Then, suddenly, she was back in Vermont.
Turmoil has a way of masking a deeper discord in a relationship. Between the child and careers neither Sonya nor Tim realized they had grown apart. Different interests, they might have said if they would have thought about it. But neither thought about the other much, which was another problem.
When offered the job at Smuggs, Tim took it. He had assumed Sonya would follow. A manager of her skill and experience, he figured, could land a job at IBM or other facilities. On the night Tim told her of the offer, and his acceptance, Sonya sat at her dining room table and began to plan. Part of what made her a good manager was the ability, in the midst of a crisis, to take a breath, stop, and plan. Taking a discarded envelope from the recycling—that New England thrift part of her brain always on—she mapped out her desires.
In the end, Tim was the unknown factor. ‘Do I love him,’ she thought. She didn’t know. One option was to let him go, but another factor was their child. She didn’t want to be a single mother, nor did she want to give up Amanda. With scratches and lines and boxes and diamonds Sonya sketched out a flow chart that mapped out the costs and benefits of her various decisions. Despite loving her job and access to the city, she decided to keep her family.
She moved to Vermont.
IBM was flooding the employment market by laying off managers, while other manufacturing facilities closed. She had ideas for a new business making baseball bats from maple, but nothing beyond the planning stage. Now that she was an hour away, her mother expected her to visit regularly “to see my grandchild.” There was little to do, and sales forced Tim to work odd hours. She liked sleeping in with him on those weekdays when he had to work late, and using the Smuggs’ pool and spa through the family employee pass, but after a few months she got restless.
And the cold.
She had forgotten the cold. A decade in the mid-Atlantic states had softener her resolve, or changed her blood, or something… but now she was cold all of the time. The spring seemed damp to her, while fall found her starting up the woodstove long before the houses around her. ‘I hate it,’ she thought one evening, reading a magazine and waiting for Tim to come home. Their house was too rural to have cable, she missed choosing between fifteen different cafes for her morning coffee, and it was too cold.
Coming home from a torturous family visit in Newport, Sonya ran into Wells.
“Hi.”
They made small talk and exchanged numbers. Bored, she called. They met. He was someone that thought about something other than snow and skiing and things Vermont. It wasn’t love, she knew, just… not Tim. Not Vermont. Not really.
The affair had been brief. Six months. His house was warm, and the affair kept the early darkness at bay. After town meeting day, she broke it off. For a few years Sonya and Tim and Amanda muddled forward as a family. Some jobs came about, with Sonya managing an animal shelter and then a hospice. Tim got a better job at Jay Peak and they moved to a house in Grace Haven. Pulling another tossed envelope out of the recycling, she again began to plan her future.
A week later, she was diagnosed with cancer.
In less than a year, she was dead.
‘Poor Amanda,’ Wells had thought at the time. The educator in him thought of the child before his own heart, which had been toyed with. He had let it, even though he knew it was going nowhere. Now there was this child. Amanda had been moved a few times in her young life, lived with parents who struggled to love each other, a father with an erratic work schedule, and in the end watched her mother waste away.
Poor Amanda.
Ironically, this entire affair had seen Horse on his best behavior. He had said nothing. When Amanda was placed in his classroom, Horse fixed her. It had been hard, as Wells sat across from Tim on a weekly basis—sometimes daily—and chatted about Sonya. Tim would break down—as the husband he was allowed to mourn—and Wells would keep his brave face. Wells mourned a friend, but was afraid to show even that in fear that Tim and Amanda’s image of Sonya would be soiled. Horse did nothing to rock that boat.
‘So why was it coming up now?’
They sat a few minutes. Having pulled off the road, Wells now had turned off the engine. It made a clicking noise as the metal adjusted, and a cold air began to permeate the glass. The windows began to fog.
“I’m sorry,” Horse said.
Turning on the engine, Wells turned the car around and headed back to the school.
That’s where the files on Peter were.
Horse knew information about the mother was in there, too.
The files were spread across the long table in the administrative conference room. In the entire school, only the light in that room, Wells’ office, and the hallway leading to the room were on. Gone for the day were Sally and Phil, the maintenance staff that grunted a friendly goodbye when Wells would leave for the night.
“There’s not much here,” Wells said.
“A car crash,” Horse muttered.
“I remember it. Peter was in kindergarten when it happened.”
Hmmm, Horse hummed. ‘That’s when the happy photographs began,’ he thought. Change of heart? Father decides to make up for the loss of the mother?
All three of them were in the car. The mother was driving. Peter was okay, but the father was pretty banged up. There was a six-month recovery, he remembered. Peter only missed a few days of school, which had surprised Wells. Some family member took care of Peter until Dan was able to take over. That was why he remembered it; in such cases, the kid often left the school for a while. A family member had come and lived with them. Peter’s transition was pretty smooth, all things considered.
“Did the crash cause any trauma?” Horse asked.
“No. He was squirrelly before.” Squirrelly. Had he not been so absorbed in the file Horse would have commented on the word. For Wells, such archaic terms served as substitutes for rougher, colorful ones that were used with ease by everyone in the region but not allowed to educators. Gallows humor around the staff table had a way of slipping out in more public settings, so Wells had made himself careful on this. “If anything, the year following his mother’s death was calming.”
‘If he was abused,’ Horse thought, ‘perhaps it was the mother.’ With the source of the trauma gone, he might relax a bit and heal.
“How is Dan with the kid?” Horse asked.
“Fine.” Wells looked at the papers spread across the table. “I don’t see him much, so I can’t really say. Usually we only know otherwise when it affects school.”
The two continued to look at the files for another hour, but they didn’t reveal much more. Horse knew he needed more information.
And he knew where to get it.
CHAPTER 22
Trooper Danielson let out a sigh designed to show impatience and disappointment.
It was something he’d picked up in his years in police work, a tic that would push others to get in line and help him. Science historian Thomas Kuhn wrote that one of the more important things undergraduates learn is to “wear the labcoat.” It was something Horse had spoken about years prior, but that Danielson absorbed more than remembered. While college classes taught him about criminal justice, his professors and colleagues taught him to think and act like a law enforcement officer. At the academy his already neat, close shorn hair became more uniform. He stood straighter. Over time, the clothes he wore at home became less and less distinguishable from his work uniform. His apprenticeship was over: this sigh was second nature, designed to put Horse in a place of gratitude for what he was about to share.
“Look,” Horse said, “if you can’t share it…”
The trooper shrugged, but still held the file close.
“You’re not going to make me feel indebted.”
The two sat on opposite sides of a table in a spartan room in the troopers’ station. Between them lay a file.
“The mother was driving. She had her seatbelt on. The father did not.”
; Horse noticed that throughout his sharing the trooper never said the name of anyone involved. Every reference was “the mother” or “the father.” Either Danielson thought it made everything sound official, or it kept up the thin veil of keeping to confidentiality. In the end, Horse figured it allowed him to keep an emotional distance from the accident and whatever might be brewing now.
‘And keep his distance from me,’ he thought approvingly.
“And the child?” he said aloud.
“Belted in.” Danielson flipped open the file as if to remind him of the details, but the trooper already knew them. He didn’t have a photographic memory, but one that intuitively discerned important details and organized those in a way that allowed immediate access. After a pause he said, “The boy was fine. The father was banged up pretty bad, but lived. Six months of rehabilitation, during which the boy lived with a relative. The mother died. Paramedics found her dead at the scene.”
“And the boy was how old…”
“Five,” Danielson said, anticipating the question.
Horse looked at an upside-down photo of the crash scene. It sat atop the open file in front of Danielson; a car with a tree where the engine should have been. There was a lot of broken glass. And blood. As it was night, a strong flash was used. Combined with the halogen lights the police had set up, it was a picture of contrasts; bright shining trim and dark interiors.
“Cause?”
“Driver error.”
“Which means no one really knows.”
“Less than ten miles from home. Fatigue does not seem to be a factor.”
“Alcohol?”
“The mother. No. Not a drink. No drugs. No cough medicine. Stone cold sober.” Danielson touched the file, moving it an inch. A playful look crossed his face. “On the other hand, the father was dead drunk.”
“Not quite dead.”
“No. Not quite. He says he was asleep. Passed out, really.”
“Any chance he crashed it, and then switched places with the mom?”
“No. They had to cut her out of it.” Danielson flipped through the file to a photo, looked at it, but didn’t show it to Horse. “He was a passenger. A very drunk passenger. It might have been his relaxed state that saved him.”
“So, the mother is dead and the father is in a long recovery at the hospital.”
“Correct.”
“Who is the relative?”
At that point, Danielson pulled out a second file. It was thin. Opening it on top of the already opened crash file, it held only a few pieces of paper. One was a print out of a mug shot with fingerprints below it. There were also printouts of a computer file, and as they seemed never to have been handled Horse figured Danielson had printed them out for him. He looked at the tab of the folder and noted that it was blank; this was a file that only existed because Horse had asked Danielson for information, he knew. For all intents in purposes, it doesn’t exist..
“Phil Plowman.”
“He has a record,” Horse said.
“Three years ago. Upstate New York, near Buffalo. He was picked up for meth. The original charge was distribution and sales, but it was knocked down to possession. He got out after two years for good behavior and for entering their rehab program. It was his first offense. And he came up clean for every drug test.”
“Sounds like he was scared straight.
Danielson looked skeptical, but kept this thoughts to himself.
“Plowman.”
“The mother’s maiden name was Plowman,” Danielson offered.
“Her brother?” Horse asked.
“Correct.”
“So, the dead mother’s brother took care of the son while the father was in the hospital recovering?”
“Correct.”
Horse thought a moment. While he did so, Danielson moved the brother’s file off the crash file so that they sat side by side. Open.
“Coffee?” Danielson asked.
“Yes,” Horse replied, still deep in thought. “Thanks,” he added as Danielson rose from the table.
For all of his training and officiousness, Danielson had left the files open on the table. When the door shut, Horse half-stood, leaned over the table and began to read upside-down.
“So, Ms. James, you are concerned that your son, Miles, is not receiving the grade he deserves...” Wells began.
“Miles is receiving the grade he deserves,” Horse said before Ms. James could open her mouth. Wells had opened an opening large enough for a school bus to drive through, and Horse had no interest in allowing her to drive through it. It had felt to Horse as if the day would never end. When he went to bed at night he felt cold and lonely. Waking alone to a cold house, his condition sank in. That particular morning, every action reinforced this; from the coffee maker to the snow crunching under his boots, everything echoed a distinctive, remote sound. Students complained at every turn, including his decision to not assign homework that afternoon. He didn’t care enough to argue, which brought more protest. Now sat Ms. James arguing the irrefutable fact that her son was lazy. ‘Her problem, Horse thought, ‘was that she was arguing the wrong point.’
“Your concern is that he’s not receiving the grade you think he’s capable of. And you’re right.”
“What he means is that with a little motivation...”
“He’s lazy. I call him on it. Of course he’s scared; he knows I’m right.”
“I think what he means is that he could work harder.”
“What I mean is that he’s lazy. It’s the same type of attitude where you think that receiving the grade he deserves and his not meeting his potential are the same thing. He is getting the grade he deserves. That grade shows that he is either lazy or stupid. I’m willing to give him the benefit of the doubt and go with lazy.”
Wondering if he should intervene, Wells sat. He knew he should do something, say something. Twice he had tried already, and Horse had cut him off. Horse was digging a hole. Today, the old man was feeling suicidal. Wells had seen it before, but today he had little desire to save him. Of course, Horse was right. Of course, Ms. James would complain and argue and a month from now the kid’s grades would go up and both Horse and the mom would think they did it, no thanks to the other. Before him sat two angry people that seemed to care more than the kid did. ‘Certainly more than I do,’ Wells thought. Today, Wells wanted to go home and have a drink. He saw that Horse was ready to take a breath.
“…. Now that I’ve met you, I think I’m right. Your statement that he’s not getting the grade he deserves is lazy thinking. The sign of a lazy mind. I guess it’s a family trait.”
‘Now I have to get involved,” Wells thought.
“I’m sure he’s not saying it as it sounds...”
“I’m saying he’s learned bad habits, and when he breaks them his grades will improve.”
The energy expended, the three sink into a more traditional parent-teacher meeting. Spreadsheets and gradebooks were taken out, and people nod at specifics said. The important things had already been stated. It was time to think. Before Ms. James left the room some amends had been made. No apologies, but through overwhelming data Horse had demonstrated that his assessment is not a personal dislike of young Miles, but as much of a fact as one gets in education. As she disappeared down the hallway, Wells closed the door behind her.
“That could have gone better.”
“She’ll go home and take it out on the kid. He’ll work harder and he’ll get the grade he deserves. It’ll all work itself out.”
“And I have to sit in front of the school board defending not firing you while it does. Ms. James is married to Mr. James, the new board member...”
“That is not my problem.”
“Neither is Peter Johnson, but look at you now.”
‘There’s no denying it,’ Horse thought.
“Here’s what I know,” he said.
Pulling out a student chair, Wells sat down at a desk. With a pencil and paper pilfered from a s
tudent’s stash he was prepared to take notes.
Horse begins. “First, that the kid had early childhood trauma before the accident.”
“We know that because of the hypervigilantism,” Wells confirmed.
“Yes. But who did it? Can we assume violence? Would that be domestic violence, or something else? And to whom?”
“Do you think Peter…”
“I don’t know.” Horse went to the window. “Second, Mom is driving and crashes the car. No alcohol. She’s wearing a seatbelt. The husband is not. He got banged up pretty bad, but survived.”
“So we don’t know the cause of the crash.” Along with the earlier unknowns, he writes this down.
“No, only the result. And that Dad’s drunk.”
“How’d he get into the car?”
“He’s drunk, not asleep. Yet. We can assume that Mom is rational. She belts her child in tight, and then herself. By why not Dad?”
“She’s afraid of him.”
“Or, she’s a libertarian. I think fear is more likely.”
The two fall into silence.
“It could be,” Wells said, “that Dad’s a drunk. Because of that, she’s been trained to let him be. Seat belt or no seat belt, she just leaves him to his own devices to avoid him in general.”
“Where were they going?” Horse asked, mostly to himself. Wells writes it on his list of questions.
“Have you spoken to anyone about the kind of person Dan was before the crash?” Wells asked.
“No, but I know who to talk to.”
Absentee List_An Old Horse Mystery Page 17
