dinner, do the dishes, help with homework and finally, finally, exhausted, she would be able to sit down for a few moments and knit. Sure, we helped our mother, but there was just so much to do, there was never enough time in the day. Watching the weariness of our mother, though she never complained, I swore that wouldn’t be my life and I knew I would get out of Broken Branch as soon as I was old enough.
“One o’clock, Iowa time,” I say. “I wonder what the kids are doing right this minute.”
Mrs. Oliver
Mrs. Oliver looked closely at the man. Getting a clear picture of him wasn’t easy. He had a gray baseball cap pulled down low over his forehead. Little tufts of curly, dark brown hair poked out around his ears. He wore a black jacket zippered up to his chin and sleek leather gloves on his fingers. By the lines that seamed the corners of his blue eyes she figured he had to be at least in his early forties. He seemed overly concerned that two of the students were absent. Lily and Maria. Was one of them his target? If so, why didn’t he just leave to go in search of them instead of remaining in the classroom? Was he in too deeply now, feel that he had nothing to lose?
P.J. was still staring unabashedly at the man and Mrs. Oliver had an inkling that P.J. might know the man, maybe had seen him before.
She wondered briefly if this could actually be Bobby Latham, her former student, forcing her to sit still for an excruciating amount of time just as she had done to him all those years ago. But no. She and Bobby liked each other. Had come to an understanding. She promised to never tell him to face front ever again as long as he didn’t use the pages of his math book to make soggy spitballs that he shot through the barrel of his ink pen at the back of Kitty Rawlings’s head. No, this wasn’t Bobby Latham. Maybe it was another former student.
In her mind she ran through the Filofax of children she had taught over the years. It couldn’t have been Walter Spanksi, the only student she had ever flunked. He would be in his fifties by now. How she had fretted over holding Walter back for another year of third grade. No matter how she had tried to help him learn his multiplication facts and how to read even the most basic of sentences, he just never caught on. She couldn’t very well send him on to fourth grade when he didn’t know a noun from a verb and consistently missed seventeen of the twenty words on the weekly spelling test. It had been her second year of teaching and she remembered vividly sitting in front of Mr. and Mrs. Spanksi, just three months pregnant with her second child, and informing them that Walter, while a very nice boy, would not move up to the fourth grade with his classmates. Mr. Spanksi held his hat in his large, earth-worn hands and pleaded with her to at least give him a chance. A lot could happen over the summer. They could work with him every day, get him a tutor. Mrs. Spanksi didn’t say a word, just cried noiselessly into her handkerchief. “I’m sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Spanksi,” Mrs. Oliver said, shaking her head. “I just cannot, in good conscience, promote Walter on to the fourth grade at his current skill level. I am confident that another year in third grade will be just the ticket to get him where he needs to be,” she said chirpily. Well, she had another year with Walter and, as it turned out, another year in third grade did him absolutely no good. Over the course of the additional nine months Mrs. Oliver had with Walter, she saw him transform from a nice boy to a very angry boy whose second shot at the third-grade curriculum showed no marked improvement. But the man with the gun was most definitely not Walter Spanksi, though she could clearly understand why he would be tempted to return to his old classroom where a twenty-three-year-old, second-year teacher had the gall to flunk him, and point a gun at her head. How very satisfying that might be. But Walter was too old to be this man.
Over the years she had caught students cheating, fighting, smoking, stealing and many other offenses, but no one hated her. She prided herself in being fair-minded and compassionate; she learned there was so much more to a student than his or her grades. They were human beings, young and certainly not fully formed yet, but that was where she came in. She learned after that horrible second year with Walter that she had the power, no, the supremacy, to make a child learn, to want to learn. And in her forty-three years of being a teacher, there was only one other student, besides Walter, for whom she felt she failed to make a positive difference. Mrs. Oliver squinted, trying to see past the hat and gloves the man was wearing, the years that had passed. It could be him, she thought. There is that possibility.
Kenny Bingley. He had been a weedy-looking child, tall with long legs and proportionally short arms. Like a sprig of big stem or turkey foot, as her mother had called the long, bland prairie grass that was abundant throughout their part of the state. It could certainly be Kenny Bingley. Right age—fortyish, brown hair, mean eyes. Kenny Bingley was perhaps the student whom she lost the most sleep over. He came to school tardy every day, if at all. A perpetual musty, wet smell clung to his pale skin as if his clothing was tossed into a corner and forgotten about until he needed to put them on. No matter the child, no matter where they came from, no matter their circumstances, Mrs. Oliver was always able to find a spark of wonder and curiosity in her students’ eyes. But in eight-year-old Kenny, above the blue smudges that shadowed his eyes, there was no flicker, no interest or amazement for the world. There was nothing. Just an eerie calm. He wasn’t disruptive in the classroom per se, but trouble seemed to follow him wherever he went. Recess football games ended in bloody noses, lunch money went missing, classroom pets died under suspicious circumstances. But there was nothing that she could actually pin specifically on Kenny. She suspected abuse at the hands of his mother; there were no bruises, no proof, just that air of detachment, his indifferent countenance.
Two things happened the week Kenny was expelled. A horned lark was found on the school steps with both its legs snapped. Once again, Mrs. Oliver had absolutely no tangible proof that Kenny was the one who had mortally wounded the beautiful bird. But she had been the one to find it there on the school steps, its twig legs unnaturally splayed; she was the only one there to hear the ragged, high-pitched chirps, or so she thought.
The second incident that occurred had to do with a pair of scissors and a very pretty third grader named Cornelia Patts. She had stepped into the hall for just a moment, wasn’t even actually all the way out of the room. The principal, Mr. Graczyk, had a question for her about some such thing or another, and had called her to the doorway. The next thing she knew, poor Cornelia was screaming and clutching at her bleeding hand. “He stabbed me,” she cried in disbelief. Mr. Graczyk ran into the classroom and yanked Kenny up out of his seat, the bloody scissors sitting on his desk in front of him. While Mrs. Oliver wrapped the wound in a clean handkerchief, the classroom was silent except for Cornelia’s soft sobs.
As Kenny was led from the classroom by Mr. Graczyk he pressed his thin, pale lips together, his shoulders slumped like a bent reed, and whistled a high, distorted tune, so much like that of the lark she found languishing on the school’s steps.
The man with the gun before her now could very possibly be Kenny Bingley. He had never returned to school after that day, was immediately expelled, and Mrs. Oliver never learned what became of him, though she often asked after him. She decided to test her theory and began whistling the dying lark’s song. Warbling and faint at first, then louder. The man, who had been sitting on the tall stool at the front of the room, the gun on his lap, looked back at her with his cold, flat eyes. “Kenny Bingley,” she said stringently. “You need to stop this nonsense right this minute.”
Meg
There are shrieks from the crowd as a chair comes crashing through a window. I, along with the other officers present, unholster our firearms and we watch in amazement as a pink-clad shape tumbles out of the window. Immediately I know this is no gunman. It’s Gail Lowell, the elderly secretary at the school. She is coatless, wearing a bright pink sweater and chunky metallic jewelry. Her necklace and bracelets jingle gleefully as she picks her way carefully through the snow, her purse dangling from her arm. As she comes toward us, voices from the crowd pellet her. What’s going on? Are the kids okay? Is there a man with a gun?
“How many intruders are there?” I ask in a low voice as she approaches. She appears to have been crying, but it’s hard to tell because of the snow. “Did you see someone with a gun? Any injuries?” Gail looks helplessly from me to Chief McKinney and then her face crumples.