The Last Good English Teacher
Lester Grainger had lived in Green Prairie for less than eighteen months, but he would never live to see a full year and a 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 he thought privately 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 1970s bachelor teacher wardrobe. Most kids 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 that 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 someday. 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 telltale 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 happened 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 90 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 an 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—was 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 said, taking another drink and pulling a wooden baseball bat out of the back seat. “Lester.”
Lester just stared out into 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 a wonder he could even move. The figure wore the garb 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, his 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 trying 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 wove 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 him 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!”
“What did you do?” Lester demanded.
“Let me stand. Let me out.”
“Let him out then, if that’s what he wants,” Lloyd said, still holding the bat between his legs.
Lester reached in and helped the old man out of the trunk and let him sit on the edge of the vehicle.
“Go on,” this time it was Ralph.
“I thought you didn’t want to hear what he had to say,” Lloyd said.
“I don’t. But he’s here now.”
“Mercy, boys. Please!”
“What did you do?” Lloyd nearly screamed.
“You know what was done!”
“Is that hole deep enough?” Lester asked quietly.
“Not nearly enough,” Ralph declared. “Should we make him dig it?”
“He’s probably too weak to complete it, but I’ll do it,” Lester said. He began to dig furiously while Ralph and Lloyd picked up the bound priest and led him to the place where Lester was flinging dirt.
“That’s your final resting place. Is your mother still alive?”
“What?”
“Is your mother still alive? I imagine your old man abandoned you or probably did some of the same things you did to us.”
“Leave my mother out of this,” he said weakly.
“Let’s see,” Lloyd continued. “Your old man used to fuck you in the ass when you were a wee one, and then one day, he up and left.”
“No! My father was a good man!”
“LIAR! You fucking liar! No, that’s not it though, is it? He found out you were a faggot when you were little, probably when you were like fourteen and brought a butt buddy home with you. Caught you putting a cock in your mouth, didn’t he?”
The priest just glared at him.
“You hit the nail,” Ralph said. “That’s it!”
“Okay, then, then, then. God I’m wasted. I hope you two have the wherewithal to take this once it’s time, ‘cause I don’t know if I won’t pass out by then. Adrenaline is rushing pretty good so maybe. Anyway, he caught you puffing your buddy or taking it up the ass or something like that, and he kicked you out of the house big time.”
“Not a kind father,” Ralph said.
“Not kind at all,” Lester said. “But I don’t think that’s it. Probably had a sister whom he sodomized and got caught by the old man who then kicked him out of the house!”
“You little shits don’t know shit!” the priest shrieked. “You little fucks don’t know shit!”
“Oh my, have we hit a nerve?” Lloyd said. “Somewhere we’re close. Your daddy caught you forcing your sister to suck your dick, then you either fucked her ass or maybe the dog’s ass or something when you were like nine or something, and then he nearly killed you before you….”
“STOP! Yeah, I raped you stinking little boys! Yeah! I hope I ruined your lives, you vicious little punks!”
Lester held up his hands so that both Ralph and Lloyd stopped. They said nothing, only stared at the man who had taken from them that which cannot be defined. Lester grasped his bat again, held it up to his eyes. Then he looked through the bat and directed his gaze toward the priest.
“Is this a dagger which I see before me?” Lester said. “The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee. I have thee not, yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible to feeling as to sight?”
“What? What are you saying? What are you doing?” the priest said in desperation.
“Or art thou but a dagger of the mind,” Lloyd said in his most proper British accent. “A false creation, or some such shit. Oh yeah, proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain.”
Ralph stood, holding his bat, looking at the hole, the bat, then the priest. He held on to the bat and shook it. “I see thee yet, as palpable as which I now draw. Thou marshall’st me the way that I was going, and such an instrument I was to use.”
“You’re insane! What are you saying?”
“It’s Shakespeare, you ignorant slut!” Lloyd laughed. He held up his bat and rubbed it suggestively. “But you wished you could’ve found one like this, huh? Get this one stuck in your own ass! That would’ve been something, huh?”
“Evil! What you’re doing is evil! Cold and calculated. THOU SHALT NOT MURDER!”
“Thou shalt not commit adultery!” Lester cried. “Thou shalt not covet. Obey your father and mother so your life will be long on the earth!” He took a deep breath. “Mine eyes are made the fools o’ th’ other senses, or else worth all the rest. I see thee still, and on thy blade the dudgeon gouts of blood, which was not so before.”
“How can you do this? This is colder than anything….”
“You shut your mouth!” Ralph said, holding his bat, ready to strike, but was held back by Lester. After a full minute of silence, Ralph lowered his bat and then took a deep breath. “There’s no such thing. It is the bloody business which informs thus to mine eyes.”
“NOW!” Lloyd said gleefully. “O’er one half-world nature seems dead! Yeah! That’s it. And wicked dreams abuse the curtained sleep.”
“Witchcraft celebrates pale Hecate’s offerings, and withered murder, alarumed by his sentinel, the wolf, whole howl’s his watch, thus with his stealthy pace….” Ralph stopped and glared at the priest.
“Shakespeare! You’re quoting Shakespeare?”
“Great, ain’t it?” Lloyd said. “Recognize what we’re saying? This next line should ring very familiar to you, huh? Tarquin? Remember what he’s famous for, you rapist fuck!”
“With Tarquin’s ravishing strides, towards his design move like a ghost. Not really necessary in this situation, is it, guys?” Lester said. “Thou firm and sure set earth, hear not my steps, which way I will walk, for fear thy very stones prate of my whereabout, and take the present horror from the time, which not suits with it.”
Lester stopped, looked at Ralph and Lloyd, then he lifted one arm and they all said at the same time: “Whiles I threat, he lives. Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives! Can you guys hear that bell ringing? I go, and it is done! The bell invites me. Hear it not, Duncan, for it is a knell that summons thee to heaven or to hell!”
Then all three lifted their bats and began beating the priest relentlessly.
While on their way home, Ralph wept while Lloyd remained unusually silent. As they sped down a main road, back to New York City, Ralph opened the door and leaped out. They recovered him and eventually took him to a hospital, but the damage was too extensive. He died shortly after arriving. Later that week, Lloyd put a bullet through his brain, and Lester left the city, devastated.
Wouldn’t Sonny know about this? Wouldn’t he understand? How could he blackmail a victim? The note said, “I know what you did when you were in New York.” Could it just be a ruse? The only other thing he could do was to find out just what the little twerp had in mind.
So, where was the boy? The closer he got to the woods, the more trepidation he felt, something inside him, squirming, prodding like a parasite, eating away, almost like it had consciousness. When he found a trail, foreboding filled him like a cancer. Then it got quite dark.
When he woke up, his head felt heavy as a bowling ball. It took minutes for him to be able to open his eyes without spikes of pain shooting through them, and even then, it was difficult to focus on what was before him. There was a curious feeling around his neck, something rough and scratchy that burned when he turned.
At last, he could open his eyes, and there stood three boys, all students from the school, two of whom attended his classes: Sonny Harriss, Rufus Anderson, and the one he didn’t know very well called Joe. Sonny had the best potential, while Rufus and Joe, at least from what he could tell and what he’d heard, were thugs in the making. He still couldn’t identify what was around his neck, but fear filled him, and he threw up.
“Whoa!” one of the boys cried loudly. “That was sickening!”
The other boys laughed, and still Mr. Grainger couldn’t open his eyes without extreme pain. He felt the back of his head and found a lump the size of a golf ball. They must have knocked me out and taken me to the middle of this bit of forest, he thought. He vaguely heard the boys talking, but their words he couldn’t understand. There was simply the pain. The ground was soft and somewhat cool considering the weather. The air around him steamed, and he could feel sweat pouring down his back and around his forehead. The agonizing minutes until he could finally focus continued to make him nauseous.
Something he remembered about Rufus sent a chill down him, and he even shuddered in the heat and humidity of the Minnesota summer. There had been a discussion about him amongst the staff regarding the safety of teachers because Rufus had indicated a propensity toward violence—not enough to get him removed from school, but enough that teachers, administration, and support were all keeping an eye out on this boy, waiting for something to happen.
That was when Mr. Grainger knew he was doomed. There would be no Shakespearean soliloquies, no eloquent speeches of sin and evil being brought to justice; this would be outright murder by a sickening psychopath. Dread, panic, and resignation filled him, but the pain in his head kept him from moving much. It would be just a matter of time before he knew adrenaline would pump him up enough to make some attempt at survival.
Mr. Grainger recalled how the priest made some valiant attempts at getting away but was thwarted by the countless times he was beaten down. Lloyd and Ralph were certain the priest felt as much physical agony as they could before the old man finally succumbed to blissful passing out and finally death. Of course, when they buried him, they never were completely certain if the priest was dead or not. It didn’t matter because he was broken enough to not survive the injuries he sustained.
When he could finally focus, he kept his eyes on Sonny. He knew him well enough to try to plead with him not to allow this to happen. Joe, who had a propensity towards violence as well, was really just a scrapper and didn’t allow people to take advantage of his disability and his disposition. Joe was certainly not very bright and was easily swayed from what he could tell. It was Sonny with whom he made attempts to communicate.
“Sonny,” Mr. Grainger said. “Why is this happening?”
“Oh, Grainger,” Rufus said. “I think you know why this is happening. I think you know what’s the reason. You keep on embarrassing me and him all the time. All the time. You won’t pass us. You insult us. You make us feel worthless.”
“Sonny.”
“You know I know what happened in New York,” Sonny said. “I found out.”
“You don’t know what happened in New York.”
“I lived there before coming here, and I was in that same parish you were in, just later,” Sonny said. “I heard the rumors. I heard how you and your friends were suddenly gone after the priest disappeared.”
“You don’t know what happened,” Mr. Grainger said.
“Let’s keep this simple, Grainger,” Rufus said. “We know you hate us, and you do everything you can to make us feel like shit in class. You don’t think we notice this stuff?”
Joe stood there, eyes blank. Mr. Grainger tried to determine what was going on behind those eyes, but frankly Joe looked so nonplussed and stupid that he didn’t think it was worth trying to plead with him.
“You know I’m a junior, don’t you?” Rufus said. “You know how many times I’ve had to take this same class? Now it’s time to pay the price for what you’ve done.”
Even though his fear of Rufus was tantamount to terror, he would not look at him, only focused on Sonny. If I could convince him of what really happened.
“You don’t know, Sonny,” Mr. Grainger said. “That priest was evil.”
“So, you admit what you did!” Sonny said tersely.
Okay, that didn’t work. Mr. Grainger felt certain he’d sealed his doom right then and there.
“He did bad things to boys in his church,” Mr. Grainger said. “I have done nothing to you boys.”
“He was my great-uncle,” Sonny said. “He was a good man, and you did something to him. No one knows what, and we can’t prove it. And what happened to your friends? Wasn’t there one who died the same day my great-uncle disappeared?”
“Just because he’s a relative doesn’t mean he was a good man,” Mr. Grainger said, still not looking at Rufus. Occasionally he peered at Joe, but his stupid blank gaze told Grainger it was pointless to appeal to him. Besides, Joe was powerfully built. At fourteen years old, Joe was already six foot three and over two hundred pounds. The look on his countenance was that of blissful ignorance, and he appeared like a gentle giant, but his actions with other students proved different. Grainger heard stories from students who feared the docile-looking idiot so much they would not be in the same class he was in, and there were a few teachers, particularly the smaller women, who genuinely feared for their safety if Joe were to lose it in class. On one occasion, it was rumored that Joe killed a cat with his bare hands, and he was willing to slaughter your cattle or hogs if you needed someone to do it. This in itself was not so unusual; it was the sadistic way in which he did the deed. It wasn’t enough for him to just shoot the animal. He would shoot the poor thing numerous times, just in the head, until his rifle was depleted of ammunition, and then he would howl like a wolf standing over its kill.
“We heard you were gay!” Rufus said. “Fags don’t get to teach in our school. You’re a disease. Fags need to be taught a lesson.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“Hear what?” Rufus said. “That fags don’t get to teach in our schools or fags need to be taught a lesson?”
Grainger didn’t want to be baited like this, but he was curious to find out where this kid got his information.
“Who said I was gay?” he asked, still feeling dread and tasting fear in his throat.
“We know you are,” he said, spitting at Grainger but missing.
“How do you know?”
“Are you asking questions?” he said. “Are you thinking you’re in a position to be asking questions, faggot? We know you’re a faggot because of the way you look at us boys.”
“Not that it’s a big deal, and it shouldn’t matter, but I am not gay,” Grainger said with a certain defiance.
“We know you’ve taken it up the ass, you stupid bastard,” Rufus said.
“Sonny!” Grainger yelled, attempting to grasp at anything. It was then that he realized there was a noose around his neck. It wasn’t tight, but it was tight enough that he couldn’t just slip it off. He also noticed that he was on the edge of an unfamiliar forest, not the one near the school. “Sonny,” and the fear was apparent in Grainger’s voice. “This isn’t necessary!”
“We’ll never get away with it?” Joe finally said. “Just like you never got away with what you did?”
“That man was a child rapist!” Grainger screamed.
“And we think you’re a faggot, and we hate you,” Rufus said with such intensity that Mr. Grainger knew even more than before that his fate was sealed.
“The quality of mercy is not strain’d; It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest: It blesseth him that gives and him that takes,” Grainger said.
“What the fuck is he talking about?” Rufus asked. “You’re makin’ fun of us, aren’t you? I say we give him a little torture and then we string him up like they used to do with niggers.”
“That’s enough,” Sonny said. “I don’t want you saying that word around me ever, you understand? That’s crossing a line.”
If it would have done any good, Grainger would have broken out in a short summary of what irony is, but he was getting more and more ill from what he was about to experience.
“Mercy,” Grainger said, crying. “Mercy, boys.”
“Like what you showed my great-uncle?” Sonny said. “I wish I could help you, but you don’t seem to understand.”
That’s when Lester Grainger began to struggle against his bonds, against his three foes, against his imminent death.
“Do not,” he gasped as he flung his arms and legs around him as much as he could despite realizing just how bound he was. “Go gentle….” He screamed a blood-curdling screech that made Joe cover his ears, made Rufus cringe, and made Sonny look as though he had a twinge of regret on his face. “Into that good night!”
“What’s this crazy bastard saying?” Rufus said.
“You’re such an idiot,” Grainger said. “You’re a lousy, good-for-nothing pervert. I’ve heard what you do to animals. I even heard a rumor about what you did to your sister….”
That’s when Rufus struck him in the mouth. Grainger was certain he’d lost a couple of teeth, and the pain would have overwhelmed him if it weren’t for the fact that he knew he would be dead soon.
“Rage, rage against the dying of the night, you sick, perverted, worthless snot!” Rufus smacked Grainger numerous times on his body for his efforts. It didn’t matter; he continued to struggle and scream. “I’m going to make this a night you’ll never forget, Sonny. You’ll never forget this, Joe. Rufus, you’ll revel because you have no conscience, no redeeming qualities whatsoever. Satan could take lessons from you!”
He screamed all these words, hoping beyond all that he could hope that someone would hear him, someone would rescue him and bring these people to justice. But then he thought about the priest. Was he thinking the same thing as they had at him with those bats? Why didn’t he scream and rage against the dying of the light? I know why. The sonofabitch was guilty, and I am not.
The boys had a most difficult time trying to contain the effervescent Mr. Grainger. Lips were bloodied, noses were flattened, and some fingers might even have been broken. All three were scratched, bitten as much as someone with loose teeth could bite, and kicked as he was dragged to the tree with a branch low enough to fling the thick rope around it. When they finally pulled it, they realized Mr. Grainger could still touch the ground with his feet.
“Fuck,” Rufus said. “What’re we gonna do now? We gotta get this over with and soon. I don’t know how long we can go before someone starts wondering where the hell I am.”
Joe looked pale and threw up as Mr. Grainger wiggled his feet in an attempt to get the restraints off of him.
“If we leave him here like this, he might not even die and find a way to get loose,” Sonny said. “What should we do?”
“The faggot deserves to die slowly,” Rufus said. “He deserves all…”
“You need to stay and watch this then,” came the strangled voice of Mr. Grainger. “I did nothing to you boys, and look what you’re doing? And you better make sure it works, or I’ll be haunting you the rest of your lives. I’ll be haunting you anyway.”
“He needs to shut up,” Joe said and threw up again.
“You raped your sister,” Mr. Grainger said.
“What’d you say?” Rufus said.
“When she was three, you raped your sister!”
“What’s he talkin’ about?” Sonny said.
“He’s desperate,” Rufus said. Then Rufus knelt down to where Mr. Grainger’s feet were, and he began digging at the sod and dirt under where Mr. Grainger was tip-toeing. “Help me make a hole here, dammit!”
“I don’t want to anymore,” Joe said. “This can’t be good. He should be dead already.”
“You need to watch this, and if you leave me hanging, someone will find me, and they will tie it to you.”
“Great pun, Mr. Grainger,” Sonny said humorlessly. “Weirdly enough, we do need to bury him.”
“Then let’s bury him now. I don’t care if he’s dead or not,” Rufus said.
“Good planning, you simpletons,” Mr. Grainger said, not caring anymore. He could no longer feel much of anything, and his efforts to get loose were slowing down considerably. What else could they do to him, anyway? “No shovel, huh?” It was getting increasingly difficult to say anything as the rope around his neck got tighter and tighter. He wondered how anyone could commit suicide because he could feel the will to live pour out of him like sweat.
“Run and get a shovel so we can bury this bastard,” Rufus said. “Sonny, you stay with him while Joe and I get a shovel.”
“Joe and I,” Grainger said mockingly. “You stupid fucks!”
So much for dignity and Christian forgiveness. “I will haunt you….”
That was when Rufus punched him in the face and knocked him out.
“That should take care of him. We won’t even need to dig a hole because he’ll choke to death on the rope while he’s knocked out. Joe and I’ll get the shovel. You gonna be alright and make sure this bastard dies while we do this?”
“Just get it done!” Sonny said.
The other boys left, and Joe stood in front of Mr. Grainger, watching him as he attempted to get his breath in the tightening rope. It was clear that it wasn’t completely cutting off his air, but at least it would suffocate him soon, he hoped. Then after a few minutes, Sonny stepped closer, listening carefully, wanting to touch Grainger’s neck to check for a pulse, check for a sign of life. It seemed like the man was still breathing, but it must be very shallowly. Never had he ever considered such a thing, not like this, not actually going through with it. That Rufus was quite a character. What a kid! It was both thrilling and horrifying knowing he knew someone who was willing to not only want to take someone’s life but to convince others around him to help. What pricked his brain, though, were the words of Grainger telling how he’d haunt them. That was true because he was already convinced that he would never forget this, that there would be no way to erase this from his mind ever, that the coming days would be difficult, and if mercy was real, perhaps the years would help to keep him from feeling so desperately haunted by this man, his deeds, and his assistance in this thing called murder. No! Don’t think of that. This is justice. This is taking someone out of the way. This was removing someone who was not good for the life of the town, school, or anything else for that matter.
But what was that he was saying about Rufus? Could anything like that be true? What did the guy have to lose by lying at this point? What if Rufus really were someone who would do what Grainger said? Sonny couldn’t even bring himself to say it. If it were true, then Rufus would have done something to a little girl who was maybe four or five years old. But then maybe Grainger would say anything just to drive a spike between them. But then why not pick on Joe or me? Why pick Rufus? Sonny had seen Rufus pick up a cat and strangle it to death just because it was walking the same sidewalk as he was. The cat walked up to them, rubbed against their legs, and mewed sweetly. Rufus grabbed the cat by the tail, flung it around a few times, grabbed it by the neck, and squeezed. The struggling animal tried to call out and escape, but Rufus refused to let go. Perhaps I’ve made a mistake! Perhaps I should do something about this now before it’s too late?
Panic set in, and he screamed once, hoping someone would hear. He picked up Mr. Grainger and tried to get the noose loose from his neck, but it was nearly impossible to get a decent angle. So he loosened the rope from the tree to which Rufus had tied it and then watched as Grainger dropped like a limp rag doll to the dirt. Carefully, Sonny worked at the noose; slowly and carefully, he was able to loosen it enough to remove it from around Grainger’s neck. Then he made a few efforts to get the nerve to touch Grainger’s neck or wrist. The man was blue in the face and had swelled enormously. There was more blood than Sonny cared for, but finally, after moving his hand back and forth more than a dozen times, he touched Mr. Grainger’s wrist. He prayed he would feel life pumping through that wrist, but all he felt was cold. That was it. He was most definitely dead. As the ghosts of what he had done began to enter his brain, he heard Rufus and Joe tramping through the woods.
Sonny slowly stood, looked at Mr. Grainger, and pointed.
“He’s dead,” he said flatly. “He’s dead.”
“Good,” Rufus said and began digging.
About the Author
Mark’s work has appeared in Down in the Dirt, Brief Wilderness, Rundelania!, Straylight and The Main Street Rag. He earned his first payment for a story in 2008 thanks to The Tabard Inn. He was paid $1.00. This year he will see stories appearing in Waxing and Waning, The Dark Harbor, Johnny America, and Pattern Recognition. He lives in Sartell, Minnesota with his wife, two sons, and two beagles. He teaches 5th and 6th grade elementary.