Authors: Barry James Hickey
The next day was a Sunday.
Mrs. Powell had asked John if he cared to go to church with her, but John declined. “I have something I need to do,” he decided.
Thirty minutes later, he was driving the Toyota south on Cresta Avenue, keeping the foothills on his right. Clear directions that Mrs. Powell had written for him were on his lap. He remembered her instructions to the tee. “Follow the sign towards the zoo. When you reach North Cheyenne Canyon Road, turn right. It’s a nice seven-mile drive through the canyon. Further up the canyon, after you pass the waterfall, there are several trails to choose from with views of Mount Cutler and South Cheyenne Canyon and Colorado Springs below. Watch out for teenagers hanging out on rocks or shooting downhill on their skateboards. Watch out for mountain lions and black bears too! The mule deer are harmless.”
“And the birds, Mrs. Powell? The kingfishers and hummingbirds? Do they swarm when they attack?” he asked playfully.
She set her dead husband’s old rimmed hunting hat on his head. “And please don’t come back with any poison ivy or oak.”
“Anything else, Mrs. Powell?”
“Don’t overexert yourself. Even though the canyon is close by, the area is fairly isolated.”
“Anything else, Mrs. Powell?”
“Enjoy the scenery. And remember - if the road turns to gravel or you find any decrepit tunnels on the road, then you’re on the old Gold Camp Road. I think it has been closed for years, but I could be wrong. If you see a tunnel, you’ve gone too far.” She was becoming quite the mother hen.
John turned the Toyota west on the pink granite canyon road. As he followed along Cheyenne Creek the land rose abruptly. Steep granite walls hundreds of feet high embraced both sides of the steep canyon.
“Where the mountains meet the foothills and plains,” John mused, rolling down his side window for some fresh air.
The Toyota took the winding, looping canyon road higher and higher. It was a sunny day. Speeding cyclists sped past him downhill from the mountain followed by a Forest Service truck hauling garbage and a van of sightseeing tourists from a local hotel returning from a photo shoot at a local waterfall.
The wind whistled along the adjacent running stream. Stuck to the canyon walls were canopies of Douglas, White Fir, Ponderosa, and Aspen trees growing in moist, rocky pockets. John understood the impact of weather on the high-country forest; an extreme of freezing temperatures, snows, heavy rains and flash flooding. And in the summer came the everpresent fear of drought and fires.
After driving several miles, wheeling left and right and left again on a dozen ascending switchbacks, the SUV suddenly rolled onto gravel road.
John pulled off to the side and stepped out. He looked east past the city of Colorado Springs spread across the horizon on the foothills below. There were no trees where the inhospitable western Great Plains began. The sandy, clay soils could not hold enough water to support large plants such as trees. Out there one would only find the occasional green ribbons of Cottonwood trees along creeks and rivers on the harsh, dry grasslands.
But here, all around him the forest provided layers of life. In the underbrush grew shrubs like Boulder Raspberry, Rocky Mountain Maple and Chokecherry. Close to the ground was a layer of grass, mosses, mushrooms, wild roses, Poison Ivy, and wildflowers such as Shooting Star and Columbine. And in the earth below, the unseen world of roots, burrows and wormholes where fungi and microorganisms helped make the soil rich with the decomposition of dead plants and animals. All around him was life. The ecotone. Nature in balance. He noticed a trailhead just up the road and hiked to it. A sign read:
CAPTAIN JACK’S TRAIL
A long stick with a scribbled note leaned against a stump nearby. The note read, “this entitles the bearer to one free pass to meet God.” Not one to litter, John folded the note and slipped it in his pocket. He took advantage of the walking stick and entered the thin forest of trees on the winding trail.
He was surprised how difficult it was walking now. The medications were certainly taking their toll and every day he seemed to have less energy than the previous day.
After less than a hundred yards, the trail switched back and opened on a small plain with an outcropping of rocks treacherously close to a cliff. John stood at the ledge and looked down. The paved part of the canyon road was visible hundreds below. It looked like a giant black asphalt snake.
“A man can get lost on all those trails,” he remembered the old tourists from Ohio saying. “You don’t want to be on ‘em in the rain. They’re muddy and slippery as hell then. Especially Cheyenne Canyon. We got stuck up there… I near killed myself coming down the trail on that wet red clay… Like potter’s clay only glazed already…”
John grabbed hold of the branch of a sturdy scrub oak sprouting out of a rock outcropping. He leaned over the cliff and kicked at a loose rock near his foot. He listened and watched as it fell, expecting to hear its eventual thud, but the canyon was too deep. The rock simply disappeared into the oblivion below.
John grunted a small approval. He had found his spot. Only twenty minutes from home and a hundred yards off the road. A little rain or snow to act as a natural slide and that would be it. The perfect place for the perfect accident.
“We have rules in place for teachers to follow!” Mr. Wirtz criticized, waving a paper in the air.
Battle sat at a folding table in his basement classroom, listening. “There’s no one in the building after hours but us. Why should it matter?”
“Policy, Mr. Battle. Policy. You can’t be taking students to restaurants and parks and God knows where else without parental permission. God forbid if something happened to that pregnant girl or one of those other knuckleheads!”
“They’re not knuckleheads,” John said. “Call them students or better yet, call them by their names.”
Wirtz blew out a mouthful of air. “Excuse me for being insensitive,” he said. “The reality is that the school is not insured if a student ends up in harms way with a teacher present without a
permission slip
and unless we notify our insurance carrier beforehand that they are on a field trip.” He handed Mr. Battle the paper he was wagging. “This is our Field Trip Request form. It appears your imaginative teaching style incorporates quite a bit of off-campus activities. So please, for my sake, for the school’s sake and to cover your own ass, get the form signed at least three days in advance if you plan on taking the students to the movies, skiing, snowmobiling, or to a Chinese restaurant. Please?”
“Now that I know the proper procedure, I can follow it,” Battle said.
“Thank you, Mr. Battle,” Wirtz whinnied. “Thank you so much!”
“You are welcome, Mr. Wirtz.”
Wirtz started to leave but there was a burning question in his mind. “I have to ask… Why are you here, Battle? You spend more money on the students than you make and you seem physically ill most of the time. Is God punishing you or what?”
“This job is a reward if you ask me,” Battle smiled.
“Oh no! Just what I was afraid of! There is a Don Quixote among us!” Wirtz rushed to the empty hallway and yelled out. “Hurry students! Hurry! Mr. Battle is passing out sweets and movies passes and don’t miss the drawing at six for a brand new car! You must be present to win!” Wirtz popped his head back in and actually smiled at Battle. “How was that?”
“Damned accurate,” Battle laughed.
“Have a safe class,” Wirtz actually smiled.
“Enjoy your evening, Mr. Wirtz.”
“Easier said than done with so much on my mind, day in and day out. These kids, not only do they demand your full attention during business hours, but they also infest your dreams.”
Mr. Battle pulled up to the curb and measured the distance from his car to the Fuentes house. “No cane needed,” he decided.
When he rang the doorbell, a pleasant Hispanic woman answered. She was wearing an apron and wiping her hands with a dishcloth.
“Yes?” she asked.
“Hello, Mrs. Fuentes? Marie’s grandmother?”
The woman stepped back cautiously. “Yes?” she answered
slowly.
“My name is John Battle. Marie’s teacher. May I speak with
you a moment?”
Marie’s grandmother glanced over her shoulder and yelled
out. “Marie, your teacher is here! I think you’re in some kind
of trouble!”
“No, ma’am, no trouble!” Battle interrupted, pulling out a
Field Trip Request form. “I need your permission to take
Marie to a Christmas dance at another school… If it’s all
right with you.”
The grandmother’s eyes went wide. “Marie at a dance?” She
crossed her arms. “What kind of dance?”
“A proper dance. Suits for the boys, gowns for the ladies.” “My little one in a gown?” She was shocked. “Old man!”
She called into the house again. “You better get up here!” Marie’s grandfather arrived with Marie right behind him. “This man says he is Marie’s teacher.”
“Mr. Battle,” John said, offering a handshake to the
grandfather.
The old man stared down over his reading glasses like he
never saw a hand before.
“Shake his hand, grandpa!” Marie insisted.
Like a robot, the old man shook hands with the teacher. “Hello, Marie,” Mr. Battle winked at her after the
handshake.
“Hi, Mr. B,” she smiled.
The old people glanced between the smiling child and
teacher several times. “You mean you two get along?”
Grandpa asked.
“Oh, Mr. B’s great,” Marie said.
Mr. Battle produced the Field Trip Request form again,
turning to the grandfather. “I need a guardian’s permission
for your granddaughter to attend a Christmas dance,” he
explained.
“She has to wear a dress!” Marie’s grandmother was
glowing. “A gown!”
The grandfather looked at Marie. “You know how to wear a
dress?” he asked.
“I have mine left over from the quinceanera when I turned
sweet fifteen,” Marie said.
The old man talked directly to Mr. Battle. “She was very
expensive. We had to send out invitations, buy the dress,
flowers, and cake.”
“The whole block came,” Grandmother stated proudly. “You know about her mother?” the old man asked sourly. “She was in jail for using drugs,” Grandmother said. “On her own daughter’s quinceanera,” the old man was still
bitter about it.
“Well, there’s no expense for this dance,” Mr. Battle said.
“Since she already has a dress…”
“But her birthday is in August. It is a summer dress,”
Grandmother said. “I will make her a proper Christmas
gown,” she folded her arms.
Marie jumped up and down while Grandfather waved to get
his wife’s attention.
“What is it, old man?”
The old man raised his hands around his neck as if to
choke himself. “Make sure it has a high collar,” he said.
“For the hickeys.”
Mr. Battle crossed the street from his car to the small ranch house on Brentwood Drive. It was a calm, clean house painted white with red trim. A tied-down Maple sapling was planted in a tree ring in the front yard. Instead of grass, the front was covered mostly with red gravel.
Before he could knock on the door or ring the bell, the door flew open.
“Yes?” It was Julio’s burly father.
“Miguel Ramirez?”
“What do you want?”
“My name is John Battle. I’m your son’s teacher.”
“So?”
“I’d like your written permission so he can attend a dance.”
“He’s full-grown. He can do whatever he wants.”
“Yes, but since he’s still a student, I need your written permission.”
“That’s stupid,” said Miguel.
“School District rules,” Battle said. He handed Miguel a pen and the man signed the form.
“Anything else? I’m watching hockey.”
“This is all,” Battle said. He was about to leave but he could see the buried anger, frustration and sadness in the man’s face. “One more question?” Battle asked.
“What?”
“Why do you hit your son?”
Miguel flew through the door and pushed his chest against Battle’s. “Don’t start on me!” he warned, with a mean hard look.
“I lost my wife, too,” Battle said in a hurry. “And my kids.”
Miguel’s hardness disappeared and he stepped back. “Oh, yeah?”
“It was a long time ago. I can’t deny they died, can’t dump the guilt I feel, can’t erase the sorrow. And being angry? That doesn’t solve anything. What about you?”
“We’re okay.”
“Then why do you hit your son?”
Embarrassed Miguel swallowed hard. “I just, I just lose it, you know? Kids, they don’t see how hard life is. My son, he don’t know he has the best times right now.”
“How is it the best time for Julio? Battle asked.
“’Cuz he’s young,” Miguel said.
“With a serious drinking problem,” Battle said.
“All kids drink.”
“All kids don’t drink, Mr. Ramirez.”
“I drank when I was a kid,” Miguel offered. He noticed the slight blemishes on the teacher’s forehead, the wrinkled hands, and the thinning hair. “You having a hard life right now, too?”
“Yeah.”
Miguel held the door open for him. “Do you drink coffee?”
“Sure.”
By the time Julio returned from the supermarket, Mr. Battle had come and gone. The teen found his father in the backyard watering the lawn.
“What are you doing?” Julio asked.
“I’m watering what’s left of the grass,” his father said. “Your mother, she liked the grass. Maybe next Spring we put new sod down?”
“Sure.” Julio didn’t know what else to say.
“I talked to your teacher. He seems like a nice guy.”
“Mr. Battle?” Julio asked with surprise.
“Yes. That’s him.”
“What did he want?”
“He told me if I ever hit you again, he’s gonna come over here and slice me into menudo.”
“Mr. Battle said that?”
“No,” laughed Miguel. “But me and you? We need to fix things around here.”
Matt Golden was alone with the little kids, baby-sitting as usual, when a knock hit the trailer door. When he opened it, a nervous twitch developed in his neck that he couldn’t control.
What is this
? The boy wondered.
Why am I twitching
? At the back of his mind, he heard a voice say,
You live in a pigpen. Don’t let him see the pigpen
.
“My mom and step-dad are at the tattoo parlor,” Matt told Battle through the half-shut door.
Mr. Battle held up the permission slip. “Think if I leave this you can get them to sign it?”
‘What is it?”
“For the Christmas dance,” Mr. Battle said.
“Oh that. I don’t think I can make it,” Matt said.
“Why not?”
“I’ll probably have to watch the kids. My folks play pool on Friday and Saturday nights.”
“They can’t afford a baby-sitter?”
“I’m it.”
“And there’s no one else besides you?”
“This here’s a wild bunch, Teach.”
“Tell you what, I’ll spring the cash for a substitute sitter,” Mr. Battle said. “Can you find one?”
“I don’t know.” Matt slipped outside through the door and stepped down off the trailer stoop. “I can ask my folks, but I doubt it. They’re pretty fussy about how we kids are raised.”
Mr. Battle looked around at the garbage and broken secondhand toys everywhere. “I can see that,” he said. “Is it okay with you if I visit your folks at their place of business?”
“It’s your funeral, Mr. B.”
Matt gave the teacher directions to the tattoo shop.
BORN TO BE WILD was a busy shop on the old West Side with six tattoo booths. Alice rented one of them. Her common law husband, Pete, was a part-time janitor for the business. Over time, Pete had secretly promoted himself to the unofficial post of store manager and everyday know-it-all.
When John Battle entered, Pete flung himself off a swivel chair and met him at the door. Pete was a great up-seller. You come in for a spider, Pete sells you on a dragon. Want a heart on your ankle? Make it a pair.
Pete even made it on television once as a spokesperson in a thirty second spot. “From crosses to skulls to butterflies, BTBW’s your destination for custom-drawn tattoos. We got new art comin’ in all the time and we keep up with the trends to bring you the latest in tattoo artistry. The shop is sterile and needles are disposed of after each satisfied customer.” The spot cost three hundred dollars to make and didn’t generate any new traffic, so that was the end of Pete’s commercial career.
But this guy in the overcoat that came in wasn’t here for a tat, this guy was dressed like a ticked off dad looking to sue somebody over his underage daughter’s tattoo.
“Welcome to BTBW,” Pete said. “What we can do you for?”
“Actually, I’m looking for Pete and Alice,” Battle said.
Pete thought the man acted and sounded like a detective. “What for?” Pete asked. He hunted his memory for any prior or outstanding warrants. He tried to remember if any of his ex old ladies found out he lived in Colorado now and wanted some child support or alimony.
“I need one of their signatures on this.” John pulled out a permission slip.
“
Uh-oh
,” Pete thought. “
Got me a subpoena for something out of my past. Uh-oh
.”