FanStory.com - What We See - Chapter 16by Jim Wile

Chapter 16

I was beat, but I stayed up for another hour so that I could call Ginnie when she got back from working the night shift, which ends at 7:00 AM. I figured she’d be going to sleep when she got home, and I was going to ask her to leave Tommy a note not to come in today until 1:30, and he could put in his four hours until closing time at 5:30. I fixed myself some eggs and toast in the meantime.

At 7:15, I called her.

“Hello, Alan.” There was a definite chill in her voice.

“I wonder if you could leave Tommy a note to come in today at 1:30 instead of 10:00? I’m going to sleep now.”

“He won’t be coming in at all today, Alan. In fact, he won’t be working for you anymore.”

What was this about? “Uh… could I ask why not?”

“You know why not. I heard some very disturbing news about you last night, Alan, and I’m sure you know what that was.”

“I don’t know what you heard. Why don’t you tell me.”

“You’re really going to make me say it? Alright. We’ve been living next to a child molester who’s befriended my little boy. Not only that, but you’re probably a killer too.”

I was shocked. What could she have heard, and why would she think that? I had to know. “Ginnie, I can’t imagine why you think that of me. What did you hear tonight?”

“Alright, I’ll tell you since you don’t seem to know.” The sarcasm in her voice was obvious. “While on a break in the break room, a friend of mine came in and sat down across from me. She said, ‘You won’t believe what I just heard right now. You remember that case not too long ago of that teacher who had an affair and beat up one of his students? Well, I heard her name was Cassidy, and guess who was in a private room on my floor tonight? The same girl. Her name was on the door. And inside, I’m pretty sure was that teacher. I heard her say, “That kicking killed our baby, Mr. Phelps.” He probably knocked her up, and she wouldn’t get an abortion, so he took care of it himself. Isn’t that awful?’

“I had seen you earlier, so it had to be you, Alan. You’re that teacher.”

Oh, my God. Where to start? I could see exactly how the nurse and now Ginnie came to that conclusion, but how do I convince her it isn’t true? It took some time for me to formulate my words. When I took what she thought was too long, she said, “I can see you’re concocting some great lie to talk your way out of this.”

Now that pissed me off, and I said, “Do you like the taste of crow, Ginnie? Well, you’d better, because you’re going to be feasting on it for quite a while when you hear the truth. Not that I even owe it to you. But I wish I was there to see your expression when I tell you. So here it is:

“I never touched that girl—then or tonight. I perhaps saved her life tonight when her real attacker, back then, attacked her again tonight. It was her boyfriend who had knocked her up—not me—and it was me who knocked him out tonight when I heard him attacking her again. When she said, ‘the kicking killed our baby, Mr. Phelps,’ she was referring to her and him, not us.

“The girl had lied about us back when I got fired. She made up the lie to explain the bruises on her neck to her mother—the school secretary, who was sleeping with the principal—because she didn’t want to tell her mother she was pregnant or get her boyfriend to lose his football scholarship. She had tried to seduce me because she wanted me to fuck her and then accuse me of getting her pregnant to extort me for money for the abortion she planned to get. I didn’t know any of that until she told me that in the hospital. I had no real chance to defend myself back then because there was no proof of my innocence, and her mother talked the principal into firing me.”

There was a long silence. Then she said, “You’re either telling the truth, or you’re the quickest, best liar I’ve ever met, Alan. I don’t know what to believe right now. I tend to think the latter because that story is just too bizarre for belief.”

“You know what, Ginnie? You’re too quick to judge. You always seem to be doubting me, and I’m sick of people forming wrong opinions about me. I’ll tell you what, why don’t you call Susanna Cassidy, the girl’s mother—her number’s in the phonebook—and ask her one question: Is David Phelps a good guy?”

“David Phelps?”

“That’s my first name. David Alan Phelps,” and I hung up then.

God damn, that was infuriating! Just so typical of people to misinterpret what they hear or see. I guess that’s what dyslexia is all about—misinterpreting the written word and seeing something else that isn’t there. Well, she certainly is dyslexic when it comes to what she sees in me. What she needs are corrective lenses for the brain, which will help improve the way she interprets things.

Man, I hope she calls Suzie. I can’t wait to see the look on her face when she sees me after that. Will I forgive her for doubting me? Oh, probably, eventually, I don’t know. My feelings are too raw right now to think about that. Quick liar, huh? I’ve never been accused of being quick. My teachers always thought I was awfully slow—at least in the subjects that required a lot of reading.

I was too worked up now to go to sleep, so I just decided to go work in my shop and open at 9:00 as usual.

I replaced two tubes in an old TV set, tested it out—it seemed to work fine now—and put the back cover back on, thinking all the while about my conversation with Ginnie. From her perspective, I had to admit the story sounded far-fetched, but as they say, sometimes the truth is stranger than fiction. What would I have thought had I heard such a story from someone I didn’t know very well? I don’t know; it’s hard to be objective about it. I think some time is going to have to pass—for both of us—if we’re to get beyond this.

A police detective came by at one point and interviewed me about what happened. I told him everything I could remember about it. He also said that they had interviewed Tina at the hospital, and my story confirmed what she had told them. Like the doctor, he told me that my quick action likely saved Tina’s life and thanked me for my part in her rescue.

I didn’t see Tommy today or the next day. Then it was the weekend when he didn’t work anyway, but on Monday, he came in the door at 10:00.

“Hi, Alan.”

“Hey, Tommy. Good to see you back.”

“My mother told me not to talk about it until she had a chance to talk to you. She told me a few things last week about why she wouldn’t let me go to work, and I didn’t believe any of it, but she finally changed her mind and said I could go back today. She wants to come see you tonight.”

“Well, I’m glad. I hope we can clear the air and put this all behind us.”

“Me too. So, what are we going to fix today?”

“I thought we’d fix a microwave oven, and I could teach you about microwave integrated circuits, or MIC for short. Ready to learn.”

“Yep.”