CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Principal Clyde sat staring at the file on his desk. The long shadows of late afternoon came in his office windows, casting shadows that looked like prison bars across the far wall. A spider wandered aimlessly across the corner of his desk, starting to spin a web between there and the wall. Principal Clyde paid no attention to it. His mind was far away, both in time and space. Having listened to the old man who claimed to be the father of Lydia Fairbanks, and then after reading the contents of the file the man had given him, he finally knew the full story about his writing teacher. And like the stories of so many he had encountered at Inner City Junior High School, it was not a pleasant story at all ...
It was a case of domestic violence and murder. When Lydia was a tiny girl, barely five years old, her parents had a vicious quarrel. Apparently it was not the first argument of this kind, but it would certainly be the last. From the police report, the fight apparently had something do to with little Lydia, and the cost of the clothes and supplies she needed to start kindergarten. Mr. Fairbanks had been drinking. There was hitting and a good deal of profanity. The little girl tried to hide behind her mother, apparently convinced the whole fight was solely because of her.
A gun was drawn and a shot was fired. Lydia's parents then went from two down to one. The child saw the whole thing including all the blood, and lay weeping on top of her dead mother. The police report said she kept repeating over and over, "It was my fault! I caused it all! I wish it was me that died! I wish it was me! I wish it was me!" Apparently, in her childlike innocence, she felt that she should have died because she had caused all the trouble.
Her father went to prison of course. Then the years began to pass. Lydia had no other relatives and so had been raised in orphanages and foster care. Most homes where she was placed were not pleasant places. They took her in mostly for the money it brought them, and either treated Lydia badly or ignored her. Meanwhile, Lydia's file was full of letters her father had sent to her in his bereavement at the state penitentiary. He realized the horror of what he had done and was feeling incredible, intense remorse. He kept writing to his daughter, pleading for her to forgive him, and to write to him. But all of the letters were returned, unopened. In fact in the twenty years he spent in jail he had received only one early response from Lydia, which letter was also in the file. In childlike writing the letter contained only four words: "My father is dead."
Sadly, psychologists were never brought in by the state to assist the child to cope with what she had witnessed, in spite of the obvious need. She only experienced one brief examination in Junior High School. The overworked school counselor who doubled as school psychologist noted with tremendous brevity in his file, "Mental block by subject, attempting to convince herself her father died. Attempt not completely successful. Still blames self for mother's death, and wishes she had died instead."
Miss Lydia Fairbanks. Timid, shy, quiet, unassuming--the type of person no one would pay any attention to, or notice in a crowd. A person who grew up either abused or ignored and forgotten, having to cope from an impossibly young age with a tragic scene no child should ever have to witness. It was a wonder she had been able to function at all. It was a miracle the scars healed sufficiently that she could attend college, and even graduate.
And then of all places, she had come to work at Inner City Junior High School.
Now Principal Clyde understood her reaction when Brent Llewelyn had the gun in the classroom. Now he understood the reports he had had to pry out of members of the 'losers club' about a bizarre incident when Bobby Vance--popularly known as scar face--had shown up and announced to Miss Fairbanks that his mother was dead, and he was the one that killed her. In both cases Miss Fairbanks had sobbed uncontrollably, far exceeding any logical explanation for her behavior, and kept repeating over and over, "I wish it was me!" Although she was now an adult and fully knew how foolish this all was, the childlike remorse and terror was apparently still there, rising to the surface in times of extreme stress. At such times she completely lost control and was reduced to a helpless mass of tears.
Principal Clyde sighed heavily, then rubbed at his painful, gout-ridden leg. He grumbled under his breath at the heartburn that always seemed to take him at this time of day no matter what he ate for lunch (and he made sure to NEVER eat anything prepared in the school lunch room). He could feel another migraine coming on.
Miss Fairbanks had miraculously returned to her classroom not long after the incident that morning, after being assured that the man claiming to be her father was gone and would not return. Principal Clyde had tried to convince her to go home and rest but she had refused, mumbling some nonsense about how all she needed was to be with her students. He had then checked in on her throughout the day, and had been amazed that somehow her interaction with the loser students in this insane school seemed to be revitalizing her, giving her new energy. When he had spoken with her at the end of the day, he made sure not to mention anything that had happened that morning. Neither did she. The conversation seemed almost normal, even though both of them knew they were carefully skirting around the real issue. And now she was in her classroom meeting with her group of 'friends' from the 'loser's club.' She was trying to act as if nothing had happened at all.
What was he to do now? The man known as Slade Fairbanks had left his contact information, begging Principal Clyde to do all he could to reestablish contact with his long lost daughter. And Principal Clyde had been foolish enough to agree to this request. Which left him in an impossible situation, since he knew beyond doubt that even mentioning the older man to Miss Fairbanks would create great stress that she would not be able to handle.
Principal Clyde sighed again, swiveling around in his chair to stare at the spider that was spinning a web between his desk and the wall. "You know, you've got it lucky," he said to the spider which completely ignored him. "Life for you is pretty simple. If a spider father kills a spider mother, a spider child doesn't care. He just goes and spins his own web. But that's not the way it works in the world of humans. That's not the way it works at all."
Principal Clyde heavily flipped the folder closed, and put it into one of the drawers of his desk. He was tired. Bone tired. His legs ached, his back was agony, his kidneys were gurgling and his breathing was raspy. Maybe it was time to put Miss Lydia Fairbanks problems out of mind until tomorrow.
He smiled ruefully. So typical. That is precisely what everyone that had ever dealt with her had done, leaving her always to face her impossible tragedy completely alone.