“Whatever you want to pay me is fine.”
“It won’t be what you’re worth, but I’ll do what I can.” Lillian turned to the work area behind the counter and announced, “You can come back over, Rick. She said yes.”
Bryony heard a knife clatter to the floor and watched Rick skirt his work table.
“Great!” he said, gliding around the order counter and rushing toward them. When he reached her, he patted Bryony on the back and said, “Welcome aboard!”
“He’s happy because now he doesn’t have to help me out so much,” Lillian said. “Come here, baby.” She put a strawberry in her husband’s mouth. “There’s your pay for all the ways you’ve helped over the years.”
Rick chewed a few times and swallowed the fruit. “Don’t let her overwork you, Bryony.”
“No chance,” Bryony replied. She loved to work. Whatever real work would come next, being at the coffee shop with Lillian would be perfect for the time being.
“Now go do your manly things,” Lillian said to her husband.
“Aye aye, Sweetie Pie,” Rick sang as he sailed back to his station.
“You two are awesome,” Bryony said.
“We have our moments,” Lillian said, a smug look on her face.
Knowing she did not face the abyss of an unknown future relieved Bryony to the point of being able to experience her body again. “I’m hungry!” Reaching for a strawberry, she realized she hadn’t eaten since yesterday’s apple and almond snack.
“Rick, honey,” Lillian called out. “Please make a special bagged lunch for our new employee.”
“Coming right up!” he called back.
Bryony put her hand on top of Lillian’s. “Thank you,” she said. “You have no idea how much this means to me.”
Lillian placed her free hand on top of Bryony’s. “I’ll always be here for you, Bry. What are friends for?”
CHARITY FOR CAL
On the fourth day of June, Cal checked in at over a dozen graduation parties for his students. On the fifth day of June, he attended his own retirement party, organized by a committee of students and teachers, and held in the high school auditorium
Rudy went through the double doors first, waving Cal through and hanging back as Cal high-fived the aisle sitters on his way to the front of the full house. He took his place, center stage, in a recliner scavenged from the theater department’s set collection, to listen to those who won the coveted speaking spots.
“Uncle Cal!” Hell-Oh called from the front row. A collective chuckle rumbled through the audience as her mother shushed her. Cal made eye contact with each of his family members as he quietly waved with waggled fingers and smiled greetings at them.
The principal gave a short introduction prior to calling up the first speaker.
So many current and former students volunteered that speakers had been selected at random. Knowing this vindicated Cal for the torture he had inflicted on every single class he taught over the years. The nature of the torture had been public speaking.
Cal posited that being able to speak in front of a group strengthened democracy. Having witnessed a fair share of excruciating first attempts over the years, Cal often shared candidly about his own struggles with speaking.
His mother had helped him overcome a slight stutter when he was young by coaching him to recite the ABCs to her before he could read. When he could read, he read out loud to her every night. When she introduced him to other adults, she expected him to speak up, though he often stumbled through his words. She continued to work with him until the stutter all but disappeared, only surfacing in moments of strong surprise or deep uncertainty.
With a similar determination, he insisted all of his students develop skill in speaking to a group, no matter how awkward, shy, speech-challenged, or resistant the student might be. He never failed to see improvement, though some required after school tutoring, which he provided on his own time.
First speaker up was Chad, a tattoo-covered bass player who, in spite of being highly intelligent, barely managed to graduate.
“In ninth grade I had Mister Forster, and I hated him.” Chad looked over at Cal, then back to the audience. “I hated him for making me stand up in front of the class. But one day he said, ‘Get up there and talk about what you love.’” He looked again at Cal and smiled this time. “I gave a speech about music. It changed my life. Thank you Mister Forster. If I ever get a record deal, you’re on my acknowledgement list. You rock, dude.” He flashed a peace sign to Cal and bowed to the audience.
Everyone clapped as Chad left the podium, dyed black hair hanging in his eyes, a too-big black leather jacket slumping down both shoulders.
The rest of the randomly selected speakers stepped onto the stage one by one, fifteen in all, with no hesitation. Each told a story about how Cal changed their life in some way, small or large. Cal teared up a few times but managed to keep any drops from running down his cheeks. He wondered if retirement could ever be as rewarding as the fruits of his labor spread before him right now.
Finally, the only chosen speaker, Prissy Bangor, walked up to the stage. The entire auditorium erupted into applause. Attendees rose from their seats. Tears ran down Prissy’s cheeks. Her willingness to show her vulnerability loosened the clamp on Cal’s emotions. After they hugged, he noticed three wet dots on the back of her shirt. So much for getting through the day with his dignity intact, but the reason for his tears outweighed his need to appear stoic.
Starting in January, Prissy had organized a group of unlikely candidates to pierce their ears in memory and honor of her younger brother who died by suicide the previous fall. Half of the football team, all of the wrestling team, and every member of the Future Teachers of America endured a pierce—for some, their first—in one or both ears.
Standing on the podium, her hands gripping the lectern or moving notecards from one stack to another, Prissy described how she had lobbied at the local, county, and state levels to increase awareness of, and funding for, programs to prevent suicide. She credited Cal with her ability to speak to groups small and large.
Cal had promised to have an ear pierced if Prissy raised $5,000 for a local suicide hotline. He hoped his challenge would push her to exceed her original goal of $2,500. Donations had added up to over $6,500 and Cal purchased a one-carat diamond for each ear.
The moment to fulfill his promise had arrived.
As Prissy led him from the recliner to a straight back chair, she carried the cordless microphone with her and talked about how Cal had bolstered her belief in her ability to help others. After addressing the audience, she asked him to hold the microphone, cleaned his ear lobe, and said, “Don’t worry, Mister Forster. I know what I’m doing.”
Right before shooting the sharpened end of a gold stud into his lobe, she whispered, “Without you I might have ended up like my brother.”
The post’s stab went unnoticed, but he would forever remember the way her words pierced his heart.
“Oops,” she said, dabbing at his shirt. “I got a tiny speck of blood on your collar.”
“I’ll wear it with pride,” Cal said. After enduring the second poke, he hugged her again before she left the stage.
Cal spoke last. He had worked on his speech for two weeks. It ended up being less than half the length of the Gettysburg Address, and took under fifty seconds to deliver, about the same time allotted an Oscar winner.
“After my first day as a student teacher, my mentor told me I would never make it. I was too intelligent, too awkward, too arrogant, and too chummy. I never went back… to him. I found a new place to student teach.”
The audience applauded.
“Never let anyone disparage you. Even if their assertions are correct—I am intelligent, awkward, arrogant, and chummy. And always remember you are nothing less than a unique, brilliant light. You are all stars in my universe, and my existence would be mournfully lonely if I had not met each and every one of you. Now go out and continue to make a difference in the lives of others. I am forever grateful for the difference you have made in mine.”
The applause lasted for over four minutes, not a world record breaker, but likely the longest round ever heard echoing through the auditorium of Weber High School. Cal thought the event would end when the clapping stopped, but nobody wanted to leave. Two hours later, he shooed the last few out the door so the janitor could lock the building and go home to his family.
Full of gratitude, and exhausted by the emotion of the day, Cal retreated to the cement deck encircling the condo pool. From this day on, no calendar or daily schedule set by the school system would guide him, only the sun and moon. He supposed he would adjust, but right now the future felt—empty. Cal had no adult experience calculating time without imposed deadlines.
His cell phone rang, and Cal reached over to pick it up from the poolside table.
“Hey, Cal,” a familiar voice said. “Am I interrupting?”
Rising from his reclined position, Cal sat sideways on the chair and switched ears. “Not at all, Charity. I’m just hanging out by the pool. How’s Chuck?”
