familiar, but he couldn’t remember seeing her in the recent past. Perhaps it was a vision from some faded memory? Was it a face he’d seen once on a museum wall or in an art book? Where have I seen her before? he wrote . And why can’t I remember?
Ray’s focus shifted, he wrote about walking from the crime scene and standing and looking out at the blackened water, the carnage at his back, as the storm surged across the lake, the large rollers, every ninth, tenth, or eleventh wave, pushing high up on the beach. Ray had always loved watching storms blow off the lake in November, the power and majesty of nature. He took rather perverse joy in being reminded of his relative insignificance in the scheme of things. This place of great beauty has been violated by these barbaric acts, he wrote.
After filling seven pages, Ray closed the book and placed it in the drawer of his writing desk. He refilled the pen with bottled ink and slid it into a soft leather case next to the journal.
Ray pulled back a denim colored comforter and grabbed a copy of Jim Harrison’s newest collection of poetry from a stack on the nightstand. After a few pages of struggling to keep his eyes open, Ray switched off the bedside lamp and fell into an uneasy slumber.
9
At six-thirty the next morning Ray was on the phone to arrange a meeting with Ian Warrington. He wanted some background information on Arnie Vedder’s employment at Leiston School. Warrington met Ray an hour later at the school’s main entrance.
“The food line is open for another fifteen minutes. Do you want some breakfast?” he asked as he guided Ray toward his office.
“No, thank you. I’m really pressed for time.”
“You can get a bagel or an English muffin. We can just pop in and get one and eat in my office.”
“Okay,” agreed Ray a bit reluctantly.
Warrington led the way. Small groups of students were scattered around the room eating breakfast. They passed a steam table, the congealing scrambled eggs evoking unpleasant memories. Ray couldn’t recall if they were from his undergraduate years, the Army, or both.
“Tell me about Arnie. What happened with Arnie Vedder?” Ray asked as they settled into chairs on the opposite sides of Warrington’s desk with their bagels and coffee.
“Last summer, a woman from the Department of Social Services contacted us about a possible placement for this young man. We’ve cooperated with them in the past and usually have had positive experiences.” He paused, his tone changed. “And I really like to do these kinds of things. Most of our students come from very fortunate backgrounds; they’ve had very little exposure to the real world.” He lifted his head and looked at Ray. “We try to include everyone who works here as part of the community. I thought that this would be good for our students and good for Arnie.”
“What went wrong?”
“Lots of things, lots of things. He turned out to be much more damaged than… Well, I don’t think Sharon was totally open with us. He worked for Tom Bates, our food service manager. Tom is enormously accepting and helpful. Arnie was supposed to work in the dish room. You know, things like loading and unloading racks, stacking dishes, sorting silverware. Arnie’s not very strong, and he’s uncoordinated. Tom found tasks for Arnie that wouldn’t put him under too much time pressure. Early on Tom told me Arnie was having trouble catching on. He spent lots of time with Arnie, but his job performance remained only marginal. We tried to save the situation by moving him to the laundry area. His job performance there wasn’t much better. We would have probably tried to live with that, at least for a while. But another problem developed.”
“Which was?” Ray asked.
“His general demeanor. He had no affect and was unresponsive when given directions. Tom wondered if he was autistic or something. The girls assigned to the laundry complained about his… ” Warrington fumbled for
Ray’s focus shifted, he wrote about walking from the crime scene and standing and looking out at the blackened water, the carnage at his back, as the storm surged across the lake, the large rollers, every ninth, tenth, or eleventh wave, pushing high up on the beach. Ray had always loved watching storms blow off the lake in November, the power and majesty of nature. He took rather perverse joy in being reminded of his relative insignificance in the scheme of things. This place of great beauty has been violated by these barbaric acts, he wrote.
After filling seven pages, Ray closed the book and placed it in the drawer of his writing desk. He refilled the pen with bottled ink and slid it into a soft leather case next to the journal.
Ray pulled back a denim colored comforter and grabbed a copy of Jim Harrison’s newest collection of poetry from a stack on the nightstand. After a few pages of struggling to keep his eyes open, Ray switched off the bedside lamp and fell into an uneasy slumber.
9
At six-thirty the next morning Ray was on the phone to arrange a meeting with Ian Warrington. He wanted some background information on Arnie Vedder’s employment at Leiston School. Warrington met Ray an hour later at the school’s main entrance.
“The food line is open for another fifteen minutes. Do you want some breakfast?” he asked as he guided Ray toward his office.
“No, thank you. I’m really pressed for time.”
“You can get a bagel or an English muffin. We can just pop in and get one and eat in my office.”
“Okay,” agreed Ray a bit reluctantly.
Warrington led the way. Small groups of students were scattered around the room eating breakfast. They passed a steam table, the congealing scrambled eggs evoking unpleasant memories. Ray couldn’t recall if they were from his undergraduate years, the Army, or both.
“Tell me about Arnie. What happened with Arnie Vedder?” Ray asked as they settled into chairs on the opposite sides of Warrington’s desk with their bagels and coffee.
“Last summer, a woman from the Department of Social Services contacted us about a possible placement for this young man. We’ve cooperated with them in the past and usually have had positive experiences.” He paused, his tone changed. “And I really like to do these kinds of things. Most of our students come from very fortunate backgrounds; they’ve had very little exposure to the real world.” He lifted his head and looked at Ray. “We try to include everyone who works here as part of the community. I thought that this would be good for our students and good for Arnie.”
“What went wrong?”
“Lots of things, lots of things. He turned out to be much more damaged than… Well, I don’t think Sharon was totally open with us. He worked for Tom Bates, our food service manager. Tom is enormously accepting and helpful. Arnie was supposed to work in the dish room. You know, things like loading and unloading racks, stacking dishes, sorting silverware. Arnie’s not very strong, and he’s uncoordinated. Tom found tasks for Arnie that wouldn’t put him under too much time pressure. Early on Tom told me Arnie was having trouble catching on. He spent lots of time with Arnie, but his job performance remained only marginal. We tried to save the situation by moving him to the laundry area. His job performance there wasn’t much better. We would have probably tried to live with that, at least for a while. But another problem developed.”
“Which was?” Ray asked.
“His general demeanor. He had no affect and was unresponsive when given directions. Tom wondered if he was autistic or something. The girls assigned to the laundry complained about his… ” Warrington fumbled for
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