sat upright in my bed and let my bedroom come into focus. The presence of the room slowly faded in from the edges. I knew my eyes were open, but that muzzle flash, the night battle, the soldier I couldn’t kill, that reality remained in front of me.
Sweat rolled down my cheeks and I could feel my heart hammering in my chest.
After another moment, I consciously began regulating my breath to slow my heart. In a minute, it was almost down to a healthy race. I looked around. Everything was right where it should be...the dresser across from the foot of my bed, the mirror on the wall, the upholstered easy chair in the corner. The violence and the images that had just enveloped me hadn’t changed any of that.
I slowly swung off the bed and stood up — but didn’t move for a long time. Feeling a little uncertain in the darkness, I sat down on the edge of the mattress and let my hands rest on my thighs. My palms were cold.
Too slowly, the images in my head began to dissipate and the events of the evening crept in. That was too much reality for the middle of the night. I climbed over to my pillow and rolled onto my back. The ceiling hovered over me. Finally, I closed my eyes and attempted to go back to sleep
4
The Sanford Stein Day School was located just outside the Beltway in the northwest part of town. In fact, you could see the school from the highway. It was a sprawling, yet modest campus with lower school and middle school wings, a gym, and well-maintained ball fields.
I parked my Jeep next to the basketball court, grabbed my Monopoly box and a navy blue backpack, and headed toward an overhang-protected main entrance. As I approached the curved sidewalk near the entry doors, I thought about the school’s descriptive name. It was a “Day School,” a private Jewish school that taught a traditional general studies curriculum, complemented by a Jewish Studies program that included Jewish History, Hebrew Language, Bible, and other classic texts. I was never quite sure what the “Day” in “Day School” meant. I did know that this school was culturally in the middle of the Jewish spectrum, a Conservative tract that kept many of the traditions and was dedicated to community service.
I walked up to the main doors, two pairs of steel-framed glass and checked my watch: 8:15. My second period class would begin at 8:50. I shifted the Monopoly box from my left hand to my right and tried the closest door. The handle wouldn’t budge. Thanks to terrorism and concerns for general safety, entry doors, it seemed, were always locked. To the side was an intercom and I pressed the call button.
Looking through the glass door into the lobby, I could see the main office diagonal from me, about twenty feet to my left. The receptionist sat at her desk behind a sliding glass window. From where I stood, she appeared to be in her early fifties with an older Mary Tyler Moore look about her. She reached below her desk and the lock buzzed open. I crossed a well-polished tile floor, past a huge mural depicting smiling boys and girls, and over to the receptionist who had slid open the glass partition.
“I’m Gidon Aronson. I’m subbing in the Middle School this morning.”
“Yes, Mr. Aronson, it’s good to see you again.”
“Thanks.” I paused a moment. “It’s Janice, right?”
“That’s pretty good. I’m impressed,” she said smiling.
“I always remember the important people.”
She laughed. “Do you remember how to get upstairs?”
“I do. It’s where I put my keys that I can’t remember.”
“They’re probably with mine somewhere.”
I waved and headed down a blue and yellow corridor and around a corner to a staircase. In moments, I was on the second floor and rounding another corner. As I walked past a door on my right marked “Teacher’s Lounge,” I noticed that my heart rate seemed to have picked up. Twenty 7th graders whose regular teacher was away. What was there to be nervous about, right? Give me an assassin in a crowded banquet hall any time. Oh, relax. I knew what I wanted to do; I just needed to get into class and start rolling. I continued past wall mounted displays of student art — multi-colored cubist paintings that looked Picasso-esque — and down to the Middle School office. The door stood open.
The reception area was relatively small. To the left was the secretary’s desk partially hidden behind a chest-high partition and shelf. About ten feet behind the work station was a closed door with the nameplate “Dr. Saltzman, Headmaster” on it. To my right were two copying machines, and against another wall was a grid-like hive of teachers’ mailboxes. A number of them were overstuffed with papers, while others looked sadly empty, as if those teachers were unloved.
I turned back to the secretary’s desk. Empty. In fact, no one was in the room at all. Perhaps there was a meeting behind the headmaster’s closed door. A nearby analog wall clock clicked to 8:20. Class would start in thirty minutes and I wanted to arrive early so I could establish dominance over the 13 and 14 year olds. I knew where to go; I had subbed for Mrs. Cayhan before. I just needed her lesson plans. I stepped over to the collection of mailboxes and began looking at the names printed above each one.
“Can I help you?”
I turned to see a very striking, petite woman who was probably in her early thirties. She was slender with shoulder-length blonde hair framing her sparkling eyes. A tapered white sleeveless dress flattered her figure and revealed toned, tanned arms.
“I’m Gidon Aronson. I’m subbing for Mrs. Cayhan.”
“Right. I knew you’d be coming in. Carol told me.”
“You are...?”
“I’m sorry. I’m Katie Harris. I direct student services here.” She put out her hand, which I shook. Her grasp was firm. “You’re taking her 7th Grade American History class, aren’t you?”
“I am.”
“You know, you can save me a trip, if you don’t mind.” She pulled a pink slip of paper from a nearby mailbox and then leaned over the shelf to fill it in. I noticed she wrote with her left hand — always a good sign in my book — and I also noticed she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. The fact there was no tan line where a ring would have been hadn’t escaped me either.
As she continued to write, I tried to watch her without staring. As she leaned over, her hair had fallen slightly away from the back of her neck to reveal a thin gold necklace. It went perfectly with her tanned skin and the color of her dress. So no one would think I might be leering, I stepped back and turned to peruse the walls. There were class photos, a bright yellow flyer announcing the arrival of the yearbooks, a calendar, and two State commendations. After another moment, I looked down at my tie — for some reason I suddenly hoped it was one of my more stylish ones — only to see that it had flipped around so that seam and label were now forward. I ever-so-nonchalantly flipped it back. I looked up to see Miss Harris watching me. She was smiling at my deft maneuver.
“It’s my natural energy,” I said. “It just spirals right off me. All my ties flip.”
“Uh huh,” she smiled back.
“Really.” I smiled back. After a moment I pointed to the slip of paper in her hand. “What do you want me to do?”
“Just give this to David,” she named the student on the note. “It’s a pass to let him come to my office.”
