There is only one toothbrush.
CHAPTER 4
On Monday night, shortly after Horse left, the state police followed up on Bissonette’s report of Dan’s disappearance by checking the house. Since there was no indication that his life was in danger it was decided to hold off on calling in the community for a thorough search of the property. No one was quite sure what to believe, and no one wanted to believe what they were all thinking—that Peter did something to him. Instead, the authorities spent Tuesday morning following up leads with his employer and checking the usual databases.
Peter wouldn’t say a word about any of it.
By Tuesday afternoon the authorities had grown more uneasy about him, but with no evidence he was given the benefit of the doubt. His reticence was written off as shock. The boy was in a temporary foster placement. On Wednesday the temporary foster parent, a sixty-year-old woman named Grace and who lived in Starksboro, reported how independent the boy was—he brushed his teeth without being told, and made his bed—which eased the minds of the police a bit. “I’ll take ten of ’em,” Grace told the caseworker. If the child could take care of himself, the thinking went, the father might have simply taken an overnight trip, trusting the boy with daily routines.Dan would return any moment. At the moment the state police were ready to spring a trap supply route of heroin flowing east from Burlington through Lamoille County, so the kid seemed safe enough to put on the back burner.
Dan was a self-employed plumber, although he often subcontracted through Laporte Contracting. Tom Laporte, the namesake owner, thought Dan might have taken an out-of-state job, as the unusually harsh winter had slowed down work in northern Vermont. “There’s work down in Glens Falls, and over in New Hampshire,” he told the police. “With a son who can take care of himself, and a storm making travel near impossible, the father might have stayed to finish the job.”
All of this was conveyed to Wells, who mentioned it to Horse as the latter snuck a cup of coffee from the former’s coffee thermos.
“Dan had a Nissan, too,” Horse said, nodding to the silver thermos. “Same size, even.”
“How do you know this bit of family trivia?”
“Oh, you know how teachers know everything…” Screwing the lid on tight, he turned the thermos over and noted the size: thirty-four ounces.
“Gossip?”
“Usually.”
Wells doubted the town gossip was about the size of Dan’s coffee thermos, so he told his friend more about the foster home. Peter wasn’t at school. “An emergency placement being unavailable in town, he was placed with the old woman in Starksboro.It was decided that he would stay in this temporary home until the weekend. Hopefully, they’d have it all sorted out by Saturday.” Because of the distance—nearly eighty miles—they wouldn’t see the boy until then. Peter would spend the rest of the week in a cramped home with a nice, old woman.
“I’m sure that’ll be cheery,” Horse said at the end.
“It’s the best that can be done, under the circumstances.”
Horse looked at Wells, “Why don’t you take him?”
“Me?” Wells replied, but with a tired inflection. They had talked about this before. Responsible for over three hundred students, his office was an open door of interventions, new ones coming with each gust of wind. It was overwhelming. Even with his team of social service providers, special educators, and connections with agencies and the police, every bus unloaded at least ten kids who needed more than he got. Experience told him that kids were resilient, and that heroic measures often did as much harm as good.
Still, he felt the pull.
“No,” he finally said. “I don’t want to cross that line. Principal-parent. No.”
Taking the thermos from Horse, Wells struggled to unscrew the cap—Horse had strong hands and enjoyed over tightening everything. He could hear a near-empty sloshing of liquid inside. There was only half a cup left. He frowned at Horse, deflated. Coffee was keeping him going this week. Every week.
“You should get your own coffee and stop taking mine,” he said.
Horse didn’t look sorry.
“Well, maybe Peter will have an estate sale. I’ll buy a coffee maker, grinder, and a few Nissan urns there.”
“How about you take Peter in yourself as his foster parent and then you can simply have it as your inheritance?”
Horse did not reply to this, which only added to the things Wells worried about.
At the end of the day, Horse sat at his desk correcting when a girl in her late teens shyly entered. Dark hair and a big round face, she was considered pretty by boys her age even if she needed to have her teeth straightened. Wearing a blue rag wool sweater and jeans, it was the green flats on her feet that seemed out of place; too much summer for a slushy day. Every road and parking lot in the county was black and gray with it, and her shoes suffered dark discolorations from being wet. Road salt had left stains.
“Hello,” she said in a little voice.
Looking up from his pile of student work Horse greeted her. “Oh. Hello.”
“I don’t know if you remember me...”
“Amanda. Amanda Tomlinson. Sat in that seat,” he said, pointing to the third desk on the left-hand side.“And wore too much mascara. Like a raccoon.” Squinting his eyes at her face, he said, “That seems to be better, now.”
Her hands fluttered around her face, instinctively. “Yes,” she replied. “Yes, that was me. I just thought I’d visit.”
But Horse didn’t move from his spot.
She didn’t move, either.
Students didn’t just visit Horse. By nature, middle school teachers are the forgotten influencers. Few people claim that their middle school teacher changed their lives. Without fail, it was always the elementary or high school teacher who rated fond memories. In survey after survey people responded with, “Ms. Smith taught me a love of reading in fourth grade” or “Mr. Brown really fostered my interest in biology.” People waxed nostalgically right in front of Horse, at the few parties he had bothered to attend. Middle school teachers cleaned up the mess left by grade school and laid down the foundation skills used by the high school. They bored kids into memorizing where Nigeria was on a map and the nine—now eight—planets of the solar system. Few appreciated it at the time, and even fewer when these bits of cultural knowledge and foundation skills were recalled with ease years later. It is is the lot of middle school teacher. A few ninth graders with nowhere else to go might drop by the school and amble into Horse’s room—but once students get their driver’s license even that stops.
This was especially true for Amanda Tomlinson.
She had been his project. By the time she had left for eighth grade all involved were ready for the teacher-student relationship to be done with. On her first day of high school, Horse knew that she and her father would assume a new start. Most ninth graders did, but Amanda and her father had a better reason than most to do so.
‘If she was here,’ Horse thought, ‘she was in trouble.’
‘She isn’t the first,’ he followed.
Trouble or not, no one bothered to visit Horse. They knew they weren’t wanted.
“Do you remember what I told my students on the first and last day of the year?” he asked.
Amanda smiled. Then she repeated what he had told them.
“That you were the best teacher we would ever have.”
Her voice had changed into one that was repeating a lesson so well ingrained that she could mutter it in her sleep. When she finished, she smiled.
“Yes,” he said, urging her to continue.
“That you were always right.”
“True.”
“That, if we were going to get you presents for the holidays, that you liked coffee, black licorice, and certificates to the bookstore. Not books. Not mugs. Maybe homemade treats.”
“Maybe,” he emphasized.
Horse leaned back in his chair, but did not smile. He had no interest in speaking to
Amanda Tomlinson. Old students are one of the things he hated about his job—about living in a small community. Parents are a close second. Both seem to think he wants to talk to them; to be their friend. In grocery stores parents ask him about his own family, while students continuously try to give him high-fives in the hallway. While he often gave a response, its clipped nature meant few tried again.
“But there was one other thing,” he prodded.
“That, when were in high school, we would get an urge to come and visit and that we should resist the urge and stay away.”
“You always had a good memory,” he said, smiling for the first time. But he wasn’t done with her. “Do you remember why I said that?”
“Because it would seem like a good idea at the time,” she mimicked. “But once we were together neither of us would have anything to say because the student-teacher dynamic is based on a one-way flow of information, while conversation is two-way. Regardless of our growth, we would still not have enough to say to make it interesting for either of us. The dynamics were wrong. We would always feel like teacher-student. Awkwardness would win out. It was best if we stayed away.”
“Exactly.”
Horse leaned forward and put down his correcting pen.
“Except that I didn’t say it would be best, but to simply stay away. What I did not say was that students are also boring, and that you all leave at the perfect point; one hundred and eighty days after meeting you.”
“I’m pregnant.”
She tightened her lips into a line; slightly afraid, but also a bit pleased at having, what she thought, was original news.
Horse thought she was an idiot.
Once, an education professor at a conference he had been forced to attend made the participants write out their educational philosophy. He had objected to the task for a variety of reasons—he usually did—but did as he was told. On the paper Horse had written, For students to feel their own worth, and not fill the void by having children. For the next hour, they did pair-shares throughout the room. By lunch, he was a complete pariah among strangers. Now, sitting in front of his former student, his face didn’t show it, but he thought it.
‘You’re an idiot.’
“That’s an interesting try,” he said. “But it’s nothing new. Some don’t wait for high school.”
Amanda screwed up her courage. “You also used to tell us that you were here to help. And you were. Other teachers say it, but you were there.”
“No,” he replied. “That’s an illusion.”
“Oh,” she said. “I know it was you who slipped those gift cards into Danny Totter’s bag because he couldn’t afford gifts, and his family couldn’t afford gifts.”
“That was Santa,” he said, dismissively. “It said so on the card.”
“I’m pregnant,” she repeated.
“When I said I was here to help, I meant with reading and writing,” he said. Horse looked for an exit. Amanda was blocking the doorway, or he would have found a reason to excuse himself; important photocopying or something. He knew where this discussion was going, and had no interest in playing it out. “And one thing I told you about writing was never repeat yourself. You just did.”
“Well, it’s still true.” As she said it, she stood on the tips of her toes and then dropped down, as a little girl might. Behind her back she grasped her hands together. She added, because she didn’t know what else to add, “I’m pregnant.”
“I’m not the father.”
“I know.” She looked at the ground, nervous. “I need to know what to do.”
“It sounds like you know what to do,” he said archly, eyes directly on her
“I don’t.” She looked around the room. “And I can’t talk to anyone else.”
“Talk to your father? He was a nice guy.”
“He is a nice guy. But not about this.” Her voice dropped when she said the last bit.
“You already know what to do.”
“No I don’t.”
“You know.” In his voice it was clear Horse was getting irritated with this teen drama playing out. “You want someone to sanction it.”
‘To absolve you,’ he thought.
“You know what your father thinks. You probably know what the sperm donor would say. You know what your friends would say.”
“My friends don’t know.”
“I didn’t say they did. But you know what they’d say or you would have told them. That’s why you haven’t told them; one thinks have it, another says abort. Who is the father?”
“No one.” She hugged herself tight as if physically keeping the secret close to her.
“That’s a neat trick.” If he was going to be forced to have this conversation, he wanted it all on the table. “Who is the father?”
“No one you would know.”
“Is he still in the picture?”
“Yes. But this is my decision.”
“Your decision, so you came to me.” His lips got thin as he thought, eyes narrowing. A niggling of compassion made its way through his everyday irritation. “What does your father think?”
“He doesn’t know.”
“What does he think?”
She said nothing; then began to cry.
“Clearly, he disagrees with whatever decision you’ve come to. So you want me...”
“No.” Amanda pulled herself together. She put her weight against the wall next to the door. “I just want information.”
“Fine.” It was a definitive statement, void of emotion but full of efficiency. He wanted an out—her out. Horse wanted her to leave as soon as possible.
“Really?” she asked, surprised.
“Sure. Here are your legal options. Ready?”
“Let me get a pen.”
Amanda rifled through her purse for a pen. It was a tiny blue purse, meant for mints and tampons and she kept digging even after no pen could possibly be hiding inside. Horse handed her a piece of paper and his correcting pen. She sat at the third desk in the row, near the door, which was now too small for her late-teen body.
Horse remained seated.
“First option. Get an abortion. Go to the clinic in Williston. Make an appointment first, but after your initial visit you’ll have to go back for the actual procedure. It costs about a thousand, but they have a sliding scale and you pay what you can. Have someone drive you or stay in a motel that night; the drugs will make you unable to drive. Be prepared for protesters; they usually have a screaming gauntlet going, but if you’re lucky only a few people will be exercising their First Amendment rights.”
“Don’t I need my father’s permission?” she asked, surprised.
“For an abortion? No.” He was annoyed at her ignorance. ‘How,’ he thought, ‘could you have sex without knowing every option in every scenario?’ What are they teaching at the high school, for God’s sake! Then he thought, ever the romantic, Horse. “It’s your constitutional right,” he said. “Maybe duty!” he added, sarcastically.
“Okay.”
She wrote this down, as if taking notes for a class. Horse waited impatiently for her to finish. He couldn’t even continue correcting as she had his pen.
“Next, you can opt for adoption,” he continued. “Same place. Also, a church, your doctor, or a hospital. They all have information. That means you’re in this for nine months, or seven in your case...”
He looked at the stomach crammed behind the desk.
“Eight,” she said.
“Ah,” he smiled and slowly, his eyes going from her belly to her eyes. “It’s early. You could also find one of those ads that you see for infertile couples looking to adopt. They’ll pay the bills.”
“I don’t know,” she said. Pursed lips, she looked over her notes, her eyes tight in concentration in an attempt to settle her confusion. Only three options so far, but the tendrils of steps and consequences each presented swirled around in her imagination.
“Dad’ll see,” he added. A warning. “So will
the father.”
“See what?”
“Your belly,” he said with a compassionate smile. He knew she hadn’t thought of it until now.
“I just...” Her face indicated she hadn’t.
“You could also keep the kid. I mean, he is the fruit of your love.”
“I don’t know...”
“I know,” he cut her off. Horse had a long history with Amanda Tomlinson, and before she reached legal adulthood… this. It was a time for tenderness, he knew. Or, something that more typically looked like tenderness. “It’s tough. Again, the same people who can tell you about adoption can hook you up for being a mom.”
“My dad...” she began.
“Yes, yes. It keeps coming back to him.” Horse waved off her concerns. His history with him was nearly as long as his history with Amanda. “Perhaps you should talk to him. I’m sure he loves you. I don’t know if he’ll love this.”
“No.”
“But right now it’s about you, and if you have a child it’s about the child.”
“Do you think it’s a baby? Now...”
Flipping a white board marker in his hand, Horse grew agitated. He thought about the copying he had to do, the reading and correcting that waited to be done and then this idiot child came in deep in a hole wanting an easy way out. There is no easy way once you get pregnant. He said this several times a year to students—nearly as many times parents said it wasn’t his business to preach about sex and pregnancy. Abstinence supporters all—one hundred percent effective—but the board’s objections weren’t about morality. No, the school board had made that clear. It was about his assumption that the students would fail to be responsible. Did he believe kids would fail?
“Some,” he had said. “Look at the data.”
Absentee List_An Old Horse Mystery Page 4
