The Fixer
Prologue
I sat in the far right column of seats; mine was about three-quarters of the way back from where Mr. Coleman stood. It gave me a wonderful perspective. I could watch almost the entire class without turning much and see how my peers were reacting to him and his lessons.
I loved school. Fifth grade was the best yet. We were actually learning things this year that would be useful moving forward. No more being treated like little kids. More was expected of us now. No more kids running to the teacher to tell her about the new goldfish they had as a pet, or what they were going to do on the weekend when their dad came home. No, we were more mature this year, and the teacher wasn’t a surrogate mommy any longer.
Many of my classmates didn’t love school. Many of them didn’t like Mr. Coleman, either. They showed that in many ways, most of those a bit too subtle for Mr. Coleman to notice. He was one of those enthusiastic teachers, young and active and full of himself. He seemed to think everyone loved being in the classroom as much as he did.
I spent a lot of time evaluating him, like I always did with my teachers. I’d already decided I wanted to have the job they had when I was older. At ten, I wasn’t a young child any longer. There was a distinct difference between being nine and a fourth grader and now being ten and a big fifth-grade kid. I certainly felt the beginnings of maturity. Many of my classmates? Not so much. As I said, they spent more time trying to show Mr. Coleman how much they didn’t like being in school rather than actually listening to him and trying to learn something.
As I was thinking about this, he asked the class a question: “All right, this book you’re reading, Penrod, I’m sure a lot of you have read ahead of where we are in the classroom. It’s great, isn’t it? A little old-fashioned, but really funny, and it’s good to get a feel for how things were for kids a few decades ago. Penrod is about your age.” He paused. There was dead silence in the room. It didn’t deflate him at all. Nothing seemed to do that. The silence, of course, meant that we weren’t on his side and wouldn’t accept his description of the book as great or much of anything else he was excited about. Then he followed his unanswered question with another: “Those who’ve read ahead, which new character did you really like, and why?”
I sighed. I knew that wouldn’t be answered, either. Mr. Coleman just didn’t understand our ethos. Yeah, I knew what that word meant. I read a lot, and I did read ahead in the books he assigned. But to admit that in this class? No! Do that and get pounded at recess on the playground? Not me. And not anyone else, either, and I knew Sarah Perkins and Miguel Aguilar read ahead, too. Their hands were conspicuously in their laps like mine were.
I was doing what I always did, watching Mr. Coleman not relate well to the class or the class to him and thinking how I’d do it if I were up in front of a class. I picked out all his mistakes and made a note of them in my mind, hoping I would remember them when I was twenty-two or -three and had my teaching credential.
It would have been fine for him to tell us how much he liked the book and why. It wasn’t fine to ask any of us to expose ourselves, our feelings, that way. To have us separate ourselves from the crowd.
I thought I’d make a wonderful teacher, and unlike Mr. Coleman, I’d have great rapport with my students. That shouldn’t be hard if you knew what you were doing.
I never lost that dream, and began my career as a 22-year-old, wet-behind-the-ears idealist.
Chapter 1
Forty-five years later
When I retired, taking early retirement at 55 when I was still young and active enough to enjoy life outside my classroom, I needed something to fill some of the hours in the day. Thumb twiddling in a dark room held no appeal. And watching endless TV? No way, José. There were a lot of things I could do, and the one I decided to do soon after I was out on my own, something to do on a regular basis, might seem strange to some, but was just the ticket for me.
John Malcom was a friend, and he had a job open. I’d always liked helping out where I could, and helping John and finding something to do during the day that wouldn’t take too much time was killing two birds with one stone and seemed perfect.
I became a bus driver. Not working for the school district. No, I’d made a clean break there, even if I was still friends with both teachers and administrators. But I wanted separation; I didn’t want to be called for sub work whenever a teacher had a sniffle or was in need of some downtime. My job was working for John, driving a bus for him.
Okay, okay, so being a bus driver doesn’t sound like much of a job, and it doesn’t sound stress- or responsibility-free, two things I wanted in what was my new part-time pastime. But both were minimal compared to what I’d lived with daily for the past too-many-to-count years as a middle- and then high-school teacher. Driving a bus kept me in contact with people, which was important to me. I was providing a service, too. I’d always liked helping people, which to me seemed the principal reason to be alive, and this job made it easy for the folks who used the bus to commute from my town to the one not far away. Corson, my small Midwestern town, was 30 miles from Ontagua, and some people in each town worked in the other. Both towns were like a lot of those in mid-America: both had populations under 25,000 people. The towns collaborated on a bus service to accommodate the people going back and forth. I made two round trips a day, one taking people to work in Ontagua, then picking up Ontaguan residents who worked in Corson and taking them to their jobs. At the end of the workday, I returned the Ontaguans and then picked up my Corson returnees for their trip home.
A major perk of the job was that I got to talk to the passengers, many of whom I’d taught in school. This way I kept abreast of what was going on in each town. That kept me informed and entertained. It was also a replacement for the relationship I’d had with my students. But, being the extrovert I was, I needed to be with people, to be able to talk to and relate to them, and this was a way to do that.
Now that I was retired, my life was simpler: gardening, shopping, taking care of the house and bills, and driving my route every weekday. Why was I able to claim that there wasn’t much stress driving a bus? Bus driving was certainly stressful in large cities. But here, in a rural setting that was basically crime-free and where I either knew just about all the riders when I started or got to recognize them quickly after only a few trips, I didn’t have crime to worry about. The only crime in our area was small-time stuff, mostly vandalism by kids with time on their hands and too much energy. Driving that bus had about the same stress level as engaging with an extended family every day.
The bus driving only occupied a few hours a day. Each round trip took a little under two hours with drive and wait time. That gave me plenty of time for my other avocation at home. I’d planted a garden behind my house after retiring, and I was out there every day, weeding and fussing with the plants and soil and fighting the bugs and larger critters who were thanking me in their own way for the things I’d planted—by eating them.
My wife would have been delighted to ride my route with me. She’d worked when I did, then retired when I did. But we never spent the time together we’d been expecting. We’d been very happily retired, but for only a few weeks. Then she’d suffered an aneurism and died. I was alone now—well, almost alone—except for my bus route. Being alone and grieving took a lot of adjustment. I’d lived my life among people and helping when I could. Living by myself was a new and rather empty experience. I was now cooking for myself, doing my own laundry, shopping for what was needed, paying bills and such. Much of this had been done by Margaret. I guess I should have been glad to take over these duties as they kept me busy. Not being busy, moping about and thinking of Margaret being gone, would have been depressing.
I’d only been driving my route for a few weeks when I got a phone call from John one midsummer evening. “Neil, can you help us out? We need a night run to Ontagua, and Roddy can’t handle it tonight.”
“Sure, John. No problem.”
“Great. It’s only a few people at the printing company there. They had a rush order and people stayed over. They’ll be done at nine tonight; there are seven who need a ride. You’ll get OT pay, of course.”
“Ah, regular pay is enough. I’m not doing anything but watching TV tonight. It’s that or reading a book at this time of night, and I just finished the book I was reading. Be good to go out, and Clancy will enjoy it.”
“Okay. Be at Grayson Printers at nine and bring the seven back to our home base here. And thanks. You always are willing whenever I need something special. I appreciate it.”
“You know me, John. I like to help out when I can.” It had always seemed to me that I got more satisfaction out of helping people needing a hand with something than they got from the help. And I like trying to help solve problems.
We had a semi-old, retired driver, Roddy Meyers, who liked to pick up odd, unscheduled shifts or work as a vacation fill-in or when someone was ill. For beer money, he claimed. But if he wasn’t available, I often took the work. John, the bus company owner who also did the dispatching, was an easy man to work for and I liked being able to help him out.
I rarely drove in the fullness of night, and it felt different, being out, driving in the dark. Clancy, my 130-pound fawn-colored Great Dane and the one who kept me company at home, came with me. Only a short time after I lost Margaret, I was going stir crazy in that empty house, and Clancy had been the answer to that. He’d belonged to a friend who’d just taken a job in Seattle, and he found trying to cope with a large dog during that move was more than he was capable of. I knew Clancy well and was happy to have him. He loved meeting new people and being on the bus meant he’d get to do that. Some people were intimidated by dogs, especially dogs about the size of a small house, but that was their problem. Clancy wouldn’t hurt a fly. I’d trained him to meet people by sitting down and raising a paw for them to shake. First, though, he’d meet them with a rapidly wagging tail and a happy grin on his face, then go into his sitting-and-paw-raising routine. Most people responded to him with delight.
He was happy to be out with me, and when I climbed into the driver’s seat, he jumped into the front seat on the opposite side of the aisle so he could see out the front window. He’d ridden with me before.
We left so I’d get to our destination fifteen minutes early. That way I could let Clancy out to stretch a leg when we arrived, and I didn’t have to worry about not getting there on time.
The road between the two cities wasn’t very busy at any time of the day, even during the times when heavy traffic was the norm in most places. That was because neither town was large, and for the most part the people who commuted did so on our bus. They could read the paper or do last-minute, job-related tasks or talk to each other, and the bus was free transportation. The businesses in town paid a monthly fee for the buses to run.
It seemed I was the only one on the road. I was about fifteen miles outside Corson when Clancy gave a gruff half-bark, and I saw an unusual sight: someone walking along the road.
There was nothing out there. This wasn’t good farming country and along the road there weren’t any houses. It was untouched, unimproved land with rocky areas and several small woods and some too-steep-to-climb hills. The road ran through empty, uninviting country, and I’d never seen anyone walking here. The only thing someone could be walking toward would be Ontagua, and that was a good 20 miles ahead.
It was an overcast night. There was very little light other than from my bus. The reason I could see the walker was that he or she was wearing white socks and trousers that rose up at the ankle with each stride taken. Otherwise, with the dark jeans and a dark hoodie that were being worn, my chances of seeing anyone walking along that road would have been very slim.
There was a narrow shoulder, and my oncoming lights let the person know a vehicle was coming, giving them time to step off the paved road onto the shoulder. I slowed down. The closer I came, the more evident it was from the stride and body shape that this was a male and probably a young one.
Walking on the shoulder was difficult, but as I came up beside him he didn’t have much choice. I slowed so I could stay abreast of him; he had no options available. He walked a few more steps, then stopped. I did, too.
I opened the door and spoke to him from my seat inside the bus. “Can I offer you a ride? The only thing ahead of you here is miles and miles of walking.”
He looked up at me but quickly dropped his head. “I am okay,” he muttered.
I heard him fine, but said, “I’m sorry, what was that?” I wanted to hear him again.
“I said I was okay,” he repeated, raising his head a bit this time but still not looking at me.
“Aw, come on. Get in.” I used my persuasive voice.
“I have no money for a bus ride,” he said, this time meeting my eyes briefly.
“You’re in luck: this is no-charge Friday,” I said, and laughed. “Actually, every day is a no-charge day.”
When he just looked at me, I added, “I’m going to Ontagua whether you ride with me or not. Doesn’t cost me anything for you to ride along. And Clancy would like the company. He gets lonely.”
The kid looked at me without saying anything for a moment. I took the moment to study him. He was 16, I guessed. The outside possibilities were 15 and 17, but I was pretty sure he was 16. His shoulders were just beginning to broaden, his teenage slouch was becoming erect but hadn’t peaked yet, his face was angelic but slightly spotted . . . I’d worked with kids for years and could judge their ages better than most adults who hadn’t had my experience with teens.
He finally decided to speak. “Who is Clancy?” he asked. There was something about his speech that aroused my curiosity, but I hadn’t figured out what it was yet.
“Come in and meet him,” I said with a very non-aggressive tone.
He hesitated. I tried to be encouraging. “It’s a long way to Ontagua. Why not save yourself a whole lot of walking?”
Whether it was my persuasion or his tiredness or maybe his interest in solving the Clancy riddle, he stepped forward, then climbed the steps onto the bus.
Clancy got out of his seat, wagged his tail vigorously, sat down as he’d learned to do and raised one paw.
The kid smiled. Wasn’t much of one, but I saw it. He stepped forward, then took Clancy’s paw and shook it.
“Great, you just made a friend,” I said. “He loves to meet new people. Pet him all you want. He loves that, too. And he’s a great listener. Probably would like to know why you’re on such a long, hard journey on foot that’ll take you all night. But he’s too polite to ask.”
The kid sat down in the front seat where Clancy had been, and Clancy sat on the floor next to him. The kid patted Clancy’s head, and Clancy leaned over and gave his face a quick lick. The kid giggled. Then Clancy laid his head in the kid’s lap and lifted his large brown expressive eyes to look into the kid’s face, inviting more patting.
I thought I recognized the boy. I saw so many boys his age every day when teaching, and now that I’d been away for a short time, the boys seemed to run together in my mind. I did know I hadn’t had this one in any of my classes; I had a much clearer memory of those. But he did look familiar enough that I was sure I’d seen him in school.
We rode in silence for a few minutes. Then I casually said, “I think I recognize you but can’t remember your name.”
With only a short pause, the boy answered. “Jaxon. I am Jaxon Mapes.”
Ah! I remembered. I should have made the connection right away. Jaxon Mapes did attend my school. What I remembered about him was that he’d been labeled as autistic, and that he was high-functioning. I remembered him briefly meeting my eyes a moment ago when speaking to me. And that he hadn’t once used a contraction where most people would, giving his sentences a robotic sound. My memory of him was scant; I knew he’d never been in one of my classes. He’d been highly rated in his math classes, I recalled, and he’d been part of the chess club, where he’d been a star.
My memory told me he’d had problems in gym and a few of his less-structured classes. Just what problems, I didn’t recall. But ours was a very good school in a rural community where everyone knew everyone, and bullying and teasing were almost nonexistent there. As far as I knew, Jaxon hadn’t encountered any of the real, serious problems that some autistic kids had to deal with when mixing with other students. I didn’t know Jaxon’s history well enough to know if he had friends or not. I had no knowledge of his social life.
Just like I had no idea why I’d find him walking on a more or less deserted road at night, miles and miles from anywhere.
“Where are you headed for in Ontagua? I have plenty of time to drop you off anywhere there you’d like.”
That’s how I tried to talk to kids—I could get to know what I wanted to know best if I wasn’t too intrusive. What I was curious about was his reason for being where I’d found him. Not asking him that directly, just getting him to talk was more likely to encourage a response that might clue me in on why he was walking alone in the middle of nowhere.
He was silent for longer than it should have taken him to answer. I remained quiet as well.
Finally, he spoke. “You can let me off anywhere. That will be fine.”
I paused, too, so it wouldn’t sound like anything but just a conversation. “So, you weren’t really walking to get somewhere. You were just walking.” More teacher technique. The fewer direct questions you ask, the more likely you are to get a response. More response, less evasion.
“That is true.” Resignation in his voice. Then he continued, and I was surprised by what he said.
“You are Mr. Davidson, are you not?”
“Yes, I am! You can use that name or, a lot of kids call me Mr. Neil. A few of the really confident ones just call me Neil. Any of the three are fine with me.”
“I am glad I now have an opportunity to speak with you. This last school year, I had decided I was going to talk to you. But I waited too long. Then I learned you would no longer be at the school. So I thought I would never have the chance.”
“I guess whatever it was you wanted to discuss with me wasn’t important enough to actually come see me,” I said. “But let me guess. Whatever it was that was troubling you, it might have something to do with the fact you’re out walking tonight with no destination in mind.”
“Why would you guess that?” I could hear surprise in his voice.
I smiled. Leading statements often got conversations going with teens. Once talking, they forgot that teens and their worlds were supposed to be closed off to adults.
“Jaxon, kids at school came to talk to me all the time. Once I asked one I didn’t know at all, why me? And he said all the kids at school knew I’d help them, that I’d solved a lot of problems for them, and that I was on the kids’ side. He said he’d been told that if you had a problem, a school problem or any other kind, I was the one to talk to. That I’d fix it.
“I found that a bit humbling, but I did find helping the students very gratifying. Everyone has problems, and teenagers certainly have more than their share. I guess I have to put that in the past tense now; I did find it gratifying, but I won’t be there for them any longer. But to answer your question, I did have a lot of kids asking for my help about any and everything, and I came to realize that the students saw me as someone they could turn to if they needed to. You said you were hoping to talk to me, and we’d never met before, so it made sense that you had a problem that you felt I could help you solve. Then, tonight, my thought was that maybe your problem got worse, you didn’t know what to do about it, and you just did what you did: you walked away from it. Not toward anything but away from something.”
As I thought might happen, he didn’t react at all. It was up to him now. If he wanted my help, or for me just to listen to him, he could go on with it. Or he could decide not to. In general, it was difficult for a teenager to ask for help, especially from someone he didn’t know.
For the moment, he was silent. A few miles passed under our wheels. There were still many left to travel.
He ended up talking. He had more to say than I expected.
I picked up my passengers at the printing company and headed back. I dropped them all off at the base in Corson. Then I walked the few blocks back to my house. Clancy stayed at my side like he always did.
Jaxon walked with me on my other side.