Eric stood to one side while I got them into a circle on the rug. We sang a song about listening and then I introduced the station activities. The first time I’d had an administrator in my classroom, I was terrified. I froze and second-guessed my every footstep. After going through it for so many years, however, I’d gained confidence. After a few minutes, I forgot that Eric was even there.
“Station one is coloring. I’ve put out a box of crayons and some paper. What is the first thing we do when we have a piece of paper and crayons? Yes, Holly?”
Holly smiled sweetly and said, “Write our name.”
“That’s right. We write our name on the back first so that our artwork doesn’t get lost. Since we’re talking about community, I want you to draw someone in your community who’s a helper. Can you think of someone in your community who’s a helper?”
At that moment, the emergency alarm system sounded. My heart stopped. It wasn’t the fire alarm. It was the school’s new intruder alarm. None of us could bring ourselves to call it what it really was: An “active-shooter alarm.” My eyes sought out Eric. I must’ve looked terrified. “It’s only a drill,” he assured me calmly.
Still. I could barely breathe. When had school violence become such a real threat that we had to actually engage in active-shooter drills with five-year-olds? The children were becoming frightened as the sound continued, and it was my job to keep them calm. I forced myself to smile, but my hands were clammy and my heart was jumping around. “All right, let’s play a game,” I said softly. “Everyone go to the coat closet.” I pressed my finger against my lips. “Shh. As quietly as you can.”
Eric went to the classroom door and locked it. There was a small pane of glass, but I’d covered it with paper so that no one could see in when the door was shut. As I ushered the children back to the closet, he turned off the lights. “It’s just a game,” I whispered to Dominick, whose lower lip was trembling. “You’re safe.”
I set my hand on their backs and gently coaxed them into the closet. It spanned half the classroom, and children had cubbies and coat hooks on both sides. Most important, it had a door that locked. It was our designated safe spot.
I shut the door behind us and locked it. “All right, we’re going to sit on the floor and be very quiet.”
It was impossible, which is why I had a secret stash of lollipops on top of the cubbies. I reached up to pull down the plastic bag, but I fumbled them and they fell on the floor. “Darn it.” I was falling apart.
Eric’s hands surrounded mine, strong and warm. Reassuring. I looked up into his beautiful green eyes. “Your hands are shaking,” he whispered.
I was thinking terrible thoughts. These drills brought my nightmares into clear focus, and as I looked around at all of those sweet faces watching me for cues as to whether they should be afraid, too, I knew I couldn’t do it. I wasn’t strong enough. I looked helplessly at Eric and bit down on my lower lip. “I can’t—”
“Then let me. You sit with them. Tell them it’s okay.”
I nodded silently and took my place with the children as he gathered the lollipops. A few children climbed into my lap, and others pressed themselves against my back. “Shh,” I said. “You’re safe. It’s only a game.”
But Oscar sat over to the side, his legs pulled against his chest, his head down. If I could have reached out, I would have, but I was boxed in by the other children. Eric handed each child a lollipop, and we both reminded them that this meant they should eat their candy and be quiet. I knew that out in the hallway, Gretchen would be going down the hallway with a police officer, rattling the door handles and making sure that we’d all followed protocol.
We were safe. I told myself that. But I barely believed it. This was only today, and what about tomorrow? What if something actually happened? I drew a shaky breath, and Eric handed me a lollipop with a half smile. It was lemon. Thanks, I mouthed. He nodded.
I sat and ate my lollipop. My mind wandered to that moment I’d found Blaise on the back steps of Bar Harbor with a lollipop, and how I thought he was trying a cigarette. Talk about putting my trust issues on full display. Someone shows my nephew kindness, and I assume he’s teaching Blaise how to smoke. My lips puckered at the slightly sour taste of the candy. I’d panicked, but Blaise had been fine. All of the danger had been in my own head.
Like right at this moment. There was no danger. We were having a drill.
I scooted back against the wall and a few children shuffled with me. I wrapped my arms around them and pressed a cheek against their sweet-smelling heads to whisper “Shh” softly, the way their mothers probably did. They relaxed against me, exhaling and softening their muscles. It was so quiet in that closet that all I could hear was the sound of my own heart and, every now and then, a child’s breathing.
I loved those children. I loved that they shared their lives so openly with me. They told me what they wanted for their birthday, they innocently overshared personal information, and they lived with their whole hearts, open and fearless. As I wondered when I’d become so afraid to live and love, Eric’s hand wrapped around mine and gave a little squeeze. It’s like he could read my mind.
The drill was over after about ten minutes, and Brunhilda’s voice came over the intercom to tell us that we were safe to go. Eric opened the door and the children nearly ran out, they were so happy to be free. All but one, who remained in the corner, his head on his knees.
Oscar.
“Hey, Oscar?” I whispered, and bent down to set my hand on his back. “It’s all done. Time to go back to class.” He was shaking. Crying. “Oh, sweetie. What happened? Were you scared?”
He looked at me with watery eyes and fat tears rolling down his face. “Was it my dad?” he whispered. “Was he coming to get me?”
I sat back on my haunches, stunned. What do you say to that? What do you even say?
CHAPTER 17
THE DELLACOURTS lived on the far end of River Junction, in a patchwork of neighborhoods built by the same developer in the 1960s and varying very slightly from lot to lot: ranch, cape, colonial, cape, ranch, ranch, colonial. Every now and then someone mixed things up by throwing in a detached garage or a family room addition with a skylight, but for the most part these were the same three houses. Any variation came from the families who lived there and left their marks on the otherwise cookie-cutter homes, either with neat gardens and picket fences or broken lawn furniture and puddles of motor oil. None of the houses were Copper Hill, but I could imagine a few of them in Poop Hole.
After school ended, I drove to Oscar Dellacourt’s house, a well-maintained light yellow ranch with white shingles. The front door was light blue with four glass squares at the very top, and someone had hung a store-bought wreath made of twigs and red plastic leaves on it. There was no storm door to protect it, so every time the wind blew, the plastic leaves rustled. A strong wind would send the wreath knocking against the door.
My plan was to chat up Mrs. Dellacourt and see if she’d open up to me. I saw her most mornings when she dropped off Oscar. She always brought him directly to the classroom, holding his hand tightly. She was reserved but not unpleasant, and I’d assumed the protectiveness was the standard kind that the older teachers complained about relentlessly—the helicopter parenting that they asserted would produce a generation of lazy, incompetent adults. But I was beginning to understand that Mrs. Dellacourt was protecting her child from a legitimate threat. I felt sort of guilty for lumping her into the helicopter-parent group.
I don’t know how long I sat there, watching the house across the street from my car. I don’t know what I was waiting for, but I just about jumped out of my skin when my cell phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Hey, it’s Faye. Did Dad call you about Thanksgiving? Sadie’s freaking out.”
The front door of the Dellacourt house opened and a small-boned woman with white-blond hai
r stepped out onto the cement steps. Mrs. Dellacourt. I crouched lower in my seat. “No, I haven’t talked to Dad.”
“Why are you whispering?”
“I’m in the middle of something.” The woman shouted behind her and pulled her black coat closer as another breeze sent the autumn wreath clanging. “What’s wrong with Sadie?”
“You know how she offered to host Thanksgiving? Well last week she decided to go vegan. I’m talking tofurkey. She’s planning to rescue a turkey and post a picture of him on the centerpiece.”
“Jeeeezus. I’m not eating tofurkey.”
“Plus, Mom’s coming up. I think it would be best if we were on neutral territory.”
As divorced couples went, Mom and Dad were on decent terms. Growing up, we’d often celebrated holidays with both of them. It was something I didn’t appreciate until I was much older and learned that most divorced parents didn’t operate that way. My childhood wasn’t perfect, but their efforts had made it less imperfect.
Mrs. Dellacourt pulled a reluctant Oscar out of the house and led him down a walkway to the sidewalk. I crouched lower so that my eyes were barely visible through the window. “What do you want me to do about it?”
“I think you should host.”
“Me? Why can’t you host? I’ll help you.”
Faye breathed into the phone like I was being tedious. “I don’t think that’s the best idea. Win and I are working on our marriage. I’m reinvesting. It takes energy.”
I failed to see how the two were related, but I was staking out a house and it wasn’t the time to argue. “Okay. Whatever. I’ll host Thanksgiving.” I would have to come up with a series of vegan dishes. Just wonderful. “Listen, can I call you—”
“Things with me and Win are great. I mean, better. I know you were worried, but we’ve each agreed that we’ve made some mistakes and we’re starting over again. Which reminds me—I need you to mark your calendar for the first weekend in January. We’re going away on a couples retreat and I need you to watch the twins.”
I rolled my eyes. “Anything else, Faye?”
“I think that’s all. I’ll let Dad know you’re hosting. I’ll bring a salad and some pies. Let me know if you need anything else.”
“Does your hospital perform lobotomies?”
“No.”
“Then I guess I’m all set.”
We disconnected the call. I sat and watched Oscar and his mom heading down the road to a neighbor’s house. Once they went inside, I decided to call it an afternoon. A private eye, I was not.
OUR SCHOOL DAY began at eight thirty, but Moira, the school psychologist, was in by seven thirty. When I arrived at her office, Eric was already showing her the picture. He looked up at me with a not-surprised-to-see-you-here kind of smile. “Here’s Lettie,” he said. “She can tell you more.”
Moira had short-cropped black hair and a face with the bone structure to pull it off. With wide, dark eyes, she reminded me of a very pretty little mouse. Without thinking, I looked to Eric to see whether he found her attractive, but he was watching me. So I looked back at Moira, who was seated at her desk chair.
“I see you have the picture,” I said.
She pulled her thin, dark eyebrows closer as she examined the image. “Yes, and I agree that this is a red flag. What do we know about the family?”
I started to reply, but Eric beat me to it.
“Parents are still married,” he said. “Dad spent some time in jail for cocaine possession. He was recently released on probation.”
My jaw was slack. My own answer to Moira’s question was going to be “nothing,” because even with my stakeout, all I’d learned was that Oscar lived in a yellow house and visited his neighbors. Oscar was in kindergarten, so the only notes in his file were my own. Eric shifted under my questioning gaze and gave a little shrug. “My brother’s a cop. I gave him a call last night.” My heart warmed in my chest.
“Do we know this is an image of the father?” Moira asked. I relayed the comment Oscar had made after the intruder drill the previous day, and she nodded solemnly. “Aletta, have you ever noticed any bruises or unusual marks?”
It burned me up inside to think about a grown man hurting that child, or any child. I was cold, and my teeth chattered. “No, nothing. But the kids are all wearing pants and long sleeves these days.”
“I’d like to speak with him this morning,” Moira said, and stretched out her legs. “You can send him right down first thing. My day is clear.”
“And what will happen after you speak with him?” In my six years of teaching, I’d never come across a case of suspected abuse before. “He’s not— Is someone going to take him from his home?” I felt sick at the thought.
Moira’s eyes softened. “Our first priority is to make sure he’s safe. We may need to involve DCF if it’s an emergency.”
The Department of Children and Families. No family in the state wanted them appearing at the door. DCF meant official reports and investigations. Foster care. “You can’t let anyone take him away from his mother,” I said. “Please. She comes into school every morning with him and picks him up every afternoon. She packs little notes in his lunch box. She takes good care of him.” My throat was tightening as I imagined the different ways this could play out. Mrs. Dellacourt was a victim, too. “I’m trying to do the right thing. Please don’t make me regret this.”
I hadn’t had a choice in notifying Moira. I was legally required to report any suspected child abuse to the proper authorities. But Mrs. Dellacourt wasn’t the problem, and if the state took her son . . . I wrapped my arms around myself, but I was still shivering. “She’s in danger, too. We have to help both of them.”
Moira’s lips turned downward. “Our role is to protect Oscar—”
“She comes in every day, you said?” Eric stepped forward and set his hands on his waist. “When, about now?”
I glanced at the clock. “Yeah, any minute.”
“I’d like to talk to her, if that’s okay with you, Moira.”
When he didn’t elaborate, I looked to the psychologist for an explanation. Based on the way they were looking at each other, Moira and Eric were locked in some kind of silent conversation. What was going on? My gaze flew from one to the other. “Uh—”
“I guess I don’t have a problem with that,” she said. “As long as I can meet separately with Oscar.”
“Fine.” He looked at me. “Lettie?”
I shook my head. “Uh, okay I guess. I mean, you’re the experts here.”
“Great.” Moira rose and set Oscar’s drawing facedown on her desk. “Sounds like we have a plan, then.” I guess that was that.
Eric walked with me to my classroom. In about thirty seconds the school doors would open for arriving students, and I was supposed to be ready for them. My mind was elsewhere. I eyed Eric sidelong. “What are you going to say to her?”
His expression was inscrutable. “I haven’t gotten that far yet. I figure I’ll start with hello and see where we end up.”
His half smile held the usual charm, but there was an intensity in his face that I hadn’t seen before.
“This gets to you, doesn’t it?”
The smile faded just slightly. “Yeah.” He didn’t say anything more.
We rounded the corner, past the mural of jungle animals that featured a monkey with a shit-eating grin on his face, holding out a banana like, Hey, guess what I’m about to do with this banana and that elephant over there? “Can you promise me you’ll do everything you can to keep them together? I don’t want him taken away—” I stopped as the fear gathered in my throat.
Eric stopped midstride and reached out a hand to clasp my arm. “Lettie. Trust me on this, okay? I actually know something about it.”
His gaze was gentle and reassuring, his hand firm on my arm. And I realized that it didn’t matter
that I didn’t know what Eric was going to say to Mrs. Dellacourt. I didn’t need to control everything in my world. I could trust him.
I could trust him.
AT A QUARTER TO TEN that morning, I led my students to the auditorium for the monthly school assembly and attempted to herd them into the front row. Usually these things were predictable. One grade would sing a song, and then Brunhilda would hand out certificates for perfect attendance. That day was different. On the stage were several metal folding chairs in a line, a lectern, and the school banner—all of which signaled that something important would be happening. It took me a moment to remember that we were being honored for improving test scores.
Ever since she’d arrived at Noah Webster, Brunhilda had been driving the school forward with the force of a tweed steamroller. Thanks to her, teachers were properly attired and school supplies were accounted for, down to the staple. She was also receiving a lot of press because third-grade standardized test scores were up significantly. In an e-mail to the faculty, Brunhilda had warned us that we might be receiving “press attention for our success,” and that we should embrace it. If by “embrace it” she meant “continue as usual,” then I was doing exactly that. But I did notice the cameras set up in the corner of the auditorium.
While I was reminding my class to face forward and sit on their bottoms, not their knees, Justin Meyers entered through the back doors, trailed by his perfectly behaved, beaming third graders. “Okay, gang. Let’s sit over here. Monique, you’re first, champ.”
God did I despise the buddy-teacher routine. A few of the kids were wearing strange headgear: visors with what appeared to be planets dangling above their heads. I watched them sit without incident, and when Justin turned to me with a wave, I hoped I wasn’t sneering.
“They’re all hyped-up,” he confided. Lied, really. “We’ve been working on our presentation for a few weeks now.”
“Huh. Is that what the hats are about?”
Seeking Mr. Wrong Page 21
