Читать книгу City Kid - Mary MacCracken, Mary MacCracken - Страница 14

March meant midterms at college. Background of Mathematics II. Not too bad. We were studying probability.

Current Methods of Teaching Mentally Challenged Adolescents was easy. A take-home exam, plus an interview with someone who was willing to hire a mentally challenged person. I interviewed Cal. He had several people, good people, in his plant with IQ’s in the seventies.

Counseling and Guidance. Even easier. Lunch with Norm Foster to report on the Special Education Independent Study Project. My project, of course, was Luke.

Reading practicum. The exam read, “Discuss causes of reading disability in four categories.” I knew those. I even knew five. Meeps: mental, emotional, educational, physical and social.

But Statistics and Orientation to Psychological Testing was not so easy. We had spent an inordinately long time on bell curves and standard deviation. The curve I understood. Its normal distribution curve did seem normal

It seemed right that there would probably be more average people than other kinds. Professor Frye said that a random sample of a thousand people in Times Square yielded 68.26 percent (2/3) with IQ’s between 85 and 115. However, the curve wasn’t always normal; sometimes it skewed to the right, sometimes it skewed to the left. Then beware the mean and trust only the median.

Worst of all was σ. This simple little sign stood for standard deviation, and Professor Frye was determined that we all be able to figure out standard deviations mathematically, although there are perfectly good charts in the test manuals that are readily available.

But day after day we memorized the formula and did the computations. If I did them carefully, two or three pages of numbers and many minutes later it was possible to arrive at the measure of the variability of a group of scores independent of the mean.

Where was Ian Michaels? And what did all this have to do with helping Luke?

My head steamed like an overheated teakettle.

I wrote everything on index cards and laid them on the floors through our apartment. Then I walked through my carpet of cards picking up the ones I thought I knew, piling them on the dining room table, then picking up the others and studying them once again. The steaming in my head turned out to be mostly due to the flu, and I staggered from bed to exams and back to bed again. I called School 23 Monday morning to explain to Mrs. Karras that I was ill and couldn’t come until Friday. Mrs. Karras was out, but her secretary said she would relay the message to Lisa, Luke, and Mrs. Karras.

I finished my last exam on Thursday afternoon. My temperature was down, and on impulse I drove to School 23.

John Hudson was in the music room with Vernon when I arrived. They were playing catch with a tennis ball over the piano.

Hud said, “Christ. I’m glad it’s you. Come on in.”

Hud and I hardly ever saw each other anymore. Our schedules at the school were on different days and our group meetings were dwindling.

Vernon pegged a hard ball at Hud’s stomach. Hud dug it out with his left and sent it looping back.

“Nice,” I said to Hud.

“You know him?” Vernon asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“Kin he bat? He say he bat as good as he throw. That true?”

“I don’t know.”

“Hey, Vernon,” Hud said, “come on, man. You gotta have faith.”

Vernon threw the ball hard, harder than ever.

“We’ll see, man. We’ll see …” he said.

Hud grinned. “What do you think, Mary? Am I convincing?”

“I believe you,” I said. “I’ll leave you two. I just came down to see Luke for a minute.”

John pocketed the ball.

“They didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“Vernon, set up the checkerboard, will you? I’ll be with you in a minute.”

Hud came over and stood close to me.

“Luke’s not here.”

“Why? Where is he?” My stomach plummeted down.

“They can’t find him. At least the probation officer can’t, although they think he comes home at night and his mother just doesn’t let on.”

“Why?” I asked again, not understanding. “Why would he do that?”

Hud shrugged. “Because of the fire, I guess.”

I sat down, suddenly nauseated, remnants of the flu rolling in my head and stomach.

“You know about the fire, don’t you?” Hud asked.

I shook my head.

“Oh, Christ. I’m sorry. Tuesday afternoon some cosmetic factory caught on fire. No one was hurt, but they lost a back storage shed. The police are sure it was set by kids, but they can’t prove it. They got one kid, Wendell Higgins, who had been involved in a lot of other fires and grilled him. (He’s on our waiting list, too, I hear.) According to him, he didn’t have anything to do with it. It was all Luke.”

“What does Luke say?”

“That’s just it. Nobody can find Luke.”

Vernon began pitching the checkers in our direction. I got up. “Thanks, Hud. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Listen, Mary. I can stay when Vernon goes back to class. If I can help …”

Again I nodded my thanks and headed for the office.

The door to Mrs. Karras’s office was closed. I looked inquiringly at the secretary, who smiled sympathetically.

“She’s in conference, one of the board members. Probably be awhile.”

I nodded and asked for the file keys.

Brauer, Lucas. I lifted out his folder, but there was nothing new except absence slips for Tuesday afternoon, Wednesday, and Thursday. I put it back and handed the key to the secretary. “Have you heard how much damage there was at the fire?”

“Not much. Didn’t really amount to a lot. Just a storage shed for extra lipstick tubes, from what I heard. Fire Department got there fast. Kept it under control.”

“Do you know where the factory is? Is it close by?” My face felt as if it were frozen. Lipstick tubes.

“Sure. It’s right over on Jefferson. Just three blocks down. We could see the fire from the steps.”

“The steps? Oh, yes. The front steps.”

It was all like a bad dream. I headed for the door. “Tell Mrs. Karras –” I stopped suddenly. “She did get my message – I mean, Luke – uh, Miss Eckhardt knew why I haven’t been in this week, didn’t they?”

A look of confusion passed briefly over the secretary’s pleasant face. “Not in? Let’s see, you’re Shirley, aren’t you? Let me see, here in my notes …”

I didn’t wait for her to finish. Obviously, the secretary had been confused. Nobody had gotten my message. Nobody knew I was home sick. Luke must have thought I just hadn’t bothered to show up. One more person in his life he couldn’t count on.

I walked across the street to my car. Not really thinking yet, just ordering my stomach to be still. I drove straight ahead. There it was, Jefferson. I parked my car and got out and walked down the street. Most of the buildings were empty, or else the windows were covered with grimy sheets concealing whatever went on behind them.

The factory was immediately recognizable. There was an unpleasant acrid smell and then the sight of burned grass and piles of blackened tubes. Automatically I touched the outside of my front jeans pocket. I could feel the tube that Luke had given me for luck. I had carried it to each exam.

I looked at my watch. Three-fifteen. Nothing to do now. I felt better, though. The walk had cleared my head and I went back to the car to wait.

By four o’clock the last of the school kids had passed. At four-thirty the factory whistle blew and a dozen or so workers poured out. A few minutes later, what were evidently secretaries or bookkeepers or office personnel left and the plant seemed empty. I waited a few more minutes and then opened the car door and walked back toward the factory. It was quiet and in the dark, late winter afternoon, the ancient street lights were the only illumination.

I walked without hesitation to the back of the factory and nudged the charred piles of metal with the toe of my boot, waiting, listening. Luke wasn’t here. I knew that, but somebody was. I walked in close to the building, leaning against the old bricks, invisible against the wall.

A small, dark figure scurried past. Good. Not the police. Not Luke either, though. Maybe Higgins. Judas Higgins. The one who had ratted on Luke. I went out to the metal pile, once again stirring the empty tubes with my foot to make enough noise so whoever was there would listen.

“Give Luke a message,” I said to the darkness. “Tell him to be at the doughnut place at ten tomorrow morning.” Not a sound. Not good enough. Think of something more. Ah! “Tell him I will give him two dollars to give to the person who brings him the message.”

I went back to the side of the building and waited. There he goes! The same small figure scurried even faster across the back of the lot, this time not stopping by the piles of tubes.