Short Story: A Modern Day Scapegoat

Short Story: A Modern Day Scapegoat

The light was dim in the prison cell. He was lying on the only iron cot in the small space provided for convicts. Beneath him; a luxurious blanket and plump pillows. He thought bitterly, So, I am alone. I should be grateful for the accommodation?

Evidently the company was providing for him. Phil De Watt, Chairman of the Board, must be behind this luxury, because Marcus Whitman had all the comforts of home in this hole; a wingback chair, small table, a television, and area rug on the concrete floor. A screen surrounded the toilet and wash basin where, when the guard brought a safety razor and silver hand mirror (not glass), he was able to shave. Then he was taken to a tiled stall down the corridor for his daily shower. Always in company of that guard.

Stunned and bewildered by this humiliation at first, Marcus soon accepted each day without question, for there was no one to query about anything. There was only the solitude.

He rolled over onto his side. Again he searched for answers . . . recalling the trial, always with the same result. A little more than two years ago, during the surprising sweep of Corporation investigations, he had been indicted on trumped-up charges. He had not profited from insider leaks, but had become one of many CEO’s accused by authorities and convicted. He was puzzled, still. How many had actually been guilty?

Marcus had been totally unaware of any wrongdoing in the company. There had been no explanations given to him by Seiler or De Watt. The swift progress of events, indictment, conviction and incarceration, had left him in a daze. Corporation Attorney, Jayton Seiler, had tried to defend him with feeble attempts, so Marcus observed. And now, he wondered, what had Phil De Watt’s role been in all of this? He’d been absent throughout the entire mess. The realization hit: "I am a scapegoat," he cried, bitterly, in the silence.

He sat up suddenly. He must let it go, get on with his life.

Returned to his cell just moments ago, he had a textbook with him from the library where he was always sent in lieu of free time out-of-doors. He was into the prison’s collection of history textbooks, reviving his college major, planning to teach somewhere after he was released. It would be awhile, though, for his sentence had been five to ten years. He would not return to life in the corporate world. He would take up his original intent, should someone be willing to give him a chance. For now, he was just a number in a state prison.

Since he spent his mornings in the prison garden, which prevented his taking on a prison pallor, there was no chance at conversation among the inmates. Any chitchat with anyone but his guard was out of the question, and that was mundane conversation in his estimation.

He looked up. A repeated shout drew his attention, "Number 43211," was followed by an impatient, "Damn it, Whitman, come here!" He was astonished to hear his name.

Marcus put down the book and looked toward his cell door. His day guard was there with a key in his hand, waiting. Marcus went toward him, as the door was unlocked and rolled open. His heart was suddenly in his mouth. What now?

"Come out, man! You are free. Your attorney is here. He’s waiting outside for you. Gather up anything you want to take with you, and let’s go, get you outta here, man."

"My Attorney? Jayton Seiler?" he muttered. "The Corporation Attorney? Well, he had said he would appeal."

Following the guard to freedom, Marcus took only his textbook and a few personal items. He left the nearly dead, potted plant his ex wife, Robin, had sent announcing her marriage to their long-time friend, David Queller. In Marcus’s shirt pocket was an envelope containing a lock of his little girl’s hair. He patted it and left the prison with the suave attorney.

Jayton took him home in a cab. They halted out front of his big empty house. Neither of them made a move to get out, so Marcus asked, "What was this all about, Jayton?"

He shrugged, "I‘ve no authority to tell you anything. However, I do have a severance check for you. So, go. Save yourself. You are finished here."

"That’s it? Just go away and leave the stain on my name?"

"It’s for the best, Marcus."

"For whom?" Marcus felt sick to his stomach, remembering his mother and her quote from Tennyson, May your life be like a snowflake that leaves a mark but not a stain.

"Everyone, including you. Now get out, go home and let me get back to the office."

There was no joy left in Marcus. Despite the fact that he had been cleared of all charges, the stain would stay with him for all his life. He had let his mother down. Which was unbearable. Undoubtedly, he was a rational man, trained by that loving mother to make rational decisions. But for once he was challenged by his failure to her, his failed marriage, and the loss of his daughter whom he had adored from birth, for he toyed briefly with the idea of ending his life.

Recalling the onset of the trial, when he received the restraining order keeping him from Lorianne, he fumed, An unfit father, be damned!Frustrated, he had been helpless against the hordes of reporters, and Robin; he’d been in no position to contest the order.

Free now, he simply brooded for weeks, cooped up in the house which they had bought with his first bonus. Ultimately, he began liquidating everything; he placed half of the profit in a trust for Lorianne, which increased his desire to see her.

One afternoon he slipped into the hospital and went to her side. She was deeply asleep, so he tenderly kissed her forehead, sat at her side as long as he could and left, passing a nurse outside the door. She had opened her mouth and quickly snapped it shut as she saw him exit. He heard her grunt as he hurried away.

No one came; no one called except the reporters. Old friends stayed away, and he believed it was because they thought he was guilty. They wanted nothing more to do with him. He told himself that since he’d had nothing for which to repent in the first place, he would assume that everyone would now forget. Surely they would allow him to get on with a much quieter life as an academic with a PhD, earned prior to becoming CEO of a corporation.

Among the many judges he would encounter in the days ahead, Russell Falmouth, Dean of Academics at MeltonCollege, had been firm when he applied there, "I cannot give you a place here, Marcus, and disrupt campus activities. The notoriety . . . the news media won’t leave you alone. It will reflect upon us; therefore, I have secured a post for you at UlyssesGonzalesCollege in Oregon. A young school, they are pleased that you are available." He sat back, stared at Marcus. "I know you will overcome this, Marcus. You are a good man."

He had looked shrewdly at Marcus, "What of your marriage? I understand Robin has remarried?"

Marcus said, "The divorce is final. She was not happy being alone, expecting it to be five to ten years, and I was not surprised when she found another man. Raising a child alone, especially one with special needs, is too much for anyone. She has had to place our child in an institution now that her condition has deteriorated. Lorianne cannot walk now. Speech is difficult. The prognosis is not good. The doctor tells me her life will end soon; he is certain."

"It is that serious. Is there no hope?"

Marcus inhaled, "A birth defect; we were so unsuspecting, so appalled at having brought a child into the world with such problems. But we adore her .... It was a bit easier in the beginning. She could handle herself pretty well. But after I— went away— Robin informed me that Lorianne began to fail rapidly, blamed me for getting into trouble and causing our daughter to suffer. I had no defense against that, had I?"

Bitterly Marcus continued, "Robin relished our lifestyle." He sat forward, "Russ, I am a learned man, but nothing will ever educate me as have the recent events. I have lost my beloved girls. I have no idea how to cope with this. I won’t find it in a book, will I?"

A sudden breeze blew in through the open French doors and cooled the room. Somewhere a door slammed.

Russ shifted in his chair, "No, not in books, dear man," he paused. "Well, here are your referrals, necessary for meeting the challenges ahead. The company gave you severance pay, I assume? Good. How are you fixed otherwise? Fine. My best to you Marcus. Please do keep in touch with me." He offered a handshake in farewell.

Although drained of ambition, he had not been left without resources. There had been no consolation in his decision to invest his money for the future, but he hadearned it by serving as the scapegoat of a corporation, he rationalized. He retained only enough cash to begin again. Marcus had settled his affairs as quickly as possible, irritated by the news people who hounded him for his story. Dodging around, evading the shouting hordes, he managed to escape them.

So, he took a plane to the nearest large city and, from there, lost himself in bus rides and overnight stays in small towns. He hitchhiked through Iowa, caught a ride with an interstate trucker and rode high in the cab, discussing traffic throughout North America.

When he needed rest, he stayed in one place for a few days. Once he telephoned the home where Lorianne resided. Some unsuspecting person connected them, but it was tortuous.

"Daddy. Hold me. I love you. I miss you. Mama says you are not to come. But I want you to." Her speech was slow and difficult.

"Oh baby, I will come for you as soon as I can. Be patient, my darling girl. I will come." The connection was severed and he was unable to get through again.

Nevertheless, he made one more stab at seeing her. The interception by a burly guard on her door was appalling, and the threat that Marcus could be imprisoned for failing to comply was shouted at him. It was enough to send Marcus away sick to his soul.

Suffering unbearable grief, he got through the days, weeping at night until he was wrung dry of emotion. He did not lose sight of the time or date, because of the appointment in Oregon. He had to recapture his life. So, presently he lost himself among people whom he realized were suffering the same world of hurt. They would surely not be concerned with his problems.

He arrived in a small town in southern Illinois on a rainy day, went to the YMCA. He was wet, hungry and tired. He was assigned a bunk in the men’s dormitory, and he signed the roster for the evening meal. Given towel and soap for a shower, he went to take advantage of it. There he discovered how pale and thin he had become. His brown eyes were wary. His brown hair, now turned to ash color, had a sprinkling of white in the crown. Perhaps, he thought, time spent in the sun out west would restore him, restore his soul. To live without it was not an option he would choose. Still, he was unable to touch the Gideon Bible at his bedside.

Yet when he left, he left a generous contribution, and with a new sense of purpose.

Mid-August Marcus arrived in Heiton, Oregon, a coastal city. Autumn was beautiful in this place. He checked into an economy hotel. Working from there he sought out an apartment temporarily, pricy because it included housekeeping and a cook. He would need both, if he were to have time to settle himself in this new environment. He bought a black Toyota Camry and began orienting himself to this college city and its surroundings.

When he arrived at the campus, he was relieved to see that it was well laid out, maintained, and beautifully landscaped. Summer classes held a few straggling students, and he passed them as he went up the walkway, into the main building. Looking for the office of Dean Brand, he stopped in at the Information Desk. The young lady made a phone call; he was directed to Dean Brand’s office.

On the door, LL Brand, Dean of Academics, greeted him. He took a deep breath, opened the door and went in. A receptionist, Nancy Korn (engraved name plate), hurried out from behind her desk. He was impressed with her grooming and she appeared alert, and kind.

"Professor Whitman? Welcome, sir. She is expecting you. Come this way, please."

Marcus did a double-take. Dean Brand was a woman! Thank goodness for that clue. He would not want to make an ass of himself.

He followed along to an inner door, eyeing Nancy's shapely legs and sensible shoes, finally considering the oak plaque that said only DEAN as they went through.

The woman behind the desk was the most beautiful woman Marcus had ever seen. She was suntanned. Her dark blonde hair was sun-streaked, and cut short. Behind heavy rimmed glasses, her brown eyes took quick measure of him. She stood up, clad in a white linen frock with a little knit sweater over her shoulders and on her arms above the elbow. She was almost as tall as he, slim as a reed, but voluptuous. She held out her hand. Her beauty was not entirely of countenance, she exuded poise and dignity.

"Doctor Whitman? Welcome. Do sit down. I have been expecting you. Our campus needs good teachers, and you come with excellent credentials. How long have you been in town? Long enough to look around? Good. I hope you like it here," she consulted her wrist watch. "It is almost lunch time; I purposely scheduled our meeting in the hope you would accompany me to lunch."

"I thought we would begin with the cafeteria," she smiled sweetly, "where the real action with students takes place. We can return to my office and stage your orientation from here. Does that suit you, Doctor? Oh, thank you, I’ll take your papers now." Her name plate read Linda L Brand

Marcus met her gaze, "I’m at your disposal, Dean," he murmured, feeling strange. He was not used to his title, to such respect and acceptance. "I’m looking forward to this opportunity to teach again. I was away far too long."

She placed his large envelope on her desk. "Yes. I understand. Unfortunate happening. But you will be welcome here. Your past is just that. Nothing to us. I understand you have no family with you?"

Marcus hesitated. Hadn’t Farnsworth given her the entire picture? In a few words, Marcus filled her in, saw her compassion, but she put it away quickly and continued in her quest to make him welcome and needed. He felt a sudden burst of gratitude.

They went to lunch in the bright and cheerful cafeteria, surrounded by a smattering of students, conversation and clatter of dishes. While there she told him of a property, reasonable, quite near her own home where she lived with an invalid mother — a property just on the market. Would he be interested? She assured him it was in close proximity to the campus. And she offered any help possible in getting him settled in the community.

Marcus decided he was very muchinterested. His prayers were being answered. And Linda Brand was a part of that answer. He offered, "I would be pleased if you called me Marcus . . . in private, of course."

"Yes, of course. I’d be happy to. I like that name." She was offering him hope and dignity, and a fulfilling future at last.

Perhaps, he thought, with just a tinge of sorrow, I can begin again. It was a good feeling.

There is always time for everything, he thought. A time to win and a time to lose.

Very shortly, Marcus won custody of Lorianne. And brought her to live with him, with around-the-clock nursing care. He was filled with anguish that she could not respond, but he held her and murmured to her often. These closing hours with her brought him peace at last.

Several hours before her demise, she regained consciousness in his arms. "You came, Daddy."

"I told you I would, my darling."

She smiled and closed her eyes. "I knew you would. He told me you would."

He? Marcus gazed at her. Where had she been, what had she seen in her journey into a world no one can enter, he wondered. But he didn’t ask, simply let his love for her flow over them.

"I love you so much," were her last words to him.