The Chronicles of Schue

By Conor Scanlan

Life is a losing battle. Some of the time we manage to get past that; succeed at something we never thought we would: win that paper plane making competition for example, impress the hell out of someone that means something to you, or meet that special someone; whatever floats your boat; but for all our little victories there are our equivalent failures, often brought on by the failings within us. For every mould we break out of a new restraining mould is cast, as restrictive as the one before it. Will Schuester was a man who knew this as well as anybody, and perhaps better than most. He'd had his moments, his successes, his triumphs; only problem was most of them had passed him by. He'd won the love – if that was the word – of McKinley High's hottest cheerleader back in 1993, marrying her right out of high school, the same year he'd been instrumental in winning for Mckinley High The National Show Choir Championship Cup. From there he'd studied accounting, a job he couldn't stand. Teaching was his way out, though he hadn't loved it at first – and in 2010 he coached that year's Glee Choir to take the fabled golden cup once more. He re-lived the greatest moment of his life; only better. Will thought all this as he leaned back in his desk chair, stretching out his aching back muscles. He picked up the photo on his desk taken the night Glee club won in 2010, so many years ago. A smile played across his face; the ghost of a smile no more corporeal than the distant recollections of his past. He wondered where they all were now. He'd heard from Finn about a year ago; he was doing okay for himself, playing a few solo gigs in and around New York. He'd found his niche. The music was something like a fusion of early Counting Crows and The National, with occasional echoes of The Doors Will was proud, but it was a long time ago, and Finn was a long way away, leading his own life with Rachel. Will reset the photo frame in its place besides his monitor and calculator, stretched again and settled back down to the accounts he was working on. Only three hours to go, he thought, watching as the minutes ticked by on an old fashioned steel-rimmed clock which hung on the wall at the end of the room. Two aisles of office booths ran down the centre; some hush voices could be heard speaking on the phone, but mainly there was the incessant hum of dozens of fingers hitting keys; analysing, re-writing, collating, tallying – everyone in the office had a role to play. Will sipped his coffee and joined in with the symphony of clicking keys. Only three hours to go, he kept saying to himself, until counting down became his mantra.

"Hey Abby, how was school?" Will said as he walked in the door, fumbling his keys back into his pocket while trying to juggle his briefcase and a stack of files he needed to sort out for work. "Hi Dad" came the voice from the lounge, muffled slightly by the sound of cartoons. Will slipped off his shoes and collapsed onto the couch next to his twelve year old daughter. "Is your Mum about?" "She's napping" Abby answered, eyes still fixed on the screen. "What are you watching?" "Just a show." "Cool" "It's not cool Dad, it's lame." By the way Abby sat there mindlessly absorbing what was on, he supposed it was a satisfyingly mind-numbing kind of show. He looked at her out of the corner of his eye, a thin girl with sandy blonde hair from her Mother, which furled out in directionless curls like his own. For minutes he sat there, and it took him that time to think of the same question he always asked her each weeknight. "How was school?" "Was okay" came the curt reply. And that was it. When it came to relating to his daughter that was all he had. Was there a point in his life where he'd lost the ability to communicate with people; his own kid? If he'd stuck at teaching, would he be able to relate to even one of his students? He didn't know. Now his whole life was more or less this; working late in a job he could barely stand and coming home to a sleeping wife and a laconic daughter. They had a large house; every modern luxury short of an Olympic sized swimming pool out back and the latest COMPREHENSIVE ALL-IN-ONE MEDIA STATION SENSATION! as the ads always blared. Whatever happened to the days of having a tiny box of a TV with five channels and that being a luxury? He didn't know. The past had gone somewhere, his personal past as well as the past he'd inhabited as a child. Whatever the case, he had better start tea. It was already eight 'o clock. The days went by, falling in succession like dominoes, and Will wondered what would happen when there we no dominoes left to fall and the momentum stopped. Hadn't he done the right thing? Hadn't it been the right thing to earn enough money to provide for his family? Sometimes he thought about this well into the night, sipping stiff whiskey for hours as thoughts coalesced in his mind. He always felt like shit the next day at work, but it had gotten to a point where he felt no more shit than he always did; so he kept drinking.

One night, long after Abby had gone to bed, Will sat on the couch with its green faded fabric, across from Terri who sat there in the darkness, glass of wine pressed to her lips. "What are we going to do Will?" He reached for her hand but she drew it away. "I'm serious Will, what can we do?" "I know you're serious Terri, but I don't know what you want anymore." He felt himself growing angry. "I did everything you wanted me to back then: I shaped up, I began to earn more money, we had Abby and we were— damn it, Terri, we were happy," he paused for a moment, facing away from her. He heard her begin to sob and moved towards her, placing his arm around her thin and sickly form. He hated himself for feeling disgusted by his wife who he'd changed his life for. But he loved her. Didn't he? Will tried to, but it was an intellectual decision; he didn't feel it anymore. Earlier that night Terri admitted she'd been sleeping with another man. Of course he was angry at first, even furious, but if he was honest with himself, he'd given up on loving Terri long ago, and this didn't change anything. They'd sat drinking together, her words like poison, though a poison he'd long since built up a resistance to. "He makes me feel young again Will – can't you understand that? It's not like being with you; with you I feel so old." "I'm not even surprised anymore," he'd said, "damn it, Terri, I'm not even angry." It was true, he realised later that night as he tried to sleep; he wasn't angry. The phone rang at around 3am. Terri grumbled, asking him in the language known only to the half-asleep and their partners to answer it and take it outside. He was all too happy to oblige, picking up the cordless on the fifth ring and walking out of the bedroom, through the kitchen and out onto the small balcony, closing the screen door behind him. "Will speaking." "Hi. Mr. Schue, is that you?" His sense of weariness evaporated in an instant; it had been years since anyone had called him that, and the voice on the other end of the line could only belong to one person. "Finn? Is that you?" "Yeah, it's me, I'm sorry for calling so late." "That's okay, I wasn't really sleeping. What's up?" Will repositioned himself, leaning on the railing and overlooking the quiet street several storeys below. Finn was silent at first, but remembered his purpose in calling. "I think we should talk in person Mr. Schue. I'm in Ohio at the moment. Could we meet as soon as possible? Even now?" "Is everything alright, Finn?" "Not really," was his frank answer, "Can we meet where the high school used to be?" Will looked at his watch. 3.07. It wasn't like he was going to get back to sleep tonight anyway, and tomorrow was Sunday. "Sure Finn, I'll meet you at the old oval in half an hour, I think it's still there." "Thanks Mr. Schue, I appreciate it." "It's good to hear from you Finn." The line went dead as Finn hung up. Will took a deep breath, threw on some pants, a jacket and shoes, and snuck out the door. He looked in on Abby – sleeping soundly – and smiled. He could hear Terri snoring from the bedroom.

Will pulled up by the old oval. It had fallen into disuse years ago, and while construction continued where the school had been (a new apartment highrise was being built, one which would tower over the old oval and the stands of seats), the oval hadn't been touched. But In time the oval too would become an entity of the past. Until that time though, it wasn't a bad place to come to throw a football around, and a few people made good use of it as a makeshift driving range on weekends. Will swung the butterfly door of his car upwards and hoisted himself out of the seat, slinging the six pack under his arm. He walked over to the old seating stands, sat down in front, and popped the top of a bottle of beer and took a sip. It was cold beer on a cold night, but he didn't mind. Ten minutes later a figure came towards him, out of the gloom. It was Finn alright; he cut a tall silhouette as he approached. "Hey, thanks for coming Mr. Schue" Finn said as he took a seat beside Will. "Don't mention it. Beer?" Will held up the six pack. Finn was hesitant, but decided to take one. "Thanks" Will wondered what had happened. He knew it wouldn't be good news, but he wondered how bad it really was. Finn didn't look good. Prominent dark rings underlined his bloodshot eyes and his hair was unkempt. Worst of all he looked so thin; too-gaunt cheeks barely concealed beneath a wiry beard. Will braced himself for whatever Finn had to say. "Mr. Schue..." Finn started to say. It was no use though. Finn broke down, tears beginning to flow. Will put an arm around his former student, pulling him closer. As Finn sobbed, Will felt like crying too, for all the lost years he could have been teaching, for all the years he might have been happier than he was now, but it was useless. He stymied his tears, holding them back, concerned for Finn. What had upset him so much? Minutes passed, and Finn cried himself out. As if regaining his senses, Finn sat up and stared out across the once-green oval. "I'm really sorry, Mr. Schue, I didn't think I'd cry like that. It's just been so long since I've had someone who might understand what I'm going through. I hate it, but I need help right now, more than I ever have." "Tell me what's going on Finn, what's happened?" Finn wiped away his tears, stood up and took a deep breath. Will could see it was a struggle for him to hold back more which so obviously wanted to come. "It's Rachel" he said. It was almost too much effort for Finn to get her name out. Will immediately expected the worst and took to his feet, moving towards Finn. "Go on, Finn, you can talk to me." "She died, Mr. Schue, Rachel died and I don't know what to do anymore." Will hugged Finn, the tall, lanky young man who'd come to him – of all people – for help. Finn was crying again, but more quietly this time. "You don't have to do anything, Finn. There's nothing you have to do. Alright?" Will felt Finn nod against his chest, and heard the dull thump of Finn's beer hitting the dirt; dropped as his arms moved to enclose Will. Let it out Finn, Will thought. He didn't cry; his own life hadn't been right for a long time, and as much as he hated to admit it, he was used to it. But Finn was at a different stage, he wasn't as used to the pain. Standing at the side of an empty oval holding Finn, Will realised something. Where for years he'd thought he had had no choice but to accept the loss in his life and to make the sacrifices to raise a family, he'd actually accepted something even worse. He hadn't only accepted the death of his dreams - even the small ones like teaching Glee club – but he'd accepted defeat. When he'd resigned from teaching club he'd thought he was doing the right thing, but it was the wrong thing. Finn had arrived at a similar stage in his life, a stage where a question must be answered: is this a world in which dreams, even just small ones, can still come true? Rachel was gone, and now it was up to Finn to decide how he'd move on, if he moved on at all. Sink or float. Will thought of all this as he sat alone, on his third beer after Finn had left. The funeral was scheduled three days from now. Will promised he'd make the trip to New York. Contemplating everything which he'd learnt in only the past seven or eight hours – of Terri's unsurprising betrayal, Rachel's death - Will reclined on the seats and gazed up at stars barely visible through the fog, like silver sequins studding a black velvet dress of the night sky.

The funeral. Finn stood beside Will, hands clasped tight in front, face contorted in an effort to hold back tears. He didn't cry though, instead turning his feelings inward, taking deep breaths. The weather wasn't particularly warm or cold; only mild with no rain in sight. Rachel's fathers stood on the opposite side of brown lacquered casket as it was lowered into the earth, holding hands; and they were crying. Will noticed Rachel's mother was here too, near the back, a black veil obscuring her face, only her silvery long hair peeking out at the sides. Will placed a steadying hand on Finn's back. Finn walked several steps forward – a soft mechanical creaking could be heard as the pulley system lowered the casket – and let go of a single rose, which seemed to float downwards, finding its final resting place among the other flowers and bouquets. Finn stood there paralysed. Will walked up, dropped his own flower on the grave, and with a hand on Finn's shoulder, led him back to watch as the casket made a light thud, signalling the completion of its descent. No one spoke as the Priest directed people back to their cars. Reception would be held at a local hall just around the corner, and as the Priest intoned, you can't miss it. Will waited with Finn for ten minutes more. Not a word was spoken between them. Will was about to follow when he saw a figure approaching from the distance. Even at this distance he could see the red glint in her hair and the familiar, dainty, gentle way she held herself, even after so many years. 'Hey, you go on ahead Finn; I'll meet you at the reception.' Finn nodded and strode off, with the look of a man who due to one reason or another now inhabited a world all his own. After seeing Finn off, Will found he was nervous. He was anxious, it had been so many years, but when Emma approached and saw her smile was the same it had always been, relief flowed over him. It was only a small smile, but it filled him with something he hadn't felt in a long time. "Emma" he said, smiling back. "Hi, Will. Am I too late for the service?" "I'm afraid so." Emma looked at the large photo of Rachel which sat on a seat at the foot of the grave, surrounded by wreaths of flowers. The look on her face was one of sadness. It was a beautiful photo of Rachel, taken a couple of years back. But Will couldn't avert his eyes from Emma. She'd aged as he had aged, certainly. There were streaks of silver in her red hair, and her gorgeous eyes, while having lost something of their previous lustre, were still an attraction for him. It had been a lifetime since he'd gazed upon a face and felt the emotions he did when looking at Emma. In every new line and wrinkle he recognised a loss; the loss of never having been with her as she aged gracefully, though he could have been. Every new line was a reminder of the countless days they'd spent apart, all because of the choices they'd made; of the choices he made. The funny thing was, he hadn't thought of Emma very much over the intervening years since the last time they met, but seeing her now, all the feelings he never thought he'd be able to repress came roaring back. To him she was as beautiful as she'd ever been, even more so, for he could see she had lost much as well, and in this tragic quality was a hidden beauty. "Emma…" he began, but she cut him off. "You don't have to say anything, Will." "I want to hug you now, Emma." She was hesitant at first, but Will knew he could trace a minute smile which played across her lips, and that was all the invitation he needed. Slowly, he edged toward her, wrapping his arms around her and drawing her close. At first she held back, but her resistance couldn't last; relenting, she laced her hands around his waist, nestling her head to his chest. "It's been too long Emma. One month would have been too long, but how long has it been?" Emma, hands still clasped at his waist, tilted her head up and said, "It's been seven years, Will. In that time I don't think we've even exchanged a phone call. But I understand…" she released her grip and took a step backwards, compulsively scrunching her hands. 'you had to do it for Terri, and for Abby – and for yourself, Will.' "No, don't say that Emma." Will stepped forward, reaching for her hand; enclosing it in his. She half-heartedly tried to break away again, but couldn't do it. "What do you want me to do, Will? There's Ken, and I still don't actually live with him, but we're getting there, you know. I can't give up on all that now. I've been with him for so long, and…" Emma cut herself off as she saw tears had sprung up in Will's eyes. "I'm sorry Emma, but it's just too sad. I know we can't just pick up wherever we left off and change direction. We're embedded in our lives; the lives we chose, but maybe… you can just let me buy you a drink?" Emma's brow furrowed, but with a sigh she acquiesced. Will gave her hand a final squeeze and let go, a mutual and muted smile connecting them both. They walked through the cemetery in comfortable silence, Emma looping her arm through the crook of Will's elbow as he walked.