Lorrieann’s World

Ten O’ Clock

Spenser Fairbank

The clock on the cluttered bookshelf tolled off the hours, one chime per second for ten seconds, before a gaily painted Bavarian figurine burst out of the little doors to pirouette around a tiny balcony to the tune of some merry little polka. Her dance being finished, the doors sprung open and she snapped back to her hiding place to wait for her next performance, an hour to come.

“Hmm? Must be running fast again.” Spenser pulled his pocket watch from his vest pocket, springing open the cover with his thumb. It validated the Bavarian dancer’s assessment of the time— ten o’clock. “Oh, dear!” He snapped the watch closed and quickly dropped it back into his pocket, jumping from his leather chair, startling the fat tabby sprawled on the desk next to him. “I’m sorry but I’m late again, Horatio. My lecture starts in five minutes.”

He pushed a stack of notes and journals that cluttered his desk aside, searching for his glasses, knocking his pipe holder to the floor, the apple wood tobacco spilling out onto the ancient hardwood. “Where are those blasted glasses!” He went to scratch his head, as the spectacles fell from his forehead down onto his nose. “Oh, there you are,” he muttered with a bit of a chuckle.

Grabbing the tweed jacket from the back of his chair and scooping up the stack of notes he’d made for his final lecture of the semester, he gave a quick glance about the little office he’d called his own for the last twenty-five years. There was so much of his life here that he could not imagine how he would ever be able to pack it up in crates and boxes to be hauled off to some storage bin that the university would provide for him until he found another position. The smell of twenty-five years of journals, notebooks, periodicals, ancient leather tomes of the masters, mingled with the ever-present scent of his pipe and coffee. Three walls of bookshelves were piled high with memorabilia and photographs of his favorite students over the years. He’d been there so long that some of the students he’d taught in recent years were the sons and daughters of those in the oldest photos. Every corner was stacked with magazines and old newspapers. The windows were large and arched at the top, taking up the entire wall behind his desk. A ponderous philodendron snaked around the sill and up the drapery cords and across the curtain rod, making the whole window appear to be encased in some wild jungle. The plant had been there since the beginning as well, and he’d never really taken much notice of it other than to water it once a week. Now, it seemed to look as desperate as he felt; moving it from its well ensconced sill would surely diminish, if not kill it outright.

“Ah, well, parting is such sweet sorrow, is it not, Horatio?”

Sadly, Spenser turned and left the office on his way to deliver his last lecture. The next time he entered that office would be to empty it to make way for a new generation.

Scolding himself for dawdling about his mementos too long, he hurried down the corridor off to the stair well. His office was on the fourth floor of the old Marcus Wainsworth Building—commonly referred to as ‘the attic’ by the student body—the second oldest building at Ravencroft University. He raced over the warped hardwood to the stairway, pattering down the stairs and around the landings, each step as familiar to him as his own hand, his thoughts more focused on the last class he was about to teach rather than watching his way. At the bottom of the stairs, the double paned glass doors were propped open, leaving his way unobstructed across the polished marble foyer. Spenser raced by the doors so quickly, he failed to notice the ‘caution wet floor’ sign that was propping open the door.

“Morning Professor Fairbank!” A student called out, breaking Spenser’s concentration for the moment. He looked up in time to see one of his students disappear through the heavy doors into the lecture hall.

“Oh, hello Rich—,” he began, but never finished his greeting as his feet suddenly turned rebellious under him.

“Careful, sir!” Someone called.

“Watch out!” Someone else shouted, as Spenser struggled to catch his balance with his right foot, while his left foot skated across the polished marble, planted firmly on a wet sponge that had been left by the janitor.

“Help!” he cried as his frantic ballet came to a cataclysmic finale when his head made contact with the marble floor. The last thing Spenser would remember seeing before the blackness overtook him, was the fleeting impression of a tall man, dressed in antique clothing watching quietly from the side.

* * *

Janie Stanley

When the foreclosure letter arrived a week ago, Janie Stanley had been only mildly annoyed, knowing her account was up to date. As a matter of fact, she had been consistently three months ahead on her mortgage for more than fifteen years. She was certain that some young clerk, just learning the data entry, had probably keyed in something wrong and accidentally generated the dunning letter proclaiming Janie to be in default. A simple phone call and a quick check of her account should clarify the error—or so she assumed.

Janie prided herself on her politeness. No matter how tired she was from shopping, or how long she’d had to stand in line, she would take pains to be as pleasant and patient with the tellers at Ravencroft Savings and Loan as possible. She’d seen too many angry bank patrons shout and fuss at those poor girls behind the glass, and on many occasion she’d wanted to kick them right in the pants or yell at them to stop being such meanies! But she never did. She always held her tongue, and made sure that when her turn with the teller came she was a friendly as possible. After a while all the tellers knew her by sight, and would greet her with a smile. A few even argued over who would get to handle Janie’s transaction that day.

Janie was well known with the lady who guarded the vault containing the safety deposit boxes, too. She was there often in the days after David’s accident, to retrieve or return this document or that for the lawyers. Widowhood had forced her to learn the ins and outs of bank accounts and mortgages, insurance policies and codicils, stocks, bonds, wills, and now . . . foreclosure proceedings.

She had called the bank right away when the letter arrived, and was assured that all would be taken care of; yes, her account was in order, yes, the letter was sent in error, no, foreclosure proceedings were not underway. This morning, however, a second notice letter arrived, declaring her twice at fault, first for being late with her payment, second for not responding to the first notice.

Furious, she had dialed the familiar phone number for the bank, expecting Louise, the receptionist to answer as always, “Ravencroft Savings and Loan, how may I help you?” but was stunned to hear an automated message instead, stating, “You have reached Combank Mutual, a Kohler corporation, formerly Ravencroft Savings and Loan. Please listen to the following menu options . . . ”

Janie had had to listen to the message six times and redialed the number twice before successfully navigating her way through a confounding phone maze of menu options, none of them being quite where she wanted to go, and none of them leading to a real human being. Several times she was asked for a pin, and had no idea what sort of pin they had in mind, and where she could possibly find one.

Finally, after more than an hour of nonsense with the phone message, a blessedly human voice answered the phone. “May I have your account number, please?”

“Hello, I’m so glad to finally hear a voice! My name is Janie Stanley, and—”

“What is your account number please?” the voice interrupted, in a flat and emotionless tone.

“Oh . . . I, just a moment, I have to look at my statement, it’s in the other—”

“We’re very busy here, ma’am, please call back when you have everything available. Have a nice day.” The dial tone buzzed in her ear.

“No wait! Please.” She slammed the receiver down, hollering at the letter in her hand, “After fifteen years with you people, I deserve better than this!”

She felt her heart begin to race and she closed her eyes, forcing herself to calm down. “I’ll simply have to go to the bank, and see them in person.”

She freshened her makeup, chose an appropriate sweater, tucked the letter into her purse, along with two years worth of cancelled checks clearly proving her payments had been made. If she’d learned nothing at all since David’s death, it was to have all her paperwork in order before setting out to do battle with the PTB, as he always called them—the powers that be.

Well armed, her confidence bolstered by the strength that came from knowing that she was right, she drove the three miles to the bank calmly, even humming along with the radio. By the time she arrived, and pulled into a parking spot in front of the bank, she was in full control of her anger, and had rehearsed her speech several times silently to herself.

“Lady, you can’t park there!” an impatient voice called to her as she walked away from her car. She turned to see a young man approaching her, wearing a uniform with an embroidered insignia spelling “Kohler Security” in gold braid.

“But, I park there every time I do business here,” she replied calmly, even offering a little smile.

“Not no more, you don’t. Lot’s across the street. Move it.”

Janie pursed her lips, and glared. “Not any more, and yes I am aware there is a parking lot across the street. Will you please explain why I should . . . move it?”

The young man sneered and pulled a pad out of his back pocket, “Because this spot is reserved, and because I told you to move. And you will move, or I’ll write you up. No one but authorized personnel are allowed to park this close to the bank.”

“I see,” Janie said, coolly, retrieving her car keys from her purse. She stalked past the man, and got into her car, slamming the door. Before she pulled out of the spot, she lowered the electric window on the passenger side. “Oh, young man?” she called in a pleasant, grandmotherly voice.

The man leaned down, resting his hand on the car door to look through the window, a smug grin on his face. “Yes?”

“I know you’re just doing your job, so there is no need for any . . . misunderstanding, right?”

“Yes, I am, that’s right, ma’am.” The man stood away from the door, and began to walk away.

“Oh, young man?”

He turned around impatiently, “Yes?”

“Just so there is no misunderstanding, please let me show you how I really feel.” In the most defiant act in her forty-five years, Janie lifted her right hand, folded it into a fist and raised the third finger as she floored the gas pedal and squealed out of the parking spot.

She would have reveled in her rebellion longer had the man with the walking stick not chosen that moment to step off the curb. Janie slammed the break, and cranked the wheel hard to the left, sending her car directly into the path of an oncoming truck.

* * *

Seth Walker

“Sorry to call you out of class, Seth. But I thought it would be better to hear it from me, now, than to get blindsided by the letter going to your home.” Mr. Jonas, the interim head of the English department at Nathan Birnbaum Memorial High School, fumbled with the letter typed on RU letterhead. “I know we haven’t worked together very long . . . ” He sighed, and handed the letter to Seth.

“I didn’t get the scholarship.” It was more of a statement, than a question. Seth had become all too familiar lately with the look and tone the faculty affected before delivering bad news. His senior year had been a study in disappointment.

“I’m sorry,” Mr. Jonas replied.

Seth let out a heavy sigh, and allowed his overloaded book bag to slide off his shoulder and onto the floor as he dropped down into a chair. He hadn’t truly expected to win the ten thousand dollar scholarship to Ravencroft University he’d applied for by way of an epic essay. But when he had gotten the letter congratulating him on making the semi-finals, and was asked for a second essay, he’d allowed himself the luxury of optimism. When his second essay made it to the finals, and the prize was within his reach—there were only two finalists—he’d begun to believe he had finally caught a break, and his dream of going to RU on scholarship would truly happen.

Seth would not have even entered an essay if not for the encouragement of Mr. Stanley, the former head of the English department. Seth had struggled throughout all of his school years, often being shunted from one special-ed class to the next. But for whatever reason, early in Seth’s freshman year, Mr. Stanley had taken a bit of extra time with him, helping him to understand the Shakespeare he’d been assigned to read. During their one-on-one help sessions, Mr. Stanley always seemed to explain the complicated text in a way that made sense, but when it came time to take the tests, Seth would barely be able to garnish a passing grade. But one afternoon, Mr. Stanley asked Seth to stay after class and had surprised him with a pop quiz, delivered orally. Seth aced the quiz, and it was then that Mr. Stanley took the extra step that turned the corner for the young man by recognizing the symptoms of dyslexia.

Soon, Seth was receiving help he never knew he needed, or was even available, and a special program was developed just for him where he was able to take his tests differently than the other students. Before his freshman year was out, Seth had gone from barely passing to the honor roll. His life had brightened considerably then, particularly at home, where his father had finally begun to show some interest in his son. Earning his father’s respect had been a never-ending challenge. Years of discouragements and verbal beatings on report card day had finally come to an end when Seth presented his first report card of straight As, and his father had actually told him he was proud of him. And he owed it all to Mr. Stanley.

The day Seth found out he’d made the finals, he’d nearly cart wheeled down the corridor to Mr. Stanley’s office to show him the letter. But when he arrived at Mr. Stanley’s door, he was met by a group of dour faced teachers, and a few sobbing students. Seth had been so excited about his letter that he’d not paid attention to the morning announcements, and had not heard the principal call for a moment of silence—Mr. Stanley had been killed in a single car wreck on his way home from school the night before.

Mr. Jonas leaned forward, placing a hand on Seth’s shoulder. “There are other schools, Seth. Other scholarships. Baker Tech, the community college over in Falldon, comes to mind. They’ve an excellent program for their size. If you’d like, I can make some calls for you.”

A one-legged chimp could get into Baker. Seth shook his head, not looking up to meet Mr. Jonas’ gaze. “It was more than just a scholarship, Mr. Jonas,” he replied quietly, stuffing the letter haphazardly into his book bag. “It was everything.”

“It may feel that way now, but chin up, there’s always options. Come see me again tomorrow. I’ll have a list of alternatives for you,” the teacher said, then crossed the room and opened the office door, signaling the end of the meeting.

Seth hefted his bag onto his shoulder, gave the teacher a half smile and left without saying anything more. It was only ten in the morning, and he still had four classes left that day. He headed down the science corridor toward his biology class, then impulsively turned, and started walking toward the exit door instead. He kept his eyes on the door at the far end of the long corridor, the daylight spilling through the wired window as he walked, each step a bit faster than the last until he was running.

A teacher stepped into the hall way, shouting, “Mr. Walker! Slow down! Where are you going?”

Seth kept running, his heart beginning to race. He felt the heat rising in his cheeks as his vision started to blur through the moisture that was forming on his lids. It was everything! It was . . . I’m not stupid, Papa!

“Walker! Where’s your hall pass?”

Seth charged past the teacher, ignoring her, hearing only the echoes of his father’s old verbal assaults. Why won’t you apply yourself . . . special program my ass! You’re just lazy . . . you’ll never amount to anything . . . you’re different . . . you’re stupid . . . no college will take a lazy kid . . . you’ll wind up at Baker with all the other losers . . .

“I’m not stupid!” he yelled, throwing himself against the door, it crashed against the doorstop and slammed closed behind him. The front stairs of the old school were steep and made of concrete. There were fifteen stairs that ended at a brick walkway. Seth had descended these stairs hundreds of times, but never at this pace, and never half-blinded by tears. Three steps down, he was startled by the sudden appearance of an oddly-dressed man standing on the first landing. Seth jagged to the left to avoid plowing the fellow over, but it was then that he lost his footing and tumbled head over heels to the bottom of the concrete steps.

* * *

Elizabeth Staunton

“Dr. Staunton to ER stat, Dr. Staunton to ER stat.”

Elizabeth Staunton sighed, and dropped the nearly full foam cup of coffee into the wastebasket in the doctor’s lounge. This had been the first break she’d taken in nearly nine solid hours, and she doubted that the one mouthful of caffeine she’d managed to swallow before the page came would be enough to keep her from fading, but there was no choice. She wished she could just ignore the page for once and slip into some empty examining room for a quick nap. But her greater self would not allow her to consider such an act seriously for more than half a second.

She dashed through the swinging ER doors, automatically grabbing a paper mask from the bin and tying it behind her head before the doors even swung closed behind her. She scrubbed up quickly, then grabbed a pair of latex gloves and had them pulled on as soon as the ambulance access doors flung open. A quad of paramedics, two leading a gurney the other two juggling various IV lines attached, rushed their patient into T-1—trauma room one. Two agitated looking police officers followed, one giving a nod to Elizabeth.

“Hey, doc Staunton.”

“What we got?” she asked, hurrying up to the gurney. Two nurses appeared as if by magic, taking over for the paramedics.

“GSW to the shoulder. His buddy’s on his way to the morgue,” the officer replied.

Elizabeth moved the med pack the paramedics had placed on the wound to get a better look. “Looks like close range.”

“Yeah, real close,” the cop confirmed. “Deal gone bad. He took it in the shoulder and still managed to get the gun away from his contact. Plugged him right between the eyes.” He shook his head, disgusted. “You watch, some fast talking lawyer will get him off on some self-defense plea, and he’ll be right back out there dealin’ again.”

“We need OR2 ready, now!” Elizabeth called over her shoulder to one of the nurses, ignoring the officer’s sermonizing. “There’s way too much blood here for this to be just a shoulder wound.”

The nurse glanced up to the patient’s face, scowling. “God, he’s just a kid. Why do they do this to themselves?”

“It’s not my job to know why. I’m only here to keep them alive.”

The man on the gurney began to moan slightly, his eyes fluttering open.

“Can you hear me, sir?” Elizabeth asked, instinctually reaching for the small flashlight she kept in her pocket. He moaned again, and she lifted one eyelid, shining her light into his pupil. It responded immediately, shrinking under the assault of the light. “Can you hear me?” she said again, examining the other eye.

“Get that fucking light out o’ my eyes!” the patient growled, one arm suddenly swinging, knocking the flashlight from her hand. In the next second, all hell broke lose in trauma room one when the wounded man rolled himself from the gurney, knocking Elizabeth to the floor, closing his fingers around her neck. Pandemonium reigned around her; police officers shouting warnings, the crash of a steel instrument tray falling to the floor, panic stricken screams from nurses and patients alike, the sounds of running feet and slamming doors, and obscenities being exchanged. The world began to fade as she struggled to keep from being strangled.

Another instrument tray crashed to the floor and at the same moment, the hands released their grip on her throat. She opened her eyes slowly, relieved, thinking the police officers had subdued the patient, but before she could move from the floor, a shot rang out, sounding like a bomb going off in her head. She blinked once, and for an instant was blinded by the glare of the examination lamp, and for that briefest of moments, before the world turned black, she wondered who had allowed the civilian wearing the old fashioned derby into the ER.

* * *