“I had assumed the children would be protected.” She gripped Evie’s elbow, and was shaking her head. “Is that such an outlandish thought?”
“I — I don’t understand.”
Inside of her jacket, she was wearing a fuzzy yellow scarf. Warren stared at the simple knot. As her arms moved, a small piece of fluff lifted up and floated through the air. He gazed at it moving away, looping and dipping. When most people thought about buoyancy, they only considered water, but he knew all those principles applied to air as well.
“I don’t want to go.” A whisper.
“It doesn’t matter, Evie. What I say is all that counts here. You can’t question me on every turn.”
He was distracted by the fluff, shifting, playing with the upward force of the air, and he resisted the urge to reach out and grab it in his fist. Two hundred and nineteen. Two hundred and twenty. Two hundred and twen —
“Right, Mr. Botts?”
“I’m sorry?”
“I told my mom you’re a really good teacher.”
“Oh, I see. Thank you. And Evie is an excellent student.” Lowered tone. “She is incredibly bright.”
The woman turned toward Evie. “Let’s go. I’ve had enough. Grab your things.”
“But Ms —” he could not recall her last name. He tried to picture the class list, scanning his memory, but the only name that glowed on the page was Amanda Fuller’s.
“I don’t know if what people are saying is true, but I’m not taking a single chance. My daughter is all I’ve got left.” He could see the muscles in her jaw tightening. She was clearly trying to control her emotions. “A girl is dead, sir. One of your students is dead. And in a most horrible way.”
Warren glanced at Evie, who was once again beside her mother. Coat and scarf and knapsack and boots all gathered in her bony arms. Her head was lowered and she was looking at the gymnasium floor, littered with bits of coloured tinfoil. “Amanda is dead,” Evie repeated. Warren glanced at her mouth. Was that? Yes. A grin. Faint and nervous, but still a grin.
Warren pushed the handle to open the glass doors. Once outside, he dug around in the pocket of his coat to find a tissue. He had forgotten his gloves, and did not like touching the metal with his bare skin. No tissue, and as he walked down the incline toward the parking lot, he crumpled the fabric of his pocket inside his fist, imagining that he was obliterating any germs he had collected.
“Dr. Botts?”
He turned, saw Ms. Fairley scurrying toward him. Scarf dragging on the ground. Lifting his hand, he offered a friendly wave, but she did not return the gesture.
“I saw you leaving from my office. I thought to let you finish up practice, so as not to be too disruptive to the students. But you’re early.”
“Things weren’t going well. I just — I don’t know. Decided to wrap it up.”
“I understand. Everyone is distracted.”
“Yes.”
“As you might guess, I’ve had some calls.” Her tone was clipped. “I have to ask. Did you tell your students to pretend Amanda is sick? That’s why she’s not at school?”
Warren looked down.
“Oh. Oh dear. I don’t think that’s appropriate advice at all. Do you? Parents are upset.”
Hand still tucked inside his pocket, Warren began to snap his damp thumb over his fingers. Regular, calming intervals. “I was trying to help them get through the day.”
“Your intentions may well have been genuine, but very ill-advised. We need to leave the guidance to the experts.”
He nodded. He kept his counting slow and steady.
“I spoke with my brother, and he assures me your character is beyond reproach.” She lifted her scarf from the walkway. “I trust his judgement, Dr. Botts, but you have to understand my word doesn’t carry much weight. No one knows you here. You’re a substitute. A replacement.”
Snap. Ninety-seven. Snap. Ninety-eight. Snap. Ninety-nine.
“I met with the administration today. The superintendent.” Inspecting the tail of her scarf, she shook gravel from the fringe. “You’re being placed on immediate administrative leave.”
“Leave?”
“With pay.” She would not look at him. “For now.”
He removed his hand from his pocket, touched his glasses, lifted them. “Don’t worry. I understand.” Though he did not fully understand. What were they thinking? Did they blame him? Was it because he did not help? Or could they possibly suspect he was the person who had slipped the noose over Amanda’s neck, held her aloft until she died?
There was a smudge across the left lens, and when the street light clicked to life, light splintered into his eye. No, he told himself. That is beyond absurd.
“You’re not to come back into the school. Or on the property. If there’s anything important in your classroom, I can collect it. Bring it to you.”
Ms. Fairley still would not look him in the eye.
“Just the insects. The ones on my desk. In glass. They’re important to me. I wouldn’t want them to be damaged.”
“Not a problem, Dr. Botts. I’m sorry this is happening. Hopefully things will be sorted, and the police will get to the bottom of what happened.”
Warren was about to turn away when he heard Ms. Fairley take a sudden breath, then the sound of rapid clicking on the cement. A small ball of orange fur flew between Warren’s legs, like a rabbit with a cropped tail.
“What’s —”
“Oh dear. Will you look at that.” Ms. Fairley’s voice was softer now, as a small dog, nose like a baby fox’s, rushed to the front entrance of the school, began yapping.
Ms. Fairley took a few steps, reached down and scooped it up. “Amanda’s dog.”
The words startled Warren, and he glanced at the dog, its tiny ribs expanding and contracting. “Oh,” he said. “I didn’t know.”
“How could you know? Second time today it’s been here. Looking for her.”
“Oh,” Warren repeated. He could think of nothing else to say.
“It’s sad, really.” Ms. Fairley cradled it. “They don’t know what goes on in our worlds. Where we go when we leave. When we’ll be back.” She scratched it under the chin. “C’mon, Noodle. I’ll drop you to Mrs. Fuller.”
“I could,” Warren offered. “I’m headed home and she’s only a few houses away.”
Ms. Fairley sighed, and shook her head. “You need to take this seriously, Warren. They are investigating. Trying to understand what happened. With your student. In your backyard.”
As though on cue, a car sputtered to life. A police cruiser. It slowly looped around, gravel crunching beneath its tires, and stopped right in front of Warren. Window lowered, Detective Reed smiling. “Mr. Botts. I’m glad we found you.”
“I wasn’t hiding.”
“Just a joke,” she said. “We could really use your help.”
“Now?”
“Is there a better time?”
“No, no.” He dipped his hand back into his pocket, started snapping again. One, two, three.
“Get in the back,” she said. “And we can head down to the station. Have a friendly chat.”
[15]
Though I am loath to admit it, I was wrong about Larva. He lasted much, much longer than I had anticipated. Over several months, my aunt and her air-wasting fling kept showing up. Kept “relieving our mother” of her parental duties. When they pulled into the driveway in his waxed car, Button practically barked at the front door, scratched at the glass. It was deplorable, deplorable behaviour. During those moments, if I had owned a choke collar and leash, I would have struggled to resist tethering her.
Our dishwasher broke on a Sunday, and my mother called Larva instead of a repairman. Button was at her post, perched on the front stoop, obediently waiting for her male master to arrive. I told her to stop embarrassing
herself. Said she was acting like a numbskull. “Saint Larva can’t stand you, you know that? He thinks you’re so dumb, you should live in a cage.” Button laughed, shook her head, as though what I said was the funniest thing. “I heard him tell Mother you belong in the zoo. Like a stupid fat freak show. He told her not to let animals eat at the table. And darling Auntie told her to throw your food on the floor.”
Not even the slightest flicker of doubt in her eyes. It was beyond frustrating. She laughed again, flipped on her back, clapped her hands and feet. “Aundie luvas Buddon. Un-cah Lahvee luvas Buddon. And you! You luvas Buddon doo.”
Shit. “Uncle” had worked its way into her vocabulary.
While I was galled, I could also not help but marvel at my little sister. Though I had tried frequently, it was nearly impossible to plant a mean seed in her consciousness. She heard what I said, understood it, but the thought disintegrated immediately. I prided myself on understanding people and their pettiness, but I could not comprehend my sister’s simple, complicated mind. Button was special in her goodness. Her unshakable innocence. And beyond that, she was the only person who could tell when I was lying.
“Heddo, Un-cah Lahvee,” Button announced when Larva strode though the door in a baseball cap, red plastic toolbox swinging.
“Uh-huh.” Even for an uneducated adult, he had an extremely limited vocabulary.
“Are you going to be Harv’s assistant today?” My aunt. “Babe? Is that okay? If Button helps?”
Before he could answer, Button yelped, “Yub, yub, yub!” She pressed her hands into her crotch and pinched. “Yub. Buddon can.”
I noticed Larva tightening his jaw. My aunt noticed it, too.
“You know what, sweetie-pop?” Leaning close to Button’s face. “Maybe you can work with Uncle Harvey another time. This is a big job. Big, big job. Boy oh boy. Besides, we’ll need to get you a tiny tool belt before he’ll hire you.”
That bitch was too freaking friendly. No wonder Button was able to ignore my words, giggle, nip her freaking crotch, say, “Oday. Oday. Buddon waid.”
My mother walked over, smacked Button’s offending fingers. “If you’re itchy, go to your room and scratch. Harvey doesn’t need you underfoot.” Then, to Loser-Larva, “I hate to be a trouble, I really do, but I don’t know what’s wrong with it. Just started leaking water everywhere. What a mess! I used every towel in the house. Dripping down into the basement, even. It’s not that old, really, but stuff just isn’t built to last, right?” False lightness. Puke rising in my throat.
“Not these days. Nope.”
“Is there anything I can do to help, Harv? Do you want a drink? A quick sandwich?”
I hated the way she was gawking at him. Head tilted, her eyes a little wider than they should be, spread fingers pushed into her cheek. I could practically smell her neediness. Cheap and fake and powdery. Dollar-store perfume. That neediness irritated me, when I was certain any monkey could repair a leaking dishwasher. If she was not such a waste of space, she could have done it herself. I had even asked her if I could try, but she tittered at me, then pursed her lips into a condescending smile.
“You cut the power?”
“Yes, yes. Of course, I turned off the power. It’s all set. You don’t know how much I appreciate it.”
“Such a doll, coming over here like this, isn’t he?” my aunt said. “Don’t want my baby getting electrocuted.” She wrapped her arms around his waist, curled into him. If she had been four-legged, she would have lifted her tail, sprayed him from some skunky glands to further demonstrate her ownership. I bet she smelled my mother as well.
Larva went into the kitchen, placed his toolbox on the linoleum, took a step back, and sized up the dishwasher. I watched him scratching his stubble, sighing, lifting his ball cap straight up, off his head, then forcing it back on. Such a display of manly behaviours. He slid over the locking mechanism, and tugged open the door. Stuck his head inside, ran his fingers over the plastic.
“Do you see what the problem is?” I asked, as though riveted. “Is there a hole in there, Uncle Lar, Uncle, um? Harvey?”
“Nope. No holes.”
“What about that?” I pointed to the floor of the machine. At the drainage area.
“Drainage. Water comes in, got to get out, don’t it?”
“Oh, yeah. I get it.”
Pinhead. He did not realize I was mocking him. That I thought he looked like such an ass, exploring the interior of the dishwasher. Even I knew there was no answer to be found there. The leak was most likely caused by a loose pipe. The connection under the machine. I bet the clamp had wiggled off.
After unscrewing and removing the bottom panel, he reached in, flicked his hand, and a tiny crocheted mouse, coated in grease and dust, sped across the floor. My mother yelped, then froze. The dirty toy had belonged to her cat. The scrubby thing had carried it from room to room in its jaws. That was, until the day it limped out the door and never returned. Not that I could blame the cat for abandoning us. It had good reasons.
My mother stuttered. “H-h-how did that manage to squeeze under there? I couldn’t even reach in with the vacuum cleaner.” She must have forgotten. Before Button was born, the dishwasher had no bottom panel. When I was small, I could see the metal legs, tubes, wires. Live wires. I would lie there on the floor, my hand slithering in, moving my fingers through the maze of pipes and coloured cords, wondering what I might feel if my sweaty palm touched something.
Button dove for the toy, but my mother scooped it up, said, “Jesus, Button. Don’t touch! That’s filthy.” She slipped it in her pocket, kept her hand over the mound.
“Well,” Larva said, acting exasperated. “Looks like I’m going to have to haul the machine out. Turn it over.”
Duh. Whenever I watched grown men work, I was always appalled by the approach. Moaning over a screw. Hauling up trousers with the forearms, wiping their brows, scratching their foreheads with a thumbnail. Stretching backs before they climbed onto machinery. How can I make this rudimentary process appear as complicated as possible? How can I let onlookers know I am exerting significant amounts of mental and physical energy?
When he pulled the dishwasher from underneath the counter, I could already hear the scrape of glass. It was a nice sound. Shards crunching, sticking into the linoleum as the machine slid over.
“Shit,” he said. “You got enough broken bits back there to make a whole set.”
He was right. When I saw all the pieces of broken glass tucked under the dishwasher, I could not help but think of my dear, dear old dad. Glasses, and other items, were frequently hurtling about the kitchen. A flash of rage, and he would smash whatever was handy. Sprays of sticky liquid marking the walls, shattered fragments everywhere. For the first years of my life, I could run outside barefoot without comment, but always had to wear shoes in the house.
By the reddish welts rising on my mother’s neck, I could tell she was embarrassed by her sloppiness. But I understood the mess. I understood that after fighting with my father, she had wanted to remove the visible evidence, but also did not want to be completely free of it. Some part of her liked knowing the history was still there. Knowing that the house had not been swept clean, the brokenness erased. While a shiny kitchen made it easier for my father to forgive himself, the hidden glass made it impossible for my mother to forget. Why else would she broom all that glass under there?
Her eyes looked as though she might cry. Then she glanced at me, scraped at her skin. “I — I guess I’m not a very good housekeeper.”
“No, that was me,” I said, stepping forward. “I did that. Before the panel was there. Easier than picking it up.” It was a lie, and I do not understand why I spoke at that time, absolving my mother from this tiny shame. Other than the fact I found it annoying to watch her squirm.
“What kind of lazy kid?” The asshole crouched, examined the underside o
f the machine.
My mother glanced at me again. Said nothing.
“Look-it,” Larva announced. “Clamp is loose on the drainpipe.”
He was the worst example of what my aunt dragged over here. The very worst. Usually, her apes drank a beer or two, watched sports on the television, adjusted their sweaty parts with alarming frequency. But never did they try to interact with the family. Connect with Button. Earn points with my mother. My aunt must have plunged her claws in deeply this time.
He grunted continuously as he did next to nothing. Jamming the rubbery pipe back into place, opening the clamp, and sliding it back over the hose. Righting the dishwasher, he lifted his chin to my mother. “I expect you want to clean that glass, right? You can manage to slide it in? Reattach it? Screw on the plate?”
“Oh, yes, Harvey. You’ve done so much. You don’t know how much you’ve saved me.” I nearly regurgitated my digesting cereal. “Waiting around for the repairman. The cost of it to get them out here on a Sunday, no less. You can’t imagine what they charge.”
Her cheeks were rosy.
To distract myself, I got down on my knees and examined the exposed floor where the dishwasher had been. Amazing how much damage the sun caused. Even with the dust and the grease and the abundance of glass, the green of the linoleum was so much brighter in there. Nice, almost. I tried to remove a larger piece of glass, but it was fixed. Sugary soda or juice had cemented it. It would be a chore to sweep out the loose shards, scrape the remainder, wash everything. And for what? My incompetent mother would cut her palms. Button would have slivers stuck in her fleshy feet. The evidence of my father’s temper would disappear from our home.
“We’re not cleaning it,” I announced. “We’ll push the dishwasher back into place, leave the glass there.”
Larva snorted, shrugged. “Yep. Well. You the boss around here, aren’t you?”
Yes, yes I am.
He tossed a screwdriver into his cheap toolbox. “I need a smoke.”
After he brushed past me, I started to shove the dishwasher into its hollow. I could hear my mother’s gratitude, sewage continuing to ooze from her mouth. Not directed at me, of course, but at her sister’s jerk boyfriend. I hated my mother’s fragility. Her pathetic feminine ineptitude. How could she be unaware of his feeble performance? How could she not see that, beneath his helpful exterior, he was wet with aggravation? Soaking in it.
The Substitute Page 8
