The Living Room

by Robert Whitlow

  The instructor patted Megan on the shoulder. “Working with dancers like Megan makes it all worthwhile. I know it’s early to think about the future, but she could do something serious with dance if that’s what she wants. A lot of girls learn the steps; Megan dances from deep inside.” Ms. Carlton looked at Amy. “I guess she gets that level of artistry from you. It just takes a different form.”

  “We’re proud of her.”

  Amy and Megan moved toward the door.

  “How was school?” Amy asked when they were out of earshot of Ms. Carlton. “Did things calm down?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it in front of Ian.”

  The short ride home took place in silence. Once they reached the house, Ian went into the family room and turned on the TV.

  “Where do you want to talk?” Amy asked Megan as they stood in the kitchen. “We could go up to your room.”

  “Not now.” Megan brushed past her toward the stairs.

  Amy stared after her for a few seconds, then began preparing a chicken casserole. While she worked, she went through several possible scenarios for Megan’s day at school. None had a happy ending.

  After putting the casserole in the oven, Amy changed into more comfortable clothes. The door to Megan’s room was closed, and Amy paused for a moment to listen. She could hear Megan talking in a low voice on the phone but couldn’t understand what she was saying or whom she might be talking to. Megan’s decision not to communicate was one of the toughest challenges Amy had faced as a parent.

  The casserole was starting to bubble when the phone rang. It was the high school. Amy picked up the phone and peeked into the family room to make sure Ian was still watching TV.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “Mrs. Clarke?” a female voice asked.

  “Yes.”

  “This is Madeline Robbins, one of the counselors at the school. I think we met during ninth-grade orientation at the beginning of the year.”

  Amy remembered Ms. Robbins, an attractive black woman in her thirties.

  “Yes.”

  “I met with Megan today during her second-period study hall, and she told me you’re aware of the texting incident that occurred yesterday involving Nate Drexel.”

  “We know there was a text but not what it said.”

  “I have it here.”

  The counselor read the text. Amy’s eyes opened wide, and her face grew pale.

  “That’s bad,” she managed.

  “The administration agrees. Nate will be given in-school suspension for ten days and won’t be able to participate in spring sports activities. My question for you and your husband is whether you want him to apologize to Megan. Any apology would be supervised by me and take place in the school office, but we didn’t want to make this part of the disciplinary process unless you wanted us to.”

  Amy was impressed with the suggestion. “I’ll need to talk to my husband when he gets home. What does Megan know about the punishment or the possibility of an apology?”

  “I told her about the suspension when I met with her but not about sitting down with Nate.”

  “How did she seem to you? I picked her up at dance class, and she didn’t want to talk to me about anything. She’s been in her room ever since.”

  “I won’t minimize the emotional trauma. Megan seems like a confident young woman, but this has been very hard on her. It helps that she has a group of good friends. They seem supportive; however, too many students think making fun of a ninth-grade girl is cheap entertainment. That’s not the culture we promote at the school, but it’s a sad reality.”

  “Yesterday Megan wanted to transfer to Broad Street Christian where she went to elementary school.”

  “That’s definitely an option. I’d like to stay in close contact with her for the next couple of weeks. She has an appointment to see me again tomorrow. Time will tell.”

  Amy was surprised that the counselor didn’t discount the possibility of pulling Megan out of the public high school.

  “Thanks for what you’re doing. I’ll talk to my husband and let you know about the apology.”

  The counselor gave Amy her direct number at the school.

  “I’d encourage you to include Megan in the discussion about the apology. She’ll likely oppose the idea at first, but I think it would be a good thing to do.”

  Amy hung up the phone. The timer went off, signaling the casserole was done. Jeff came into the kitchen from the garage.

  “How’s Megan?” he asked. “I thought about her the whole time driving back to Cross Plains.”

  Amy told him what she knew, leaving out the specific wording of the text. Jeff’s anger was buried deep, but when aroused, it was hard to keep caged.

  “Let’s try to talk to her after supper,” Amy suggested. “Will you go upstairs and see if you can get her to come down and eat?”

  Amy and Ian set the table while they waited for Jeff and Megan.

  “What’s going on with Megan?” Ian asked. “She spends all her time in her room, and I heard her crying when I went to the bathroom to brush my teeth last night.”

  “Someone hurt her feelings at school,” Amy said.

  “Was it Nate Drexel?”

  “How did you know?”

  “His little brother is in Ms. Duncan’s class, and he told me on the playground that Megan was going to get Nate kicked out of school. I told him he was crazy.”

  “Megan can’t make anything happen. It’s up to the principal to decide how Nate is punished.”

  “What did he do?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  Ian rolled his eyes. “I know about more stuff than you think.”

  “What kind of stuff?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  Before Amy could correct Ian’s attitude, Jeff returned to the kitchen with a solemn-faced Megan in tow. It was another meal eaten in silence, but Amy was thankful that Megan was present and had an appetite. She liked chicken casserole and ate two helpings. Without any conversation at the table, supper was over quickly. Jeff told Ian he would pay him five dollars to clean up the garage.

  “But, Dad, you always put away your tools,” Ian said.

  “Then it will be an easy five bucks. Stay there until seven o’clock.”

  “Is that so you and Mom can talk to Megan about Nate Drexel?”

  “What do you know about that?” Megan asked, a horrified look on her face.

  “Just what his little brother said on the playground,” Amy responded. “And most of that wasn’t correct.”

  Ian opened his mouth, but before any words came out, Jeff spoke.

  “Out to the garage!” he said. “Now!”

  Ian retreated from the kitchen, and in a few seconds they heard the door to the garage close.

  “Ms. Robbins called me late this afternoon,” Amy said to Megan and then told them about the conversation.

  “I like her,” Megan said. “I didn’t know what they were going to do to Nate. I wish they would start the in-school suspension tomorrow. That way I wouldn’t have to see him in English class.”

  “He’s in your English class?” Amy asked. “I thought he was in the tenth grade.”

  “And World History. He failed English Composition last year and had to take it again.”

  Amy looked at Jeff. “It might be a good idea to ask the school to take him out of Amy’s classes.”

  “All the trouble started in English,” Megan said, “and I can’t stand the thought of him staring at the back of my head. I don’t care so much about World History. Mr. Ryan can look out for me in there.”

  “I’ll talk to the principal about it,” Jeff said.

  “What do you think about the personal apology?” Amy asked Megan.

  “I don’t want to do it. If he apologized, he wouldn’t mean it. He’s just sorry he got caught and is in a bunch of trouble.”

  “Ms. Robbins thought it was a good idea,” Amy said.

  Megan didn’t respond.<
br />
  “What if the counselor brought the junior varsity football coach to the meeting?” Jeff asked. “Nate probably cares more about football than anything else, and it would be hard to admit what he did in front of Coach Nichols.”

  “Yeah.” Megan nodded. “And Mr. Ryan could come.”

  “Dad and I would be there—” Amy began.

  “Getting parents involved doesn’t help,” Megan interrupted.

  “We’ll decide that later,” Jeff said, then turned to Megan. “Look at me.”

  Megan, her eyes wide, gave him her full attention.

  “Did you know that I think you’re a wonderful daughter who is beautiful on the inside and the outside? And if there was any way I could take this pain and embarrassment away from you and put it on myself I’d do it in a second? I thought about you all day and wished I could solve this as easily as I did with a Band-Aid on a cut when you were a little girl.”

  Amy watched Megan tear up. She sniffled and nodded. Jeff stood, pulled her to her feet, and wrapped his strong arms around her. She didn’t try to resist. As Amy watched in admiration, Megan closed her eyes and leaned her head against her father’s chest.

  “No matter what happens, remember how much your mother and I love you,” he said.

  Megan nodded. She and Jeff separated.

  “Do you have any homework?” Jeff asked.

  “Not much.” Megan wiped her eyes. “I have to research a report for World History. Mr. Ryan is going to give me suggestions for sources, but I want to show him I’ve done some of it on my own.”

  “Use the computer in the family room,” Jeff said. “I’ll do my work after you finish.”

  Megan left the kitchen.

  “I’ll call Ms. Robbins,” Amy said. “It’s easier for me to take care of it at work than it is for you to take a phone call when you’re at the top of a ladder.”

  “Tell her I’ll be there,” Jeff said. “I’ll sort that out with Megan later. Tonight wasn’t the time to do it.”

  “You don’t think I should be at the meeting, too?”

  “I’ll leave that up to you.”

  Amy hesitated. “I’ll stay away. I might start crying and become a distraction.”

  “Okay.”

  Amy edged closer to Jeff.

  “But can I have one of those hugs?” she asked.

  Jeff opened his arms wide.

  “I saved one especially for you.”

  After Megan finished her research and Jeff logged on to the family computer, Amy slipped up to the writing room.

  Writing the first chapter of a novel was like attending a party where Amy didn’t know anyone. The best way to break the ice was to start asking questions. At Amy’s imaginary get-together she didn’t begin with typical questions about work or family. The most important piece of personal information she wanted to know about someone who was going to walk through the pages of her book was what the character feared most.

  Amy read again what she’d already written. Roxanne certainly felt the ache of loneliness because the other side of the bed was vacant, but being left alone wasn’t her primary fear. Her economic status was dire, but poverty alone wouldn’t cause the woman to toss and turn at night. Her health wouldn’t be an issue; Amy didn’t want to write a doctor/hospital story.

  Then Amy had a writer’s epiphany. Even though she and the main character lived in radically different worlds, they shared the same greatest fear—that something horrible would happen to their children. A wrenching ache that only a mother can feel welled up in Amy’s heart. That was it. She let the mixture of compassion and anxiety and dread and love she felt become more real in her mind. Amy quickly typed a few key phrases to capture the moment. When a powerful emotion swept over her, she knew there was an opportunity to create scenes that could produce a similar response in her readers.

  Deeds of Darkness would have many tentacles, but for Roxanne they would be rooted in a life-and-death threat to her children.

  Amy scrolled down to a fresh page and continued typing character notes. Roxanne would also be a mixture of weakness and strength—strong enough to try to make it on her own but frustrated because her stubborn determination couldn’t guarantee security for her family. Somewhat shy around others, she would have an active thought life and, like Amy, would view solitude as both an enemy and a friend. Amy smiled wryly. Writing this novel might involve visiting more unexplored facets of her own subconscious than she realized.

  As she considered possible endings for the story, Amy considered an unexpected twist. What if the gut-wrenching challenges faced by Roxanne eventually destroyed her? Amy shuddered. She’d never considered writing a novel with a tragic ending, and it was a disconcerting scenario. But there was no denying that some of the greatest works of fiction didn’t end with “and they lived happily ever after.”

  Amy turned off her computer. She was standing at the edge of a dark literary forest and didn’t want to take another step into the forbidding woods.

  Not yet.

  fourteen

  The following morning Amy phoned the high school and talked to Ms. Robbins.

  “That sounds like a good plan,” Ms. Robbins replied to Amy’s suggestion. “I’ll speak with Coach Nichols and Mr. Ryan, then contact Nate’s parents and set up a time for the meeting.”

  “Even though I won’t be there, I’ll be praying.”

  The call ended with Amy grateful she had an ally inside the walls of the schoolhouse. The counselor had figured out a way to let her light shine in the darkness.

  Amy organized Mr. Phillips’s mail and then settled in at her desk. She’d finished a short piece of dictation when she looked up and saw Chris Lance standing in her doorway. She slipped the listening buds out of her ears.

  “Thanks for agreeing to go to the corporate meeting with Mr. Phillips last night,” she said. “I was in a jam because I needed to pick up my children. I hope it didn’t run too late.”

  “About ten thirty,” Chris replied flatly. He handed her a flash drive. “I took seven pages of notes. Would you clean these up so they can go into the file?”

  “Certainly.”

  Chris reached into the pocket of his shirt, took out a small envelope, and handed it to her. Amy’s name was written in a woman’s cursive on the front.

  “This is from Laura. I told her what you said when you saw the picture in my office, and she started to cry.”

  “I’m sorry.” Amy felt her face flush. “I was way out of line and shouldn’t have said anything. I know it was a tragic loss. Please—”

  “I don’t know what she wrote in the note,” Chris interrupted her. “But she isn’t mad at you. She made me promise to give this to you first thing this morning.”

  Chris left, and Amy fingered the sealed envelope. She looked around to make sure she was alone and opened it. The note was written in a graceful script on an embossed card:

  Dear Amy,

  I can’t tell you how deeply your words about my brother touched me. I shared my faith with David several times over the past few years. He listened politely but never gave any sign that he believed. I always thought there would be other chances to talk and then he was killed.

  Yesterday I was thinking about him, missing him, and wondering where he was. I knelt in front of the chair where I have my devotions every morning and asked God to somehow let me know the truth.

  When Chris came home last night and told me what you said, I burst into tears. I’ve never had something so supernatural happen in my life! Praying will never be the same for me. I know God hears and answers!

  I can’t wait to meet you in person and give you a hug. Thank you, thank you.

  Fondly,

  Laura Lance

  P.S. I’m so excited you’re going to be working with Chris. Please pray for him!

  Amy reread the note. It seemed like it was written to someone else, not her. She slipped it into her purse. Putting the flash drive into the USB port of her computer, she brought up the no
tes Chris took the previous night. Cleaning up the notes didn’t demand her total concentration, and a private part of her brain continued to think about Chris, Laura, and David.

  Shortly before noon she received a call on her cell phone. It was Bernie Masters.

  “I need to speak with the next great American novelist,” Bernie said.

  “Then you called the wrong number. If you want to talk to Amy Clarke, it will have to wait. I’m typing answers to interrogatories for my boss. Can I call you back on my lunch break at noon?”

  “You got it.”

  Amy took the salad she’d fixed for lunch to her car and drove a couple of blocks to a city park. It was too cold to eat outside, so she stayed in her vehicle and called Bernie. He answered immediately.

  “Tell me you’re not just typing answers to interrogatories for a living,” Bernie said.

  “And memorandums of law, correspondence, pleadings, buy-sell agreements, employment contracts with noncompete provisions, and briefs that are long, not short.”

  “Are you trying to make me feel guilty?” Bernie asked. “Several priests have tried and failed. Seriously, how are you holding up in the working world?”

  “In some ways it’s easy, like riding a bike, but I’m not the same person I was when I left a couple of years ago.” Amy thought about the note she’d received from Laura Lance. “But for now I’m sure it’s the right thing to do.”

  “And what about your own writing? Has being around other people on a regular basis primed your pump?”

  “That’s not how it works with me, but I’ve started a new novel.”

  “Yes!” Bernie shouted into the phone. “You don’t have to give me credit so long as you mention me in the acknowledgment section of the book and let me negotiate your next contract. What’s the hook?”

  “I’m at the preliminary stages. I’ve only written part of the first chapter, but I’ve jotted down a bunch of character notes and plot possibilities.” Amy paused and took a deep breath. This was going to be the first time her concept had left the privacy of her mind and the attic writing room. “It’s going to be third-person point of view with a female protagonist. She’s a young woman—”

  “I saw that coming,” Bernie cut in before Amy could continue.