Found and Broken Spirits
I
At lunch all eyes were on me as I walked to our table. I looked back one-eyed at a few of the faces, but the stares made me uneasy. I could feel them on me the way you feel gnats around you on a summer day. People laughed and whispered; I even heard a few claps. But I was just the under-card, John the Baptist in the desert before the real deal, batting practice before the game.
It happened just as I sat down at the table. First, it was a few seniors next to our table. Then it was their whole table. You could hear the sound of chairs scooting on the concrete floor, one by one. The masses rose throughout the cafeteria like a wave at a baseball game. Only the wave held firm as it reached the far end of our lunchtime confines. The clapping followed and continued for a good five minutes. There were no speeches or half-time buzzer beaters, but still the masses were on their feet giving the man of the hour a standing ovation, the same man they rooted against not hours ago.
I hopped on top of my chair so I could see above the crowd and joined the clapping. In front of the southeast double doors, in front of the stairwell, stood the janitor. He was walking with tray in hand and backpack over his shoulder. He slowed his pace at the cheering and looked to see what the applause was for. His eyes scanned the far end of the room and then moved toward our table. By the time he’d surveyed the cafeteria, it was evident that every smile was for him.
Roman stopped in his tracks, balancing the two cartons of milk on the edge of his tray. His cheeks blushed, but the clapping continued to get louder until it was deafening. The prison guards scurried through the crowd searching for a fight and were at a loss when they found nothing. They could only look and wonder. I did, however, see off in the corner Mr. Buttworst clap a few soft claps to himself. In all my years of prison life I’d never seen such a thing.
Roman began his slow walk to our table with his head down in embarrassment. The masses pounded on their tables and shook anything that would make noise. Roman looked for a seat but our table was packed. Sam and Pick scooted an empty table up to ours and connected the two. Heather and a few cheerleaders pulled up the chairs. Roman looked around again wanting the ovation to stop. He put his tray on the table but the noise grew louder. He raised his hand as if to say enough but the applause continued. Not until Roman sat did the crowd sit. And not until he spooned up his applesauce did the hands stop. I patted him on the back. Heather kissed his cheek from the other side.
I looked over at my old table and now realized why we were so packed.
There wasn’t a soul at Johnny’s table. They were all over here. Part of the winning team I guess. For the first time in four years the Killer had a legitimate reason for not being at school. It wasn’t because he came down with the flu after another nick in the popularity armor. Johnny for the first time was physically unable to get out of bed. He and Jack could have been roommates at the hospital 129
for all I knew. One thing was for sure, whatever mind control Johnny used to have over these people was broken.
Roman ate fast, leaving little time for conversation with anybody, wishing the moment would just go away. The rest of our group had permanent smiles glued to their faces. The volume was lower now, almost like a constant hum. The ovation sucked the teenage energy right out of the crowd. For once lunch was peaceful.
Brunno walked up to our tables as fidgety as a crack whore with Tourette’s. Before he made it to Roman, Sam Peterman grabbed his arm. He pulled out a box of adult diapers and sat it on Brunno’s tray. Brunno squinted reading the labeling on the box over and over. Finally the words registered, and he threw the box on the floor. He stopped behind Roman, rocking side to side like he was barefooted on hot asphalt. He said nothing.
Roman continued to eat until he felt the presence behind him. He turned around with raised eyebrow. Brunno looked down at his tray avoiding eye contact with Roman. The cafeteria went silent.
“Can I help you Brunno?” Roman asked.
Brunno’s feet tapped faster and his head went back and forth. In a very soft un-Brunno like voice he said, “I was won-won-wondering if I could sit with you guys?”
Roman stood up from his chair. The cafeteria took a collective inhale.
Roman stared at him until Brunno met his eyes. “You don’t have to ask me where you can sit. This isn’t my cafeteria.”
“Th-----anks Roman.” Brunno started to walk to the less-populated end where Heather had pulled up the chairs.
Roman put his hand on Brunno’s shoulder and opened his other out toward the seat where he’d just been sitting. Brunno sat and Roman retrieved one of the empty seats. Smiles lasted the rest of the day.
II
By the last bell, I could barely keep my good eye open. I looked at the clock, realizing I’d been awake for thirty-two hours straight. The adrenaline rush from the Hollow had kept me going through the day, Roman’s tale had fueled me through the night, but now the tank was empty. On the way to the Pinto I swore I was sleepwalking on several occasions. It felt like it was the last few miles hiking up to Pike’s Peak. I turned the corner of the prison to find that my car was not alone.
Sally was leaning on the hood with her books up against her chest. The naughty smile had resurfaced. Before I could say a word she dropped her books, wrapped her arms around me, and put her tongue in my mouth.
She pulled away when my kissing wasn’t as enthusiastic as hers. “What’s wrong? Are you pissed I wasn’t there for you after the fight? I got swept away in the crowd and you know I couldn’t go over to Roman’s on account of my parents.”
“I know. I’m not pissed. It just hurts to open my mouth. I think Johnny broke my fucking jaw. The only thing I could eat at lunch was that goddamn lemon jello they always serve.”
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“I bet I could make it feel better. Plus my mouth is fine,” Sally said as she put my finger her mouth. “My parents aren’t home.”
I took my finger back. “Oh no, I’m not fallin’ for that shit again. Let’s go to my place.”
III
In my bedroom it was the usual routine. Clothes flew and in seconds we were under my covers. This was it. I was sure of it. She’d never been like this, so aggressive. Just before the eagle had landed...“Oh no.”
I looked out my window next to my bed, making sure Pops wasn’t home.
No car. “What now? You can’t do it with an injured guy or what. Here look.” I pulled open the dresser next to my bed and produced a patch. I’d been a pirate for Halloween back in the day and for some reason kept the eye cover. I put it on.
“See, now you’re doing it with a pirate, not a hospital patient.”
Sally got out of bed and gathered up her clothes. “My period is starting.”
Before I could speak she was in the bathroom
I was still clinging to the idea I might get something out of this deal. The comment about her mouth working fine kept finding its way back into my mind. I knew the moment she re-entered I could forget about it. I gave it one last pathetic try. “We can still mess around can’t we?”
“I want to go home. I need to get home. You don’t understand. I just feel so dirty.”
I put my clothes on and drove her home with my best happy face. The sad part was I really wasn’t mad. I was slowly getting conditioned to the fact that this is how things went for me. There were no rude comments toward her, and I talked the entire way. I felt like my Pops driving with my mom.
I hit the bed when I got home. Don’t remember one thought after my head hit the pillow. I slept that night from four o’clock until time to go to school the next morning.
IV
Roman won the no-sleep category. He had been up for forty hours straight. He didn’t have the zombie tendencies that I did. Roman didn’t require a lot of sleep anyway, or was it that he couldn’t sleep? Anyway Roman had already finished his assigned cleaning duties and was now looking for extra things to do.
He decided to polish all of the brass keyholes on the classroom doors with a new industrial cleaning agent the district had recently purchased. He was instantly reminded of all the late night miracle liquid commercials that graced the small screen. The ones that could bring back an eighty-year-old sink that had been sitting in a junk yard for the last decade and make it look as if it were right out of the store. To his surprise the stuff worked. You had to scrub a little harder than the guys on TV, but at least it worked.
Halfway through the keyholes Roman heard footsteps coming up the stairs.
He stopped the polishing expecting to see one of the other janitors. Heather stood 131
at the end of the hall holding a basket. Roman put his supplies in his cart and made his way down to her.
“Is everything all right?” he asked.
“Fine. I knew you had a break at ten and thought maybe I could treat you to a snack.”
Roman said nothing, continuing to smile like a little boy on his first bike ride without the training wheels. Heather produced a blanket from her picnic basket and spread it on the floor. It had red and white checkers.
“We can go in one of the rooms if you want.” Roman said.
“This is a picnic, silly. You have to sit on the ground.”
“I’m sorry, how rude of me.” Roman sat down Indian style on the quilt as Heather began to pull out the basket’s contents. She set the objects in front of Roman and then sat down herself. “What do we have here?”
“Peanut butter and jelly, grapes, lemonade in a can, and a Ho-Ho.”
“Outstanding,” Roman said.
Heather laughed. “Not quite the French cuisine you prepared at your place.”
Roman took a bite of the sandwich, chewed, and struggled to get the peanut butter off the roof of his mouth with his tongue. When he finally swallowed it, he popped the lemonade and drank it down. “There’s a time for all foods. You can’t eat French food on a picnic. This is perfect.”
They ate the remainder of the food, looking into one another’s eyes the entire time. Heather lay down on the blanket and stared up at the ceiling. Roman lay next to her, propping himself up with his elbow on the floor so he could still see her face. Roman fought a yawn, but eventually it won.
“You haven’t slept yet have you? That’s amazing. Maybe I can at least give you a little a peace. Close your eyes.”
Roman shut his eyes.
“If you try hard enough you can feel the sun on your face. The breeze through your hair. The trees rustling in the distance,” Heather said.
“I hear a creek in the background and birds chirping. A bee buzzed by my ear but didn’t stop. I’m bare footed and the grass is coming up between my toes because my feet are hanging off the blanket. I can smell lilacs in the wind,”
Roman said.
Heather smiled. “It’s almost winter outside but in here it’s spring. I can still taste the grapes in my mouth, and they make my cheeks hurt a little bit from the sweetness. I’m lying next to the gentlest person in the entire world. I’ve got a warm tingle in my belly because I know he’s going to kiss me and I can’t wait.”
Roman moved his lips to hers. She put her arms around his neck making sure he wouldn’t pull away. They went on for several minutes in that imagined spring meadow, with the sun overhead, the only two people on earth. Until a person standing over them cleared her throat.
Roman looked up to the thick lenses and yellow eyes of Boss Chatterling.
His first thought was of anger, not at her, but at himself for not hearing her footsteps and for letting his guard down. His second thought was he was going to 132
be fired, right there, lying down on the job. Boss Chatterling looked at the hallway and then down at Roman.
“Swivel, I don’t have to remind you that you’re on the clock and that every bit of your work better be done before you go on any picnics.”
“No ma’am.”
Chatterling looked at the keyhole on the door closest to her and then the next and then the next. The brass gleamed like it had on her first day on the job all those decades ago.
She looked down at Roman again with her sullen no-nonsense face. A smile tried to break through but she cut it short. “As you were, janitor.”
Roman heard her footsteps turn the corner and retreat down the stairs.
Heather pulled him to her again.
Heather pressed her lips to his and spoke. “She was a janitor when my mother went to school here. Why does she work the night shift?”
Roman’s breaths were heavy in-between kissing and talking. “Nobody knows. It’s like she never sleeps. I think she works every shift. She’s like God.”
The answer must have been adequate. Heather slid on top of him.
Roman’s back ached, pushed against the marble of the hallway; the thin checkered blanket was no cushion at all. It was a different kind of ache, though, and Roman could never remember feeling so good. His hands made their way under her loose sweatshirt, his fingertips scaled against her smooth back. His lips touched her neck as well as her lips. Their breathing got louder, but before the picnic escalated any further Heather pulled away from his mouth.
She still straddled him in her tight blue jeans, looking directly into his eyes. She wore her hair pulled back but a few wild strands had fought their way free and covered her left eye. She puckered her lips, attempting to blow the pests back to the top of her head. Finally, she balanced herself and brushed them away with her hand. Heather giggled, kissed him, and they continued until Roman’s shift was over.
V
Johnny the Killer hobbled to his table with the arthritic walk of an eighty-year-old man. His eyes were like a raccoon’s, and he carried his tray with one arm on account of his other arm being in a sling. He was back just two days after the Hollow. He was obviously physically able to come to school. What surprised me is that he was mentally able. Johnny the Killer was not mentally tough—for him to face the crowd after an embarrassment like that was astonishing.
But this was not Johnny the Killer. There were no jubilant smart-ass remarks flying across the cafeteria. There were no head raises to greet his legions of fans. He didn’t point fingers at people or threaten them. He walked with his head down. Worst of all for Johnny the Killer, no one was looking back at him.
The little freshman cheerleaders weren’t creaming themselves and the underclass boys weren’t moving heaven and earth to clear an aisle for him. I think I was the only one that even noticed him that day.
As if Johnny’s luck wasn’t running low enough, when he got to his usual table—the table most of us used to sit at—he was cut down even more. The 133
science club with their two-inch thick glasses and their pocket protectors sat in glory at the most coveted table in the lunchroom. Instead of yelling or using one of the geeks to clear the table, Johnny simply kept his head down, looking at the floor, and walked to the other side of the cafeteria. Jack made his way one crunch at a time behind Johnny, finally sitting at the smallest table in the cafeteria with his master. They sat there, not saying a word, scanning the cafeteria every so often, trying to remember if they had ever sat there before. They were like transfer students from another country on their first day school in the States.
Roman had not only beaten him physically that night in the Hollow.
Roman also took his respect, his popularity, and worst of all, Roman took Johnny’s desire to get any of them back. For four years in middle school and four more at the prison, Johnny was on top of the food chain, the alpha male. Now he was just one of the inmates. A little bit of me was sad to see it—a man broken down like that. I reminded myself that Johnny probably deserved far worse.
Roman and Johnny both received call slips almost simultaneously.
Principal Hartman liked to call you at lunch so it would give him one more thing to bust you for if you happened to be skipping. Roman didn’t know what it was for, but I did. The gladiator story had made its way to the warden’s ears and Roman and Johnny were now in very deep shit.
VI
They sat in front of Hartman in the two chairs that were always in front of the principal’s enormous oak desk. His office was bigger than any classroom in Collingston High, furnished with paintings and a gold-plated ceiling fan. The window at the far end was stained glass, but you could still see down to two of the three student parking lots. The air was regulated and kept at exactly seventy-two degrees year-round. The floor was carpeted with something you’d find in an upscale hotel.
Hartman sat with his hands folded businesslike on the desk and his head tilted back, looking through the small-rimmed glasses balancing neatly on the end of his nose—an intimidating posture in the mind of a man who was very self-conscious and badly lacking in respect. There wasn’t a word spoken for five minutes—another interrogation factor the warden implemented, designed to make you squirm a bit before he put down the hammer.
There would be no squirming today though. Roman, who had been through more bullshit than most people go through in a lifetime, sat upright in the chair looking calmly into the eyes of the man who was about to pass sentence on him.
Johnny who had been to the principal’s office more times than one cared to count, slouched in his chair with his feet up on the wastebasket as if he were at home watching TV, smacking his chewing gum at high volume.
Hartman pushed the glasses up to their rightful place with his index finger and opened a file on his desk. “So who wants to start?”
Silence.
“I’m well acquainted with Mr. Killman. We have had several meetings in his tenure here at Collingston. I do not, however, know much about you Mr.
Swivel, and that’s why I had my secretary pull your file. Most impressive. A 134
perfect four on our scale. It says your past school’s transcripts weren’t available.
Very odd. Why wouldn’t your school have your transcripts available, Mr.
Swivel?”
“My last school didn’t keep track of grades, Mr. Hartman. Is that the reason I was called up here?”
Johnny stopped smacking his gum long enough to let out a chuckle.
Hartman’s face reddened as he leaned forward in his chair and turned his attention to Johnny.
“You know the rules about gum in my office Johnny. Pitch it.”
Johnny smiled and blew a bubble.
Hartman took out his pen and two form papers and began writing. “The penalty for physical violence against anyone at this school is indefinite expulsion.
I as principal can lessen the penalty, but since the two of you fail to cooperate or show any remorse, I’m afraid I’m going to go with what the school guidelines recommend. That means no graduation for either of you. That means no baseball for you Mr. Killman and no more custodial work for you, Mr. Swivel.”
Roman got up and left without saying a word. Johnny had no intention of going so quietly. Johnny rose like a rusty hinge on the door of an abandoned house. He leaned over Hartman’s desk and looked at the smug face atop the gray three-piece suit.
“Pitch it huh?”
Hartman smiled.
Johnny blew with all the force he could build in his lungs. The gum flew the short distance across the desk and stuck to the lens over Hartman’s left eye.
Two dribbles of spit slid down the principal’s cheek.
“You’re a fucking joke, Hartman,” Johnny said as he too walked toward the door.
Hartman reached into the pocket of his suit jacket for his handkerchief. As fast as his fingers would work, he took off his glasses, first wiping the side of his cheek and then scooping Johnny’s gum off his lens. The smug look remained on his face, the image of a man who was overcome with satisfaction.
Johnny stopped short of the doorway. “You know it’s too bad old assholes in your position never look at the big picture. Me and the janitor’s little scuffle was the right thing to do. We didn’t go through the halls shooting mini-Uzis. We settled it the old-fashioned way. Maybe if you would’ve ever stood up for yourself in school, you wouldn’t have to get your rocks off by expelling good people.”
“Say what you will, because this will be the last time you ever say anything in this school. Not surprising though that our definitions of ‘good people’ are not similar. I’ll take great satisfaction in the thought that every time I drive through a McDonald’s, you might be fulfilling your life’s ambition flipping burgers.”
Johnny shook his head and walked into the hallway.
VII
Heather stormed into the house, slamming the double doors behind her.
When her book bag fell to the floor, she kicked it hard. Her calculus text slid across the tan waxed floor, bouncing off the staircase and racing toward the 135
kitchen like the disk used in a curling match. Gina emerged from her relaxation room holding a vase full of flowers.
“What’s wrong sweetie?”
“Roman got expelled from school today. You know he’s only on pace to be the smartest student ever to graduate from Collingston? He hasn’t missed a single question in Buttworst’s class. Do you know how impossible that is? What a bastard that Hartman is.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry honey. Maybe he can find work at one of the factories or go to another school.”
“Find work in a factory? Are you hearing me mother? He’s a genius and you want him to go shovel shit at a factory. You are clueless.”
Gina glanced down at the flowers and pressed her nose to the tops of them, taking a deep breath. She looked back up with a smile. “Maybe these will make you feel better. They came right before you got home.”
Heather looked the flowers over briefly and sat the vase on the table next to the door. What she really wanted was the small envelope in her mother’s hand.
There was no need to rip it open; Gina had already taken care of that. Heather shot her a look of disgust—one that a parent would normally aim at her misbehaved child. She didn’t bother scolding her mother. Instead she grabbed the envelope without saying thank you.
Her eyes lit up at the sight of the long perfect cursive letters, all slanting at the same angle, light and swift like the brush strokes of a painter. Unmistakably Roman’s prose. The small card read: I’ve never been on a picnic with a beautiful woman before, by a gurgling meadow, with the sun on my face, the trees swaying overhead, and the birds singing. I barely noticed any of it because of the face looking back at me. It didn’t matter that it was in a drab school hallway on hard marble floor. I’ll never forget it. Roman
Heather read it three times before she looked up. Her heart couldn’t decide if it wanted to cry or rejoice. The last time she got flowers was from Johnny when they were freshmen, the day before Homecoming. It wasn’t the flowers that got to her though. It was the card. She couldn’t ever imagine his words getting old.
“Were they from Johnny?”
“You obviously read the card mother. Does this sound like something Johnny would say?”
“I don’t know. He probably missed you. You two have been an item for four years. It’s hard for people to make a clean break. He’s still got feelings.”
“Well he’ll have plenty of time to get over me now,” Heather said as she put the card in her pocket, picked up the vase, and retrieved her book bag.
“Why?”
“Johnny got expelled too.”
“Oh that can’t be right. Why would Mr. Hartman expel Johnny?
That...that janitor is the one that beat him up. You must have heard wrong.”
Heather closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to hold down the violent words. “Is your sense of reality really that warped? Johnny’s the one that started all this, Roman was just defending himself and me. Johnny hit me remember? Mistake or not, he hit your daughter.”
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“I just don’t believe it.”
“I’m not going to stand here and argue with you mother. You’re like talking to a brick wall. I’ve got a paper to write and I have to use your computer because the word processor on mine is the 1976 version.”
Gina watched as Heather walked up the winding staircase. She put off her loving mother routine, and the manipulative synapses in her brain began to fire once again. Her daughter was not going to be with some vagrant janitor.
Especially since he lived by himself and could talk her into sex any time he wanted. Something had to be done. It would come to her eventually. It always did.
VIII
Heather sat down at her mom’s computer, stationed in the computer room two doors down from her own. It was already on. Heather hit the space bar and the screen saver of Heather’s first dance recital disappeared. Gina’s email was open. At first Heather pointed the mouse at the X in the top right corner, but something stopped her. It was a word, no, a name, on her mother’s email page.
She wasn’t in the habit of snooping through other people’s personal things—a sort of hereditary trait that she vowed not to pass on to children of her own. But this was different. In the sent items menu the named that appeared was Lyle Hartman.
It wasn’t hard to pick up, since her mother was technologically deficient, and very rarely used email. It was one of two names that were entered. The other name was one of Gina’s sorority sisters that now lived in South Carolina.
Heather’s eyes narrowed as she looked at Hartman’s name. The little birdie that had told Hartman the story lived right here with her. Anger, not curiosity, got the best of her as she clicked on Lyle Hartman.
Dear Mr. Hartman,
I would like to bring something to your attention if it has not already been.
One of your new students, Roman Swivel, violently attacked Johnny Killman on Halloween night. Johnny was beaten so severely that he did not attend school the following day and should have been hospitalized. My daughter was also injured in the attack, as well as others. I know you that you find violence deplorable and I would hope that you will address the situation immediately before it becomes public. Collingston High needs to take a strong stand against outsiders who ultimately are no more than troublemakers. I hope you agree.
Thanks for your attention,
Gina Hawthorne
Although Heather’s mouth hung open while she read her mother’s email, it didn’t shock her. Four years ago she wouldn’t have thought her mother was capable of such devious activities, but living with the woman during her own adolescence was like being on a daily roller coaster ride of manipulation and lies.
Likewise, in her earlier more naive years, Heather would’ve charged down the 137
stairs with printed ema