Miss Kate

Sweep and mop. Sweep and mop. Empty the cans. Wipe the smudges from the glass, the demarcation of freedom and the finger tips longing for it. They ought to bring the local law enforcement in here to practice fingerprinting. One window pane would keep a whole squad busy for a day. 

Getting called upstairs now. They only break my routine for a real mess. I won’t have time to finish this room before next period. I guess once I take care of this “emergency” I’ll have to move onto the lounge. I hate getting out of routine. That’s how mistakes are made.

It’s been the same for the 17 years I’ve been here. Likely the 17 years before, but I don’t know for sure. The faces and names change, but they’re the same kids. Last year it was that curly haired boy with the bright orange pack on the first floor. This year the blonde that had the growth spurt on the second. It’s always boys. The girls are less destructive. At least on property. Get the paper towel wad out of the sink. Grab the squeegee. At least there’s enough water here so I don't need to bring down the mop bucket. It’s getting harder to. It seems with every new batch of kids comes a new batch of aches and pains. There. Back downstairs. 

Sweep and mop. Sweep and mop. I find it amusing that the people that chose to come here have a special room to hide from those that would choose to be anywhere else. It is a thankless job I suppose. You rarely get a thank you from the ones you serve. With the exception of Kate. Through my tenure I have never seen a teacher as appreciated by staff and students alike as Miss Kate Herndon. Kate never hid. This place nearly came unglued when she left. No notice, no warning. She left behind only unanswered questions and uncouth accusations. The local authorities figured nothing out but the local rumor mill seemed to have it figured. All the speculation drove Mr. Seybert mad, and, finally, out. I know it’s my job, but what is so difficult about wiping up your own spills? Seems a quarter of every pot of coffee finds the counter and I’m the only one that can find the towels. 

A flick of the flint and I can catch my breath. It’s a long walk and too many steps to get out to this dumpster, but it’s the only place to sneak a smoke. I should just quit but I find peace in the crackling sound of burning paper. Comfort in the heaviness of smoke filled lungs. I snub out the glowing cherry on the side of the dumpster next to the last one. The small black dots keep record of my breaks, much like a prisoner scratching tallies in a wall. Am I counting up my time served or counting down till I’m free?

Sweep and mop. Sweep and mop. This is the second principal since Seybert. They get a little better each time, but that’s not saying much. There was the front facing Seybert students and staff saw. Then there was the Seybert you could only see in the crumpled notes in the waste basket, only smell in gin soaked after-hour air, and only hear in the quiet calls from home behind closed doors. I never believed the rumors. Kate never loved him. I don’t believe his own wife loved him. I work at that stain under the desk a little bit each day. They covered it with a rug after he left, but I know he’ll never be gone until that stain is. 

When she didn’t make it in by the start of second period the calls for wellness checks started. The police said that everything was in order at her house. No signs of an intruder, no signs of a struggle, but no signs of Kate either. They say the first forty-eight hours are the most critical, but they operated like it was the first four-to-eight hours. By seventh period they said had no leads. By the end of the eighth, the seeds of shame were sown by one observer of a lingering glance, germinated by one ear of a hushed whisper, and brought to harvest by one set of secretorial eyes on a private note not so privately concealed. Rumors don’t wait for the dust to settle. They keep it stirred up to suffocate the truth.

I am a professional observer with a keen ear and suspiciously searching eyes. The unassuming janitor merely sweeping and mopping. Little do they know they leave more in their wake than waste. Fingerprints observed in the dust of previously undisturbed drawers reveal new hiding places. Private words are drawn to open ears in the silent after-hours hall. This is how I know that Kate did not love Seybert. 

The observer of passing glances was not wrong about the presence of these glances, only the substance. Their eyes often found one another’s, played with one another’s. Playing love. The ears that received hushed whispers were not wrong about the presence of these whispers, only the content. These inaudible waves sneaking through cracked doors, drifting down empty halls, never professed love. Just playful flirtations. 

Sweep and mop. I always save Kate’s room for last. A chance to bask in bitter sweet memories. When I am feeling sweet I can hear her through the door, reading Harper Lee aloud. Her soft voice wading into a sea of engaged ears, ready to receive. She seemed to have a way of accessing otherwise inaccessible minds. Sometimes, when I open the door, I am enveloped in a cloud of her fragrance. Vanilla bean Noel. Her scented lotion. It has embedded itself, forever claiming her place, in these walls. As I traverse the maze of desks, I am drawn to her coat rack in the corner, in hopes of finding one of her long blonde hairs. Maybe this time I will find one I have missed one of the other hundreds of times. At the window I peer through the prints and smudges at the distorted view of the parking lot. As I wipe the pane clean, like dusting off a forgotten photograph to reveal an image of happier times, I can see Kate walking to her spot, the way I had watched a thousand times. 

When I am feeling bitter, I hear those thunderous whispers. I am enveloped in an odorous cloud carrying the musk of excitement. Of shame. I cross the room to the large desk that once was the throne of my queen. My hand instinctively, shakily navigates to the top right drawer in search of letters meant for romantic candle light rather than the sterile fluorescence of these tubes. My feet carry me to the window and my eyes only see him. Leaving with a bloodied hand from a smashed mug, surely of coffee and gin, after months of enduring the rumors in the halls and the accusations from every call from home. Leaving behind a stain on my memory that can’t be so easily concealed with a rug. 

I much prefer to feel sweet. Maybe I’ll stop on the way home and get a bottle of that lotion. She hasn’t smelled like that in years. Sweep and mop. Sweep and mop.