by Nina Monroe
And then she’d reiterated her promises:
To fight Astrid’s cause every step of the way.
To make gun control the heart of her campaign for US senator.
To put pressure on the investigation until they got to the bottom of who fired that pistol.
So, Priscilla had said yes. Of course she’d go.
“I’ll wake you in good time,” Peter says gently.
He takes her hand, pulls her up the stairs, holding her weight, guides her into their old bedroom and sits her on the edge of the bed. He takes off her shoes and pulls off her socks. Then he lies her back on the bed and eases off her jeans.
Closing her eyes, she lets her limbs sink into the bed.
She feels his fingers brushing her skin as he covers her body with a sheet.
And then, before he steps away from her, he leans over and kisses her forehead.
“Peter …” she calls after him.
He stops.
She blinks open her eyes and musters all the strength she has to pull her body up against the pillows.
She pats the space beside her. “Will you stay with me for a bit?”
She feels his hesitation. She shouldn’t have asked him. But she doesn’t want to be alone right now.
He’s at the door already and when he turns away from her she’s sure he’s going to leave. But instead, he closes the door and walks back to the bed.
He takes off his shoes and lies down.
The weight of his body presses down on the mattress beside her. How many times, since February, has she reached over in the middle of the night, expecting him to be there, only to find empty space?
He moves toward her and as she turns onto her side, he slips his arm under her body and pulls her back against him.
He kisses her shoulder.
She’d promised herself that she’d show him that she didn’t need him any more. That she’d moved on, like he had. But they both knew that would be a lie.
So she lets her body rest into his.
And it feels right. Being here with him. More right than anything has felt in a long time.
“Thank you, Peter,” she whispers. “For being here. Not just for Astrid … but for me too.”
He pulls her in closer and kisses her neck, his breath warm against her skin.
And then she closes her eyes and lets go.
Public Radio: New Hampshire FM
Close-Up
Reporter: Nature or nurture. The age-old debate. What really influences how our kids turn out? Is it how they’re parented? Where they grow up? Where they go to school? Or is it just down to genes? Is there nothing we can really do to affect what kind of people our children become?
This is the question that many of us are asking in the aftermath of the Playdate Shooting which took place on Sunday afternoon in Middlebrook. Today, we take a closer look at how different modes of parenting—and schooling—determine the behavioral outcome of pre-teens. I have with me the principal of Brook Middle School, Mrs. Sophie Markham. Most of the children involved in the shooting attend Mrs. Markham’s school. Good afternoon, Principal, and thank you for taking the time to talk to us.
Markham: Of course.
Reporter: I imagine you’ve seen the photograph—the one taken by that freelance reporter.
Markham: Yes. It’s an unfortunate picture.
Reporter: For those listeners who might not be aware, the picture of a young boy who, we suspect, attended the party at which the shooting took place, has become an internet sensation. The boy in question is sitting in a tree, fingers curled into the shape of a handgun.
Markham: Children like to play-act like this. It’s not unusual behavior—
Reporter: Sure. But if he was one of the kids who was at the party on Saturday, he’s part of a criminal investigation: shouldn’t he know better than to be messing around—to be play-acting?
Markham: I don’t believe we know the identity of the boy in the picture.
Reporter: But still, a child his age would know what’s going on. It seems like a strange way to behave at this time, don’t you think?
Markham: Kids behave unpredictably. And they like to show off. Sometimes, they enjoy getting negative attention. I’m not sure the picture really tells us—
Reporter: Okay, okay. Let’s rewind a bit. Get some back story. There’s a substantial home-schooling community in New Hampshire—is that right?
Markham: Yes, but I don’t see how this is relevant—
Reporter: As the principal of a middle school, home-schooling is not a practice you would advocate, am I right?
Markham: It’s not the way I would go, no, but parents have a right to choose how they want to educate their children.
Reporter: Isn’t it often the difficult children who end up being home-schooled? Kids who wouldn’t fit in well at a normal school?
Markham: Not necessarily. There are many reasons—
Reporter: And it’s not just the home-schooling, is it?
Markham: I’m not sure what you’re asking.
Reporter: Some children come from difficult backgrounds. They witness violence at a young age.
Markham: Not every kid has an ideal childhood, no.
Reporter: And others are raised unconventionally. In the woods, for example …
Markham: Some parents have strong views on the environment: they like their children to experience nature. That’s no bad thing—
Reporter: Some of these children have parents who hunt for food—parents who have rifles in their homes.
Markham: Many people in our state do, especially up here in the north country.
Reporter: Children raised in the woods without any formal schooling. Perhaps it’s not surprising that one of them should go off the rails.
Markham: We have no real evidence that children raised unconventionally turn out any differently—any worse—
Reporter: But in your—what is it, twenty years of experience as an educator—you must have noticed a pattern. How children brought up outside our societal norms sometimes go awry.
Markham: And sometimes they thrive. Every child responds differently to his or her environment.
Reporter: The magician hired for the party went on record to say that one of the boys at the party was pretending to shoot a gun at his brother. Clearly there’s a firearm obsession there.
Markham: Small boys often fall in love with the idea of weapons: guns, knives. Even those who aren’t really exposed to them. Like I said, they like to play-act, which is an important part of a child’s development.
Reporter: But role play can quickly get out of hand: from shooting a pretend gun to pulling the trigger on a real gun—
Markham: There’s a world of difference. Research shows us that children are acutely aware of the difference between make-believe and real life.
Reporter: Changing tack a little then, Principal Markham. Do you have any personal views on gun laws in our state?
Markham: It’s a sensitive issue.
Reporter: But you must have some thoughts of your own on the subject.
Markham: I don’t believe that guns have any place in a child’s life. But it’s not that simple—like I said, many people hunt in New Hampshire. There are law enforcement officers who have firearms in their homes as part of their profession. Most gun owners are very responsible when it comes to gun safety.
Reporter: Do you believe that children exposed to firearms are more likely to commit gun crime—either as children or later on, as adults?
Markham: I’d have to look into the research.
Reporter: But it would be a fair assumption, right?
Markham: Perhaps.
Reporter: Would you ever allow your teachers to carry a firearm—for protection, say?
Markham: I don’t see how a firearm could protect my teachers—or our students.
Reporter: So, if you could wave a magic wand, you’d do away with guns altogether, Principal Markham.
Markham: [Pau
se] Like I said, it’s complicated.
Reporter: But in an ideal world, you’d like to see them banned.
Markham: [Another pause] In an ideal world, yes.
Reporter: I’m afraid we’re just about out of time. Thank you so much for joining us. For more on the Playdate Shooting, go to our website, where you can join the discussion thread on this important subject of whether a young shooter is born or made.
CHAPTER
33
4 p.m.
NO ONE CAN quite remember whose idea it was to leave the grown-ups behind at the prayer meeting. But somehow they agreed: they didn’t want to be cooped up in that church with people staring and whispering, wondering which of them shot Astrid Carver.
They won’t be long, they tell themselves.
They’ll be back before their parents even notice.
One by one, they follow each other.
Through the cemetery.
Under the tall pines, into the thickest part of the forest.
Along the overgrown path and then out into the clearing by the dock that, on this misty September afternoon, seems to float out across Middlebrook Pond.
Lily and Bryar are first. They run straight to the end, holding hands, and then sit down and kick off their shoes and socks.
Lily draws circles in the water with her toes. It feels cool after the rain.
Bryar puts his feet in too and soon they’re both sending small stars out across the pond.
Not long after, Wynn, running awkwardly with the big purple cast on his arm, comes up behind them. Skye catches him and scoops him in her arms and holds him tight.
“Not too close to the water …” she whispers.
She’s decided: she’s never going to let him get hurt again.
Phoenix walks past them both and balances his toes over the end of the dock. He pulls some stones out of his pocket and throws them into the water: Plop. Plop. Plop. He likes to watch them disappear to the bottom of the dark pond.
Then he takes out another stone, a bigger one, smooth and flat, and skims it across the surface. Light splinters across the water.
A moment later, Lily notices Cal and Abi by the clearing that leads to the dock. They seem to hesitate, like they always do—scared that maybe the children will change their minds and decide they don’t want them to be here.
Lily stands up and waves them over.
As they walk over, Cal tries to catch Skye’s eye but she looks away. He looks down at his paint-streaked hands and wonders whether she’ll ever talk to him again.
Phoenix lies down on his belly and leans over the dock. He cups his hands under the water and tries to catch the darting minnows.
The twins are the last to arrive.
Mom and Dad had said they should wait outside the church for them: that the prayer meeting was for grown-ups. And Dad warned them to stay out of trouble.
They’d nodded, knowing they had to make things up to Dad after embarrassing him at the hospital. They feel guilty for saying that it was Astrid’s fault for coming to the party, but they didn’t have a choice, did they? How could they ever tell Dr. Carver—or Dad—what really happened?
Anyway, they’d tried to stay out of trouble. Really, they had. But when they saw the other kids running into the woods, they knew they had to follow them.
CHAPTER
34
4.15 p.m.
WENDY WARNES LEANS in and whispers to Priscilla, “You look perfect.”
“Perfect?” Priscilla looks down at her jeans, her sloppy gray sweatshirt and her dirty white sneakers.
Wendy smiles. “We can’t have you looking too polished. You’re a mom who’s going through hell, Priscilla: if we’re going to change hearts and minds, the world needs to see that.”
When Priscilla woke up from her sleep, she’d pulled a gray pant suit out of her closet—out of habit, more than anything. Up until last week, she’d lived in her work clothes. But as she’d looked at herself in the long bathroom mirror, she hadn’t recognized herself. That person—the one who set up the law faculty at Webster, who published influential articles on family law, the person who had some semblance of control over her life—was gone.
So she’d gotten changed again. Put on the clothes she’s been wearing to the hospital.
Wendy turns to Peter and looks him up and down but doesn’t say anything. Clearly Peter is not presenting the right image of the suffering father. But then it’s hard to look like you’re suffering with a California tan and sun-bleached hair.
Peter shifts uncomfortably under her gaze.
“Thank you for coming.” He attempts a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
Priscilla can feel it: he doesn’t like Wendy. But this isn’t about liking her—it’s about using every resource they have to get justice for Astrid.
“Well, it will be good for people to see you together—a united front.” Wendy looks from Priscilla to Peter as though her gaze were powerful enough to yoke them back together.
When Priscilla woke up, he was taking a shower. They haven’t talked about what happened this afternoon. Not that anything really happened. But for those few hours, as they were sleeping, as they held each other, they were close again.
“I’m going to do some interviews and then I’ll join you both inside,” Wendy says. “My team has made sure we’re sitting together.”
“Oh—okay, thank you.”
Priscilla’s grateful for Wendy’s efforts. She’s putting pressure on Lieutenant Mesenberg and her team; she’s making sure that Astrid’s cause doesn’t get forgotten. But still, it doesn’t feel quite right, being swept into her campaign like this.
“Wow, she’s intense,” Peter says when Wendy’s gone.
“She was the same at Yale,” Priscilla says.
Priscilla looks back through the crowd: Wendy’s aides, reporters, police cars. And then, parked on the private bit of Avery’s driveway, Ben’s red truck.
It shouldn’t surprise her: Avery and the Wrights had always been friends. But still, she was the minister, she could at least pretend to be neutral. Only, she wasn’t neutral, was she? She’d taken her foster kids to the party. And they were in the stable when Astrid got shot. Either one of those damaged kids could have pulled the trigger—Avery basically said as much in that interview for the Boston Chronicle.
Peter touches her elbow. “Ready to go inside?”
“Not really. I don’t even know what we’re doing here. As if praying is going to make a difference.”
Priscilla had always respected the ritual of religion. How it gave shape and order to human life. How it brought people together, giving them a shared moral framework. That’s why she’d kept taking Astrid to church, even after Peter left. But right now, it feels pointless. What kind of God lets an eleven-year-old child get shot?
“Come on, Cil, you know it’s important that we’re here. Avery has organized this service for Astrid—and we’re her parents. We need to acknowledge people’s support.”
This is how it had always been between then. She was the prickly one, the one who spoke her mind and got people’s backs up. He smoothed things over for her. They balanced each other out, like that. And then he left. Was that why everyone had pulled away from her? Because, in truth, they never really liked her, not without Peter?
“We don’t have people’s support,” Priscilla says.
“That’s not true.”
“Have you received any calls? Gotten any sympathy cards? Seen any pies show up on our doorstep?”
Peter goes quiet.
“Well, have you?” she asks. “Because I haven’t. I haven’t seen even the tiniest sign that anyone in Middlebrook cares about what’s happened to us.”
The only gestures of sympathy had come from Wendy Warnes and a bunch of editors from national newspapers. And that didn’t count; they were in it for themselves.
Peter opens his mouth, ready to speak, but then closes it again.
“Say it, Peter.”
> “I don’t think you want to hear it.”
“Try me.”
“They’re scared,” Peter says.
“Who’s scared?”
“People from Middlebrook—our—” He pauses. “Your friends and neighbors.”
“Scared? Of what?”
“Scared of you, Cil. They don’t know how to show their support because you’re so—”
A hot flush pushes up under her skin. “I’m so what?”
He holds out his hands. “You’re angry. And that’s totally understandable. But you’re pushing them away—like you …”
“Like I what?”
“Nothing.”
“Like I what?” She’s speaking too loudly. People are looking. But she can’t help herself.
“Like you push away everyone who doesn’t agree with you.”
Peter closes his eyes. He rubs his forehead.
The thing is, he’s right. Even though she’s been locked up in that hospital room with Astrid for days, she’s felt it: that people in Middlebrook are avoiding her. That they’re taking sides with the Wrights—and the other parents who were at the party. Worse than that. In some crazy, twisted way, she’s felt that they blame her for what happened at the party.
Priscilla feels like she can’t move. She doesn’t want to be here any more. Coming to the prayer meeting was a stupid idea. She wants to go back to Astrid.
But then Peter touches her elbow again. “I’m here for you, Cil.” He puts his hand in hers and she’s overcome again, like she was lying next to him on the bed—by that feeling of closeness she’s missed so much.
She relaxes her fingers into his and they walk into the church together.
Avery walks toward them.
“I’m so glad you came. How are you holding up?”
Priscilla considers the question. When she doesn’t answer, Peter steps in. “Thank you for organizing this.”
