Chapter 6

Martin woke the next morning, more troubled and confused than when he left the bar the night before. He knew that Sharla was afraid of Frank, and he knew Don knew why, but Sharla left and the late crowd came in, and Don wasn’t available for chatter the rest of the night. So Martin decided he would get answers from Don over breakfast, no matter what.
As Martin finished dressing, he sat on the edge of his bed and closed his eyes, trying to see Frank Talbot in his mind. There was nothing particularly special about the man or the way that he looked. If anything, he was the picture of cold public education. J.C. Penney polyester sport coat, tan Docker slacks, white Munsingwear golf shirt. His full head of straight, greasy grey hair was combed flat to one side, revealing a part dotted with dandruff. His cheeks were ruddy, his lips thin and his eyeglasses were pewter wire rims that held thick lenses that made his blue eyes look small, beady and sharp. He rarely smiled, but always had a sort of self-satisfied smirk on his face. Martin shuddered at the thought of him even touching Sharla.
Martin recalled casual conversation and town gossip mentioning Talbot’s wife divorcing him in the first year of their marriage, and leaving town shortly after the divorce was final. Unlike some of the other single teachers who dated or socialized, Talbot was a loner who kept to himself and just did his job. He’d hold posts as assistant coach of this team or that or advisor to a club, but the assignment never lasted more than one year. For a variety of reasons, Frank Talbot just seemed to move around a lot within the high school extra curricular landscape.

It was relatively late in the morning when Martin made his way downstairs. Don was wiping the bar down and looked up as Martin sat down on a stool. “You’re late, Jimmy Olson. I’ve been expecting you for hours,” he said as he took his last wipe and tossed the rag in the sink.
Martin launched right in. “Okay, Don, tell me what’s going on. Why was Sharla so freaked out by that old teacher? What did he do to her that made her react…?” he suddenly knew the answer before he finished his last question. “Is he the teacher that did something that made her drop out of school?” he asked.
“You know, Martin, for an investigative journalist, you’re a little dull,” Don said as he shook his head. “Yes, he’s the bastard that sexually molested her after school one day, and ruined her life. When she reported it, no one took it seriously since ‘she was just an Indian’, so she dropped out rather than face him and everyone else in that high school hell hole, and has been working at her idiot uncle’s gas station ever since. What a waste!” Don pounded his fist on the bar for emphasis and breathed in a raspy breath. “When I saw that asshole walk in here last night, I wanted to tear his head off. Having just met that lovely girl and seen how much potential she had, all ruined not just by that horny bastard, but by the piss ant cowards in this town that pass for leaders!”
Don was on a roll, and Martin was afraid to stop him. But he had to ask, “Don, how do you know this guy? You said he hadn’t been in the bar before…”
Don snorted. “I said he hadn’t been in my bar, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know him. I know him from town. And some of his friends come in here. I’ve heard them talk about how he brags about his conquests. Conquests! They’re teenage girls! Those low lifes are probably the ones who called him last night and gave him the heads up that the one that got away was sitting at the bar with you last night. And he couldn’t help himself – he had to come by and try to finish what he started.”
Martin shuddered. “Are you saying he didn’t…?” He couldn’t finish his thought, much less the sentence.
”Nope, Sharla was one of the few ones who fought back. Talbot’s preference is Indian girls who either won’t fight back or won’t be listened to if they complain. Think back, Martin. There were others besides Sharla, weren’t there? Girls who just stopped coming to school one day?” Don asked him, looking Martin squarely in the eyes.
Martin let his mind wander back 7 to 10 years ago, to high school, to Mr. Talbot, his physics teacher. Sharla’s physics teacher. Sharla got straight A’s in that class, he remembered that. She helped him after school with assignments. When she dropped out, it had a disastrous impact on his final grade for the course.
Suddenly, Martin recalled other memories, too. He remembered hearing girls talk about Talbot’s habit of putting his arm around them when they asked for help, how they smelled the coffee and cigarettes on his breathe, how it disgusted them when he “innocently” let his hand travel down from their shoulders and under their arm, next to their breasts, as he continued to explain a concept or correct their work. “The Groper” they called him. These girls, the white girls, just quit asking for help.
But the Indian girls, they were told to stay after class for extra help. Martin remembered that. He remembered how they were in school one day and gone the next. Just how Sharla was in class one day and gone the next.
Martin’s mind snapped back to the present. “Don, who did she report this to? Why didn’t anyone do anything about it? He’s retiring in 2 months, for God’s sake. He should’ve been thrown out on his ass 9 years ago, probably before that!” Martin shouted.
“Martin, calm down. Yes, he should have been thrown out,” Don agreed. “But no one had the balls to do it. I have a feeling the Siren School Board has been wrestling with what to do with Talbot for years, and they just didn’t know what to do because to take serious action, they’d have to admit they knew what has been going on for years. They’d have to admit they just turned a blind eye. Wouldn’t that look good for Burnett County’s wholesome, white bread, safe streets image? Just don’t let your daughters take physics in high school.”
“Well, this might explain what Dayton Daniels and Jeff Howe were arguing about the other night,” Martin suggested.
“You’re smarter than I thought, Jimmy Olson,” Don replied. “So now that you know, what are you going to do about it?”

Martin had seen the true underbelly of his hometown for the first time, and it made him sick to his stomach. He left Don at the bar, and his question hanging in the air, and walked out of the bar, thinking about what he was going to do about it.
Martin did the only thing he could do, the only thing he had the stomach left to do. He went to that place where, no matter how annoying, he knew exactly what he’d find and exactly what to expect. That place where, no matter how much he hated to admit it, would give him a familiar and safe haven to ponder his next steps.
He went to visit his mother.