by Kate Flora
He just stared at me, like my words were so unfamiliar he couldn’t process them. Phooey. Maybe I’d made a mistake and I had let a bad guy into my house. Except I hadn’t let him, he shoved his way in. I wasn’t a dumb bunny, and I wasn’t usually careless. Sometimes I forget that I’m both Thea the Great and Terrible and MOC’s mom. MOC’s mom doesn’t take so many chances.
I glanced quickly out the window to see if Andre’s dad or Ronnie was here working, but there was no truck, and no one was out there making the garden safe from deer. No one to keep me safe from strangers. This was making me very nervous, and being nervous was against doctor’s orders.
“I’d like you to leave now,” I said again. “I have nothing more to say to you. You are not welcome in this house.”
He made no move to leave. Gave no sign that he’d heard me. So I repeated myself. “I am asking you to leave.”
He shook his head. “We’re not done.”
“I’m done.”
So, okay. I’d been an idiot to let him in in the first place, but he’d pushed his way in, and I wasn’t getting into a shoving match. Not with MOC on board.
One reason I prefer clothes with pockets is that there are a few things I have to have with me at all times. My phone. My panic button. My pepper spray. Andre, in a moment of slightly ghoulish humor, recently got me a canister of pepper spray that is girly pink and glittery. I am not afraid to use it, either, something bad guys can be surprised by. I checked my pockets. Everything in place. I pulled out my phone.
I could have just dialed 9-1-1, but I called Andre, who, because of my whale-like status, answered on the first ring. He can’t always do it, but when he can, he does. He always sounds anxious when he comes on the line.
“Thea. Is everything okay? What did the doctor say?”
“That I’m fine except my blood pressure is elevated and she wants me to avoid stress. But that man is here again. The one who was here last night. He pushed his way into the house, and he refuses to identify himself or show me his credentials. I’ve asked him to leave and he won’t. I need a police officer here, and I need him or her right now.”
“I’m ten minutes away. Heading home now. I’ll call the sheriff’s department and see if they have someone closer.”
“Thank you.”
I put the phone back in my pocket. The man was staring at me like I’d lost my mind. Still, instead of producing any ID, he said, “You fucking called the police?” Loud and incredulous, like I’d done something astonishing. Maybe most of the people he bullied were more compliant?
“I did.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Oh. Thanks for asking. As you may have just overheard, according to my OB, I’m a pregnant lady with elevated blood pressure who is supposed to avoid stress and anxiety. Strange men who push their way into my house produce stress and anxiety. People who act like they have some authority to question me but refuse to provide identification exacerbate that stress and anxiety, and that badge flash this morning does not constitute identification. That shouldn’t surprise you. Nor should the fact that once you’ve been asked to leave and you refuse, legally you become a trespasser.”
I know. I shouldn’t wave red flags in front of bulls. But it’s a flaw in my nature. When people, especially self-important men who treat me like a simpleton, start pushing me around, I do not react well.
I waved a hand toward the back deck. “I’m going to go and sit outside. I’m supposed to rest and put my feet up. You have to go.” I picked my briefcase up off a kitchen chair, walked out the back door, and settled myself in an Adirondack chair. He could stay. He could go. I didn’t care. Well, of course I’d rather have him gone, but I’ve met some genuinely scary men and my read was that he wasn’t a physical threat so much as someone used to getting his way through intimidation.
In any case, I had work to do. Putting my feet up didn’t mean turning my head off. My watch said I had an hour before my call with LaDonna, making this a good time to call Lindsay.
“I can’t believe this,” he said, following me out and pulling up a chair. Pulling it so close I could feel the heat coming off his jittery legs. “I just want to ask you a few damned questions about your neighbor.”
“You already did. I said I didn’t know anyone named Jessica Whitlow. Asked and answered. Now get off my property.”
There was a nice afternoon breeze coming up from the lake and he was blocking it. Not a good move. Pregnancy makes me hot, and being too hot does nothing for my mood or my blood pressure. I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes. I try to be brave about it, but going to the doctor makes me very anxious. Not only because my extensive experience with docs and hospitals has been pretty negative, but because I’d already lost one pregnancy. If MOC were born now, the kid would probably be okay, but I wanted to give the little acrobat every chance for a great start in life.
MOC knows when I’m thinking about its antics, and gave me a couple of reassuring kicks. I gave the kid a pat. “Quiet time,” I said.
“Are we all set now? You ready to talk to me?” he said, as though he hadn’t been asked to leave and hadn’t heard me call the police.
“Do you not understand English?” I said. “There is no ‘we’ about this. I have nothing to say to you, and you’ve been asked to leave.”
I opened my eyes and studied his face, wondering if I should be more scared. If I’d misread him and he was dangerous as well as a bully. He definitely looked pissed off and determined. Beyond that, I was getting nothing. I decided that I would do nothing more to provoke him. I would rest, and be taciturn until help arrived.
“Goddammit!” he said, raising his voice and leaning into my space. “All I want is…”
With a roar of sirens and flashing blue lights, a state police cruiser flew up the driveway and rocked to a stop in front of the barn. Norah Kavanaugh got out, spotted us on the porch, and approached. Norah is tall, like me. Slim. Smart. And tough as nails. I was awfully glad to see her. “Kavanaugh, state police,” she said to the guy. “Stand up and come down off that deck. Keep your hands where I can see them.”
Ignoring her, the man said to me, “You are fucking unbelievable!”
I chose to take it as a compliment. I stood, stepped past him, and went back into the kitchen, locking the door behind me.
I watched through the window as she got him off the porch and down in the driveway. Through the open window, I heard her asking for ID as Andre came up the driveway and joined her.
The man stared at him in disbelief. Bullies are often surprised to find themselves outgunned. “You, too?” he said. “How many cops are there in this podunk backwater town?”
This time, though, faced with two hard-faced cops, he reached into his pocket and pulled out some ID. He might have said “Government business” earlier, but the words that reached my listening ears were “private investigator” and “Boston.”
I really wanted to go outside where I could hear their conversation more clearly, but I’d called the cops because I was a woman who felt threatened. Therefore I had to remain inside where the threat was minimized and let the cops handle it. Besides, if he did present a threat, I couldn’t take chances with MOC. I’d already been unable to stop him from pushing his way inside. I shivered at how careless I’d been, letting him get so close I couldn’t safely stop him. It stems from being pretty sure I can take care of myself. Taking care of MOC really changed the game. Far from being “Thea the great and terrible,” which I’ve kind of liked, I am now “Thea who doesn’t take risks.” It’s a very different and challenging role for me.
My phone beeped to give me the reminder about my conference call. My time to prep for the call was running out. No more lingering at the kitchen window, trying to overhear their conversation. I went outside, grabbed my briefcase, hurried back inside, and spread out my notes on the kitchen table. Lounging on the back deck doing a leisurely prep was no longer an option. I might like to think that I am enj
oying a peaceful Maine summer, but that peace is still interspersed with a lot of work. It’s a good thing I like my work.
I’d gotten as far as writing “Call Lindsay,” on my legal pad when the phone rang. Sarah, calling with the afternoon update.
“Hey,” she said when I answered, “hope you’re enjoying a quiet afternoon. It’s like someone released a box of crickets around here.”
“Blissfully quiet except for a mysterious intruder and two cops in my driveway.”
“Oh, no. Is everything okay?”
“I think so. One of the cops is Andre, and the intruder looks suitably intimidated. So what’s going on?”
“What’s not? Three schools that have ignored our proposals for months want us to write crisis plans before the school year starts. Jameson Jones wants your advice. Jason Barbour, who seemed so promising, disappeared at lunchtime without a word and hasn’t reappeared, and Marlene is weeping in the ladies' room. Lisa is out this afternoon and Bobby is looking frazzled. Suzanne has gone home. Magda is muttering in Hungarian, and I’m ready for some noise-canceling headphones.”
“Sounds like a regular day, except for Jason’s disappearance. Can you give me his phone number?” It had been a struggle to find good people to hire. The last thing we needed was employees who didn’t understand the concept of work.
“A regular day at the circus,” she said, giving me the phone number. “And you won’t be in tomorrow to sort us out. I’ve emailed the info for Baltimore. Everything should be all set there.”
I sighed. What happens when you’re a troubleshooter who is sick of shooting troubles? “But wait,” I said, “Do you know what Marlene is weeping about?”
“I guess you sent her some thoughts about the survey?”
“I did.”
“Well, she thinks you hate her. Or that she’s incompetent. Or she can’t understand why you are so critical. I couldn’t quite get a straight story.”
Ah, the risks of expanding the business. “Not your problem. Let Suzanne know when she comes in tomorrow. She’ll handle it.” Better than I. Suzanne has kid gloves. I tend to weigh in with more blunt objects. “I’ll try to track down Jason.”
I made more notes, including “Call Suzanne about Marlene and Jason.” Sarah and I made plans to talk tomorrow in the afternoon if I could find the time while I was in Baltimore, and ended the call. Even less time to prep for LaDonna, but that mysterious sheet of paper I’d kicked under the console was demanding my attention.
I went back to the hall, got down on all fours—an act that is no longer as simple as it once was—and pulled out the paper.
Scrawled in hasty writing it read:
Thea. Don’t tell anyone you met me. Don’t say anything about me. No matter who asks and what credentials they present. Please don’t. Also, I left a package under some wood out behind your barn. Can you put it somewhere safe and don’t let anyone find it? Don’t look inside, either, unless something happens to me, or you might be in danger. Sorry to do this to you. Things are too crazy. I think I’ve been found and I don’t know what to do right now. I just want my baby to be safe.
Jessica
Seven
I carried the note back to the kitchen and checked on the situation in the yard. The black SUV was gone, and Andre and Norah were leaning against her car, talking. Maybe they were discussing a strategy. Maybe just gossiping. My intruder hadn’t been arrested. I wondered what they’d said or done that would deter him from coming back. I definitely never wanted to see him again.
Much as I needed to know the story, I left them to whatever it was and turned my attention to the materials on the table. I was impatient for Andre to come inside so I could show him Jessica’s note and get his reaction, but it would be four soon, time for my call. I realized I didn’t have much to share with LaDonna. All I could do was give her some background on the situation—who these students were and why the matter was delicate. She’d be okay, though. Most of the important questions were ones she needed to ask Dr. Kingsley, the instructor whose tests had been stolen, and the school’s IT director. Also likely the students who’d gotten the test questions. I hoped the school’s administration had arranged for her to have access to the relevant people and computers.
The call went exactly as I expected. I told her what I knew to help put her in the picture, and she said she was looking forward to joining me in tackling Eastern Shore’s problem. I gave her Dr. Kingsley’s contact information so she could verify her access to the necessary personnel and computers. I love working with competent experts. Over the years, I’ve developed a number of them who can be called in for crisis situations, and I find that once schools take a big gulp and accept that good help is expensive, they are always grateful. Besides, LaDonna is great company. She looks so young and inexperienced, and she’s lightning smart, fast on her feet, and loves to knock down egos and disbelief with a completely straight face. People can’t pat me on the head because I’m too tall. While they could pat LaDonna, it’s a bad idea. People never make the mistake of treating her like a kid twice. Trust me. It’s fun to watch.
It was almost time to start dinner, but I wanted to check in with Lindsay before she left for the day. She was pleased to be asked about social media and how we might use it to investigate Denzel’s situation, so I told her to get the names of the involved students from Bobby and dig in. Then, a little nervous that I might be piling on too much, I asked her if she had some thoughts on Eastern Shore’s cheating and hacking situation. I didn’t get a sigh or any reluctance suggesting she was feeling burdened by too many requests.
“I hate to say it, but cheating is becoming almost a standard practice, Thea,” she said. “Students in the pressure cooker to get good grades and get into a good college tend to regard it as just another necessary thing to do. An end justifies the means sort of thing.”
“That’s depressing.”
“I know. At my school, there was an honor code. They were very clear about the importance of honesty and the consequences of cheating and explicit about the actions that constituted cheating. That helped a lot. Especially after a couple of students got expelled. Unfortunate that had to happen, but it made the point more effectively than any lecture or some paragraphs in a student handbook ever could.”
Her comment reminded me to ask Eastern Shore whether they had an honor code, and what kind of orientation their summer students were given about the rules. Because I suffer from pregnancy brain, I wrote those questions down.
“What about hacking into the school’s computers or individual teachers’ computers? Were there rules about that?”
Lindsay laughed. “We were supposed to know that was wrong. Just to make the point very clear, they included the state laws in our handbook. Since typically many students or their parents don’t bother to read the handbook, there was actually a quiz we all had to take to check that we’d read it. Some kids got mad about that. The usual ‘Don’t they trust us?’ and ‘Do they think we’re stupid’ responses. I thought it was smart.”
I repressed the temptation to ask if she’d skip her senior year and come right to work. She wouldn’t be with us forever and would need her degree. As though she’d read my mind, she said, “You know I’m graduating a semester early, in January, just, you know, in case you’re looking to do another hire. It is so much fun to work here.”
Fun? I thought about some of the adventures, and misadventures, I’d had on campuses and decided not to mention them. Suzanne likes to point out that these things don’t happen to other people. Just me. I rather thought Lindsay would like some of my adventures, hair-raising though they might be. She was delightfully professional, but I sensed an edginess, and courage, that could be very effective in handling a campus crisis.
“That’s great news,” I said. “Let me talk to Suzanne.”
“Oh. Before you go,” she said. “It’s about Jason. Something I think you should know. He made a pass at me, if you can call patting my butt a pass. I told him tha
t since he was an employee and I was only an intern, it constituted sexual harassment, and I would report it to Suzanne if anything happened again. I guess he’s not far from his frat boy days. The idea that there are boundaries to his misbehavior really surprised him.”
There was a pause, then she said, “I’m sorry if this screws things up for you. I know you want to expand and he’s supposed to be helping with that. But I decided it was better to get it out on the table right away, before he made patting women’s butts a habit…” She lowered her voice, “…if it isn’t already. He can’t be doing that at a client school.”
“Or anywhere else,” I agreed. “Is that why he left in the middle of the day? Because you called him on his inappropriate behavior?”
“I don’t know,” she said, “maybe he’s such a wimp he needed to go console himself with a beer. How pathetic is that?”
Damn. On paper and in his interview, he’d looked good. Suzanne and I would have to talk to him. I hoped the situation could be salvaged.
I left Lindsay to her tasks and opened the fridge to figure out what we’d have for dinner. Rosie must have worried that Andre and I were starving up here in rural Maine. The shelves were packed with food, all of it neatly labeled. There was more in the freezer. People from away, as they’re called up here, think of most of Maine as a vast rural backwater. Andre and I were twenty-five minutes from Portland, with its international jetport and many great restaurants. We could quickly be at a Trader Joe’s or a Whole Foods, and the local farmers’ markets were amazing.
Whenever I find myself eager to correct them, though, I think about how hard it already is to find a parking space in some of my favorite places, and refrain. I’ve become a ‘want to pull up the drawbridge now that I’m here’ type. Maybe I’ll feel differently after my first winter in a small town.