The Last Good English Teacher

Lester Grainger had only lived in Green Prairie for less than eighteen months, but he would never live to see a full year and half. There was nothing about him that was striking, nothing that would cause a woman to take notice of his looks, nor would any man find him a challenge to their own masculinity, and he certainly wouldn’t be asked to go hunting with any of the locals. He wasn’t gay, but he had no wife or girlfriend or any real connection with femininity other than what his students accused him of. And so, there was the crux of the matter, the cause of his ultimate demise, if one could pin so lofty a term on the high school English teacher Lester Grainger, or Mr. Grainger, as he constantly had to remind his students. Often, he was tagged with the moniker Lezbo Grainger, which privately he thought was typical of some of his more idiotic students. It didn’t even make sense but leave it to immature minds to think of such an inane name to tie him to homosexuality.

The administration was pleased with his teaching efforts, and even though it was March 1985 when he began teaching at Green Prairie High School, a name he found banal and dry as dust, he still wore polyester suits and horribly wide ties that may have been part of a 70s bachelor teacher wardrobe. Most kinds knew he was incredibly dry, a loner, and that students either really loved him and his teaching methods or utterly loathed him because he was an unusually strict disciplinarian, bordering on illegal, a martinet, particularly when it came to corporal punishment. 

Sonny Harriss had pushed Mr. Grainger to the edge, and after school one day, the teacher cornered the freshman and did some rather remarkably painful things to the boy leaving nary a mark on the young person’s body. Grainger was pleased the pain the kid experienced would leave an indelible mark on him. Mr. Grainger wasn’t certain, but he vaguely thought he heard Sonny mumble something about getting him some day. After which, Mr. Grainger threw a baseball into the boy’s face, and when it hit, there was an audible pop and an amazing amount of blood poured down the kid’s face. Mr. Grainger couldn’t recall if he laughed or not, but he did clearly remember saying something.

“It’s your word against mine and you’re a known punk.” He had said this with no malice. It was simply fact. “I would prefer you said nothing about this incident or the next time it’ll be a lot worse, perhaps even causing permanent damage.”

It had surprised him that he allowed this youth to cause him such agonizing anger, but something simply had to be done about it or that young man would certainly never learn and never be a good citizen. Mr. Grainger then made his fatal mistake. He simply left the boy there, trembling in his anger and pain.

The next day in English, Sonny Harriss wasn’t in class. Mr. Grainger smiled slightly as he looked over his seating charts to take attendance. It appeared as if none of the students knew anything about the incident because there were no furtive glances directed at him with that tell-tale anger in their eyes making him regret his actions. During such trying times he thought back to things that happened to him while he lived in New York City, teaching in a small private school and thinking, but not really remembering clearly just what he had done that caused him to have to leave. All he knew was there was something within him like a caged demon that he occasionally let loose and then chaos ensued. When this happened, he knew it was time for a geographical change.

The day it happened was the last day of school. The rest of the year Sonny Harriss ingratiated himself with Mr. Grainger, and even though the teacher never fully trusted Harriss’s intentions, he welcomed the relief of a peaceful classroom. Mr. Grainger saw the note left on his desk. The note, clearly in the boy’s handwriting, was cryptic but clear at the same time. The little punk was going to blackmail him. He had somehow found out about what happed in New York. This would not do.

Mr. Grainger waited for nearly an hour before reconnoitering at the appointed spot. Let the little turd tell someone if he dared. The idiotic moron knew what Mr. Grainger could do to kids given the circumstances, so Lester put off the meeting with that in mind. The day was humid, nearly ninety degrees, and the breeze blew hot against his cheeks as he walked toward where he knew Sonny must be waiting. Every sense was on high alert the closer he got to the thick, green woods. He forced himself to remember the day Sonny Harriss had mentioned in his little blackmail note. How a fourteen-year-old boy could know about it was both fascinating and harrowing to Mr. Grainger.

New York City was less than hour in the distance, and a twenty-two-year-old Lester Grainger along with two of his closest acquaintances, he never had any real friends, were nearing the field where they planned on depositing the cargo they had in the trunk of their car. 

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” Ralph Vernig said quietly.

“The son of a bitch deserves what he’s getting!” Lloyd said, seething through his teeth.

“But guys,” Ralph said, nearly in tears. “I don’t think I can do it.”

Lester looked coolly at his friend. “Let me remind you what this man did to you. To me. To Lloyd.”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Ralph said, panic in his voice.

“You were at the church, doing your duty as a boy should for the Lord and our Savior,” Lloyd said. “Remember? You told us this.”

“But I don’t think we should do this!”

“Remember how he put his cock in your mouth?” Lloyd said with a terseness that set Lester’s teeth on edge.

“Please, Lloyd,” Ralph cried. “I can’t remember this again.”

“You need to so you can deal justice as it should be dealt!” Lloyd said.

“You were nine years old, Ralph,” Lester said quietly, with a cold tone that revealed his secrets to the others.

“What did he do after he came in your mouth, huh?” Lloyd said. “You remember, don’t you? Our loving father, pastor of our parish stripped you down and proceeded to fuck you up the ass!”

“Lloyd! Please!”

“It needs to be said! I hope that son of a bitch can hear all of this!” Lloyd said, red with rage. “You were never the same after that. I remember. You never told us the story. You never said a word. Then it was my turn. I’m your brother, for Christ’s sake! You never warned me.”

“What was I supposed to do?”

“Tell our mother!”

“She never would have believed us!” Ralph cried, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Do you think doing what we’re doing is going to get my innocence back?”

They were all silent for a few moments. They could hear the muffled noises and movement in the trunk.

“No,” Lester said so quietly the other two had to strain to hear. “It won’t get any of our innocence back.” Lester spit and took a drink from a bottle of whiskey that was sitting on the floor of the passenger side of the old, yellow Buick. He took a long drink and relished the warm feeling the liquor flooded him with as it hit bottom. “You remember how many times he did that to you? We want you to remember that. Think about it. Keep it in the front of your mind while you’re digging the hole.”

“Let’s make that bastard dig the hole himself!” Lloyd said. “He treated me worse than any of you. He fancied me more than either of you!”

“You were….” Ralph began. “I don’t know how to say I’m sorry about this. I don’t know how to say I wish this had never happened.”

“It’s all moot, now, isn’t it,” Lester said with viciousness in his tone that spilled over without his consent. He took another drink from the bottle and then handed it to Lloyd. Lloyd drank a long draught and handed it to Ralph who took a very long drink, tears still coming down his face.

“You know how many times he raped me?” Lloyd said. “How many times I had to go to the shower and clean his filth off of me?”

“Fifty-five times,” Ralph said, forcing a drink down. “For five long years.”

“Don’t forget about his favorite!” Lloyd taking another drink and pulling a wooden baseball bat out of the back seat. “Lester.”

Lester just stared out in the field. It was funny how he thought he could hear the sounds of New York City permeate his ears while he took another drink. The whiskey never tasted so good as it did now. He too pulled a bat from the back of the seat.

“If it were done when ‘tis done, then ‘twere well it were done quickly,” Lester said.

“Ah!” Lloyd said. He pulled his shoulders back, looked hard into the eyes of Ralph and then back into the eyes of Lester. “If the assassination could trammel up the consequence, and catch with his surcease success; God, I love the sound of that part, but that this blow might be the be-all and the end-all here.” Then he took another drink.

“You know what’s next,” Lester said, looking at Ralph. 

“This even-handed justice commends the ingredients of our poisoned chalice to our own lips.”

“Be careful there, Ralph,” Lester said as he handed the bottle to him. To his left Lloyd was packing a pipe with pot, putting it to his lips, lighting the weed and inhaling deeply. 

“I wish it were ambition,” Lloyd said thoughtfully, weaving a little as he stood next to the car, bat poised between his legs, like a vicious phallus.

“If we could just,” Ralph began.

“Just what?” Lloyd said, only slightly slurring his speech. “Turn back time? Let this fucking pedophile be forgiven? Lend him some mercy because he’s damn near seventy now? Think how many boys we’re going to save from this son of a bitch.”

Ralph took a drink from the bottle, fought to keep the liquor down, squirmed a little, gagged slightly and then swallowed hard again.

“Don’t get sick, damn you!” Lloyd yelled. He opened the trunk and spit at the man who was inside, bound and gagged so tightly it was wonder he could even move. The figure wore the garbs of his profession, the white collar stained with his own blood that dripped from his nose.

“Must have bumped it when we drove into this field,” Lester said looking at the man coldly. The brown eyes of the old priest were wide with terror and by the smell emanating from the trunk, they all guessed he must have messed himself.

“Scared shitless?” Lloyd said, laughing without humor. “Must have been times when you got shit on that dick of yours when you decided to fuck us, huh?”

All they heard was a choking, gagging sound and a cry that seeped through the cloth around his mouth. 

“Take that thing off of him,” Ralph pleaded. “Let him have a word or two before…”

“Before what?” Lester said quietly.

“Let him confess or something?” Ralph questioned.

Lloyd ripped the kerchief off the priest. The old man huffed a little, cried loudly, trying to scream in hopes he could be heard.

“How long before we tell him this screaming isn’t going to help?” Lloyd said loudly, stumbling over to Lester.

“I think he’ll either realize it soon or his voice will give out,” Lester said loudly, tone impassive.

“Please,” the old man quavered. “Whatever you’re going to do to me, please, don’t.”

All three looked at him, eyes glaring, seeming to send physical pain inducing light to the man in the trunk. 

“You must believe me,” he said. “It wasn’t me!”

Lloyd laughed and then punched the priest in the face. The old man groaned and spat out a tooth. 

“You’re trying to tell me I never experienced your raping?” Lloyd said with a nearly hysterical laugh. “You tryin’ to gaslight me?”

“Your brother, he lied!” 

“What? What? What….”

Ralph spit at the priest.

“I never did a thing to you, and you know it!” the priest screamed.

Lloyd punched him so hard that the old man groaned loudly and became very still for a few moments.

“Must have knocked him out a little,” Lloyd said laughing with a little bit of humor this time. “How can he lie right to our faces like that?”

“I never lied!” Ralph said. “I never lied!”

“We know,” Lester said, “we know. He’s desperate, that’s all.”

“Indeed, he is,” Lloyd said. “And he will confess before we’re done.”

“I don’t need him to confess,” Ralph said. “We all know what he did. If it was just one of us, then we’d have to consider his words and stuff, but he was like that to all of us.”

“Kind of makes you wonder how Jesus can protect us from devils like him,” Lester said.

“There is no God and if Jesus was real, he’s long dead and rotted away,” Lloyd said. “This fucker proves that.”

“Can you take the bonds off of me?” came a weak sounding voice.

“He wakens?” Lloyd said loudly. “Time to confess, oh, infidel. Time to confess your sins before your God and your savior, Jesus Christ. It is time for absolution.”

“I did nothing wrong!” 

“Wow! I mean, wow! How can you, you, how can you?”

Lloyd spluttered and spit. He weaved a little.

“It was like this with your brother. He had taken the communion wine. He drank it, I punished him, but I did nothing like he said.”

“What about what you did to me?” Lloyd exploded. “Are you telling me I lied to myself about it? I hallucinated it?”

“Yes!” the priest said. “I, I put LSD in the wine. You weren’t in your right minds. You…”

“Don’t hit him again,” Lester said. “I want him fully aware. I want as little anesthetic as possible running through his body.”

“How can you do this?” the priest yelled.

Lloyd paced back and forth, sputtering and emitting strangled sounds from his throat. 

“It’s okay, Lloyd. This servant of the devil will lie because after all, Satan is the father of lies. How can we expect anything else from this guy? I suggest you confess, infidel.”

There was a long silence. Lloyd lifted a menacing fist and was about to punch the man in the face again, but held back when the priest screamed, “Okay!”

“Okay, what?” Lloyd said, grabbing Ralph’s arm and pulling him close.

“I don’t want to hear him!” Ralph said.

“Let him speak,” Lester said quietly, taking another drink from the whiskey bottle.

Ralph threw up where he stood and nearly fell.

“You shoulda puked on this vermin,” Lloyd said.

“Great word,” Lester said. “Speak, thou fool.”

All three stood at the trunk, Ralph wiping his mouth, Lester holding on to Ralph to keep from tipping over, Lester cold and steady, eyes flaming.

“Please, please, have mercy on me. It’s an illness. It’s an illness. I can’t help what I did.”

“What you do, you mean?” Lloyd spat.

“I haven’t touched….”

“Don’t fucking lie,” Lloyd said. He screeched the words like an eagle’s warning to his prey that soon all would be over.

“Just calm, calm, calm down a little, please. It’s an illness. I couldn’t stop myself! I couldn’t help it!”

“Couldn’t help what?”

“What I did!”

“What did you do?” Lester questioned.

“I did terrible things. Oh my God, please forgive me!”