“I’m sure you’re all aware, by now, of the tragedy that occurred last night. Everyone’s talking about it. I imagine some of your other teachers have spoken to you about the situation.”
Pressing his lips together, he shook his head. He frowned at the empty desk.
“Jessica was my student. She was your classmate. Obviously, her death is a shock to all of us, and we’ll miss her.”
He looked up from her desk. His eyes briefly met Lane’s, then turned away and roamed from face to face.
“I don’t have any magic words,” he said, “to ease the grief we share. But I’m a teacher, and there is a lesson to be learned from this. The Bible tells us that, in the midst of life, we are in death. But the reverse is also true. ‘In the midst of death, we are in life.’ We need to keep that in mind. Life is a precious gift. We should never forget that, or take it for granted. We should savor every moment that is given to us.”
Lane felt her throat tighten.
“We have the present, and that’s all we can ever really be sure of. So many of us and I’m as guilty as anyone — allow our present moments to pass us by unnoticed, unappreciated, while we occupy our minds with other thoughts. Certainly, we need to work and plan to help things turn out right in our futures. But we even lose our futures if we spend them worrying about what may come next. When the nature arrives for us, it comes as single moments, present moments.
“So if we’re to learn anything from what happened to Jessica and her parents, it’s this — we need to live life now. We need to notice each second, and fill ourselves with its wonders and mysteries... and its joys.”
His final words brought tears to Lane’s eyes. She blinked and wiped them away.
He’s so right, she thought. Each moment is precious.
Thismoment is precious, sitting here, listening to Mr. Kramer. She realized that she had never felt closer to him, not even yesterday when he was touching her.
“I want to share a poem with you. Then we’ll get on with class.” He lifted the slim volume off his leg and opened it to a bookmark. “This is by Allan Edward DePrey. It’s called, ‘Grave Musings.’ He lowered his eyes and began to read, his clear voice low and solemn:
If I should sleep, this moonless night,
Nevermore to rise,
I’ll keep with me the shimmering light
Of the love in my lady’s eyes.
I’ll keep the touch of dewy grass
Wet on my feet at dawn,
And how it smells, so sweet, alas!
After the rain is gone.
I’ll keep the flavors I have known
Of bread and meat and wine,
And cherish them when I am bone
Because they taste so fine.
A few of the kids tittered. Mr. Kramer looked up from the page. “If you’d rather not hear the rest of this...”
“Go on,” Lane urged him.
“Maybe I shouldskip over some of this,” he said. “It gets pretty long.” He took a few moments to search the poem, apparently trying to decide where he should resume reading. Then, he continued:
Into the grave with me I’ll take
Each sight and smell and sound
And pray that they will not forsake
Me in my sleep beneath the ground —
If memory, in truth, survives,
The reaper’s savage knife
I’ll keep with me my golden prize
Of what I loved in life.
But if an empty darkness waits
Bereft of all I’ve known,
I shall not curse the cruel Fates
That cast me there alone.
For I was given years to taste,
To smell, see, feel and love.
Though doomed, at last, to charnal waste,
I had my glorious days above.
Someone in the room said, “Yuck,” and a few kids laughed.
“I admit the poem has its grim aspects, but I think DePrey’s point is well taken — ‘I had my glorious days above.’ We have to always keep ourselves aware of those glories.” He shut the book and set it aside. “Okay,” he said, nodding. “Let’s take out our textbooks and pick up where we left off yesterday.”
When the bell rang, Lane stayed in her seat. The other students filed out. She remembered how, yesterday, Jessica had stopped in the doorway and scowled at her.
The girl should’ve been enjoying the time she had left, Lane thought. Not giving me crap.
Hell, she didn’t know.
None of us knows. Any one of us could die tonight.
Instead of striking fear into Lane, the thought reminded her again of Mr. Kramer’s advice to savor every moment.
She watched him step behind the table and load his briefcase. He met her eyes. He smiled. “How are you feeling today?” he asked.
“A lot better, thanks.”
“Bruised up?”
“Yeah, some.”
“Well, you’ll have to stay out of bikinis for a while.”
Lane felt the warmth of a blush spread over her skin. “Good thing summer’s over,” she said.
“I promise not to make you stand on any more stools.”
“Do you have some papers or something for me?”
“So happens, I do.” He walked to his desk and began searching through stacks of file folders. “Ah, here we go. Spelling sentences.” He came toward her with the folder and a red pen. “Make sure you check for everything: spelling, punctuation, grammar. Five points off for each mistake.”
“Right.”
Stopping in front of Lane, he set the folder and pen on her desktop. “If you have any questions...”
“I really liked what you said at the start of class,” Lane told him. She felt daring and embarrassed. “About appreciating each moment. It was very...” She shrugged, and felt her blouse brush softly against her nipples. “I don’t know. It made me feel a lot better about things.”
He looked down at her, sorrow in his eyes. “I’m glad if it helped. This was a terrible thing. I guess everyone’s pretty shocked about it. I know I am, even though Jessica was a bit of a problem in class. Were you friends?”
A corner of Lane’s mouth curled up. “Hardly. But even still... When something like that happens...”
“I know. It makes us aware of our mortality. If it can happen to her, why not to us?”
“Yeah. I was feeling... little. Like everything in my life is so petty and trivial compared to the big stuff.”
“You shouldn’t.” His hand reached out and stroked Lane’s hair. “You shouldn’t feel that way at all.”
“I guess I know that now,” she said, feeling slightly breathless as his hand slipped down to her shoulder. It moved from side to side, sliding the blouse against her skin. “Each moment is something... to be treasured.”
“Exactly.”
Did he notice there was no strap on her shoulder?
“Nothing is trivial,” he said. “Everything counts.”
“Yeah.”
He rubbed the side of her neck. “You’re one very tense young lady,” he said. “Your neck muscles feel like rock.”
“Yeah. Hasn’t been exactly a banner day.”
“Same here.”
The gently kneading hand sent warmth flowing through her body.
“Does that feel better?”
She nodded. Her head felt heavy.
Mr. Kramer stepped behind her. She heard a desk squeak against the floor as it was pushed out of his way. Then both his hands were on her shoulders, rubbing, squeezing.
“How’s that?”
“Wonderful,” she murmured. His fingers moved up and down. The front of Lane’s blouse moved with them, caressing her breasts. She took a shaky breath. She lowered her head.
He swept her hair out of the way so it hung past the side of her face. Then he rubbed her neck just below her ears. She felt drowsy, felt as if he were squeezing warm fluid into her head. She shut her eyes. She sighed.
“Noth
ing like a neck rub to make things right,” he said. His hands moved lower, his gently plying fingers easing down inside the collar of her blouse. They were warm and smooth on her bare skin.
She wondered how she could feel so lazy and so excited, both at the same time.
She felt powerless to move.
Her head wobbled as he massaged her.
The top button of her blouse popped open. Lane knew where his hands were. He hadn’t unfastened the button. It had simply pulled out of its hole because of the way he was spreading her collar.
She wished he haddone it.
She imagined him unbuttoning her blouse, spreading it open, taking her breasts in his big, powerful hands.
“I’d better call it quits,” he said, “before you get too relaxed to mark the papers for me.”
“Just a little more?” she asked, her voice a quiet murmur.
His hands went away from under her collar. They squeezed her shoulders. “Some other time. Hey, someone might come in and get the wrong idea.”
She supposed that was true. She couldn’t expect Mr. Kramer to risk his job for the sake of giving her an innocent massage.
He patted her shoulder in a coachlike fashion. “Now let’s see you grade those papers.” He stepped out from behind her and started walking toward his desk.
“Mr. Kramer?”
Looking around at Lane, he raised his eyebrows. His face was slightly red.
“I feel a whole lot better now. Thanks.”
“Glad to help.” He continued to his desk, sat down, and started shuffling through papers.
Lane began to check the spelling sentences. Her neck and shoulders seemed to keep the warmth of his touch. She felt as if she were glowing inside.
She realized that the neck of her blouse was still spread apart. Hunched over the desk, she looked down at herself. Below where the button had pulled open, she saw the shadowy side of her right breast.
Had Mr. Kramer noticed?
Probably not, she decided. After all, he’d been standing behind her.
She didn’t fasten the button or straighten her blouse, and she remained pleasantly aware of the small gap as she went on correcting the papers.
She hoped Mr. Kramer was aware of it, too.
Each time she looked up, however, she found him bent over his papers.
Finally he stood up and carried a folder to the far side of the table. He slipped it into his briefcase. “How’s it going, Lane?”
“I’ve just got a few left.”
“Well, I’m afraid it’s time to close up shop. I’ll finish them off tonight.”
“Fine.” She arranged them neatly inside the folder, eased out of her seat and approached the table. Stretching across its top, she handed the folder and pen to her teacher.
As he took them, she saw his eyes lower briefly. A glimpse, then he was looking at her face. “I sure appreciate the help, Lane.”
“Glad to be of service.” Bending over, she placed her hands on the table and stared at the small book from which he’d read “Grave Musings.”
She could feel the way her blouse was hanging, its front not touching her chest at all. I can’t believe I’m doing this, she thought. Why don’t I just rip it open instead of being so tricky?
She felt as if she were blushing from head to toe. But she couldn’t bring herself to straighten up.
She opened the book’s cover and flipped to the title page. “Collected Poetry of Allan Edward DePrey,” she said. “I’ve never heard of him,” she added, keeping her eyes on the book.
“Few people have,” Mr. Kramer said. “He’s a rather obscure poet from upstate New York, lived around the turn of the century. I happened onto that little volume in a secondhand store when I was a teenager. For a while there he was my favorite poet.”
“Is everything in here as grim as ‘Grave Musings’?” Lane asked, turning to the table of contents. Though she glanced at the listed titles, none of them registered.
“Oh, that’s one of his more pleasant pieces. He had quite a morbid turn of mind.”
“I wonder if Dad’s ever heard of him. Sounds like DePrey might be right up his alley.”
“I tell you what. Why don’t you take the book home tonight, let him have a look at it.”
“Could I?” she asked, finally looking up at him.
He smiled. He had tiny speckles of sweat in the whiskers above his lip. “Just don’t lose it.”
“Oh, I won’t.” She lifted the book and stood up straight, feeling her blouse pull against her breasts. “Maybe I’ll even read it myself, since he’s a favorite of yours.”
He laughed softly. “Hope you enjoy it. Now, you’d better run along. Thanks again for your invaluable services.”
“My pleasure,” Lane said.
She returned to her desk, gathered her books and binder, and headed for the door. Stopping with one foot in the hallway, she looked around. Mr. Kramer was staring at her. “Hey,” she said, “thanks again for the neck rub.”
“My pleasure,” he said.
“Bye.”
“Have a nice evening, Lane.”
My evening, she thought, will be a drag after this. But she said “Thanks” before leaving the room.
In the corridor she fastened her button.
Twenty-nine
The alarm clock startled Larry awake Friday morning. As Jean stopped the noise, he rolled over and pressed his face into the warmth of his pillow. The bed shook slightly Jean getting up. He heard her quiet footsteps on the carpet, then the door latching shut.
Alone in the room, he wondered whether he’d dreamed of Bonnie. If so, he couldn’t remember it. He felt a little disappointed. Mostly though, he felt relieved.
His stomach tightened as he remembered last night’s decision.
After supper Pete had phoned.
“Hey, man,” he’d said, “what’s going on? You freezing me out, or something?”
“No, uh-uh. I’ve just been busy, that’s all.”
“Yeah, well, you could’ve let me know what’s going on. You still working on our book?”
“It’s coming along fine.”
“Can you talk? Anyone in earshot?”
“No. Okay here.” He’d grabbed the extension in their bedroom. Jean, he knew, was in the kitchen cleaning the dishes. Lane was in the living room, reading the poetry book her English teacher had loaned her.
“I’ve got a little privacy myself,” Pete told him. “Barb’s taking one of her marathon baths. So look, I think we’ve gotta talk about this thing. You were going like gangbusters over the weekend. Are you all caught up, or what?”
“Pretty much.”
“Well, what’s next? Seems to me like we oughta get this show on the road. I’ve been shopping. I got a good deal on a VHS camcorder. Set me back about thirteen hundred, but I figure it’ll be worth it so we can make a video when we pull the stake. Which we oughta do. How about tomorrow night?”
“Tomorrow night?” Larry hadn’t been able to keep the shock out of his voice.
“Why not? That’s what this is all about, right? Why delay it?”
“There are some loose ends.”
Silence. When Pete spoke again, the pushy edge was gone from his voice. He sounded excited. “What do you mean? What kind of loose ends?”
“I know who she is. I think I know who killed her.”
“Holy shit.”
“It’s a long story. Look, why don’t we meet tomorrow during your lunch break. I’ll tell Jean I’m going to the library. I’ll tell you everything then. How about Buster’s?”
They agreed to meet there at noon.
Now, lying in bed, Larry wondered if he should go through with it. He’d made the suggestion, mostly, as a delaying tactic. Pete had taken him off guard, demanding that they pull the stake tonight.
Larry wasn’t ready for that. He wasn’t sure he would everbe ready for that.
What do you want to do, he asked himself, keep her up there forever?
The stake’s the mystery, he thought. Once we take it out, Bonnie won’t... she’ll just be a corpse.
She isjust a corpse.
No. As long as she has the stake in her heart, she’s more than that.
What, a vampire?
Uriah thought so.
And Larry knew he was clutching a faint hope that she mightbe one. It was a ridiculous hope, of course. But pulling the stake would take it away. Bonnie would just lie there, a dried-up cadaver with a hole in her chest, and it would be over.
He would lose her.
He wouldn’t even be able to pretend she might come back to life, fresh and young and beautiful — and his.
So you’re stalling Pete, he thought, trying to keep your stupid dream for at least a while longest.
What’s the harm in that?
Larry climbed out of bed. He stepped to the window and gazed out across his sunlit yard at the garage. He imagined Bonnie in the dark of the attic, lying in her casket, the end of the stake jutting upright from her chest. He seemed to hear her voice, as clear and sweet as it had come to him in yesterday’s dream. Free me. Pull the stake, and I’ll come to you. I love you, Larry. I’ll he yours forever.
Sure, he thought. Fat chance.
* * *
Shortly before noon he told Jean that he needed to check on a few things at the library. He took a large manila envelope with him when he left the house. He drove to Buster’s, a diner near the south end of town, not far from Pete’s shop.
He found Pete waiting in a booth at the rear, and scooted in across the table from him.
“Long time no see, compadre.”
“Yeah, sorry about that.”
A waitress came, set places for them, and asked if they would like to see menus.
Pete shook his head. “I’ll have the Buster-Burger with the works, chili fries and iced tea.”
“Guess I’ll have the same,” Larry said.
“Making it easy on me, huh, fellas?” she said. Then she went away.
“So what’s the story?” Pete asked.
Larry dug into his pants pocket, took out Bonnie’s ring and set it down in front of Pete. “It’s hers.”
The Stake Page 25
