Claire and Present Danger (19 page)

Not that I could really think about that, either. I owned nothing suitable in which to meet my future in-laws tomorrow. I had a mess of a loft that would tell the world, or at least the senior Mackenzies, all that I didn’t want them to know about me, at least not until my wonderful qualities put my less-wonderful aspects into perspective, and I needed a haircut and didn’t know if I could get an appointment during tomorrow’s lunch hour.

And my parents were flying in to make sure there was a clash of cultures.

Not that I was thinking about them, either. I was a teacher. I had to be alert and on throughout the day.

We were dealing with antonyms, and that’s what was on my mind. What is the opposite of looking forward to meeting your in-laws?

To give a hypothetical example of what a conscientious teacher simply cannot consider while she is in front of a classroom: If a woman is about to meet her future mother-in-law who—have I mentioned this?—designs and makes her own clothing, even, sometimes, to the point of dyeing the fabric and/or weaving it—then what should that hypothetical young woman wear? Should she be tailored and professional looking when she knows said future mother-in-law is fond of a former Miss Swamp who undoubtedly wears bangles, bustiers, and white patent go-go boots? Or should she instead try to anticipate and echo her colorful mother-in-law 145

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to-be? Make the older woman feel comfortable, the way a good hostess might by dressing so her visitors think they’ve picked the perfect outfit themselves. Should she worry about the workman-ship and check all seams and feel really, really bad that she has no idea how to work a sewing machine?

Because if she did let such thoughts creep into even a sliver of her brain, her class might seize the advantage and win their case against learning any vocabulary at all. The S.A.T.s were under fire—that was probably the single current event my students recognized—and for all they knew, they said, the tests might be history and irrele-vant by the time they’d apply to colleges. And they’d have wasted all this time learning words!

“It isn’t like nobody understands me,” a cute young thing said.

“I mean, I’ve been talking my whole life and if I don’t know ambidextrous, who will care?”

“Yeah,” the boy the next row over said. I checked the chart.

Brad. I had to memorize their names, forget about Boy and Gabby and focus on the classroom. Brad obviously had the hots for the cute young thing, even if winning her involved talking about vocabulary. “It’s not like I have these big blank spots when I talk, you know. Like I’d have to shut up because I didn’t have that vocabulary lesson.”

There’s a dark part of me that loves to watch them rally their forces and shape logical arguments, even when their defense is ig-norant nonsense. But sooner or later, you have to stop it, even if you aren’t obsessively thinking about all the things you haven’t done or taken care of that’s going to cost you points with your future in-laws. “We’re learning how to think,” I said. “We’re also talking about analogies, about seeing the relationships between words and ideas. . . . There will still be S.A.T.s, but with more emphasis on your writing. So how about learning a few words with which to express yourself?”

They regarded me with compassion and pity. I was so far removed from their concept of sane behavior and ideas, they looked 146

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as if they were planning an intervention to get me the help I so desperately required.

Meanwhile, my inner couturier had gone over the edge and was screaming in many languages, pacing in tight circles inside my brain. How about that linen outfit? Needs ironing. Tonight, then, after I clean and polish and straighten. Won’t wear it to school, because by the time they arrive late tomorrow, it’ll look as if I’d slept in it.

Or maybe I would indeed sleep in it and have a head start and an excuse.

Is black better? Is black always safe? Or too . . . New York.

They’re from Louisiana. They won’t get it. But my black slacks didn’t need ironing the way the beige linen ones did.

“Who’s ever going to even say ambidextrous? And why would they if they can say ‘I can write with both my hands,’ ” the boy—I checked the seating chart—Daniel—on the other side of the cutie pie—I checked the chart again—Allison—said. Dueling hormones for the fair Allison’s hand. If they’d only learn the word ambidextrous, they’d know they could each have one of her hands.

When would I have their names memorized? It had never taken this long, had it? “Either hand,” I murmured.

The other good news is that even as you’re failing to be a decent teacher, and you aren’t really there, the sheer force of adolescent will and obstinacy drives the hour on, heaves it through the slow lurches of the classroom clock until this session’s over. Either they’d learned ambidextrous or they hadn’t, and I’d settled on ironing the linen outfit because then I could wear a celadon summer sweater Mackenzie had given me for my birthday. He said it matched my eyes, which it doesn’t, but his mother would have to approve of something her son had chosen. Maybe that would include me, too.

THE MORNING SEEMED INTERMINABLE. Actually, it wasn’t an illu-sion. It just barely terminated itself after about five years. When 147

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I’d exhausted my patience with my inner-wardrobe mistress, my attention again ran sideways, into a pit called Havermeyer Is On My Case Again.

I should probably be ashamed to say that this item fired fewer brain cells than my choice of clothing had. But then, I’d been cop-ing with Havermeyer for years, and I was completely new at the daughter-in-law thing.

Experience pays. What I’ve learned about the headmaster and perhaps all truly stupid people in power is that somewhere in the center of their bombastic hearts, they know they’re dumb. They deserve a bit of sympathy, because it must feel rotten to be in constant danger of being shown for the fool and fake they are.

It should be against the law—against the Constitution—for an idiot to be in charge of innocent children’s destinies. But given the situation, and the tenuous state of our jobs and the economy, we protect and defend our young by using guerrilla tactics against Our Leader.

I’ve learned that my best defense is an offense, and I bamboozle him by using his own methodology, i.e., emphatic stupidity.

I don’t question or await his answer. Instead, I agree with him, right from the get-go. I behave as if I know what he’s about to say, which is, amazingly enough, precisely what I wish he’d say, and nine times out of ten, he silently retreats and changes his position so that he can agree and even, perhaps, believe that’s what he meant all along. Why not? It isn’t as if there’s any bedrock of con-viction or philosophy for him to tap into, test ideas against.

And so at noon, finding him idling away the time in his office, I decided to get the meeting over. “Thanks for grabbing this problem by the horns,” I said as I entered his office. It’s an odd room, decorated with Latinate diplomas from unrecognizable institu-tions. I wish there were time to study them, but he’s made sure they’re out of clear-reading range. Besides, I had to stay aggressive.

“That woman means well, as we both know, but really . . . can you imagine?”

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He’d gestured for me to sit, and had taken his seat again, behind his massive, empty desk. I considered how warm he must be on this balmy September day. He wore a vest no matter the season, and I was convinced it was only so that he could dangle his pseudo Phi Beta Kappa Key across his shirtfront. Now, he cleared his throat.

I rushed in before he could. “She’s so worried about adolescents reading about evil that she’s going to leave them unable to recognize it. And where would we be if we censored young minds that way? The author’s a Nobel Prize winner—isn’t that a sufficient credential? He’s part of the canon, now.”

I was pretty sure my principal thought I was now talking about artillery. That war on evil, perhaps.

“It’s a good thing this happened early in the year,” I rattled on.

“This way, a tone and precedent—especially in the light of the higher standards you’re implementing here—is set for the future.”

He waited a few moments, then nodded very slowly, as if he were still learning how to lower and raise his head. “And I hope it’s not out of line to say how impressed I am with your swift and efficient handling of the entire situation.”

The hook had been set. I could almost see it in the fleshy part of his cheek. It was safe to pause for breath now.

“Mrs. Lawrence is concerned about her daughter’s—”

“Feel free to reassure her that you’ve alerted me to that and I’ll take special care of—pay special attention to—her daughter. And again—thanks so much for handling this. I’m positive that with your reassurance, she’s already calmed down.” I was halfway out of my chair by the last words.

Havermeyer looked more and more troubled, but he, too, stood, and nodded in his slow, heavy-headed manner.

I put my hand out to shake his, and he nodded again, shook my hand, then pulled back. “Did you know you have a—” He pointed at the ink blot. I was tempted to do a Rorschach with it, but before he could remember that this wasn’t how he’d intended the meeting 149

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to go, I looked at the mess on my sleeve with exaggerated horror.

“Oh, no! I’d best take care of that. Maybe it’s not too late! Thanks for pointing it out,” and I was out of there.

Except I was buzzing—my cell phone, bought for the after-school life, was buzzing.

“You are sooo popular!” Sunshine chirruped as I fled into the hallway. “But did you know you have a boo-boo on your—”

“Please,” a female voice on the phone said. “I need to talk to you.”

I covered my free ear with my hand and began the ascent to my room, where, perhaps, I’d find quiet. Most lunches—except mine—had been eaten, and now, kids were everywhere.

“I know you probably don’t want to—or don’t care, but I have this horrible feeling—”

“Who is this?”

“Emmie Cade. We met the day before yesterday. I need to talk to you.”

I was midway up the staircase and I paused, nearly causing a major collision with a young man racing up behind me. “But, I . . .

but we—how did you find me?”

“You told us where you taught school. And she—Mrs. Fairchild—

told us—told Leo, really. He was so worried about who you might be that she told him what she’d done, why you were really there.”

I had no idea what to say. Was I even supposed to talk to her? According to C. K., our business with the Fairchild family—current and future members—was finished. Our client was finished, too.

There was nothing further we could do for her and nothing to discuss.

But when I didn’t say anything, she rushed back in. “He thought—forgive him, but Leo thought you were suspicious. He knew his mother didn’t care for books, so he didn’t believe your story and he thought maybe you were a con man—a con person.

That’s why she finally told him the truth. About your investigating me. And he told me.”

And now she was telling me. Why?

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“I thought he must be wrong—and then I checked today, and here you are, really a teacher. So even though she said—and Leo said he checked, because she told him the company you work with—I don’t see how you can teach school and actually investigate anything—”

“Surely you didn’t phone me to discuss time management, did you?”

Her voice lowered almost to a whisper. I was in my room now, and I closed the door, though I couldn’t have said what I thought I was keeping out. “I have to talk to you. Otherwise—please?”

“With Mrs. Fairchild dead, I’m—we’re—no longer involved, so I don’t see why—”

“No, please.”

“If you have something important to say, say it now. I’m really busy—”

“It isn’t something that feels right on the phone. And to be honest, it’ll take a few minutes. I could meet you anywhere, anytime.

Please? My life’s at stake here.”

She was ridiculous. Dramatic, silly, and preposterous. She was taking her Romantic Poet image too seriously, but playing the damsel in distress didn’t suit her. She was the one to fear. She was the one who left casualties in her wake.

And I was the one with the Mackenzies barreling toward me tomorrow, and much more than one after-school session’s worth of preparations and stocking up ahead of me. “This is not a good day,” I said. “I don’t have any free time whatsoever.”

“I wouldn’t ask, honestly.” She had a lovely, melodic voice, even when she insisted it was under strain. I amazed myself by feeling sorry for her—then felt sure that’s what she wanted. “But if I don’t see you before the police—”

“What police?”

“The police.”

“What do the police have to do with anything?”

“The police!” As if repeating the word with ever-more emphasis would give it context. “I’m sure they’ll want to talk to you, and I 151

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need to talk to you first, because she hired you and I don’t know what all—”

“Stop. I don’t understand what you’re saying, and you’re saying it too fast. Why are the police going to talk to me?”

“Because—because—” She sounded near tears, or perhaps in them already. “I thought you’d know, you being on this investigation, and—”

“Ms. Cade. In about five minutes, my classroom will fill up with twenty teenagers. Try hard to make yourself clearer. The police are going to talk to me because . . . ?”

“They—the somebody, whoever it is who does things like that—”

“Like what?”

“Test. Do things to—to dead people.”

“A pathologist?”

“Yes. I think so. That’s it, I think. They—he—said something’s wrong in her bloodstream. In her.”

“Like what?” Something slow-acting that allowed those hours to elapse? I hadn’t been serious when I’d said it.

“Barbiturates.”

A medication. Not a poison. An accident, not a murder. The woman had prescription bottles filling the top of her nightstand.

She must have grabbed the wrong one. “Too much of one of her medicines?”