Forty-Six

Trent was waiting for me when I walked into the school.

"Hey," he said, greeting me with a handshake. "Was thinking you could use some moral support."

That was true, and probably not a bad idea, given that I was going into this meeting more than a little distracted.

I told him about running into Fiona LeDrew, finding out that she was going to get her husband to drop the lawsuit. Trent beamed. "Excellent," he said.

I wasn't smiling. "But we got talking about Mark, and how messed up he was." A few parents were entering the school, finding their way to the library. I lowered my voice to a whisper. "What do you know about Ronny Grant?"

"That he didn't fix the latch on that door. Which is why he lost his job."

"I'm not talking about that. This whole blackmail thing, I don't think it comes out of nothing. I think there was someone abusing students, and I'm wondering whether it was Ronny."

"Why Ronny?"

"It goes back to something Mark said, and now something his mother told me. This lawnmower man thing."

Trent slowly shook his head. "Ronny had his problems. He's borderline alcoholic. But an abuser? I never got a hint of that. I mean, he liked the kids, yeah. But we all like the kids. Why else would we work here?"

"Herb doesn't like the kids."

"Don't get me started on him. He's here, by the way. I saw him come in about five minutes ago."

"I think he stirred the pot on this," I said.

"Fuck Herb," Trent said. He took a long look at me. "Don't take this the wrong way, but you look like shit."

I had no reason to doubt him. Marta's visit, Bonnie's revelations. It had left me frazzled. And the right side of my face was still swollen, bandages still on my neck and forehead.

"I gotta go do this thing," I said.

There were two doors to the library: a main one and a secondary entrance that was by the librarian's office. I used that one to enter unnoticed while the parents started filing in through the main entrance. Chairs had been set out by whatever caretaker Trent had brought in to take over from Ronny.

I found a library cart, the kind that gets loaded up with books when they are being reshelved, and wheeled it down the fiction aisle. I started loading it up with hardcovers and paperbacks. Star Trek novelizations and Stephen King tales of horror. The Twilight series and Harry Potter. The Hunger Games and all of Tolkien. The Anne of Green Gables books and the His Dark Materials series by Philip Pullman. Judy Blume and The Maze Runner books. Toni Morrison and Margaret Atwood. Classics the parents would know, like To Kill a Mockingbird, Lord of the Flies, Ray Bradbury's The Martian Chronicles, The Call of the Wild, and one of my own personal favorites, The Princess Bride by William Goldman.

I stacked the cart with these books and others. Our librarian, who was not here this evening, would have a fit when he found out what I'd done, or was planning to do. I could hear murmurings at the other end of the room. People taking their seats.

Trent found me loading the cart.

"They're here," he said. "Fifteen, maybe twenty, tops. Not exactly the biggest mob in the world." He paused. "And Herb."

"Okay," I said.

"Why don't I say a few words, and then this group's spokesperson will do some kind of opening statement."

Sounded like a plan. He worked his way to the other end of the room and I followed, pushing the cart ahead of me. Fewer than half of the chairs that had been set out were filled, and Trent was right in his estimate. I did a quick count and came up with sixteen, eleven women and five men. But to get sixteen parents out to an event was still something of an achievement when everyone's lives were so busy, so I wasn't about to discount it.

At the back of the room, seated alone, was Herb.

I stood behind and to the side as Trent introduced himself to the room.

"Thanks for coming," he said. "It's always gratifying to me, and I know I'm speaking for Mr. Boyle here, too, when parents take a keen interest in what their children are studying. So we appreciate you taking the time to be here this evening to talk about this important issue. What I'm going to do is turn the meeting over to Mrs. Kanin, who's going to explain why she asked for this opportunity to have some matters clarified, and then I'll invite Mr. Boyle here to say a few words and take your questions."

No wonder Trent had worked his way up the administrative ladder. What a politician. Not once did he use words like concern or complaint or censorship or ban. Trent, who was going to head back to the office, whispered to me as he slipped away, "Let me know how it goes, and text me if they look like they're getting ready to string you up."

Wasn't it nice that one of us still had a sense of humor.

Violet Kanin stood up from her chair, but did not come to the front of the room. I recognized her, of course, as Andrew's mother, who had for several years schooled him at home and, as I've probably already pointed out, did a pretty good job of it, at least where math and writing skills were concerned. She always attended parent-teacher events, and gave me a quick smile before speaking.

"Hi," she said. "Forgive me if I seem a bit nervous, I'm not much of a public speaker." She forced a laugh. "I want to say from the outset how grateful we all are for Mr. Boyle's recent actions, and know that any of the issues we bring up tonight aren't in any way meant to be critical of you."

I nodded.

"But tonight we're here to get some insight, we hope, into how you go about choosing what books our children will read, and whether they are really the best of the best, and just how appropriate they are. And it's not about just the one book, this Road thing, but other books, too. Anyway, that's all I have to say. I didn't write anything down."

Violet looked at me, sat down, and I took that as my cue. I took a step forward, hands in my pockets, trying to adopt a casual air, and said, "Thanks very much. I'm glad to have the chance to talk about—"

One of the men blurted, "Why would you be teaching books celebrating cannibalism? What on earth is the point of that?"

I guess we weren't going to waste any time getting into it.

"Okay," I said calmly. "Let's start there. I'm sure many of you, at some point, may have read your children the story ‘Hansel and Gretel,' or had it read to you as a child, and will recall that it's about a witch who is trying to fatten up a couple of children on sweets before she cooks them and eats them, and that the children escape after pushing her into the oven and killing her. If I were teaching fourth grade, say, instead of high school English, and you learned the children had read ‘Hansel and Gretel,' I doubt many of you would have been in touch. Cannibalism and murder are themes in ‘Hansel and Gretel,' just as they are in the novel The Road, which, admittedly, is a much darker and more realistic tale, but in neither case are they things to be celebrated, although I don't think we mind when the witch gets hers."

Hoped for a laugh there, and didn't get it.

"Most novels, most good novels, involve conflict and what human beings do to resolve it. The Road is a story about survival in the wake of a global catastrophe, and for kids who have grown up on stuff like The Walking Dead and 28 Days Later, it's a way to engage them, to get them past the gore and the sensationalism and guide them toward a discussion of complicated moral issues."

Violet said, "But this kind of material can be upsetting to some. Like my Andrew."

I nodded. "It's true. And if your son is troubled to the point that he does not want to continue reading the book, or participate in discussions about it, then I would find him an alternate. I think, if you were to ask him, he'd want to continue. Andrew has some pretty interesting insights into things that I'd be sorry if the rest of the class missed. But, and this is a question for all of you, don't you think I would be doing your children a disservice if I made every effort to protect them from things that might challenge or upset them? I could cocoon them, avoid anything that might spark debate, that would raise questions of right and wrong. Of course, that would mean not reading any works of fiction at all, because that's what we hope good fiction will do. Get the kids talking, thinking. Good fiction provokes and bridges gaps, can bring people together by exposing them to all sides of an issue."

I stopped. I wasn't foolish enough to think my little speech would win them all over, but at least a few of them appeared to be considering what I'd had to say.

I decided to go on, and wheeled out the cartload of books.

"Here's a sampling of reading material from our library. We have a wide variety of things for kids to read here. Classics, more modern stuff. Everything from Huck Finn to vampires. I'm inviting you to take two or three books with you when you leave here tonight, read them, make notes about what you liked about the book, what troubled you about it, whether you think it's right for your child. And if it's a book you do like, that you think your child would get something out of, how would you feel if another parent decided your child shouldn't be allowed to read it? And then—"

One of the men had his hand up, but didn't wait to be called on. "Hang on. You want us to read these books?"

"The best way to understand what the kids are studying—not just in my class or any other teacher's class, but on their own—is to have a read of it yourselves. It might change your opinion, and then again, it might reinforce the opinion you already hold. But once you've read some of these—"

"I don't have time for that," said the same guy.

"I do," said one of the women.

I smiled. "Some of you may have noticed Mr. Willow sitting at the back of the room this evening." A few heads turned around as Herb sat up a little straighter in his chair. "I want to thank him for coming tonight and showing an interest in this subject, and I'm delighted that he has volunteered to be part of all this. When you've read your books and written your assessment of it, Mr. Willow will be happy to look at what you've done and put together a report."

Herb's face flushed. Fuck you, Herb.

"But there's one other point I would like to make," I said. "And what I don't want is to come across like I'm lecturing any of you. I know your concerns are sincere. You care about what happens here, in this building. So do I."

I paused.

"Mrs. Kanin started off by mentioning what happened here last week, and thank you for the kind words." I was looking right at her. "I see the world a little differently now than I did just ten days ago. A young man came into this school intending to do harm. Your kids were here for that. You received frantic phone calls while they were in lockdown. You raced to the school. It's something you and your kids will never forget. The longest couple of hours of your lives. What made this person want to hurt us? What's happening to our young people?"

I waved my hand toward the cart full of books. "Maybe the answers are here. Somewhere in these thousands of pages. The inspirations and motivations for these works are varied. Some writers set out to simply entertain, and that's great. Others seek to understand who we are, to promote understanding, to bring people together. I don't believe keeping our kids from reading them will make them safer. I believe shielding them from ideas will make them less tolerant, less understanding, less willing to engage, and that, ultimately, will make them less safe."

Violet Kanin slowly stood.

"I don't think you understand," she said. "I know what you're probably thinking. That we're a bunch of ignorant book banners, that—"

"I didn't say that. I didn't accuse—"

"Please allow me to finish," she said quietly. "I don't need reminding about how terrified we all were that day. We all remember it very well. I could have lost my son that day. Any one of us here could have lost a child when that man came here with a bomb. We see the news. The shootings. We see what's happening at one school after another. At malls and churches. We know our kids are exposed to drugs and awful things online and under all kinds of pressure from their friends. And here's the thing: we don't know what to do about it."

I listened.

"We feel helpless and scared and overwhelmed. And then one day our kids are assigned a book to read. A book with all sorts of ugliness in it. It may be a wonderful book, and maybe you should keep teaching it. I don't even know anymore. But we think, we can't control any of these threats our children face, but maybe we can fool ourselves into thinking we're making a difference in one small area if we ask, will this book make our kids' lives better?"

Her eyes were wet. "I guess that's all I have to say." She forced herself to smile and said, "Andrew's liking Hoot, so I thank you for that."

She sat down.

The room was quiet for a moment. I nodded slowly, looked at Violet Kanin, and said, "I hear you. Believe me, I do. This, right here, these are the kinds of discussions I want to have not just with parents, but with my students, so we can come to a better understanding of how we feel. I think we all really want the same—"

I stopped. Someone new had entered the room. A latecomer.

And I suddenly felt light-headed.

Billy Finster had arrived.