From there, Mr. Baran moved on to basketball, soccer, karate, hockey, and then T-ball. Every sport reminded Connor of something else, and that something else led to another detour until Connor ended up standing stock-still, babbling whatever free-form, superhero-laden story lines came into his addled brain. Mr. Baran could never siphon off Connor’s boundless physical energy because he could never get the boy to concentrate on chasing a ball or running or anything else for that matter.
Exasperated, Mr. Baran told the Judge, “That kid’s brain is like confetti. It’s all over the place. I can’t get him to focus.”
The Judge cleared her throat and pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose—her signal that she’d heard all she needed and was ready to render a decision. Joe Baran stopped pacing and looked expectantly at his wife. “It sounds like the boy does have a focus, a very intense focus.” The Judge’s voice was as mellifluous as her husband’s was gravelly.
Mr. Baran frowned. “I just told you, he can’t concentrate on any game for more than—”
The Judge smiled. “I didn’t say he focuses on your sports, only that he has a clear, consistent focus.”
Mr. Baran took a deep breath and blew it out hard, making his lips flutter. The Judge was doing her cryptic Yoda thing again. “Ella, I don’t know where you’re going with this, but that boy—”
The Judge interrupted, with a slight edge to her tone, “Permission to treat the witness as hostile?”
Mr. Baran snapped his shorts’ elastic waistband against his washboard abs and grumbled, “Permission granted.”
The Judge perked up, straightening in her seat. “You say that when you tried to teach Connor tennis, he ended up spending half the lesson talking about Batman and the Joker, is that correct?”
Mr. Baran nodded, then—realizing the imaginary stenographer could not hear a nod—he said, “Correct.”
“And when you tried to teach him basketball, he said the smack of the ball against the pavement reminded him of the sounds that Spider-Man makes when he hits bad guys, is that right?”
“Yes,” answered Mr. Baran.
“And your swing-dance lesson made the boy think of Captain America’s dance with Agent Carter, is that also right?” asked the Judge.
“Yes.”
“So virtually every lesson you’ve had with Connor has been derailed by talk of superheroes, correct?”
Mr. Baran said hesitantly, “Yyy-yes.”
“So, would it be fair to say, based on weeks of lessons, that Connor is in fact very focused on the subject of superheroes?”
“Yeah, but how does that help me get him moving?” Mr. Baran’s impatience mounted.
The Judge grinned. “Darling, if you want the boy to concentrate, don’t make the lesson about sports. Make it about superheroes.”
Mr. Baran nodded, mentally sprinting—as he often did—from skepticism to total acceptance of his wife’s advice. A lesser man might have been intimidated by such a brilliant wife. But Mr. Baran was smart enough to be grateful for her. He spent the rest of the evening on the internet, studying superheroes and their backstories.
The next morning, Mr. Baran did not turn around immediately when Connor greeted him on the soccer field. Instead, he stood looking off into the distance, his hands planted on hips in the classic superhero stance. Connor asked, “What’s the game today, Mr. Baran?”
Mr. Baran looked down at the boy, deadpanning, “This is no game. This is life and death. Today, you’re not first grader Connor Bellman. Today, you . . . are . . . Spider-Man.” Mr. Baran unfurled the Spider-Man T-shirt he’d had balled up in his fist, and Connor’s face lit up. Mr. Baran put the shirt on over Connor’s head, and the suddenly serious Connor gazed out across the field, mimicking Mr. Baran’s pompous stance.
Connor asked, “What’s my mission?”
“The Green Goblin has captured someone. He’s holding her hostage somewhere. And you’re the only one who can find her. Are you up to the challenge?”
Connor flared his nostrils, his blue eyes full of determination. “I was born for challenges like this.”
“But wait, Spidey. This isn’t just any ordinary citizen. The Goblin has taken your aunt May.”
“Aunt May?!” asked Connor.
Mr. Baran nodded gravely.
Connor steeled himself. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”
“You see those cones out there on the field?” Mr. Baran gestured to the three cones he’d positioned at the far corners of the soccer field. “The Green Goblin has left a message under one of them. If you want to save your aunt, you’ll have to get that message quick.” Mr. Baran remembered to work in more pregnant pauses. “Before . . . time . . . runs out. Go now!”
Connor ran across the field with surprising speed. He upended the first cone, found nothing, then sprinted to the other end of the field. Still nothing. Then he ran across the field again to the last cone, reached under it, and retrieved a piece of paper. He peered at it, then ran back to Mr. Baran.
Connor thrust the paper at Mr. Baran, saying, “It—doesn’t—make—any—sense.” The boy’s pauses were not theatrics. He was out of breath from running.
Mr. Baran peered at the paper, giving Connor just enough time to get his wind back. The paper said, “How high can you climb, web crawler?” Mr. Baran asked Connor, “What’s the highest place on the playground?”
Connor whirled and pointed to the jungle gym.
Mr. Baran said, “Quick, Spidey. There may not be much time left.”
Connor ran back across the field and over to the jungle gym. Mr. Baran ran alongside him, egging him on all the way. Connor climbed the jungle gym and began searching for someone—anyone—to rescue. Connor said, “Nobody’s here.”
But then, they heard it, as if on cue. And of course, it was on cue. A whimper came from the back part of the jungle gym, the long yellow plastic tube that joined the lower platform to the monkey bar platform. Diane called out feebly, “Is that you, Peter? Please come save me! I’m soooooo frightened!”
Mr. Baran smiled down at his sneakers, trying not to laugh.
Connor answered, “I’ll save you, Aunt May!” He ran back to help “feeble” Aunt May out of the yellow tunnel. Meanwhile, Mr. Baran ran over to a bubble machine on the side of the blacktop and switched it on.
Diane emerged wearing a shawl that she’d tied loosely around her wrists. “Oh, thank you, Spider-Man. You’ve saaaaaaved me. I—” Diane stopped short when she caught sight of the bubbles now floating over the blacktop.
Connor said, “Bubbles! Cool!”
Diane looked at them doubtfully. “Those don’t look like innocent bubbles to me.”
From the sidelines, Mr. Baran said, “You’re right, Aunt May. They’re evil bubbles. Harmless to superheroes, but deadly to their beloved old aunties.”
Diane squealed, “Oh my!”
Mr. Baran told Diane, “The only way you’ll make it through is if Spider-Man cuts a path for you. But he’ll have to kick and punch as many of the bubbles as he can . . . or you’ll never make it.”
Connor stepped forward, jutting out his chin. “Time to burst some bubbles.”
For the next ten minutes, Diane cowered behind Connor as he flailed at bubbles. Connor kicked, punched, and high-jumped to destroy as many as he could, accompanying his moves with cries of “Take that!” and “You want some too?”
Whenever the action slowed down, Diane would squeal, “There’s another one!” or “Oh, my heart!”
By the time the pair made it across the blacktop, Connor was covered in sweat, and the first bell had rung. Diane thanked Spider-Man profusely, abandoned her hunched old lady stance, and jogged over to the front office.
Mr. Baran pulled the now-damp Spider-Man T-shirt off Connor and told the boy to run to class. Connor ran, but then stopped and turned back. “Thanks, Mr. Baran. That was the most awesomest gym class ever. Can we do it again tomorrow?”
Mr. Baran shook his head. “No, tomorrow, we do the Flash.�
��
Connor’s eyes widened and he said in hushed tones, “I love the Flash.”
“But only if you behave for Mrs. Pacer. You got that?”
Connor nodded eagerly, then turned and ran, yelling over his shoulder, “I can’t be late!”
25
STRAGGLERS’ THANKSGIVING
Maggie hacked away at the cucumbers on her counter as if the vegetables had offended her personally. She hissed, “I can’t believe you invited Jeannie. You’ve ruined everything.”
Maddeningly unrepentant, Diane swirled her wineglass, sending a red droplet down onto her Pilgrim costume’s formerly pristine white collar. “I told you—I didn’t know Danny was gonna be here. You said he works all the time, jetting off to San Fran and whatnot.”
Maggie whispered back, “I’ve been sleeping with him for weeks. Of course he’s here for Thanksgiving.”
“Don’t ‘of course’ me. There’s nothing logical about your rules with this guy. You won’t drive to school together, won’t eat at the same lunch table, won’t even shake hands in public. You act like you’ve got a restraining order.”
Maggie shot a meaningful glance at the kitchen door. She whisper-scolded, “Please keep your voice down.” Diane rolled her eyes. Maggie went on, “Look, just because I don’t make out with Daniel against a locker doesn’t mean we’re not serious. I have to be discreet at school so the Jeannies of the world won’t blab about us. But my home is a different story. This was supposed to be a quiet dinner—just you and me and . . .”
“And twenty neighbors,” smirked Diane.
Maggie threw up her hands. “Yeah, fine. And twenty neighbors, neighbors who have zero connection to the school. Most of the people out there are over seventy. They don’t care about my love life. They’re too busy trying to remember where they left their car keys.” This was true. The Eldridge Court “Stragglers’ Thanksgiving” had started years ago as a mixer for all the cul-de-sac’s residents, young and old, but the event’s demographics had shifted. Now the yearly dinner on the blacktop looked like a cookout at a nursing home. It was the highlight of the social season for lonely seniors whose children lived too far away. And Maggie—as a good-hearted busybody—had taken on the task of organizing the whole shebang, with Diane’s assistance. The two women wore Pilgrim costumes to make the event more festive and mark themselves as the people in charge / waitresses. Though theoretically a potluck, Maggie did most of the cooking, so guests marched in and out of her house all afternoon, fetching side dishes and whatnot—hence, Maggie’s frantic whispering.
Diane opened her mouth to answer Maggie, but her eloquence was cut short by her father’s entrance. Lars walked jauntily—or as jauntily as a seventy-four-year-old could while wheeling an oxygen tank behind him—into the kitchen. Eschewing his usual uniform of bathrobe and pajamas, Lars was dapper in khakis and a blue button-down shirt that set off his gray eyes. His silver hair was combed neatly so that he looked like a grandfather from an L.L.Bean catalog. Maggie was glad to see him. Diane had been fretting about Lars’s increasingly hermit-like behavior. Now Lars said, “Hello, beauty queens. Maggie, can I trouble you for another glass of wine? Your Mrs. Pacer is one thirsty gal.”
Lars held out Jeannie’s empty glass, and Maggie refilled it. Smiling, she asked, “Are you trying to get Jeannie drunk?”
“Lord, no! I’m trying to get her quiet. That woman has loads of opinions, and she’s giving ’em out for free. Why’d you invite her?”
Maggie said pointedly, “Ask your daughter.”
“Oh, c’mon,” said Diane. “Jeannie’s not that bad. Besides, I figured this little hoedown would clear the air between her and Maggie.”
Lars frowned. “Pacer’s been fighting with our Maggie?” Lars had grown overly protective of Maggie since her divorce from Richard. Despite his decrepitude, he’d offered loudly and repeatedly to “smack the snot” out of him.
Diane said, “No, they’re not fighting. They’re just not quite getting along. Like you said, Jeannie’s opinionated.”
Lars squared his thin shoulders. “Listen, Maggie, if you need any help deflating that windbag, you let me know. Deal?”
Maggie nodded, oddly touched. “Deal.”
Lars exited, and as soon as the kitchen door swung shut behind him, Diane gave a delighted little squeal. “Oooooooh. He likes her. I knew he’d like her.”
Maggie raised an eyebrow. “He called her a windbag.”
“I know.” Diane sighed wistfully. “He used to call my mom a windbag all the time. So sweet.”
Maggie shook her head. Diane’s matchmaking efforts always failed, and this latest attempt was wrecking Maggie’s holiday. Maggie would have to spend the night acting stiff and formal around Danny so Jeannie wouldn’t run back to school and blab to the other teachers. Maggie pursed her lips, plainly irritated.
Diane said, “Okay, I’m sorry I invited her. There.”
Maggie frowned, dissatisfied by Diane’s meager show of contrition. If a person says she’s sorry, she should put her back into it. But there was no time to argue the point. The bell rang, and Maggie ran out to greet—and warn—Danny. He hadn’t responded to any of her frantic texts about Jeannie’s unexpected arrival. Maggie opened the front door, stepped outside, and pulled it shut behind her. All business, she told Danny, “I have to talk to you before you come in.”
Danny leaned down to kiss her cheek, but she shook her head and put a warning hand on his chest. He asked, “Is this part of the Puritan thing?” He gestured at her black-and-white Pilgrim’s costume.
Maggie felt the heat rise to her cheeks. She’d forgotten about her costume. “I know, I look ridiculous, but . . .”
Danny leered. “No, I think it’s sexy. Want to earn a scarlet letter?”
“Keep your Hawthorne in your pants. Jeannie Pacer is here.”
“Who?”
Maggie was stunned that he did not recognize the name. “Uh—Jeannie Pacer—first-grade teacher.” The word “duh” was not stated, but implied.
Danny shrugged, his face a blank.
Maggie pressed on, “Jeannie is that older teacher, the one who gives you those sour looks. She . . .”
Danny shrugged again. “I don’t remember her.”
“How can you not remember someone who glares at you all the time?”
Danny smiled. “Dunno. I guess I tend not to focus on people who don’t like me.” This was the inverse of how Maggie’s brain worked. When Maggie discovered someone didn’t like her, that person got way more airtime in her thoughts. Perplexed, she stood frowning in her bonnet. Danny said, “You look like a pissed-off extra from The Handmaid’s Tale.”
Maggie’s frown dissolved. As with everything she learned about Daniel, she decided almost immediately that this latest insight into his thinking was positive. Daniel’s looks and charm were heavy thumbs on the scale of her smitten judgment. They kissed, and as the kiss deepened, she pulled away. Shaking her head to cow her own hormones, Maggie said, “No. Until Jeannie goes home, you are Mr. Zelinsky.”
Danny objected, “So, we have a purely professional relationship, but you invited me to Thanksgiving? That doesn’t make much sense.”
An advocate for recycling, Maggie practiced what she preached—reusing Diane’s bogus excuse for inviting Mrs. Pacer in the first place. “No, it makes perfect sense. Things are frosty between us—so I invited you to Thanksgiving to clear the air.”
Danny started to quibble with this, but Maggie was soon ushering him into the house, calling out, “Mr. Zelinsky is here!” Introductions were made, along with promises of dinner in just a few minutes. Maggie scurried back into the kitchen, and soon she and Diane began carrying side dishes and rolls out to the cul-de-sac. Elderly neighbors milled toward their seats at folding tables covered in white linen, and Danny chatted them up like a solicitous host. Maggie noticed this, and her inner schoolgirl swooned, “That’s soooo handsome of him!”
Goofily happy, she retreated to her kitchen to pull t
he turkey out of the oven. The great bird had roasted to golden-brown perfection. She set it on the stove top to cool. While admiring it, Maggie felt like the star of her own cooking show. One of her neighbors had cooked another turkey, so there’d be plenty for all. Thoroughly pleased with herself, she floated back outside. All the guests had seated themselves—all but her ex-husband, Richard.
Richard stood next to the center table, an oversize, holiday-themed bouquet of orange roses and yellow daisies in his hands. An ancient neighbor, near-deaf Gus Filby, was shoutily greeting him. Richard answered politely but kept his eyes fixed on Maggie. Gus called out, “Hey, Maggie, your boy’s back! Bought flowers! Looks like he’s sorry!”
Gus’s long-suffering wife hissed, “Gus. You are so insensitive.”
The party fell silent as everyone stared. Maggie stood paralyzed, mute with panic. Richard came forward, handed her the bouquet, and kissed her numb cheek. He murmured in her ear, “Maggie, can I have a minute?”
Diane lurched to the rescue, telling everyone, “Nothing to see here! Just a conscious uncoupling between two exes!” Diane strode over to Maggie. In one fluid motion, she blocked Richard and linked arms with semicatatonic Maggie. “Now, who’s ready for some turkey?!” The crowd made enthusiastic noises, and Diane led Maggie back into the house, Richard on their heels.
Closing the door, Diane took Maggie by the shoulders: “Breathe, Maggie.”
Maggie sputtered, “W-what is he doing here?!” She asked Diane, “Did you invite him too?”
“Lord, no! I’m gorgeous, not stupid,” said Diane.
Maggie turned toward Richard. “What are you doing here?”
The Very Principled Maggie Mayfield Page 15
