One Breath Away

by Heather Gudenkauf

  I was wearing a pale blue sundress that matched the sky, and my mud-encrusted barn boots. It was a mild summer day and every once in a while a soft breeze would lift the skirt of my dress and I would tamp it down with a giggle. I watched Frisbee as he settled himself in the middle of the pen, spine straight, holding completely still. Even my four-year-old self knew that Frisbee was up to no good. Cattle are curious creatures and slowly made their way, step by cautious step, over to where Frisbee sat, unmoving. One spoon-eared heifer, the color of the anise candy my father kept in his pocket, approached Frisbee and lowered her broad nose to his, as if leaning in to give him a kiss. Frisbee leaped into the air and nipped the unsuspecting bovine on the nose, sending her and the other startled cattle to a far corner of the pen. Frisbee would take a few joyful victory laps around the paddock, egged on by my whoops and cheers, and then return to the center of the pen where he would start the game all over again.

  I remember glancing around the farmyard to see if anyone was around. I was alone. I hitched up my dress and climbed between the slats of the fence and joined Frisbee in the center of the paddock. There we waited as the curious heifers crept slowly closer, their heads swaying side to side, their wide nostrils flaring, until I couldn’t see the sky above me any longer.

  “Stay, Frisbee,” I heard my father’s voice say sternly. Frisbee stayed. “Move along there, girls,” he told the heifers, and they calmly lumbered away, revealing Frisbee and me. My father came into the pen and lifted me into his arms; his face was tight and worried-looking.

  “Don’t worry, I’m okay, Daddy,” I remember saying to him as I patted his cheek with my chubby fingers.

  “Stay out of the pens, Holly,” he said angrily. “You’ll spook the cattle.” And that was how it always seemed to go.

  When I was young, the farm and the land around it was the world. When I looked north and east I could see the pastures where the cattle grazed, green with clover and slightly sloping, punctuated with fence posts at predictable intervals. To the south were the cornfields that overnight seemed to become a jungle of coarse stalks and feathery tassels. I loved roaming the fields, pushing aside the stalks that left a red rash on my arms from its raspy leaves. I never knew where I was going next, didn’t know where I would end up coming out. But that was why I did it. That and to drive my parents crazy.

  To the west of our farm was Broken Branch, where I went each Sunday with my family to attend church. But even way back then, the town felt too small to me, too familiar, and I couldn’t wait to get away.

  My mother’s eyes open. “Caught me,” she says guiltily. The fluorescent lighting in my hospital room is unforgiving and her skin has taken on a yellowish, unhealthy tint and I am reminded how much she has aged since I last saw her.

  I smile at her. “If anyone deserves a good rest, it’s you, Mom. I’ve never known anyone work as hard as you have your whole life.”

  “Your father could give me a run for my money on that one,” she says modestly.

  “What time does their flight arrive?” I ask for the hundredth time, even though I know the answer.

  “Four o’clock tomorrow,” my mother says, standing and stretching her wide arms over her head. “They’re coming right from the airport.”

  “I can’t wait to see them,” I say like a child anxiously awaiting Christmas.

  “I know,” my mother says, “and they can’t wait to see you. Your father, too. He can’t wait to see you. He’ll make sure he gets Augie and P.J. to you safe and sound.”

  Chapter 36:

  Will

  Verna and Will pulled chairs up to an already crowded corner table at Lonnie’s. The air smelled of fried onions and coffee. Apparently an armed gunman in the only school in town wasn’t enough to diminish everyone’s appetites. But as Will looked around, it was easy to identify those who had loved ones in the school and those who were merely spectators in someone else’s nightmare.

  Three tables away, a group of strangers were mowing their way through Lonnie’s appetizer platter and tenderloin sandwiches. Reporters, Lonnie guessed at the sight of a man in a trench coat. The coat, not nearly warm enough for a day like this, and the stiff, coiffed hair of the woman, were a dead giveaway. Two others at the table were attempting to lean nonchalantly toward the other customers and were writing furiously in their notebooks.

  “The goddamn nerve of them,” said Ed Wingo, a scarecrow-thin man with hunched shoulders and a foul mouth. Ed was also probably the richest man in town, with eight hundred acres of farmland and one of the most successful hog confinement operations in the county. “Someone should tell them to get the hell out of town,” he added bitterly.

  “That’d be just great, Ed,” Verna said dryly. “We’ll just manhandle them, throw them out into the snowstorm and see what all kinds of nice things they’re going to say about our fine town.”

  Will choked on his coffee, trying to swallow back his laughter. No wonder Marlys liked this woman, he thought. Not too many people dared to put Ed Wingo in his place.

  Ed puffed out his chest and pointed a bony finger at Verna. “Do you really think it’s okay that these strangers are sitting in here, eavesdropping on our conversations, taking advantage of the suffering of this town to sell a few papers or for the ratings?”

  “I imagine,” Will said lightly, “that these folks would like nothing better than to be at the school finding out what is actually going on rather than being stuck here with those of us who can give them absolutely no information.”

  “They’re probably more worried about where they’re going to sleep tonight,” Carl Hoover, the president of the Broken Branch First National Bank, added. “The way the snow is coming down, chances are the highways are going to be closed.”

  “You think they realize we don’t have a hotel in town? Maybe they can stay with you, Ed, in that big old house of yours.” Verna laughed and then abruptly sobered when the other customers looked their way. “How much longer do you think this can go on?” Verna asked helplessly.

  “Well, if I had my say,” Ed said, flagging down a waitress, “I would go right into that school and use a sharpshooter to knock the man flat and then get the kids the hell out of there.”

  “They can’t do that,” Carl scoffed. “Might cause the man to start shooting. No, they have to try and make contact with him, try to negotiate and then just sit back and wait him out.”

  “That’s what I don’t understand.” Ed held out his coffee cup for the waitress to refill. “Why would some asshole want to hold a bunch of kids from Broken Branch hostage? It’s bullshit.” He nodded his thanks to the waitress and took a long, contemplative sip. “Maybe it’s that teacher they fired last year. He had quite the temper. If I remember right, roughed up a student.”

  “Yeah, that was bad business,” Will responded, shaking his head at the memory. “The kid filled his gas tank with sugar or some such thing. Still no excuse to get physical.”

  “I heard that he was managing a gas station over by Sioux City now. Probably gets paid better doing that than when he was a teacher,” Verna mused. “Can’t imagine why he’d want to show his face back here.” She glanced surreptitiously at Will. He knew she was thinking of her son-in-law and her grandchildren.

  Chapter 37:

  Meg

  As I make my way back to my squad car I take the time to check my cell phone for any missed calls. There are five. Four from Maria. Another one from Stuart. My heart skips a beat at the thought that something must be wrong with her but then I remember the news van and what Stuart said about the lockdown being all over the media. Maria may have seen something on the television and is scared for her classmates. Tim and Maria are just probably checking up on me. I hit Send on my phone as I climb into my car.

  “Hi, Mommy.” I hear Maria’s breathless voice. “What happened at school?”

 
; “You don’t worry about it, okay?” I say, tucking the phone between my chin and shoulder and putting the key into the ignition.

  “But the TV says…” she begins.

  “We’re not sure just yet, Maria Ballerina,” I say, using my pet name for her. My tires slip slightly as I make a left turn out of the school parking lot.

  “Okay,” she says, though she doesn’t sound convinced.

  “I have to get back to work, so tell your dad I’ll give you a call later.”

  “He had to go to work,” Maria says, and from the sound of her voice I can tell she’s as happy about it as I am.

  “Who’s with you?” I ask, worried that she is going to say my parents or, worse, my brother.

  “Grandma and Grandpa Barrett,” she answers, and I relax.

  “Let me talk to Grandma Judith, okay? I’ll call you later. I love you, big hugs and smooches.”

  “Big hugs and smooches,” she echoes, but she sounds sad and near tears.

  There is silence for a second as Maria hands the phone to Tim’s mother.

  “Judith,” I say, “I thought Tim was on vacation.” I try to keep the irritation out of my voice; this isn’t Judith’s fault.

  “I know, Meg,” she says, and I can hear that she is uncomfortable. This makes me so sad because Judith and I have always had a good relationship. “He got called into work. What’s going on there?”

  “I can’t talk now, Judith. Please just have Tim call me the minute you talk to him.”

  “You’ll probably see him before we do,” she says. “I think he was called to be an EMT backup for whatever it is you aren’t talking about.”

  I don’t mean to, but I sigh. Loudly. “If you talk to him, please have him call me. And,” I add before I can stop myself, “please don’t let Maria watch any more news programs about what’s going on.”

  “Meg,” Judith says in exasperation. “Maria was already watching TV when all of a sudden her show was interrupted with a special report about her classmates being taken hostage. And please don’t tell me you can’t get into it.”

  “I really don’t know anything for certain or I would tell you. I’m sorry, Judith, I don’t mean to snap at you. It’s pretty tense here. I’ll call you when I have more info, okay?”

  There’s a long pause and I wonder if she’s hung up on me. “Maria could be in there right now,” she finally says.

  “I know,” is all I can think of to say, and I push back the thoughts of Maria being in the school with a gunman. I wonder what I would do. Would I continue on as I am now, interviewing witnesses, helping to organize the investigation? Or would I have done what the farmers had in mind? Barge into the school with a gun in order to bring her out safely.

  I hang up and for half a second consider calling Stuart to see if anything new had been uncovered by the media and then quickly discount it. Things definitely did not end well with Stuart three weeks ago. I was sitting at my desk at police headquarters typing up a report when a woman stalked into the building and stopped in front of me. I remember noticing how nice this stranger looked, dressed fashionably, makeup perfectly applied, each hair in place. I later realized that she had done that for my benefit. Her chin wobbled as she slid her wedding ring off her finger and set the gold band gently on my desk.

  “You may as well have it,” she said softly. “You’ve taken everything else that’s important to me.”

  I looked up at her in confusion, her identity still not registering with me. “Can I help you?”

  She emitted a sharp bark of laughter, causing the others in the office area to look our way. From next to the coffee machine, Chief McKinney eyed the scene warily while he poured cream into his mug. “You can help me by telling Stuart to never come home again. The locks are changed, the phone number is changed. The only way I want to communicate with him is through our lawyers.” The shock on my face must have caused her to falter because for just a moment a flash of doubt flickered in her eyes, but she quickly recovered, replacing concern with cold disdain.

  “I’m s-sorry,” I stammered. “I didn’t know.”

  She shook her head balefully. “Yeah, me, neither,” she said bitterly, straightened her shoulders and left.

  Two days later, I opened the Sunday paper and saw the headline in big bold letters and Stuart’s byline. My blood went cold. Stuart got his big story and used me to get it.

  Stuart can go to hell, I decide as I try to brush the memory away. I drop the phone on the seat next to me, vow to charge him with interfering with a police investigation or at least with something the next time he contacts me, and look back over my shoulder and see a stream of students running from a far corner of the school. I slam on the brakes, causing my car to slide and fishtail for what feels like an eternity. Finally, the tires grip the road and I’m able to maneuver the car so I’m once again facing the school. Breathing hard, I take in the sight. Twenty-some students, teens by the look of them, are running through the snow toward the parking lot, terror on their faces. One student’s feet slide out from beneath her and she falls with a violent smack to the ground. McKinney has managed to get Broken Branch’s one ambulance and one more from a neighboring town and instantly there are two EMTs at her side. I wonder if Tim is on his way and, if so, why he hasn’t called me yet.

  I throw the car into Park and make my way back toward McKinney and the other officers. I keep moving toward their point of exit, a window that sits low to the ground. A battered screen lies in the snow and a young girl straddles the window ledge, one leg dangling over a snowbank. The girl keeps looking back into the classroom as if she has forgotten something.

  “Come on,” I call out, waving her toward me. Startled, her eyes fly to my face and for a moment we stare at each other. Then I see it, a tightening of her mouth, the squaring of her shoulders. “No, no,” I call after her as she pulls her leg back over the ledge. “Come on!” I yell loudly. “This way!” She doesn’t look back and disappears into the classroom. “Dammit,” I mutter as I stare through the now-empty window.

  Chapter 38:

  Mrs. Oliver

  From her chair where the man ordered her to sit, Mrs. Oliver called out to the little girl locked in the closet. “Don’t worry, Lucy! It’s going to be okay!” Mrs. Oliver was furtively wiping at her eyes, trying to staunch the tears before they started, when she saw him. Jason Ellery. Standing outside the door, peeking in. At first she was hopeful, her midsection fluttering with excitement, but was quickly replaced with fear. The man was angry enough as it was, who knew what he would do if Mr. Ellery, young and naive to be sure, confronted him.

  “Jesus, don’t you people follow your own lockdown procedures?” the man asked in exasperation. He leveled his gun at the door and Mr. Ellery ducked. “Open the door,” he said loudly. No one moved and Mr. Ellery didn’t reappear. “I said, open the goddamn door.” Seconds passed and with a soft click the door swung gently open. Jason Ellery stood before them, his hands raised.

  “Hey, man,” Jason said in an apologetic tone, “I heard some pounding and crying. Thought someone was hurt, thought I better see if I could help.”

  The gunman approached him slowly, almost casually. “Bad idea,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re not a policeman?”

  “No, no,” Jason assured him, taking slow steps backward. “A teacher. I’m just an eighth-grade teacher.”

  “Come here,” the man said. Mr. Ellery continued backing up. “I said come here.”

  “Hey, I don’t want any trouble. Just came to see if I could…” He looked up pleadingly but before Mr. Ellery could finish his sentence the man swung his hand back, striking him on the temple with the gun. Mr. Ellery fell to his knees and raised his arms to block further blows.

  Mrs. Oliver considered running to Mr. Ellery’s rescue. She couldn’t do much, she imagined, but she could jump
on the man’s back and flatten him into possible submission. She scanned the faces of her children, some with their heads buried in their arms on their desks, some sitting erect with fright, some crying. What would happen to them, she wondered, if she tried to be the hero? Would he shoot her, would he shoot the children? She couldn’t stand the thought of not walking out of that classroom with each and every one of her children safe and sound. No, she would sit here, she decided. Sit and see what happened. Protect her students, though she hadn’t protected Lucy very well. She heard Cal’s voice in her head: Better that she’s in that closet, Evie. She couldn’t cope with being out in that classroom. That is exactly what he would say if he was here, Mrs. Oliver decided, and she felt a trifle bit better.

  Mr. Ellery was still on his knees, scalp bleeding, when the man reached for his arm to pull him all the way into the classroom. Mr. Ellery—quite stupid and brave, Mrs. Oliver thought, for trying to come up here and single-handedly save them all—was young and fit. With a quick thrust with the heel of his hand he caught the man’s testicles and he staggered backward, dropping the gun. Mrs. Oliver cheered. A resounding, “Yay,” leaped from her lips, and she rose from her seat determined to pounce on the gun. “Run, Mr. Ellery!” she shouted. “Run.” She was too slow, though; the man snatched up the revolver and chased Mr. Ellery down the hallway.

  “Cover your ears,” she ordered the children, sure that gunshots were sure to follow. Sixteen pairs of hands clasped their ears. Seconds passed and no sound. Mrs. Oliver hesitantly moved toward the doorway, hoping to find that Mr. Ellery had overpowered the gunman, had him in a headlock or a full nelson, whatever they called that move on Cal’s professional wrestling shows. As she peered around the corner down the hallway, her stomach sank. The gunman had a bloodied Mr. Ellery by the scruff of his shirt, the gun pointed at his head, and was dragging him toward the janitor’s closet located in the hallway. He shoved an unconscious Mr. Ellery inside and slammed the door.