Читать книгу Mummy Said Goodbye - Janice Johnson Kay - Страница 6

A MAN SUSPECTED of murdering his wife can pretty well count on being left off guest lists.

Laughter, the clink of ice in glasses, the shouts of children and the smell of barbecued beef drifted over the fence from the next-door neighbor’s.

Craig Lofgren stood on his back deck, the lid of his Weber kettle grill in his hand. Just like that, he was hit by a fist of anger and loss so powerful, he reeled back a step.

“Daddy?” His daughter tugged at his free hand. “Daddy, what’s wrong?”

He swallowed and opened his eyes. His voice sounded hoarse to his ears. “Just taking a whiff. Smells good, doesn’t it?”

The anxiety on her face faded and she nodded. “You haven’t lit the charcoal yet.”

“I’m doing it, I’m doing it.” Somehow, he found a grin for her. “Hungry?”

Abby—who just turned nine—nodded, then gave a wistful look toward the fence. “They’re all there, aren’t they?”

There was no point in pretending. She knew as well as he did why they were excluded. “Sounds that way.”

Solemn, she nodded again. “I think I heard Brett putting his bike in the garage.”

“Yeah? Go ask him if the teacher lists were posted yet.”

The intense emotion had passed, leaving bitter resignation in its wake. He dumped charcoal in the kettle, making no effort to be quiet, poured on lighter fluid and flicked a match. To hell with it if he cast a pall on the block party. Let ’em whisper about him. Feel a tiny twinge of guilt, or at least pity, because they had made his innocent children pariahs with him.

Once he was sure the charcoal was burning, Craig went in the house and sought out his eleven-year-old son. Brett had ridden his bike to the school, where rumor had it the lists had been posted showing which classrooms kids would be in and who their teachers would be when school started next week. Abby was the one who’d worried all summer about whether she’d be in the same class with her friends. But Brett, who professed not to care about school at all, had been the one to leap on his bike the minute Abby said she’d heard the lists were up.

Craig headed upstairs when he heard his daughter’s squeal.

“Daddy!” She popped out into the hall from her brother’s bedroom. “I got Mrs. Jensen! She’s super nice!”

“Great.” He gave her a hug and went into Brett’s bedroom. As usual, it looked as if a burglar had ransacked it. “Who’d you get?”

Shoulders slumped, Brett sat on the edge of the bed. “Ms. McKinnon.”

Damn. Some of his earlier anger and tension gripped Craig again. He’d hoped for any other teacher for Brett.

Carefully, he said, “She’s supposed to be good.”

Brett nodded without looking up.

Craig hesitated, then stepped over piles of clothes, a soccer ball and God knew what else so that he could reach the bed and sit down, too, right next to Brett. Abby stood in the doorway and watched, her jubilation gone and her face pinched, as it so often was these days.

“What’s the deal?” Craig asked.

He hadn’t expressed any of his concerns and hadn’t realized Brett had his own. The truth was, Robin McKinnon was said to be the best sixth grade teacher in the district. Right now, Brett needed someone who might be able to inspire him, energize him, discipline him.

Craig just wasn’t sure Robin would even try. She’d been a friend of Julie’s, which meant, in this town, that she would believe heart and soul that Craig had murdered his wife and hidden the body. Or ground it up into bits and fed it to some farmer’s pigs. Who the hell knew? Craig understood there were a dozen or more theories. Every one of them involved him as a crazed killer, a man who couldn’t stand the thought that his wife wanted to leave him. Nobody had considered the theory that maybe Julie Lofgren had just up and walked out on her family. Or that a stranger had abducted her.

If the police had had one grain of proof… But they hadn’t then, a year and a half ago when Julie disappeared, and they didn’t have one now.

Which hadn’t changed a single mind. The community had closed ranks against him. His lovely, innocent wife! they cried. A devoted mother and president of the parent-teacher organization two years running, she was well-known in Klickitat. Craig had never been anything but Julie’s often-absent husband, Brett’s dad who came to games when he could, Abby’s father who had missed her second grade parent-teacher conference because he was flying to Juneau.

Now, every single person in Klickitat knew who he was. He couldn’t go to the grocery store or get gas without feeling eyes on him, without knowing he was being judged.

He’d hoped that Brett would get the man just hired to teach sixth grade. Someone would have told him Brett’s sad story, of course, but at least he might not share the fervor of the people who’d known Julie.

No such luck.

After a long silence, Brett muttered, “Ms. McKinnon used to come to games and stuff.”

“She was a friend of your mom’s.”

Brett didn’t say anything.

“Her boy—what was his name?—was a friend of yours, wasn’t he?” Craig remembered.

“Malcolm.”

“You know, she’s not going to treat you any differently because your mom disappeared.”

“Yeah?” Fury blazed on Brett’s face when he lifted his head. “Everyone does! They either feel sorry for me,” he spat out, “or else they’re wondering if I saw anything. You can see what they’re thinking!”

Yeah. You could.

“Robin knows you.”

“So?”

Craig groped for an answer to the unanswerable. So she’d known Brett, known Julie, even, casually known Craig. She, too, had shunned the entire family after police cars with flashing lights were seen in front of the Lofgren home. She hadn’t called to find out why Brett quit the Little League team. Malcolm hadn’t called to invite Brett over to hang at his house.

Brett bowed his head again, but tension still ran through him. “She’ll think you killed Mom.”

“I’m not the one in her class,” Craig said. “Brett.” He waited until his son met his eyes. “I can ask for a change of teacher if you want.” No response. “Otherwise, we’ll give Ms. McKinnon a try. If you’re not happy, then I’ll have you changed to a different room.”

“Why can’t we move?” his thin, dark-haired son cried. “Where no one knows us?”

Because this is purgatory, Craig thought, and we’ve been consigned to it.

“You know why.” He wrapped an arm around Brett’s shoulders and squeezed. “We’re outta here the minute the police find out what happened to your mom.”

“But they think you killed her.” Brett searched his face. “Don’t they? So, are they even looking for Mom?”

“Sure they are.” Craig hated his falsely hearty voice, never mind the fact that he was lying to his kids despite his vows never to do so. No, the cops weren’t looking for Julie, because they were sure she was dead. Fish bait. What they were doing was waiting for him to screw up. Head out furtively some Tuesday afternoon for that storage space, rented under another name, where he’d hidden the bloodstained tarps. Or maybe even the body. The cops were probably listening to this conversation. Craig was willing to bet the house was wiretapped. He was the suspect, and the cops were dogging his every footstep.

Abby, still in the doorway, let out a sniff. “I miss Mommy.”

Craig held out his hand to her and lied yet again. “Me, too, Punkin. Come here.”

She plopped onto the bed on his other side and wept a few tears onto his T-shirt. Brett continued to sit stiffly, saying nothing.

“Daddy?” Abby said after a moment. “Did you light the coals?”

“Light the…” He swore and leaped up. “I forgot all about them.”

They’d burned down to fiery embers, perfect for barbecuing. Abby brought him the plate of steaks, which he laid on the grill. Juice sizzled as it hit the coals. Soon, the scent of their meat cooking mingled in the air with the smells from across the fence.

And finally, he and his children ate, near to the laughter and conversation in the next yard but not part of it, isolated as they always were now.

Because one day Julie had vanished, leaving behind her car keys and purse. Who would befriend even the children of a man who must have murdered his wife?

ROBIN MCKINNON sat in her classroom and waited for the bell that would bring students rushing in. Hands flat on her desk, she took one last survey of her newly hung decorations, the welcome she’d written on the blackboard, the arrangement of the desks, the names she’d stenciled onto cards and taped below each wooden cubby where her sixth-graders would park their backpacks and lunches.

Her gaze paused halfway, on one name: Brett Lofgren. She both dreaded and anticipated seeing him walk in the door. Notes from Brett’s fourth grade and fifth grade teachers made it clear that he had become a troubled boy since Robin had known him. And no wonder! How horrifying for him, to be torn between fear that his mother had abandoned him and his sister and the more frightening possibility that his father had killed his mother.

The Tribune had reported that Brett claimed his mother had said goodbye to him; his story was one of the major reasons Craig Lofgren hadn’t been arrested. But what if he’d made up that story to protect his father? Imagine as the weeks and months went by and his mother wasn’t found. Would he start wondering if his father had murdered her?

She shivered, thinking about it, remembering Julie Lofgren. Robin had met Julie through circumstance, just…oh, two mothers who often sat together at sporting events, rooting for each other’s kid, talking in that idle way you did when a Little League game dragged on for hours. After several years, she’d have sworn she knew Julie, the bubbly, pretty woman with dimples and an irresistibly childish delight in the triumphs of her children. Robin had talked about her husband, then their marital troubles and finally the divorce. Just before Julie disappeared, a year after Robin’s divorce—when she and Glenn had become embroiled in an ugly custody battle because Glenn was trying to impress his new girlfriend—Julie had listened sympathetically.

In turn, she had confessed to problems in her own marriage, nebulous but enough to make her lower her voice and to cause the light that imbued her to dim. She had never once suggested that Craig was abusive or that she was afraid of him, but she was never quite specific about what was wrong at home, either.

Robin felt guilty that she hadn’t stayed in touch with Brett. He and Malcolm were more soccer buddies than close friends, rather like their mothers, but Mal would have been okay with inviting Brett over. She just hadn’t thought to suggest it, even though she’d read all the newspapers with her friend’s face constantly in her mind, wondering at her fate, first thinking about Craig as a distraught, loving husband, then as a violent man who wouldn’t take rejection. She and Malcolm had had their own turmoil about the same time, thanks to Glenn…. But that was just an excuse. Robin prayed that Brett’s closer friends had been more faithful.

The bell rang, its shrill clamor making her start. Feet thundered in the hall and two boys jostled to be the first into the classroom. Other children pressed behind them.

“Children” was still the right word, although they wouldn’t like to hear it. This was her favorite age, these boys and girls on the brink of so much more: of physical maturity, of making decisions that would direct their lives, of being genuinely cool, of “going together” meaning more than the words. You could mistake a sixth-grader for a sophomore in high school one minute, a fourth-grader the next. Like the boys’ voices, cracking and squeaking and booming, these eleven-year-olds wavered between childhood and adolescence. She liked to think she could still have an effect on them that she might not be able to in another year or two.

She smiled as they poured in. “Take a seat. Any desk is fine today.”

A few she knew well, because of extracurricular activities or because they were younger siblings of former students. Others were familiar faces, because she’d seen them in the halls every year. A few were new to the district.

As always, she marveled at how much less mature the boys were than the girls—a sad fact that had the girls longing for middle school. A curvy brunette sauntered in, flipping her hair and eyeing the boys sidelong. Pants darn near as low and tight as Christina Aguilera’s hugged her hips; her baby tee, snug over a buxom chest, announced that she was a “princess.” Slipping quietly into a front seat was another girl, slight as a fourth grader, who would undoubtedly pretend with friends that she was interested in boys, even though she still played with Barbies at home.

Boys punched each other, rocked their desks, guffawed and shouted at friends passing in the hall. Most were shorter than the girls, just beginning a growth spurt that would have them looking like men in only a few years.

Unless he had changed extraordinarily, Brett Lofgren hadn’t yet made an appearance. Robin scanned faces yet again. The second bell rang, making a few kids clap hands over their ears. She started toward the door with the intention of shutting it.

A tall, handsome boy with his father’s dark hair and gray eyes ambled in. She’d have been fooled by Brett’s air of nonchalance, by his sneer, if she hadn’t seen how fixed his gaze was. He walked right by her and sat down without meeting anybody’s eyes or speaking to a soul.

It might have been her imagination, but there seemed to be a brief hitch in the noise level, a moment when others snatched a surreptitious look, then ostentatiously turned back to their friends and began chattering again. Brett slumped in his chair and began tapping his fingers on the desk.

Robin closed the door and cleared her throat. Quiet spread slowly.

“Good morning. Welcome to sixth grade, and your last year at Roosevelt Elementary School.” She smiled in acknowledgment of the cheers. “I’m Robin McKinnon, and I look forward to getting to know all of you.”

She called roll. Most said, “Hey!” or “That’s me.” Brett flicked a hand in the air and didn’t look up. They talked about seating and agreed to start the year wherever they liked.

“After the first few weeks, once I get to know you, I’m going to start assigning seats.”

Groans.

She smiled. “It’s important for you to learn to work with people who aren’t your best friends. There are rewards, too, in getting to know kids who aren’t in your circle, who maybe have different interests. And finally, I know you’ll concentrate better when you can’t whisper with your best friend.”

Brett, it appeared as the day went on, had no best friend, at least not in this classroom. He spoke to no one. Some of the girls made tentative efforts to flirt with him, not at all to Robin’s surprise; Brett was not only good-looking, but his sulky expression gave him a James Dean air. The other boys were downright wholesome in comparison.

She handed out paperwork for them to go over with their parents concerning her expectations, both for behavior and quality of work. They reviewed math, so she got a sense of where they were, she distributed texts and talked about her requirement for reading: a report a month, each written after reading a book from a different category on a list she gave them. She wanted them to read widely; one sports book was okay, for example, but not nine. The kids always grumbled early on, but her experience was that they found their interests broadening when they dipped into a biography or a play or science fiction or a classic.

At morning recess and lunch, Brett waited until last to slouch out of the classroom door. Robin peeked to see what he did on the playground and saw him shooting baskets by himself. He moved as if he did this often. He’d feint, dribble, shoot and rebound like a pro. As good as he was, no other boy went to join him.

Oh, dear, she thought. Usually she arranged desks in clusters of four once she started assigning seats. Brett was going to be a dark cloud over every group stuck with him if his attitude didn’t improve.

It didn’t.

Although there were no incidents, he stayed sullen through that first three-day week.

On the following Monday, Robin saw another boy poke him as they waited in line to go to P.E., and heard Brett snarl a startling—and forbidden—obscenity.

“Brett!” she snapped. “You will not use that word at school again. Is that clear?”

Eyes filled with dark, churning emotion, he stared at her for a long moment. Then he gave a curt nod.

“Please apologize to Trevor.”

This pause was even longer. Finally he mumbled something that she suspected was as unintelligible to Trevor as it was to her, but she decided not to make an issue of it.

Oh, dear, she thought again.

Tuesday, Amanda Whitney, she of the baby tees and tight jeans, sat down beside him and began tossing her hair and giggling as she tried to coax him to talk.

Brett leveled a cold stare at her and said, “Will you just leave me alone?”

From the other side of the classroom came a boy’s voice. “Jeez, Mandy! Stay away from him. He’s probably a killer like his dad.”

Brett erupted from his desk, sending the chair flying. Shoving aside other desks and kids, he lunged toward a cluster of boys. He crashed into Ryan Durney and the two went down.

Robin yelled, “Stop, now!” and grabbed Brett’s arm before he could punch Ryan.

Ryan scrambled away, his eyes wild. The rest of the kids had gathered in a semicircle, looking scared.

“Back to your seats!”

They went.

Gentling her voice, Robin asked, “Ryan, are you all right?”

He gave a jerky nod.

“Please take your seat, too. I’ll talk to you in a minute.”

She marched an unresisting Brett out onto the small, railed porch of the portable building. Mercifully, the porch of the next portable and the covered breezeway into the main building were deserted. When she released him, he put his back to the railing and waited, head bowed and lank hair hanging over his eyes.

“What were you thinking?” Robin asked.

After a minute, he shrugged.

Her heartbeat was slowing at last, but she still felt shaken by the violence of his reaction. Sixth-grade fights were usually…clumsier. She had never seen an attack so purposeful. Given another ten seconds, he would have hurt Ryan.

“I should send you to the principal’s office,” she said. “I won’t hesitate to do so if you ever, ever, start a fight again. Is that clear?”

He nodded.

“What Ryan said was unkind. It was also spoken out of ignorance.”

Brett’s head shot up. He said hotly, “My dad would never—”

Robin held up a hand. “But that isn’t the point. You cannot go through life attacking every single person who thinks something you don’t like.”

“I should just let people call my dad a murderer.”

“I didn’t say you couldn’t correct them, or even argue. When,” she added sternly, “the setting is appropriate to do so.”

His face set in stubborn lines.

“Have you ever said to Ryan, ‘My mom left my dad. Just because the cops can’t find her doesn’t mean she’s dead’?”

“Nobody will believe me. The cops don’t.”

He had a point. She gave up on reason and said, “If another kid taunts you, I want you to come to me. I’ll talk to him or her, just as I’m going to talk to Ryan. But violence will only convince them that they’re right.”

Anger simmered in his eyes. “Dad didn’t—”

Interrupting, Robin said, “Right now, I neither know nor care. He’s not in my classroom. You are. He isn’t the issue here, any more than are the parents that I know don’t encourage their children to do their homework or who don’t care enough to come to parent conferences. You are responsible for your own behavior, for how you handle your problems. Parents might be part of the problem, but your response is yours alone.” She waited a moment. “Do you understand?”

Jaw still clenched, he jerked his head once.

“Fine.” She touched his rigid arm. “You may return to your desk.”

Stepping into the classroom, she gestured to Ryan, who took a circuitous route to avoid going anywhere near Brett. Robin steered the other boy outside the classroom door.

“I’m glad you weren’t hurt.”

“Jeez! He was like an animal!”

“You said something deeply hurtful.”

His face became wary.

“Tell me, Ryan, do you know anything about Brett’s parents for a fact?” She waited, then continued, “Or have you been listening to gossip that is no more informed than you were a few minutes ago?”

“Everybody says…”

“Has Brett’s father been arrested? Tried?”

He hesitated, then shook his head.

“Don’t you think the police would have arrested Mr. Lofgren if they had any evidence whatsoever to suggest that he killed his wife?”

“But…”

She overrode him. “In this country, we believe people are innocent until proven guilty. Mr. Lofgren is nowhere near being proven guilty. Perhaps more to the point, in this school, and especially in my classroom, nobody deliberately attempts to hurt another person’s feelings. Am I making myself clear?”

Looking both mulish and sheepish—speaking of animals, she thought with a certain wryness—Ryan nodded again.

“Then this incident is forgotten. You may go back to your desk.”

Of course, she was lying. The incident was not forgotten by either boy, or even by her.

Wednesday, she had her students begin journals, which they would leave in their desks every night.

“I’ll read them from time to time.” She wandered among desks, touching a shoulder here, smiling there. “Not to correct them. I want you to write freely about your experiences, your thoughts, your feelings. I’m checking only to be sure that you are in fact using your time to write. Still, be aware that I may read any particular passage, so in a sense you are writing for my eyes.”

She gave them twenty minutes to open their spiral notebooks and—for the most part—stare into space. Each day it would come easier, until the majority of students actually enjoyed this time, took up where they left off, explored contradictory emotions, forgot that they were writing for anyone but themselves.

On Thursday she interrupted a shouting match between Brett and a pair of boys from April Nyholt’s class. They said, “I’m sorry, Ms. McKinnon,” and retired from the battlefield looking smug. Brett smoldered.

Robin wished he could see that his attitude was most of the problem. Other kids in this school had had notorious parents. Students had buzzed a couple of years ago when a sixth-grader’s mother left her father for another woman. But the girl had had the sense to say, “She’s my mom and I love her, but…it is so-o freaky!” Everybody had sympathized and quickly forgotten. Brett didn’t let anybody forget.

Robin didn’t look at her students’ journals until Friday. She asked that they be left out on the desks. When the room was empty, she walked from desk to desk, flipping open the journals.

Some had only a few lines.

I’m going to my dad’s tonight. I hate going! It is so boring!

Robin smiled at the multiple underlines beneath “so,” even though she felt sad at how many children were shuttled between divorced parents’ houses with no regard for where they preferred to be.

One boy wrote in some detail about a Seahawks game to which his uncle had taken him. The excitement shone through, and that provoked another smile. Several kids couldn’t spell, and she made a mental note of their names. Ryan wrote about “that Lofgren kid” trying to beat the crap out of him. “All I said was…” Robin sighed. Her little lecture had apparently not had much impact.

Perhaps deliberately, her route brought her to Brett’s desk last. She opened his journal, started reading and made a small sound of shock.

Oh, dear, was no longer an adequate response.