By next
morning the paper was on its way to press, Miss Iceland was back in Burlington
and I was where I was at my best- on the couch with a coffee, a stack of dollar
store Oreos and a volume of Alan Sillitoe short stories. As I dove into the
tale of how a 1950s British working class hero was not something to be, despite what John Lennon sang, I pondered
putting my own life into novella form. The
Loneliness of the Long Distance Drunkard leapt to mind as a possible
working title when my phone rang.
This was, for me, a record breaking
third out-of-office phone call in less than 24 hours and as I angrily jammed
the torn piece of newspaper I used as a bookmark into place I pondered how I
was supposed to get anything done with all these interruptions. I checked the
flip phone display before answering. It was my sister. “What’s up?” I started
in with immediately while realizing Caller ID had rendered the art of
exchanging pleasantries practically moot.
“Hey. Andrew wanted me to call you.”
“Really?” I replied thinking this
sounded very CIA back channel-ish like I was about to be asked to broker an
arms deal with the Mujahideen.
“He said to tell you the State Police detectives came out this morning, reviewed the evidence and signed off on the
department’s theory of the murders. As soon as the mandatory toxicology reports
come back from Montpelier Chief Bowden will issue a statement,” she said very
matter-of-factly. Then added, “oh and you and your little floosy should stay
out of Johnny Java’s and the Episcopal Church.”
“Floosy?” I answered, cocking an
eyebrow then un-cocking it since I was on the phone. “Well you know the plan
was to meet Scott and Zelda for some bathtub gin but the speakeasy was closed.
And why shouldn’t I go to the coffee place or the church for that matter.” The
first part of her message came straight from the Chief. It was this latter part
of the message that I found most curious.
“Listen, you don’t like those
pretentious drinks anyway and you wouldn’t know a scone from a hole in your ass
so just stay away,” she started. “Plus I heard you and your friend scared old
Pastor Brooks right out of town. Stop trying to impress Blondie and do like
I’ve been telling you. Go on the internet and don’t be too choosy…Rueben-esque is
not a deal breaker.”
“OK, we’re done here,” I started,
but by the time I was finished there was a scream, a cry and then a dial tone
on the other end.
Well, that ruined my morning so I
downed the last cookie, took the coffee to the bedroom and got dressed.
Clean-wise I was down to a Nehru jacket and a pair of my Dad’s old Bermuda
shorts so I pulled a Kris Kristofferson found my cleanest dirty shirt, pulled
on yesterday’s jeans- that at this point were up to being last week’s jeans-
and headed for the Falcon.
An internet search the night before
had yielded the info that Ted Sheehan was indeed divorced. The filing date was
six years ago and as far as I could tell from subsequent searches there were no
children involved. The reason for parting was not part of the public record,
but the fact that Monica Carson was a nubile senior the year it went down had
me intrigued.
The plan was to hit Artfield High
first and dig amongst some of my contacts on the staff for anything they might
know about this supposed Ted Sheehan-Monica Carson relationship. I’d parked
around back to avoid Helen and pretty much any neighbors. A chatter, I am not.
Then just as I was about to put the key in the car door- because on the Falcon
you still had to do things like that- I saw and smelled it. On the hood, amidst the rust
and chipping paint, a large, fragrant turd.
It was clear someone had placed or
shat- I believe that’s correct, however I did not anticipate having to
conjugate the past participle of the verb ‘to shit’ at this point in my life so
bear with me- it there on purpose. This because it occupied point (0,0) had the
hood been one of those X,Y charts that students are forced to work with in
Freshman Algebra. In fact if the perpetrator had gotten up there to do it in
say muddy shoes I could’ve calculated the slope-intercept of such an effort
using the formula y=Mx + b…or in this instance maybe y=Mx + bm would be more
appropriate.
I had no idea who would do such a thing. What I did know was
it was intentional, it was human and they were apparently going for a bow
before running out of steam. None of my exes would’ve wasted this kind of
effort on me and I hadn’t given Miss Iceland any reason though it was still early
in our acquaintance. Besides I couldn’t imagine anything coming out of that
apple of an ass but rainbow sherbet.
Between the difficulty in trying wrap my head around such an
act and the smell I decided it was time to take action. I went to the nearby
recycling bin, grabbed a piece of cardboard and flicked the offending pile into
the bushes. I’d ponder the whys and what-fors later and since the Falcon
couldn’t look any worse I eschewed trying to find a hose, fired her up and headed
out.
On my way to the high school the smell began seeping in
through the holes in the dashboard where things like a radio and glove
compartment door used to be. I was thus forced to open both front windows which
required a pair of pliers and the flexibility of a gymnast while trying to give
at least a minimal nod to the rules of the road.
I reached Artfield High a little
after 9:30 AM and chose a spot in the rear of the student lot in range of a
security camera hoping to catch the Midnight Pooper in the act. Though I
realized this wasn’t likely given normal digestion time. Plus based on the size
and firmness noted earlier he/she appeared to be reasonably healthy of colon so
I’d probably have to wait them out.
The high school itself was fairly
large relative to the town population since it was a regional school drawing
also from more rural communities to the North and East. However despite its
stately lawns and blasé brick exterior, inside it resembled nothing so much as
the bar of a Bangkok brothel. Now I assume there is a dress code designed to
guide the fashion choices of the 14-18 year old girls in attendance, but
apparently enforcement was, to be kind, lax. Bare midriffs, Daisy Dukes, yoga
pants, mini-skirts, tiny tank tops it was like Pat Robertson's version of a
Hieronymus Bosch painting. Of course I could never feel sympathy for those
creepy male teachers who slept with female students, but considering what
passed as “school appropriate” clothing I was stunned one of their lawyers had
never tried entrapment as a defense.
I showed my ID, signed in at the office and got a
visitor’s badge. I realize 9/11 and Sandy Hook were the reasons for these
precautions, but I also felt it was an equally good idea to keep track of any
indiscriminate men walking around these halls. I could only imagine the leering
of middle-aged outside contractors. The corridors had cleared by now with the
ringing of the late bell and I quickly made my way to the gym to see what info
I could shake out of Lip.
Max Lipper was the fittest, tannest
60 year old Jew this side of Boca Raton. He spent his days playing basketball,
volleyball and what have you with students and his evenings participating in
practically every adult sports recreation league Artfield and the surrounding
areas had to offer. When he wasn’t pitching in a softball league or posting
someone thirty years his junior low in the paint he could be found on a stool
at Pete’s Pub sipping Absolut and cranberry and hitting on anything that moved.
“I can’t believe you’re still
teaching,” I said, sneaking up from behind as he set up plastic cones for that
period’s activities.
“My 33rd glorious year,”
he replied, turning around and grinning ear-to-ear. He then bypassed my
outstretched hand in favor of a giant bear hug.
“So I guess you were grandfathered
in on Megan’s Law?” I joked.
“I miss you, bud. When you coming
back to play with us?”
“With my knees forget it. You have a
better chance of seeing me here teaching than on a softball field.”
“You don’t want that,” he said,
laughing and shaking his head. “Those that can do and those that can’t teach.”
“Yeah and those that can’t teach,
teach gym.”
We could of busted balls and told
war stories all day, but the first kids were trickling out of the locker rooms
so I figured I better get to the point.
“Bud, can you help me out? What did
you know about Ted Sheehan?”
“Not much. As Vice-Principals go I
liked him cause he left us alone.”
“Are you saying he wasn’t doing his
job?” I questioned. If so, maybe he was
screwing around with Monica Carson; texting and SnapChat-ing his way through a
mid-life crisis.
“No, I just mean he was good. Didn’t
sweat the little stuff. No drama.”
I’d heard that the High School could
be a crazy place. In the Elementary Schools they went on Lockdown every time a
kid cried. At the High School, on the other hand, any day they didn’t have to
bring the cops in was considered a win. “So what was he like personally?”
“Don’t know. Nice guy always said
hello, unlike most of the administration around here. But outside of school
stuff he kept pretty much to himself. Even when he was teaching he never did
Happy Hour or the Holiday or year-end parties.”
The gym class was completely in and
while the clothes were actually more sedate- baggy shorts, long t-shirts- there
was enough Spandex to make me wonder if turning Lip loose in here wasn’t akin
to inviting Roman Polanski to a Sweet 16.
Lip dropped the last cone in place,
blew his whistle and the milling students dropped into their squad spots just
like we used to in our Supertramp Breakfast
in America concert shirts and shorts over sweatpants- why the latter I’m
not still not sure.
I was about to cut out when Lip had
one last thought. “You know who you might want to see is Mr. Barton, 10th
grade English teacher. I heard he was friends with Ted. They always did lunch
duty together. We’ve got sophomores in here now. Check the lounge or Room 130
or 131, he should be free this period.”
Lip gave me another huge hug and I
shoved off to find Barton. I knew the school fairly well from covering various
functions here for the paper. The Faculty Lounge came up first with nothing
between it and the gym except the Special Ed. rooms; tiny boxes where a teacher
and classroom aide are crammed in with 6-8 ADHD and Oppositional Defiant
students in what looks like a Texas Tornado Steel Cage match. It’s a noble job
for as the humorist David Sedaris once commented, “I’m sure there are plenty of
kids with legitimate learning disabilities, but aren’t a lot of them just
assholes?”
Pondering this I peeked into the
lounge which was just a converted classroom with a dining table, second-hand
furniture, a bank of computers and a giant, overworked copy machine that
probably chewed up a rainforest of paper a day. Still it was large and brightly
lit unlike the dank caverns of yesteryear, so filled with cigarette smoke that
it wasn’t clear whether exiting teachers were leaving the Faculty Room or the
back of Cheech and Chong’s van. Through the window I spied three female
teachers: two at the table grading papers, the third feeding stacks of papers
into the copier as part of what I once heard referred to as the “give ‘em
worksheets till their hands bleed” theory of education.
I continued on, made a left, then a
right before winding up in the boiler room where a custodian with a key chain
so heavy it could’ve been used for the Olympic hammer throw directed me to Mr. Barton
in room 131. Walking in I was confronted by a man who was everything I
“could’ve if I’d done the things I should’ve” as Robert Earl Keen once crooned.
Approximately my age, neat, fit, well-dressed and groomed to within an inch of his life. I was exhausted just looking at him. I used to joke with Gladys at the
office that I was always late because it took me two hours to get ready in the
morning. Then I’d run a hand up and down my slovenly self and crack, “Do you
think this just happens?” Ron Barton could say the same thing, only without the
sarcasm.
“Hi, I’m Luke Williams from The Artfield Review. Do you have a
minute to talk about Ted Sheehan? This won’t take long.”
“Sure,” he said, extending a hand and
giving mine a firm, confident shake. “There were some reporters here the other
day, but I was doing grief counseling in the Guidance Office and must’ve missed
them. Ted was a great guy. It’s been tough.”
He finished writing that night’s
homework on the polyurethane whiteboard that had replaced blackboards in all
the rooms, I’m guessing because chalk dust was afflicting too many teachers
with “white lung disease”. Capping the marker he took a seat on a stool and
motioned me to a one piece desk/chair in the front row. Dropping down and
squeezing in I was reminded just how bad my knees and how big my waistline had
become.
“So I hear you were fairly close
with Ted,” I began.
“Close as anyone I guess.”
“He kept pretty much to himself,
huh?”
“Personally yes…professionally though
he gave everything he had to the kids.”
“I noticed. Going through the
yearbooks it looked like he was involved in every fundraiser there was. What
was the name of the club he ran?”
Barton had gotten off his stool and
moved over by his desk. “The Random Acts of Kindness Club. It was one of the
most popular in the school because of him.”
“Right. They didn’t have that when I
went here. Though me and a coupla guys made up the ‘Vicious Acts of Vengeance
Club’…though I don’t believe we were ever sanctioned by administration.”
He laughed politely and opened the
big file drawer on the near side of his desk. “Ted loved fundraisers because
they were all-inclusive. Jocks, nerds, cool kids, artsy-types they could all
participate. And they were into everything,” he said as he began pulling
novelty giveaway items from the drawer. “Here’s a ‘Donate To Darfur’ button, a
‘Hurricane Katrina Aid’ magnet, ‘Autism Awareness’ drink cozy, ‘Red Nose Day’
noses.”
He held out one of the latter as if
to give it to me. “No thanks. I prefer to get my red nose the old-fashioned
way…alcohol.” As he shoveled the giveaways back into the drawer I looked around
thinking perhaps I missed my calling. Maybe I should’ve been an English
teacher, surrounded by books and saying things like “There are no stupid questions,
only stupid students” or “I don’t know can
you go to the bathroom?” not so much because I thought it funny, but because I
felt contractually obligated.
“Have the police released any
information about the crime,” he asked, waking me from my reverie. “I can’t
understand why anyone would want to kill Ted.”
I figured this was the perfect time
to leak the police theory and gauge the reaction of someone who actually knew
Sheehan. “The word I’m hearing is Ted and the girl were involved and the father
didn’t approve.”
“Involved
in what?”
This was not the reaction I was
expecting. I thought ‘involved’ could only mean one thing in this scenario, but
Barton was clearly confused. “You know…romantically,” I clarified.
He shook his head. “Not possible.”
This was the standard line on shows
like Dateline and 48 Hours. It was never possible the
brother, cousin, son, neighbor could’ve chopped up his family with a Ginsu
knife and buried them in the backyard, but of course in the end he did. So I
pressed him. “Why not? Ted was single, on his own. And Monica Carson was a
looker.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said and fixed
me with a look of absolute certainty. “Ted Sheehan was gay!”
