“My wife got the idea from what you told her on the phone that it’s important,” Dirk said. “We’re both pretty concerned.”
As they all took their seats, the teacher behind her desk and Savannah and Dirk in the proffered guest chairs, Ms. Pomeroy said, “I don’t consider the situation we have to be critical at this point. Otherwise, I would have asked the principal and school counselor to be present.”
Savannah wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so she simply nodded and said, “Oo-kay.”
“Hopefully,” Dirk said, “we can settle whatever it is among ourselves without calling in the big guns.”
“I hope so, too. But I’m afraid that it might be a symptom of another problem that—”
“Ms. Pomeroy,” Savannah said, as she felt one of her nerves snap. The main one leading to her Patience Control Center. “Please spit it out. We’re dying here.”
“Actually, I considered calling you last week, when it first started, but I hoped it would die down on its own.”
“What?” Dirk barked. “What happened?”
“One of our students, a classmate of Brody’s, made some rude comments during recess. The other children overheard it, and now, unfortunately, it’s become common knowledge.”
Savannah cringed, anticipating the answer to her next question. “What ‘knowledge’ are we talking about?”
“The sad fact that Brody’s biological mother is in prison.”
Savannah gulped and looked at Dirk. His face darkened as the words sank deep into both of their hearts.
Of course, they had always assumed this could happen, would happen, sooner or later. But they’d been hoping for later—after Brody had gotten settled into his new school and made a few good friends.
“Yes, it is sad,” Savannah said, choosing her words carefully. “The worst thing about it is that Brody is now two hundred miles away from the woman who treated him terribly, and he shouldn’t have to worry about her. Especially at school, where he’s trying to learn and enjoy just being a regular child for the first time in his life.”
“What exactly did that kid say?” Dirk asked. “How much does everyone know?”
“Just that she’s in prison, serving a pretty long term.” Ms. Pomeroy glanced down at her fingernails and studied her manicure a while before adding, “Also, they know she’s there because she hurt him.”
“Do they know how? Specifically?” Savannah asked, feeling tears well up in her eyes again.
“No. They don’t know the particulars of his abuse. Of course, being kids, they were coming up with their own stories, one tall tale worse than the last, but when I heard them doing it, I put a stop to it.”
“Will that be enough?” Dirk asked. “Will you really be able to control what they say to him, around him?”
She sighed. “Not completely. You know how children are.”
“Yes, they’re cruel little bastards,” Dirk muttered under his breath.
Unfortunately, Ms. Pomeroy heard him and gave a little, disapproving gasp.
Savannah hurried to rescue the moment. “He just means they can do a lot of damage to tender hearts.”
“That’s true,” she replied, somewhat mollified.
“How did he take it?” Dirk asked.
When the teacher didn’t reply right away, he added, “When the kids teased Brody about it, what did he do?”
“He threatened to, well, I believe his exact words to the other kid were, ‘Say that again and I’ll knock your teeth so far down your throat that you’ll have to sit on a plate of spaghetti to eat your dinner.’”
“Oh, dear,” Savannah said. “I have no idea where he might have heard such a dreadful, coarse thing.”
She cast a nervous, guilty glance toward Dirk and saw he was smirking. Again.
They both knew that Savannah, with all of her down-in-Dixie charm, had spoken those exact words. Though her version included a “bologna sandwich” rather than “a plate of spaghetti.”
Brody didn’t like bologna and must have adapted the threat to satisfy his own taste.
“So, when he got teased about his mother, he reacted more with anger than sadness?” Savannah asked.
“I wouldn’t say those emotions are mutually exclusive,” Ms. Pomeroy replied. “But yes. He stood up for himself and told them that saying stuff like that would give them dog poop breath.”
“That one is definitely not something he heard at home,” Savannah rushed to say.
“No, I figured that was a Brody original. He comes up with a lot of them, actually. Quite an entertaining little boy.”
“He is.” Savannah felt the need to hold the child close to her at that moment. So tightly that he would most certainly object. She couldn’t imagine how bad he must have felt to have his story told and shared among all of his schoolmates.
Yet...
“He’s seemed okay lately,” Dirk observed. “If you hadn’t told us about this, we’d figured he was doin’ fine here at school.”
“That’s true,” Savannah agreed. “I ask him every day how his day was and he says, ‘Fine.’ He tells me all the silly stuff that he and the other kids said and did. I thought he was adjusting well.”
“How is he sleeping?” Ms. Pomeroy asked.
Savannah flashed back on a few nights ago, when she had awoke to sounds coming from his room. She had gone into his bedroom and found him thrashing around on his bed, as though in the midst of a particularly disturbing nightmare.
Although he wouldn’t tell her what it was about, she had sat on the bed next to him and read one of his favorite books until he dropped off again.
The incident hadn’t been repeated, so, she figured everything was fine.
“Once in a while, he has a bad dream,” Dirk answered. “But no more than any other kid, I’d say.”
“Why do you ask?” Savannah wanted to know.
“I was wondering because, well, he drew a picture today that looks like it’s something from a very disturbing nightmare. When I saw it, I decided to call you and ask you to come in and see it.”
She reached into her top drawer and pulled out a sheet of red construction paper with stick figures drawn on it.
Handing it to Savannah, she said, “I see a lot of stuff that’s violent. With so much of it on television and in video games, children can’t avoid it. But knowing Brody’s history, I found this one particularly troublesome.”
Savannah looked down at the picture in her hand and instantly her pulse rate began to climb.
She certainly didn’t need the young artist present to explain the meaning of the primitive, but effective, artwork.
“Wow,” Dirk said softly, looking over her shoulder. “That’s some scary sh—stuff.”
Instantly, Savannah knew the five individuals depicted in the child’s drawing.
The burly, musclebound guy, wearing a blue Dodgers baseball cap with a white L and A on the front, had to be Dirk. He was enormous compared to the others and had an angry snarl on his face and something that looked like a billy club in his raised hand.
Next to Dirk was a well-rounded female with black curly hair and bright blue eyes. She, too, appeared furious and ready to do battle, her arms outstretched, desperately grasping—for the small, blond boy in the center of the picture.
The child’s eyes were wide with fear and his mouth was a large O, as though he was screaming.
The artist had given him a speech bubble that contained the words, “NO NO GO AWAY.”
On the other side of the paper, opposite the portrayals of Savannah and Dirk was a stick figure of a woman with short, yellow hair that stuck out in all directions. She had a downturned mouth and frown lines on her forehead, showing she was as angry and ready to fight as the cartoon Savannah and Dirk. In her upraised hand, she held a large loop, which Savannah decided was a folded belt, and her other hand was clasped tightly around the boy’s upper arm.
Savannah couldn’t decide if the woman was going to hit him, drag him away with h
er, or both.
A chill ran through Savannah as she read the woman’s speech bubble. “You can’t get away your MINE MINE MINE.”
Fastened to the woman’s skinny ankle was a large, red dog with long ears, bared teeth, and his own bubble with “GRRR” inside.
“I guess we don’t need your fancy-dandy school counselor to interpret that one,” Dirk said, settling back into his chair.
“No, not at all,” Ms. Pomeroy said. “Children are wonderful. They’re like clear, mountain spring water. They haven’t learned yet how to hide who they are.”
But as Savannah sat there and looked at her new son’s heartbreaking drawing and compared the child depicted in the picture to the sweet, carefree boy who lived in her house and frolicked in her backyard with an old but frisky bloodhound, she had to disagree with his teacher.
Apparently, their Brody had things on his mind, terrifying things, that he was keeping from them.
“I’m glad you asked us to come in,” she told the teacher. “I’m grateful to you for calling this to our attention.”
“Of course,” Ms. Pomeroy replied warmly. “I can tell how much you care for Brody. I knew you’d want to know.”
As she walked them to the door, she said, “If there’s anything I can do to help him or you, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
“Same here,” Dirk said, his tone far more congenial than his usual.
But the moment they had left the teacher’s presence and were walking down the hallway toward the exit, they instinctively reached for each other’s hand.
“That was even worse than I expected,” Dirk admitted. “I thought maybe he’d wrestled some kid and got his clothes dirty, or pulled some girl’s ponytail, or said a cuss word.”
“Well, there was that ‘knock your teeth down your throat’ business. I don’t recall ever saying that in front of Brody. Did I?”
“I don’t know. I don’t remember it either, but you must have.”
“Oh, Lord’ve mercy. That’s awful. I’m a rotten mother.”
“You’re a wonderful mother. You and me, we’re just learning what you can and can’t say in front of a kid.”
“Basically, you can’t say anything you don’t want to hear coming out of their mouths. In public. To people you’d like to impress.”
“You wanna impress Ms. Pomeroy?”
She shrugged. “I guess. She’s my kid’s teacher. I don’t want her thinking I’m a bum.”
He slipped his arm around her shoulders. “I’m quite sure she doesn’t think that. Although your nose did grow a couple of times when you lied. She might have noticed that.”
“Really? You think she knew it wasn’t allergies?”
“Naw, you had her fooled with that one.”
“Oh, good. That’s a relief.”
“But I’m pretty sure she suspects you’re the source of that ‘teeth down the throat’ thing. Us Yankees just aren’t that colorful.”
Savannah looked down at the drawing in her hand and her heart sank a bit further.
“We’re going to have to talk to him about this,” Dirk said. “Anything bothering him that much, it needs to be discussed.”
“Yes, but I don’t think we should tell him that his teacher called us in and showed the picture to us. With the kids hassling him about his mother, I don’t want him to think he’s catching flak both at school and at home.”
Dirk nodded. “Yeah. You’re probably right. At least at first, let’s not make too big a deal about it.”
“If he thinks we’re worried, too, he might get even more upset than he already is.”
Savannah felt her throat tighten when she took another glance at the picture. “I know we aren’t supposed to hate anybody. Granny taught all of us kids how important that is. But I swear, when I think of that woman hurting that child . . . let’s just say it brings out the worst in my character.”
“Mine, too. But then, I think about the fact that he’s going to be a teenager by the time she gets out. The little boy she abused will be at least a head taller than her.”
“Plus, we’re going to teach him not to take any crap off anybody.”
“That’s right, and if worse comes to worse, I’m pretty sure the three of us can take her.”
“The four of us.”
“Oh, right. I forgot about the Colonel. That scrawny, nasty gal doesn’t stand a chance.”
Chapter 23
Other than her own home or her grandmother’s, ReJuvene was Savannah’s favorite place on Earth. Her friends Ryan Stone and John Gibson had conceived the dream of such a place many years ago, early in their relationship, while they were still agents of the FBI. It had taken a long time, both of their savings, and a tremendous effort to bring the restaurant into being, but they had done so. Now they were the proud owners of the county’s finest eating establishment.
As she and Dirk walked beneath the crimson awning with its white, scrolled letters RJ, and through the heavy door with its sparkling, beveled glass and freshly polished, brass hardware, she felt like a queen. A queen who was about to be served an array of delectable delicacies that she could otherwise only dream about.
Ryan and John were not only gorgeous, but they were amazing cooks. Between their skills and those of the restaurant’s chef, Francia Fortun, and her sous-chef, Carlos Ortez, the food at ReJuvene lured the most discriminating palates from as far away as San Francisco, Las Vegas, and Phoenix, not to mention the locals from Los Angeles.
Procuring a reservation was not only a feat but a status symbol among the rich and famous fortunate enough to live within driving distance or a short trip by private plane.
So, Savannah was surprised when she walked through the door and saw that the restaurant was nearly empty. The waiting room, which usually was filled with diners sipping predinner drinks and socializing while waiting for their table, had no one at all in it.
Savannah could see through the glass doors into the main dining room, where Alma and Ethan sat with a high chair beside them, that held Ethan’s three-year-old son, Freddy. Next to Freddy’s chair was another high chair with Vanna Rose securely strapped in. Both little ones were looking at books and jabbering to each other in a language only they seemed to understand.
Waycross sat next to his daughter and beside him was Tammy. Granny and Brody were situated nearest the fireplace.
Other than her family, sitting at that one table, there was no one else in the room.
“We get the whole place to ourselves?” she whispered to Dirk.
“Seems so,” Dirk replied. “But then, there’s the other reason why nobody’s here.”
“What’s that?” she asked, although she had a feeling she wasn’t going to like the answer.
“The Dodgers are playing the Giants tonight. Right now, in fact.”
She looked his way and saw a little-boy scowl on his grown-up, craggy man-face. “By that,” she said, “I suppose you mean that all the other nice wives in California let their husbands stay home and watch the game, instead of dragging them, kicking and screaming, to a nasty ol’ five-star restaurant for a free meal that will probably be the best food they’ve ever eaten in their lives? Is that what you wanna say to me, darlin’ husband of mine?”
“Somethin’ like that.” He took a sniff of the air that was filled with the aroma of all sorts of exotic spices, meat searing, breads baking, and his face lit up. “I might forgive ya for it. Later.”
“I have a feeling you’ll not only forgive me but thank me with a nice, long foot massage.”
“I’d give you a foot massage even if I was mad at you.”
She giggled. “I know. You’ve got a thing for feet.”
“Your feet.” He thought about it a minute, then leaned down and whispered, “Actually, I think it’s the red toenail polish.”
She stopped in midstride, looked up at him and said, “Are you telling me that, if I stick to my Crimson Passion polish, you’ll give me even more foot massages?”
“
I’ll be your foot rub slave forever.”
“Good to know! Very good to know!”
They passed through the waiting area with its wall of green slate where a sheet of sparkling water flowed from the top to the bottom and into a line of flame. The room’s soft, leather club chairs were drawn close to a fireplace, set in a wall of antique, reclaimed brick. Mahogany bookshelves on either side held leather-bound classics and mementos that Ryan and John had collected from all over the world on their extensive travels.
“Coming into this place always feels like getting a nice, big hug from both of them,” she said, more to herself than Dirk. “It’s just so . . . them.”
He grunted.
Savannah mentally slapped herself on the forehead. When would she learn to keep her glowing, over-the-top, schoolgirl crush comments to herself about her drop-dead gorgeous, brilliant, and charming friends?
For years, she had thought Dirk disliked Ryan and John. But over time, the three men had developed a somewhat tenuous friendship, based upon respect and trust—the result of them having worked various difficult cases together.
Although Ryan and John had absolutely nothing in common with Dirk when it came to politics, philosophy, background, or recreational interests, they all three shared a passion for investigation and a deep, abiding love for Savannah.
That seemed strong enough, as a bond, to hold them together. Or at least to ensure civil discourse when they were in each other’s company.
Savannah and Dirk walked into the main dining room, where they were greeted by a lovely, young woman named Maria. As hostess, Maria was the first to welcome diners to this place of relaxation and rejuvenation. Her dark eyes lit up when she saw Savannah, and she hurried across the room to meet them.
Although Maria offered her hand to shake, Savannah grabbed her and enfolded her in a warm hug. “I’m so glad to see you,” Savannah said. “Are you going to be with us on the wedding day, too?”
“I am! I wouldn’t miss it for anything.” Maria looked back over her shoulder at the main table where Alma sat next to Ethan, holding his hand and gazing up into his eyes like any other love-besotted fiancée. “She is so sweet, and he’s, he’s . . . you know.”
A Few Drops of Bitters Page 16