5
The TV newscast
done for the day, I went up to my father's office. I was hoping that maybe I could use it to
write the script that was due for The Sands of Loren. The actors and crew would want scripts to
practice from by tomorrow, in order to prepare for Saturday's broadcast. And my Dad's office was near the care
facility that Lisa worked at. At least I
could be near where she was, and come out and see her working, or even talk to
her if she had a break. I had to admit
it. The love bug was starting to bite
deeper.
It looked like
they only had two or three patients. An
awful rash on Suzie Cepaki, probably poison ivy. A boy I don't remember who appeared to be
suffering withdrawals, from I don't know what.
And poor Jerry Mack was sick again, shaking slightly, covered in
blankets.
My father's door
was cracked open, and I could hear him talking to Mr. Crowler. I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but I did.
"And Mr. Bowtin agreed to this? On his own?
Without talking to us?" my father inquired of Oscar Crowler.
Mr. Crowler
answered. "Well, he does that
sometimes. He's very close to the
students, and sometimes his judgment is not the best."
My Dad shook his
head. "No, it's not. I know he means well, but he really must
check with us first."
"Maybe it's
not the worst thing in the world, Clive" Oscar rationalized. "It would help focus activity, could be
good in the long run. And I think
actually having some married students might create a greater stability, a
better sense of responsibility."
"These
students are underage. Even if their
parents would give permission, there is no way to know that. Can you imagine when this nightmare ends,
explaining to who knows how many parents, why we let their kids get
"married" in here?"
In my limited peek
through the door crack, I could see Mr. Crowler wearily sit down at the
conference table. "That presumes
we're ever going to get out of here. And
marriages? My God, how are we going to
tell parents their son or daughter has been killed?"
"I know,
Oscar. I dread it. I dread it all. But I can't give up hope. If we're still here a year from now, maybe
I'll reconsider it. But not now. Not yet."
"Clive, I
feel....what is going on? I don't
understand. I keep thinking, I'm going
to wake up, and it's going to be April 17th, and all of this is nothing but a
bad dream. Students missing and others
dead by accident, disease or foul play, food that should run out but never
seems to, power on from God knows where, contraband cigarettes and alcohol, Betty
and Joe murdered and we can't seem to catch who did it. What else is going to happen? How much more can we take?"
Was that the sound
of crying? Yes, I could see Oscar
shaking a bit, his bowed. My Dad put his
arm around Mr. Crowler's shoulder.
It was more than I
could bear. I would find someplace to
write, if I could concentrate long enough.
Mr. Crowler's
questions lingered with me. What was going on?
What else could happen? How much more could we take?
It was 10:30. We were about 13 minutes away from finding
out.
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