At the End of the Day

Francis pushed his chair back from his desk, the faint ringing of a music box reverberating in his brain. He looked up and saw the time was 2:15, the bell for the end of the day must have rung. But not just the end of the day, the end of the school year. Students were joyously mingling just beyond the door, eager to meet the fresh air and the relaxation of summer. He pushed aside the final exams which had absorbed his attention. A challenging review of student knowledge, but they had succeeded admirably. He smiled as he moved around the room straightening the novels of his senior lit class (Tess of the d'Urbervilles, Hamlet, Jude the Obscure). He moved deliberately, inefficiently, assuming that a final few of his graduating students would come to say their goodbyes and accept his congratulations. Some already had expressed their gratitude, but Alexander had not. Though Francis did not admit it out loud he had favorite students. He assumed everyone did; there was nothing incorrect about the business, and since teachers are only human it seemed a forgivable sin.

Francis waited until it seemed foolish to wait any longer. Desiring to wish his long time colleagues a good summer before they were parted, he walked out the door, past his Golden Apple and Teacher of Excellence certificates.

….

Down the hall Francis strolled, flanked by rows of metal lockers, like Greek phalanxes drawn to attention, until he reached the teachers' lounge. The halls, he thought, were now silent, vacated by the energetic voices of children. Already they must be outdoors playing. He was just as surprised by the stillness of the lounge; only one person remained. A quick look at the clock: Was it that time already? Had he waited so long in his room, unaware?

“Another excellent year,” said the other occupant, a Mrs. Morrison, “but I'm glad it's over. The advent of summer exhilarates the students, and the break allows for relaxation to re-energize them for a whole new year.”

“I wish it would never end,” Francis said softly.

“Do you really? And you having done this for forty years. I can't wait to go home and spend time with my two boys. Matt just turned five this week, did I show you his picture? And we plan to vacation on the beach next month.”

“I'm sorry,” said Francis, though he only meant it idiomatically, “but I've got a few things left to clean up in my classroom before I can go home.”

He had trouble leaving the room. He couldn't see the exit for a moment.

….

Francis noticed the door to his classroom was ajar before he was close enough to make out the voices in the room. Inching closer, he tried to peer in without being seen, but gave it up. What if anyone saw him acting so absurdly.

“Hello, Mr. Julliard,” said Marco.

“Hello, Mr. Julliard,” said Alexander.

Francis nearly fell backward out of the room, torn between distaste for Marco and admiration for Alexander.

“I came to thank you for...”

“Marco,” said Mr. Julliard, “Since the school year is over, I confess I couldn't care less about what you have to say. After disrupting the learning of your classmates, and disregarding every attempt at assistance I offered to you, I have to express that I wish never to hear your voice again.”

“I am truly sorry for my behavior, and in spite of everything I wanted you to know that I was inspired by your attitude. There was some messy family issues, that I don't want to go into, and though it doesn't excuse my actions, I found your patience throughout the year uplifting.”

“Oh,” said Mr. Julliard, “... well, good luck at college.”

Francis was surprised then to see Alexander and Marco both leaving the room.

“Alexander, didn't you have anything to say?”

“Yeah,” the newly minted senior said, “I thought your class was pretty useless. And I don't know why you keep calling my Alex. My name's Jake.”

Then he strode from the room, with Marco flashing Mr. Julliard a sheepish smile before following.

….

Francis pulled into the driveway and turned the car off. Sitting for a few moments in the dark, head in hands, grey hair falling forward into his eyes, he thought about the months ahead. He admitted that there wasn't much to consider. He felt ill, but it wasn't about school. Eventually school would begin again. The conflict was deeper and he really didn't want to think about it, thought it had been nagging him the whole day. Especially on this day. Finally, he opened the car door, unexpectedly rain soaked his clothes, and stumbled to the landing. Wet, and getting ever wetter, he hastened, but it hindered him and he spent five minutes looking for his keys, only to discover they were in a puddle on the ground.

Inside at last, he laid his coat and hat upon a chair, and moved about the three room downstairs, turning on every light he could locate. If there was no sun, there would still be brightness. For dinner, he sauteed a small portion of haddock and ate it with a side of asparagus. Then he climbed the stairs to his bedroom. In the dark, searching for this light, he kicked a small object. It tumbled across the floor, and as it did a faint tinkling melody spun out into the silent room. Francis found the light switch and in the illumination saw a music box in the shape of a Ferris wheel. Round it went once more, given energy by the force of Francis' foot, and then its revolution ceased. He picked the Ferris wheel up, and tried to place it on his dresser, but a Bombay occupied the space.

“Navi, move,” he said. It stared at him.

One handed Francis picked her up and moved her to the bed, then placed the music box next to the pictures of his son Alexander and daughter Miranda. His lips twisted, flexing up and down.

“They're busy people,” he said to Navi. “They don't understand how much a phone call matters.”

His eyes fell upon a calendar by the bed and he sagged onto the pillows. Navi keep vigil impassively, her eyes upon her ward, as Francis remained nearly motionless for a minute or two. With a sigh and a shiver Francis recovered, dressed for bed, and opened his newest book; a copy of Meditations. Sad, and a bit worn out, Francis was on the edge of dreamland, book limp in his left hand, when the phone by his bed rang.

And yet, though the day had been heavy and the night looked long, he smiled, for the phone ID read Miranda Julliard, and her first words were.

“You didn't think I'd forgotten this day, did you Dad?”