Collecting Shadows

by Gary Williams

  “Easy, gentlemen. This isn’t a test,” Mr. Mast said.

  The rest of the class went by in a blur. Mr. Mast reviewed classroom expectations. The whole time, Liam fumed. He kept hearing tidbits of whispers behind him. Several of the boys, including Moncray, said things and then laughed quietly so that Mr. Mast wouldn’t hear. He knew they were making fun of him. Liam wasn’t a fighter, and he chose to avoid trouble. When the bell ended class, he rushed out.

  During lunch, Liam found a small, empty table in the back of the cafeteria and sat by himself. He kept his back to the other tables and faced the wall. The large area was loud, as noisy students chatted and laughed. He felt so frustrated and alone, all he wanted to do was finish the school day and get home where he could chill. Three bites into his meal, he pushed the plate aside. His stomach was churning. His life had changed so dramatically in just one year. It still didn’t seem real.

  He couldn’t take it. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. He would call his Aunt Rita, tell her he was sick, and she would come pick him up. Then he would talk to her about being home schooled. He was sure he could talk her into it.

  He opened his cell phone to dial.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” a boy said from behind. Liam spun to see Chase Moncray and another boy laughing. Chase pointed to Liam’s phone. “And I thought you didn’t know shit about history. That’s the first flip phone I’ve seen in years. Hell, it must be from the 90s.” The two boys howled in laughter.

  Liam gritted his teeth and faced forward as he felt his face flush. He closed his eyes and prayed that if he ignored them they would go away.

  The raucous laughter continued.

  “Leave me alone,” Liam said without turning.

  “What? What’s that, smartass?”

  Liam erupted. “You’re an asshole.” He rose, and his chair fell backward, crashing on the floor. He might get his ass kicked, but he wasn’t going to take this shit. The second boy stepped aside. Chase Moncray stood before Liam defiantly, holding an open pocketknife.

  The sight of the blade terrified him.

  “You’ll never call me an asshole again, dickwad,” Moncray said in a low growl. Moncray lunged toward Liam, blade first.

  Liam cowered backward, spilling over the table. As he lost his balance, all he could think of was that he was going to die when Moncray stabbed him. He flipped off the side of the table, landing face-first on the floor. He got his hands down just in time to break his fall.

  Liam flung himself over to see Moncray thrusting the knife toward his ribs. A hand appeared out of nowhere and grasped Moncray’s wrist, twisting his arm away and causing him to release his grip on the knife. The student who intervened had a blond buzzcut and an athletic build. He spun Moncray around and pushed him away, then he bent down and grabbed the knife before Moncray had a chance to retrieve it. Moncray turned to flee and ran into a uniformed campus officer. The officer restrained him, assisted by a teacher. The muscular interloper closed the pocketknife and handed it to the teacher.

  Liam’s hands burned from the impact with the floor, but his rage flared. Seeing Moncray restrained, he pushed to his feet and rushed headlong into him. Upon impact, the officer and Moncray toppled to the ground with Liam on top flailing his balled fist into Moncray’s face until blood sprayed. The next thing he knew, he was being ripped into the air. Liam kicked and screamed, “You asshole!”

  He was dragged away by two people he couldn’t see. He watched as the officer and the male teacher regained their hold on Moncray, who grabbed his red-slicked face, trying to squelch the bleeding. He heard Moncray spit then spew expletives until Liam was pulled out of range in the hallway. A teacher Liam didn’t know and a man in a janitor’s uniform dragged him roughly by the arms to the principal’s office.

  Liam’s day had gone from bad to hell.

  13

  “I know this puts you in a tough situation,” Rita said, “but you have to understand, Liam lost his mom when he was 12. Then, after his father tragically died last year, he had to move from his hometown in St. Petersburg, Florida, to live with his mother’s brother up in Pensacola. He took a year off from school to mourn and try and get his life together, but he got into some trouble because of the guys he was hanging out with. He moved in with me a week ago, and he’s struggling to fit in. He’s a good kid. If he got in a fight, he was provoked.”

  Assistant Principal Martin Abelhouse responded sympathetically, “Ms. Poston, we know he was provoked. The boy who attacked him has been expelled from this school, arrested, and is facing criminal charges. Thank God one of our soccer players immobilized the student until the officer got there.

  “The problem is, Liam attacked the student after the security officer subdued him. Liam not only knocked the student down, he knocked the officer to the floor. What if the officer’s firearm had accidentally discharged? We can’t have students taking matters into their own hands, especially once the officer intervened. Liam will be suspended for 10 days.”

  Arguing was useless. Mr. Abelhouse wasn’t budging.

  Outside the glass office, Rita saw a well-dressed African-American man with interesting glasses bend down and say something to the administrative assistant. He then went over to Liam who was sitting alone in the corner with his head down. The man said something to him, rose, and approached the office door. He knocked, and Mr. Abelhouse reluctantly waved him in.

  “Can I get back to you, Ron?” Mr. Abelhouse said.

  “I’m here because this involves Liam Poston.”

  Rita stood and shook his hand. “I’m Liam’s aunt, Rita Poston.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Poston. I’m Liam’s history teacher, Ron Mast.” Ron directed his next words to Mr. Abelhouse. “Martin, the altercation in the cafeteria happened because of something that occurred in my class. I know it’s not an excuse, but he was razzed pretty hard by the student in the fight. It took a lot of willpower for him not to react then. I can understand why he did what he did in the cafeteria, especially given the fact the other student pulled a knife on him.”

  “His punishment is not being decided in a court of law. I appreciate your testimony, Ron, but there must be repercussions. Severe repercussions. Plain and simple.”

  The sliver of hope Rita felt when Mr. Mast spoke on behalf of Liam faded with Mr. Abelhouse’s stubbornness. She felt compelled to chime in. “Put yourself in his place, Mr. Abelhouse. Both parents, one of whom was my brother, died before Liam reached the age of 15. He’s been shipped off twice to live with other relatives. You really think suspending him is the best course of action for his future? After all, Liam could have been killed,” Rita pleaded.

  The room fell quiet.

  Ron said in a calm tone, “Martin, would you be open to an alternative form of punishment?”

  Martin Abelhouse leaned back in his chair and tented his fingers in the air. “Possibly.”

  Ron spoke to Rita. “What would be suitable punishment?”

  She was taken aback by the question. “Um, some kind of after-school activity?”

  “That’s a good start. He could help maintain the school grounds for an hour after school every day for two weeks.”

  “That’s not enough,” Mr. Abelhouse said.

  Ron again spoke to Rita. “What does Liam hate?”

  “He’s going to hate maintaining the school grounds.”

  “No, I mean something else.”

  “Well—and don’t take this personally, Mr. Mast—Liam is not a fan of history. He’s not enamored with old stuff, as he calls it. I’m sure that going to your history class is torture for him.”

  Ron Mast’s face swelled into a smile. “Perfect.” He then said directly to Mr. Abelhouse, “That’s the other part of his punishment. He must participate in my history club for the entire year. He’ll have to endure more old stuff than he could have ever imagined.” Ron turned to face Rita, “We meet twice a week immediately after school on Mondays and Thursdays, starting today. On
those days for the next two weeks, Liam can also work on the grounds for an hour after the club meeting.”

  It sounded good to Rita.

  She and Mr. Mast awaited Mr. Abelhouse’s response. He nodded, “I can live with that.”

  Rita saw Liam through the glass. He still had his head down.

  14

  Around 4:00 p.m., Liam walked down the second floor hall to Classroom 222. The school was deserted, except for a few stragglers. He was still irritated his aunt had made a deal to lessen his penalty from suspension. She had also crushed the idea of home schooling, claiming she didn’t have time because of the business. The combination of all this had him in a crappy mood.

  What a day. He had been embarrassed in class, attacked by a kid with a knife in the cafeteria, and forced into a school club on the one subject he loathed.

  The only redeeming feature of this club was that the staff advisor was his teacher, Mr. Mast. At least the man seemed to have a knack for keeping things light, and he had helped him with the assistant principal. For that, he was thankful. If only the punishment had stopped at the after-school cleanup.

  Liam found the door open. He entered and, for a second time that day, was pleasantly surprised to see Bailey’s smile. She sat beside Britney Li. A Hispanic boy sporting short dark hair with blond-highlighted spikes and a round face sat behind them. To the side, a solid-built, red-haired boy with the beginnings of facial hair was talking to a light-skinned, African-American girl with dark, corkscrew hair. They were taking a selfie with her camera, their heads touching. They each wore goofy smiles, which told Liam they were probably a couple.

  Five people. Six, including himself. That’s all there were. Not surprising, when he thought about it. Who wants to be in a history club?

  “Hey Liam,” Bailey greeted him warmly.

  “Hey.” He searched around. “So, where’s Mr. Mast?”

  “He’s running late.”

  “You don’t seem surprised to see me here.”

  “Mr. Mast told us you were joining.”

  “Forced to join.” Liam took a seat on the other side of Bailey, in front of the couple. He leaned forward and eyed the girl on the opposite side of Bailey with the purple highlighted hair, button nose, and fair skin. “Britney Li, right?”

  “Please,” she said with a formal nod of her head, “call me Random.”

  “Random? Okay.”

  “Let me introduce you to everyone,” Bailey said. “First, everyone, this is Liam Poston.”

  “Hi Liam,” everyone said in a sappy greeting that even struck Liam as funny.

  “This is One,” Bailey said, pointing to the boy with the husky face and spiked hair.

  “Juan, good to meet you,” Liam said.

  “Not Juan, One, as in the number. It’s a nickname, like Random. I was the first of what my Panamanian parents hoped were many children. Unfortunately, after I was born, my mom couldn’t have any more kids.”

  “What a shock,” the red-haired boy said.

  They all laughed, including One, who seemed to have a great sense of humor, even when the joke was pointed at him.

  “One’s real name is Arturo Manacia,” Bailey added, “and the smartass ginger is Calvin Durk,” she said with a grin.

  Calvin, who was wearing a shirt that said Bieber for President…of Russia, gave a cordial wave to Liam.

  Bailey continued, “Beside him is Patty Schular. In case you can’t tell, they’re a couple. Calvin’s not into history as much as he’s into Patty.”

  “Calvin, Patty,” Liam acknowledged them each in turn.

  “Hashtag Cal-Patty,” Random chimed in. “By the way, why do they always need the blood of a virgin for a sacrifice? Why not the blood of a sleaze?”

  One chuckled.

  Yep. She’s Random, Liam thought.

  “Glad to hear you’re all in good spirits,” Mr. Mast said entering the room carrying a folder. He placed it on the desk. “I hope everyone has introduced themselves to Mr. Poston.”

  “Liam’s been properly inducted into our cult,” Bailey said playfully.

  “Good, good. Later we’ll invoke spell chanting and human sacrifices to make sure you’re one of us, Mr. Poston. Until then, welcome aboard.”

  Laughter filled the room.

  “Seriously, welcome to the history club. As you can see, we’re not a large group, but we’re fanatical about our interest.”

  Crap. Liam had been enjoying the introductions and banter so much that he’d almost forgotten the purpose of their gathering. This was going to suck. Well, except that he would have an opportunity to get to know Bailey better.

  “Last spring when we convened, we decided to spend this year on Henry Flagler; specifically, his time in St. Augustine.”

  There’s that name again, Liam thought. He must have been second in command to God.

  “Mr. Poston, are you familiar with Flagler and his accomplishments?”

  Slowly, Liam shook his head, no.

  “Then before we begin, let’s do a quick recap of the man. The son of a preacher, Henry Morrison Flagler was born in 1830 in Hopewell, New York. In 1870, at the age of 40, Flagler partnered with John D. Rockefeller and organized Standard Oil. He was soon one of the wealthiest men in America.

  “In 1883, Flagler and his second wife vacationed in St. Augustine. This is when he got the idea to build hotels here, but in order to get tourists to come down from the north, he needed to provide transportation. So Flagler bought the Jacksonville, St. Augustine & Halifax Railroad. Then, in 1888, he opened the Hotel Ponce de León and the Hotel Alcazar on King Street. He was also responsible for other buildings and structures in St. Augustine, including Memorial Presbyterian Church and the newspaper building, just to name a couple.

  “Flagler was an exceptional businessman, but his personal life wasn’t so smooth. In fact, it was very rocky. His first wife died from tuberculosis and Flagler married an ex-actress, Ida Alice Shourds. In 1893, Flagler had a mansion built for Ida Alice on Valencia Street. When she showed signs of severe mental illness, Flagler had no choice but to place her in a sanitarium. Flagler would marry a third time to Mary Lily Kenan in 1901.”

  “Mr. Poston, I know you aren’t prepared, but over the summer, everyone, including me, was tasked with finding something of interest about Flagler, or one of Flagler’s St. Augustine structures, that isn’t common knowledge. So without further ado, we’ll begin. Each of you, please explain and expand on your topic so we can share a base of knowledge with Mr. Poston. Who wants to go first?”

  Random’s hand shot up.

  “Ah, Ms. Li. Please enlighten us.”

  “As Mr. Mast mentioned, Ida Alice Shourds was institutionalized. She remained in the sanitarium until she died in 1930.

  “Here’s the part I didn’t know: Flagler set up a $1 million trust fund to pay for Ida Alice’s fees at the sanitarium as part of their divorce in 1901. This easily covered her expenses. In fact, by the time she died, with interest, the value of the fund had grown to $12 million. That’s some serious cash.”

  “Very nice, Ms. Li. You might say 1930 would have been a good time to be related to Ida Alice Flagler,” Mr. Mast quipped. “Who’s next?”

  One spoke up, “Everybody here probably knows about the collection of Tiffany glass around the dining hall of the Hotel Ponce de León—now Flagler College. Here’s something I didn’t know: the dining hall originally had a large, wooden wagon-wheel chandelier hanging from the ceiling. It was added as temporary lighting. In 1893, the chandelier was replaced by a ring of lights around the dining hall. Oddly, no one knows what happened to the chandelier after it was taken down. It just disappeared.”

  “A historical mystery,” Mr. Mast said, pacing in front of the room. “I like it.” He stopped and faced Patty. “Ms. Schular, you’re up.”

  “Flagler made a row of artist studios at the rear, or north end, of the Hotel Ponce de León when it opened in 1888. The studios were active until 1909,” Patty consulted a sheet o
f paper, “and they featured artists such as Felix de Crano, Martin Heade, and Frank Shapleigh.” She raised her eyes. “Here’s the part I didn’t know: Although Flagler went to great lengths to support the artists of his time by providing studios in the hotel, he showed little interest in art in general. It was considered odd that one of the richest men in America had no desire to gather his own collection of the Old Masters such as…” she consulted the paper again, “Michelangelo, Raphael, and Donatello.”

  Liam looked to Calvin, as did the other students. He knew they all had a single thought. Here comes the turtle joke.

  Cal only smiled. “A TMNT joke would be too easy.”

  “Nicely done,” Mr. Mast remarked. “Conversely, Henry Flagler, on occasion, allowed artists to pay for their hotel rooms with finished art. While this might seem out of character, Flagler valued hard work, even if he cared little for their paintings.”

  These guys have done their homework, Liam thought.

  Mr. Mast addressed Calvin. “I’m almost afraid to ask,” he said with a small grin.

  “I wouldn’t let you down, Mr. M. Staying on the topic of the Hotel Ponce de León, I, too, discovered something unusual about the décor,” Calvin said, rubbing his facial stubble.

  “Oh no,” Patty said, giggling and dropping her face into her hands to stifle her laugh.

  Cal continued, “If you’ve been in the large courtyard of Flagler College, you’ve probably noticed the assortment of terra cotta figures. The fountain is full of terra cotta frogs, and high up on the walls there are dragon heads that once held red lights. There are also lion heads and other figures, including cherubs.” Calvin glanced around at the others for dramatic effect. “But what I learned on my summer vacation was that one of these cherubs is holding his wee wee and peeing. Thus, he’s known as Pis, with one ‘s.’ ” Calvin shrugged. “I guess when you’re a little guy you don’t get both esses.”

  “You made that up. That wouldn’t pass The Onion check,” One said with playful criticism.