The Bus Route That Cost Less Than Their Mileage
There was a murmur in the bleachers, and it stopped.
“I want to begin by thanking each of you for your service,” I said. “I mean that. Nobody here gets paid for it, and I know most of you took it because you love this district.”
Gene Faulkner’s face did not move. But his hand, resting on the gavel, loosened a little.
“My husband was here in August,” I said. “He asked you nicely to bring back Route 14, and you thanked him for his input. I’m not here to ask you again. I know why you cut it. Money is tight. I read the budget, all 64 pages. I’m not here to tell you the board was foolish.”
“I’m here because my son asked me to bring you something.”
I had made nine copies. I laid one in front of every board member, one in front of the superintendent, and one in front of Kay Sutter at the end of the table where she took the minutes. I put each sheet down square, right in front of their hands.
At the top, in Eli’s clean black type, it said: What it costs to get to the table.
Nobody spoke. Dr. Pierce had gone a little pale around the mouth. Sylvia Hubbard, who sat at Gene’s left, picked up her sheet and started to read.
I went back to the podium, and I turned around, and I looked at Gene Faulkner. He was looking at the page. The glasses had come down off his head and onto his nose without his noticing.
“Mr. Faulkner,” I said, “would you read line four for me?”
For a long moment I thought he would not do it.
He sat there with the sheet in both hands. I watched him find line four. I watched him go to the second line beneath it, where the board members were listed by name with their miles, and I watched him stop.
“Mr. Faulkner,” I said, quietly. “It’s only a number. It’s your number. Nobody here is going to say a word about it but you.”
He cleared his throat. It sounded loud in the gym.
“Line four,” he read. “Board member mileage. Seven members. Fourteen meetings. Total, $2,848.” He paused. “Faulkner, G. Thirty-one miles each way. Fourteen trips. Seventy cents a mile.” He stopped again. “$607.60.”
“Thank you,” I said.
Nobody in the bleachers made a sound.
“May I read you line two?” I asked. “Just so we have it together. Superintendent vehicle allowance, $6,000. Line three, the board retreat in Branson, $5,310. Line five, the state conference, $3,742. And the total, at the bottom of that column.” I looked at Eli, who was sitting very straight. “$17,900. And Route 14, line one, net cost after state aid, $11,000.”
I put my folder down on the podium.
“I did not come to ask anyone to pay anything back. I have no quarrel with a man being paid for his gas. Mark hauls grain, and I know what diesel costs. I only wanted to ask you something.” I turned and looked at all seven of them. “If the district had to do without one of these lines, which one would you pick? Would it be the one sitting at the end of a driveway, in a clean shirt, at 6:40 in the morning?”
I did not raise my voice at all. I think that is why they heard it.
“That’s all I have,” I said. “Thank you for your time.”