Joan Pickart - Just My Joe

“Okay,” Joe said, making a check mark on the paper attached to the clipboard. “We appreciate your coming to career day, Sergeant. Just have a seat on one of those folding chairs behind the table.”

The sergeant nodded and walked away.

“How are we doing, Joe?”

Joe turned to see the principal of the school. Mark Jackson was in his mid-fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair and more wrinkles on his weary face than his age indicated. He was much shorter than Joe’s six feet, but Joe knew from experience that Mark was physically stronger than he appeared.

The two men not only worked together, they liked and respected each other. They were friends.

“Everyone is here except Dr. Robert Dogwood, the veterinarian. Dogwood? Do you suppose that’s his real name?”

Mark chuckled. “Who knows? Clara and I hired a baby-sitter once whose name was Ima Nanny. She swore that was what her mother christened her. I take it you’ve never met Dr. Dogwood?”

Joe shook his head. “No, I just started with A in the yellow pages of the telephone book under Veterinarians, and hit it lucky when I got to Dogwood. People in general aren’t real excited about coming into this part of town.”

“True,” Mark said, “and I don’t blame them.”

“Well, let’s give the vet five more minutes to show up,” Joe said. “If he doesn’t make an appearance by then, we’ll start without him. The troops are getting restless.”

Mark swept his gaze over the crowded bleachers.

“I hope they listen,” he said. “I want them to realize there’s a way out of this part of town. If they’d just buckle down and study, choose a career goal, have a dream, a...” Mark sighed. “Well, this is our first attempt at a career day. There’s no telling how it will be received by the students.”

“Nope,” Joe said, smiling. “There’s no secondguessing these guys, Mark. That’s just one of the things that makes teaching at Lincoln so...shall we say...challenging?”

Mark laughed. “That’s a polite word for it But you and I sign new contracts every year. We’re either dedicated, or dumb.” His smile faded. “Who am I kidding? We belong here, honestly believe we might make a difference, reach a few of these frustrated, angry kids.”

“Yep,” Joe said, nodding. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m in for the long haul.”

“And I’m grateful for that,” Mark said. “I’d hate to be doing this without you on my staff.”

“Don’t get mushy on me, Mark.” Joe glanced toward the door at the other end of the building. “Well, Dr. Dogwood is a no-show, I guess. So, let the games begin.”

“All right I’ll quiet the inmates down, then turn the microphone over to you, since you’re the one who coordinated the whole thing.”

“Go for it,” Joe said, then watched the principal walk away.

Mark was a good man, he thought. He’d grown up in a neighborhood like this one in Detroit, understood these students and what they were up against. He and his family lived in a nice home on the northwest side, but Mark was dedicated to helping these kids, would stay at Lincoln until he retired.

Joe swept his gaze over the noisy crowd.

And Joe Dillon? he mused. He came from a far different upbringing. His family was wealthy and he’d had every materialistic whim met and then some. He’d taken it all for granted. He wanted it, he got it, no questions asked, and the image of it all in his mind made him cringe.

Ten years ago he’d decided it was payback time. He’d walked away from the world of money, except for the occasional appearances at megabucks events to keep his parents happy.

He worked in the ghetto. Lived in the ghetto. Breathed the air in the ghetto. It was the only way to really relate to these kids, be the kind of teacher he was determined to be. He lacked Mark’s firsthand knowledge of this life, but he was making up for it in his own way.

Sacrifices? Joe mentally wandered on. Yeah, sure, he’d made sacrifices. The biggest one, he supposed, was the fact that he would never marry and have a family. He couldn’t ask a wife and children to live down here and he had every intention of staying. So be it.

As the years went by, he had less patience and tolerance for the idle rich, the jet-set crowd, those who refused to address anything beyond their selfish pleasures. They pretended that neighborhoods like this one, kids like these, didn’t exist. Damn.

Enough, Dillon, he told himself. The vet had obviously gotten cold feet. It was time to get this show on the road.

The two-block walk back to the school seemed more like twenty to Polly as the weight of Jazzy’s heavy cage began to make her hand, arm and shoulder ache.

Arriving at last outside the wide double doors of the Multipurpose Building, Polly stopped to catch her breath and regain her composure. She blew a puff of air up over her face, ruffling the curls on her forehead.

“Well, here we go, Jazzy,” she said.

She pulled open one of the doors and stepped inside to hear an amplified man’s voice say, “...who put in many hours to make this career day at Abraham Lincoln possible. Ladies and gentlemen, please show your appreciation to our own Coach Dillon.”

Polly took another step, then stopped dead in her tracks with a gasp of shock as the student’s appreciation erupted at full volume. They applauded, hooted and hollered, stamped their feet in a rumbling rhythm on the bleachers and whistled shrilly.

“Good grief,” Polly muttered, then frowned. Heavens, she thought, she had to cover the entire length of the building to reach the ever-famous and much-appreciated Coach Dillon and the other people, who were seated on folding chairs. With a chatty bird in a cage, she was about to parade in front of several hundred students.

“Thank you,” Joe said, raising both hands for silence.

Polly started tentatively forward.

The students quieted slowly, then silence fell.

Polly lifted her chin and kept moving.

“The purpose of this first career day at Lincoln,” Joe continued, “is to give all of you the opportunity to...”

“Call the cops,” Jazzy squawked, loud and clear.

The students whooped with laughter.

“No way, Bird Lady,” a boy shouted. “The cops come calling on me more than I want to see them.”

Polly felt a warm flush stain her cheeks as she quickened her step, mentally clicking off ways to murder Jazzy.

What in the hell... Joe thought frowning, as the noise level increased to full volume again. Who was this? It sure wasn’t the Dr. Robert Dogwood he’d spoken to on the telephone. It was some kid with a talking bird, who had managed to totally disrupt the program before it had hardly begun.

No, wait a minute. The girl had to have been sent by the vet. Otherwise, it didn’t make any sense for her to be here. He didn’t envy her the walk she was marking, that was for sure. Well, she was getting closer now and...

Whoa, Joe thought. That wasn’t a kid, it was most definitely a woman. A very pretty—in a fresh, wholesome way—woman. She was wearing pale blue slacks that defined her feminine curves and a dark blue blouse that hinted at womanly breasts beneath it.

Oh, yes, she was young, but she was a woman, no doubt about it. He was going to take pity on her and escort her past the remaining students.

Joe came from behind the table and strode toward the woman carrying the birdcage, his long legs covering the distance in short order.

Polly stopped and looked up at the man she now knew to be Coach Dillon.

“I...” she began, then forgot what she was about to say.

My stars, she thought. In the midst of this embarrassing chaos she was in close proximity to one of the most ruggedly handsome men she’d ever seen.

Oh, yes, one certainly should appreciate Coach Dillon. He was tall, with wide shoulders, his chiseled features were tan, his dark brown hair thick and in need of a trim, and his yummy eyes were the color of fudge sauce.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Polly said, amazed she had enough air in her lungs to speak. “I couldn’t find a place to park and I had to walk a couple of blocks. This cage is heavy, so I had to set it down once and...”

“You’re not Dr. Dogwood,” Joe said, frowning. Very, very pretty, now that he was close enough for a full perusal. But how old was she? Twenty? Twenty-two? Twenty-five? He really couldn’t tell. “I’m assuming he sent you, though?”

“Yes. Robert had an emergency surgery to perform. His wife, Dr. Nancy Dogwood, is covering the appointments at the clinic. I’m Ms. Polly Chapman, a veterinary technician.”

“I see,” Joe said.

“I’ve never done anything like this before. I have no idea what you want me to say, Coach Dillon. Robert didn’t have time to explain things to me.”

“It’s Joe...Polly. You won’t be first on the program, so you’ll have a chance to hear some of the others speak before it’s your turn. May I carry your bird for you?”

“What? Oh. Yes, thank you.”

Polly lifted Jazzy’s cage and Joe slid his fingers through the brass ring at the top, brushing Polly’s fingers as she released her hold. A sudden and startling heat exploded from the feathery touch, shooting up both Polly and Joe’s arms.

Their eyes collided with matching confusion; summer-sky blue eyes and eyes of fudge-sauce brown.

“Wanna snuggle, bunny?” Jazzy squawked.

Polly snapped her head around to glare at the bird.

“Jazzy, for heaven’s sake,” she scolded, “hush.”

Joe spun on his heel and strode back to the area containing the table and chairs, Polly following more slowly behind him.

Gracious, she thought, what a strange sensation that had been when her hand had met with Joe Dillon’s. She could still feel the heat tingling along her arm and across her breasts.

It was probably static electricity.

No, she thought, in the next instant. That was an easy-out explanation, but she somehow knew it wasn’t true. It had been a man-woman thing, a sensuous something, that was disconcerting, to say the least.

Joe Dillon was one of those dangerous men who oozed blatant masculinity by doing nothing more than standing there. He was the type who had to beat women off with a stick. Oh, yes, Joe was very, very dangerous.

Polly settled onto a folding chair, smiled politely at the people on either side of her, then nodded her thanks to Joe as he set Jazzy’s cage on the floor in front of her. She folded her hands primly in her lap and plastered what she hoped was a pleasant, professional expression on her face.

Only then did she realize she was seated directly behind Joe, where he was now standing at the microphone on the table.

My, my, Polly thought, such delectable scenery. Coach Dillon certainly did have a nice tush, and those long, beautifully muscled legs weren’t too shabby, either. The man just didn’t quit. He had it all, from head to toe.

Oh, goodness, there was that heat again, only this time it was traveling in the opposite direction, swirling low within her. This would never do. She didn’t have reactions like this to men she’d known for about three seconds. She didn’t have reactions like this to men she’d known for three years.

Enough was enough. She was going to quit staring at Joe Dillon’s buns and get herself back under control.

Slowly and admittedly a tad reluctantly, Polly shifted her gaze to the side wall of the building, where a huge, snarling head of a bear had been painted with vivid yellow and blue colors. Beneath the bear was the blockletter word Grizzlies.

That must be the school mascot, Polly thought absently. The Abraham Lincoln Grizzlies. How nice. The years in high school were such fun. But then again, maybe they weren’t for the kids in this neighborhood. That was a depressing thought.