Page 10 of A Thin Line

“Our ties, however, are here in this beautiful, rich community, and that is why we support it.”

I had to refrain from scoffing, because it was thanks to my father that I knew they didn’t actually care about Winchester—not one bit. Twenty years ago, the family had opened up a new mining operation. My father had said they were never clear exactly what they were mining for. It could have been gold, coal, silver, uranium, or something else entirely. However, where and how they mined was more than apparent. In the foothills that sat in front of the majestic mountains, the Whittier Corporation was strip mining, its effects still seen even now, eating away the hills one strip at a time. When my father noticed what they were doing, he made many inquiries and was told that the land belonged to the Whittiers, so he could do nothing about it. But my father had always been environmentally minded and had read all about the atrocities of coal mining in West Virginia and other states nearby where they engaged in a practice literally known as mountaintop removal.

He fought for close to ten years, sometimes almost like a voice shouting in the wilderness, before the Whittiers finally decided it wasn’t worth the hassle. Before the family pulled up stakes, my dad had plenty of Winchester citizens on his side, because he’d convinced them of the potential ecological damage that could be done—and it was easy to see how it was taking away from the natural beauty of the town. If a person looked to the south, north, or east, they could ignore it, but as soon as you looked west, there it was, a huge scar along several hills, a gash in the earth. My dad had since told me that he didn’t necessarily demand that they stop but that they instead engage in sustainable practices.

When the Whittiers stopped mining, I was young—eight or nine—and everything seemed fine at first. But then people who’d worked for the mine started complaining. My father said there were fewer than one hundred people who’d been employed in the operation, but they couldn’t find work in Winchester with their skill sets that paid as much. My father had worked for Winchester Human Services at the time as a Food Assistance technician—and he was helping several of those people who were out of work. He understood their plight and felt bad for them. After all, that had not been his intent. Instead, he’d wanted to goad the Whittiers into doing the right thing.

If that had been all, the anger and frustration might have eventually blown over—but my father said that a smear campaign took place after that. On the week before the mine shut down, he’d been at a county board meeting, again voicing his concerns…business as usual. But after the meeting, Augustus Whittier—this man’s father—had approached my dad outside and told him he would ruin him. My dad said the Whittiers had had to spend quite a bit on legal fees and to pay for studies, but my father had seen the financial statements. They continued to operate in the black, regardless of my dad’s crusade.

There was never any proof that the Whittiers were behind what happened next, but my dad knew it was Augustus making good on his threat. Public sentiment turned against my father—against my entire family. It started with certain local businesses refusing to serve us, restaurants, auto repair shops, but there were others. Law enforcement started pulling my father over more frequently for supposed infractions, and people frequently damaged our property. One time someone painted the word ASSHOLE in red spray paint on the sidewalk in front of the house. Another time someone put a big padlock on our mailbox outside the house, so my dad had to buy a heavy bolt cutter to open it. We never knew if random dents and scratches in the car were caused accidentally or intentionally.

Although my parents shielded me from much of it, I felt it myself at school. I became the target of bullies echoing their parents’ thoughts and, although it was usually just words, I occasionally got my hair pulled or my face spat upon. At first, the abuse had been very specific and focused but, by the time I was in high school, I was merely treated as an outcast.

At that point, I was glad for it. By then, I was considered insignificant and unimportant—and that was far better than being openly hated and mistreated.

The worst part, though, was losing my mother. She and my father had talked multiple times about leaving Winchester, and that had been the plan. They’d begun saving up for it, but with my father’s modest government-worker income and my mom’s earnings as a part-time store clerk, it was slow-going. One day I came home from school and she was gone. She’d packed a couple of bags, taken the reliable vehicle instead of the lemon my dad drove, and, even though my father never said it out loud, I was certain she’d also taken the money they’d been saving. My dad, however, was not to be deterred and again promised me we’d leave.

He hadn’t counted on getting sick.

I’d been so disengaged from Sinclair Whittier’s short speech, instead reliving my history in my mind, that Jenna prodded me with her elbow. Dr. Rakhimov was back at the podium, announcing that it was time for a tour of the simulation lab. Afterward, she promised, they would return to the lobby to enjoy champagne and refreshments (and the hardest sales pitch of the evening, no doubt). The job of us four students was to open the doors to the auditorium and sort of contain everyone until Dr. Rakhimov and Whittier could lead the way.

As Jenna and I opened the auditorium doors on our side, I reminded myself once again that this night was almost over…but my fate had already been sealed.

I just didn’t know it yet.

As the group approached the lab, Dr. Rakhimov was projecting her voice. She was almost walking backward, enjoying her moment in the spotlight. Soon it would shift to the wonders of the simulation lab. I also suspected that a couple of the wealthy wives wanted a few moments to chat with Sinclair Whittier.

I wasn’t sure how much Dr. R. would allow that, though. She seemed to have her own designs on him, even though he had to be at least twenty years younger. Once again, I found myself repulsed and incensed at how most of these people found money to be so intoxicating. What a person did should be more important than what they had—and while I had to admit on the one hand that the Whittiers had actually freely given their money to help the school, I also suspected they weren’t walking away empty handed. The money they spent here was likely a tax write off or would serve as a way to boost their standing among other elites.

“Our students will be located at various stations to demonstrate the depth and complexity of several of the machines—and I’ll be your guide. I’ll even show you several of the machines myself. If any of you are so inclined, I’ll let you play a student health care worker examining a patient.” She laughed as if she’d just told a joke and a couple of people in the audience chuckled. At the main door to the lab, Dr. R. swiped her card and the click of it unlocking was audible to those of us close by. She pulled it open, waving in Whittier first, followed by us students.

The lights automatically brightened, illuminating what could best be described as a disaster. I couldn’t believe my eyes at first—because when I’d last been here, everything had been as it should have. Now, though, it was nothing short of a crime scene. The first room, set up almost like a reception desk at a clinic or a hospital, had been torn apart. The computer monitor on the small desk had been shattered and one of the drawers on the cabinet against the wall was hanging on by its hinges. The floor was strewn not just with many of the “supplies” found deeper in the lab—things like syringes and cotton balls—but also with trash.

Dr. Rakhimov almost sobbed. “What in God’s name happened here?”

Sinclair Whittier’s voice could be heard above the gasps and murmurs of the crowd. “Sabotage.”

Sabotage? But who would destroy the lab? I could picture several students who hated Dr. R. passionately, taking out their anger and frustration with a baseball bat taken to the lab—but as we made our way in deeper, I found it hard to believe that it was the work of just one person. Dr. Rakhimov picked up a phone handset on the wall in the second room and called campus security. As I followed the other students surveying the damage, I noticed that there was nothing left untouched.

The last room smelled like dog poop, and we found that there was a bag of it in a corner. Someone had also spraypainted in black a big letter A in a circle, something I found out later that night stood for “anarchy.”

As we students continued looking, Whittier said, “Don’t touch anything. It’s evidence.”

One of the rich wives behind us said, “Who would do such a thing?”

Hearing the word evidence made me nervous, and the other students must have felt the same way, because soon we were all heading back to the front of the lab. By the time the security guard arrived, Dr. Rakhimov had already regained her composure. She briefed the security guard who said he was going to call the police. After punching in some numbers on his cell phone, he disappeared into the depths of the lab, probably so he could pass on his assessment to the dispatcher.

Meanwhile, Dr. Rakhimov was back in form, addressing the crowd bunched up in the hallway. Her voice was again firm, her height, accentuated in sky-high heels, commanding. “I regret that you were only able to enjoy the simulation lab in photos. Obviously, we will have to cancel the demonstrations we had scheduled to take place in here until we’re able to make repairs.”

One older man asked, “Is the lab insured?”

“It is—but I don’t know if an act of vandalism will be covered. I also don’t know how much the college will be liable for in terms of cost.”

Whittier’s face was like stone, but there was no way to miss that he was angry. In fact, the way he controlled himself seemed to give away that he was on the verge of losing it. Still, he kept it together when he said, “We’ll pay for the repairs. The whole point of this lab was to give nursing students a hands-on experience without the pressure or risk of working with real patients until they were ready. If this damage is covered by insurance, you can reimburse the foundation. But I want to know who is responsible for all this. I don’t know if this sort of thing is covered by insurance.”

Dr. Rakhimov used the damage as another way to ask for money, and, donning her saleswoman mask, she moved forward, persuading her audience again to open their wallets. After a few minutes, the security guard emerged from the lab and said, “Crime Scene Unit is on the way. No one is to leave here until they get here.”

Dr. R. turned and said, “Rodney, you can’t make these good people stay here all night. They all arrived just before our presentation and they were only in the auditorium until we brought them here.” Lowering her voice, she walked over to him and spoke so softly that none of us could hear—but it was obvious that the wealthy crowd appreciated what she was doing.

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