Crisis Paper

Before he had needed a temporary job as a scorer of essay submissions for standardized tests, Phillip had known the good life once. He’d had a wife and a daughter, both happy and healthy. His wife had worked part time so she could be home for their daughter, who had just been entering the fourth grade. They’d had a three-bedroom home in Red Lodge, a small town in Montana. It had even come with a picket fence and a dog. The true and coveted American dream.

Except, it had been Phillip’s American nightmare.

He hadn’t been living authentically, and he’d been agonizing over the truth for far too long. While he had loved his wife, the relationship had been a friendship, with no romance. The divorce had been mutual. She had kept the house, the dog, and their daughter. With every intention of living as his true, gay, self, Phillip had hopped on the first plane back to New England where he’d grown up.  It was here, in Boston, that he’d met the vivacious Roland Holmes, CEO of a huge airline company. Roland was hardly ever home, but he was as doting a boyfriend as Phillip could have hoped for. When Roland returned from his latest escapade, Phillip was planning to ask him to move in with him.

That’s the reason he scurried into the scoring center on this particular Wednesday morning. He wanted to stand on his own two feet, to prove to Roland that it was not money that he was after. True, the scoring job was a temporary seasonal position, but the company was always offering the scorers more permanent positions.

Phillip dropped into the chair at his station. An elderly woman was at his right, a young college kid at his left, and the head scorer glared down the row from the front computer. His gaze lingered threateningly on the old lady as though daring her to go too slow. Phillip avoided that green-eyed stare, not wanting to draw attention to himself.

Once the computer powered up, he jumped right into the queue. Ironically, the scoring project he had been assigned to was for elementary schools in Montana. The notion made him homesick, especially as he read through the first essay in line, describing the ecosystem of the Beartooth Mountains. The child who had written it had messy handwriting and a few spelling errors, but their prose adequately met the prompt. Phillip gave the paper high marks and moved on to the next one.

I had a daddy once, the next paper began, the words written in neat, tightly coiled cursive.

Well, that had nothing to do with native ecosystems, but Phillip was compelled to read on.

That was before he learned he loved boys, and not my mommy, the paper continued.

Phillip guessed that this problem was not as uncommon as he’d first thought. Then, the elegant scrawl of the handwriting struck a familiar chord within him. Could it really be…?

Mommy told me that she always sorta knew the truth, the paper said. Phillip heard the words in his daughter Camille’s voice. Of course, any of the papers he graded were anonymous so there was no way to be sure. But that doesn’t make it hurt any less. Specially now that Daddy is gone. He sent me a card on my birthday. But that’s not the same.

The timer in the corner of Phillip’s screen started blinking red at him. He was taking too long to grade this paper. Except, there was no grade he could give it. This wasn’t an essay. Try as he might, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the flowing script.

I’m going to run away, Camille’s voice said. Run far away, all the way to England where Daddy went.

See? This child’s father had gone to England, not New England. So, there was no way it could be Phillip’s daughter. Now, Phillip had read quite enough to know that this was a crisis paper and needed to be reported immediately. The writer may not actually run away, but they should be given help to mitigate the risk.

Instead of pushing the report button, Phillip found himself finishing the paper. It will be easy to get there, Camille’s voice said. Daddy said his new boyfriend owns the planes. If I can get to the airport, I can tell the plane people to take me to Daddy.

Phillip never pushed that button. He stood abruptly, chair scraping loudly against the flecked linoleum floor. His heart was hammering in his chest, drowning out the shouts of the head scorer of his row, the man no doubt demanding to know what he was doing.

Pausing only long enough to grab his car keys and cell phone from his lunch pail in the breakroom, Phillip rushed through security and out of the building. He speed dialed Roland’s number as he fumbled his car keys into the ignition. Right after the engine turned over, Roland’s velvety voice rumbled through the speakers.

“Philly? What is it?”

“I’m on my way to the airport,” Phillip said quickly, gunning the car onto the freeway. “I need to be on the next plane to Billings.”

“Montana?” Roland asked lazily. Phillip got the distinct impression that he was lying in a king-sized hotel room bed wearing expensive silken pajamas. “Whyever would you want to go back there?”

Phillip white-knuckled the steering wheel. “It’s—Well, my daughter needs me.” He didn’t expect Roland, a mid-forty-year-old prior bachelor, to understand.

The bed groaned underneath Roland like he sat up. Additional noise crackling over the car speakers made it sound as if perhaps he wasn’t alone in his hotel room. “Alright, if you insist. I will make a call and get the ticket arranged for you.” A pause, then, “Should it be roundtrip…or one way?”

Phillip gritted his teeth, intent on assuming Roland was cheating on him. It would make never returning to Boston that much easier. “One way is fine.” He barreled around traffic moving much too slowly, though they were probably going speed limit. The exit to the airport was fast approaching.

“Have a safe trip.”

***

A few hours later, in the early afternoon, Phillip eased his rental car into the Mountain View Elementary School parking lot. Dingy yellow school buses were starting to line up in front, anticipating of the final bell of the day. He carelessly occupied a staff parking space and stumbled out of the sleek silver car. His legs wobbled as he crossed the sun-warmed tar to the school’s main entrance.

The school secretary looked up from her computer screen when Phillip entered. She plastered a customer service grin onto her face before asking him in the same quality voice, “What can I do for you today, sir?”

A few raspy breaths escaped Phillip’s lips, like he’d just sprinted all the way there from Boston. Surely Camille had to be at school. His ex-wife, Wanda, would have called him if she’d turned up missing, right? “I’m Camille Flanders’ father,” he said once he’d caught his breath. “I’m here to pick her up.”

The secretary typed a few keys on her computer. “What’s your name?”

Of course, she had to verify if he was an approved contact for his daughter. But what if Wanda hadn’t bothered to list him on their daughter’s record? Too late to worry about that now. “Phillip,” he said. “Phillip Flanders.”

A few more clicks on the keyboard, and the secretary nodded. Without another word, she grabbed a pad of paper from the corner of the desk and scribbled a brief note on it. She turned to a student aid who lounged farther back in the office and held out the note to him. “Take this to classroom eleven.”

Phillip released his breath. Good. So he was on file.

The secretary turned back to her computer. “She should be up soon. Wait over there.” She waved in the vague direction of the office door.

Not wanting to remain in her scrutiny, Phillip pushed back into the school’s main hallway to wait for Camille. Anxious about her reaction, he shifted from foot to foot. Only then did he think that this had possibly been the worst idea of his life. The crisis paper had likely been written months ago, during the testing season, and Wanda hadn’t informed him that Camille had run away.

I shouldn’t have come, Phillip thought.

Then, Camille came around the corner, sneakers squeaking against the school’s tiled floor. Her face lit up with recognition immediately, and she charged headfirst toward him. He crouched down and caught his daughter in his arms, holding her wordlessly for a long time. Suddenly, moving in with Roland and Boston and scoring felt worlds away. What had been wrong with the kindly gentlemen of Red Lodge to begin with?

I’m never leaving her again.