Chapter Two
Two
Mr. Lehrer had requested that his ashes be spread in the front courtyard on the campus of Baldwin High School. It had been stated explicitly in his will, according to the attorney who contacted Principal Kendricks not long after the former veteran teacher and substitute lay down and died in the faculty lounge.
“He…what?” said the principal, an affable man and a good leader who, having just turned fifty, had been stricken with recurring thoughts about his own mortality. He was closer to Mr. Lehrer’s age at death than to his own birth—there was no longer any denying it. His thirties, for instance. Had that decade actually even happened to him? But it must have, because now he was fifty and the principal of the largest high school in the city, and he was taking a phone call about a dead man’s ashes.
“Didn’t he have family?” Principal Kendricks asked.
“One son,” said the attorney, “but they weren’t especially close, and he’s asking that his father’s wishes be honored. He lives out of state and said he won’t be attending the ceremony.”
The ceremony? Principal Kendricks considered the idea, trying to imagine how much of an event this would have to be while mentally running through his chain of command at Central Office. Which one of his superiors would have to sign off on such a thing? The deputy superintendent of secondary schools? The assistant deputy superintendent over human resources? The chief assistant deputy superintendent of you’ll-never-believe-this-shit? The latter would be a useful office in the world of public education, he admitted to himself, shortly before telling Mr. Lehrer’s attorney to have the ashes shipped to the school, attention his name.
They arrived in the main office on a Thursday morning in late September, and Principal Kendricks, who had been something of a rebel in his youth, decided—not for the first time in his career—to do what he believed was the right thing, even if the powers that be might have disagreed. A quick search had revealed that while it wasn’t explicitly against school policy to spread ashes all over a school campus, it probably wasn’t something that was encouraged, either. Perhaps this was a time when it was better to ask for forgiveness than permission, Principal Kendricks decided. Besides, it had clearly meant something to Mr. Lehrer.
He fired off an all-staff email, being careful not to put the matter of the ashes into print.
Dear Faculty and Staff,
I hope you’ll join me in the front courtyard today after the final bell. We’ll be having a brief ceremony to honor the legacy of former substitute and longtime Baldwin teacher, Mr. Bob Lehrer. As you may recall, Mr. Lehrer died of natural causes on campus a few weeks ago while he was here substituting. Mr. Lehrer did not have much family, and he specifically requested a memorial of sorts here at Baldwin High because this place was so special to him. A home away from home, if you will. So let’s please gather in the front courtyard together and share a few moments together to celebrate the life of Bob Lehrer. No one is required to speak, however if you’re one of the folks on campus who worked with Mr. Lehrer all those years ago, I hope you will consider sharing a few words. It will be good to be together to honor Mr. Lehrer.
Thanks,
Mark Kendricks
“Do you think this ceremony will at least be briefer than this wordy email?” said Ms. Brennan to Mr. Williams in their usual hallway gossip spot.
“Seriously,” answered Mr. Williams with a roll of his eyes. “Also, would I be an asshole if I explained to our principal that he should have used a semicolon before the word however ?”
“Probably,” said Ms. Brennan. “I also loved the part where he suggested we might not remember the fact that a man died in the lounge.”
“?‘As you may recall,’?” Mr. Williams mimicked, with air quotes for emphasis. “Like I’m going to forget that?”
“I know I won’t,” said Ms. Brennan. “Anyway, are you going to go to this thing?”
“Sure,” said Mr. Williams, shrugging. “I feel sorry for the old man.”
Ms. Brennan agreed to join him. All over campus, teachers and staff members were debating whether to attend. In the end, only a handful did. Some, like Ms. Fletcher and Nurse Honeycutt and Mr. Fitzsimmons, had actually worked with Mr. Lehrer and felt it was owed. A few junior administrators hoped it would score some brownie points with Principal Kendricks if they made an appearance. And still others, like the young and idealistic Ms. Sanderson, believed it was the right thing to pay honor to a man who had spent his life doing good work in service to something larger than himself.
Mr. Lehrer probably deserved more than a rushed, hurried ceremony on a Thursday after the final bell while kids ditched after-school detention to go vape by the bus lane, but this is what Principal Kendricks and the Baldwin High community were able to offer him during these first few weeks of fall, when the wheels of the school year were still gaining traction and the busy days were only growing busier. Those who had chosen to attend the ceremony began to gather in the courtyard, on a scraggly patch of grass that—like the old building it stood in front of—had seen better days. The place was often littered with empty chip bags and the sad, lonely plastic caps of ballpoint pens. Several scraggly bushes as well as a few functional metal benches lacking any character (they had been donated by several graduating classes during the 1980s and 1990s) dotted the perimeter. On this gusty late September day, the American and Texan flags on the flagpole in the center of the courtyard fluttered and occasionally snapped in the wind.
“Thank you all for coming,” began Principal Kendricks, the small wooden box in his hands already sparking curious looks among those in attendance. “We’re here because we want to fulfill the wishes of one of our own, Mr. Bob Lehrer, an English teacher who worked here for many years and recently came back to substitute. Bob started here at Baldwin in…” It occurred to Principal Kendricks that he was not sure of the year. Why hadn’t he taken the time to look up this information? Or anything at all about the man? He’d intended to, of course, but between meetings and angry parent emails and a fire drill and some suit from Central Office paying him an unexpected visit, he hadn’t even had time to eat lunch.
“I started here fresh out of college in eighty-four,” barked Mr. Fitzsimmons, the veteran math teacher. “And he’d been teaching here at least twenty years by then.”
“ Damn ,” muttered a voice, and the crowd turned to look at Mr. Rayfield, whom most were surprised to see in attendance as he normally fled his biology classroom for the faculty parking lot the moment the final bell rang. “Sorry,” he continued. “That’s just…like, he started here in the sixties ? Just wild.”
A few of the older teachers chuckled, then Ms. Fletcher began to speak.
“I only worked with Mr. Lehrer for one year, the 1996–97 school year,” she began. “I had the pleasure of observing his classes several times. I was a struggling young teacher and he offered to let me visit in an effort to improve my practice.” At this Ms. Fletcher paused, a small smile forming on her lips. “Mr. Lehrer was an artist in the classroom. A master, really. I suspect he was a natural right from the start, although he was too modest to ever admit such a thing. I’m sure the number of lives he touched are in the thousands, and I’m glad I had the chance to learn from him.”
There was a murmur of approval, and Principal Kendricks shot Ms. Fletcher a grateful look.
“What I know about Bob Lehrer was that he didn’t tolerate any BS from Central Office!” It was Mr. Fitzsimmons again. In addition to being one of the most senior teachers on campus, he was also one of the grumbliest, never passing up an opportunity to illustrate the many ways the Baldwin faculty was mistreated and maligned by the public education hierarchy. Apparently, memorial services were not an exception to this rule.
“Bob was always the first to make it about the kids,” Mr. Fitzsimmons continued. As he spoke, the wisps of his unkempt white hair blew about in the strong breeze, and his jowls shook ever so slightly. “Now, thank God he got out of the game before all this junk about high-stakes testing really took off, but still, there has always been meaningless crap in this business. Crap from the higher-ups who think we are cogs in a machine, not teachers to children! Anyway, Bob Lehrer was very vocal in faculty meetings, and he spoke out against crap. That’s what I remember most about him, and that’s one thing I really liked about him.”
Principal Kendricks nodded, unfazed. “Thank you, Mr. Fitzsimmons,” he said. “I know Mr. Lehrer would certainly be thankful to you for carrying on his legacy.” Mr. Fitzsimmons grunted in response, while there were some titters from the others.
“Could I say something?” came a tentative voice from the back of the loose circle of people. It was Ms. Sanderson.
“Of course,” said Principal Kendricks.
“Well,” she started, tucking a loose strand of dark hair behind one ear, “I just wanted to say that…” At this Ms. Sanderson’s young, thin voice cracked, and the pink of her cheeks turned to scarlet. Ms. Fletcher moved toward her and put a comforting arm around the young woman’s shoulders. One of the assistant principals present, Ms. Garcia, gave the first-year teacher a sympathetic look.
“I know he was special,” said Ms. Garcia, trying to help Ms. Sanderson out.
“Yes,” answered Ms. Sanderson. “But I think the reason I’m crying is that it just seemed so undignified the way he died. On an old, nasty couch in the lounge.” At this Ms. Sanderson shot a panicked look at the principal, worried that by insulting the furniture in the teachers’ lounge she was somehow insulting him.
“It’s all right,” said Principal Kendricks, understanding her worry. “The furniture in there is pretty awful, but we haven’t had the budget to do anything about it for years.”
There was a collective sigh then, followed by an awkward silence. The other assistant principal there, Ms. Baker, asked Principal Kendricks if there was anything special that Mr. Lehrer wanted as part of this memorial, gently helping him refocus on the event at hand. The most senior of all the assistant principals, Ms. Baker was often tasked with attempting to keep Principal Kendricks on track.
“Well, funny you should ask,” he answered, his voice tightening a little in anticipation of the news he was about to deliver. He lifted the wooden box and looked around the circle of expectant faces. “It turns out that Mr. Lehrer asked us to spread his ashes here, in the courtyard of Baldwin High.”
There was a beat or two of shocked silence, broken eventually by stately Nurse Honeycutt’s old-school Texas twang. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I heard you correctly,” she said. “He asked us to do what ?”
The principal repeated himself, now well aware of the eyes not on him, but on the box in his hands.
“He’s…in there?” asked Ms. Baker, her eyes widening.
“He sure is,” responded Principal Kendricks, his voice matter-of-fact.
Bemused glances were exchanged, and several teachers looked around themselves, wondering if this was part of some strange, elaborate prank or some sort of bizarre, forced professional-development team-building activity concocted by Central Office. Ms. Jimenez, the snarky queen of copy machine jams, loudly declared that this was the most fucked up thing that had ever happened in this place.
“Are we sure this is allowed?” asked Ms. Baker, frowning slightly while running a long list of persnickety Central Office bureaucrats through her mind.
“Well,” said Principal Kendrick, “there isn’t anything saying we can’t .”
“I say we do it,” bellowed Mr. Fitzsimmons. “If it’s what Bob wanted.”
Mr. Rayfield could not hold back. Spreading his arms wide in an are you seeing this place gesture, he stared at his colleagues, his expression one of total bafflement.
“Here?” he asked. “ Here? I caught two kids skipping class the other day taking a leak in those bushes!” He pointed to the bushes in question, two featureless shrubs that were surprisingly hardy despite their recent abuse. The tone of his voice suggested dismay bordering on near panic. “This can’t be someone’s final resting place.”
“I think,” said Ms. Fletcher, piping up, “that Mr. Lehrer most likely asked us to do this because this was a very special place to him.” She cast a gentle gaze in Mr. Rayfield’s direction. “I know perhaps not all of us can grasp this. But for Mr. Lehrer, Baldwin High was a source of joy. He spent some of his happier days here. It gave him purpose.”
Somewhat cowed, Mr. Rayfield shrugged and slipped his hands into his pockets. Part of him wanted to leave, but he knew it would only draw more attention to him. He caught the eye of Ms. Sanderson, who offered him a sympathetic look. She seemed to understand what he was feeling. After all, she’d been troubled by the fact that Mr. Lehrer had died on a ratty couch. Certainly she would be bothered by his ashes being spread where kids cut class to make TikTok videos.
“I don’t think we have to understand it to want to honor his wishes,” said Principal Kendricks, democratic as usual in his approach. “It may make you feel better to know that his son expressly gave his permission.” At this, the principal removed a clear plastic bag filled with the gray cremains of Mr. Lehrer from the wooden box before handing the box to Ms. Baker, who was standing next to him. Principal Kendricks, whose deceased loved ones had all been buried, had expected what was in the bag to be more, well, ashlike. He’d also expected that they would be easier to access. His faculty and staff waited patiently as he tugged on the thick plastic, willing it to tear even a little. At last Ms. Garcia, whose office was off the courtyard, volunteered to run over to get a pair of scissors, leaving the crowd to murmur uncertainly as Principal Kendricks held the plastic sack in his hands.
“Perhaps we should say a prayer?” asked Nurse Honeycutt.
Principal Kendricks looked around to gauge interest. While he was personally an atheist who believed fervently in the separation of church and state—a tall order sometimes, given his home state—he understood the need for ritual.
“I don’t know if he was religious, but I suppose it would be fine,” he said.
“Heavenly Father,” began Nurse Honeycutt, and immediately most of those in the crowd bowed their heads, “we thank you for your humble servant Bob Lehrer, who dedicated so much of himself to this school community for so many decades. Now he goes to his reward, and we know his spirit is at rest. In your mercy, may you give peace and comfort to Mr. Lehrer’s family and to all of those who knew him. Amen.”
The prayer finished just as Ms. Garcia returned with the scissors, and soon Principal Kendricks was faced with the task at hand. Not sure if it would be disrespectful to touch the cremains themselves, he tugged the cut he’d made in the thick plastic wide open and began shaking the bag repeatedly up and down, causing the ashes to leap up and fall to the ground as if he were operating some sort of defective lawn sprinkler. He felt like a fool.
And there was so much more than he’d anticipated! He had seen Bob Lehrer once or twice, and the man had grown fairly gaunt in his old age, but by what was left in this bag, you would have thought he’d been a world-class bodybuilder.
A wave of discomfort moved through the group, although no one present blamed Principal Kendricks for it. It was simply a discomforting situation; those in the crowd with partners and families waiting for them at home were already imagining how they would explain this event to their loved ones. There was so much about their jobs that could not be explained well, especially to those who had never worked in a school. It often felt like trying to describe some strange supernatural phenomenon, some bizarre thing outside the laws of nature.
Upon seeing how much was left in the bag, Ms. Fletcher suggested that Principal Kendricks simply pour the rest out along the bushes, although she was clear to point toward the bushes that hadn’t been urinated on.
“That’s a good idea,” replied the principal, his cheeks almost as red as young Ms. Sanderson’s. He moved toward the edge of the courtyard closest to the street, the bag in his hands.
As Principal Kendricks crouched and began to pour out what remained of Mr. Lehrer, three women came around the corner and entered the courtyard. All three were middle-aged ash blondes who had given up high-powered careers to be the sort of women who had the time to be very involved at a school. They did a lot of advocating for Baldwin, and they mostly meant well. But it was hard not to be a little bit scared of them.
“Principal Kendricks, we were looking for you!” said Jessica Patterson, the tallest of the ash blondes. She was the formidable PTO president, the mother of a sophomore and a senior at Baldwin, and she projected her clear, crisp voice with confidence. “For the fall safety walk, remember? We’ve already found areas of concern that need to be addressed as soon as possible. For example, we found a door by the gym that isn’t locking, which makes that a very vulnerable soft target. Do you have plans to address this?”
As she finished speaking, she was also processing what was happening around her. The group of teachers and staff. The plastic bag in Principal Kendricks’s hands. The pained looks on so many of their faces. “What’s going on here?” she asked, her voice tightening. Unlike Principal Kendricks, Jessica Patterson had experience scattering ashes, having done so with one mother-in-law and two grandparents; what was in the bag in the principal’s hands looked unsettlingly familiar to her.
One of her companions pulled out her cell phone and started recording.
“It’s a long story, Ms. Patterson,” said Principal Kendricks. He sighed audibly. The teachers and staff members surrounding him looked around at one another, their eyes transmitting the same message: Oh shit. This isn’t good.
At this moment—a moment that would be discussed ad nauseam and shared on social media, even making it onto some local news broadcasts, a moment described later by advanced English teachers Mr. Williams and Ms. Brennan as both “spectacularly cinematic” and “grippingly surreal”—a large gust of wind blew across the courtyard. On any other warm September afternoon in Texas, it would have been welcomed, but this gust of wind did more than provide a bit of cool relief to those standing in attendance. This gust of wind had other plans.
By the time it had moved on to wherever, PTO President Jessica Patterson was left sputtering and shouting, totally coated in what was left of the remains of Mr. Bob Lehrer, former Baldwin High teacher and beloved substitute.