Claire and Present Danger

by Gillian Roberts

  Or maybe I would indeed sleep in it and have a head start and an excuse.

  Is black better? Is black always safe? Or too . . . New York. They’re from Louisiana. They won’t get it. But my black slacks didn’t need ironing the way the beige linen ones did.

  “Who’s ever going to even say ambidextrous? And why would they if they can say ‘I can write with both my hands,’ “ the boy—I checked the seating chart—Daniel—on the other side of the cutie pie—I checked the chart again—Allison—said. Dueling hormones for the fair Allison’s hand. If they’d only learn the word ambidextrous, they’d know they could each have one of her hands.

  When would I have their names memorized? It had never taken this long, had it? “Either hand,” I murmured.

  The other good news is that even as you’re failing to be a decent teacher, and you aren’t really there, the sheer force of adolescent will and obstinacy drives the hour on, heaves it through the slow lurches of the classroom clock until this session’s over. Either they’d learned ambidextrous or they hadn’t, and I’d settled on ironing the linen outfit because then I could wear a celadon summer sweater Mackenzie had given me for my birthday. He said it matched my eyes, which it doesn’t, but his mother would have to approve of something her son had chosen. Maybe that would include me, too.

  THE MORNING SEEMED INTERMINABLE. Actually, it wasn’t an illusion. It just barely terminated itself after about five years. When I’d exhausted my patience with my inner-wardrobe mistress, my attention again ran sideways, into a pit called Havermeyer Is On My Case Again.

  I should probably be ashamed to say that this item fired fewer brain cells than my choice of clothing had. But then, I’d been coping with Havermeyer for years, and I was completely new at the daughter-in-law thing.

  Experience pays. What I’ve learned about the headmaster and perhaps all truly stupid people in power is that somewhere in the center of their bombastic hearts, they know they’re dumb. They deserve a bit of sympathy, because it must feel rotten to be in constant danger of being shown for the fool and fake they are.

  It should be against the law—against the Constitution—for an idiot to be in charge of innocent children’s destinies. But given the situation, and the tenuous state of our jobs and the economy, we protect and defend our young by using guerrilla tactics against Our Leader.

  I’ve learned that my best defense is an offense, and I bamboozle him by using his own methodology, i.e., emphatic stupidity.

  I don’t question or await his answer. Instead, I agree with him, right from the get-go. I behave as if I know what he’s about to say, which is, amazingly enough, precisely what I wish he’d say, and nine times out of ten, he silently retreats and changes his position so that he can agree and even, perhaps, believe that’s what he meant all along. Why not? It isn’t as if there’s any bedrock of conviction or philosophy for him to tap into, test ideas against.

  And so at noon, finding him idling away the time in his office, I decided to get the meeting over. “Thanks for grabbing this problem by the horns,” I said as I entered his office. It’s an odd room, decorated with Latinate diplomas from unrecognizable institutions. I wish there were time to study them, but he’s made sure they’re out of clear-reading range. Besides, I had to stay aggressive. “That woman means well, as we both know, but really . . . can you imagine?”

  He’d gestured for me to sit, and had taken his seat again, behind his massive, empty desk. I considered how warm he must be on this balmy September day. He wore a vest no matter the season, and I was convinced it was only so that he could dangle his pseudo Phi Beta Kappa Key across his shirtfront. Now, he cleared his throat.

  I rushed in before he could. “She’s so worried about adolescents reading about evil that she’s going to leave them unable to recognize it. And where would we be if we censored young minds that way? The author’s a Nobel Prize winner—isn’t that a sufficient credential? He’s part of the canon, now.”

  I was pretty sure my principal thought I was now talking about artillery. That war on evil, perhaps.

  “It’s a good thing this happened early in the year,” I rattled on. “This way, a tone and precedent—especially in the light of the higher standards you’re implementing here—is set for the future.” He waited a few moments, then nodded very slowly, as if he were still learning how to lower and raise his head. “And I hope it’s not out of line to say how impressed I am with your swift and efficient handling of the entire situation.”

  The hook had been set. I could almost see it in the fleshy part of his cheek. It was safe to pause for breath now.

  “Mrs. Lawrence is concerned about her daughter’s—”

  “Feel free to reassure her that you’ve alerted me to that and I’ll take special care of—pay special attention to—her daughter. And again—thanks so much for handling this. I’m positive that with your reassurance, she’s already calmed down.” I was halfway out of my chair by the last words.

  Havermeyer looked more and more troubled, but he, too, stood, and nodded in his slow, heavy-headed manner.

  I put my hand out to shake his, and he nodded again, shook my hand, then pulled back. “Did you know you have a—” He pointed at the ink blot. I was tempted to do a Rorschach with it, but before he could remember that this wasn’t how he’d intended the meeting to go, I looked at the mess on my sleeve with exaggerated horror. “Oh, no! I’d best take care of that. Maybe it’s not too late! Thanks for pointing it out,” and I was out of there.

  Except I was buzzing—my cell phone, bought for the after-school life, was buzzing.

  “You are sooo popular!” Sunshine chirruped as I fled into the hallway. “But did you know you have a boo-boo on your—”

  “Please,” a female voice on the phone said. “I need to talk to you.”

  I covered my free ear with my hand and began the ascent to my room, where, perhaps, I’d find quiet. Most lunches—except mine—had been eaten, and now, kids were everywhere.

  “I know you probably don’t want to—or don’t care, but I have this horrible feeling—”

  “Who is this?”

  “Emmie Cade. We met the day before yesterday. I need to talk to you.”

  I was midway up the staircase and I paused, nearly causing a major collision with a young man racing up behind me. “But, I . . . but we—how did you find me?”

  “You told us where you taught school. And she—Mrs. Fairchild—told us—told Leo, really. He was so worried about who you might be that she told him what she’d done, why you were really there.”

  I had no idea what to say. Was I even supposed to talk to her? According to C. K., our business with the Fairchild family—current and future members—was finished. Our client was finished, too. There was nothing further we could do for her and nothing to discuss.

  But when I didn’t say anything, she rushed back in. “He thought—forgive him, but Leo thought you were suspicious. He knew his mother didn’t care for books, so he didn’t believe your story and he thought maybe you were a con man—a con person. That’s why she finally told him the truth. About your investigating me. And he told me.”

  And now she was telling me. Why?

  “I thought he must be wrong—and then I checked today, and here you are, really a teacher. So even though she said—and Leo said he checked, because she told him the company you work with—I don’t see how you can teach school and actually investigate anything—”

  “Surely you didn’t phone me to discuss time management, did you?”

  Her voice lowered almost to a whisper. I was in my room now, and I closed the door, though I couldn’t have said what I thought I was keeping out. “I have to talk to you. Otherwise—please?”

  “With Mrs. Fairchild dead, I’m—we’re—no longer involved, so I don’t see why—”

  “No, please.”

  “If you have something important to say, say it now. I’m really busy—”

  “It isn’t something that feels right o
n the phone. And to be honest, it’ll take a few minutes. I could meet you anywhere, anytime. Please? My life’s at stake here.”

  She was ridiculous. Dramatic, silly, and preposterous. She was taking her Romantic Poet image too seriously, but playing the damsel in distress didn’t suit her. She was the one to fear. She was the one who left casualties in her wake.

  And I was the one with the Mackenzies barreling toward me tomorrow, and much more than one after-school session’s worth of preparations and stocking up ahead of me. “This is not a good day,” I said. “I don’t have any free time whatsoever.”

  “I wouldn’t ask, honestly.” She had a lovely, melodic voice, even when she insisted it was under strain. I amazed myself by feeling sorry for her—then felt sure that’s what she wanted. “But if I don’t see you before the police—”

  “What police?”

  “The police.”

  “What do the police have to do with anything?”

  “The police!” As if repeating the word with ever-more emphasis would give it context. “I’m sure they’ll want to talk to you, and I need to talk to you first, because she hired you and I don’t know what all—”

  “Stop. I don’t understand what you’re saying, and you’re saying it too fast. Why are the police going to talk to me?”

  “Because—because—” She sounded near tears, or perhaps in them already. “I thought you’d know, you being on this investigation, and—”

  “Ms. Cade. In about five minutes, my classroom will fill up with twenty teenagers. Try hard to make yourself clearer. The police are going to talk to me because . . . ?”

  “They—the somebody, whoever it is who does things like that—”

  “Like what?”

  “Test. Do things to—to dead people.”

  “A pathologist?”

  “Yes. I think so. That’s it, I think. They—he—said something’s wrong in her bloodstream. In her.”

  “Like what?” Something slow-acting that allowed those hours to elapse? I hadn’t been serious when I’d said it.

  “Barbiturates.”

  A medication. Not a poison. An accident, not a murder. The woman had prescription bottles filling the top of her nightstand. She must have grabbed the wrong one. “Too much of one of her medicines?”

  “It didn’t sound that way. Besides, she had that box with the dates and little places for morning pills and noon pills and nighttime pills. They were all counted out in advance. Help me.” She sounded as if she were calling out from the bottom of a well.

  I realized I had pulled my head away from the phone, and I was shaking it, as if to quell the urge to reach out and rescue her. Her defenseless “help me” echoed, and I understood how good she’d be at seducing me over to her camp. I didn’t want to be there.

  I didn’t want to know what she wanted of me, why she had to see me. You don’t have to meet and plan things out if you’re going to tell the truth. That’s one of honesty’s main advantages: It saves time.

  I wanted to tell her she deserved whatever she got, and I was not going to be her next comrade in crime, or a stepping-stone to her next victim.

  I looked forward to talking with the police and turning over the flyers and the news story from California, and whatever else had been faxed to Ozzie’s office yesterday after we left. I wished I could tell her that I knew enough about her already to want to stay miles away, but all I actually said was, “I’m too busy to meet with you.”

  “But—you can’t do this to me! I won’t let you—”

  Let me! I didn’t wait to hear what she wouldn’t let me do, what she might threaten. I said goodbye.

  It took me a while to shut off the phone. It’s hard when your hand is shaking.

  Thirteen

  I HADN’T been lying—I did keep a special eye out for Melanie Lawrence. Judging by the maternal concern for her sensibilities, I thought she might be somebody I’d missed, an introverted, shy, socially backward child who’d been dangerously overprotected and monitored, and I was ready to help her maneuver her way through this brave new high school world. The important thing was not to blame the sins of the mother on the child.

  But I hadn’t missed her, and if ever a girl looked as if she didn’t need my help—or anyone’s—it was Melanie. She was the amazingly self-assured creature I’d noticed the first day. The leader of the pack. The girl and the mother’s worries didn’t mesh, mainly because the girl was so much of a diamond chip off the maternal block, a petite blonde with features so regular and pleasing, they were just this side of computer-generated. She sat through class surrounded by friends, attentive herself, smiling and nodding acknowledgment of points made in the discussion of the opening segment of Lord of the Flies, and adding a few well-spoken comments of her own. She was going to grow up and run the world, or at least a megacorporation.

  Lord of the Flies was, as always, a great book for discussion, both rich and unintimidating. “What do we know at this point about these boys?” I asked. “What do we know about Ralph?”

  “Strong.”

  “Good looking,” a girl said, and when the boys laughed derisively, she sat up straight and said, “It says so! It says that’s one reason they picked him as leader.”

  “Not that smart,” a boy said. “Piggy’s the one who figures out what to do.”

  I kept checking my seating chart. Had to learn names more quickly. I wished kids came in more colors and patterns. It would be so easy to remember who went with a paisley face or plaid hair.

  “Mean!” a tiny girl—Olivia—said softly. “That whole thing of calling him Piggy when he asked not to be.”

  “Then is everybody mean?” I asked. “Didn’t everybody laugh when Ralph called him Piggy?”

  A moment’s silence, people looking side to side, checking out one another until a boy—Tony—shrugged and said, “You know how it is. Going along with the group.”

  Good. Whether or not Sonia Lawrence approved, we were moving toward a discussion of group psychology, and her daughter didn’t seem in danger of toppling over from the weight of the topic. “Any other signs of these boys being ready to go along with the group?”

  They were right there with me, having made note of the choir in its matching uniforms and their obligatory voting for their leader. “And Jack,” I said. “What do we already know about him?”

  “He’s dangerous,” Melanie said. “He has a knife. I was wondering why he had one. But he’s ready to use it, too.”

  I decided to stop worrying about Melanie.

  “He’ll use it,” a girl nearby added. “Because he lost face when he didn’t kill the pig.”

  “He said so,” one of the boys added. “He said, ‘Next time.’ “

  “Have you thought about how you know these things?” I asked. “How the author made you know that without telling you directly?” No response, but they weren’t rolling their eyes, which was a plus. “Have you ever heard the term foreshadowing?” They didn’t groan the way kids do when they’re asked to look at the craft behind the story captivating them.

  I felt something akin to a tickle in the heart. This was going to be a good class. We’d have fun and learn a few things along the way—and that we included me.

  This was all the more remarkable because it was the last period of the day. Post-lunch for them. I’d again missed my own. Pre-freedom for all of us. This hour is generally subject to both impatience and torpor, which is not a great combo, but here they were, working together as a group, and their sparks of intelligence ignited an active discussion that lasted until the bell interrupted, announcing the end of day.

  As though the bell tolled for me—my mind instantly switched to the next hurdle: getting ready. I envisioned a marathon race, a movie in fast-forward as I cleaned and ironed and manicured and even marked papers and made up a quiz for Friday, so that I’d be ahead of the game and have time for Gabby and Boy. I’d had such a good time last period that I’d barely had time to think about the impending vis
it, which was high testimony to the quality of my ninth graders. But now, the Mackenzies’ road-weary car—it had already visited four others of their scattered offspring—crashed into my classroom and my brain.

  The room emptied. A few boys nodded discreetly as they made their exits. I took that as high praise, a thumbs-up. I was going to be allowed to live. “This was fun, Miss Pepper,” Melanie said as she left. “But—” she leaned closer.

  I felt a shudder of worry. She was going to mention evil. She was going to echo her mother.

  “I think you’d want to know that you have this big ink stain on your sleeve,” she said. “It’s a real shame. It’s a pretty blouse.”

  I was most assuredly not going to worry about her anymore.

  And then the room was empty, except for Olivia, still placing her book in her backpack. I watched with mild amazement, because no able-bodied living human, aside from a mime, moves that slowly. I knew she spoke normally, she’d participated in class, and I wondered if she had a neurological problem. “Olivia?”

  She looked up—slowly. “Sorry,” she said. “You can go. I . . .”

  “Need some help?”

  She looked startled, inappropriately frightened by my question, then silently shook her head.

  “Are you all right?”

  She switched her head shakes to nods.

  “Then I have to lock up, so—”

  “Could I stay a while? I won’t touch anything.”

  How could I explain that this was not the day to deal with idiosyncratic desires—or serious mental problems, except for my own. She was tiny and she looked windblown, inside the room, as if a secret storm had set her quaking. Much as I hate admitting it, it’s never a great sign, and surely not a normal sign, if a student isn’t eager to leave my room.