desk and looked in his eyes. “I’ll bet you do remember. You always worried about the wrong things, Mason. Let it go.”
“But what if—”
“If you worry about it, people will notice, and then it will come up. If you let go, no one will think about it.”
“My job is to offer guidance. I’d hate for the students to find out that I’ve been advising them against doing things I, myself, have done.”
Picking up the curtain, she jabbed the first hook in the fold. “Mason, the only one who ever believed you were perfect was you.”
The elementary school was catty-corner from Clark Hall, and Hannah had found the playground. From the second-story window, Reba watched the five-year-old swing as high as she could. Opening the window, Reba called an unnecessary, “Be careful.”
Hannah waved while Bark jumped at her feet. His red leash, which should have been in Hannah’s hand, trailed behind him like the tail of an erratic kite. The boy from earlier, Jag, looked up from the bench he was sitting on. Iowa cottonwoods shaded the small playground. The few freshmen who had shown up early for orientation milled around the grounds. This boy, the tall one who could put up a curtain without standing on tiptoe, pointed at Hannah and then at Reba, his nonverbal communication asking the question, “Does she belong to you?” Reba nodded, momentarily worrying about Stranger Danger, and then berating herself for suspecting everyone. Surely, a scant thirty-six hours out of New Mexico, she could move about freely.
“I’ll watch her,” the boy called.
Reba hesitated.
“I’m in your nine a.m. English class.” He shouted the words as if they were the magic combination for permission. And, they were. This was Creed, Iowa, after all. Reba smiled, waved, and turned around to face her office. Her very empty office.
She didn’t own any outdated English textbooks to make the office look academic and her shelves impressive. She hadn’t taught before, so no one had given her the crafty wooden apples or brightly colored certificates scripted with “Teachers Have Class” or “To Teach Is to Touch a Mind.” She didn’t even own an electric pencil sharpener.
The only things Reba could add to the office were a handful of diplomas and a picture of Hannah.
“Rebecca, do you have a moment?”
He was back. Mason Clark. Funny how she’d almost failed to recognize him from all those years ago. He had changed. Gone was the skinny, too-tall-for-his-feet nerd. There were muscles where skin and bone used to be. Short, wavy, brown hair complemented chocolate eyes. Reba suspected his dirty blue backpack had been replaced by a leather briefcase. Two years ahead of her in school, he’d been so devoted to the straight and narrow that he never looked right or left.
“Come in, Mason.”
He glanced at the reams of computer paper stacked on the one student chair, then stepped to the window and leaned back against the radiator. Taking note of the empty bookcase and unadorned walls, he remarked, “Kinda bare in here.”
“My contract is only for a year. Dean Steward thinks Mrs. Robards will come back. I’d best not get my hopes up.”
He crossed his arms and frowned. Now that was a look she remembered. Almost everything else had changed. A perfect crease ran down each leg of his tan Dockers. He’d been a button-down cambric shirt kind of guy as a student, now he was a golf shirt kind of guy. Mason had always tried to project success. Now it looked as if he’d refined that talent. Reba refused to be impressed. She reached for her soda and tried to look nonchalant.
“I didn’t know you’d kept in touch with Roger Howard.” Mason didn’t move.
She’d forgotten how direct he could be. “He’s my husband’s … my late … He was Ray’s uncle.”
“Ray?”
“My husband. He died. Six months ago.” Reba mentally added, three hours, two minutes; it had been straight up noon.
“I’m sorry.” Mason’s face lost its defensive look. He’d always been perfect for leading the devotionals. Sincerity became an art form when attached to Mason Clark. “It must have been sudden.”
Yes, bullets were sudden. That was true. “Mason, you’re not in here to talk about the last few years of my life. What do you want?”
“You always were to the point.”
“And you were always trying to make sure the point was safe before you sharpened it.”
“Reba, you didn’t know me that well.”
“I wrote for the school paper, Mr. Class President. Remember? I had to make your successes interesting.” Reba went to the window and watched Hannah and Jag for a few moments, but the determined look on Mason’s face distracted her. She’d seen that look often, from him. Back during their school days, he’d always made time for her interviews but acted busy. Like she was interrupting his valuable schedule. He didn’t look busy now.
“I know you think the past is swept under the carpet, but I’m not so sure. Some of our students are precariously balanced between two worlds. I have to deal with them every day. It’s in their best interest to have a role model they can rely on.”
One thing for sure, Mason Clark was still a headache.
“Tell you what,” Reba reached down, picked up her purse, and slung it over her shoulder, “you don’t need to worry about the past. I won’t even tell anyone that I know you. It will be like we’re meeting for the first time.”
“That’s not quite honest.”
“What do you want?”
“I want to kee
p it low-key.”
“You got it.”
“Reba, I don’t think you understand.”
“No, I do understand. I just don’t care.”
Mason left, shaking his head and muttering tersely. Reba stared at the barren bookcase shelves. Maybe she could pretend Mason wasn’t around to chip away at a past that was already set in cement.
He’d always had luck on his side. The very building was named after his family. Clark Hall. It sounded like a name for a television weatherman. She remembered Shiloh’s Family Days and the masses of Clarks who flocked to the campus to support Mason, picnic, get their picture taken for the school paper, and laugh. Oh, they’d donated plenty of money, too. She’d written their story two years in a row. The Clarks who needed multiple pews in the Shiloh Chapel.
Reba had usually sat with about four others who did not have family attending. She’d tried not to mind that only she and the foreign exchange students were alone.
She locked the office door behind her. The sun shone through the windows of Clark Hall’s second story and accented dust particles that swirled toward the high ceiling’s track lighting. All the offices had closed doors, except the one at the end. Mason’s, no doubt. He probably put as much time into his job as he had school.
Shaking her head, she chuckled at a distant memory. Every senior class president had a goal. They all wanted to contribute something from their graduating class, something that would be remembered by future crops of students. Mason wanted to update the college’s front sign. Instead of the ancient, imposing looking, wooden-roofed board, Mason wanted a glossy, plexiglass sign. He’d gotten it, too.
She’d had to write three articles about that sign. Mason had dedicated almost half a year to raising the money. The sign had fallen over during a tornado watch not even a year later. The remaining pieces—those that hadn’t blown away—were too numerous to reconstruct.
