I had never confronted a school secratary as an adult. As a child in school and personally subject to them, I found them kind and attentive and very busy. I met this one just after school let out for the day. She was willing to talk to me, just, probably wondering if I was a parent.
"Are you a parent?" she asked.
That didn't take long to straighten out. She probably knew all the parents. The way I remembered school secretaries they knew everything. My answer was immediate and quite unambiguous. She already had herself identified as someone not to be trifled with.
"No. I'm a potter. My name is Claire Yates." I was going to go on and bring up the subject of the note, but I didn't. To tell the truth I was too intimidated to go on. So I just stopped and smiled."
She wasn't having it. At least not yet. "A potter?" she almost looked over the tops of her spectacles, "as in a maker of pots?"
"Yes. I make pots. I even sell pots, occasionally. Maybe you have seen one or two of them in downtown stores."
"Yes I have. I looked closely at one once. I had no idea it was such a magnificent pot until I saw the price. I must remember to tell the art teacher how much money there is in making pots. She might might want to make pots at that price."
"I'm afraid I don't sell many pots. One or two get bought on the Internet from time to time. In town, they're just store decorations. I don't try to make a living at it."
"Well, unless it's about pots, what can I do for you?"
I hesitated once more. "It's sort of confidential. I mean, I really don't know, quite, yet. I don't really know how to go about this. Can we talk a little bit off the record? I promise it isn't anything serious. At least, I don't think it's serious. It isn't a big terrible secret, I mean. At least, not yet. It's possibly about one of your students, of course, but that's the problem. I don't know which one."
She looked at me with very hard eyes, although the rest of her face was impassive. She hadn't been born yesterday and had fronted the school for a good many years. She had probably kept a good many secrets in that time, and she knew she had to be careful about that.
"If it's a domestic abuse or violence situation, or any sort of crime in fact, I can't keep it secret, if it's concerning one of the students, I mean."
I just stood there for several seconds. I had no idea how to say this without telling the story. I went over the story I was going to tell in my mind. What if it got out? What would happen then? I wanted to keep it quiet until knew what it all meant, and I couldn't find out what it meant until I talked to the child who wrote the note. So would we trust each other, the secretary and I? But I would have to go first. I looked up at her stern face and began quickly.
"OK, here goes. This morning I found a dead goat in my driveway just in front of the gate when I went to fetch the mail. It wasn't just dead, I mean, it was dead all right, but it had been shot. It hadn't died in any sort of natural way. And it had been dragged to my gate from the road, I could see drag marks in the dirt.
"It most certainly was not there the night before. I found a note with the goat. The note suggested that I had killed the goat, and that it had belonged to someone unnamed. From the handwriting and the paper, I guessed, I hope correctly, that it was written by a school child.
I paused. So did she. I spoke some more.
"I guess what I want to do is find the child, tell him I did not kill his goat, tell him I'm sorry someone killed his goat but that it wasn't me. I don't know why I feel responsible but I do. I'm the caretaker of the Castle east of town and I live there permanently, that is to say year round. I would like to know why a dead goat was left in my driveway and why I am supposed to have killed it."
There, I had gotten it out. I looked at her, and waited.
She looked at me. "May I see the note?"
I handed it to her, eyes down, as though I were in trouble in school. Again. I felt about 8 years old. She glanced at it for a couple of seconds, then up at me.
"It certainly is a student's printing. I don't recognize it, but then I wouldn't."
She had softened up somewhat. She must have believed me when she saw the note.
"You could show it to some of the teachers, I suppose. But if you do, the news of the dead goat will become common knowledge in the school and the community immediately. I'll tell you what. I'll show the note around to some of the teachers and let you know what I find out. How's that? If you start wandering the halls talking to teachers it will get around for sure, but I can do it without being noticed.
"I warn you though, I will go to the principal immediately if I get any idea that it's about something I must report. I can't keep anything serious confidential. I'm only doing this because I know that a goat could be very important to some of our students. Some of the families around here aren't rich. Give me a day or so and I'll get back to you. How do I reach you?"
I gave her my business card. I felt relieved. I wasn't in trouble after all. I smiled. "Thank you. That would be wonderful."
I got a call the next evening. I was waiting on a kiln as usual. It was the school secretary. "Miss Yates?"
"Yes, this is she."
"I have the name of the teacher of the student we spoke of yesterday afternoon, and he has given me permission to give you his phone number."
Wow! Just like the FBI or something! "Yes?" I responded breathlessly.
"His name is Mr. Jerry Wilson. He had the student in his 5th grade class last year." She went on to give me Mr. Wilson's number. I was further invited to call him only after school was out, but not to try to contact him while at school. I promised and she hung up politely. I called the number.