Underdog (13 page)
Thirteen
Davey was going to be a fireman for Halloween. The year before he'd been a clown and the costume, bought big, still fit. But what was appropriate for preschool and what would impress his peers in kindergarten were, apparently, two different things. My child was aiming for a more grown-up image; and after I'd ruled out Dracula, who could drip blood, and the Creature from the Black Lagoon, who could drip gore, we'd settled on the fireman idea. The costume didn't drip anythingâalthough I'd volunteered to spray him with waterâbut it did have a helmet with an ear-splitting siren and Davey seemed to think that was almost as good.
On Halloween, the children were to bring their costumes to school in a bag and then change at noon for the costume parade and party. The older kids could take care of themselves, but those in the younger grades all seemed to need help at once. Every available adult was pressed into service.
I started in Davey's room, helping with snaps and zippers and applying make-up, most of which consisted of dripping blood and gore. Three Cinderella wands had to be found and sorted out, and I rescued a bent tiara from beneath a pile of blocks.
Then I made the mistake of telling my son he looked cute in his costume and snapping a picture. He fussed, his friends laughed, and I decided it was time to move on. When I was his age, cute was a good thing. When did five-year-olds become so sophisticated?
I'd promised Betty Winslow some back-up, so I headed to her room next. The kindergarten classroom had been a study in controlled chaos; the third graders were aiming for total pandemonium. The decibel level alone was enough to rattle the windows. Batman and Superman were leaping from desk to desk. A dinosaur with a long, spiked tail had knocked three plants from the windowsill; and a laser gun fight had broken out near the sinks.
None of which seemed to particularly perturb Betty, who was sitting in a corner with a tear-streaked fairy princess on her lap. She had a needle and thread in one hand and several pins in her mouth, and she was busy repairing a rip in the back of the costume. A swashbuckling pirate with eye patch and tin foil sword, who looked suspiciously like he might have been responsible, was hovering anxiously in the background.
“Feel free to jump in anywhere you want,” said Betty, mumbling around the pins. “But watch out for that Samurai over there. He kicks.”
“Got it.”
I made my way cautiously into the room, thinking it was a good thing I wasn't going to be around after the party when all the little darlings would be buzzed on a sugar high. Amazingly, despite the state of general upheaval, everyone seemed to be in pretty good shape.
I had an extra look to make sure “my” kids were all okay, and had to scan the room twice before I found Timmy Doane. Then I was working by process of elimination. There were three ghosts, all appropriately draped in white sheets with holes cut out for the eyes. Two were chasing each other around the room, one of them stopping every so often to lift little girls' skirts. The third ghost was sitting off by himself, staring out the window and waiting patiently for the parade to start.
Timmy, it had to be.
As a mother, my heart went out to him. It wasn't just that he was shy. In the work we'd done together so far, I'd also found him slow to offer input, and easily swayed from those few opinions I'd managed to draw out. His self-esteem was at such a low ebb that he couldn't imagine how anything he had to say could possibly be of value.
I walked over at sat down beside him. “Hi, Timmy.”
He turned and looked. “Ms. Travis.” He sounded pleased and I wondered if he was smiling. “How'd you know it was me?”
“I'm a good guesser. I like your costume.”
“It isn't much.” His hands fiddled with the folds of cloth.
“It's perfect. What could be better than a ghost on Halloween?”
“I guess it's okay.”
“Are you looking forward to the parade?”
“Not really.”
He looked so small and defenseless sitting there, I wanted to gather him into my arms. “How come?”
“When I walk, my sheet drags. Then the other kids step on it and it moves around and I can't see.”
He stood so I could check out the extent of the problem. The sheet was definitely too big and its excess fabric pooled around his feet. I lifted the material and rearranged it over his narrow shoulders, but as soon as I let go, the ends still fell in soft folds to the ground.
I tried making some gathers at his waist. “How about a belt?”
Timmy made a disgusted sound. “Ghosts don't wear belts.”
I thought some more. “How about a sword?” With all the pirates and knights and ninjas running around, there was bound to be an extra weapon somewhere.
“How's that gonna help?”
“I was thinking that if you had a sword and waved it around a little bit and yelled ”Get back! Get back!” like you were a very fierce ghost, maybe no one would come close enough to step on your sheet.”
Timmy pondered that. “It might work. Do you have a sword?”
“I can get one.”
I stood up and went to have a look. I liked the idea that Timmy was willing to take positive action to solve his problem. I also thought there was a small chance that having a sword to wave around might bolster his confidence a little. At the very least it would force him to interact with the other kids. Bearing all that in mind, I figured I was going to come up with a sword if I had to knock the samurai down and steal his.
Fortunately that wasn't necessary. Betty had a box of props in the closet and halfway down, I found a perfectly serviceable plastic lance. By the time I got back to Timmy, the kids were already forming a line. Predictably, he was near the end. I handed the weapon over.
“Don't come too close,” he warned, shaking it at the sheriff behind him. “I wouldn't want to have to poke you.”
“You poke and I'll shoot,” the sheriff replied.
If these two kids grew up to be terrorists, I supposed they'd have their third grade special ed. teacher to blame.
“Go ahead,” said Timmy. “Make my day.”
Then the line lurched forward. As Timmy started to walk, the sheriff dropped back respectfully. Just before he reached the end of the hall, Timmy gave me a thumbs up.
At least I think that's what it was. Mostly it just looked like a sheeted arm poked in the air. I returned the gesture and he turned the corner and was gone.
If only the rest of life's problems could be solved so easily.
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After two weeks off, handling class started up again that Thursday. I fed Davey an early supper, left him in the baby-sitter's capable hands, and met Aunt Peg there. I'd expected there to be some initial awkwardness as the class had been very much Jenny's domain; but Rick and Angie had obviously worked everything out ahead of time in an effort to make the transition go as smoothly as possible.
Angie was waiting by the door just as her sister had, taking the fees, marking attendance and joking lightly with the students. When the class started and the line split in halfâbig dogs in front, small dogs to the rearâAngie handled Jenny's duties at the other end of the room as if she'd been doing it all her life.
At times, she'd lift her hand to make a correction just as Jenny had done, or use one of her sister's phrases to make a point. Angie's hair was floating loose around her shoulders and the family resemblance was suddenly much more striking than I'd ever noticed before. Or maybe it was just that this was the first time I'd seen her in a capacity I associated so strongly with her sister.
I looked around at the rest of the class. Everyone else seemed to be taking the switch in stride, and even I had to admit that Angie was doing a fine job. The problem was that as effortlessly as she slipped into Jenny's shoes, Angie couldn't make me forget her sister. Or the little black Miniature Poodle that should have been sitting on the stage, chewing on a stuffed rat and overseeing the proceedings.
As soon as class ended I rushed Faith out and locked her in the car. When I got back inside, Rick was over in one corner working out some aggression problems with an overeager Rottweiler. Angie had started to roll up the mats.
“Here,” I said, squatting down beside her. “Let me help you with that.”
Angie blew a cool stream of air upward to ruffle her bangs. “Thanks.”
The wide green rubber mats had been laid out in a square around the outside of the room, with one long mat bisecting the middle to form two triangles. Their purpose was to give the dogs traction on an otherwise slippery floor, and most handling teachers tended to bring their own. In theory the mats, once rolled, were portable; but only a longshoreman could have carried them comfortably.
I placed both hands on my side of the partially rolled mat and began to push. On the other side, Angie did the same.
“What did you think of class?” she asked.
“It went very well. You do a good job.”
Her smile was quick and pleased. “Thanks.”
“You seem to get along well with Rick.”
“Yeah.” The smile widened. “He and I are buddies.”
We reached the end of one mat, pushed the finished roll aside, then turned the corner to begin again. I waited until we'd got the new end tucked under and started rolling, then said, “I guess he and Jenny were having some problems, huh?”
“What makes you say that?”
“It just occurred to me during class. It seems easier now, you know? Like there's less tension around.” It was a lie, but I was hoping Angie was self-centered enough to fall for it. She was.
“I guess there is,” she agreed. “Rick and I work together pretty well. And it's different living together, when you're not married.”
Interesting choice of words. Although Rick and Angie were indeed living in the same house, I hadn't thought of them as “living together.” I couldn't imagine Rick did either. He'd always treated her very much as a little sister.
“Being married is hard,” I said. “I was married once, briefly.”
“Yeah.” Angie looked up as we inched the mat along the floor. “I saw your kid at the show. He's cute.”
“Thanks.”
“Are you divorced now?”
I nodded. “Four years.”
“That's tough. Jenny and Rick almost got divorced once.”
I over-balanced, nearly fell, then managed what I hoped was a graceful recovery. “Really?”
“Yeah, it was supposed to be a secret, but I don't see how it matters now. Jenny filed and everything, but Rick just went crazy. He said he loved her too much to let her go.”
We reached the end of another mat, shoved that one aside, and went on to the next. Now that I'd gotten Angie started talking, I was determined she wouldn't get distracted. “Then what happened?”
“Rick convinced her to come back. He told her they could work everything out.”
“And did they?”
“I guess. I mean, they stayed together, didn't they?”
“If Rick and Angie had divorced, what would have happened to the dogs?”
Angie considered before answering. “Things never got that far. But I think Jenny would have just left the whole thing to Rick.”
“But it was her business, too!”
“It was,” Angie agreed. “But Jenny was getting pretty tired of all that. Even way back in the beginning, she never became a handler because she loved it so much. She started handling because she was eighteen years old and out on her own and it was the only thing she knew how to do.”
I remembered the story. The version I'd heard hadn't contained many details. “She left home pretty young, didn't she?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
I guess. That seemed to be Angie's stock answer to just about everything. Maybe it was time to try shaking things up a little.
“You were even younger, but you moved out, too.” I waited a minute, but Angie didn't offer any comment. “How come?”
I wasn't looking at Angie, but I knew she'd stopped pushing when the mat suddenly became twice as heavy in my hands. I stopped too, and looked up.
“It was no big deal,” she said carefully. “It was just time.”
We finished rolling the rest of the mat in silence. Then Rick came to help us and I left the two of them to it. They hoisted the rolls and carried them out to their van. I sat in my car and watched, frowning.
According to Angie, Rick had told Jenny that he would never let her go. Now she was gone and in her place he had Jenny's sister, a younger, more tractable version of the woman he had loved. A woman he was already living with in the house he'd shared with his wife. A wife who apparently had begun to rebel against some of the restrictions in her marriage.
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