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  Afterward he zipped up and moved to the sink. The urinal flushed automatically. He washed his hands, grabbed a towel from the stack, and wiped them dry. He gazed into the mirror. His nose dominated his face. James forced a smile. His teeth were straight and white. Like a predator, his eyes locked on movement in the mirror. He saw spiky heels and shiny men’s dress shoes intertwined under the handicapped stall door. James frowned. Get a room.

  James marched past the stall toward the exit. He heard a giggle that stopped him in his tracks. He turned around and knocked on the stall door. She squeaked in surprise.

  “Occupied,” Ron said.

  “Let me talk to my wife,” James said.

  He heard hushed whispering, the rustling of fabrics, and a zipper zipping. The stall opened just enough for Lori to fit through. She appeared with her head down, and her lipstick smudged.

  “How long?” James asked.

  She didn’t reply.

  “How long!”

  She jumped at the volume and looked at James through red eyes. “A year—I was going to tell you. I’m sorry.”

  “And all this time … I’m a fucking idiot.”

  She bit the inside of her cheek. “We grew apart.”

  James rubbed his eyes with his thumb and index finger. “And Ron? Seriously? He’s a superficial douche bag.”

  The stall door yanked open. “Watch it,” Ron said.

  James clenched his fists, his face red. “Or what? What are you going to do? Fuck my wife? Oh, you already did that.”

  “James, stop,” Lori said.

  “Aren’t you married?” James asked Ron.

  “They’re going to get a divorce,” Lori said.

  James nodded. “That’s great. That’s fucking great. You guys have it all figured out.” He pointed at Lori. “You’re a lying, … fucking … bitch.”

  James didn’t see the fist that connected with his glass jaw. He was sprawled out on the marble floor, Ron standing over him.

  “Get up, you fucking coward,” Ron said.

  “Stop it, Ron,” Lori said, grabbing her man and pulling him away from James.

  James stood, rubbing his jaw. He looked at the couple, their arms interlocked in solidarity. He marched out of the bathroom to the parking lot and yanked open the door to his Honda Accord. He drove fast and erratic, almost hoping for an accident. The tires screeched as he pulled into the parking space in front of their town house. He slammed the front door and plopped down on the sofa in the dark living room. He kicked off his shoes and lay on his side, his legs pulled to his chest. Tears slid down his face, until he fell asleep.

  * * *

  James was jolted awake by banging on the front door. He rubbed his eyes. The house was dark. He moved his aching jaw back and forth as he stood. He was still in his rumpled suit and jacket. More banging came at the door. He glanced at the clock on the DVD player. It read 2:44 a.m. He staggered to the front door and peered through the peephole at two uniformed police officers. They held their hats in their hands. James’s stomach turned as he opened the door.

  “Yes?” James said.

  “Are you James Fisher?” the stocky officer asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Officer Koch, and this is Officer Johnston,” he said, motioning to his thin partner. “Could we come in?”

  James let the officers in. He turned on the overhead light in the dining room. They sat at the square table. As soon as they sat, Officer Koch delivered his message, like ripping off a Band-Aid.

  “I’m very sorry sir, but your wife died in a car accident at approximately 12:15 a.m.”

  Chapter 4

  Dr. Dicks

  James sat at the end of the front pew, squeezed in among Lori’s family as an afterthought. He gazed at the stained-glass windows and the ornate ceiling. They extol the virtues of humbleness, at the same time spending a fortune on extravagant churches and lawyers for child molesters. What a bunch of bullshit.

  James glanced around at Lori’s friends and family, many of them unfamiliar to him. The men wore dark tailored suits, the women in black designer dresses. He saw Yolanda a few rows back. She flashed a sympathetic smile. He put his hand up in acknowledgment and turned back around. He heard Lori’s sister, Rebecca, whispering to her husband. In the cavernous church, voices carried farther than the gossipers realized.

  “They were going to get a divorce,” Rebecca said. “She wasn’t happy.”

  “It’s not the time,” her husband whispered.

  “At least she and Ron are together now.”

  James remembered the steely stare he had received when he called her Becky and not Rebecca.

  “My parents met him you know,” Rebecca continued.

  “Who?”

  “Ron. Who else?”

  “Shhhh. People can hear you,” he whispered.

  “I’m not being loud. I’m just saying, they liked him … a lot.”

  “Rebecca, stop.”

  “That’s all I was going to say.”

  A white-haired priest began the funeral service with a prayer. The old man was the only person in the church that didn’t get on his knees to pray. James was lost in his own world as the priest spoke in clichés and platitudes about a life taken too soon. Lori’s father, Mr. Jack Wells, was invited to the lectern to speak. I wonder if he let Ron call him Jack.

  James felt hot as the bald man told stories portraying Lori as daddy’s little girl. James loosened his collar, but it didn’t help. He felt sweat rings developing under his arms. He was having trouble breathing. James slipped out of the pew and raced along the edge of the church toward the exit. He heard whispering in his wake. He stumbled outside and sucked in the cold air, his hands on his knees. He staggered down the concrete steps and headed for the parking lot. The lot was full of shiny luxury cars. He fumbled for his keys as he approached his Honda. He heard heavy steps behind him as he opened the car door.

  “James,” Yolanda said.

  James turned around as Yolanda huffed toward him, an overcoat covering her black dress.

  “Are you okay?” she asked, catching her breath.

  James exhaled. “I can’t be in there anymore.”

  “You want to get some lunch and talk?”

  James shook his head. “Thanks, but I’m okay.”

  She frowned. “You don’t look okay.”

  “Have you ever heard of the term hypergamy?”

  “No.”

  “It basically means marrying up or trading up. When I married Lori, she was fifty pounds overweight.”

  Yolanda scowled.

  “I didn’t have a problem with it. I loved her the way she was. Her being overweight, me being skinny and mildly ugly—”

  “James.”

  “No, it’s true. Neither of us felt we could get someone better. Then she lost the weight, and she looked great to other men too. Did you know she was overweight her entire life, until she lost the weight last year?”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “She never knew what it was like to be desired by real men, alpha men who could attract lots of women. It made her feel special. Ron was everything I’m not. He was wealthy, good-looking, someone who could make her friends jealous. As bad as it hurts, in a way, I don’t blame her.”

  “I do blame her.”

  “Her parents knew.” James took a deep breath and exhaled, condensation spilling out of his mouth. “They actually liked him.” He pursed his lips, his eyes filling with moisture. “When my dad died, and my mother went that next year, I thought of them as my surrogate parents.” He swallowed. “It was one-sided. I was never good enough.”

  “I’m sorry, James.”

  “I’m pretty sure they didn’t think I would be here today. They didn’t even reserve a seat for me. I was her fucking husband.” He looked at the asphalt. “I miss her.”

  Yolanda wrapped her arms around James. He held on as the dam broke, and the tears flowed.

  * * *

  James’s cel
l phone vibrated on the dining room table. His hair was disheveled, and his sweats needed a wash. He ignored the phone, as he scanned the headlines on his laptop.

  I See Bubbles

  Protect Your Portfolio

  EU Eyes Personal Savings to Plug Financing Gap

  The Algorithm That Can Predict a Revolution

  Throwaway People

  The Dark Genesis of Valentine’s Day

  Why Are Almond Prices Rising?

  Aquaponics in Urban Agriculture

  James clicked on the link to “The Algorithm That Can Predict a Revolution” article. His cell phone vibrated again. He rubbed the stubble on his chin as he read. Afterward he hit the Back button, returning to the headlines. He clicked on the I See Bubbles link. His phone vibrated. He exhaled and glanced at the screen. He had seven text messages and four missed calls. They were all from Yolanda. He read through the texts. The last one said she was coming over. James selected her number and tapped the green phone icon. Yolanda picked up on the first ring.

  “James,” she said.

  “I’m at the store,” he said, “so I won’t be at home.”

  “I just thought you might want to come over and have dinner with us tonight.”

  “Thanks, … but I don’t feel up to it. Besides, I shouldn’t be near anyone on Valentine’s Day. I’m a walking cautionary tale. It would be like inviting Kissinger to a peace rally or a vegan to a barbecue or Dr. Dicks to an NBA tryout or Freddy Krueger to a sleepover or—”

  “Stop,” she said, giggling. “I’m worried about you.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes,” James said.

  “You need to get out of the house.”

  “I have been. I’m at the store, remember?”

  “What store?”

  “The one that sells stuff.” James chuckled.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Seriously I’m fine. I’ll see you on Monday.”

  “Are you sure you don’t need more time? I could talk to Dicks for you.”

  “I’m sure he would love to extend my unpaid leave of absence. He doesn’t have to see my ugly mug, and he can save money with a sub.”

  “Didn’t you get paid bereavement leave?”

  “Five days.”

  “Oh. Are you okay … financially?”

  “I’m fine. We had life insurance, and some savings.”

  “The kids miss you. They’ve been bugging me about when you’re coming back. I didn’t tell them about Monday, in case you changed your mind. They’ll be excited to see you.”

  * * *

  James stood near the door and greeted his students as they entered the classroom.

  “Good morning, Janelle,” he said.

  Her eyes were wide, her mouth open. “Mr. Fish,” she said, giving him a hug.

  James held out his arms, so he didn’t touch the girl. The top of her head was braided in a perfect swirl pattern.

  She released her grip, stepped back, and said, “We missed you.”

  Maurice smiled at James through bright white teeth and high cheekbones. “Hey, Vernon, Mr. Fish is back,” he yelled down the hall as he sidled up to his teacher. “I’m glad you’re back. The subs we had …” Maurice shook his head. “I can see why they only get a hundred dollars a day.”

  “We had eleven different subs,” Janelle said.

  Maurice laughed as Vernon strutted into the classroom with a crooked smile.

  “Thank God,” Vernon said. “Mr. Fish, it was borin’ as hell in here.”

  James swallowed the lump in his throat. “Thanks, guys. It’s good to be back.”

  The rest of the class spilled into the room and greeted their teacher long after the bell. The mood was jovial and rambunctious.

  “Mr. Fisher,” Mrs. Scribner said from the doorway. She stood with her toe tapping and her arms crossed over her chest.

  James glanced at the tiny blonde. She looked like a teacher strip-o-gram.

  “It’s great that you’re back and everything,” she said, “but my kids are really distracted by the noise.”

  James marched over and shut the door in her face. The class laughed and commented on the diss. The kids finally settled into their seats. James stood in front of his class in khakis and a button-down shirt. “So what did you guys learn while I was away?” James asked.

  “Nuthin’,” Maurice said.

  “He’s right,” Janelle said. “They were teachin’ stuff we already learned. Dr. Dicks said there was no way we were as far as we were.”

  “You guys are a lot smarter than they give you credit for,” James said. “Did you learn about the Reconstruction?”

  “Yes,” several kids said in unison.

  “Since we’re so far ahead on government propaganda, why don’t we concentrate on learning things that will help everyone become a more successful adult?” James scanned the classroom. The kids sat up straight, with their eyes locked on him. “What do you guys think is the purpose of school? Why do you have to go to school for thirteen years?”

  “To learn,” a Bolivian kid said.

  James nodded.

  Vernon frowned. “To learn what they want us to learn.”

  “Who’s they, Vernon?” James asked.

  Vernon shrugged. “People in power. Who else?”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “The government,” Vernon said.

  “And bankers,” Maurice added.

  “And the fascists,” Janelle said.

  “Janelle, can you explain to everyone what a fascist is?” James asked.

  She stood, taking the spotlight. “Fascism is when you put together private companies with the government.”

  James chuckled. “So what do all these people want you to learn? And for what motive?”

  “Stuff that makes ’em look good,” a heavyset girl said.

  “To keep us from knowin’ the truth,” Maurice said.

  “And why wouldn’t they want us to know the truth?” James asked.

  “So we don’t get mad. So we’re easier to control,” Maurice replied.

  “There’s this comedian that I really like,” James said. “His name was George Carlin.”

  “Never heard of him,” Vernon said.

  “He died in 2008, so he’s probably a bit before your time. In one of his shows he explained what you guys are talking about. I’m paraphrasing here, but he said something like, ‘They want obedient workers. People who are just smart enough to run the machines and do the paperwork. And just dumb enough to passively accept a lower and lower standard of living. What they don’t want is a population of well-informed, well-educated people, capable of critical thinking. That doesn’t help them. That’s against their interests.’” James paused and looked around at the diversity in the classroom. Boy and girls, black and white, and everything in between. He thought about how they all had one thing in common. The deck is already stacked against them. He continued, “That’s what I want for you guys. I want you to learn to think for yourselves. So, for the rest of the year, that’s what we’ll concentrate on.”

  * * *

  Dr. Dicks sat behind his desk, noticeably higher than James across from him. Does he have a booster seat back there? The gold placard on his desk read Dr. Paul Richards. Early summer sunlight pierced through the window. Dust motes were suspended in the rays. The principal leaned forward, his elbows on the desk.

  “This is a real problem, Mr. Fisher,” the principal said.

  Dr. Dicks was hairy—his forearms, his neck, even the collar of his polo had hair bursting forth. He was like a cross between a caveman, a dwarf, a marine, and a golfer.

  “I don’t see what the problem is,” James said. “My students learned the state-mandated curriculum.”

  “But they also learned quite a bit of controversial and inappropriate material.”

  James exhaled. “Are you telling me that it’s controversial and inappropriate to teach kids to think for themselves?�
��

  “We’ve had several complaints from teachers. Many of your students have been argumentative and disrespectful in their other classes. They’ve challenged teachers and administrators. I had to deal with Janelle yesterday. She called me a statist and said my argument was wrong because I was appealing to authority. I was just assigning her detention for being insubordinate. We’ve had a teacher corroborate that this disobedience has been encouraged by your class.”

  James shook his head with a frown. “These kids are learning. They’re gaining confidence. They’re thinking for themselves. And someone who is a critical thinker will not stand for half-truths and manipulations. These teachers who are upset are bullies. They’re not used to kids questioning them. But that’s what we should be encouraging.”

  The principal sat silent, his jaw tight.

  James stared. Here it comes.

  “I will not tolerate such deviation from the curriculum. I’m giving you an unsatisfactory evaluation for the school year. Next year you will have to meet with the instructional coach, and you will be subject to unannounced visits from me and the coach to see how you’re progressing. If you do not adhere to the standard, I will be forced to initiate termination proceedings.”

  James cackled. “Initiate termination proceedings? Are you going to fire me or launch me into space?”

  The principal’s face was set in stone. “I assure you this is no laughing matter.”

  “Does it feel good to have power over others?”

  “Mr. Fisher, you are not helping your cause.”

  “Seriously I’d like to know. Do you enjoy making people do what you want them to?”

  The principal clenched his fists. “I suggest you leave before you say something you’ll regret.”

  James leaned back in his chair. “The kids hate you. Shit, the staff hates you. Ole Dr. Dicks. What an asshole.”

  Dr. Dicks slammed his fists on the desk. “You’re fired, Mr. Fisher. You’re what’s wrong with education. You think you know everything, but you offer no discipline.”

  James smirked. “I doubt you can fire me for that. The union would have your head. I’m just telling you what people say.”

  The large vein in the principal’s neck looked like it would burst. “I’ll find a way to get rid of you. You can be certain of that.” He stood. “Now get out of my office.” He pointed at the door.