Convenient Disposal

by Steven F Havill

  “Sure, I can do that,” Estelle said. “Does anyone have any more questions for me?” She handed one of her cards to Deena. “Use that if you want to talk with me, Deena,” she said. “Anytime.” She was surprised when that earned a small nod from the girl.

  Chapter Two

  Estelle started the county car and drove around the perimeter of the macadam acre that served as both the bus staging area and playground for the elementary and middle schools.

  Seventh graders on lunch break were already spreading out onto the pavement. Two duty teachers stood by one of the perimeter benches well out of range of the infamous “wall ball” court, where participants became targets for hurled tennis balls. A gaggle of four girls had joined the teachers, all apparently talking at once. One of the girls broke away from the teachers when she saw Estelle park in front of the elementary school fifty yards away. She sprinted toward the undersheriff as if greeting a long-lost pal.

  With just enough time to shut off the car, get out, and brace herself, Estelle reached out a hand and caught Melody Mears as the youngster spun into orbit around her.

  “Hey, what are you doing here?” the sprite said. She shared the sandy hair and freckles of her father, Posadas Sheriff’s Sergeant Tom Mears, and none of his quiet reserve.

  “Checking up on you,” Estelle said.

  “Oh, sure,” Melody said, beaming. She did a fair imitation of the broken-elbow, splayed-finger gang-member’s point, indicating the two teachers. “Me and them guys are just over there scoring some really bad shit from the teachers.”

  Estelle cuffed Melody on the back of her head. “I don’t need to hear that, hija. ”

  Melody grinned an apology and dug her head into the crook of Estelle’s arm like a puppy. “Really, how come you’re here?”

  Estelle looked down at Melody’s smiling face and then, as the youngster danced a few steps away, glanced at the inseam of her jeans. “I like to touch bases with Ms. Dooley once in a while.”

  The girl wrinkled her nose in disbelief as she searched for just the right words. “She is so cool,” she said, and then with the immediate change of subject at which middle schoolers were so adept, she added, “What’s Francisco doing?”

  “This morning he’s building a skyscraper,” Estelle said. “At least that’s what he’s been chattering about for a week now. I thought I’d go in and see.”

  Melody danced a circle. “He’s so cute.”

  “Don’t tell him that.” Estelle nodded at the two teachers. They were watching from a distance, well out of earshot. After the next faculty meeting, they would never look at a set of inseams the same way again. One of the teachers, a youngish woman at least six months pregnant, raised a hand in either greeting or summons—it wasn’t clear which. Her authority obviously carried clout, though. Melody Mears’ orbit immediately widened, and she waved in farewell.

  “I gotta go,” she hollered, and then flung over her shoulder, “Tell Francisco I said hi.”

  Her mind now on her son, Estelle locked the car and walked toward the building. She found herself trying to guess what six-year-old Francisco could have accomplished that would warrant a conference when the parent-teacher’s night was just two days away. Her one fear—that the little boy would be bored by the routine of school—had so far been an idle concern.

  She pulled open the heavy door, greeted instantly by quiet classical music piped over the intercom. The smell of fresh-baked rolls and roast chicken floated down the long hall from the cafeteria, overpowering even the Clorox-flavored mop water that a janitor was using in front of one of the restrooms. A small sign on an easel pointed off to the right, directing visitors toward administration.

  Larry Newberry was leaning on the counter, talking to one of the secretaries. He glanced up when he heard the front door, saw Estelle, and beckoned to her as he stepped away from the counter.

  Tall and dark with a brooding face, Newberry could frown and smile at the same time, a peculiar expression that looked as if the elementary principal might break into tears at any moment.

  “You came to join us for lunch?” he said, as Estelle entered the office.

  “I wish I could,” she replied. “It smells wonderful.”

  The principal held out an ushering hand toward the cafeteria, but Estelle shook her head. “I really can’t, thanks. Myra Delgado asked if I’d stop by for a minute. I was just over at the middle school.”

  “Ah,” Newberry said, as if that covered it all. “Wouldn’t it be nice if these kiddos never had to grow up.”

  “I’m not sure about that,” Estelle replied.

  Newberry chuckled, still frowning. “Myra and I were talking about Francisco just this morning.” He looked sideways at Estelle as he stepped out of the office and into the foyer. “That’s quite a boy you have there.”

  “Thank you…I think.”

  “Oh, yes,” Newberry said. His eyebrows relaxed. “Let me find out where Myra is just at the moment,” he said, and turned back toward his secretary, who had anticipated his question.

  “Ms. Delgado is right there,” she said, pointing across the hall toward the faculty room where the first-grade teacher held open the door while she talked with someone inside.

  “Ah,” Newberry said again. “There she is. And if you change your mind about lunch…”

  “Thanks, Mr. Newberry,” Estelle said. Myra Delgado turned as Estelle crossed the foyer toward her. She beamed and closed the faculty-room door, then approached Estelle with both hands held out. Not yet thirty years old, the stocky first-grade teacher’s round, pretty face was framed by short, spiky hair that looked as if she stuck her fingers into an electrical outlet each morning.

  “There you are,” she said. “What perfect timing.” With Estelle’s right hand in both of hers, she paused and glanced in the direction of the middle school. “How’s your day going?”

  “Well, okay,” Estelle replied cautiously. “So far.”

  “I don’t mean to be pushy, but we have about twelve minutes.” She linked her arm through Estelle’s, ushering her down the hall in the direction of the potent cafeteria aromas. “My aide is with the kiddos during lunch. Usually we both are, but when I glanced out the window and caught sight of you going into the middle school, I thought I’d take a chance and see if you could come over. I’m so glad you did.”

  They passed the double doors leading into the small cafeteria, and Estelle saw the sea of small heads and hands, industriously shoveling in the chicken, potatoes, milk, and rolls. Teachers hovered and mingled, like fretful drill sergeants.

  “This all started about three weeks ago,” Myra said, and Estelle glanced sharply at her, intrigued by what “this all” represented. “My first thought was, Whoa, what’s he doing? ” She pointed down a side hallway to the right. “Down here a couple of doors.” At the same time she slowed her pace, and Estelle noticed that she made an effort to keep her shoe heels from clacking on the polished hall tiles.

  The first-grade teacher sidled up to a doorway and put her finger over her lips. Through the single windowpane of A-12, Estelle saw a set of curved chorus risers. A battered upright piano was turned perpendicular to the risers so that the teacher could sit at the keyboard and direct the students at the same time. The room lights were off, but daylight flooded through the high windows above a row of battered lockers.

  Estelle saw Francisco’s slight figure standing in front of the piano’s keyboard. The white keys were level with the tip of his nose. With his hands clawed over the keys, it looked as if he were trying to chin himself.

  “He eats his lunch, and then he slips down here,” Myra whispered. “Always by himself. At first, I thought that he was going to the restroom, but he’ll stay down here until about six minutes of,” and she glanced at her watch. “At eleven fifty-five, we line up to go back to the classroom.” She turned to grin at Estelle. “We’re kinda regimented around here with the little ones.”

  “This room isn’t locked?”

&n
bsp; “No, not usually. Mr. Donner—he’s our music teacher—Mr. Donner floats around all the schools, and he’s here just three times a week—for all six grades.” Myra looked heavenward. “Sometimes one of the regular classroom teachers will bring a class here for something special, and it’s easier to leave it unlocked than always having to worry about borrowing a key. When I found out that this is where Francisco was going during lunch, I checked a couple of times to make sure the door was open.”

  “He just comes here all by himself?”

  “Yes. Now, we don’t allow the little ones to roam by themselves more than just a little bit, and as long as I’m sure this is where he is, I’m fine with it. So is Mr. Newberry.” She leaned closer until her ear almost touched the glass, and looked at Estelle while she listened. “Can you hear him?”

  “Yes.”

  “It sounds like he’s trying to work out chords.”

  “He comes here every day?”

  Myra nodded. “By himself. Never with anyone else…and Francisco has a whole classroom full of friends, Mrs. Guzman. He isn’t a loner, by any means. But this is a private thing with him, and that’s what intrigues me so.”

  Estelle watched her son as his tiny fingers spidered across the keyboard, seeking whatever sound he heard in his head.

  “Do you have a piano at home?” Myra whispered. Estelle shook her head. “Well, I wondered,” Myra added. “One day last week, I asked Francisco if he did, and he didn’t answer. Sometimes he’s stubborn that way, as I’m sure you know. When he doesn’t want to talk about something, he just pretends that he doesn’t hear. Maybe he was afraid that I would find out about this,” and she nodded toward the music room. “Maybe he thought I wouldn’t let him come down here.”

  “Stealthy little guy,” Estelle said. “If this was his little brother, I’d be less surprised. Carlos sings to himself all the time. Francisco doesn’t.”

  “Maybe not aloud,” Myra said. “But I think it’s in his head.” She held up her hands, poised over an imaginary keyboard. “Anyway, I wanted you to see this. I think it’ll be interesting to see where it goes. He hasn’t missed a day here in three weeks. Not one. That in itself is remarkable for a first grader.” She leaned toward Estelle and her whisper dropped a notch. “And not to talk to someone about it is absolutely amazing. Given the chance, first graders are pack critters most of the time. Yakkety, yakkety, yak.”

  Estelle watched Myra Delgado thoughtfully, but her attention was focused on the faint notes from inside the insulated room—some solo, some forming hesitant, simple chords. “We think we know them,” she said finally.

  Myra reached toward the doorknob. “Did you want to speak with him while you’re here?”

  “No. Don’t interrupt him. He only has six minutes left.” Estelle smiled and reached out to touch Ms. Delgado on the arm. “Thanks.”

  They walked back toward the cafeteria in silence, and as they reached the double doors, Estelle looked up at the large clock. Francisco had four minutes remaining in his private world. “The music that’s playing now,” she said, nodding up toward the public address speaker below the clock. “Is it piped into the classrooms?”

  “Just the hallways,” Myra said, shaking her head. “Sometimes, if we don’t have music of our own that we want to use, we’ll ask Mr. Newberry to throw the switch for our classroom. But usually not.”

  “Interesting,” Estelle said. “Thanks again.”

  “We’ll see you Thursday night?”

  “Absolutely. Francis has been talking about his tower all week.”

  “He and Rocky Montaño are building that thing.” She frowned severely. “We are all very impressed with ourselves about that project.”

  Estelle laughed. “I’m prepared. We’re looking forward to Thursday. Thanks again, Myra.”

  “I hope Dr. Francis can come, too.”

  “So do we. He’s going to try his best.”

  The clock clicked to 11:57 as Estelle left the school, and she felt a twinge of conscience that she hadn’t stayed and greeted her son. He was doing nothing wrong, only slipping away for a few minutes each day for a rendezvous with the piano. The moments were obviously private and intensely personal for the little boy, and for the first time in six years, Estelle realized that there were dimensions to her son to which she no longer had free and unlimited access—and that brought an ache of regret.

  “That’s a parent’s face,” a voice said, and Estelle looked up quickly. The Posadas County manager had pulled in his small pickup diagonally behind Estelle’s unmarked sedan. He leaned against her unit’s front fender as Estelle approached. “Missed you this morning,” Kevin Zeigler said. “The village has you working for them already this morning?”

  “No…but they had a little ruckus at the middle school involving a couple of girls.” She grinned. “I drew matron duty, I guess. Just one of those things when everyone gets busy.”

  “I know how it goes,” Zeigler said, and Estelle didn’t doubt him. The young county executive had survived two years of county politics, trying to mold the various county operations into a reflection of what the five commissioners wanted…and what they wanted seemed to change with the phases of the moon. “Are you going to be able to stop by the meeting after the lunch break? I think the commissioners could use your perspective.” He grinned. “I think Swartz and Tinneman both got a little impatient this morning.”

  “The sheriff was going to go today,” Estelle said.

  “Well, he did go. And I think the commission is going to vote in favor of the contract. But…”

  “Chief Mitchell was there, too?”

  “Yes. And you know, the commissioners were a little surprised. Barney Tinneman is the main voice against consolidation, and I get the impression that he still counts on Chief Mitchell as an ally.” Zeigler crossed his arms over his chest. “But Chief Mitchell told the meeting this morning that the village contracting police services from the county is the only thing that makes sense.”

  “He’s said that all along,” Estelle agreed. “Barney needs to listen once in a while. Everybody thinks that, in most ways, it makes sense, except maybe him. The population is just too small to bother with separate departments.”

  “That’s the catch,” Zeigler said. “In most ways. Neither Mitchell nor Torrez can convince Tinneman that coverage in the village won’t suffer.” Zeigler grinned. “And I can see the sheriff’s fuse getting shorter and shorter. He doesn’t do politics well.”

  “No, he doesn’t.”

  “I think we mangled the carcass enough this morning. They need a fresh perspective.” He glanced at his watch. “I have a few things I have to take care of over lunch, and the commission reconvenes at one-thirty. If you can be there, it would help.”

  “They’re voting on it today?”

  “That’s the plan. But Tinneman has Swartz wavering, and that’s two out of five. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if they forced it to the table.”

  “Even after the village council voted unanimously to contract services from the county?”

  “It’s a turf thing,” Zeigler said. “Remember, Tinneman was mayor of Posadas at one time. He thinks that the village should have its own police department, no matter what. He thinks that once they give that up, the next thing to go is the fire department, then Lord knows what all else…He even said this morning that if we’re not careful, we’ll lose our post office.” He shrugged at the absurdity of it. “Go figure. It’s hard to tell just what his agenda is, except he likes to hear himself talk. He even thinks I’m giving the county dump away by looking at a private contractor.”

  The county manager pushed himself away from the car’s fender and brushed off the seat of his tan chinos. “If you can stop by, it will help. The sheriff told them that the SO would be absorbing the two and a half village officers, but I’m not sure that Tinneman heard him.” He sighed. “I’d like to get this all cleaned up and running smoothly so we can move on to other issues. The world isn’t going to h
old still for us to dither this to death.”

  “I’ll be there,” Estelle said. “I’m not sure what I can say that will make any difference to Tinneman, but we’ll see.”

  “Every bit helps,” Zeigler said. He paused with his hand on the door of his idling truck. “Everything staying quiet?”

  “Quiet is always relative,” Estelle said.

  “Boy, ain’t that the truth. See you after lunch, then.”

  As Estelle settled into the county car, she enjoyed an unexpected sense of relief. The county meeting, with the ebullient Barney Tinneman always vying for center stage, could be entertaining—a good way to pass the hours until Francisco stepped off the school bus later that afternoon. She had no idea what she would say to her son.

  Chapter Three

  Pershing Park was a dusty, forlorn triangle that overlooked the intersection of Bustos and Grande Avenues, the two main streets that crossed through the heart of Posadas. The park featured half a dozen elms, a spread of struggling grass, two picnic tables, and a rusting vintage tank alleged to have been part of Black Jack Pershing’s assault on Pancho Villa’s forces in 1916. The tank had rested on its concrete pedestal for so long that it had colored to a nice, even patina from tracks to turret. Sheriff Robert Torrez had once irreverently remarked that the tank had been donated to the Village of Posadas by someone who didn’t own a cutting torch.

  Pershing Street formed the hypotenuse and northwestern boundary of the park. One of the few modern buildings in Posadas, the U.S. Post Office fronted the intersection of Pershing and Bustos. Its nearest neighbor was the former Martinez Brothers A & P grocery store, a flat-roofed, concrete block building. Sometime decades before, an industrious contractor had purchased the A & P, thinking that with a few tons of Sheetrock, the old store could be partitioned into a minimall of sorts.

  Of the various ventures that had counted on the neighboring post office to provide a constant flow of daily traffic over the years, only three remained. Arley’s Vacuum and Sewing occupied a small corner niche in the old supermarket building, about where the fruits and vegetables used to be. The various cracks and BB holes in the front window had been artfully repaired with duct tape. Arley was semiretired. When Estelle had tried to have her mother’s aging Singer fixed, she had discovered that Arley had adopted “You can’t get parts for those” as his basic operating motto.