Shadows Behind the Wall

By R. Clifford Blair

The Florida School For The Deaf And The Blind is the setting for this fictional account of the daily lives of students in the school and the tragedy that occurred there. Chris Montgomery, a seventeen year old recently diagnosed with a severe vision disorder, learns to function in the unusual environment of a state institution and unexpectedly finds first love there. He meets and befriends a number of characters including Wesley Monroe who announces with meticulous detail, football games that are played only in his mind, and Dog Chandler who has dedicated himself to closely monitoring the development of Mouseketeer Annette Funicello’s breasts.

An animosity develops between Chris and the school principal, contributing to Chris being suspected of the sexual assault of a young girl who, being blind, cannot identify her attacker.
Chris befriends and eventually falls in love with Mrs. Gray, one of the adult supervisors, whose room is on the second floor of his dormitory. Being married, she half-heartedly tries to discourage the crush Chris is developing for her, but enjoys his company and the help he provides in caring for the young boys in her charge. Chris is particularly helpful in monitoring two of the young boys under her care who have developed an unusual dependence on each other and tend to wander away from the supervised group. Even more problematic is their newly developed tendency to slip from the dormitory at night to wander about campus. Chris cares for the young boys who return his affection.

Chris’ actions inadvertently set in motion a series of events that precipitate a tragedy which shapes the remainder of his life. He covers up his part in the tragedy but finds he cannot escape the consequences of what he has done. He returns to the school forty years after graduation in an attempt to resolve issues related to the unfortunate event but finds solace illusionary.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brighton Publishing LLC
• Release date: Sep 6, 2016
• ISBN: 9781621833819

R. Clifford Blair

Cliff’s family, as well as his wife’s, settled in Florida almost two hundred years ago. He grew up in the rich Southern tradition of storytelling and considers himself as much storyteller as author. While his father died when Cliff was nine years old, he can still recite many of the stories, poems, songs and homilies his father passed down to him.For a number of years during his childhood Cliff was mischaracterized as having an intellectual or learning deficit, but was finally diagnosed at age 16 with a rare eye disease that had significantly impacted his vision. He was subsequently sent to the Florida School for the Deaf and the Blind from which he graduated in 1957.After a series of menial jobs including that of a trash collector in a box factory, the Florida Council for the Blind sent him to a rehabilitation center in Daytona Beach, Florida, to assess whether he might be trained for gainful employment. As the result of a series of evaluations carried out there he was enrolled at the University Of Florida but left after one semester of study.Some years later he enrolled in the University Of South Florida where he earned bachelors, masters and a PhD degree. He subsequently joined the faculty of the Johns Hopkins University and later returned to the University Of South Florida where his primary duties involved teaching and research. He eventually became interim chair of the department of epidemiology and biostatistics.Now retired, Cliff lives with his wife and two dogs on a beautiful lake in the Appalachian mountains of northeast Tennessee. He has laid aside the expository writing which characterized his academic career for short story and novel writing—a long held ambition. In addition to assisting his wife in caring for stray dogs and other injured “critters” found in the mountains, Cliff enjoys his writing and is diligently working to develop a close meaningful relationship with his hammock. Shadows Behind The Wall is his first novel.

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Shadows Behind the Wall

R. Clifford Blair

Brighton Publishing LLC

435 N. Harris Drive

Mesa, AZ 85203

www.BrightonPublishing.com

Copyright © 2016

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN 13: 978-1-62183-381-9

Ebook

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Cover design: Tom Rodriguez

All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All the characters in this book are fictitious and the creation of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Dedication

To the FSDB Class of 1957

Florida School for the Deaf and the Blind

Chapter One

The faintly amber liquid twisted smoothly in the bottom of the glass then reversed course as Chris Montgomery rotated the glass in the opposite direction. The melting ice had diluted the double bourbon and water so that it was now mostly water as he swallowed the last of his third drink.

The alcohol dulled his sense of smell to the point that he no longer noticed the acrid odor of the overfull ashtrays on the surrounding tables or the essence of stale beer that had reached his nostrils when he pushed open the over worn door of the old bar. He had quit smoking some ten years previously and often found the smell of cigarettes tempting, but there was nothing appealing about the sour odors emanating from the old building—especially the stale cigarette smoke.

He carefully placed the empty glass on the table and raised his hands to his face. The muscle memory in his fingertips recoiled at the texture of the flabby skin. He always expected the familiar feel he had known those many years ago, especially so now that he was back. But that face was gone. The sallow cheeks and indentations that now formed the oddly unfamiliar topography had replaced his old countenance. The unkempt appearance of his hair, even when recently brushed, had been his most prominent feature throughout his life as it was now. Although still thick, it was now salt and pepper—still more pepper than salt. He could thank his mother for that. She had only random strands of gray when she died in her mid-eighties.

The click of the heavy glass on the cigarette-scarred table as he set it down caused the big blonde behind the bar to look up from a copy of the Saint Augustine Record that was spread on the bar.

You want another one, honey, the big blonde said as she flicked the quarter-inch ash from the cigarette that had been resting in the ashtray beside the paper.

The accent was distinctly cracker as the Florida country folk were called. Chris found the accent comfortable and reassuring. It was different from the accent in east Tennessee where he now lived. It made him feel he was back among his people.

At a little after three in the afternoon, he was the only patron in the musty bar. There had been an old man sipping a beer at a corner table when he came in, but he had lifted himself heavily from the booth, nodded at Chris as he passed, and then paid his tab and left. The blonde and the old man had spoken easily, as long-standing acquaintances do. Chris listened as they mentioned various local folks, none of whom he knew. Finally, the old man said he had to leave, as he was going by the shrimp docks before going home. That Chris understood. Locals habitually visited the shrimp docks to purchase fresh shrimp from shrimp boat crewmembers. If the crewman was on deck, and the captain was not on board, you could catch his eye. If he was willing to sell you a few pounds of shrimp, he would nod or wink. The captains knew of the practice but turned a blind eye so long as the crewmembers didn’t get greedy. Chris had not thought of the freshly boiled shrimp for many years.

See you tomorrow, Bert, the blonde said as the old man started for the door. The old man touched the brim of his well-worn fedora and left.

Chris remembered the bar from forty years ago, but this was the first time he had ever been inside. It was probably nicer then, but it was what folks would call seedy now. The cheap plastic seats of virtually all the booths were cracked, with the white foam rubber beneath the seats’ exteriors contrasted against the dark plastic. The blue and red neon Budweiser sign on the wall behind the bar added to, rather than detracted from, the hazy gloom.

No, ma’am, he said. Threes about my limit.

Three doubles, the blonde said quickly, concerned he would want to pay for three rather than six drinks.

Yes, three doubles, Chris said as he slid out of the booth.

You from Saint Augustine? the blonde said as she scribbled on a small pad of paper. That’ll be twelve dollars even, she said before he could reply.

I was a long time ago, but not anymore, he said as he fingered the bills in his wallet.

So you just visiting?

Yes, for a day or two.

Hey, I bet you’re from the school over there ain’t you? The top half of her heavy breasts shone white in the dim light as she leaned across the bar to peer at his face.

Like I said, a long time ago but not now.

Well, you seem to hear everything I say, and your eyes don’t look funny, so you musta been a teacher.

No, Chris hesitated. I was a student. My eyes might not look funny, but they don’t work that well either.

The blonde leaned further forward, exposing the upper two thirds of her breasts while obviously looking at Chris’s eyes.

Well, how far can you see? she said.

I can see the sun and that’s about ninety-three million miles away, Chris said as he handed her some bills. God, how many times have I said those words, he thought. You keep the change.

Thanks, darlin’, the blonde said as she eyed the bills in her hand. Folks associated with the school usually didn’t tip very well, so she was somewhat surprised by the two $10-dollar bills in her hand. You know if you’re going to be in town for a day or two, I could show you around a bit. You know, let you see how the old place has changed. There ain’t nobody much at the school right now. They mostly left a day or two ago for Christmas vacation, but there’s still stuff to see around town.

Thanks, I just might take you up on that, Chris said as he picked up his coat from the back of the booth seat where he had been sitting. The Budweiser sign flickered and buzzed, casting a Technicolor image on the wall as he started for the door.

You better put that coat on sweetie, the blonde said. I know its Florida, but its damn cold out there today. By the way, my name’s Glorie. What’s yours?

I’m Chris, he said as he pulled the overcoat on. I’ll see you later, Gloria.

You do that, darlin’. But my name’s Glorie not Gloria. That’s the way my mama said it, and that’s the way they put it on my birth certificate.

Sorry, Glorie. I’ll see you later.

And merry Christmas, she said as he reached for the door.

What’s that? he said.

I just said merry Christmas.

Oh yes, he said, Christmas. And merry Christmas to you too.

The tawny winter sun painted his face as he stepped out onto the sidewalk. He stood for a few minutes watching the traffic on San Marco Avenue. It seemed heavier than he remembered, especially since he knew there wouldn’t be that many tourists in town at this time of year. He thought about heading back toward the gates of the old city, but that would constitute a capitulation of sorts. That would be the easy way, the way he wanted. He hesitated another minute and then started up San Marco Avenue away from the old city and toward the school.

It’s been forty years, he thought. But maybe that wasn’t enough time. No, he would either return now or he would never go back and thereby condemn himself to live with the memories for the rest of his life. Maybe he needed that fourth double. Maybe he should go back to the big blonde: Glorie.

He rejected that idea too. Another double and he would be too shitfaced to walk the half mile to the school.

As he walked, Chris saw that much had changed but also much had stayed the same. The smoky smell of Russell’s Barbeque mixed with the chilled air and crossed the narrow street to stimulate his olfactory sense as well as long discarded memories. He stopped to stare.

The building seemed different. But other than its light-blue color and a large plate-glass window that looked out on the avenue, he wasn’t sure just how. It was really more the way he remembered it than different. After a short debate with himself, he crossed the street for a better look. The place had changed surprisingly little other than the few features he had noted from across the street.

He remembered how Rusty, the owner’s son, had given him a part-time job cleaning the place and slipped him an occasional beer or two. He had become Chris’s friend. He heard somewhere that Rusty had died some twenty years ago. Chris thought about that now as he recalled the pudgy figure in the greasy apron streaked with barbeque sauce. He suddenly missed his friend and felt his throat tighten as the image came into focus.

He walked around to the back of the building to the now paved parking lot to find the place between the tall wooden fence and the oversized bush where he had squatted to drink his beer or just abandon the world for a few minutes. In their place was a small white house with a chain link fence. There was a rust-covered tricycle with a missing rear wheel in the front yard. It bothered him to see that his hiding place was gone—the place where he learned to appreciate beer and the place that played such an important role in the events that had swept him up. It was funny how a large bush and an old wooden fence could come to mean so much when separated from the present by so many years.

Chris started to go in, maybe have a pulled-pork barbeque sandwich and a beer, but he knew it would feel odd seeing strangers behind the counter rather than Rusty or his dad. He thought again about returning to the big blonde but started instead toward the school. He walked beneath the gray beards of gently swinging Spanish moss that hung limply from the undersides of the out stretched limbs of the old oaks. This too was familiar. The sun, that earlier in the day had shown a modicum of enthusiasm for its winter trek, was already showing signs of acquiescence to the frosty night that, according to the forecast, lay ahead. Chris stopped to button his coat and then pushed his gloveless hands into his pockets.

Damn, it’s probably not this cold in Tennessee, he thought.

He made a mental note to call his wife when he returned to the motel. She had not understood why he wanted to go back after all those years but had sensed its importance to him and so helped arrange his flight from the small Tennessee airport to Jacksonville. She had also called for his motel reservation and checked to be sure that transportation was available from Jacksonville to Saint Augustine. More importantly, she had known for years from his reluctance to provide details of his time at the school that there was a reason for his sketchy answers to the queries of others. So she had never pressed for details.

The bakery was gone. The National Guard armory was still there, but the landscaping was unrecognizably different. After passing the armory, Chris saw nothing else that was familiar. He couldn’t tell how far he was from the school but knew it couldn’t be much farther. He thought again about returning to the big blonde but continued on until he saw the corner of the red brick wall. He stopped to peer down the side street that ran along the eastern border of the school and led to the little gate he had used to avoid observation. Chris had hoped it would also provide a longed for encounter. His limited vision did not permit him to see the little gate. The main gate would be another twenty-five yards or so up the sidewalk and then he was there.

The double wrought iron gates stood open as they always did, except for the time he and the brothers Drew and Dan Walsh had chained and padlocked them closed. What would be considered a boyish prank today was taken quite seriously in 1957. That was the event that led to his breaking the school record for the most days being confined to his dormitory room in a single school year. He smiled to himself as he remembered the cars lined up at the gate. Carey Freeman, a large deaf black man, had eventually appeared with a pair of bolt cutters to remove the chain.

He couldn’t read the dark plaque embedded in the wall at the side of the gate but knew what it said. The Florida School for the Deaf and the Blind, Established 1883. He was back.

Chapter Two

The old school left no doubt that it was a state-run institution, but at the same time, it managed a sense of dignity and, in the eyes of some, a certain elegance. The two-story, whitewashed, red-tiled buildings that populated the periphery of the half-mile oval drive initiated the impression of elegance, which was enhanced by the slim royal palms that traced the sidewalk bisecting the oval. The sidewalk, known as the thirty-eighth parallel by students, stretched from the front gate to Walker Hall at the most distant point on the oval. But it was the lampposts outlining the drive that imbued the campus with its sense of elegance. Each was about 12ʹ tall and could have adorned an 1870s Paris street scene. Although they were electric, the lampposts might well have been converted from gas. The only missing element was an ancient lamplighter shuffling along with an extended taper lighting each in turn.

***

Edith Montgomery pushed in the clutch and touched the brake of the old Chevy when the gate came into view. The man at the gas station had said the drive was a large oval, and she should bear right after entering the gate because traffic on the narrow drive flowed in a counterclockwise direction. The letter from the school said she and her son should come to Walker Hall and ask the receptionist for Mr. Michelson’s office.

She slowed the old car as they entered the wrought iron gate and then slowed it even more.

Why are we going so slow? her son said from the passenger’s seat.

The sign says the speed limit is five miles per hour, Edith said. Besides, there are kids all over the place. She downshifted and leaned forward for a better view through the bug-encrusted windshield. Although she was a small woman, the driver was decidedly not frail. Her years of widowhood during which she had reared two daughters and a son had imparted an air of confidence and strength that she always displayed when she dealt with men. Her signature dark curls usually led observers to believe she was a full decade younger than her fifty-two years.

The drive from Tampa had taken almost four hours, but they’d forgotten their fatigue upon arrival at the school.

I think this first building is the girl’s dormitory, Edith said. At least, all the kids sitting on the steps and benches in front of the building are girls.

Chris leaned toward the open window but couldn’t make out the dimly outlined figures.

Let’s ask these girls where Walker Hall is, Edith said as she steered to the edge of the drive. Chris could hear the tinny sound of a small record player sitting on a step beside one of the girls. A black electric cord attached to the player snaked up the stairs and into a slightly raised window.

You ain’t never caught a rabbit, and you ain’t no friend of mine… the little record player extolled as they came to a stop. Edith leaned over to peer across her son and out the passenger’s side window. Several of the girls were looking at the car but none stood up.

Excuse me, Edith said in a raised voice. A tall girl sitting beside the record player stood up, followed by a shorter, rather rotund, dark-haired girl. They walked to the car and bent down beside the passenger’s side window.

Yes, ma’am, the tall girl said. She was close enough for Chris to see fairly well, but he kept his eyes to the front and only glanced at the girl. She was about his age, rather plain with nondescript short brown hair, and no discernable makeup. Chris noticed her slim figure and fully developed breasts and then quickly averted his eyes.

Can I help you? she said. Chris could now see that her eyes didn’t focus and seemed to be looking at the roof of the car or maybe over the top of the car. He could also see that the shorter girl was heavyset and a full foot shorter than the