Catering to Nobody (Goldy Schulz Series)

by Diane Mott Davidson

“I’ve had this … I went out,” I said, as if my date had been with a mass murderer. Marla looked noncommittal.

  “The last thing I want to do is date,” I said. “That’s not even the word they use anymore, is it? You go out for dinner and then have casual sex, right? Well, forget that. Except for asking Pomeroy to eat pizza with us, I haven’t looked for male companionship at all. And Pom ignored me.”

  “Hmm,” said Marla, in her knowing way. “Part of what I’ve heard about him is that he is, or was, very hung up on his ex-wife.”

  “Anyway,” I said, “about going out. I did want a relationship. I just didn’t want the potential hassle.” I drained my sherry glass. “And then along comes this cop. Schulz. My business is a wreck, my eleven-year-old is acting strange, the man I used to love is marrying a geometry teacher, and I’m a prime suspect in attempted murder. This cop comes along, and … he likes me! Sheesh!”

  Marla said, “You’re not that repulsive, silly.”

  “Fine,” I replied. “But I want to be honest, right? I mean, I was dead set against acting nice and sweet and this-could-be-the-start-of-something-great, just to get my business reopened. He’s my age, so maybe he doesn’t believe in the casual-sex lifestyle. Maybe he doesn’t even use the word lifestyle.”

  I stopped to pour myself some coffee.

  Marla said, “Do men brood and worry about all these possibilities the way we do? I doubt it. Anyway, what’s the bottom line here?”

  “I told you,” I said. “I’m just afraid that I’m not being very nice to him because I don’t know how I feel about him. I wanted Pomeroy, but maybe it was because I knew he would give me the Ice routine. No risk there. But Schulz likes me, he likes Arch, he likes—loves—food. All good.”

  Marla said, “Pomeroy is unhappily divorced. He lives out in the middle of nowhere. I think he’s got a screw loose. Negative lifestyle, babe.”

  “That’s just great,” I said. “Maybe during the three months they worked together, he gave Arch the go-ahead on being weird.”

  “Look,” said Marla, “don’t worry about Arch. Don’t worry about Pomeroy. If Schulz likes you, go with it. I mean I know we’re not supposed to give advice, but this is getting kind of long and involved, my dear, when you haven’t even had the second date. You—”

  Before she could finish, the lights went out.

  “What the hell,” I muttered.

  “Bring out the candles,” Marla demanded. “We’re talking about men anyway, might as well make it romantic.”

  “Hold on. They’re back here in the china cabinet,” I said, while grunting along on all fours. I felt inside the cabinet, lit a match, and then three candles. A breath of fall air from an open window made shadows move across the walls.

  “Hey,” she said, “I’m looking at your next door neighbor’s house and across the street, and everyone still has power. Looks like you’re the unlucky one. I’ll take one of these candles out to the kitchen and call Public Service.”

  “Wait,” I said. My own voice trailed off as I listened for another one.

  “Mom,” came Arch’s voice from nearby. “Mom?”

  “Arch?” I called. “Do you know what’s going on?”

  “The thing didn’t work!” Arch’s voice exploded behind me. He had come into the dining room, but he was hard to see with the black face and the waving light from the candle.

  “So what is this,” I demanded, “some terrorist routine?”

  “Of course not!” he said. “I was trying to hook up an alarm system to our house. One of the stupid fuses blew.”

  “And why is your face black?”

  “That’s part of it. Don’t you see? You have to be secretive about these things if you really don’t want people to know. You get in disguise, then you wire the place up. Don’t you even care about living in a safer place?”

  “Of course I do,” I began, “but—”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he interrupted, and I felt bad for being cross at him. “Todd knows how to replace a fuse. I’ll call him and he’ll be right over.” He took a candle so he could see the phone and disappeared as quickly as he’d come in.

  “Good Lord,” said Marla. “Maybe we should be seeking a wee bit of professional help.”

  I didn’t say anything because I couldn’t think of anything.

  “Oh well,” said Marla, “where were we?”

  I found my voice. “You were telling me, Marla, that I shouldn’t be worried about Arch.”

  CHAPTER 14

  The next day was Friday. With the early conference with Arch’s teacher, one house to clean, and a driving lesson with Patty Sue and Pom, the day looked as unpromising as the ominous morning clouds spilling like oatmeal over the hills of the Wildlife Preserve. A frost had turned the streets to glass. Foreseeing slippery-road delays meant leaving early, just after I served Arch his French toast.

  He talked to me briefly when the soaked bread was beginning to sizzle. I pointed out to him that I was able to cook with electric power thanks to Todd’s deftness with fuses. Arch told me he had bought the alarm system from a radio store with his own money, and he was going to return it.

  “But what I can’t understand,” I said when he was pushing the last bite through a puddle of syrup, “is why you thought we needed it.”

  “Oh Mom, you’re giving me such a hard time,” he said with his mouth full. He ran off to brush his teeth and gather his things, then came back to announce, “Other people have them, you know. It’s not a crime.” Then he rushed out to meet Todd before the bus arrived.

  Ten minutes later the van skidded and spewed gravel at the entrance to the teachers’ parking lot. The vehicle seemed to be as apprehensive as I was at the prospect of a teacher conference.

  “Miss Heath?” I asked as I pushed through the sixth-grade door festooned with construction-paper pumpkins. Bats and spiders made from black paper and pipe cleaners hung from the ceiling of the classroom: late October in an elementary school.

  Globular blue eyes set in a pale triangular face caught me from across the room, and I walked obediently through the maze of pupils’ desks toward the teacher’s table. Janet Heath, fettuccine in the aerobics class, was now comfortably ensconced in a billowing black Indian-embroidered tent dress. With her pale blond hair tied up in a ballerina topknot, she had the aspect of a kindly but powerful witch.

  We had agreed to a 7:45 meeting to have enough time for a long chat before the students came in. Fixing Arch’s breakfast but missing my own now brought on a wave of queasiness.

  When I had finished winding my way through undersized chairs and ducking dangling spiders, I remembered something else. Miss Heath was the one who had found Laura Smiley that fateful Monday afternoon. How she had reacted to finding the body I could not imagine, and did not want to on an empty stomach.

  I said, “You wanted to see me.”

  She gave me an indulgent smile. “Yes.”

  There was a pause.

  “I’m Archibald’s mother.”

  She seemed to be taking me in.

  Finally she said, “I know.”

  “Well,” I said, casting my eyes around hopefully for a thermos or other sign of coffee, “here I am.”

  “I’ve been worried about the way Arch has been acting in class,” she said. “Some of his behavior has been very odd.”

  I let out an involuntary groan, and Janet Heath gave me a sympathetic look.

  She said, “Let’s get something hot to drink in the teachers’ lounge. They’re finishing up a meeting in there, so we can come back here to talk. We’ll have plenty of time.”

  When we came to the smoke-filled faculty lounge, Miss Heath waved at the gray cloud with regal hand motions. I let coffee gush into the biggest Styrofoam cup I could find. Miss Heath fixed chamomile leaf tea, which she strained through a little straw basket, a potionlike beverage to match her outfit.

  She took minute sips of her tea as we walked back to the room, then said, “Arch and Laura were
close, weren’t they?”

  “Yes, they were. He used to stay quite a bit after school, just to work on projects, help around the room, so on.”

  “Yes.” More sips of tea. “I have some of the drawings he did for her. They were in with the other things from her desk.”

  I said, “I’d love to see them, if you don’t mind. The drawings, I mean.”

  We reentered the classroom, more like a cave hung with critters, and I followed her back to her desk. She motioned for me to sit while she shuffled through the desk drawers.

  “I’ve made some toffee for the Halloween party,” I said to fill the silence.

  Again the ridged brow greeted me as she stopped her search.

  She said, “Sugarless?”

  “No, afraid not.”

  She brought a manila envelope out of the desk.

  “This is all there was from Ms. Smiley’s, Laura’s, desk, besides a coffee mug. Arch was helping her with a fifth-grade project on small mammals. It’s all in here. I’m sure it’s okay for you to take his work. Just leave the rest—I’ll have to give it to the principal eventually. Arch does have extraordinary artistic talent, although he rarely uses it in this classroom.”

  I drew out drawings of raccoons, mice, prairie dogs, skunks. While I was admiring them Miss Heath got up to open a window. I dumped out the rest of what was in the envelope, a grading book, a sheaf of papers with meeting announcements, a teaching aid called “Science in the Classroom,” odds and ends. The very last was a small wallet.

  I glanced up. Miss Heath was writing Bring Halloween Sheets to Music Class on the board. I opened the wallet.

  It contained some pictures of students, a very old photo of what I assumed to be Laura and her parents while they were still alive, some faces signed with familiar names from the box of letters and the wall of photos in her home, and then a jolt. There was a picture of a very young John Richard Korman accompanied by his parents, the much younger Fritz and pre-red-haired Vonette. Standing beside them was the same girl, the same teenager, whose picture had been in Ms. Smiley’s living room and in Vonette’s desk.

  “What’s that?” asked Miss Heath. She had returned and was again looking for something on her desk.

  “Oh,” I said, “I don’t mean to be prying. It’s just a picture of a family Ms. Smiley and I both know. Knew. I wonder who gave it to her,” I said as I slipped the photo out of its plastic folder and flipped it.

  An immature female hand, the same as the one on the other two photos, had written “In happier times.”

  Angry hot blood flowed into my face, and I was wondering just how well Laura Smiley had known my ex-husband’s family. She had lived in Aspen Meadow, moved to Illinois, then moved back here after leaving Illinois. What her connection had been to them in that state, besides a vague reference to being a nanny, I did not know.

  But questions were beginning to form in my mind. Had the friendship between Laura Smiley and my son been a fluke? Had he truly been so special to her? Had she for some reason sought him out? Or had she resisted becoming friends with him, perhaps because of some unfinished history between herself and the Kormans?

  “Well?” said Miss Heath. “Someone you know?”

  I stared at her, unable to remember what we’d been talking about. I gathered up Arch’s drawings and then slipped the wallet and other papers back into the envelope.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Why don’t we just discuss Arch?”

  Miss Heath smoothed the skirt of her embroidered dress.

  “I am really very worried,” she said, “by the way Arch is acting in class. His behavior indicates some kind of distress.”

  “What kind of behavior?”

  “Well,” she said as she stood and picked up another sheaf of papers, “let’s go over to his desk.”

  My heart dived. Arch, who was fairly neat at home, never had been one to keep an orderly desk. During parent conferences over the past five years I had always felt compelled to sort through the scrunched-up mess of papers, pencils, crayons, mittens, and overdue library books to bring a little order into the chaos. Today was no exception. The innards of his desk were precariously cantilevered out over his seat. Miss Heath was beginning to talk again, so my cleaning compulsion would have to wait a few minutes, anyway.

  “I’ve been concerned about Arch this whole month,” she said. “Of course I know all the children were shocked by the loss of Laura Smiley. Many of them had had her for a teacher. The counselors advised us to have them write about their feelings.”

  She shuffled through a small pile of papers in front of her and handed me one. It was written by one Jane Ross: “I feel sad about Ms. Smiley dying because she was nice to me and she hugged me when my bird died.”

  Another, from Charlie Johnson: “It’s too bad about Ms. Smiley. I feel sad the way I did when my grandmother died. She was old, though.”

  Clarissa Ludmiller had written, “Today is a very unhappy day because of Ms. Smiley dying. She was funny and she always made us laugh. That’s what I will remember about her.”

  Then Miss Heath handed me Arch’s.

  It said, “I can’t write how I feel about my teacher dying.”

  I said, “Hmm.” I knew all about how important it was to get feelings out. But if he wasn’t ready, he wasn’t ready.

  “Then,” Miss Heath went on, “I had them write in their journals, which they hand in from time to time, about someone they absolutely hate. It could even include me.”

  Now she handed me another student’s journal: “The person I hate is my sister. I was so glad when I went to visit my grandparents and she went to camp instead. Grandma bought me a Hershey’s Big Block and I didn’t have to share it.”

  Another journal: “The person I hate is the Iutola Koamainee because he hates Americans.”

  Arch’s was next. He wrote, “The person I hate is my grandfather. Not the one in New Jersey, even though he’s a bit strange. But my other grandfather has no respect for human life.”

  “What?” I said aloud. “Fritz delivers babies, for God’s sake.”

  Miss Heath sipped tea and said, “That was my reaction. But I didn’t ask him about it because the journals, although I see them, are their own reflections. I always tell them that anything goes.” She paused again. “But the most frightening thing to me is the way he’s become so involved in these fantasy role-playing games.”

  I let out a breath. “He is very involved with them,” I said lamely.

  She went on, oblivious, “He often will stay in at recess to work on a game, or become involved when he has free time.” She gestured to the far side of the room, where a fluorescent light was illuminating a large cluster of plants. “He says he’s growing milkwort over there for one of his potions.” Then came the dreaded words. “It’s like an obsession.”

  “I know,” I said. Even the most dim-witted psych major knew that if feelings weren’t dealt with they went underground and after a proper incubation period reemerged as neuroses. But an obsession? With potions?

  Miss Heath said, “I’m worried about just how serious this is. He’s drifted off from his fine school record, and he hangs around with only one friend, Todd Druckman. He’s become very touchy.”

  “He’s always been touchy,” I offered.

  She shook her head.

  “I know he’s sensitive,” she said, “but what I mean is different. In fact what happened last week is what made me think I needed to call you.” Another pause, two sips of tea. “The first month of school Arch impressed me as a generous person. He was always there with a pencil or paper clip or whatever for any classmate. But earlier in the week John Hickles started rummaging around in Arch’s desk. He was looking for an eraser, he said later. Arch, who was tending to the classroom gerbils over there”—she motioned to a cage next to the fluorescent light—“came running over, shrieking about leaving his stuff alone.”

  “That’s not really typical,” I said. “Although he did accuse me of sneaking u
p on him the other night.”

  Miss Heath nodded. She said, “Not dealing with feelings, and now sudden outbursts of temper. What do you think about seeing if the school psychologist will have a talk with him?”

  This was the second time for this particular suggestion in the last twenty-four hours.

  “No,” I said, “please. Not yet. Let me try to talk to him a little bit first.”

  “I really think it’s a good idea. I truly think he needs counseling.”

  “Let me think about it.”

  “Okay, suit yourself,” she said, “but I think you’re making a mistake not to set up something right away.” There was a long pause, during which she again smoothed her skirt. “All right. Well. Thank you for coming. The kids will be here soon.” She got up to cue me that we were done. When I didn’t move, she said, “Ah, I have to finish getting the Friday activities ready.”

  “Please do,” I said in a leaden voice, avoiding her eyes. “But,” I went on, “I just want to sit here and let all this sink in.” I looked down at Arch’s paper-crammed desk. “Maybe I’ll clean out this mess. Then when Arch or somebody else wants an eraser he won’t have to have a temper tantrum.”

  Miss Heath shrugged. Again she said, “Suit yourself.”

  I looked at the clock. Eight-thirty. The students wouldn’t be coming in until quarter to nine. I could finish by then. Arch was always grateful when I cleaned things up for him, although I tried not to do it too much. Parenting seminars beat you over the head—a term they would never use—with the injunction to let the children be responsible for their own mess.

  In any event, I was wondering if there was more to the eraser story than what I’d heard. I pulled the trash can over and sat back down.

  Out came the math papers first. They were stapled in several bundles, with Arch’s wobbly zeros floating across the lines like jellyfish. I smiled, remembering his first-grade habit of chewing his tongue when he wrote the numbers 1 to 100. Then wadded social studies papers cascaded out, on the subject of drugs and avoiding peer pressure. My groping hands pulled out six erasers and a clump of science worksheets on gerbils and their habitats. Pencils, a mitten, multisided dice. Spelling. Book report. More gerbil info.