Killing Mr. Griffin (4 page)

There was no way his grandmother waited all day for something like that. When she was alone in the house, she got up and did whatever it was she had to do. He knew for a fact that she went to the refrigerator and took out the lunch his mother left prepared for her, and there were times when he found things around the house—candy, movie magazines—that must have been purchased down at the corner store. But now, helpless in the flowered bathrobe, she appealed to him. “I have to go.” “All right, Gram. Okay. Hold on to me.” He helped her out of the chair and, slipping one arm around her scrawny body and a hand beneath her elbow, he half led, half carried her to the little bathroom that sat between the bedroom and the kitchen. “You okay now?” “All right, Davy. I’ll tell you when I want to go back.” “You do that.”

His voice was sharp. He caught it and forced a gentler tone. “You call me, Gram.” That was better. “I’ll be right here.” He went into the living room, a dark, small room with a musty smell. He had often wondered why it was called a “living room,” since it seemed to have less life than any other room in the house. The blinds were usually drawn to protect the rug from the morning sun, and they were seldom raised in the afternoon because no one thought to raise them. The couch was covered with a plastic casing. The books and radio were in his room, the television in the room shared by his mother and grandmother. The only thing alive in the whole living room was the

telephone, and it sat silent on its hook so much of the time that it might as well not have existed at all.

He sat down next to it and considered dialing a number. Any number, just to hear a voice. He could call Mark—but no, Mark was never home in the afternoons. He would be out somewhere with Jeff and Betsy, or some of the rest of the group that always trailed around after him.

What they did when they “went out somewhere” was never exactly explicable. Most of the time they just rode around in Jeff’s car, stopping at one place after another, wandering aimlessly about town, honking the horn at friends and laughing and kidding around. He knew he was welcome to join them. Mark had asked him more than once, and Jeff had also. David had said, “Thanks, but I’ve got stuff to do at home,” and let it go at that. He knew they would never understand his mother’s reasoning that there should be a definite, preplanned activity or time was being wasted. “Where is it you’re going?” she would ask.

“What is it you’re going to do there? Where can I reach you in an emergency?” It wasn’t that she forbade him to go places, it was just that by the time they finished hashing things over his enthusiasm had usually faded to the point where going was hardly worth the effort.

“Unless there’s a reason,” his mother said, “a real reason, it’s nice for you to be at home in the afternoons. Your grandmother sits there alone all day, you know, and your homecoming at three is the high point of her day.” In the evenings they ate later than most people because his mother wasn’t up to facing the kitchen immediately after a day at

work. Then there was homework. “It’s important to keep up with your studies,” his mother told him. “You’re our hope for the future, Davy.

Anything good that happens to this family will come through you.” This was true, he knew, and he thought about it often. His mother’s salary as a secretary was not going to increase, and there was no place she could move within the ranks of the company for which she worked. Unless she remarried, her life was at a stalemate, and remarriage for her seemed highly unlikely. It wasn’t that she was unattractive; at forty-two she still looked remarkably good, with a lean, strong figure and hair as dark and thick as David’s own. But she had no interest in meeting men or in going out with them. “One marriage is enough for anybody,” she stated firmly. And then, after a slight pause, she would sometimes add, “More than enough,” with a note of bitterness in her voice. So when David was grown, his mother would be there still, slaving away to make ends meet. And for all he knew Gram would be there too. For an invalid, Gram seemed amazingly healthy, scarcely ever coming down with the illnesses other people were prone to. Perhaps it was because, cloistered as she was, she never got exposed to any germs. Anyway, despite her age, she didn’t show any indication of leaving her present world for the next one at any time in the near future. When he hit the job market, David figured, he could count on two people to support other than himself. For that reason it was important to have the best educational background possible. His father had gone to Stanford. That, for David, was out of the question, but

with a top-notch transcript and high ACT. scores, he figured he would definitely be in the running for the special scholarship offered annually by the president of the University of New Mexico to an outstanding and needy student from the Albuquerque area. In the long run, he had his hopes pinned on law school. To this end he ran for school offices and took part in debating and other speech-oriented activities. Such things looked good on your record if you were aiming for a prelaw program. Now, in his last semester of high school, that record looked good, but since the president’s scholarship was not awarded until final grades were out, what concerned him was the upcoming grade in English. He had always considered himself a good English student; he read his assignments faithfully and was meticulous about his essays. Dolly Luna, last year’s teacher (formally she was “Miss Luna,” but the first day of class she had told them, “Call me Dolly”), had given him A’s on all his papers, followed by strings of exclamation marks. But the same sort of essays submitted in Mr.

Griffin’s class brought C’s. “Mechanics okay,” Griffin had written on one paper. “You have a grasp of grammar and punctuation, but the writing itself is shallow. There’s nothing to it. Don’t parrot back my lectures. Get under the surface. Tell me something about Hamlet I don’t already know.” “Something he doesn’t know!” David had exclaimed in frustration when that paper was returned to him. “He’s supposed to be the expert. I’m just a student. If there’s stuff about Shakespeare he doesn’t know, what’s he doing teaching it?” And now, today, those blown-away papers added an F to his grade list, which very likely

brought the average down to D. He had done what he could about it, even to skipping lunch in order to rewrite the paper, but true to his word, Griffin would not accept it. “I thought I made it clear, Mr.

Ruggles,” he had said in his cool, crisp voice, “that I do not take late papers, no matter what the excuse for them may be.” So that whole hour’s work had gone for nothing, and unless he could ace the final, which seemed unlikely, he would probably find that D permanently situated on his transcript. “I can see why Mark did what he did last semester,” he muttered angrily. “I might be tempted to try the same thing myself, if I thought it would do any good.” The doorbell rang.

Startled, David reached for the telephone receiver, stopped, waited.

Yes, it had been the doorbell. Who on earth, he thought, getting up and crossing the room. He opened the front door. “Oh, hey, I was just thinking about you.” “You were, huh?” Mark’s lean figure stood slouched in the doorway. “You got a chick in there or something? Why’s it so dark?” “You know my mom,” David said. “She doesn’t want the rug to bleach out. You got the gang with you?” “Jeff and Betsy are out front in Jeff’s car. Want to go cruising? We’ve got an idea about something we want to talk over with you.” “I can’t right now. I’ve got stuff I’m supposed to be doing here.” David was acutely conscious of the old woman in the bathroom only a couple of yards away. Any moment now her voice might ring out asking to be taken back to her

room. Mark knew more about his family life than anyone at school, but details like this were more than he needed to be subjected to. “I’ll walk out to the car with you,” David said. “Can’t you cue me in on the basics?” “It’ll take more time than that,” Mark said. “There’s a lot to be worked out. What it boils down to is this—we’re out to work over old man Griffin.” “Work him over?”

“Scare him shitless. Get him crawling. Teach him he can’t pull the sort of stuff he pulled today.” “How are you going to do it?” “We’re going to kidnap him,” Mark said. “We’re going to make him think we’re going to kill him.” “Oh, wow,” David said, drawing in his breath.

“That’s heavy stuff, man. You could get into all kinds of trouble.”

“I don’t think so. Not if he’s blindfolded. Not the way I’m working it out.” Mark put a hand on his shoulder. “How about it, Dave? Want to be a part of it?” From the dark behind them a cracked old voice called, “Davy?” “Look,” David said, “like I told you, I’ve got some stuff to do. Later, after dinner, I’m going to the library. I’ll meet you then, say around eight, okay? At the Snack-‘n-Soda?” “Not okay.

I need to know now.” Mark’s hand remained warm on his shoulder. His voice dropped until it was almost a whisper, so intense that the words came forth in short, painful jabs. “Dave, boy—how can you stand it—living like this? How long has it been—since you did something crazy—just for the hell of it? How long has it been—since you’ve

done something wild-just for fun?” “You’re not really planning to hurt him?” “Hell, no. Just scare him. Shake him up some. Are you with us?” All of David’s life rose up behind him in one great, gray wave. “Count me in,” he said.

It was the sound of the telephone ringing in the upstairs hallway that woke Susan at nine-thirty on Saturday morning. She was always aware of the telephone; it was situated directly outside her bedroom door. Who can be calling so early, she thought irritably, squirming over onto her stomach and burrowing her face into her pillow to escape the sunlight that was streaming between the half-drawn curtains and flooding the room with unwelcome brilliance. Saturdays were special to Susan. They meant that she did not have to get up in time to sit through the ordeal of a family breakfast with all the squabbling and spilling and teasing that went with it. She did not have to go to school and smile her way through a morning filled with semistrangers she did not have to worry about which cafeteria table to sit at during lunch and whether to tack herself onto the edge of a group that was already eating or to sit

alone and wait to see if someone sat down beside her. On Saturdays she could sleep late and get up at last to a house with most of the people already out of it. She could make herself peanut butter toast and read at the table, and after that she could shut herself back in her bedroom and write. She could spend her whole day there if she wanted to, unless, of course, her mother dragged her out to do some household chore The telephone had no right to ring on Saturday mornings. People should tiptoe softly about, not disturbing each other. The boys should tell their friends that if they wanted to see them they could stand in the yard and toss pebbles at their windows, not bring the house down with the shrillness of a telephone blast. Why doesn’t someone answer it, Susan thought as the phone continued to ring. Are they deaf or are all of them out somewhere? Finally, with a sigh of resignation, she dragged herself out from under the covers and crossed the room to the door. Her hand was on the knob when the ringing stopped. Craig’s voice called, “Sue! It’s for you!” “For me?” Susan turned the knob and stepped out into the hall. “Who is it?”

“How should I know? Some guy.” Craig’s voice was on the edge of changing. Sometimes it came out high and shrill like a little boy’s, and the other times it started deep and ended in a creak. Now it was suddenly very low and almost booming. “Don’t tell me the single person’s got herself a boyfriend!” “Oh—hush. She snatched the receiver from his hand. “Hello?” “Hello, Sue?” a masculine voice said. “This is David Ruggles.” It’s a joke, Susan thought. It’s

something Craig and the twins have rigged up for me.

“David who?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady. “It’s Dave Ruggles, from school. From your lit class. The one whose papers you were chasing yesterday, remember?” “Oh, yes. Yes, of course, I know who you are.” It was not a joke then; it was real. Or perhaps she was still in bed asleep and dreaming. “It’s such a neat day out,” the voice on the telephone was saying, “with the wind down and everything, a bunch of us thought we’d take a picnic up into the mountains. I was wondering if you might like to go.” “You mean, today?” “Well, sure, today. Are you busy?” “No,” Susan said. “I’m not busy at all. I’d like to go” “You would? Great. We’ll be by for you around eleven then. Okay?” “Okay,” Susan said. And then, as a frantic afterthought, “Do you know where I live?” “The address in the phone book is right, isn’t it?” “Yes. Yes, it’s right. Okay, then, I’ll see you in a little while.” Stunned, she replaced the receiver on the hook. For a moment she simply stood there, staring at it, at the pale beige plastic instrument that had brought the incredible message. “I have a date.” “You’re kidding,” Craig exclaimed with astonishment.

“That guy really asked you out?” “To a picnic.” “Cripes! Wait till I tell the twins!” With a bellow of laughter, Craig went rocketing down

the hall, shouting his piece of news. Susan went back into her room and shut the door. I have a date with David, she told herself numbly.

She could say the words, but she could not actually believe them. She went into the bathroom and brushed her teeth. The face in the bathroom mirror looked back at her, softly blurred because she was not wearing her glasses. It was a rather narrow face with a high forehead, and it was framed with fine, mouse-colored hair. It was not the face of a girl David Ruggles would ask for a date. Yet, it had happened—it had happened. She rinsed out the toothbrush and hung it on the rack and went back into her room and got dressed. Jeans and sandals and a green, tie-dyed T-shirt. She combed her hair and put on her glasses, and the room came into focus. I have a date with David! There was a brief, perfunctory knock. The bedroom door opened and her mother came in. “Craig told me the news!” she said. “My goodness, Sue, who is this boy?” “He’s the president of the senior class!” “And you’re only a junior! How exciting!” Her mother’s eyes were shining. “What are you going to take?” “Take?” “Craig said it was a picnic.” “I didn’t think about that.” Susan regarded her mother blankly. “What’ll I do?