Debacle, Part III

Mr. X. is a very popular teacher with the kids at Cherrywood. He makes them laugh, keeps them interested, and prepares a superb adaptation of a little-known childrens' book for their final performance.
About 30 parents show for the performance. Three leave midway to "take calls", but he sees them outside smoking cigarettes. Mr. Singh appears to point them toward the parking lot, as tobacco is not permitted anywhere near the buildings.
The performance lasts all of 20 minutes. The kids are delighted, the parents who stayed are thrilled, Mr. Singh is kind and Mr. X. has never been able to find LouAnne or Miss Smith since he realized his check was gone.
He had driven down to San Jose, but the office was closed, empty and deserted. With the help of one of his father's patients he had contacted the owner of the building to try to find LouAnne; the owner had never heard of LouAnne.
As they are saying goodbye, many of the kids start to cry. X. is moved by this and gives them all their paper-plate masks as they go, admonishing them to return their cotton ball T-Rex eggs to nature by putting them in the garden "so they can sleep and dream of being roses." The girl with the serious eyes is the last to go. She tugs on his shirt, he turns and bends down to her. She's hardly said a word for the entire month.
"Will you take my egg?" she asks in a serious whisper.
"Why, don't you want it?" he whispers back.
"There are snails in my mommy's garden, I'm afraid they'll eat the baby T-Rex," she whispers, her hand on his shoulder.
He starts to laugh, to make a joke, then sees her eyes. She is seriously frightened for the little dinosaur cotton ball baby. He cannot tell her that if it were a real T-Rex it would want to eat her and the snails in one gulp.
"Okay. I will put it safely in my garden, under my Mr. Lincoln rose, where it will sleep and smell roses and return slowly to nature forever," as he says this, he begins to choke up.
"Promise," she is squeezing his shoulder. He's shocked at her strength.
"I promise," he says. She reaches into the pocket of her skirt and pulls out the cotton ball, pristine. She pets it three times with her index finger, whispers, "Goodbye," and gives it one gentle kiss, then places it in his hand. His heart breaks for a cotton ball. She grabs her Obi-Wan backpack and runs to the door, outside, into June and a life of perhaps less mediocrity than his own, he hopes.
Mr. Singh is waiting for him as he walks to his car.
"You made quite an impression on these children, Mr. X. Have you ever thought of becoming a teacher?"
"My Dad won't shut up about it, Mr. Singh," he says with forced jollity, trying to bluster through his emotions. The cotton ball is in the breast pocket of his shirt.
"And should I shut up about it?" asks Mr. Singh, not unkindly.
X. stops and turns to face him.
"I'm sorry," he says. "I've just been charged with finding the right spot for a cotton ball to sleep, I'm a little distracted."
"That's all right," says Mr. Singh. "She's already put three hundred of them in our garden; as none of them are hatched yet, she's hoping that one will hatch in your garden."
X. stares at him, uncomprehending.
"Alysha is my daughter. One of the perks here is that our kids attend for free. Think about it, should you ever settle down."
"I will, thank you," says X. A minivan drives by, an astonishingly beautiful woman behind the wheel, Alysha in the passenger seat. Both wave. Mr. Singh waves back. X. waves after a moment, a little slow in the sunlight.
"One final thing, Mr. X.," says Mr. Singh.
"Yes, sir?"
"I hesitated to tell you this, but we have never actually been contacted by the organization who hired you."
Shocked silence from X.
"What do you mean?" he asks.
"I mean that we paid for no after school theatre program and we did not hire that company to send you here --"
"Am I in trouble?"
"No. Because I had you checked out after the first day," and Mr. Singh nonchalantly brushes his lapel where X. notices for the first time a tiny silver pin, the insignia of a group of like-minded individuals of which both of his grandfathers were prestigious members.
"I see," says X. "Well, I've been completely unable to get in touch with them."
"My theory is that they do not exist. You have been thoroughly scammed, Mr. X. Do you agree?"
And it all comes into focus: the heat, the dust, the condition of the building, the sudden fart after money changed hands, the strength of the odor, LouAnne's immediate disappearance and then Miss Smith's mysterious check, which he'd never actually seen. Mr. Singh watches as X. makes all the connections.
"I agree, Mr. Singh, and I feel ... very foolish," says X., putting the tub of crafts down. He wants to sit down, maybe to cry, but not with Mr. Singh watching in the late June afternoon as the occasional staff member walks to her car or an occasional student runs to waiting parents. He suddenly feels very alone, and realizes for how long he's been hoping that Miss Smith would arrive to watch him like a hawk.
"No need to feel so foolish," says Mr. Singh. He removes an envelope from within his left breast pocket, taps it once or twice on his left wrist as he says, "I explained your situation to the staff and some of the other parents; we were waiting to see if you would finish the job, we figured if you finished then you were legit. So we've taken up a collection. I only ask that you wait to open that envelope until you get home. And secure it on your person, I wouldn't want you to gift some lucky family like those people on 880." He smiles as he holds out the envelope.
"880?" X. asks, accepting the envelope; it's thick. Surprise registers on his face.
"About a month ago, a family about to lose their house driving South on 880 and an envelope flies into their car with a check in it, made out to cash, for some ungodly amount of money. The check was good, they cashed it and their dreams have come true."
X. goes pale.
"Are you all right?" asks Mr. Singh.
"I'm fine. Do you remember the date this happened?"
Mr. Singh checks his iPhone. "Looks like ... the Friday before you started."
"Holy shit," X. really does sit down now, on the plastic tub. Singh kneels next to him.
"That envelope in your hand. It's in small bills; we weren't sure how much it should be, I hope it's enough; you've made a difference in these kids' lives and most of us are pretty happy about it. I've got to go. Put the envelope in that zippered pocket there; good. Think about teaching, Mr. X."
X. stands, they shake hands, and Mr. Singh smiles as he walks back into Cherywood Prep.
At his parents' house that evening, X. finds an envelope addressed to him has arrived in the mail. Inside is a note from the Office Secretary of Cherrywood, with a business card taped to it. The note reads,
"Mr. X., This card was left for you last week; Mr. Singh forgot to give it to you and I won't be in after today, so I'm mailing it now so I don't forget. Have a great summer and see you next year!
Thanks, Jeanette."
The business card reads, Miss Smith -- Lost and Found -- Conundrums, Ltd.
On the back of the card is a note in an elegant hand, written with a fountain pen: "X: do not try to contact me. They are watching."
He pours himself a glass of Riesling and sits on the back patio under the oaks, listening to the creek and watching fireflies in the purple twilight. He stares at the card and re-reads the message several times before he remembers the envelope in his pocket.
Inside is a stack of cash. Counting it out, he finds $4,000.00
He's just counted it out for the third time when his cell phone rings. It's an unknown number, 408 area code. That's South Bay. San Jose. He sets it on the table, weighing down the loose cash with it, then changes his mind and returns the cash to the envelope; he does not want that number touching the cash.
The call goes to voicemail, but no message is left.
He waits.
The phone rings again. Picked up by voicemail again. No message left.
Another call, same number. Three rings this time, then no more. No voicemail.
He sits in silence in the twilight for several minutes, and is just raising his wineglass to sip when his parents' phone rings.
The answering machine picks up. This message, in a sing-song European accent, is left on the phone:
"Mr. X., Mr. X., we know where you are. Ha ha ha, we know where you are for we followed your car. We want that money, we want that check. We know you've cashed it, what in the heck were you thinking? Been drinking? We know where you live, so you'd better just give that money."
The message ends. Headlights flash across the oaks as a car pulls into the drive. He goes to sip his wine, but a moth has drowned in it.

© 2010, Edward Hightower. All Rights Reserved.