Danny's Mom (2 page)

“Oh, honey, I'll always be here for you. And please eat something before you go. Not just coffee. You're getting awfully thin.”

I lied again when I said I would. Instead, I refilled my mug and took it upstairs, where I sat on the floor outside the closed door to Danny's room. As I warmed my hands on the word Mom, the memory of my dream stabbed me. And with the pain, I felt the truth: Danny is dead. He is never coming back.

Joe knocked into me when he dashed from the hall bathroom. I didn't feel the splash of coffee, didn't feel the burn. A few days later, I would notice the blister above my knee.

“Beth?” Joe said, studying me as if I were a ghost. “What are you doing on the floor?”

I couldn't answer, but in my head I screamed
Fuck you, Joe! Fuck you! You killed my son
!

Chapter Two

T
he crash came minutes later. I hopped to my feet, flew down the steps. “Joe? What was that?”

In the kitchen, a shattered vase. Orange marigolds, red tulips, and slivers of glass on the wet tile floor by Joe's feet. “What happened?” I asked again.

Joe said nothing as he moved to the coffee pot.

Without a word, I picked up the flowers: remnants of arrangements from the teachers' union, Joe's business associates, friends, neighbors, people we scarcely knew. Every day my father had mixed fresh flowers and old in blended condolence. By the time I went back to work, a strange assortment crowded the vase on the kitchen table.

Joe topped off his thermos. “I couldn't look at those stinking flowers anymore,” he finally said, focusing on turning the lid as if that took full concentration. “I just couldn't look at them.”

Then sidestepping fragments, Joe came toward me. “Sorry,” he said, his voice softer now. “That must have scared Moose.”

I stayed quiet, avoiding conversation, avoiding Joe's touch, as I sopped up water and glass.

Back upstairs, I fiddled with the scarf around the neck of the lady in the mirror and noticed that her dress hung like a poor hand-me-down. Moose nuzzled my thigh.

“I know, old boy. The noise scared you, didn't it?” I stroked his golden head. “Wanna go out?”

I blinked, and there was Danny, just six years old and begging for a dog. Joe had begged too, after one of the guys on his construction crew told him about a yellow Lab with a litter of pups.

“Come on, Red. Please,” Joe had said, calling me by my hair color as he did when he wanted something.

“It's not the right time, Joe. I'm starting a new job in September, and you're never home anymore. Who's gonna take care of a dog?”

“But you know what they say. Man's best friend and all? Don't you want Danny to have a best pal?”

Moose followed me downstairs after I gave up on fixing the scarf. I let him out the kitchen door, picked up a condolence card from the pile on the table, and tried to recall who Donna, Sam, and Jordan Rogers were. It came to me when I looked out the window and saw Moose circle the basketball post. Jordan and Danny had played on the same team in the sixth-grade basketball league.

Moose licked my hand on his way in and trudged to the stairway, leaving huge, muddy paw prints on the blond oak floor in the hall. I watched him lumber up the steps, his rear legs buckling as he reached the top, and waited for the creak of floorboards when he'd plop down outside Danny's room.

The doorbell made me jump. I opened the front door, and Callie hugged me as if we hadn't seen each other in a year.

“I'm okay. Really, Cal.” She wouldn't let go. “Why didn't you just honk?”

“I did. A zillion times. Your neighbors must think I'm nuts, bangin' on the horn like that. Guess you were upstairs, huh?”

“I was getting dressed.” My voice sounded flat. I knew I'd have to lie my way through the day. Time had evaporated. Fifteen minutes maybe. I couldn't explain it.

“Let's just do something with that scarf,” Callie said, placing me at arm's length. She unknotted the silk. “Wouldn't want anyone to think you've lost your touch. You know what they say at school.”

“No. What?” I tried to sound as if I cared.

“That you're one classy lady. A regular fashion plate.” Callie slid the scarf from my neck and folded it lengthwise. In an instant, she fastened it around me like a tie. “That's better. All set.”

A bubble of acid burst in my chest. All set, with a hole in my center.

We pulled into the teachers' parking lot three minutes before second period. Thinking in minutes meant back to work. Forty-two minutes per class. Three minutes in between. Sign in at least ten minutes before the first bell. Leave no earlier than thirty minutes after the last. Only the principal's buddies, the teachers who partied with him and the assistant principal, didn't watch the clock. They came in late, left early. Danny's death had promoted me, temporarily, to that higher caste. Callie must have bargained with Bob, I thought. She'd get me back to work if she could have extra time that morning.

We ran from the far end of the lot toward the entrance near the art room. I slowed down as we approached the building.

“Sorry,” Callie called over her shoulder.

“Go ahead, Cal. I'll let Bob know we're here.”

Callie stopped. She turned to face me. “You can do this. You have to. Any problems, just come to the art room.”

I nodded and tried to smile. “Go on. I'm fine.” My list of lies grew.

“I'll come by your office, Beth. Fifth period, for lunch.” The door banged as Callie zipped into school.

I stood outside and listened for the bell, the start of second period classes. The building hushed. I pulled in a slow breath and opened the door. “I love you, Danny,” I whispered. Then I walked into Meadow Brook High.

My first thought was that I should have gone around front. From there I could make it to the main office in seconds, then slip into the counseling center. Instead, I now had to weave through the art and music hallways, where a student's poster screamed: L
IFE WITHOUT
A
RT
I
S
D
ETH
. The missing
A
didn't bother me nearly as much as it would have only a month before, when I'd bolted into the art room after Callie had posted another student's misspelled announcement: S
MOKEING
C
AN
K
ILL
Y
OU
.

Peter Stone, the assistant principal, cornered me before I was able to duck into the office.

“Well, well. If it isn't Beth Maller. It's about time, I'd say. Oh, and welcome back.”

“It's good to be back.” Another lie.

“You know, when Marie's husband died, she came back to work the next week,” Peter went on. “And the counseling center doesn't run right when we're short a counselor. Debra and Steve had to divide your caseload.” Peter moved closer, looking down at me. “But I'm sure you know that. It's just a good thing all the college applications got out in January.”

I stepped back, eager to distance myself from his odor of sweat and Marlboros.

“I'll let Bob know I'm here.”

“Bob's in a meeting with the superintendent. Just tell the secretaries you're back.” Peter checked his watch. “Better late than never, I suppose.”

I hoped he would let me go then, but Peter's eyes narrowed, holding me in their glare. “And I don't know why Bob told Mrs. Harris she could come in late too. Wasn't easy getting coverage for her this morning. But hey, that's why they pay me the big bucks.”

Peter chuckled as he walked down the hall. I wasn't surprised he hadn't said anything about Danny. I had worked with Peter Stone long enough to know that there's a rock where his heart should be—and a grudge like a boulder when it comes to me.

Callie used to say Peter was allergic to work. But, in fact, Peter and I were allergic to each other. Callie once asked what I'd do if someone held a gun to my head and made me choose: sleep with Charles Manson or sleep with Peter Stone. “That's simple,” I told her. “I'd say
Pull the trigger
.”

Back then, I didn't know why Peter disagreed with me about everything from students' schedules to before-school clubs. I was the Honor Society adviser the year that group decided it wanted breakfast meetings. Peter fought me. “If those kids are so damn smart,” he said, “they're smart enough to eat
before
they come to school. I won't have them hanging out in the counseling center, munching bagels and missing homeroom.”

Bob, however, sided with me on breakfast meetings—one of the few times he and Peter didn't play their authority as a duet. But the next fall they chose Alan, a science teacher, for the Honor Society position.

A few years later, when Danny was in middle school, I applied for the junior class advisership. “It's a good thing there're only a couple of chairs in your office, Beth,” Bob said. “’Cause if I gave you more, we'd just have groups of kids jammed in to chat with you. But …” Bob paused and fingered his mustache,“… but you see, Lana asked for an advisership this year.” Lana, a math teacher, has long legs and short skirts. And she drinks with Bob and Peter on New Year's and Super Bowl Sunday. “So … well, Peter and I think Lana would do a good job with the juniors. Not that you wouldn't, of course. But we've decided to give Lana a shot at it.”

By that time, Joe and I had started a college fund for Danny. I planned to add the adviser's stipend to that account. Dad wanted to contribute too. When he had something left at the end of the month, he'd insist we take it.

“Don't you think we can afford to educate our own son?” Joe asked my father one Sunday when the three of us brunched on the bagels and tuna Dad had brought. Danny, who'd slept at Noah's, had just called for a ride home.

“By the time Danny graduates,” Joe said, “we'll have enough so he can go to any college he wants. Even without your help.”

“Dad, what Joe means,” I blurted out, “is that we're really grateful. You're always so generous with us, but we—”

“Your father knows what I mean, Beth. And I'd bet he's real glad we'll be able to do this by ourselves. Aren't you, Al?” Joe pushed back from the table. “I'm gonna get Danny.”

“Honey, is everything okay?” Dad asked as I opened a box of Earl Grey.

“Sure.” I handed him a mug, the tea bag bobbing near the top. “But I guess maybe Joe feels you don't believe he can take care of us. And he can, Dad. Really. He's doing well now. And he's proud of having his own company.”

“I know. He should be. And I don't mean to step on his pride. It's just that …” my father started, dunking the tea bag with a spoon, “… it just makes me feel good to help with Danny's future, is all.”

As he did that morning, Joe always set the tone in our house. The next time Dad came for brunch, Joe made pancakes. Danny, already dressed for his Little League pitching debut, drenched his with syrup—then claimed he wasn't hungry—while Joe showed my father the blueprints for a project he had bid on. When Moose buried his head in the mixing bowl Joe had given him to lick, Danny laughed so hard chocolate milk flew from his mouth to a corner of the building plans. And Joe didn't get angry. Had I won a contest that day, gotten to choose a vacation anywhere, I'd have said
No thanks
. There wasn't a place I would rather have been.

On the day I went back to work, Meadow Brook High School looked different than it had back then, different even than just a month earlier. It seemed dingier. Grayer, somehow. Yet the details in the main office hadn't changed: a clutter of pink discipline
forms; copy for the next day's homeroom announcements; yellow plastic flowers in a dime-store vase. I thanked Lucille and Carol, the secretarial duo, for the fruit basket they'd sent from the office staff. My thank-you note, anchored with a green push pin, decorated the staff bulletin board.

Bob's door was closed. His secretary, Mary Grant, hugged me. “This must be so hard for you. Let me know if there's anything I can do.”

“Thanks, Mary. And thank you for coming to see me after the funeral and for bringing Liz. I was glad she visited.”

“Well, you know how much my daughter likes you.” Mary took my hands in her cool, slender fingers. “Beth …” She held me at arm's length and caught my eyes. Tears welled in hers as she swallowed what she was about to say. “Umm … I guess you want to see Bob, but the superintendent's in with him.”

“Could you just tell him I came by to thank him for letting Callie come in late today too? I don't know how I'd have gotten here without her.”

“You bet. And Beth …” Mary paused, as if rehearsing the next line in her head. My eyes fixed on the strand of pearls that brushed the neckline of her dress. I used to wonder how she achieved her high-maintenance look on a school secretary's salary. Her husband had moved out years ago.

“Beth,” Mary continued, “I'm glad you're back. I know Liz missed seeing you around here.”

Though Liz Grant wasn't my student, we'd often chat in the cafeteria before school. In the months before Danny died, Liz seemed to appear for a container of orange juice whenever I bought my coffee. Once, she walked me back to the counseling center, said she had to see her counselor about adding an elective during lunch period. Debra Greene, who had the sophomores A through L, wasn't in yet, so I invited Liz to wait with me. She studied a photo of Danny, one I kept on the low metal bookcase in my office. “Wow! He's a hunk, Mrs. Maller! Think I could meet him someday?”
Liz was the first student to welcome me back to Meadow Brook. She sat, ramrod straight, at the round worktable in the counseling center. Her blond hair, ponytailed in a red scrunci, swayed as she turned toward me.

“Mrs. Maller, hi! I've been waiting for you.” Ann Richardson had excused her from gym, Liz told me. The class was at the end of a fitness cycle, boys pumping iron in the weight room and girls pumping up the volume in aerobics. Liz said she knew the routine so well she could even lead it.

Everyone assumed Liz worked on her tight body; she barely feathered the ground when she walked. And she favored small things: skimpy skirts, dainty jewelry, miniature dogs. She once showed me a picture of her toy poodle. A black fuzz ball, he looked like something you'd pick off the floor and wonder where it came from.