Armen Callahan’s voice poured out of the receiver, and like a tonic, sent Bonnie’s fatigue scurrying for parts unknown.
“Hello, you,” she whispered.
“Hello, yourself, sweet lady. What’s new on the East Plains’ front?”
“You’ve got no idea. You flush with a spare half hour?”
“As I’ve told you a thousand times, I possess no moment but to await upon your sweet pleasure. Give me the lowdown, dear heart.”
Bonnie began with the port-a-potty murder, walked Armen through her various misadventures with Pastor Dobbs, Seneca Webb, and Rattlesnake, and ended with the tragedy of the Whittakers.
Armen whistled. “I leave for a few days and the center comes unstuck. Tell me you’ve at least kept in Superintendent Divine’s good graces.”
“A swing and a miss there, too.” Bonnie sat back on the kitchen stool. “Oh, hell, I don’t want to talk about that odious man right now. Sooooo, what’s going on in New Jersey?”
A long silence passed before Armen spoke. “Let me begin by stating unequivocally that I am enamored with one Bonnie Pinkwater, and if it were entirely up to me would remain ensconced in her favors the remainder of my days.”
Uh-oh. “A good place to start, smooth talker, but I’m thinking I’m not going to like what comes on the heels of this charming declaration of love.”
Bonnie winced. Did I really say the L-word?
Armen didn’t seem to notice. “Probably not. I’m sure not crazy about my untimely news. Here’s the deal. My dad is a lot worse than I thought.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that. How bad is he?”
“He can’t take care of himself anymore. The truth is, my mom probably ran herself into the ground tending him day and night. He can barely walk, he’s got memory loss, and he’s having trouble breathing.”
“Oh, Armen.” She wanted to reach through the phone, pull this man to her. Vying with this tender emotion, a sinking feeling took residence in Bonnie’s chest. More than anything she wanted to tell him to rethink whatever he was about to say. “What does all this mean?”
“I can’t leave him, Bon. He needs me.”
Bonnie bit back a small desperate voice that demanded she tell this wonderful man that she needed him, too. She swallowed, trying to get control of her voice. “I see. What are your plans? I mean for your job here and your trailer?”
And me?
“I’m calling Lloyd tomorrow and resigning. As for the trailer, I’m paid up through the end of August.”
Bonnie took a protracted breath. She felt like screaming, but once again squeezed her desperation into a manageable package. “So that’s it.”
Again, a long pause. “I don’t want it to be, Bon. The thing is, my dad has this huge house in Atlantic City. What do you think about living in New Jersey?”
CHAPTER 14
“… MARRIED JOHN SOMERVILLE, WHO LIKED SMART women a lot better than her first husband did.” Beatrice Archuleta made a show of inhaling deeply as if to say she was putting her all into the presentation on Mary Somerville.
Bonnie stifled a yawn and let the girl’s oral report wash over her. She certainly didn’t want Beatrice to think her efforts were less than stimulating. Truth was, Bonnie had been up past three writing Leo’s eulogy. She felt like she’d been hosed down by an elephant and dragged feetfirst across bottle caps.
She checked her Mickey Mouse watch. And ladies and gentleman, said eulogy will be underway in less than two hours.
The late hour for the completion of Leo’s farewell was, in part, the fault of Armen Callahan. Certainly the process wasn’t made any easier by the oblique tangents her brain insisted on taking with regard to the man’s Atlantic City proposition.
New Jersey, for God’s sake.
Off and on, through the wee hours of the night, flights of fancy would dredge up what meager facts she’d gleaned over the years about the Garden State.
Capitol—Trenton, the city in which George Washington attacked the Hessians on his famous No-Thanks-I’ll-Stand boat trip across the Delaware River.
Home of Bon Jovi, Bruce Springsteen, and of course Old Blue Eyes himself, Frank Sinatra.
New Jersey also laid claim to the boardwalk metropolis of Atlantic City—the second most popular gambling mecca in America, one-time nexus of the Miss America Pageant, and rude model for the Parker Brothers’ original game of Monopoly.
And possibly the new stomping grounds of Bonnie Pinkwater. Ye gods, what am I going to do?
“Missus Pinkwater?” Beatrice Archuleta asked, and if Bonnie’s peripheral subconscious wasn’t mistaken, had asked for the second time.
Bonnie blinked in the girl’s direction. “I’m sorry, honey. I was woolgathering. What can I do for you?”
Beatrice peered at Bonnie as if she might be mentally challenged. “I said I was finished.”
Bonnie felt her face redden. She was far too embarrassed to ask if the girl had included any of Mary Somerville’s mathematics in her talk.
“That’s terrific, sweetie.” Bonnie stood, hearing as well as feeling several of her bones creak and pop. She needed to get up and move around before she fell into a coma. “Has anyone made any progress on our wallpaper mathematician?”
Most of the class avoided eye contact.
“That’s okay. I’ll give you a name to work with and a push in the right direction.”
Notebooks opened and mechanical pencils clicked at the ready.
“Her name was Sophia Krukovsky Kovalevskaya.” Bonnie wrote the name on the board and underlined it. “A jawbreaker of a handle, and of all the personalities bandied about in this who’s who of historic females, she may possibly be the best mathematician of the bunch.”
“You okay, boss?”
Bonnie whispered, but for the effect it had on Lloyd Whittaker, she may as well have dragged her fingernails down a clean blackboard.
Her principal moaned—his face in his hands. Like a tortoise emerging from its shell, he raised his head and peered at her. “Peachy.”
She stepped lightly into his office. Perversely, gazing at her longtime friend and his obvious discomfort made Bonnie feel distinctly better. She quickly discarded an unwelcome twinge of guilt that flashed across her frontal lobe.
No point in both of us suffering. Indeed, by comparison, she was beginning to feel like the rise-and-shine poster girl.
Every aspect of the man’s face, from the red-rimmed and bloodshot eyes to the slack, slightly aquamarine skin and cracked lips, all bore witness to physical as well as mental agony.
“Tell me I didn’t ogle Angelica Devereaux’s breasts, then spill beer all over the superintendent.”
“Oh, that I could, Sahib.” Bonnie immediately regretted her poor attempt at humor and cast about for anything that might truly cheer up her friend. “On the bright side, I don’t think Angelica was offended. In fact, I got the impression she thought you made a cute drunk.”
Lloyd moaned again. “That’s all I need. The superintendent’s fiancée thinking I’m cute and her man, my boss, thinking I’m the village idiot. I don’t suppose Xavier chalked the beer accident up to just one of those things?”
Just one of those crazy flings?
“I wouldn’t go that far.” Bonnie chuckled, remembering Divine’s indignant expression as he demanded that Lloyd unhand him. “However, once again, Angelica came to the rescue. This time utilizing her area of true expertise.”
Lloyd perked up. “Oh, yeah?”
“Indeed, I do believe Miss Thirty-Eight-D took him home and made everything all right. Truth is, I caught her sticking her tongue in Humpty Dumpty’s ear.”
Lloyd let loose with a dry chuckle that made him wince. “Remind me to send her some flowers.”
“You do that. No doubt, flowers would go over big with our egghead boss, as well. While you’re at it, why not spill some more beer on him.” Bonnie checked her watch for the second time in fifteen minutes. “I don’t want to be pushy and insensitive, bu
t we need to get a wiggle on. The funeral’s clear in Colorado Springs, remember?”
Lloyd blinked up at her. “Of course, I remember. I’m hungover, not senile.”
“Tsk-tsk. Whose little boy got up on the wrong side of the bed?” She reached down, took his hand, and helped him to his feet. “I’ll drive.”
He grunted agreement, and like a grumpy trained bear, followed her to the parking lot.
They were turning off Highway 84 into Colorado Springs, when Bonnie broached the subject of Marjorie. Lloyd shook his head in a feeble attempt to refuse to even consider the topic. The effort sent a visible shudder through him.
“Spare me.”
“Not this time, Mister Whittaker. You’re going to listen to what I have to say because I’m shamelessly calling in the friendship chip. Got it?”
He snorted and turned his head to stare out the passenger window. “Got it.”
She walked him through the conversation she’d had with Marjorie, ending with the woman’s final declaration that Chad meant nothing more to her than the piano player in her band.
“She said that?” he asked, still staring out the window.
“Yep.” Bonnie squeezed Lloyd’s arm. “She screwed up, big guy.” Perhaps not the best choice of words, Pinkwater.
Her friend sighed. “She screwed us both up, probably for good. Bon, this new information doesn’t change anything.”
Bonnie wanted to pull the car over and shake the man. She could damn well see he wanted to give Marjorie another chance. Why the hell couldn’t he see it? She inhaled once to steady her voice. “Talk to her, Lloyd. That’s all I’m saying.”
“I’ll think about it.”
Bonnie spotted the wrought-iron gates of Saint Elmo’s Cemetery and leaned forward to peer upward at the sky. “Looks like a good day for a graveside service.”
Lloyd turned from the window and for the first time that day, he wore an expression of true amusement. “I know my alcohol-befuddled brain isn’t the most trustworthy, but weren’t you supposed to see Xavier before leaving the school?”
Bonnie stepped past Jason Dobbs to stand at the lectern.
At its base, lay the coffin on an aluminum miniscaffold. A breeze carried the aroma of fresh-turned soil to her nostrils, and almost involuntarily she inhaled deeply.
From her vantage point she could not only see the modest skyscrapers of downtown Colorado Springs but also peruse a surprisingly large crowd that had shown for the funeral. In a quick nervous scan, she spotted Byron Hickman and Deputy Wyatt at the outer rim of the gathering. No less than ten members of Leo’s championship basketball team were represented, as were several members of the royal courts from both the prom and the homecoming dance. Completing the group was a smattering of the East Plain’s High School staff.
Not surprisingly, Seneca and Caleb Webb weren’t in attendance. Bonnie made a mental note to look in on the girl at Memorial Hospital later that day.
The real shocker and what had delayed the service for almost an hour was the absence of Alf Rattlesnake Quinn. When Bonnie and Lloyd first arrived, Jason was in a dither trying to reach the man. Over a half-dozen cells had been employed, trying first his office then his cell phone then anyone who might be willing to make the drive out to the shooting range to check on the man. When all avenues had been exhausted, and it became obvious Alf was nowhere to be found, Jason had made the executive decision to begin the service.
Bonnie smoothed her one page of eulogy notes.
“Leo Quinn was my student.” In the uttering of those five simple words, Bonnie felt a stab of emotion that threatened to overwhelm her. It wouldn’t do to go blubbering before she’d barely started. Blinking back tears, she inhaled slowly. “For those of you who are teachers, you know what that statement means. He wasn’t blood, yet was more than the kid next store. He didn’t deliver my paper, mow my lawn, or walk my dogs. All he did was show up in my room, for an hour and a half each day, for three years.”
A random image of Leo as a sophomore laden with an enormous backpack and a weary smile on his intelligent face flitted across her brain, and once again she almost lost her emotional footing. She hurried on. “We laughed. I’m not talking jokes, although there were those. I’m talking the exquisite laughter that rears its Harpo Marx visage as a result of volumes of shared moments. That is, if you make room for it. Those of us who knew Leo, remember he always made room for laughter. We have to think no further than the night of the senior prank when he painstakingly removed the front doors of the school and drove Principal Whittaker’s truck into the cafeteria.”
Even as they wiped at their eyes, a number of participants chuckled. Lloyd shook his head, obviously remembering how embarrassed he’d been when he needed a ride to school and found his old Ford, framed in an octagon of lunch tables each blazing with a candelabra.
“Like many of you, I shared some tears with Leo. As a teacher, it’s my privilege to share sorrow with my students. Broken hearts. Disappointment. Failure. Betrayal.” She let her gaze stray to Jason Dobbs, who looked away.
“To paraphrase Kahlil Gibran, joy and sorrow are two sides of the same coin. The very tears we shed in times of sorrow deepen the cup that holds our laughter. Leo knew the value of both, and if you were lucky, as I was, he shared both with you.”
The crowd had grown strangely silent. Bonnie could hear the traffic on Pikes Peak Avenue. A helicopter flying off the roof of a nearby hospital thrummed overhead. In the loose soil of the grave, not two feet from the base of the lectern, a small swarm of ground bees buzzed.
“But you want to know what I treasured most of all in Leo Quinn—more than his wit, more than his courage, more than his openness and his vulnerability?” She let her voice fall to a near-whisper. “Leo knew how to be quiet, and on occasion, permitted me the pleasure of sharing his solitude. Only a rare individual knows the true value of stillness. In one so young, it was doubly singular. Leo never found it necessary to fill his moments with clamor, but was comfortable in the beating of his own heart and the music of his own soul. I can’t express how much I appreciate knowing someone whom I will miss, not just for his words, but for the things he didn’t say.”
Bonnie smiled a sad smile and looked out over this crowd that had given her their attention. She was grateful for the chance to not only say good-bye to one extraordinary young man, but to say it in the company of folks who would understand. In the end, Rattlesnake had done her a favor.
She sighed. “Thank you all for coming to honor the memory of Leo Quinn. Each of you has your reason for being here. For me, that reason is summed up in the proud declaration that I had the esteemed honor of being his teacher.” She stepped from behind the lectern and around Jason Dobbs as he made his way back.
“Thank you, Missus Pinkwater.” The young man took his black suit jacket off and draped it across the lectern. He regarded the gathering. “Please bow your heads and join with me in prayer, not for Leo, who is beyond our assistance and in the arms of Jesus, but for ourselves. In particular, let us pray for our absent brother Alf Quinn.”
A moment after Bonnie knew everyone around her had lowered their heads, she lifted hers and took a peek. Since she was a young girl, she’d been unable to resist the temptation to regard her fellow Homo sapiens as they engaged with the Almighty.
Even Jason had his peepers shut.
“Lord, be with Alf Quinn in his hour of need. Give him strength to bear up under the sorrow. Give him wisdom to seek Your face if and when that strength isn’t enough.” Without opening his eyes, he swatted at a bee that flew near his ear.
As the young pastor droned on, Bonnie took the opportunity to scan other people in the gathering. Several members of the championship basketball squad were holding hands and mouthing Amen to each of Jason Dobbs’s petitions to God. A young woman, whom Bonnie had seen in the company of one of the squad, blew her nose into a tissue.
Turned completely around, Bonnie found herself staring into the open eyes of Byron Hickm
an. He shook his head at her reproachfully, as if she might be a five-year-old who’d been caught opening a Christmas present a day early.
That’s hardly fair, Byron. Your eyes are open just as much as mine.
The next moment, those same eyes opened considerably wider. He was staring past her toward the front of the assembly, to the coffin and Jason Dobbs. A woman screamed. Bonnie turned back around. Red was blossoming alarmingly fast on the right side of Jason’s cream-colored shirt. He fell forward, pitching himself and the lectern onto Leo Quinn’s coffin.
CHAPTER 15
LLOYD WAS THE FIRST TO REACH JASON. SCUTTLING ON all fours alongside the coffin, he grabbed Jason Dobbs by his shirt and unceremoniously yanked him off the overturned lectern. Bonnie winced as the bloody young man landed face-first atop Lloyd.
Bonnie crawled toward the pair, the sounds of screams and pandemonium echoing in her ears. She didn’t begrudge her fellow mourners their reactions. Bonnie herself had fallen to the ground waiting for a second bullet that never came. She was still shaking.
Then there was the business of the blood. In the milliseconds before and during Jason’s fall, Bonnie saw that Jason Dobbs’s right arm was sodden red. Obviously, the shot had entered from the rear and exploded through the front.
“Keep your head down!” Lloyd, supine, was painstakingly dragging Jason Dobbs by his bloody collar.
Bonnie ignored the command. On her knees, she snatched Jason’s suit coat from the overturned lectern and pressed it against the ragged wound. She restrained Lloyd with a gentle touch. “Let him lie still. First and foremost, we need to stop the bleeding.” From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Byron and Deputy Wyatt, pistols drawn, racing past the fleeing crowd to a stand of cottonwoods maybe twenty-five yards distant.
“What about the shooter?” Lloyd sat up, took off his own jacket, and placed it beneath Jason Dobbs’s head.
Bonnie never considered herself brave, but somehow she knew in her bones that this particular piece of mayhem was a singularity. The shooter, wherever he had been, was already gone. Moreover, she could see that Lloyd was beginning to feel the same. “I can’t do anything about that. Let’s just make sure young Pastor Dobbs here doesn’t bleed out.”
Irrational Numbers Page 13
