Haunting Blue Read online

  “What!” Lily Mills didn’t give him a chance to say more. Her long, dark hair bobbed in emphasis to her screaming tirade. “How in the hell could you lose your job? All you were doing was pushing a broom through an amusement park!”

  Gunther dropped onto the worn leather couch—once an attractive tan, years later faded to the color of old, paper grocery bags—and hung his head. He let a deep sigh escape. Just what I need. Lily all pissed off and making me feel more like a failure.

  “What the hell good are you?” Dropping her arms to her sides, Lily paced and yelled. “We’re living in your mother’s house. We have a baby coming. You promised we’d get our own place. All you had to do was keep your job.”

  “It wasn’t like that.” Gunther hated the whine he heard in his own voice, hated being in this position. “I’d already told you once the season was over…”

  Lily cut in. “You’re drunk, too! Don’t try to deny it.”

  So he’d had a few beers. His supervisor had lowered the boom right before lunch. He knew better than to come straight home, so he’d spent the rest of the day at the Cat’s Cradle, tossing down a few and steeling his courage.

  The boss’s poor timing infuriated him. He and Crimley had just locked their plan in place. A couple more days would’ve made all the difference. Now, he had to take shit from Lily, and he couldn’t say anything about the plan. All Lily could see was his failure, and that angered him most of all.

  His prosthetic arm hung limp against the side of the couch. By old habit, he turned the hook so the dull curve could beat a rhythm against the leather without puncturing it. “Mama said we could stay. It ain’t so bad here. At least she keeps the place clean.”

  Arms akimbo, Lily looked ready to spit fire at him. Lit from behind, her shadow cast into the room. The darkness caused by her enlarged belly threatened to devour him.

  Gunther avoided her gaze. “I’ll take care of it. I know this is screwed up. I know. Look, the park is closing for the season. They had to make some cuts.”

  “The park’s not closed, yet,” Lily huffed. “Of course, you’re the first man they got rid of.”

  Gunther clenched his teeth against his seething anger, trying to respond in a calm voice. “They don’t keep the park running in the winter, and it’s almost winter. I can try to get back on next spring. It’s not my fault.”

  Lily’s dark eyes bulged in self-righteous anger. “It’s never your fault, Gunther.” She winced and placed a hand against her lower back, while her other arm gripped the back of a chair. “It’s not your fault you lost your arm. It’s not your fault you lost your job. I suppose it’s not your fault that I’m pregnant, either. Well, guess what? You’re at least half to blame for that, and you can’t weasel out of your responsibility.”

  Gunther struggled to keep from rolling his eyes at Lily’s tirade. He hated to grovel. “I’m not gonna run away. I told you I’m gonna take care of this.” He lifted his head and met Lily’s gaze. “I promise.”

  “Shit!” Lily yelled. “How’re you going to take care of anything?”

  “That’s enough. Shut your mouth.” Gunther couldn’t take much more of this.

  Lily stomped closer. “I can’t keep waitin’ tables. I’m not gonna support your lazy ass and a baby.”

  Gunther stared ahead at the maple coffee table before him, decorated with an oversized, tacky green candle. He hated that candle. Lily had bought it three months ago to “add a little color to the house”. Everything about it screamed “bought by white trash from the clearance shelf”. It hurt his head just looking at it.

  Tears welled in Lily’s eyes.

  She shook her head, wiping at the wetness on her face. “Look at you. You think ’cause you lost your arm, the world owes you a living? It’s been three years. Get over it. Find a real job so we can move out!”

  “I said that’s enough, woman.” His good hand reached out and wrapped around the broad base of the candle. His knuckles whitened from the grip he held on it. I need to get control, again. I need control over something in my life.

  “Lord A’mighty. You think your dick been cut off ’stead of your hand, the way you go on. I swear…”

  With a growl and a flip of his wrist, Gunther sent the bulky candle sailing across the room, slamming Lily in the chest. She toppled backward against the wall, stunned.

  Gunther rose from the couch, storming toward her and holding the hook out like a weapon.

  Lily blinked, her eyes staring through him, unfocused.

  He towered over her, gloating at her helplessness.

  She held one hand up as if to ward him off, the other arm cradled around her protruding belly. “Gunther! Gunther, wait!”

  He drew the hook back and swept it forward.

  She screamed and rolled away from him. The hook punched a hole in the wall just above Lily’s head. I’ll shut her whining mouth, and get rid of the brat she’s carrying, too!

  “God! Gunther, stop! I’m sorry, baby.” She shrank away from him.

  “Oh, you’re sorry now, huh? Ya little bitch!” He grinned down at her. He had control, now. For these few seconds, he held her life in his hands, and he liked the way it felt. “I gonna slice ya for what you said.”

  The front door swung open, and an elderly woman stood in the doorway—a scowl smeared across her wrinkled features. “Gunther Luke Stalt, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Mama?” As if he’d uncovered a nest of hornets, Gunther jumped back several feet.

  The woman stepped forward—standing straight and tall—wedging herself between her son and the frightened girl. Her voice carried the confidence of final authority. “You just shamed me. You’ve shamed the family, bullying the woman who’s carrying your child.”

  Gunther crossed his arms. “Mama, she said terrible things. She didn’t show me any respect.” He could hear the pouting tone of his own voice, and his face warmed at the realization.

  “You’ll get no respect, here. Haven’t earned any. Go on, son,” the old woman spoke.

  Gunther stomped toward the refrigerator and snatched a bottle of beer. The room closed in around him.

  His own mama ordering him to leave the house! It might be small, and not too fancy, but his mama had raised him here. “So be it, then. I don’t need either of you. I can do fine on my own.” He’d show them.

  He’d show everyone.

  * * * *

  A relentless, early November sun beat down on the tiny hotel room. Gunther looked around his pitiful surroundings—a beat-up recliner that looked like it’d been left at the side of the road leaned against the wall. Across from the flea-infested excuse of a bed sat a 12-inch black-and-white TV perched on a rusty stand. He’d tried to watch it earlier but could only get one station to come in. In the corner, a small square of linoleum with a stopped-up toilet served as the bathroom.

  He grabbed a bottle of beer and tried to get comfortable on the La-Z-Boy®, but a spring bulged out right where the center of his back should rest.

  Gunther leaned forward. The cool beer sliding down his throat eased the tight knot in his belly. He took a shaky breath, frustrated at his mama for taking Lily’s side.

  What about him? What about his pain? He was the one who lost his arm.

  He closed his eyes at the memory. Every night he tried to put the memory behind him, and every night it haunted him. In his mind’s eye, he still saw the meat plant where he’d made a good living, before the grinder accident. He felt the grinder lock onto his hand, and that damned machine pulling him forward as it chewed his bones and muscles. Did Mama and Lily have any idea what kind of torture that was? Now, he couldn’t even keep a job as a janitor, because the damn broom kept slipping off his hook.

  How could he begin to explain his anger? Like a dam ready to burst from the strain, he wanted to scream that what happened to him wasn’t fair. That he shouldn’t have to spend his life barely able to clean up after other people, to work like a dog for peanuts.

&nbs
p; Gunther threw his head back and swallowed the final gulp of beer. On impulse, he hurled the bottle across the room. The satisfying shatter of glass impacting the worthless TV screen calmed his nerves in an instant.

  He took a deep breath and thought about the plan, then spoke into the still-warm air. “I’ve got to do something. Might as well get started.”

  Gunther rose, walking out of the stuffy room and into the dark night.

  Chapter Five

  Perionne—Present Day

  I got my poem back with a screaming red “F” slashed in thin lines across the top half of the page.

  I stared down at the paper in disbelief. The bell rang for dismissal, but I stuck around—furious and shaking—while the rest of the class filed toward the door.

  Mr. Robbins stood in front of his desk, arms folded across his chest, watching my consternation with a bland expression of indifference.

  I started right in as soon as the last student disappeared around the corner. “What the hell is this all about, Mr. Robbins?”

  He spoke with the calm, forthright sort of baritone he used when lecturing. “I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about, Miss Shaefer.”

  “The hell you don’t.” I slapped the crinkled paper on his desk. “Why’d you give me an ‘F’ on this?”

  “The meaning is you failed the assignment, Miss Shaefer.” Unruffled, Mr. Robbins answered without a hint of sarcasm in his voice. “I found your poem tasteless and without merit. Try to do better next time.”

  “What?” My brain tried to sort out his response.

  He waited, stone-faced.

  It didn’t make any sense. I tried again. “Excuse me, but you gave a ‘B-’ to Frankie Jones for writing about hooking a worm onto his fishing pole. Is that what you consider deeper merit?”

  “Franklin’s poem was finely crafted, with excellent meter. You could learn by his example.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Meter, my ass! It was a free-verse poetry assignment. I turn in a piece about the exploitation of women, and you say it’s without merit? Do I really have to explain the poem to you, or should we skip all that and go straight to the principal?”

  “I think you’d better watch your language, Miss Shaefer.” He walked toward the classroom door, looking a touch ruffled.

  Fine. I was more than ruffled and on a roll.

  “Where do you think you’re going? I deserve an explanation for this. My poem was better than 99% of the crap you received.”

  That wasn’t ego talking. I’d dated a college-level poetry major for over six months. I sat in on readings with his friends. They became my friends. I’d had my own poems critiqued by people who ate and drank the craft and passion of poetry. I knew good poetry from bad poetry and could define both in ways the teacher had yet to hint at in his basic-level lectures. This was an easy “A,” plain and simple, and it was ridiculous that I even had to discuss it.

  “That’s really for me to judge, Miss Shaefer.” He pushed the door to close it. “I wanted to keep the entire school from hearing our conversation. That’s all.”

  Once the door shut, Mr. Robbins turned toward me. A pencil-thin smile formed on his face—a cocky, self-assured grin of confidence that betrayed his indifferent tone.

  “I think it’s safe to say that you’re on your way to failing this class, Miss Shaefer. In fact, I’m sure of it.”

  A chill ran through me. I blinked at him, thrown off-guard.

  “Are you threatening me, Mr. Robbins?”

  He seemed amused at the idea. “Threatening you? I’d get in a lot of trouble for doing something like that, Miss Shaefer. English is a subjective class, and I’m allowed to give subjective grades, based on my own subjective standards. I’m afraid, right now, based on those standards, you’re just not going to cut it.” He shrugged, indicating that nothing could be done.

  I kept my mouth shut, my mind circling around his words like a lost airplane. He’d called my bluff and thrown out a promise of his own. In my mind, I could hear myself whine and beg. I could break down and cry, tell him I’d be good, or throw a hissy fit.

  Not in a million years.

  “You have only yourself to blame, you know,” he continued. “Picking fights with the other students on day one. That trashy costume you call clothing. You’re a real discipline problem. I moved from Chicago many years ago to get away from teaching people like you. I have no interest in trying to teach smart aleck punks who have no interest in learning.”

  I glared back at him in hopeless defiance. I hoped he would finish soon, before the desire to throttle him overwhelmed me. Of course, that would only make matters worse.

  He stepped behind his desk, his head low and tone solemn, like he was delivering a eulogy. “You think you can smart off and start fights and do whatever you want, and then somehow your teachers will just let you slide by? Unfortunately for you, I’m the only one teaching Senior English, and that’s not going to happen.” He stopped and leaned forward, his calm manner of speech cracking.

  I took a step back, reeling at the intensity of his fury.

  His face turned red, and he stopped himself to catch his breath. “If you drop out, you’ll have to commute to La Grange over the summer to graduate. That’s a 40 mile drive, one way. Not a lot of fun, but acceptable. If you stay, your GPA will suffer, and you’ll still have to commute. The point is, it would be best for both of us if you quit my class now.”

  Somehow, I got my head back on straight while he rambled. Hatred I could deal with—at least I knew where I stood.

  I put on my bravado and charged ahead. “You’re being absurd. I’ll just take this to the school board.”

  He chuckled at my threat. “What are you going to tell them, Miss Shaefer? That the senior English teacher won’t give your incredibly clever work a passing grade? That I can’t recognize sheer genius when I see it?”

  He removed his glasses and wiped the lenses with a white handkerchief he’d pulled from his breast pocket. “You don’t know much about our school, or our town, if you think that will work.”

  All pretenses at humor stopped, and he leaned forward, setting aside the glasses and placing both hands flat on his desktop.

  “I’ll tell you what will happen,” he spoke between clenched teeth. “They’ll open your file. They’ll see your suspension for fighting. They’ll look at how you’re dressed. Then, they’ll laugh you right out of the room. If they bother to call me in to explain myself, I’ll find a reason, and I’ll make it stick. They’ll accept it.”

  He stood and straightened, placing his glasses back on his face and straightening his lapels as if recovering from a minor scuffle not worth his time. “They’ll believe me, because they don’t want little punks like you in this school any more than I do. So, tell the school board. That would be the best thing to happen to me all year.”

  I couldn’t think anymore. I just stood, sinking into oblivion while he finished. I continued to lock eyes with him, head up, but it didn’t matter. He knew he’d won in every way that mattered.

  Mr. Robbins pulled the chair out from his desk. “I don’t think there’s anything more you need to say, Miss Shaefer. When you’re ready to admit that you can’t handle my class, I’ll sign your dropout slip. Good day.” He sat and returned to his work.

  I’d been dismissed.

  * * * *

  Somehow, I stumbled to the cafeteria and stepped through the line in a zombie-like state before the despair welling up within me burst forward full force. I stared dumbly at my food, wondering what I could possibly do to stop the inevitable. I already knew I had no chance. Finding Nemo aside, I had as much choice as a fish in an aquarium. No options. Fi-Fi Shaefer blows chance at a college English degree due to failing the class in high school. The end.

  I could commute, but I would need parental approval to do so. Convincing my mother would be impossible. She wouldn’t believe me, anyway. This stank of exactly the type of story I’d tell to get transferred ou
t of the school or to force her to move. Just the sort of thing I’d do to get back at her.

  Mom would gamble with my grades. I knew that. I could already hear her accusing me of failing on purpose, just to prove my story.

  I sank deeper, trembling. The room lost its edges. My lunch smeared out of focus from the buildup of tears.

  A drop splattered on my tray. My hand shook as I touched the wetness, realizing it was a tear from my own face. The tremor built up my hand and through my body.

  “Oh, shit.” Tears flowed. I covered my face with both hands while I wept like a little baby. I couldn’t stop.

  Worse, I heard a voice at the table.

  “Fi-Fi? What’s wrong?” Chip had sat down across from me. I wanted to crawl away and die.

  “Go away!”

  I wiped a denim sleeve across my face. I couldn’t see very well, but he wasn’t listening to me, anyway. He just continued to stare.

  One kid at the table next to us glared hard at his tray. The girl next to him shifted her eyes in my direction and grinned.

  “Great. I’m the afternoon entertainment.” I grabbed a napkin and wiped tears away. Chip watched me in open shock. I glared back. “Enjoying the view? Get the hell away from me!”

  I could hear a couple of snickers from somewhere around me. Chip looked hurt. “Hey. I just wanted to know. Maybe I can help.”

  “Yeah? Great. I’m fucked, and you can’t help. Happy?”

  I stood, pushed aside my untouched tray, and stormed away from Chip. I stepped through the foyer and out the double-door entrance. Nobody stopped me. Because of the beautiful, late September weather, we could go outside as long as we remained on the school grounds.

  Sure enough, the sun shone brightly. Good for the sun. I stepped across the grass, the light stinging my eyes. My jewelry jangled. A couple of students played Frisbee nearby. Clinty and his followers huddled across the lot, using each other’s bodies to hide the joint they passed. He glared at me and snarled, then returned to the important business of getting stoned.

  The cool breeze chilled me, and my teeth chattered. I reached an open area of lawn and sank down with a tired sigh. I considered ditching the rest of the day. It wouldn’t hurt my other classes much, provided Mr. Robbins hadn’t started some sort of club in the teacher’s lounge with everyone out to get me. Of course, I could wind up getting suspended, again. Kick me out of class for skipping class; leave it to the Board of Education. No wonder failure seemed inevitable.