“Kensi, good morning! To what do I owe the pleasure?” he says. I notice the stack of homework on his desktop, Owen’s name scribbled at the top of a few papers. He pushes them into a pile, moving them to the side, trying to get my attention away from them. But it’s the only thing my eyes see. I leave my gaze there as I speak.
“How did you know Bill Harper?” I ask.
I take the silence that greets me as confirmation. I move closer to Mr. Chessman’s desk, sliding the printout of the picture I found online in front of him. He picks it up, holding it in both hands, his eyes spending long seconds on every detail. It’s more than recognition that shadows his face; it’s memories.
“How did you find this?” he asks, his eyes still on the black-and-white page. The photo is a bit fuzzy, but the faces are distinct. It’s the eyes. I saw him in those eyes.
“At first I wasn’t sure why the guy standing with Bill looked so familiar. I thought maybe it was a relative, or that I was remembering a picture I saw at Owen’s house. I’m not sure how you flashed into my head. But I’m glad you did,” I say.
Mr. Chessman puts the picture down on his desk, the caption below labeling Bill Harper and Dwayne Chessman. His palms are flat along either side of the paper, and he peers up at me slowly.
“How did you know him?” I ask again. I know it isn’t a happy memory. Mr. Chessman’s eyes are distant. His breathing is slow, and it takes a few seconds before he resolves himself to answering my question.
“Bill and I worked at the warehouse together. For about a year,” he says, leaning back in his chair. He folds his arms in front of him, his eyes moving lower, to the space under his desk. “I had just gotten out of the Navy, and I was back home, trying to put myself through school. I took the job at the warehouse because the hours fit my classes. They paired me up with Billy because he’d been there the longest,” he says, his eyes coming up to mine briefly before he stands and begins pacing his classroom.
“Bill trained me on the machines, and I liked working with him so much, they let me stay on his team permanently. His wife, Shannon, would bring him lunch every day, and after a few months on the job, she started bringing a lunch for me, too. I spent a year on Bill’s team, and for a year I sat outside on the picnic table, next to him and across from his wife, eating sandwiches and talking about my college classes and learning about their kids. Shannon wanted to go to college too, but they never had enough money.”
Mr. Chessman’s gaze drifts away again, his eyes fixed outside, to the sidewalk along the street. More students are arriving, and I know my time with him alone is growing short.
“Is that why you help Owen? Because you knew Bill?” I say. He turns to me quickly, his brow pinched. I move to his desk and lift the stack of papers, all Owen’s. “His homework. His grades. I know you’ve been collecting things and turning things in for him when he misses other classes.”
Mr. Chessman’s mouth slides into a smile as he chuckles, moving over to his desk and taking the stack from my hand, spreading it out between us.
“I don’t do anything for him. I collect his work, check in with his teachers, sure. But Owen…he always does the work himself. He finds a way, finds time. He’s always been that way, ahead of the rest of the class,” Mr. Chessman says, a proud and satisfied grin showing as he pushes the papers back together before moving them to a wire basket on his back table.
“Ahead?” I question. Mr. Chessman leans against the table, crossing his legs and folding his arms. He’s told me so much, more than he probably should. His quiet worries me, and I start to think I’ve gotten everything I’m going to from him. It’s not enough. I need more; I need to find out if there’s enough there for him to help me, for him to convince Owen to stay.
“We don’t offer classes here for college credit like they do at some other schools,” he says, and my lungs fill with relief that he’s still sharing. “But we were able to work with the district and the university board so Owen could test at the end of the year, but stay here for basketball. It’s basically the same program his brother’s in, without going to that school. Hopefully he’ll leave here with six or nine credits under his belt already.”
I nod, thinking back to how Owen answered me, how he said math is easy for him. I don’t know why he didn’t tell me he was trying to earn credit, unless he just believed it would never happen. That thought…it doesn’t surprise me. Owen doesn’t expect anything good in the end.