Photo, Snap, Shot (19 page)

“Didn’t see it.”

“A cut glass flower vase. Patricia’s in charge of all gifts for all parent-faculty events because she’s the Parent Guild’s faculty liaison committee chair. She picked it out. Just like she picked out Coach Bosch’s gift and was there to give it to him. Too bad it isn’t light outside. Mrs. Selsner’s backyard is full of roses. She’ll be able to keep the vase full. I guess she’d never had a gift from Tiffany’s before. Sort of overwhelmed her. That and the pitcher of margaritas. ”

Ella hit the sunroof button, and we purred along under alternating patches of light and dark, a duality played out by streetlights and trees.

“I wish you’d known him. My son.”

“I wish I had, too.”

“He forgave me. At the end. I just don’t know if I can forgive myself.”

Too keyed up to
go to bed, I worked awhile on the confidential album, sorting through photos of jewelry and clothing. I’d prepared the background pages. All I needed was to adhere the photos in their places. But that was a job I wanted to tackle in one go.

Finally, I decided reading Sissy’s and Corey’s files would be a good use of my excess energy.

Corey had a surprisingly good command of the English language. His forms were filled in with a neat, almost prissy hand. He’d struggled as a student in elementary and middle school, but clearly he’d picked up speed as time went on, graduating with a high B average. Most of the information was unremarkable. His foster family was listed as his next-of-kin.

His employment essay might easily have been the most bland document I’d ever seen until he answered the question, “What special skills, talents, or insights can you bring to the job of teacher at CALA?” Obviously, this touched a nerve. He wrote:

“Because of my background, I know what it’s like not to belong. I know how it feels to be an outsider. My birth mother gave me away, and I have always wondered what was wrong with me that made her do that. Now that I’m an adult, I understand that people do things for all kinds of reasons. Some might even seem like good reasons at the time. So I think that when a student is troubled, I can relate to him. The one thing every person wants is acceptance. I can give a student that. I can tell him that his future happiness is up to him, and he has more control over his life than he thinks—on and off the basketball court. Even if it seems no one loves him, someday if he’s lucky and a good person, he will find people who will care about him, I know it. It has happened to me.”

I closed the file and looked at my own hands for a long, long time, thinking about my own fight to feel good about myself. It hadn’t been easy.

I was sure Ella hadn’t read Corey’s file, and I was glad. You could tell Corey was struggling to forgive her. First, he had to believe he was not abandoned by an uncaring woman. Then he fought to accept himself and his situation. I thought back to what I’d heard about Corey before the murder. He’d led the basketball team to a string of victories. The alumni newsletter bragged about his warm relationship with his athletes, his ability to “get the best” from all his players. Of course, Anya had told me how much the kids thought of him. To be successful like that, he must have found a measure of peace and acceptance. And he must have brought those qualities to his relationship with Sissy.

Sissy’s file held cursory particulars in a rounded, childish script. Grade transcripts mingled with an information sheet detailing biographical data. The line at the bottom listing her “call in an emergency” number, struck me as particularly poignant. She was a low-B, high-C student except for her grades in math which were all A’s. At the very back of the stack was her personal essay. Skimming over the opening paragraphs, it was obvious why she wasn’t an English major. Her thinking on paper was trite and repetitious. She had numerous usage problems. At first glance, the work seemed more on the level of a high school freshman than a college graduate.

Buried at the back were a few lines worth reading. Like many writers, as she went on, Sissy warmed to her subject:

“If I’m excepted as a teacher there’s one thing you can count on. I won’t lie to my students. Adults like to tell kids they are doing this or that for there own good when really they are protecting themselves. Adults are very good at slanting things so they come out looking good. They can create the allusion that they really care when they don’t. Mostly they care about themselves and how they look to there friends. I know from personal experience.

“Honestly, I’d like to work here because of my son, Christopher. He’s the most important person in the world to me, and I love him with all my heart. I want to be around to protect him. He’s all I have in this world that is true and good.”

I put down the paper and brushed away my tears.

Sunday morning very early,
Detweiler listened over the phone to the tale of Sissy Gilchrist’s rape with an attitude of restrained outrage. He promised to check old police reports. “Maybe the Gilchrists reported it before they decided not to press charges. That’s common. Tomorrow I’ll call them. I hate having to bring up old hurts, but I can’t overlook a possible connection. Maybe the man who raped Sissy felt threatened. Maybe she decided to confront him before she moved away. Maybe he and Corey had words.”

I hung up feeling incredibly lonely. I really missed George. Maybe I should encourage Ben’s attentions. His parents liked me. Sheila would be thrilled. I could love him. Even if, right now, my loyalties were divided because I still had the hots for Detweiler, perhaps Ben would light a fire inside me, and my fantasies would revolve around the journalist instead of the cop. After all, Ben was a good man. And I’d had practice being a partner to a good man who wasn’t my soul mate. I could have that sort of relationship again. I knew I could.

I could have a “settle for” existence. Perhaps the emptiness of my life would be filled up with a new husband. Maybe even a new baby. Wouldn’t that be lovely? Surely holding a baby would cause my heart to overflow, and whatever empty spaces were left in my soul would fill up … and I’d love Ben. Yes, of course, I would. Hadn’t I loved George in part for his love of Anya?

Weren’t arranged marriages like this? Initial attraction was unimportant, and a different sort of love flourished? A love made more secure because the “lovers” were surrounded by a family unit showering them with positive encouragement?

Putting one hand on the windowsill, I stared out into the empty backyard. The weather was turning colder. Trees shivered in the early fall chill, and parchment-dry leaves blew about like so much trash. A few leaves tumbled end over end, caught on a bare branch and waved like brown flags. Winter would come soon, sending its painful cold drilling deep into my pores. I could offer no resistance. The chambers of my heart were empty voids. How long could I hold up with this vacuum in my life? This echoing vastness within me? Was this exactly why people—even those in bad marriages—married on the rebound? Even when I suspected George was being unfaithful, a part of me knew he wouldn’t walk away from our family. How I missed having someone to share my life with!

I wanted someone to grieve with me over what had happened to poor Sissy Gilchrist. I wanted someone to sorrow with me about the horrible injustice that must have haunted her. I wanted to talk over how I—how we—would handle a situation like that, if God forbid, it happened in our family. My thoughts returned again and again to Corey. To thoughts of how he forgave Ella just in time.

The worst part of being a parent is knowing you’ll make mistakes, and fearing them, and feeling the pain that accompanies the inevitability of letting your child down. But two people can better strategize. Two people can talk through the process. Two people can bear the disappointments more fully and comfort each other with the reminder “we did our best.”

But there wasn’t anybody in my house to talk to. My house was empty.

I fell back on routine. I followed our typical Sunday morning ritual, but without Anya. After all, sometime in the near future, she’d naturally choose time with her friends over time with me. I might as well get used to this.

I headed directly for a park, choosing Tilles because I rarely went there.

After our third round of chasing squirrels—who are much smarter than you’d guess and twice as fast—I decided to tell the dogs about Sissy’s essay. They were good listeners. The dogs frolicked through two quick runs, before the chill in the morning air was too much for me. We headed home for breakfast. I spilled my (coffee) beans to Gracie—complaining about missing Anya—as the big dog gobbled the biscuit and the two tablespoons of canned food on top of her kibble in two gulps. Mr. Gibbes licked his meal tentatively, teasing my big girl with his slow consumption.

For the first time, I noticed the gray hairs sprinkled in the black in Gracie’s muzzle.

Danes don’t live long. Seven years is normal. The vet had estimated her age as three when we got her. Maybe even four. Now she was five. What would I do without my dear dog? I got all weepy again; I’d cried a little this morning as I dressed.

I rummaged through my cabinet and pulled out a box of Prilosec that I hadn’t needed in months. I knocked it back with a slug of cold water and hoped my ulcer wasn’t flaring up. It had been full-blown off and on when George was alive. The pain had seared my gut now and then since, but now it nearly doubled me over.

I needed to get my mind off my troubles.

This would be a good day to work on the confidential album. I had time until Anya got home. But I couldn’t settle into my work. I had a key to return.

Showing up early, unannounced and empty handed at Mrs. Selsner’s seemed awkward, so I ran into a nearby Starbucks first and bought another hit of caffeine for me, a coffee and a bag of bakery items for her. Okay, I lied. If she wanted both the low-fat cinnamon coffee cake and the blueberry muffin, she’d have to arm wrestle me. I gulped the tall skinny vanilla latte as I drove. The houses in her neighborhood seemed more shopworn in the daylight, but the area was neatly tended.

My first stab at the doorbell did not produce Mrs. Selsner. I stood patiently, reflecting on the hangover she no doubt was nursing. The second ring brought a scuffling noise from within. Standing on the doorstep was tedious, but dropping a key labeled “house key” in her mailbox would expose an old woman to unnecessary risk. Besides, I had more questions to ask. My forefinger pushed the glowing doorbell button for the third time.

The doorknob jumped to life with a rattle. “Who is it?” she called in a quavery voice.

“Hi, Mrs. Selsner. Kiki Lowenstein. I have your house key. From last night.” Come on, lady, I thought, don’t make me explain to your door that you were in no condition to lock up last night.

What seemed like five minutes went by, then the knob turned slowly, and Mrs. Selsner glared at me. Her watery eyes gave me the once over. She struggled to place me, considered, reconsidered, and then mumbled, “Oh, you.”

Oh, you, indeed. That fell a little short of the thanks I deserved, but what the hey?

“I stopped by Starbucks and brought you a coffee and a cinnamon coffee cake.” That blueberry muffin had my name on it. Holding the bag up in the manner of a peace offering, I continued, “Last night Ella and I locked your door for you, so I came to return the key.” This I dangled before her in my other hand.

“This early? Don’t be standing there telling the whole world my business,” she snipped, waving me inside.

I followed the figure wearing grubby beige house slippers and a faded floral smock that my mother used to call a housecoat. The Youth Dew had worn off and was replaced with the smell of dirty hair. Putting the coffee and the bag on the imitation Early American table, I took a seat behind a vinyl placemat covered with yellow daisies. Seeing as how Mrs. Selsner obviously wasn’t interested in acting like a good hostess, I asked if I could help myself to a glass of water, and received a go-ahead grunt. As I waited for the tap water to run cool, she drank the coffee and devoured the crumb cake. I returned to the seat I’d vacated, and we sat in awkward silence.

“Anya’s your daughter?”

I nodded.

“Has problems eating?”

“Occasionally.”

“You keep an eye on it. Hear? These girls get the silliest ideas.” Mrs. Selsner fingered the paper napkin I’d provided her along with her breakfast. “She’s a good child. Sensible.”

A clock ticked above our heads. We sat silently. Most people are afraid of silence. Try this: sit and stare at another person for fifteen seconds. Time yourself. It’s nearly impossible to do without laughing or saying something, anything.

“You know, I found Sissy.”

“You mean … her body?” Of course, I knew this.

“Yes. She wasn’t the only one who snuck around in that balcony. I caught others. Two teachers. A couple of freshmen. A parent and a teacher. Told Mr. McMahan we needed to get that changed right smart. He wanted names. Heavens, if I’d turned in every person I’d stumbled over in the past thirty years … well, I could fill all the seats in the Latreau Theatre. That was hardly the point.

“In this day and age of people suing each other for one fool thing or another, I said, ‘Why don’t we keep the balcony locked?’ Mr. McMahan agreed. Still, the lock was one of those flimsy do-hickeys you could pop wide open with a credit card. Mr. McMahan doesn’t always follow through like he should. Bringing in money, he’s a regular Speed Racer, but spending it’s another story.”

“How’d you happen to discover the … uh …”

“Sissy had been in the hall reading a note right before the first class period. Her room is on the other end of the campus. She would have already dropped Christopher off at kindergarten. I’m pretty sharp, you know.” Mrs. Selsner tapped the side of her head with a finger.

“She had no business being at the south end of the school … no business except monkey business. I kept getting up from my desk and looking into the hall, wondering if she’d popped the lock. Planned to catch her in the act. I’d broken up a little powwow between her and Coach Johnson the week before. Then I took a call from a mother about whether fifth’s disease is contagious. Which it is. And I thought I heard a noise. I keep a radio on in my office so I can hear the weather bulletins. I wasn’t sure, but something told me to go and check.”

Mrs. Selsner stopped abruptly. With a grubby finger, she mashed crumbs and brought them to her mouth.

To string out the conversation, I stepped to the faucet and poured myself another glass of water. I needn’t have worried; Mrs. Selsner started up again.

“First I opened the door and saw a foot. The shoe was silver—one of those Aigner loafers they sell at Dillard’s?—it was on the floor. Figured someone had fainted. The lights were off, so I hit the switch. The police said I smeared the fingerprints. How could I know? At the time, that wasn’t my concern. The light came on. I could tell she was gone, but still … you have to … I felt for a pulse.”

“Could you tell right away what happened to her?”

Mrs. Selsner blanched. “My Lord, yes.”

“Any ideas who did it?” I took my glass to the sink. I rinsed it out and set it next to a similar glass and an empty packet of Metamucil.

Mrs. Selsner folded the paper wrapper from her cake and stuffed it into the Starbucks bag. She took a searching drag from her paper coffee cup, popped off the lid, and ran her tongue along the rolled rim trying to chase down any last drops. “Told the police to check out her ex-husband. They’d fought in the hallway last week, yelling and cursing, loud enough that the nearby teachers called security. I ran out of my office when I heard the commotion. He had her by the arms and was shaking her so hard her head was snapping back and forth. A security guard separated them, and her ex stormed out into the parking lot.”

“Then a lot of people saw and heard the fight?”

“Even their son.”

___

“Questioning Danny Gartner has been … uh … less than productive,” said Detweiler when I called him on my cell phone as I drove home from the nurse’s house. “The man’s a cop in a small town. We got the runaround for a day and a half from his boss. Commander Fender sent down a detective, who just happened to be an old friend of Gartner’s family. You know, I’ve heard it said that St. Louis is a big small town, but now I think the whole state of Missouri is a big small town as well.”

I thought about the connections between families at CALA and concurred.

“It’s on our list to go down and talk with Gartner again, but the detective who went down there says Gartner has an alibi, so it’s not been a top priority.” Papers rustled in the background. “Here it is. His dad says Danny was at a conference. Sounds pretty weak, but other than the fact most divorced people seem to hate each other, we’ve got nothing on him. Besides the usual bad feelings, we don’t have a motive. And timing’s an issue.”

“Maybe it was her engagement to Corey Johnson.”

“That would make sense. I’ll re-examine his statement. If Danny did go to a conference somewhere, Spock didn’t beam him there. There have to be plane tickets, gas receipts, whatever.”

I closed the phone. I’d fiddled around enough. I needed to finish my confidential album.