It was close to 8:00 a.m. when Martin and Shirley saw Clark Grayson’s car pull into the Sentinel parking lot. Shirley took a stack of the unread newspapers off the corner of her desk and quickly put them into the bottom file draw by her right leg. The pile fit perfectly into the draw, which happened to hold Shirley’s backpack and nothing more. She kicked the drawer closed with her navy Swedish clog, and whispered to Martin, “Here, take this other stack. I can’t look like I’m too interested in what you’re doing. Just make sure you make copies of anything suspicious, and highlight the good parts.” She looked out the front window and saw that Clark was struggling to get something out of the back seat of his car. “I’ll keep looking at these old issues to ‘pass the time’. It’s fun, right Martin?” She winked at him as he nodded at her. “Now get out of here with that other stack of newspapers before Clark comes in!” she whispered loudly at him.
Martin decided that Shirley wasn’t trying to sabotage his efforts. It was pretty clear to him that she wanted Talbot nailed as much as he did.
Martin spent the day plowing through his own stack of newspapers, looking for anything that would support his digging further and collecting solid proof of Talbot’s misdeeds. Whenever he’d find anything of interest, he’d casually go to the copy room and make his copies, making sure that he didn’t attract too much attention. As he passed the desks of this co-workers, he noticed most of them were either surfing the internet or playing solitaire on their computers. Typical Holy Week.
Only Clark seemed to be truly working. He was on the phone constantly and left the building at 11:00 a.m. for a long lunch meeting. Shirley took that opportunity to make her copies and replenish her stock of unread issues of old Sentinels.
Martin and Shirley had agreed in the morning that they would make sure they were the last ones out of the building when the day ended. That way, they could compare notes and make plans for their dinner meeting at Risky Dick’s. Clark never made it back after lunch, and everyone else saw this as an opportunity to leave early. At 4:45 p.m., Martin, seeing that everyone had left, walked up to Shirley’s desk in the reception area and said, “I think everyone is gone. Did you find anything else of interest?”
Shirley opened the right bottom file draw and pulled out a file folder thick with paper. “Did I ever!” she replied. “Wait until you see this stuff, Martin. This can’t be a coincidence.”
Martin’s eyes grew wide at the thickness of the file. “Okay, Shirley. We’re still meeting at Risky Dick’s, right? I can’t wait to read this.”
Shirley scratched her head and replied, “Risky Dick’s, Martin? Why there?”
Martin didn’t hesitate a moment. “You’re right, Shirley. It wouldn’t attract attention at all that you and I are having dinner at Adventures.”
Shirley looked at him and wiggled her eyebrows. “So, Martin, you think people will suspect us of having an affair or something?” When he looked shocked at the suggestion, she rolled her eyes and said, “Relax, Martin, it’s a joke. Remember me saying you need to get a sense of humor? You still need to work on that.”
Martin laughed a little and said, “No, really Shirley, Risky Dick’s is perfect. No one cares who comes and goes. And Don Wardle, the owner, is a great guy. He’s…”
Shirley cut him off. “I know Don. He is a great guy. And you’re right, Risky Dick’s is the right place for us to be working on this stuff. You and I could be doing it on the bar and no one would even notice.” Martin’s face look startled again. “Humor, Lundeen, humor. I’ll see you there at 7:00.”
Martin was sitting at the bar when Shirley walked in at 7:13 p.m. She looked around furtively, and sat next to him, looking at all the tables and booths to see if she knew anyone. Upon seeing nothing but strangers, she relaxed. “Some of Greg’s co-workers at Howe Construction hang out here. Since I told him I was going to visit my mother, he might be surprised to hear that I was with you at Risky Dick’s.”
Martin looked at her closely and asked, “Why do you have to lie about this?”
Shirley looked back at him and said, “It’s complicated. I’m not too worried. He’ll be asleep by the time I get home, so I won’t have to make up a big story about my visit with Mommy Dearest. And it’s Tuesday of Holy Week. Mr. ‘Goodie Two Shoes’ Howe doesn’t like his employees boozing it up during this sacred time of the year. So none of them should come in here tonight.”
Don came over to them and said, “Well, well, well, Martin. Two different ladies, two different nights. If you don’t watch it, you’ll get a reputation for being a player.”
Martin looked up at the ceiling and let out a sigh. Before he could protest or make introductions, Shirley said, “How are you doing, Don? Great seeing you. Now quit giving my friend here a bad time. We’re here to discuss business.”
“And Shirley, it is wonderful to see you as well,” Don responded, oozing with charm. He took both of her hands into his and asked, “How is everything going? You doing okay?”
Shirley warmed to his sincerity. “Things are good, Don. And now I have a new cause to get into.” She cocked her head towards Martin. “This one’s got me looking into Frank Talbot’s teaching career…”
By the time Martin and Shirley had finished their first beer, it was clear to Martin that the Campbells and Don Wardle were friends, close friends, but ones who maybe didn’t socialize that often. Don just seemed to know a lot about Shirley and Greg’s life together, their home, their interests. And Shirley clearly held great affection for Don. Martin sensed that she felt gratitude for something he did for her. But what that was, neither Don nor Shirley revealed.
When their burgers were served, Shirley pulled out an Excel spreadsheet of all the articles she had found, the content and her perceived relevance. “Does Clark Grayson have any idea how smart you are, Shirley?” Martin asked her several times during the evening. “No, he doesn’t,” she replied, “and that is just fine. I’d hate to raise his expectations for me as an employee.”
For the next two hours, after reviewing and comparing all of their notes on past issues that covered 1973 through 1992, they were more convinced than ever that Frank Talbot was not only a pervert, but a dangerous predator. Both Martin and Shirley were sickened, however, that no one stopped him.
“Why do you think no one ever stopped him?” Martin asked Shirley. “I mean, someone had to know this was going on. Why didn’t anyone ever just haul him in and throw the book at him?”
Shirley said nothing as Martin railed at the school board and local authorities for their lack of attention and action and complete irresponsibility as it pertained to protecting the girls of Burnett County. He went on and on for nearly five minutes until he noticed Shirley just looking at him, frowning at him, her chin in her hand and her elbow on the bar. Finally he said, exasperated, “Well, Shirley, don’t you agree?”
“Well of course I agree, Martin. But it isn’t always that easy,” she said. “You’ve got to remember that his victims were young girls. And a lot of them just avoided him rather than deal with him. He was a teacher, hired by a bunch of idiots who didn’t do their homework. Did anyone call Aberdeen to find out why he was leaving in the middle of a school year? Hell, no! They just bought his bullshit. And they weren’t the only ones…”
Shirley stopped short. Either the beer or the realization of how bad the situation was made her start to go down a road she wasn’t prepared to travel with Martin. She knew she had said too much, and Martin’s curiosity was piqued.
“What do you mean, ‘they weren’t the only ones’?” Martin asked. Shirley could tell by the way he asked that he had information to make that question not as innocent as it sounded.
She turned on her barstool and faced him. “Okay, Martin. I may as well tell you. I know Frank Talbot and what he was capable of. He ruined my family’s life. He married my older sister, Beverly, when I was 17 years old. Just guess who his first under-age conquest was in Burnett County?”
Martin’s jaw dropped and as he said, “You mean…?”, Shirley interrupted him. “Yep, even though he was married, Frank thought it was okay to have sex with his wife’s little sister. That’s what ended their marriage, before it even began, really. It was the summer of 1975, right after I graduated from Siren High. Bev and Frank were married just 3 months when he raped me.”
Martin didn’t need to ask a lot of questions. Once she got started, Shirley couldn’t stop telling her story. It was as if she were telling it for the first time.
“When I told my parents what Frank did, they didn’t believe me. And when I told Beverly, she said she didn’t believe me either, but I know she did. She fell for him so fast, she wasn't thinking when he asked her to marry him. He used to be pretty good looking and so smooth. He came into town in January, met Bev in February and they got married in May. She believed everything he said…until he raped me. She tried to defend him, but then things didn’t add up. By the time he started teaching at Siren High, Bev had left town to start her life over in Minneapolis. Their divorce was final a year later.”
Shirley paused to catch her breath and asked Don for another beer. “My parents finally figured it out and essentially banished Frank from their lives. But they always blamed me for Bev’s marriage breaking up. Like I’m the great seductress!” Shirley tried to smile, but ran her hands through her long, gray hair and shook her head. “Sometimes I just have to joke about it, or I’ll cry, you know? I never made peace with my dad before he died, and my mother and I deal with each other on an as needed basis. And Beverly? I haven’t spoken to her in 35 years.”
For a moment, Martin was speechless by Shirley’s revelation. Then he asked, “So you are helping me because…because…?”
Shirley gave a little, guttural scream and growled, “I’m helping you to help me! Maybe, just maybe, getting Frank revealed as the monster he is will help me get past this. It’s been 35 years, you know. I’m ready to be done with this.”
Martin put his hand on Shirley’s shoulder. “Okay, Shirley, okay. We’ll do it. Before we’re done, everyone will know Frank Talbot for who he really is.”
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Chapter 13
As Martin drove to work the next morning, he tried to pull together a strategy for asking Shirley about her connection to Frank Talbot. Why hadn’t she said anything to him? Martin asked himself that over and over, and finally came to the conclusion that she either didn’t want anyone to know she was his ex-sister-in-law or she was using Martin’s need for help to sabotage his efforts. Either way, Martin knew he had to approach the issue carefully so as not to blow his cover story for looking into Talbot’s past and/or lose Shirley’s valuable help.
He thought momentarily about stopping at the Chattering Squirrel again for piping hot caramel rolls, but thought better of it. Shirley saw through that yesterday, and his bank account couldn’t stand two days of morning generosity.
Martin remembered that he and Shirley had made plans to have dinner at Risky Dick’s that evening to review everything they've found so far. He decided to broach the topic over burgers and beer. In the meantime, he'd make the most of the day and Shirley’s help.
Martin walked into the Sentinel building at 7:15 a.m., and was surprised to see Shirley sitting at her desk with two tall piles of old Sentinels on either corner. “Good morning, Martin,” she said wryly without looking up from the issue she was studying. “If this is your story, why am I here doing research while you’re still rubbing sleep out of your eyes?”
Before he could answer, Shirley looked up and smirked at him. “Just kidding, Lundeen. If we’re going to work on this together, you’re going to have to get a sense of humor.”
Martin let out a sigh of relief. “Wow, Shirley, you’re really in here early. Find anything good?”
She motioned for him to pull up a chair next to her desk. “I’ll just hit the highlights. Maybe it’s because I know what I’m looking for, but I’m seeing red flags all over the place.” She pulled out a file folder with about 10 pages of Xerox copies of articles. “Here’s the story of his being hired. It says he came from Aberdeen High School in South Dakota where he spent 1-1/2 years teaching science. What teacher leaves a job in the middle of a school year?”
Martin scoured the page and read the areas where Shirley had flagged the copy with yellow highlighter. “You’re right, Shirley, that doesn’t make sense at all.”
“And look at this. Here is an announcement that Talbot would serve as Girls Track Coach his second year of teaching at Siren High,” she went on, excitedly showing Martin another story. “Three months later, there’s another announcement that Talbot was replaced as coach because of ‘scheduling conflicts’. What the hell does that mean?”
“Then there is this story about the alarming number of Indian students, particularly girls, who drop out of high school in Burnett County,” she said as she pulled out another piece of paper. “It says the school board and tribal leaders were charged with looking into it and reporting back at a future school board meeting. But I don’t see anything about a report.” She shook her head and added, “The one thing I do know is the guy who wrote this story was fired from the Sentinel soon after this story was published. I was here - I saw it happen.”
Martin barely heard the implied threat to his job security. He was astounded at the amount of information Shirley had already collected and said, “Shirley, this is amazing. How many papers have you gone through?”
“Martin,” she replied, “I’m barely into the 80s.”
He thought momentarily about stopping at the Chattering Squirrel again for piping hot caramel rolls, but thought better of it. Shirley saw through that yesterday, and his bank account couldn’t stand two days of morning generosity.
Martin remembered that he and Shirley had made plans to have dinner at Risky Dick’s that evening to review everything they've found so far. He decided to broach the topic over burgers and beer. In the meantime, he'd make the most of the day and Shirley’s help.
Martin walked into the Sentinel building at 7:15 a.m., and was surprised to see Shirley sitting at her desk with two tall piles of old Sentinels on either corner. “Good morning, Martin,” she said wryly without looking up from the issue she was studying. “If this is your story, why am I here doing research while you’re still rubbing sleep out of your eyes?”
Before he could answer, Shirley looked up and smirked at him. “Just kidding, Lundeen. If we’re going to work on this together, you’re going to have to get a sense of humor.”
Martin let out a sigh of relief. “Wow, Shirley, you’re really in here early. Find anything good?”
She motioned for him to pull up a chair next to her desk. “I’ll just hit the highlights. Maybe it’s because I know what I’m looking for, but I’m seeing red flags all over the place.” She pulled out a file folder with about 10 pages of Xerox copies of articles. “Here’s the story of his being hired. It says he came from Aberdeen High School in South Dakota where he spent 1-1/2 years teaching science. What teacher leaves a job in the middle of a school year?”
Martin scoured the page and read the areas where Shirley had flagged the copy with yellow highlighter. “You’re right, Shirley, that doesn’t make sense at all.”
“And look at this. Here is an announcement that Talbot would serve as Girls Track Coach his second year of teaching at Siren High,” she went on, excitedly showing Martin another story. “Three months later, there’s another announcement that Talbot was replaced as coach because of ‘scheduling conflicts’. What the hell does that mean?”
“Then there is this story about the alarming number of Indian students, particularly girls, who drop out of high school in Burnett County,” she said as she pulled out another piece of paper. “It says the school board and tribal leaders were charged with looking into it and reporting back at a future school board meeting. But I don’t see anything about a report.” She shook her head and added, “The one thing I do know is the guy who wrote this story was fired from the Sentinel soon after this story was published. I was here - I saw it happen.”
Martin barely heard the implied threat to his job security. He was astounded at the amount of information Shirley had already collected and said, “Shirley, this is amazing. How many papers have you gone through?”
“Martin,” she replied, “I’m barely into the 80s.”
Chapter 12
Martin eyes never left Sharla’s face as she told her story, and Sharla looked ahead as she spoke. When she was finished, the two of them sat there, Martin sitting sideways, looking at her, and Sharla facing the bar, looking into the kitchen through the pass-through window.
“Wow,” Martin said quietly. He puffed his cheeks out as he took a big breath of air, held it a moment and let it out slowly. “Unbelievable…”
“Oh believe it, Martin,” Sharla shot back. “What a…creep!” She wrinkled her nose in disgust as she said the last word.
“Did you really hit him?” Martin asked. He didn’t want to offend her or minimize what Talbot did to her, but he was amazed at the thought of her hauling off and hitting him.
Sharla finally turned to face him, and replied, “I sure did,” and nodded her head once for emphasis. “He had it coming. Not just for what he did to me, but what he did to a lot of my friends. Girls from my tribe have been attacked by him for years.”
“Did you tell anyone when it happened, Sharla?”
“You know, Martin, I didn’t,” she said. “I was afraid right after it happened. I mean, what if Mr. Talbot wanted to punish me for hitting him?”
“Are you kidding?” Martin nearly shouted. “You were afraid you’d get in trouble?”
“Let me finish,” she answered, and Martin knew by the way she deliberately pronounced each word that he’d said the wrong thing. “I said I felt that way right after it happened. I was 16! What did I know?”
“Sharla, I’m sorry...” he tried to apologize, but Sharla cut him off. “I know, Martin, some old teacher tries to molest me, and I don’t tell anyone. I get it. But you have to understand, I was kind of in shock and just a kid.”
Martin nodded. He did understand, but wished she had told someone, anyone, so that he might have found out what happened to her and maybe could have helped her.
Sharla was thoughtful for a moment. “About a year ago, I accidently mentioned it in passing to Uncle Bill. He got a funny look on his face, but he didn’t say anything. For a while, we didn’t hear too much about Indian girls being bothered by Mr. Talbot, but that lasted for about six months.” She sighed and continued, “Then, a few months ago, it started again. Girls from the tribe started coming home from school talking about being assaulted. I guess Mr. Talbot thinks Uncle Bill doesn’t have much of a memory or is an idiot who doesn’t care about the people in his community. We are just Indians, after all.” For the first time since Martin had met her, Sharla’s voice was filled with bitterness. He didn’t know what to say.
Throughout their conversation, Don had been watching from the end of the bar, and upon seeing that their talk seemed stalled, he walked tentatively toward Martin and Sharla, under the pretense of refilling their beer mugs. “How about another round, you two? This one’s on me,” he said to them with a false sounding note of cheerfulness in his voice. “You need anything else, Martin? Sharla?”
Sharla looked down into her empty mug. Martin struggled as he began to answer, “No…no…we’re just…no…Sharla?”
Sharla sighed, looked up and touched Martin’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Martin. Don, we’re just talking about Frank Talbot and what he’s been up to during his 35 years of teaching at Siren High.” She looked at him with a sad smile on her face. Don reached out and patted her hand which laid flat on the bar. “Sharla, would it bother you to know that I know exactly what that asshole has been up to during his illustrious teaching career?”
Sharla narrowed her eyes and replied tightly, “Just what do you know?”
“Just the talk I overhear in this bar, which is plenty,” Don answered. “Lots of innuendo, gossip. No facts or hard accusations, per se. Just a bunch of low lifes talking. Smarmy bastards…”
“Well then you must know that I’m the one that got away,” Sharla said with sarcastic brightness. “You have no idea how many times guys come in to Wild Bill’s for bait or gas on their way to the lake, and when they see me, they nudge and wink and whisper like I’m deaf or stupid or both.”
“Which you’re not,” Don chimed in. “What I don’t understand is that this is a secret everyone knows, except those in authority.”
“Don’t be so sure, Don,” Sharla responded. “I have a feeling lots of people in high places know about Talbot, but they don’t know what to do. Or are too scared to do anything because it might make Burnett County look less than perfect.”
Martin, who had been sitting there, lost in thought as Don and Sharla talked, suddenly perked up. “That’s exactly what I think!” he said excitedly. “That’s why I’m doing a story on Talbot at the Sentinel.”
Don and Sharla both turned and looked at Martin as if he had two heads. “What?” they both asked, in unison.
“Wait, wait. I’m using the story to dig up dirt so that we can expose Talbot for the person he is,” he explained.
Don’s face lit up with a broad smile, but Sharla started shaking her head. “No, Martin, don’t do that. You’ll get in trouble, and it won’t do any good anyway,” she said, her voice anxious.
Don looked hard at Sharla. “Dear girl, give our friend here some credit. Martin, what’s your plan?”
Sharla’s words about getting into trouble bothered him, but Martin had made a promise to make things right, and somehow, he was going to do it and keep his job. “Here’s my plan…”
Don and Sharla listened as Martin laid out his ideas for gathering historical information on Talbot from past issues of the Sentinel, interviewing his fellow teachers and students and then talking to the superintendent and school board members, under the guise of finding out how they were going to honor Talbot at his retirement. He told them he’d be careful as he dug for facts and planned on acting shocked and surprised when he presented Clark Grayson with what he "discovered". He’d ask for Clark’s good counsel and professional advice on how to proceed when it came time to finally lay his discovery at the feet of the school administrators and ask for their reaction. “With any luck, they will be so overwhelmed by the evidence and so shamed by their lack of action, they will throw Talbot out without any pension and run him out of town,” Martin said at the end of his monologue, a note of triumph in his voice.
Although he had been flying by the seat of his pants so far, Martin’s plan seemed well thought out by Don and Sharla. “Martin, this could just work,” Don said, slapping his hands on the bar and smiling. As he walked off to get some beers for some other customers in the back booth, Sharla acted pleased, but not as convinced. “What if nobody talks?” she asked doubtfully.
It hadn’t even occurred to Martin that people wouldn’t give up information willingly. “Well, I think they will. But if they don’t, well, maybe I’ll just have to push harder or ask people I know have been hurt by Talbot to…say something.”
“Good thinking, Martin,” Sharla replied. “People like me.”
Martin nodded and said, “Sharla, I’ll keep you out of this unless I absolutely have to…” Sharla quickly cut him off. “Martin, I know that. And just so you know, it’s not that I’m afraid to talk about this. But if I’m the only one, I know that people won’t believe it because it’s just an Indian girl making the accusation. So find something before you need to talk to me. I’ll be your corroborating witness!”
“Corroborating witness? Sharla, you’ve got a great vocabulary for a high school dropout,” Martin said jokingly, and then realized how much he could hurt Sharla by saying that. She saw the look of regret in his eyes, and before he could open his mouth to apologize, she punched him in the shoulder and said, “Watch it, Martin. You know I have a great right hook. Just ask Talbot! And besides, just because I dropped out of Siren High doesn’t mean I’m not educated.”
Martin looked at her with confusion and disbelief written all over his face. “What are you talking about?”
“Jeez, Martin, do you think the only way a person can get an education is through the Siren Public School system?” Sharla rolled her eyes at him. “I earned my GED in one year after dropping out. And after that, I started taking night classes up at UW in Superior. I’ll have my bachelor’s degree in about one year.”
“In what?” Martin asked.
“Well, I started out just taking general courses, but then I saw how much Uncle Bill needed an accountant, so I’m getting my degree in finance,” she answered with pride. “Then maybe he can get rid of that worthless white woman who’s been messing up his books while he's been messing with her!”
They both laughed loudly, and Don joined them, happy to see that their moods had lightened. “Can I get you two anything else?”
“I think we’re good, Don,” Martin answered. “I’ve got to get into the Sentinel bright and early tomorrow morning to work on my research. Of course, I have some help…”
“Who’s helping you with this, Martin?” Sharla asked, alarmed. “Can you trust them?”
“I think so,” he answered. “It’s Shirley Campbell, our receptionist. She got a little curious about my project when I asked for the key to the storage shed where we keep all the back issues of the newspaper. For some reason, she really wants to help me.”
“Shirley Campbell?” Don asked. “She wants to help you?”
“That’s her,” Martin replied, a little concerned by Don’s tone. “Why? What about her?”
“Oh, nothing really," Don replied, a little too quickly. "I just don’t see either her as the type to want to ‘get involved’, you know? She and Greg pretty much keep to themselves and like to be left alone.”
Martin was about to agree but still defend his helper when Sharla piped in. “Wait a minute. Shirley Campbell…isn't she connected to Talbot somehow?”
Don looked thoughtful and then decided to admit what he knew. “Frank Talbot's ex-wife, Beverly, is Shirley Campbell's older sister.”
“Wow,” Martin said quietly. He puffed his cheeks out as he took a big breath of air, held it a moment and let it out slowly. “Unbelievable…”
“Oh believe it, Martin,” Sharla shot back. “What a…creep!” She wrinkled her nose in disgust as she said the last word.
“Did you really hit him?” Martin asked. He didn’t want to offend her or minimize what Talbot did to her, but he was amazed at the thought of her hauling off and hitting him.
Sharla finally turned to face him, and replied, “I sure did,” and nodded her head once for emphasis. “He had it coming. Not just for what he did to me, but what he did to a lot of my friends. Girls from my tribe have been attacked by him for years.”
“Did you tell anyone when it happened, Sharla?”
“You know, Martin, I didn’t,” she said. “I was afraid right after it happened. I mean, what if Mr. Talbot wanted to punish me for hitting him?”
“Are you kidding?” Martin nearly shouted. “You were afraid you’d get in trouble?”
“Let me finish,” she answered, and Martin knew by the way she deliberately pronounced each word that he’d said the wrong thing. “I said I felt that way right after it happened. I was 16! What did I know?”
“Sharla, I’m sorry...” he tried to apologize, but Sharla cut him off. “I know, Martin, some old teacher tries to molest me, and I don’t tell anyone. I get it. But you have to understand, I was kind of in shock and just a kid.”
Martin nodded. He did understand, but wished she had told someone, anyone, so that he might have found out what happened to her and maybe could have helped her.
Sharla was thoughtful for a moment. “About a year ago, I accidently mentioned it in passing to Uncle Bill. He got a funny look on his face, but he didn’t say anything. For a while, we didn’t hear too much about Indian girls being bothered by Mr. Talbot, but that lasted for about six months.” She sighed and continued, “Then, a few months ago, it started again. Girls from the tribe started coming home from school talking about being assaulted. I guess Mr. Talbot thinks Uncle Bill doesn’t have much of a memory or is an idiot who doesn’t care about the people in his community. We are just Indians, after all.” For the first time since Martin had met her, Sharla’s voice was filled with bitterness. He didn’t know what to say.
Throughout their conversation, Don had been watching from the end of the bar, and upon seeing that their talk seemed stalled, he walked tentatively toward Martin and Sharla, under the pretense of refilling their beer mugs. “How about another round, you two? This one’s on me,” he said to them with a false sounding note of cheerfulness in his voice. “You need anything else, Martin? Sharla?”
Sharla looked down into her empty mug. Martin struggled as he began to answer, “No…no…we’re just…no…Sharla?”
Sharla sighed, looked up and touched Martin’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Martin. Don, we’re just talking about Frank Talbot and what he’s been up to during his 35 years of teaching at Siren High.” She looked at him with a sad smile on her face. Don reached out and patted her hand which laid flat on the bar. “Sharla, would it bother you to know that I know exactly what that asshole has been up to during his illustrious teaching career?”
Sharla narrowed her eyes and replied tightly, “Just what do you know?”
“Just the talk I overhear in this bar, which is plenty,” Don answered. “Lots of innuendo, gossip. No facts or hard accusations, per se. Just a bunch of low lifes talking. Smarmy bastards…”
“Well then you must know that I’m the one that got away,” Sharla said with sarcastic brightness. “You have no idea how many times guys come in to Wild Bill’s for bait or gas on their way to the lake, and when they see me, they nudge and wink and whisper like I’m deaf or stupid or both.”
“Which you’re not,” Don chimed in. “What I don’t understand is that this is a secret everyone knows, except those in authority.”
“Don’t be so sure, Don,” Sharla responded. “I have a feeling lots of people in high places know about Talbot, but they don’t know what to do. Or are too scared to do anything because it might make Burnett County look less than perfect.”
Martin, who had been sitting there, lost in thought as Don and Sharla talked, suddenly perked up. “That’s exactly what I think!” he said excitedly. “That’s why I’m doing a story on Talbot at the Sentinel.”
Don and Sharla both turned and looked at Martin as if he had two heads. “What?” they both asked, in unison.
“Wait, wait. I’m using the story to dig up dirt so that we can expose Talbot for the person he is,” he explained.
Don’s face lit up with a broad smile, but Sharla started shaking her head. “No, Martin, don’t do that. You’ll get in trouble, and it won’t do any good anyway,” she said, her voice anxious.
Don looked hard at Sharla. “Dear girl, give our friend here some credit. Martin, what’s your plan?”
Sharla’s words about getting into trouble bothered him, but Martin had made a promise to make things right, and somehow, he was going to do it and keep his job. “Here’s my plan…”
Don and Sharla listened as Martin laid out his ideas for gathering historical information on Talbot from past issues of the Sentinel, interviewing his fellow teachers and students and then talking to the superintendent and school board members, under the guise of finding out how they were going to honor Talbot at his retirement. He told them he’d be careful as he dug for facts and planned on acting shocked and surprised when he presented Clark Grayson with what he "discovered". He’d ask for Clark’s good counsel and professional advice on how to proceed when it came time to finally lay his discovery at the feet of the school administrators and ask for their reaction. “With any luck, they will be so overwhelmed by the evidence and so shamed by their lack of action, they will throw Talbot out without any pension and run him out of town,” Martin said at the end of his monologue, a note of triumph in his voice.
Although he had been flying by the seat of his pants so far, Martin’s plan seemed well thought out by Don and Sharla. “Martin, this could just work,” Don said, slapping his hands on the bar and smiling. As he walked off to get some beers for some other customers in the back booth, Sharla acted pleased, but not as convinced. “What if nobody talks?” she asked doubtfully.
It hadn’t even occurred to Martin that people wouldn’t give up information willingly. “Well, I think they will. But if they don’t, well, maybe I’ll just have to push harder or ask people I know have been hurt by Talbot to…say something.”
“Good thinking, Martin,” Sharla replied. “People like me.”
Martin nodded and said, “Sharla, I’ll keep you out of this unless I absolutely have to…” Sharla quickly cut him off. “Martin, I know that. And just so you know, it’s not that I’m afraid to talk about this. But if I’m the only one, I know that people won’t believe it because it’s just an Indian girl making the accusation. So find something before you need to talk to me. I’ll be your corroborating witness!”
“Corroborating witness? Sharla, you’ve got a great vocabulary for a high school dropout,” Martin said jokingly, and then realized how much he could hurt Sharla by saying that. She saw the look of regret in his eyes, and before he could open his mouth to apologize, she punched him in the shoulder and said, “Watch it, Martin. You know I have a great right hook. Just ask Talbot! And besides, just because I dropped out of Siren High doesn’t mean I’m not educated.”
Martin looked at her with confusion and disbelief written all over his face. “What are you talking about?”
“Jeez, Martin, do you think the only way a person can get an education is through the Siren Public School system?” Sharla rolled her eyes at him. “I earned my GED in one year after dropping out. And after that, I started taking night classes up at UW in Superior. I’ll have my bachelor’s degree in about one year.”
“In what?” Martin asked.
“Well, I started out just taking general courses, but then I saw how much Uncle Bill needed an accountant, so I’m getting my degree in finance,” she answered with pride. “Then maybe he can get rid of that worthless white woman who’s been messing up his books while he's been messing with her!”
They both laughed loudly, and Don joined them, happy to see that their moods had lightened. “Can I get you two anything else?”
“I think we’re good, Don,” Martin answered. “I’ve got to get into the Sentinel bright and early tomorrow morning to work on my research. Of course, I have some help…”
“Who’s helping you with this, Martin?” Sharla asked, alarmed. “Can you trust them?”
“I think so,” he answered. “It’s Shirley Campbell, our receptionist. She got a little curious about my project when I asked for the key to the storage shed where we keep all the back issues of the newspaper. For some reason, she really wants to help me.”
“Shirley Campbell?” Don asked. “She wants to help you?”
“That’s her,” Martin replied, a little concerned by Don’s tone. “Why? What about her?”
“Oh, nothing really," Don replied, a little too quickly. "I just don’t see either her as the type to want to ‘get involved’, you know? She and Greg pretty much keep to themselves and like to be left alone.”
Martin was about to agree but still defend his helper when Sharla piped in. “Wait a minute. Shirley Campbell…isn't she connected to Talbot somehow?”
Don looked thoughtful and then decided to admit what he knew. “Frank Talbot's ex-wife, Beverly, is Shirley Campbell's older sister.”
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Chapter 11
Risky Dick’s was quiet, which was typical for any Monday night. But the Monday of Holy Week was particularly quiet, and Don debated every year whether he should just go on vacation every year to observe the passion of our Lord. But every year, a couple of regulars would talk him out of it, and he’d stay open and grumble about how bad business was.
When Martin and Sharla walked in, Don slapped his hand on the bar and yelled, “Hey! Jimmy Olson and Ms. Whitefeather! I am so glad you’re here.”
Sharla started giggling, and Martin couldn’t help but laugh, too. “Don, bring us your best burgers and finest bottles of Grain Belt,” he said in mock formality.
Don brought them two mugs of beer and hustled back in the kitchen to throw 2 burgers on the grill. He wiped his greasy hands on the towel around his waist, and they all could hear the sizzle of the meat on the grill as he settled in on a stool behind the bar across from them. “Sharla, it’s so good to see you. I was afraid you wouldn’t come back here once you found out that occasionally, this place is visited by low lifes.” He frowned and looked into her face. “Are you doing all right there, Miss? I was worried about you after Saturday…”
Sharla shook her head. “Mr. Wardle…Don…you don’t have to worry about me. I can take care of myself.” Martin could tell she was trying to convince herself of that, and he touched her lightly on the shoulder. “No, Martin, I mean it…at least I think I do.”
No one said anything for a minute, and then Don said, “Well, I’ll let you two talk a little while I finish making your dinner. I have some baked beans on the stove. Are you interested?”
“I love baked beans!” Sharla answered. “I’d love some.”
“Me, too,” Martin chimed in, relieved as Don got up to go into the kitchen.
Martin turned to Sharla and looked at her profile as she stared into the kitchen at Don flipping their burgers. “You know, Martin, you’d better quit staring at me, or I’ll never tell you the story.”
He looked up at the ceiling and sighed. “Okay, is this better?”
Sharla giggled. “Much better.” And she took a big slurp of her beer and began the story of the day Mr. Talbot asked her to stay after class.
Sharla Whitefeather was a star pupil at Siren High School and earned straight A’s in every course, including physics. Unlike many of the high school girls in Burnett County, Sharla wasn’t shy about her skills in math and science, and had she not been an Indian, she would have been suggested for Advanced Placement Classes or at the very least, accelerated course work.
But she was an Indian, which meant her intelligence was looked at with suspicion and caution. Sharla knew about the bias against Indians, but she didn’t let it affect her. She had dreams for after high school and knew she just had to make it through.
In the first semester of her sophomore year, Sharla had physics 7th hour, which meant she ended every school day suffering the leering stares and potential groping of Mr. Talbot, something that most girls at Siren High were well familiar with. She made a point of never standing too close to him – she’d heard the stories. And when she had to, she’d stand in front of him instead of by his side. She could stand him oogling her chest, but she was just a little bit out of his readh. And she knew someone like Mr. Talbot would never be so bold as to just reach across his desk and grab her breast in front of the entire class. He was too sneaky, too subtle.
This strategy worked for about four months into the school year, and then, one day, Mr. Talbot asked Sharla if she was interested in learning about college scholarships through the regional and state science fair competitions. Sharla didn’t hesitate to answer “Yes, of course, what would I need to do?” And Mr. Talbot told her he’d go over the entire program with her if she’d like to come back to his classroom at about 3:30 that afternoon. “You’re such a gifted student, I could see you earning enough scholarship dollars that your entire education could be paid for…” he told her, with a smarmy smile on his face.
The thought of getting some money for college was so amazing to her, Sharla’s warning bell turned off, and she didn’t suspect for a minute that Mr. Talbot had other plans for her when she arrived at his classroom. The fact that he had his jacket and tie off, and had one leg hoisted up on his desk when she came in the room seemed odd, but she threw off any feelings of doubt or suspicion. She sat at one of the desks in front of his desk, and asked eagerly, “Okay, Mr. Talbot, tell me about this science fair program.”
He grinned at her menacingly, and replied, “Why don’t you come over here, and I’ll tell you all about it…” She heard the sound of him unbuckling his belt and unzipping his zipper, and immediately knew he didn’t want to talk about science competitions or college scholarships. “I think I’d better go, Mr. Talbot,” Sharla said hurriedly, and started to get up to move to the classroom door.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he growled at her, and got up to reveal his undone pants, which he gathered up around his waist so he wouldn’t trip as he moved toward her.
“Nope, sorry, I’m out of here!” she replied. She stopped to pick up her backpack, and just as she stood up, Talbot was there behind her. His pants dropped as he grabbed her. She struggled to get away, and smelled his coffee breath as she felt his face right next to hers. “Don’t fight it, little girl. This won’t hurt,” he mumbled as he reached around to lift up her top and feel her breasts over her bra.
Sharla got one arm free and wound up to twist around and punch Frank Talbot square in the jaw. “Why you stupid Indian bitch,” he said in stunned surprise. While he relaxed his grip in sheer amazement that she actually hit him and to rub his jaw, Sharla wrestled away and was out the door when she heard Talbot fall to the hardwood floor as he tripped over his pants, trying to chase her.
That was the last Sharla Whitefeather saw Mr. Talbot, or Siren High School, until last Saturday at Risky Dick's.
When Martin and Sharla walked in, Don slapped his hand on the bar and yelled, “Hey! Jimmy Olson and Ms. Whitefeather! I am so glad you’re here.”
Sharla started giggling, and Martin couldn’t help but laugh, too. “Don, bring us your best burgers and finest bottles of Grain Belt,” he said in mock formality.
Don brought them two mugs of beer and hustled back in the kitchen to throw 2 burgers on the grill. He wiped his greasy hands on the towel around his waist, and they all could hear the sizzle of the meat on the grill as he settled in on a stool behind the bar across from them. “Sharla, it’s so good to see you. I was afraid you wouldn’t come back here once you found out that occasionally, this place is visited by low lifes.” He frowned and looked into her face. “Are you doing all right there, Miss? I was worried about you after Saturday…”
Sharla shook her head. “Mr. Wardle…Don…you don’t have to worry about me. I can take care of myself.” Martin could tell she was trying to convince herself of that, and he touched her lightly on the shoulder. “No, Martin, I mean it…at least I think I do.”
No one said anything for a minute, and then Don said, “Well, I’ll let you two talk a little while I finish making your dinner. I have some baked beans on the stove. Are you interested?”
“I love baked beans!” Sharla answered. “I’d love some.”
“Me, too,” Martin chimed in, relieved as Don got up to go into the kitchen.
Martin turned to Sharla and looked at her profile as she stared into the kitchen at Don flipping their burgers. “You know, Martin, you’d better quit staring at me, or I’ll never tell you the story.”
He looked up at the ceiling and sighed. “Okay, is this better?”
Sharla giggled. “Much better.” And she took a big slurp of her beer and began the story of the day Mr. Talbot asked her to stay after class.
Sharla Whitefeather was a star pupil at Siren High School and earned straight A’s in every course, including physics. Unlike many of the high school girls in Burnett County, Sharla wasn’t shy about her skills in math and science, and had she not been an Indian, she would have been suggested for Advanced Placement Classes or at the very least, accelerated course work.
But she was an Indian, which meant her intelligence was looked at with suspicion and caution. Sharla knew about the bias against Indians, but she didn’t let it affect her. She had dreams for after high school and knew she just had to make it through.
In the first semester of her sophomore year, Sharla had physics 7th hour, which meant she ended every school day suffering the leering stares and potential groping of Mr. Talbot, something that most girls at Siren High were well familiar with. She made a point of never standing too close to him – she’d heard the stories. And when she had to, she’d stand in front of him instead of by his side. She could stand him oogling her chest, but she was just a little bit out of his readh. And she knew someone like Mr. Talbot would never be so bold as to just reach across his desk and grab her breast in front of the entire class. He was too sneaky, too subtle.
This strategy worked for about four months into the school year, and then, one day, Mr. Talbot asked Sharla if she was interested in learning about college scholarships through the regional and state science fair competitions. Sharla didn’t hesitate to answer “Yes, of course, what would I need to do?” And Mr. Talbot told her he’d go over the entire program with her if she’d like to come back to his classroom at about 3:30 that afternoon. “You’re such a gifted student, I could see you earning enough scholarship dollars that your entire education could be paid for…” he told her, with a smarmy smile on his face.
The thought of getting some money for college was so amazing to her, Sharla’s warning bell turned off, and she didn’t suspect for a minute that Mr. Talbot had other plans for her when she arrived at his classroom. The fact that he had his jacket and tie off, and had one leg hoisted up on his desk when she came in the room seemed odd, but she threw off any feelings of doubt or suspicion. She sat at one of the desks in front of his desk, and asked eagerly, “Okay, Mr. Talbot, tell me about this science fair program.”
He grinned at her menacingly, and replied, “Why don’t you come over here, and I’ll tell you all about it…” She heard the sound of him unbuckling his belt and unzipping his zipper, and immediately knew he didn’t want to talk about science competitions or college scholarships. “I think I’d better go, Mr. Talbot,” Sharla said hurriedly, and started to get up to move to the classroom door.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he growled at her, and got up to reveal his undone pants, which he gathered up around his waist so he wouldn’t trip as he moved toward her.
“Nope, sorry, I’m out of here!” she replied. She stopped to pick up her backpack, and just as she stood up, Talbot was there behind her. His pants dropped as he grabbed her. She struggled to get away, and smelled his coffee breath as she felt his face right next to hers. “Don’t fight it, little girl. This won’t hurt,” he mumbled as he reached around to lift up her top and feel her breasts over her bra.
Sharla got one arm free and wound up to twist around and punch Frank Talbot square in the jaw. “Why you stupid Indian bitch,” he said in stunned surprise. While he relaxed his grip in sheer amazement that she actually hit him and to rub his jaw, Sharla wrestled away and was out the door when she heard Talbot fall to the hardwood floor as he tripped over his pants, trying to chase her.
That was the last Sharla Whitefeather saw Mr. Talbot, or Siren High School, until last Saturday at Risky Dick's.
Chapter 10
Martin had shared enough with Shirley during lunch to lay out the disgusting history of Frank Talbot’s disgusting deeds. She was very interested in what he had to say, but didn’t seem particularly surprised. Martin asked if she knew Frank or had been in school when he was a new teacher. “Oh, I knew him,” she answered wryly. “Never had the pleasure of being his student, however. I graduated in the spring of 1973, just before he started teaching.” Martin was too focused on the task at hand to ask how Shirley knew Frank, and proceeded to lay out his ideas for researching the old newspapers.
Martin and Shirley weren’t quite sure what exactly they would be looking for, but they agreed to review each issue, beginning in the spring of 1973, close to the time when Frank’s hiring was announced. They decided to look for any little story about school activities, unsolved assaults, unanswered accusations, etc. Front page, police reports, school news. Anything that would raise a red flag to someone who knew the real Frank Talbot.
Martin and Shirley also agreed that they had to be a little careful in doing their digging on Frank Talbot. “We don’t want Clark getting suspicious. You got that, Martin?” she asked as they approached the door to the Sentinel building. “The less he knows about our motives, the better. Which means I can’t look like I’m helping you that much.” Martin’s hope for help died. “You can’t help me?” he asked pathetically.
Shirley gave him a disgusted look. “I said I can’t look like I’m helping you. Think of it as theatre, Martin. You bring me in as if I’d just be interested in looking at the advertisements from 30 years ago, or something.”
“I get it,” Martin replied, relieved and nodding. “I’ll bring papers in, 20 or 30 at a time, and bring you some that I think you’ll find…um…interesting, funny.”
“Make that 10 at a time, Martin,” she corrected him. “Any more than that will make a mess out of my system out there.”
So Martin spent the better part of the day bringing in Sentinels, 10 at a time, and casually dropping some off at Shirley’s desk. After pointing something out, she’d ask him if she could just look through them as she answered the phones. “It’s so quiet, Martin, I need something to keep me awake,” she said and gave him a wink.
And it went on like that for the rest of the afternoon. Between the 2 of them, they made it through about 30 issues and figured they could get through another 60 between the 2 of them the next day. They’d each made notes about anything they found, and agreed to compare notes at 7:00 p.m. at Risky Dick’s the next evening. “Have you been there, Shirley?” Martin asked her as they got ready to leave for the day. “No,” she answered, “but I’ve always wanted to peek in. Is it as gross as everyone says it is?”
“Gross?” Martin replied, surprised and a little offended. “Of course it’s not gross! Would I go there if it were gross?”
“Only if you didn’t have a choice,” she shot back. And he could hear her laugh as she walked out the door and started her 1970 Volkswagon Beetle.
Martin swung by Wild Bill’s to fill up with gas before going home. He hadn’t seen or talked to Sharla since the incident with Talbot on Saturday night, and he’d been dying to talk to her for the past 2 days. He thought about calling her up on Sunday morning to see if she still wanted to go into Forest Lake, but chickened out. He just knew that their trip to the Wal-Mart to buy curtains and a new bedspread was cancelled, so he didn’t even bother to call her about that.
And then there was the fact that he just knew that she knew that he had figured out what had happened with Talbot and probably was too embarrassed to see him.
When Martin pulled up by Wild Bill’s gas pumps, he saw Sharla’s red Ford pick-up. He slowly filled his Mazda with gas, taking his time and trying to figure out what to say to her. He took a full 5 minutes to wash his windshield and check the air in his tires, and he still didn’t have a good opening line. So he decided to just go in and do whatever it took to get Sharla to open up to him and lean on him in her hour of trouble.
When Martin walked through the door of the station, he expected Sharla to be sitting on a stool or something behind the register, shoulders slumped, hair covering her face. Instead, Sharla was in her trademark hoodie and short shorts, hair pulled back in a ponytail, her bangs brushing her eyelashes, standing behind the counter with her hands on her hips. “Well, it’s about time you came in here,” she said to him in a tone that bordered on sassy. “I thought we had plans yesterday. What happened to you?”
“Well, Sharla, um, I don’t know, um, I thought you’d probably be too ashamed to see me,” he answered her, halting and confused.
“What would I have to be ashamed about?” she demanded.
“Well, you know, Frank Talbot…” he replied, embarrassed himself.
“Humph! Frank Talbot! He should be ashamed, not me, Martin,” she said, in an angry, but hurt voice.
Martin looked down at the counter and knew she was right. He wanted to kick himself for being such a dope and tried to figure out the right thing to say. Instead, he said nothing. Sharla jumped in to fill the silence. “Martin, you were probably right to think that I didn’t want to see you yesterday. I didn’t want to see anyone. But it would have been nice if you would have called to see what was up.”
The station was perfectly quiet, and Martin knew that Sharla was going to be closing up soon. “Sharla, do you want to have dinner with me at Risky Dick’s? I want to hear the full story, from you, about what happened when you left high school.” She smiled at him and said, “Okay, but who’s picking up the tab?”
“Maybe Don,” Martin answered, relieved, and helped her close up the gas station for the day.
Martin and Shirley weren’t quite sure what exactly they would be looking for, but they agreed to review each issue, beginning in the spring of 1973, close to the time when Frank’s hiring was announced. They decided to look for any little story about school activities, unsolved assaults, unanswered accusations, etc. Front page, police reports, school news. Anything that would raise a red flag to someone who knew the real Frank Talbot.
Martin and Shirley also agreed that they had to be a little careful in doing their digging on Frank Talbot. “We don’t want Clark getting suspicious. You got that, Martin?” she asked as they approached the door to the Sentinel building. “The less he knows about our motives, the better. Which means I can’t look like I’m helping you that much.” Martin’s hope for help died. “You can’t help me?” he asked pathetically.
Shirley gave him a disgusted look. “I said I can’t look like I’m helping you. Think of it as theatre, Martin. You bring me in as if I’d just be interested in looking at the advertisements from 30 years ago, or something.”
“I get it,” Martin replied, relieved and nodding. “I’ll bring papers in, 20 or 30 at a time, and bring you some that I think you’ll find…um…interesting, funny.”
“Make that 10 at a time, Martin,” she corrected him. “Any more than that will make a mess out of my system out there.”
So Martin spent the better part of the day bringing in Sentinels, 10 at a time, and casually dropping some off at Shirley’s desk. After pointing something out, she’d ask him if she could just look through them as she answered the phones. “It’s so quiet, Martin, I need something to keep me awake,” she said and gave him a wink.
And it went on like that for the rest of the afternoon. Between the 2 of them, they made it through about 30 issues and figured they could get through another 60 between the 2 of them the next day. They’d each made notes about anything they found, and agreed to compare notes at 7:00 p.m. at Risky Dick’s the next evening. “Have you been there, Shirley?” Martin asked her as they got ready to leave for the day. “No,” she answered, “but I’ve always wanted to peek in. Is it as gross as everyone says it is?”
“Gross?” Martin replied, surprised and a little offended. “Of course it’s not gross! Would I go there if it were gross?”
“Only if you didn’t have a choice,” she shot back. And he could hear her laugh as she walked out the door and started her 1970 Volkswagon Beetle.
Martin swung by Wild Bill’s to fill up with gas before going home. He hadn’t seen or talked to Sharla since the incident with Talbot on Saturday night, and he’d been dying to talk to her for the past 2 days. He thought about calling her up on Sunday morning to see if she still wanted to go into Forest Lake, but chickened out. He just knew that their trip to the Wal-Mart to buy curtains and a new bedspread was cancelled, so he didn’t even bother to call her about that.
And then there was the fact that he just knew that she knew that he had figured out what had happened with Talbot and probably was too embarrassed to see him.
When Martin pulled up by Wild Bill’s gas pumps, he saw Sharla’s red Ford pick-up. He slowly filled his Mazda with gas, taking his time and trying to figure out what to say to her. He took a full 5 minutes to wash his windshield and check the air in his tires, and he still didn’t have a good opening line. So he decided to just go in and do whatever it took to get Sharla to open up to him and lean on him in her hour of trouble.
When Martin walked through the door of the station, he expected Sharla to be sitting on a stool or something behind the register, shoulders slumped, hair covering her face. Instead, Sharla was in her trademark hoodie and short shorts, hair pulled back in a ponytail, her bangs brushing her eyelashes, standing behind the counter with her hands on her hips. “Well, it’s about time you came in here,” she said to him in a tone that bordered on sassy. “I thought we had plans yesterday. What happened to you?”
“Well, Sharla, um, I don’t know, um, I thought you’d probably be too ashamed to see me,” he answered her, halting and confused.
“What would I have to be ashamed about?” she demanded.
“Well, you know, Frank Talbot…” he replied, embarrassed himself.
“Humph! Frank Talbot! He should be ashamed, not me, Martin,” she said, in an angry, but hurt voice.
Martin looked down at the counter and knew she was right. He wanted to kick himself for being such a dope and tried to figure out the right thing to say. Instead, he said nothing. Sharla jumped in to fill the silence. “Martin, you were probably right to think that I didn’t want to see you yesterday. I didn’t want to see anyone. But it would have been nice if you would have called to see what was up.”
The station was perfectly quiet, and Martin knew that Sharla was going to be closing up soon. “Sharla, do you want to have dinner with me at Risky Dick’s? I want to hear the full story, from you, about what happened when you left high school.” She smiled at him and said, “Okay, but who’s picking up the tab?”
“Maybe Don,” Martin answered, relieved, and helped her close up the gas station for the day.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Chapter 9
It was about 10:00 a.m. when Martin collected a left over caramel roll from the break room and made his way back into the Sentinel reception area. Shirley was finishing up a call from a local restaurant owner who wanted to beef up their advertising rotation in preparation for the summer traffic. She transferred the call to Ronnie Hemple, carefully took off her headset and looked up at Martin suspiciously. “Caramel rolls, Martin? What do you want?”
Martin was surprised at how transparent he was, at least to Shirley Campbell. “Wow, Shirley, can’t a guy just feel generous one morning?” he asked, laughing nervously.
“No Martin, a guy doesn’t just wake up one morning and after two years of being pretty much a snob and not having any desire to hang out with his fellow employees ever, no, he can’t just feel generous one morning without wanting something. Those boneheads in there might be fooled by your sudden generosity, but not me.”
Martin opened his mouth to reply, but closed it quickly when he realized he wasn’t going to get anything past Shirley. His mind worked quickly on a strategy, and he decided to just stick to the facts. He needed the keys to the storage locker and access to the microfiche.
“I’m working on a story about a Siren High science teacher who is retiring this spring. Human interest. Touchy feely stuff about how many lives he’s… impacted.” Martin paused, closed his eyes for a minute to gather some courage and continued, “I want to look at some old papers from when he started. See what was happening at the time he began teaching, see if he ever did anything that was covered by the Sentinel. Just research, you know, building the foundation, whatever…” Martin knew he was rambling.
Shirley squinted at him behind her granny glasses, then opened the center desk drawer, pulled out the keys to the shed and held them out for Martin to catch as she dropped them in his hand. “Sounds good, Martin. Here are the keys. Feel free to let me know when you need access to the microfiche. But just so you know? I’ll need a little more information about what you’re really up to before I hand that over.”
It was clear to Martin as he put the key into the Schlage padlock to open the metal shed in the Sentinel parking lot that no one had been in the building for years. The lock was rusty, and Martin had to work hard to turn the key to get it open. The door of the 8’ X 10’ shed creaked as he opened it and dragged it across the asphalt. Martin looked in to see stacks and stacks of old Sentinels, one placed on top of the other, all threatening to fall down at the slightest touch. Martin took a deep breath, and inhaled dust and mold that tickled his nostrils and instantly made him sneeze. “This will be murder on my allergies,” he thought.
As he looked at the stacks that hugged the perimeter of the shed, he saw an antiquated folding chair, brown metal with a ripped red vinyl seat and back, which he pulled out and set up just outside the door so he’d have a place to sit while he looked at the papers. It, too, was hard to open and unfold, and Martin wondered how long he’d be able to sit and work out in the shed with such an uncomfortable chair. He knew that there were about 2,800 newspapers out there – 53 years with 52 weeks of papers. But then he remembered he was only going to need to look at 1973 to 1980. Only about 10%. “I can do this,” he thought. “Not a big deal. I just hope someone had the good sense to keep the papers in order…”
Martin entered the shed again, reached up to the top of one stack right in the middle of the line-up and pulled down 5 papers. Mouse droppings fell on his head as the papers came down, and he shuddered in disgust. If Sharla hadn’t been in the back of his mind, he would have dropped the papers, folded up the chair, closed the squeaky door, locked the padlock and raced home quickly to take a shower and change his clothes. But she was in the back of his mind, so he didn’t stop, even though he really wanted to.
He used his forearm, covered with the sleeve of his jacket, to sweep off the dust and the remains of the mouse turds from the newsprint. Looking at the upper left corner, he saw the date – June 4, 1960. The four papers under that edition at the top of the stack were all in consecutive order, leading up to June 4. He stood on tiptoe to carefully place the papers back on their stack, and moved to the right to take down another 5 papers. The papers were from 1964, ascending in order. “Can I really be this lucky?” Martin thought to himself.
As he quickly moved over 4 stacks after replacing the 5 from 1964, Martin tripped and fell into the stacks on the right hand side of the shed. He tried to reach out to stop the cascade of falling newspapers, dust and mouse droppings, but failed miserably. He fell back onto his rear and tried to protect himself with his arms over his head, but it was hopeless. The dust surrounded him, and he was coughing uncontrollably, when he saw a pair navy blue clogs and tights under a corduroy jumper appear at the shed door. “Problems, Martin?”
Martin continued to cough and spit out dust for about 30 seconds before he could answer. “Just a little clumsy, Shirley. I was so excited to see that these old papers were in chronological order, I moved a little too quickly, tripped and …well, you can see what happened.”
“Yes, I can see what happened,” she replied, irritated. “It took me almost 2 full days to put these in order and now, I’ll have to spend another day just picking up after you.”
“No, Shirley, please, I’ll do it.” Martin spoke quickly without thinking as he picked himself up and brushed off the back of his pants. “I just got so excited about the possibility of finding out what I needed to know to nail Frank…” He stopped short and looked into Shirley’s face. “Frank who, Martin?” she asked, as she looked at him sideways through narrowed eyes. When he didn’t answer, she asked again. “Frank who, Martin?”
Martin stared down at his brown suede saddle shoes and tried to form his words carefully. He knew that Shirley was Clark’s watchdog, and if he tipped his hand to her, she’d tell Clark in a heartbeat. He looked back into her face and saw that her eyes were hard and demanding an answer. “Just give her the facts,” he thought.
“Shirley, I’m working on a story about Frank Talbot. He’s the teacher who is retiring.”
“And why, exactly, do you want to nail him, Martin? Did he give you a bad grade or something?” her voice was soft but a little caustic. There was something in the look on Shirley’s face that made him wonder if she knew something about Talbot.
Martin continued to brush dust off, buying some time. “No, Shirley, he didn’t give me a bad grade. I just want to share the many aspects of his impact on the student population in Burnett County as he sails off into retirement,” he replied carefully. “I shouldn’t have used the word “nail”. It implies some wrongdoing. And I’m a member of the press, so I can’t be that judgmental. I just want to do some fact finding, that’s all.”
Shirley smirked. “Martin, do you really think you’re going to find any facts in the Sentinel?”
Upon realizing that he might have an ally, Martin asked Shirley if he could take her to lunch after she helped him restack some of the fallen newspapers. “Wow, Martin, you really are a generous guy today,” she said sarcastically, but agreed to join him for lunch at the Adventures Restaurant in Siren.
It was “South of the Border Day” for specials, so they each ordered a Northwoods of Wisconsin version of Mexican food. They traded pleasantries and small talk, but soon the conversation turned to work and the newspaper. By the time they finished lunch, Martin thought that Shirley might be as disgusted as he was with Clark’s “hands off the real news” approach to the Sentinel. “Why run a newspaper like the newletter for the Burnett County Convention and Visitors’ Bureau?” she asked him between bites of her chicken quesadilla.
As they waited for the check, Shirley took a slurp of her coffee and asked him, with her voice hard, “So Martin, what about Frank Talbot?” As the question hung in the air, he looked up at the ceiling and thought that maybe he had misjudged Shirley’s potential sympathy. “I mean it, Martin. I need to know what’s going on here if I’m going to help you.”
Martin looked down at her and saw that her face was earnest and open. “Help me?” he asked.
“Of course,” she answered him impatiently. “Look, for the past 2 years, you have come in every day. You don’t talk to anyone, you don’t mix with anyone, you just come in and in your uppity, snobbish, “too good for the rest of you” way, you go about your business and pretend you’re a ‘journalist’.” Martin could see that Shirley was on a roll, but he wasn’t going to stop her because she said that she might help him. “Today, you come in and clearly, you have uncovered something that has you so whipped up, you’re willing to hang out with us peasants to get something done that you feel needs doing. Well, it must be important, and if it is, then I think I should help you because you sure need it.”
Martin started to protest, but knew she was dead on. ““Martin, I got news for you,” she continued, almost in a frenzy. “Covering church socials and school board meetings is not journalism. If you have something that the community needs to know, then it’s your journalistic duty to tell them!”
Martin looked around the restaurant to see if anyone was paying attention as Shirley’s passion seemed to escalate. When he saw that everyone was lost in their own conversation, he responded in a whisper, “What if it costs me my job?”
“That’s where I can help,” she answered, and gave him a satisfied smile and a quick wink. “Don’t worry about it, Martin. You just let me help you, and Clark won’t know what happened. He’ll just take the kudos when it’s all over, and the dust has settled.”
As Martin and Shirley walked back to the Sentinel building, he learned quickly that it was more than just Shirley’s wardrobe that hadn’t left the 70’s. He discovered that she was a bit of a rebel, someone who was born too late to fully experience the truly turbulent times of the 60’s and was frustrated by the lack of opportunity for protest in the 70’s as the country moved into disco fever soon after she graduated from Siren High. At 18, she thought that working at a newspaper would give her the opportunity she wanted to do something with her life, to make a difference, to expose injustice, greed and depravity. But she, like Martin, found out all too quickly that the Sentinel was a mouthpiece for the vacation industry in Burnett County. And youthful ideals and passion gave way to the comfort of having a regular paycheck and middle-age complacency.
At 53, Shirley was ready to find her 18-year-old, idealistic, passionate self again, even if it meant teaming up with a snotty nerd like Martin Lundeen.
Martin was surprised at how transparent he was, at least to Shirley Campbell. “Wow, Shirley, can’t a guy just feel generous one morning?” he asked, laughing nervously.
“No Martin, a guy doesn’t just wake up one morning and after two years of being pretty much a snob and not having any desire to hang out with his fellow employees ever, no, he can’t just feel generous one morning without wanting something. Those boneheads in there might be fooled by your sudden generosity, but not me.”
Martin opened his mouth to reply, but closed it quickly when he realized he wasn’t going to get anything past Shirley. His mind worked quickly on a strategy, and he decided to just stick to the facts. He needed the keys to the storage locker and access to the microfiche.
“I’m working on a story about a Siren High science teacher who is retiring this spring. Human interest. Touchy feely stuff about how many lives he’s… impacted.” Martin paused, closed his eyes for a minute to gather some courage and continued, “I want to look at some old papers from when he started. See what was happening at the time he began teaching, see if he ever did anything that was covered by the Sentinel. Just research, you know, building the foundation, whatever…” Martin knew he was rambling.
Shirley squinted at him behind her granny glasses, then opened the center desk drawer, pulled out the keys to the shed and held them out for Martin to catch as she dropped them in his hand. “Sounds good, Martin. Here are the keys. Feel free to let me know when you need access to the microfiche. But just so you know? I’ll need a little more information about what you’re really up to before I hand that over.”
It was clear to Martin as he put the key into the Schlage padlock to open the metal shed in the Sentinel parking lot that no one had been in the building for years. The lock was rusty, and Martin had to work hard to turn the key to get it open. The door of the 8’ X 10’ shed creaked as he opened it and dragged it across the asphalt. Martin looked in to see stacks and stacks of old Sentinels, one placed on top of the other, all threatening to fall down at the slightest touch. Martin took a deep breath, and inhaled dust and mold that tickled his nostrils and instantly made him sneeze. “This will be murder on my allergies,” he thought.
As he looked at the stacks that hugged the perimeter of the shed, he saw an antiquated folding chair, brown metal with a ripped red vinyl seat and back, which he pulled out and set up just outside the door so he’d have a place to sit while he looked at the papers. It, too, was hard to open and unfold, and Martin wondered how long he’d be able to sit and work out in the shed with such an uncomfortable chair. He knew that there were about 2,800 newspapers out there – 53 years with 52 weeks of papers. But then he remembered he was only going to need to look at 1973 to 1980. Only about 10%. “I can do this,” he thought. “Not a big deal. I just hope someone had the good sense to keep the papers in order…”
Martin entered the shed again, reached up to the top of one stack right in the middle of the line-up and pulled down 5 papers. Mouse droppings fell on his head as the papers came down, and he shuddered in disgust. If Sharla hadn’t been in the back of his mind, he would have dropped the papers, folded up the chair, closed the squeaky door, locked the padlock and raced home quickly to take a shower and change his clothes. But she was in the back of his mind, so he didn’t stop, even though he really wanted to.
He used his forearm, covered with the sleeve of his jacket, to sweep off the dust and the remains of the mouse turds from the newsprint. Looking at the upper left corner, he saw the date – June 4, 1960. The four papers under that edition at the top of the stack were all in consecutive order, leading up to June 4. He stood on tiptoe to carefully place the papers back on their stack, and moved to the right to take down another 5 papers. The papers were from 1964, ascending in order. “Can I really be this lucky?” Martin thought to himself.
As he quickly moved over 4 stacks after replacing the 5 from 1964, Martin tripped and fell into the stacks on the right hand side of the shed. He tried to reach out to stop the cascade of falling newspapers, dust and mouse droppings, but failed miserably. He fell back onto his rear and tried to protect himself with his arms over his head, but it was hopeless. The dust surrounded him, and he was coughing uncontrollably, when he saw a pair navy blue clogs and tights under a corduroy jumper appear at the shed door. “Problems, Martin?”
Martin continued to cough and spit out dust for about 30 seconds before he could answer. “Just a little clumsy, Shirley. I was so excited to see that these old papers were in chronological order, I moved a little too quickly, tripped and …well, you can see what happened.”
“Yes, I can see what happened,” she replied, irritated. “It took me almost 2 full days to put these in order and now, I’ll have to spend another day just picking up after you.”
“No, Shirley, please, I’ll do it.” Martin spoke quickly without thinking as he picked himself up and brushed off the back of his pants. “I just got so excited about the possibility of finding out what I needed to know to nail Frank…” He stopped short and looked into Shirley’s face. “Frank who, Martin?” she asked, as she looked at him sideways through narrowed eyes. When he didn’t answer, she asked again. “Frank who, Martin?”
Martin stared down at his brown suede saddle shoes and tried to form his words carefully. He knew that Shirley was Clark’s watchdog, and if he tipped his hand to her, she’d tell Clark in a heartbeat. He looked back into her face and saw that her eyes were hard and demanding an answer. “Just give her the facts,” he thought.
“Shirley, I’m working on a story about Frank Talbot. He’s the teacher who is retiring.”
“And why, exactly, do you want to nail him, Martin? Did he give you a bad grade or something?” her voice was soft but a little caustic. There was something in the look on Shirley’s face that made him wonder if she knew something about Talbot.
Martin continued to brush dust off, buying some time. “No, Shirley, he didn’t give me a bad grade. I just want to share the many aspects of his impact on the student population in Burnett County as he sails off into retirement,” he replied carefully. “I shouldn’t have used the word “nail”. It implies some wrongdoing. And I’m a member of the press, so I can’t be that judgmental. I just want to do some fact finding, that’s all.”
Shirley smirked. “Martin, do you really think you’re going to find any facts in the Sentinel?”
Upon realizing that he might have an ally, Martin asked Shirley if he could take her to lunch after she helped him restack some of the fallen newspapers. “Wow, Martin, you really are a generous guy today,” she said sarcastically, but agreed to join him for lunch at the Adventures Restaurant in Siren.
It was “South of the Border Day” for specials, so they each ordered a Northwoods of Wisconsin version of Mexican food. They traded pleasantries and small talk, but soon the conversation turned to work and the newspaper. By the time they finished lunch, Martin thought that Shirley might be as disgusted as he was with Clark’s “hands off the real news” approach to the Sentinel. “Why run a newspaper like the newletter for the Burnett County Convention and Visitors’ Bureau?” she asked him between bites of her chicken quesadilla.
As they waited for the check, Shirley took a slurp of her coffee and asked him, with her voice hard, “So Martin, what about Frank Talbot?” As the question hung in the air, he looked up at the ceiling and thought that maybe he had misjudged Shirley’s potential sympathy. “I mean it, Martin. I need to know what’s going on here if I’m going to help you.”
Martin looked down at her and saw that her face was earnest and open. “Help me?” he asked.
“Of course,” she answered him impatiently. “Look, for the past 2 years, you have come in every day. You don’t talk to anyone, you don’t mix with anyone, you just come in and in your uppity, snobbish, “too good for the rest of you” way, you go about your business and pretend you’re a ‘journalist’.” Martin could see that Shirley was on a roll, but he wasn’t going to stop her because she said that she might help him. “Today, you come in and clearly, you have uncovered something that has you so whipped up, you’re willing to hang out with us peasants to get something done that you feel needs doing. Well, it must be important, and if it is, then I think I should help you because you sure need it.”
Martin started to protest, but knew she was dead on. ““Martin, I got news for you,” she continued, almost in a frenzy. “Covering church socials and school board meetings is not journalism. If you have something that the community needs to know, then it’s your journalistic duty to tell them!”
Martin looked around the restaurant to see if anyone was paying attention as Shirley’s passion seemed to escalate. When he saw that everyone was lost in their own conversation, he responded in a whisper, “What if it costs me my job?”
“That’s where I can help,” she answered, and gave him a satisfied smile and a quick wink. “Don’t worry about it, Martin. You just let me help you, and Clark won’t know what happened. He’ll just take the kudos when it’s all over, and the dust has settled.”
As Martin and Shirley walked back to the Sentinel building, he learned quickly that it was more than just Shirley’s wardrobe that hadn’t left the 70’s. He discovered that she was a bit of a rebel, someone who was born too late to fully experience the truly turbulent times of the 60’s and was frustrated by the lack of opportunity for protest in the 70’s as the country moved into disco fever soon after she graduated from Siren High. At 18, she thought that working at a newspaper would give her the opportunity she wanted to do something with her life, to make a difference, to expose injustice, greed and depravity. But she, like Martin, found out all too quickly that the Sentinel was a mouthpiece for the vacation industry in Burnett County. And youthful ideals and passion gave way to the comfort of having a regular paycheck and middle-age complacency.
At 53, Shirley was ready to find her 18-year-old, idealistic, passionate self again, even if it meant teaming up with a snotty nerd like Martin Lundeen.
Chapter 8
When Martin got up and went to work the next morning, his mind was crowded with things he wanted to do the minute he got into his cube at the Sentinel. He didn’t even stop for breakfast with Don, not because he wasn’t hungry, but because he was anxious to get started on the action plan he concocted after leaving his mother’s house. He was going to fact-find, research and gather data on all things Frank Talbot and expose the guy for the monster he was. He was going to do everything he could to make it up to Sharla, and he was going to start today.
Martin knew that this would be no easy task. Copies of every Burnett County Sentinel published between 1928 and 1980 were stored in the small metal storage shed at the end of the building’s parking lot. Editions from 1980 to 2000 were kept on microfiche. And from 2001 on, electronic versions were filed within the paper’s computer system. Being holy week, all regular activities were suspended so there would be no assignments to Chamber of Commerce or School Board meetings. Martin’s only challenge would be to explain to Clark Grayson why he had a sudden interest in Frank Talbot and why he needed to dig into back issues of the Sentinel.
On his way to the office, Martin stopped at the Chattering Squirrel to pick up some hot caramel rolls that he knew would grease the skids in getting Clark to give up the keys to the shed and access to the microfiche machine. He even had the Connie, the young girl at the register, fill several cups of coffee to go and grabbed a handful of creamers to take with him. Clark loved his coffee tan colored with lots cream and would appreciate having the real stuff instead of the powdered version offered up at the Sentinel break room.
Martin juggled the rolls and coffee and carefully opened the glass door into the Sentinel building only to run into Sam Jackson. “Whoa, Marty, let me help you there,” Sam said brightly, trying to grab some of the items that threatened to fall out of Martin’s hands. “What do you got going there, Buddy? Are we having a party or something?”
“Thanks, Sam,” Martin answered, happy to have some help, even if it was from Sam. “Nope, just thought I bring in some treats today to help us get through the first day of a boring week.”
Sam’s lips widened into a goofy grin that showed off his yellow teeth. “Wow, that’s nice of you, Marty. I didn’t have breakfast today.”
Martin and Sam walked through the empty reception area, and Sam added, “Glad I got here early. We’d better save some goodies for Shirl.” Shirley Campbell was the face of the Burnett County Sentinel, the one who answered the phones and greeted guests. Part receptionist, part guard dog, she’d worked at the paper for 34 years, and hadn’t changed her look once during that time. The receptionist job was her first after graduating from Siren High School, and she never felt the need to move up or move on. Shirley’s husband, Greg, graduated with her the same year and worked for Jeff Howe in his construction company where he did beautiful inside finishing work on many homes and lodges built by Howe Construction in Burnett County. They never had children, and if anyone had been invited to their modest cabin on Devil’s Lake outside of Webster, they would have told you that they pretty much liked their life just the way it was.
Martin swore that the fringed suede vest Shirley sported at least once a week was probably the one she wore to the spring woodsy of her senior year in high school, the woodsy where she finally gave up her virginity to Greg. Long, gray, stringy hair, parted in the middle, granny glasses and some version of love beads were a permanent part of her daily get up. Shirley alternated between wearing the long, flowing skirts that she loved with her fringed suede vest or oversized corduroy jumpers with cotton turtlenecks, tights and Swedish clogs. It’s like she never left the 70s. Clark called her a “cracker jack” on the phone. She never missed a call or transposed numbers, and made sure anyone walking into the Sentinel Building had business there. No one was allowed in unless they had an appointment.
Martin and Sam walked into the break room, set down the coffee and rolls and within seconds, three of their fellow early risers joined them to inhale the delicious smell of fresh coffee and the sugary, doughy goodness of the pasty. Jerry Hampton, the sports writer, Einar Anderson, an assistant editor and Ronnie Hemple, in sales, were always the first three people at work each morning, just after Clark. Martin could never decide if they were really that ambitious or just anxious to get away from their wives each day.
A strange feeling of brotherhood spread among the group and as they dug in, the unusual sound of boisterous talking and laughing spread throughout the office. “What the hell is going on in there?” boomed Clark Grayson’s voice from his glass walled office in the corner. Everyone fell silent for the moment, and then burst out laughing. “Martin just stopped at the Squirrel to pick up some rolls on his way in, and…” Sam couldn’t finish his sentence before they heard Clark’s chair scrape across the hardwood floor and his heavy footsteps hurry across the room. “Cinnamon or caramel rolls?” he asked when he got to the door.
After consuming one or two rolls each and getting refills on their coffee, everyone went to their desks to start their work for the day. Clark walked with Martin to his cube and asked, “So what’s on the docket this week, Martin? You know, Holy Week is a great time to do some work you can’t get to when things are busier.” Martin couldn’t have asked for a better opening, and Clark hadn’t disappointed him in delivering the same encouragement the Monday of Holy Week for the past 2 years. “Well, I do have an idea for a spring story,” Martin began. “I was thinking about doing a feature on a teacher who is retiring this year after spending his entire career here. Someone like Frank Talbot…”
Clark squinted his eyes, looked at Martin sideways and said, “Hmmm…sort of an historical tribute? A thank you for all the years of service? A retrospective on how he has touched the youth of our community?”
Martin squashed the sick feeling in his stomach. “Yeah, something like that.”
Clark started nodding his head and said, “Good! I like it. Go for it, and keep me posted on how it develops.” He turned and walked quickly towards his office and then turned back. “Why Frank Talbot?” he asked with a curious cock to his head.
Martin took in a deep breath and replied, “Oh, I don’t know. The name just popped out at me when I was reading the school board minutes. Stories keep coming up about Mr. Talbot whenever I talk to former students. And I did have him as a science teacher myself…”
Clark nodded again, and turned and walked away again. “Yeah, that’s good, that’s good. Just have Shirley get you what you need if you need to dig into the archives,” he called over his shoulder as he went into his office and closed the door.
Martin couldn’t believe his luck and how easy it had been to access the tools that would lead to exposing Frank Talbot for who he was. Now, he just needed to navigate the waters of access with Shirley.
Martin knew that this would be no easy task. Copies of every Burnett County Sentinel published between 1928 and 1980 were stored in the small metal storage shed at the end of the building’s parking lot. Editions from 1980 to 2000 were kept on microfiche. And from 2001 on, electronic versions were filed within the paper’s computer system. Being holy week, all regular activities were suspended so there would be no assignments to Chamber of Commerce or School Board meetings. Martin’s only challenge would be to explain to Clark Grayson why he had a sudden interest in Frank Talbot and why he needed to dig into back issues of the Sentinel.
On his way to the office, Martin stopped at the Chattering Squirrel to pick up some hot caramel rolls that he knew would grease the skids in getting Clark to give up the keys to the shed and access to the microfiche machine. He even had the Connie, the young girl at the register, fill several cups of coffee to go and grabbed a handful of creamers to take with him. Clark loved his coffee tan colored with lots cream and would appreciate having the real stuff instead of the powdered version offered up at the Sentinel break room.
Martin juggled the rolls and coffee and carefully opened the glass door into the Sentinel building only to run into Sam Jackson. “Whoa, Marty, let me help you there,” Sam said brightly, trying to grab some of the items that threatened to fall out of Martin’s hands. “What do you got going there, Buddy? Are we having a party or something?”
“Thanks, Sam,” Martin answered, happy to have some help, even if it was from Sam. “Nope, just thought I bring in some treats today to help us get through the first day of a boring week.”
Sam’s lips widened into a goofy grin that showed off his yellow teeth. “Wow, that’s nice of you, Marty. I didn’t have breakfast today.”
Martin and Sam walked through the empty reception area, and Sam added, “Glad I got here early. We’d better save some goodies for Shirl.” Shirley Campbell was the face of the Burnett County Sentinel, the one who answered the phones and greeted guests. Part receptionist, part guard dog, she’d worked at the paper for 34 years, and hadn’t changed her look once during that time. The receptionist job was her first after graduating from Siren High School, and she never felt the need to move up or move on. Shirley’s husband, Greg, graduated with her the same year and worked for Jeff Howe in his construction company where he did beautiful inside finishing work on many homes and lodges built by Howe Construction in Burnett County. They never had children, and if anyone had been invited to their modest cabin on Devil’s Lake outside of Webster, they would have told you that they pretty much liked their life just the way it was.
Martin swore that the fringed suede vest Shirley sported at least once a week was probably the one she wore to the spring woodsy of her senior year in high school, the woodsy where she finally gave up her virginity to Greg. Long, gray, stringy hair, parted in the middle, granny glasses and some version of love beads were a permanent part of her daily get up. Shirley alternated between wearing the long, flowing skirts that she loved with her fringed suede vest or oversized corduroy jumpers with cotton turtlenecks, tights and Swedish clogs. It’s like she never left the 70s. Clark called her a “cracker jack” on the phone. She never missed a call or transposed numbers, and made sure anyone walking into the Sentinel Building had business there. No one was allowed in unless they had an appointment.
Martin and Sam walked into the break room, set down the coffee and rolls and within seconds, three of their fellow early risers joined them to inhale the delicious smell of fresh coffee and the sugary, doughy goodness of the pasty. Jerry Hampton, the sports writer, Einar Anderson, an assistant editor and Ronnie Hemple, in sales, were always the first three people at work each morning, just after Clark. Martin could never decide if they were really that ambitious or just anxious to get away from their wives each day.
A strange feeling of brotherhood spread among the group and as they dug in, the unusual sound of boisterous talking and laughing spread throughout the office. “What the hell is going on in there?” boomed Clark Grayson’s voice from his glass walled office in the corner. Everyone fell silent for the moment, and then burst out laughing. “Martin just stopped at the Squirrel to pick up some rolls on his way in, and…” Sam couldn’t finish his sentence before they heard Clark’s chair scrape across the hardwood floor and his heavy footsteps hurry across the room. “Cinnamon or caramel rolls?” he asked when he got to the door.
After consuming one or two rolls each and getting refills on their coffee, everyone went to their desks to start their work for the day. Clark walked with Martin to his cube and asked, “So what’s on the docket this week, Martin? You know, Holy Week is a great time to do some work you can’t get to when things are busier.” Martin couldn’t have asked for a better opening, and Clark hadn’t disappointed him in delivering the same encouragement the Monday of Holy Week for the past 2 years. “Well, I do have an idea for a spring story,” Martin began. “I was thinking about doing a feature on a teacher who is retiring this year after spending his entire career here. Someone like Frank Talbot…”
Clark squinted his eyes, looked at Martin sideways and said, “Hmmm…sort of an historical tribute? A thank you for all the years of service? A retrospective on how he has touched the youth of our community?”
Martin squashed the sick feeling in his stomach. “Yeah, something like that.”
Clark started nodding his head and said, “Good! I like it. Go for it, and keep me posted on how it develops.” He turned and walked quickly towards his office and then turned back. “Why Frank Talbot?” he asked with a curious cock to his head.
Martin took in a deep breath and replied, “Oh, I don’t know. The name just popped out at me when I was reading the school board minutes. Stories keep coming up about Mr. Talbot whenever I talk to former students. And I did have him as a science teacher myself…”
Clark nodded again, and turned and walked away again. “Yeah, that’s good, that’s good. Just have Shirley get you what you need if you need to dig into the archives,” he called over his shoulder as he went into his office and closed the door.
Martin couldn’t believe his luck and how easy it had been to access the tools that would lead to exposing Frank Talbot for who he was. Now, he just needed to navigate the waters of access with Shirley.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
