Lane wrote IQ in his notebook, circling it.
“Of course, standardized tests measure higher-level thought processes and are a powerful tool for the assessment of student abilities.”
Lane heard absolute certainty in the professor’s voice. It’s a weakness. He believes he is smarter than anyone here.
There was a sigh from the girls down front when the man with the thinning-on-top black hair, who’d asked a question the other day, raised his hand.
Pierce turned his back on the man. “Standardized tests are meticulously researched and continuously refined.”
Balding man spoke. “They are called street smarts, after all. And why, if standardized tests are meticulously researched, do they need to be refined?”
The two girls near the front turned, shaking their heads at the man who asked the question.
Lane looked at the man, who blushed as he spotted their reaction. He had an old-style winter jacket tucked in behind him and, as he leaned back, a feather puffed up out of the tired fabric.
Pierce turned toward the man. Lane saw the man inhale.
The woman beside Lane shook her head. It was the same woman with long black hair who had sat near Lane the day before. Again she had set her black wool jacket on the chair between them. Today, she wore a blue turtleneck rolled up under her chin.
Pierce said, “There is considerable scientific research supporting the efficacy of standardized tests.”
Bald man said, “There is also considerable research to suggest standardized tests are only accurate indicators of the size of an individual’s house. Have you read the research by Alfie Kohn?”
“Yes, I have.” Pierce’s tone was condescending. His face reddened.
Lane saw heads turning back and forth between Pierce and the man. Balding man said, “Then you must know there’s considerable evidence suggesting conclusions contrary to the point of view you are presenting.”
“And you have a PhD in statistics?” Pierce asked.
“A PhD is required before an individual is allowed to think for himself?”
“That’s exactly what it means!” Pierce pointed at the man.
“Bullshit!” The woman next to Lane was standing, pointing at Pierce. “The last time I checked, education is intended to open minds rather than close them.”
Pierce looked from the man to the woman. The surprise on his face transformed into rage. He pointed at the man and then the woman. “The pair of you are colluding! I can see it. You don’t know who you’re dealing with! What you’re up against!”
“Is that a threat?” The woman put her fists on her hips.
“It’s whatever you want it to be.” Pierce folded up his materials, turned right, walked across the stage, and kicked the side door open. It bounced off the wall, slamming him into the doorframe on the rebound.
Lane touched the woman’s elbow, and she turned on him. He held his hands palm up. She looked down at him with her fists at her sides. Lane saw the white of her knuckle bones. He said, “I have a question for you.”
She took a breath. “What?”
“What made you stand up and speak out?”
“You mean you can’t see it?”
Lane waited.
“There’s something wrong with him. He’s the last person who should be teaching us how to be teachers.”
Lane kept his tone neutral. “How do you know?”
“I just know.” She wiped away tears. “I just know.”
“What does this mean?” Christine wore a T-shirt and red flannel pants. She handed Lane a newspaper article as he stepped out of his shoes at the front door.
Lane took the paper in one hand, shook his other hand out of the sleeve of his winter jacket, then switched hands to repeat the process. Christine took his coat. Lane read the article. “The missing money makes me wonder.”
“About what?” Christine leaned against the wall.
Lane moved into the living room, sitting in the easy chair. It felt warm against his back. “About what happened to the money. Do you believe Orson Nelson?”
Christine nodded. “He’s a friend of Milton and Lyle Pratt. The three of them were always meeting about one thing or another. I often heard them talking about lying for the Lord.” She sat down on the couch, holding the article in her left hand.
Lane looked at her.
“You know, lying to protect polygamy, religion, themselves.”
“So, you think Nelson is lying?” Lane felt his cheeks warming up after the forty-minute walk home from the LRT station.
“I don’t know. I’m just worried about Indiana and what my mother is up to.”
Lane leaned his head back, closing his eyes. “I can see two possible scenarios. Nelson is lying to help Alison play the victim. Or something else is going on because money disappeared from the account. The fact that he won’t disclose how much is missing is also telling. Either way, Tommy Pham is quite capable of protecting you and Indiana.”
“How long will my mother be in jail if she’s convicted?”
Lane opened his eyes when he heard the despair in Christine’s voice. This is a no-win situation for you. “I’d expect it could be anywhere from time served to five years. You don’t want her to go to prison?”
Christine shrugged. “I know it’s crazy. She’s my mom. I don’t want her to be in jail. But I don’t want us to be in this prison either.” She looked around the living room. “I’m always afraid when we leave the house. Always worried when someone comes to the door.”
Lane leaned forward. What do I say to her? Your mother is mentally ill? You’ll never be free of her? “How many adults live in this house?”
“Five. Six.” Christine sat back in the couch.
“That’s the number of people who will fight to protect Indiana. Not everyone has a family like that. I like our odds.”
Later that night, while he lay awake and Arthur snored, Lane thought, What’s going on with the CCI’s money? There’s something I’m missing here. He closed his eyes until the image of David Randall with the back of his head blown away made him open them again.
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 1
chapter 13
Red Cross Rejoices at Abnormal Influx of Donations
A massive influx of small donations has provided the Calgary Red Cross with a total of more than two million dollars.
Red Cross spokesperson Mary Latourneau confirmed the anomaly. “It seems many of our regular donors decided to make donations to the disaster relief fund. It’s unusual for so many people to make contributions all at once, but we’re grateful.”
Red Cross funds will be directed toward emergency relief operations around the globe.
“That’s for sure.” Nigel lifted his chin, looking ahead as he drove along Memorial Drive. On their left, the Bow River was a glittering toy box of ice blocks pointed this way and that. Here and there open patches of water created whispery clouds.
Lane saw the pickup in front of them. It was silvery blue with a round white diesel fuel tank at the front of the box and WIDE ASS painted in white across the tailgate. There were four wheels on the truck’s rear axle. A chrome monkey sat on the trailer hitch. Below the hitch hung an oversized pair of brass balls. What is it about winter, this town, and pickup trucks?
“How’s the little guy doing?” Nigel eased off the accelerator so there was more distance between the Chev and WIDE ASS.
“He’s good. Eating, sleeping, pooping. Being doted upon by everyone in the house.”