For the Sake of the Children
Bryson Connor tapped his sandaled foot and silently hummed along to an old Beatles song, “In My Life,” a favorite of his and Maureen’s, all too long ago, back when they were both idealistic undergraduates at SMU, before marriage, before parenthood, before a successful life together. He hadn’t heard the song in years, yet there it was on the sound system of the coffeehouse, on the third anniversary of his wife’s losing her battle with cancer. He listened, nodded his head and waited as his packet of Sweet ‘N Low dissolved into his cup of tea. Two packets would be too many. He was trying his darnedest to cut down on artificial sweeteners—doctor’s orders. Maureen, thank God, had helped him lower his sugar intake.
His wire-framed trifocals on the tip of his narrow, hawkish nose, his mug clasped tightly in his still nimble fingers, he watched intently, as a trim, smartly-dressed woman at the table next to his sipped from her stoneware mug, her softly tinted pink lipstick leaving tantalizing traces of her existence on the rim of the earthtone vessel. Once again, he found himself, even on this of all days, smitten with a complete stranger. Geez, he thought. I must be losing my mind. But still, she is a looker. Forgive me, Maureen. I can’t help myself. You know I’m just looking.
He felt a peculiar urge to snatch the mug right out of the woman’s spindly fingers then take off at a dead run, cup in hand, down Claymore Avenue, a souvenir of sorts, a fetish of this moment, of this morning’s musings, but at least he still had enough of his wits about him to know that such a notion was hideously perverse and more than slightly unhealthy. Definitely illegal. Oddly, such uncanny, completely out-of-nowhere thoughts crossed his mind more and more the older and lonelier he became. He couldn’t explain it, to himself or, heaven forbid, to anyone else. Where do such strange desires come from? I’m not some kind of a pervert. I’ve never been accused of being kinky, not even by Maureen, and she, better than anyone, would know.
Two years in her grave, his wife of fifty-three years had always been a puzzle. There was no telling what his playful companion now thought of him, if the dead, as some new-age weirdos suggested, are truly omniscient. Even when poor Maureen was alive Bryson swore that she read his mind, then took a fiendish pleasure in baffling and befuddling him. Menacingly so. He had loved every moment of her high-spirited torment.
But today, it was the woman at the small round table adjacent to his, in her stylish khaki trousers, a burnt-orange, button-up blouse, the top button invitingly open, white Nike walking shoes, who held his attention. She was exactly what Bryson liked to think of as a “classy lady,” much as Maureen had been, before those pesky tumors robbed her of her elegance. Every few seconds he took a chance and sneaked a peek at the demure forty-something as she thumbed through one of the two hardcover books on the table in front of her.
As too often was the case on his morning excursion to the Bright Day House of Coffee, he was embarrassingly entranced by yet another female, a woman half his age, a woman completely indifferent to his sharing a coffeehouse with her, let alone a planet, a woman, apparently above it all. Yet, he was enraptured… even at this late stage of life. Who would have thought it possible? Quite possibly Maureen. She was the one who knew me all too well, for better or for worse. Bryson suspected that his wife had to be grinning and shaking her head at his tomfoolery—somewhere.
In spite of the woman’s best efforts, she wasn’t as fastidiously exquisite as she undoubtedly thought herself to be; there was one flaw that gave hint to her not being as cool and collected as she would like people to believe, one fly in the ointment, as his mother used to say. A white button with red lettering that she had pinned to the strap of her trendy loosely woven, multi-hued Navajo purse betrayed her carefully crafted sophistication. The round, three-inch political-campaign-style pin distracted Bryson—as he was certain it must others—from what otherwise would be considered a perfectly-engineered countenance. MOTHERS FOR DECENCY the button shouted in all caps.
Oh, God, thought Bryson. Not one of those. He sighed. This is Dallas. Why not? He’d seen enough to know that kooks could be found everywhere in Texas, especially the DFW metroplex, even right there in his favorite coffee shop. He shrugged and looked around the room for another person of interest, but there was no one for him to focus his attention on. It was just him and the kook. The half-dozen other customers had gone on to their appointed duties. So be it. He’d come to ogle and ogle he would. Just his luck, this fanatic was all there was to take a gander at.
Five feet four inches tall, no more than a hundred twenty pounds, perhaps a nip and tuck here and there to ward off any premature crow’s feet, the woman had an air about her that suggested proper breeding, and along with that, money. When it came to women of her stature, the dentist had always been slightly ill at ease, even when they were his patients and he had the upper hand, so to speak, when they sat, mouths dutifully numbed with Lidocaine and propped wide open, holding on for dear life, in his space-age dental chair.
Bryson, somewhat of a nerd, had never been what might be called a ladies’ man; far from it. Maureen used to laugh at how easily he became tongue-tied around attractive women. Years ago, just out of dental school, he’d read an article in a professional journal portending that dentists were the professionals most likely to stray outside the bounds of marital fidelity, but he wasn’t cut out for that sort of thing. Never had been. Never would be. Especially not this late in the game.
“I see you’re reading Harper Lee,” said Bryson, startled at the sound of his own voice.
The woman looked up, blinked, then said, “Not really.” She smiled. “My daughter picked these books up at the library at her middle school. I have a meeting with the principal and the librarian to discuss the propriety of having books like these in a school library. I hope you don’t think I read such trash.” She shook her carefully coiffed auburn hair. “Have you read the book?”
Bryson nodded. Who hasn’t?
She grimaced, crinkled her nose. Closed the book. “Then you know how inappropriate it is for twelve- and thirteen-year-olds to have to read this sort of thing. I can’t believe how they’re destroying the morals of our children.”
“Did the teacher make your daughter read it?” Bryson noticed the second book, another of his favorites, Slaughterhouse-Five. “No, not really, but books like these are on the shelves for any student to pick up.” She sighed. “My daughter’s thirteen, and that librarian let her check the book out without so much as a warning. Can you believe it?”
Bryson shrugged. “Did your daughter read it?”
“Of course not. I gave her a list of titles to look for. But that librarian only let her take two. I wanted more, for evidence.” She stared at him skeptically. “Do you think I’d let my daughter read either of these? We’re making the point that no one in the public schools seems to monitor what our children are being subjected to.” She paused. “You’d be surprised at what they’re allowing children to read these days. There is an agenda, you know? The unions… and activists.”
She was too good-looking to argue with. Bryson merely nodded. What can I say? he thought. She’s a kook, but an attractive kook.
“Do you have children?” she asked. The mug now sat on her table, half empty. A temptation. He could easily grab it and run.
“We have a daughter,” said Bryson. “Mindy. She went to school in Plano.” He took a deep breath. “She did read To Kill a Mockingbird. I don’t think it damaged her any. She’s now an attorney. Most people think of it as a classic.”
Her eyes, brown as the coffee in the bottom of her cup, narrowed. “Have you read it recently?” she asked.
Bryson chuckled. “Have they changed it?”
“I think if you were to read it today, you’d find it a different book than it was when your daughter read it. With Black Lives Matter, Antifa and such. I’m certain that you can see what’s going on in this country. We, the group I’m a member of, feel that schools and others are trying to make us all feel guilty about being born who we are.”
“White?” It slipped out.
“Yes, white. But not just that. They criticize us for having advantages we and our parents worked hard for.” She squinted. “We shouldn’t have to apologize for hard work.”
“No,” said, Bryson. “We shouldn’t.” He sniffled. “I see you also have Slaughterhouse-Five. What’s objectionable in that book?” He grinned. “Kurt Vonnegut is one of my favorites.”
She glared at him. “He was a man of no faith. Loose morals. Besides, he ran this country down whenever he got the chance. We find his attitudes more than questionable. The man’s dangerous.”
“He was in the war. World War II.”
She smiled, then again sighed. “His morals… and his language are offensive.”
“He’s dead, you know?”
“But his books are still on the shelves of our libraries for impressionable children to read.” She huffed. “Stalin is dead. But he’s still a danger. Wouldn’t you agree that we have to protect children?”
Bryson tilted his head, then shrugged. “Stalin banned books.”
“Heavens, we’re not banning the books. We don’t burn books. We just want to protect children.” She stopped. “What you read is your business. But we have to do what’s right for children. Even you must have some limits.”
“I might,” said Bryson. “I just don’t see the harm in these books.”
“Someone has to watch out for our children. What we do, we do for the sake of the children and the country.” She blinked, then sighed. “When my daughter went to a private school… they at least listened to parents. In the public schools no one seems to care about decency.”
“Your daughter went to a private school?”
She smiled. “Until this semester. She transferred from the Good Hope Academy. She now goes to Travis Middle School.”
“Travis?” Bryson chuckled. “My wife taught there. For thirty years.” He wanted to tell the woman about Maureen, how she might be monitoring this conversation, but didn’t.
“Then you have some idea how lax they are at that school.”
“Maureen liked the school.”
“Well,” said the woman. “Maybe when your wife was there it was all right. But now, with the easing of morals, it’s not what it used to be. Luckily, Governor Abbott is doing all he can to rid the school of woke ideas.” She leaned toward him and whispered, “We both know what’s going on. Stealing an election. Using the government to go after God-fearing citizens.”
Bryson laughed. “I don’t know what woke is.” He shook his head. “I don’t think my wife was woke. She was just a good teacher.” He took a deep breath. “Why did your daughter transfer to Travis?”
She winked, then looked around. There was no one to eavesdrop. “We needed to have a student in attendance in a public school. My daughter was willing to be our infiltrator. Once we straighten the school district out, she’ll go back to Good Hope. Our organization, Mothers for Decency, has lawyers. Once we get the ball rolling, they’ll take over.”
“An infiltrator?” Bryson laughed, then slowly shook his head. “You make it sound like war.”
She stood, collected her books and purse, then said brusquely, “It is a war. And I have my appointment.”
The mug, her mug, sat on the abandoned table, there for the taking. Bryson could slip it under his jacket, and no one would be any the wiser. He stood, placed two one-dollar bills beside his napkin (a generous tip; Maureen was watching) and walked toward the door, without his souvenir.
I’ll call Mindy, Bryson thought. I’ll ask her how much damage her mother and I did to her by allowing her to read subversive books. Then I’ll watch a recap of today’s news on CNN. Maybe the kook’s right. Our morals may be under attack. Geez, a former president is on trial for falsifying records over payments to cover up an affair with a porn star. To cover an affair, for Christ’s sake. And still people are going to vote for him. Something’s wrong, but I don’t think we can blame Kurt Vonnegut.
~