God's Not Dead 2 (4 page)

RESSIE PICKS
a really bad time to bolt out the door of my house and start running down the street. I’ve also picked a really bad time not to be wearing shoes. I have no choice but to sprint after the dog in my socks. Maybe I should be glad since now I’ll have a completely legitimate excuse to buy some replacements at Kohl’s; these ones will definitely have holes in them when I’m through with the chase. I’m going to have to get her quickly, though; my meeting with the teacher I’m supposed to represent is twenty minutes from now.

I’m sprinting along the sidewalk a couple of houses down from mine when Ressie bolts into the street. Thankfully no cars can be seen in our neighborhood. I do see Florence standing by her mailbox, wearing the same thing she’s always wearing. The grayish housecoat and slippers. I wave, but she just stares back as always.

I swear she hasn’t taken that robe off since she retired years ago, back when I used to visit Mom in this house
 
—the one I now live in and am currently trying to figure out how not to lose to foreclosure.

Ressie seems to be smart enough to stay away from Florence. The small dog is a cross between a Shetland sheepdog and a Pomeranian. I know the different personalities of each, but Ressie is a special dog and has been since the moment I first encountered her.

It makes episodes like this a little easier to endure.

“Ressie, come here.”

Shouting does little good. It probably makes her speed up a bit.

I pick up the pace and think back to last night and my date with marathon Wonder Woman. I’d bet anything she wouldn’t be impressed with my running style.

I bet she’s not a dog person, either.

It’s not like I was looking for a dog. That’s the last thing I really wanted or needed in my life. But one afternoon while walking out of the courthouse in Hope Springs, I saw a two-door sports car speed by and then watched a light-brown ball burst out of the driver’s window. It took a split second before I realized it was a dog being tossed from the car.

It was what watching a car accident occur ten yards in front of me might feel like. Actually, it was worse. You can’t fully see the people inside cars, and they’re at least somewhat protected by the metal and steel they’re driving.

No, this was way worse. Watching the flailing animal land sideways on the hard concrete and then let out this sickening, screeching howl. I couldn’t move or do anything for a moment after seeing this. Then I raced to the dog’s side as it tried to stand up and start moving but couldn’t.

“Ressie, come on,” I say in a less forceful tone. She’s starting to get tired now, so I’m catching up.

I remember feeling two things when I scooped the discarded dog into my arms. The first was pain from seeing an animal
literally
thrown away like an empty can of soda. The other was rage. The sports car was long gone, but I swear I almost tried sprinting after it like I’m doing now after Ressie. It’s probably best I didn’t. I would have been arrested if I’d caught up with the driver.

I brought the dog to the nearest vet. Thankfully she only had a broken leg and a couple of fractured ribs. But the veterinarian discovered something even worse than the dog being flung out a car window. It turned out the dog had suffered horrible abuse. The vet actually gave me a few suspicious looks after first examining the dog. I had already told her the story, but I had to convince her this wasn’t my dog to begin with.

“So I guess you don’t smoke then?” the vet asked me.

I looked at her and told her I didn’t, then wondered what this had to do with anything.

“The owner must’ve liked putting out his cigarettes on her.”

You could tell, too. The dog had tried to bite me a few times while I was taking her in, and she was trying to do the same with the vet.

“It looks like she’s been terribly mistreated. She’s probably about two years old, so who knows how long it’s been happening.”

This all happened a few months ago. That day was the start of my companionship with a dog I named Ressie, the one I’ve almost caught up with.

A car stops at the intersection ahead, and Ressie turns and starts running back to me. She still hates vehicles to this day.

“What are you doing?” I ask her as I pick her up.

She weighs quite a bit more than she did the first time I held her. She’s on a steady diet of being spoiled. I don’t want to get her sick or anything, but I admit I overdo the doggy treats.

We head back to my house and I find myself talking to her like always. “Are you trying to tell me I need to work out or something? I don’t even have time to take a shower now.”

Those round, trusting eyes look up at me. She still doesn’t like people, but Ressie sure does love me.

Back home, I refill her water dish and then give her a treat.

You’re rewarding a dog that just tried to run away.

I know Ressie wasn’t running away. She was just exerting some of that nervous energy of hers. I get it. I think sometimes I have the same kinds of feelings. I just find other ways for them to come out.

The clock on the wall says I have five minutes before my meeting at the coffee shop that’s fifteen minutes away.

“Do you want me to lose a potential client? Huh?”

Ressie just stands, staring up at me. I swear she understands every word I say.

I get in the car and speed on the way to the meeting. I realize it’s another job that I basically
have
to have. It’s not like the door is swinging open a lot at wonderful Tagliano, Endler & Associates. So it’s not a good first impression being late. And sweaty. And unfocused.

Go back to Tom Endler, the cool, calm, and collected guy.

I try to get my head back in order. I’m just not quite as tough as my dog. But then again, that’s why I named her Ressie. Short for
resilient
. My dog is like that. She’s a fighter.

Maybe I’m looking for someone to fight for me, to help pick me up after being tossed out the grand window of life.

My cell phone goes off five minutes after I enter Evelyn’s Espresso. I scan the door and don’t even have to see the phone in her hand to spot Grace. She certainly looks like a teacher, yet I imagine the woman in front of a class full of kindergartners instead of teenagers. I can picture young girls who think she resembles Elsa from
Frozen
and young boys who tell her she’s pretty.

Lucky students. I never had a history teacher I didn’t mind looking at.

“Grace?” I ask as she approaches.

“Are you . . . ?”

Perhaps the fact that I’m holding the ringing cell phone she just called should make my identity obvious. Of course I don’t say this. I realize this is the second time in less than twenty-four hours that a woman seems disappointed after meeting me in person.

“Tom Endler,” I say, extending a hand. “Your union-appointed attorney.”

Her handshake is less alpha-female than the one I got last night from Megan. Actually, the shake resembles the uncertainty covering Grace’s face.

“You don’t
look
like a lawyer,” she says.

“Thank you,” I say. “You should see the briefcase I carry around with me during moments when I feel like I really need to look like a lawyer.”

“I’m not sure I meant that as a compliment.”

“I’m determined to take it as one,” I say with the flash of my smile.

I realize that smile used to work a lot better years ago.

“I haven’t ordered anything,” I say. “Figured I’d wait until you got here.”

“Do I buy yours? Is that how this works?”

“Please. No. It’ll be on me. I just need something cold.”

I purchase an iced coffee while Grace orders some coffee drink with an eight-word description. We sit at a table and I watch her get organized. Her phone is now lying directly in front of her with her coffee perfectly placed in the center of the square napkin underneath. I almost spill my drink as I put it on the table.

“Do you work downtown?” Grace asks me in a pleasant and calm voice, barely audible over the afternoon crowd here.

“Yes.”

I don’t ask her if she’s referring to my office, which is back at my house. Well, actually my mother’s house, which I’m living in.

“So I’m sure you’ve heard about everything that’s happened.”

I nod and take a sip from the coffee. I haven’t stopped sweating since my afternoon jog with Ressie. “But maybe
you
can tell me everything that’s happened,” I say. “Your version.”

“My version?” she asks. The eyes that meet mine don’t quite match her cute and sweet exterior. “There’s only one version of what happened. The honest version.”

“Of course,” I say.

“We were discussing Mahatma Gandhi and Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and exploring the idea of peaceful nonviolence during my class. With all the violence happening in our country today, I thought it made sense to talk about what Gandhi and Martin Luther King Jr. did.”

“So you inserted Jesus into the conversation then?”

“No. I was talking about what makes nonviolence so radical
 
—how it’s an unwavering commitment to being nonviolent both with its initial approach and in response to the persecution that might follow. This was when one of my students
 
—a young woman named Brooke Thawley
 
—asked a question related to this.”

“About Jesus,” I add.

Grace nods without any air of defense. “Brooke asked if that was what Jesus meant when he said we should love our enemies. So I said yes, that’s exactly what he meant.”

“And that’s exactly how you said it?”

“Well, no. Not exactly. I explained in my interview with the principal and superintendent the precise words. Did you see those?”

Remember
 
—she’s a teacher, bozo. She’s surely way smarter than you are.

“Yes, of course,” I say. “I just want to hear your explanation.”

“I agreed with her and said that the writer of the Gospel of Matthew recorded Jesus saying that. I shared the Bible verse that quotes this. I added that Dr. King confirmed it by describing his inspiration from Scripture and saying that ‘Christ furnished the spirit and motivation while Gandhi furnished the method.’”

I can already see how this might have gotten some attention from people at the school.

“So who texted and complained?”

“I don’t know that,” Grace says. “I just know one of the students began to bait me
 
—just to try to get me or the class riled up. I told him that both Jesus and Dr. King were killed for their actions and that both started movements that survive to this day, even though both paid the ultimate price for their commitment to their ideals.”

“Did you spend a long time debating about this?”

She shakes her head. “It wasn’t a debate, Mr. Endler.”

I grimace. “Please. That’s my father. I’m Tom.”

“We maybe spent another couple of minutes talking about it. But that was all. Not long after that, Principal Kinney asked to talk
to me. I always wondered how I could do something to go viral. I just didn’t think it would be something like this.”

“I think everybody is one dumb decision away from their life going viral.” I suddenly realize what this might have sounded like. “Not that what you did is dumb. I’m just saying
 
—”

“I understand.”

She puts one hand in the other and I notice the lack of a wedding ring on her finger. I already knew she wasn’t married, but I still can’t help looking at those sorts of things these days. I wasn’t always like this, but I was never thirty-five before my last birthday.

“So, how did things escalate from this classroom conversation to the two of us talking here?”

“That’s something you need to ask the parents suing me. They just so happen to be Brooke’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Thawley.”

“What about the initial conversations with the principal and superintendent?” I say. “How did those go?”

“They were reacting to a situation that was blowing up. I readily admitted that I had responded to a student’s question. I also stated that the student’s question and my answer involved the teachings of Jesus in the context of the class discussion.”

“Context can be one of those gray areas in life.”

“There was nothing gray about this.”

There’s not a trace of doubt on her face or in her tone. I feel like the comic in the class being called out for making some stupid comment.

“I’m sorry,” Grace says, sighing and looking down at the table for a moment. “I’m still a bit unsure how it’s gotten to this point.”

“It’s okay
 
—it takes a lot to offend me. So tell me about your conversation with the superintendent.”

“They asked the school’s attorney to sit in with us for any legal
issues. A fellow teacher who serves as the union rep was present as well. They wanted to hear my side of things. The word
allegedly
came up quite a few times. Remarks ‘allegedly’ made by Jesus. As if I was quoting the perpetrator of some crime.”

“But you did quote the Bible, right?” I ask.

“Yes. And that was the thing they certainly did not like. Even my union representative couldn’t believe I had actually done it. That’s why it moved to the board and why you’re here right now.”

I no longer have sweat beads covering my forehead, but I can see similar ones lining the side of my iced coffee. There isn’t enough time left in the day to tell her all
my
reasons for indeed happening to be sitting across from her now.

“So, Tom, tell me: have you defended many teachers in disciplinary matters?”

“Nope. You’ll be my first. I’ve only done basic complaints and issues processed up and out of the jurisdiction of the union. Heavy-duty stuff like insurance coverages and wages issues.”

I can tell this only adds to her visible concern.

“Honestly, my original specialty was criminal law. I was just hired a couple of years ago from the public defender’s office. I switched gears a bit with my career and with . . . well, with everything.”

“Criminal law?” she says in disbelief. “I’m not a criminal.”

“Don’t be too sure of that.” I give her a chuckle, but she’s definitely not amused. “This kind of case makes everybody uncomfortable. The school board, teachers, parents
 
—it makes them all feel yucky.”