Second Chance

Chapter 22

Chapter 22

Monday, June 7, 1982

Micah Vaughn sat patiently as his teacher quickly skimmed over the story he handed her. It was a short story, an extra credit assignment. Though his grades were high in Journalism, he did the work, wanted to make sure that if he didn’t do well at the final, he would have this to add to it.

His teacher put the typed pages down and looked at him. “This is great. How come you didn’t take the Creative Writing course as well?”

“It wouldn’t fit into my schedule, Mrs. Cleary. I wanted to take it, but I needed that period for Trigonometry.”

She shook her head. “You have a talent for writing, Micah. There’s no doubt about it.”

“What grade do you think I’ll get?”

She removed her glasses and smiled. “I’ve not gone through it with an English teacher’s touch, but from what I’ve seen on the surface, you’ll get an A.”

Micah smiled broadly and thanked her. “Now, I have to hurry. I don’t want to be marked too late for study hall.”

“Oh that’s right.” She removed a Hall Pass pad from her desk and quickly wrote a note explaining his tardiness. “I should have this graded by the end of the day. If you want, you can come back then and ask.”

“I will.” He turned on his heels and exited the classroom. She waited a few minutes, made sure no one else entered. She had a free period, was available for her Journalism and Creative Writing students to ask questions or discuss projects. When no one else came in, she walked to the door and locked it. She went into the school newspaper editorial room and locked that door as well. She sat at the editor’s desk shaking.

Emily Cleary earned a bachelor’s in Journalism and Mass Communications from Syracuse University. While still a student, she broke a story about a local drug gang and its ties to local and state police. It won her a New York State journalism award and many job offers, including one from the New York Times. She turned them all down to return home to Schenectady to work at the local paper, The Post Star. It was a poor choice, however. The paper folded six weeks after her first day, the owner passing away and his heirs deciding not to continue.

She was crushed, her dreams of being a newspaper reporter over. With the help of family, she returned to school, earning a Master’s in Education so she could teach in the local high schools while she looked for other journalism opportunities.

Cleary fell in love with teaching, knew it was what she was destined to do. When she arrived at Linton High School three years ago, she was one of the best journalism teachers in the state, if the many awards she had won were evidence. She took on the creative writing post to earn a little more money.

Her hands were shaking. “How did he know?” she asked herself. She thought no one outside the family knew of the painting, knew of the legends surrounding it. Her parents had assured her that no one else knew about it, but here was something to the contrary staring her in the face.

Micah’s story had the elements of what she learned as a child: A man returns to his family, paints a scene of where he’s been, and people knowing it’s a map to a great treasure. She wanted to know how he knew, but didn’t want to press Micah, in fear that he might bring his knowledge to others who might be looking for it.

“What do I say to him, to them?” she thought. “How can I tell the family about this? Should I tell them?”

“No, he has to know,” she answered herself. She sat straight and made the call, the phone number well remembered by her. The other phone rang once before a female’s voice answered.

“Let me talk with him. It’s his cousin Emily.” She was anxious, not sure of how he would react. The last time someone brought up the painting, she saw him lose his temper, yell and scream at the person before he had him removed.

“Emily,” the curt male voice said in her ear.

She swallowed hard and remembered how to talk with her cousin: in short and specific sentences. “Kiliaen, someone knows about the painting. A student handed me a short story detailing it and the legend.”

There was a pause, and then he answered. “I’m sending someone over to pick it up. Before they get there, I want you to put down the information on the student.” He didn’t wait for her to agree: he ended the call.

Emily Cleary replaced the receiver back on the phone and walked to her desk. She pulled out her Student Address Book and a few pieces of liner paper. She opened the book up to Vaughn’s name and copied the information onto paper.

She knew what she was doing was not legal, but there were times when family business came before her job.



In his office, Kiliaen Van Rossum stared at the phone and shook his head. Someone else knew of the painting, and more than likely, knew its location. He clicked a button under his desk and two men entered.

“Go to Linton; go to my cousin’s homeroom. She’ll have something for you. Bring it back as quickly as possible.”

“Yes sir,” the man called Hannah said. He and his associate exited the office without another word.



“So how did the prom go Chance?” the teenage girl asked. Like him, Alexandria Black was a senior, knew him for the entire time they attended Linton High School. They met back in September of 1978, on their first day as freshmen. There was an immediate friendship between the two, both feeling no romantic chemistry between them.

He looked at the short, raven-hair beauty and blushed. “It went well.”

Black smiled and looked into his eyes. “How well did it go? What did you two do?”

He shook his head. “A gentleman never kisses and tells.”

She laughed. “I’m not asking for intimate details, Chance, just asking what you two did.”

“We talked. We danced. I told her I loved her. We had dinner. She told me I should return to my dream of being a writer.”

“Wait,” she said too loudly: several students and the teacher looked at her. She apologized and waited for the others to return to their reading or discussions before she talked to him further.

“What do you mean you told her you loved her? So you did listen to me, to us cheerleaders that you needed to tell her.”

He nodded quickly. “Yes, I listened to you.”

She leaned in closer, eagerly wanting to know. “How did she react?”

He sat back in his chair and smiled. He exhaled and looked into her pale blue eyes. “She was shocked.”

“Is that all?” she angrily asked. “Come on, Chance, spill.”

He suppressed a laugh and continued. “She told me everything. Toni told me that she loved me, too.”

“Oh my God, how did that make you feel?”

“It shocked me. I almost feel down, my knees buckled I was so shocked. I’m still shocked that she feels the same way about me that I do about her.”

“I am so happy for you.” She reached out and took his hand, gave it a gentle squeeze. “What are you two going to do about it?”

“We’re going to work things out, try to make it work.”

“Is she going away to college?”

“She’s going to Potsdam.”

“That’s pretty far from here. Are you two going to write to each other?”

“Yes, and she wants me to write stories for her as well. She knows about my dream of being a writer.” He picked up the leather-bound journal and showed her. “She gave me this and a pen Saturday night, told me to use them to write.”

“That’s terrific! I hope you have time to do some writing. I remember the stories you wrote in Tenth Grade. They were great.”

“Thank you. Yes, she is terrific.”

“Could you two keep it down, please?” Mrs. Fitzsimmons admonished. “Some of us are trying to get some work done.” The last few words caused the room to burst into laughter. She looked surprised at the study hall students, and then laughed herself. “Well, you know what I mean.”

“Yes, Mrs. F, we’ll keep it down,” Micah said.

“Are you going to write?” Alexandria asked.

“Of course,” he whispered. He opened the journal to show her that he had some ideas written. He offered it to her.

She saw that he had written on six pages, had down titles, genres the stories were to be in, and some characters. “Wow,” she exhaled. “You’re going to be busy writing these.”

“I know.”

“Are you going to have time over the summer to start some?”

“I’m working at the Union Shop, a great-uncle owns it.”

She looked at him angrily. “What do you mean a great-uncle owns it? You mean you could have had free pizza all these years for us?”

The Union Shop was a small pizzeria, specializing in 6 and 8 cut round pizzas that piled on the toppings for the high school and college students. It was a favorite for athletes and cheerleaders at Linton, the location a block away from the football field.

“Uncle Stash swore us all to secrecy, didn’t want us to be liked for his free pizza slices.”

She rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Do you think I’d do that?”

“Yes,” he quickly answered.

She laughed, “You’re right.” She returned the book to him and smiled. “I assume you’re working there a few days a week, a few hours each, right?”

He nodded. “Working on days when I don’t have soccer practice or games.”

“You do know that we’ll be going there this summer to bug you.”

He laughed and leaned back in his chair. “You’ll have to wait in line. Toni’s going to be there, too.”