Float Plan. Rob Hiaasen

Billy Snyder.”

      “Deputy Snyder.”

      “Deputy Snyder.”

      “Have you been drinking, sir?”

      “In abundance.”

      While not technically a hobby, it was a decent starter crime. Will sawed two-fifths of a gazebo and, to his delight, the law was after him. Not something he and Terri could laugh about now, but they would laugh about this later.

      “You gave me a D,” Deputy Snyder said.

      “I didn’t give you a D. You gave yourself a D.” Even in the throes of possible alcohol poisoning, a teacher has a code.

      “Screwed up my college apps.”

      But look at you now – a cop, with a loaded weapon, and a genetically altered torso that did not require a neck. All coming back to him – the kid’s dad came in for a teacher conference, raised macho hell, claimed his son had turned in all of his homework. The forensic evidence was absent, and Will told both son and father he did not change grades.

      “I don’t change my grades,” Will muttered under the gazebo. Dean had placed his head on the deputy’s black boot, as the man wrote a citation for William Philip Larkin, 29, of Anderson Woods, Annapolis. Trespassing. Malicious destruction of property. Public intoxication.

      “Trespassing? I live next door,” Will said, his twisted pollen mask covering one ear like a headphone.

      “Please read the back of the complaint before signing. You will be agreeing to appear in the District Court of Maryland.”

      “Can’t you change the charge?”

      “Mr. Larkin, I don’t change my reports,” the deputy said. “Out of curiosity, what are you doing out here?

      “Fighting back.”

      • • •

      In the Anne Arundel School system, employees have 24 hours to the report to the Office of Investigations a charge, arrest or conviction for any offense. The school system, as Will learned after finally reading the employee handbook, took self-reporting very seriously. Depending on the severity of the offense, “administrative actions” could be taken, including a written reprimand, suspension or termination and loss of one’s teaching certification. The laundry list of offenses did, in fact, cover Will’s infractions: public intoxication, malicious destruction of property and trespassing. Twenty-one hours after his failed gazebo murder, Will turned himself in.

      He contacted Lakeview’s assistant principal, Mr. Thomas Hull, who seemed to run the school more than the principal, a sour, hairless bureaucrat just riding out his string until retirement. As part of his pre-punishment, the math teacher had to listen to Hull lecture him on the school system’s ethical code. Hull said the superintendent would have to be notified, of course, and an internal investigation into the incident might result. Suspension or termination could result if a “nexus” existed between the charges against the employee and his “duties and responsibilities” with the school system, Hull said in closing.

      “What do you mean by lexus?” Will asked. Given Hull’s mild speech impediment, Will misheard and, reasonably, couldn’t fathom why a luxury car was central to the deliberations. He clearly walked over to his neighbor’s yard. He didn’t roll over there in his Honda.

      “Nexus – not Lexus,” the assistant principal said.

      Thomas Hull was unusually curt with the employee and before ending their conversation, informed Will that his self-report file will be removed if the courts confirm by receipt a ruling of not guilty or an expungement of his offense. Until then or until the Office of Investigations concluded its review, he would be allowed to continue teaching until further notice. If, however, there was another incident requiring “criminal sanctions,” his teaching career could be irrevocably jeopardized.

      “Goodbye, Will.”

      “Goodbye, Mr. Hull.”

      He had never been so happy to get off the phone with another human being.

      Five weeks later, Will told his parents about the gazebo ambush but didn’t say a word about Terri leaving. One wrecking ball at a time. They brought penne pasta with tomatoes and olives to his house for Sunday dinner.

      “You were arrested?”

      “Technically. I was summoned to appear in court on trespassing and destruction of property charges.”

      “This isn’t like you.”

      Barb Larkin was mistress of the sublime, while Bill Larkin, retired attorney, was jungle hunter of trophy facts. His son did the best he could, given the humiliating circumstance, given he had been to court, admitted his guilt, fined $500 and handed 100 hours of community service.

      “Judge give you a PBJ?” said his father.

      “He did.”

      “What’s that?” Barb Larkin said.

      “Probation Before Judgment. I have to complete an anger management class and do community service at a soup kitchen, although I don’t think they call them soup kitchens anymore. I’m not sure what they call them. Maybe they don’t even serve soup.”

      “The experience might broaden your worldview,” his mother ventured. Will was hoping his worldview had broadened enough lately.

      Barb Larkin scooped out enough penne pasta for three dinner plates, a new, odd number. The Larkins sat around Will’s dining room table – the table Terri had picked out. Dean lowered the boom of his muzzle on Will’s foot. No one had much more to say about Will’s criminal case.

      “I didn’t bring any dessert.”

      “That’s OK, Mom.”

      “How’s the other thing?” she said.

      The Other Thing was code for his mother’s private worry. She knew boys drank in college, a sloppy rite of passage, but she also knew or hoped boys grew out of all that drinking. She knew Will hadn’t.

      “That thing is under control, Worrier Queen.”

      “Were you drinking when you destroyed your neighbor’s property? And I’m sorry but I do worry.”

      “Yes, I was drinking.”

      Will’s rental townhouse seemed quieter with more people in it. He hoped they didn’t notice two-thirds of the books were gone from the bookshelves – along with all of the artwork, most of the dishes, the finicky food processor, the hanging fuchsia on the front porch, and the smaller of the two flat screens. But how could they not? Terri had been his girl, and he had been her guy. Until today, their separation seemed like a mirage, as if she had simply gone for a long weekend with her girlfriends, some place out west like to a spa in Big Sur. Of course, his parents noticed her absence.

      “Where’s Terri?” Bill Larkin announced. His courtroom voice always carried more in private than his wife would have preferred.

      “She doesn’t live here anymore.”

      “What does that mean? What the hell did you do?” he said. Barb Larkin reached across the table and covered her husband’s hand with hers. A step behind more than usual, he struggled to find a softer thought.

      “Well, none of my business. You two will work it out.”

      They said their goodbyes out front on the driveway, with Will promising to call. He couldn’t stand another minute in his home, so he walked around to the back deck where there were still two Adirondack chairs. Across the yard, the amputee gazebo was still standing and in between, a field of fireflies in synchronized spectacle. His wife left and he mowed down her literature and poetry books, tried to kill his neighbor’s gazebo, and was headed for anger management and community service.

      What the hell did he do?

      Chapter 2

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