A Day of Decisions

Warning: this story includes a depiction of gun violence and murder.

A Day of Decisions

A voice through the intercom interrupted Mr. Thomas during his preparation period. “Mr. Thomas?” an office secretary had asked.

“Yes,” he replied, the pitch of his voice rising to make the word more a question than a statement.

“Can you come to the office? Mr. Jennings needs to speak with you.”

“I’ll be right there,” he said to her. With a deep sigh he bid a temporary farewell to the stack of ungraded papers on his desk. “I’ll deal with you folks later,” he said in his most commanding “teacher” voice.

Teaching at Crimson High School, seventeen miles from his home in a neighboring city, was not Greg Thomas’ first choice. However, this had been his job for the last ten years, and they’d been good and productive. He’d grown as a professional, become friends with the rest of the staff, and was grateful to be working here.

Mr. Jennings had been the high school principal for nearly thirty years. More grandfather than administrator, his demeanor had made a family of the faculty and students. Mr. Thomas respected him and felt no foreboding when called to have a word. He knew Mr. Jennings respected him too, not only for the quality of his classroom work, but for his ideas and input on decisions affecting the entire school. They had spoken privately in his office many times and Mr. Thomas was eager to find out what Mr. Jennings wanted to share with him.

In the office, the secretary told Mr. Thomas to go right on into the principal’s office. As he opened the door, he immediately realized he'd been summoned to meet with a parent. In Mr. Thomas’ experience, the fact they were meeting in the principal’s office and the principal had been spoken to first meant this couldn’t be good. A man he’d never seen sat in one of the two upholstered chairs in front of Mr. Jennings desk.

“Mr. Thomas, this is Mr. Turner, Danielle Cook’s uncle,” the principal said from his seat behind the desk. Mr. Thomas held out his hand for a greeting, but his visitor rebuffed the offer as well as his trademark smile. The teacher gleaned the facts quickly. If Mr. Turner, mid-to-late thirties, was employed, it must have involved dirt, as it was under his fingernails and in every crack on the exposed portion of his sun-baked skin. His clothes were rumpled and in dire need of washing. Greasy brown hair poked erratically from underneath a dirty sweat-stained John Deere cap. There was an angry sore in the corner of his mouth where his lips met and his face hadn’t been near a razor for a few weeks.

As the teacher sat, the principal said, “Mr. Turner, tell Mr. Thomas what you’ve told me.”

“My Dannie tells me you’ve been talking dirty to her.”

Mr. Thomas drew in a quick breath; a physical response to the accusation. His mind raced. Danielle was a pleasant but shy student. She blended in with the other students, but Mr. Thomas had sensed she was unhappy. In the early weeks of the new semester, he felt they really hadn’t yet formed what he would call a teacher/student relationship.

“She says you told her to stop spreading her legs like peanut butter.”

The teacher’s mouth hung open. The principal sat, unmoved by the words which, if true, would end a fine career, a few years from retirement.

“That’s not me,” were the first words from Mr. Thomas. He wasn’t actually thinking about what to say, just responding. “I mean, I wouldn’t ever say that to anyone, especially a student.” 

 “She came into your classroom yesterday and you asked if she was alright and when she told you she was sore from working out, that’s what you said,” the uncle blurted. It was clear he was becoming more agitated.

Mr. Thomas instantly remembered the encounter to which he must have been referring. Yesterday during class, Danielle had taken a test she’d missed earlier due to absence. She was limping when she returned from the library at the end of the period. Mr. Thomas had asked her if she was injured, and she said she’d been working out. He had advised her to take it slowly at the beginning. Then she left the room.

After Mr. Thomas explained, his principal said, “Mr. Thomas is liked by all our students,” but the uncle didn’t let him finish. He quickly stood from his chair and leaned forward in the teacher’s direction.

“Yeah, I’ll bet he is, by the girls. You listen to me. Dannie’s mother was a drunk and now we’ve got her.” He was almost shouting. “Me and her grandmother is all she’s got, and we’re gonna take care of ‘er!” Now he was shouting. He lowered his face just inches from Mr. Thomas’ and raising his finger he shouted through clenched teeth, “So you better watch your back!” Mr. Thomas could see a little blood oozing from the crusty corner of his mouth and for the first time, smelled alcohol on his breath. The angry man’s outstretched finger joined the others in a fist. A moment later he jerked the door open and stomped out of the office.

The two educators were aghast. The principal spoke first. “If it means anything, I believe you.”

“It means everything,” the teacher said.

Mr. Jennings said, “I don’t think anything will come of this. I don’t know if she actually made the accusation; I don’t know why she would. If she didn’t then he’s very confused. We’ve seen this before. He’s had his say. However, I’d limit communication with Danielle to the essentials, at least for a while.”

I haven’t even taught my first class yet, and I don’t know if I can take any more of this day, Mr. Thomas thought to himself as he left the office. The ride in this morning had been uneventful. He had listened to a book on CD while driving to the high school. His concentration alternated between a Tom Clancy story about a Soviet-born, American spy in the Kremlin. A little over fourteen miles outside of Henderson, Mr. Thomas had approached the junction with highway 37, an intersection which had seen so many fatal accidents, it was finally deemed worthy of a traffic light. Jimmy’s Five Mile Store and 70 Liquor sat next to each other on the southwest corner. Jimmy’s was still the only place between the two cities where gas could be purchased, and a few years ago the owner expanded the store to include fishing gear and then added a garage. The two were landmarks in this very rural community, as though gas, beer, and stink bait were the staples of a happy life in rural Central Arkansas.

Seeing Jimmy’s had reminded Mr. Thomas his minivan needed servicing. The engine was growing more difficult to start in the mornings and his neighbor had told him the white smoke probably meant the head gasket was going. He’d been meaning to stop by his mechanic’s place for a look but just hadn’t gotten to it. He'd been avoiding the question of how much more he should pour into this ten-year-old.

And now this.

Mr. Thomas returned to his room a shaken man. Danielle was in his next class, which would start in a few minutes. Why in the world would she make an accusation like that? They hardly knew each other. Did she have a crush? Was this for attention? And if she hadn’t said it, why was her uncle in Mr. Jennings’ office this morning trying to ruin his career? Mr. Thomas had no answers, only questions. He surveyed the still ungraded papers on his desk as the bell rang and students began filing into his classroom.

As class began, Mr. Thomas wondered if Danielle would act as though being in the same room with him made her uncomfortable. However, it appeared there was absolutely nothing between them. She wasn’t acting as though she felt threatened or offended. Either she went home and lied, or her uncle had misunderstood her. The remote possibility existed her uncle had fabricated the story, but without an inkling as to why, Mr. Thomas dismissed that reasoning.

He finished the school day merely going through the motions. Sitting at his desk after the final bell, he looked up to see Mr. Jennings standing at his door. “I just wanted to check on you,” his principal said. They spoke briefly about how things went while Danielle was in his room and then Mr. Jennings said, “Oh yeah, don’t forget about the CDL meeting tonight.” It was the last thing Mr. Thomas wanted to hear.

Every employee with a commercial driver’s license was required to attend the annual three-hour training session. Mr. Thomas' hard day just became longer. Since his desk supported an even higher stack of papers to grade and the round-trip home would take an hour at this time of day, Mr. Thomas called his wife and broke the news he would be staying and wouldn’t be home before nine. He didn’t mention his heart-stopping morning meeting.

After grading papers, he walked across the street to Sonic for dinner. He sat at a booth in the back of the dining area and ordered through the intercom. The person he spoke to might have been one of his male students. This was the most popular place for high school kids to work. Of course, he had no idea who he’d spoken to, and the student hadn’t recognized his voice. He was reading ten minutes later when he heard his name. He looked up to see Danielle bringing his order. He was sure his face registered alarm, but she was pleasant−not flirting, but congenial. Again, she seemed friendly, but unhappy in her heart. Mr. Thomas ate his dinner quickly, eager to be back at the school.

When the bus driver’s meeting concluded at nine o’clock, he returned to his room and made plans for a substitute; he needed a day away from the school and his students. Thirty minutes later, he trudged out to his car, bone-tired. The minivan sputtered and belched more smoke than usual, but finally started. He began the drive home wondering how far the car could take him when suddenly the engine shuddered and died at least three miles from Jimmy’s. Without a cell phone, there was nothing for him to do but walk. A long, hard day had finally become horrible. “Is there anything else that could go wrong today?” he asked aloud.

He had walked what he figured was probably a mile, reviewing the events of the day in his mind, when a car pulled onto the gravel shoulder behind him. He turned but was blinded by the headlights. He hoped it was help, but with Mr. Turner’s angry face fresh in his memory, he was reluctant. He could see the driver’s window opening; then he heard a girl’s voice. “Hey, Mr. Thomas,” she called. “Need a ride?”

He walked back to the car but froze when he realized Danielle was the only occupant. “Hello again,” she said. “I saw your car back there. I just got off at Sonic. Need a lift to Jimmy’s?”  

He could not be in a worse spot, he thought. Should he walk two more miles, delaying the inevitable call to his wife another twenty-five minutes? On the other hand, what could he say to Danielle? He’d seen nothing all day to indicate that Danielle knew of his meeting with her uncle. Could he go into that now on the side of the road so she would know how inappropriate it would be for him to get in her car? What was he going to say, “No thanks, I’d rather walk the two miles on the shoulder of this highway after nine-thirty?” Mr. Thomas looked one way down the road and then the other. He inhaled deeply and released his breath through tight lips. With no other car in sight and two miles from a phone, he made his decision and sat down in the passenger seat.

Danielle pulled the car onto the highway and asked Mr. Thomas why he was still in Crimson so late.

“I had a bus driver’s meeting,” he said.

He was afraid to say anything, still so unsettled by the accusation levied against him that morning. He spoke as little as possible, but his student kept the car from becoming uncomfortably quiet by talking about her work at Sonic.

“I’ve only been working there for a few weeks, but I already don’t like it. I leave my shift greasy and dirty. I don’t think they care about me. I’m looking for something else.”

In no time the car turned into the liquor store parking lot next to Jimmy’s. Mr. Thomas thought how different this place looked in the dark. A steady stream of customers entered and exited the store. The car came to a stop between the two businesses and Mr. Thomas thanked Danielle for the ride. His head was turned toward the door, looking for the handle, when he felt a touch on his hand. He quickly turned to see Danielle’s hand on his. Sudden fear had caused his heart to start pounding. She was speaking; he was fighting to comprehend; she wanted to talk to him for a minute before he left the car.

Suddenly, a man’s face appeared in the driver’s window. Mr. Thomas’ suspicion had been right; one of the liquor store customers had been Danielle’s uncle. Mr. Turner was wildly agitated and slurred his words together. “You little shit!” he yelled into the window. He bent to look into the car and made eye contact with Mr. Thomas.

“You!” he yelled. Mr. Thomas’ shaking hand reached for the door.

Danielle screamed, “Leave me the hell alone!” 

Mr. Thomas gripped the door handle but tried to get out of the car too fast. As he stumbled, Mr. Turner stood and reached behind his back with both hands. When they reappeared, one held a gun.

“Oh God, no!” he heard Danielle scream. He turned and saw the gun in the window. There was bright light, deafening sound, and darkness.

~

The newspaper headline read, “Man Attempts Murder Then Kills Niece; Self.” The reporter had interviewed the appropriate authorities. The County Coroner had ruled Mr. Turner’s death a suicide; however, according to forensics and testimony from those on the scene, Turner had fired the gun at Mr. Thomas first. The bullet passed through his shoulder and lodged in his skull. Believing him to be dead, he fired point blank on Danielle; finally he turned the gun on himself.

The remainder of the article was the interview with Danielle’s grandmother. The woman’s son, Simon Turner, had not been “right” for a long time. His history of violence stretched back to his days in high school. In the past year, she had discovered her son began sexually molesting her granddaughter not long after she had come to live with them. However, there was nothing she could do, she had said, because she was old and afraid of him.

Mr. Thomas closed the two-week-old paper his wife had saved for him and laid it on the bed. Completely relaxed now, his head rested on the pillow while he stared out his hospital room window. His "teacher sense" had been right. Danielle had carried within her a huge reason for unhappiness. He grieved the senseless loss of her life, but knew she was now the happiest she had ever been.

He realized, as the sun began to sink outside, that he would never know the full story surrounding the remark he’d been accused of making. Had Danielle made up the story just to tick off her uncle? Was it her first step in a strategy for liberation? 

The last thing Mr. Thomas could remember about that night was seeing her hand on his. What was it she wanted to talk to him about? Was she going to open up about the abuse? Did she plan to tell him she had lied to her uncle? 

The phone in his room rang while he pondered the litany of unanswered questions in his life. His wife was calling. He marveled at how strong she had been through all this. She had held it together when the police came to the door, then again through the first surgery and the second one, too. Now she was at the garage, speaking with their mechanic. She was calling with news about the minivan.

As he answered the phone, the door to his room opened and a gaggle of teenagers came through carrying vases of flowers and oversized cards. They were noisy and effervescent, as though they were in his classroom. He waved them in. His wife’s voice was still coming from the phone in his hand. He could barely make out what she was saying.

“You’ll have to repeat that, I’ve got visitors!”

“I said,” she paused with irritation, “the repair work is going to be a thousand dollars more than the estimate!”