by D A Fowler
Nancy frowned. “That’ll never work, how stupid. They can tell if they’re talking to an adult or not.”
Biting her lower lip, Marla tried to think of an alternate strategy. She was angry at herself for not already considering plans A through Z, as she normally did in such situations, but instead had allowed herself to be influenced by Nancy’s flip statement, “I’m not worried about it.”
Well, she looked worried now. And bewildered and terrified all at the same time. They simultaneously peeked toward the offices again; the clock behind the secretary’s desk warned that the first bell would ring in five minutes.
Sue Clark, one of the Sharon Valley Cougar cheerleaders, stepped up to the fountain with an armload of books. After taking a few sips of water, she smiled widely at Marla and Nancy, showing a deep set of dimples. “Hey, you two—you look like you’ve just seen a ghost. What’s up?”
Nancy’s skin had just turned a sickly gray-white, effectively masking the sparkle of triumph in her eyes; Marla’s mouth hung open in wonder.
“What—What is he…”
Sue turned to look in the direction of the offices. Albert Montgomery was now leaning over Phyllis Jenkins’s desk, clutching his chest and apparently gasping for air. Phyllis was watching him with a stunned expression on her face, as were the other people standing inside the glass enclosure. Except for Montgomery, they all seemed suspended in time. But when the algebra teacher fell to his knees, the mannequins rushed forward to offer their assistance. Someone shouted, “Call an ambulance!” Suddenly chaos had replaced administrative efficiency; the orderly anthill had been kicked by a giant boot.
Sue gasped and said to Marla, “Gosh, wonder what’s wrong with Mr. Montgomery?” They glanced over their shoulders to get Nancy’s appraisal.
She was nowhere in sight.
Six
There was an orange and white ambulance parked in the circle drive in front of the school building when Carol and her two children arrived at Sharon Valley High to get Lana enrolled. Luke leaned up from the back seat.
“Wow, an ambulance! Wonder if somebody had a heart attack?”
“You’d probably hope so,” Lana said grumpily. Sam had kept her awake most of the night, nipping and pawing at her through the blankets. Whenever she’d tried putting him on the floor, he’d begun to whine. And when she’d awakened, she’d found a smelly wet spot near the footboard of the antique four-poster bed she’d inherited from her paternal grandparents, and naturally on the quilt Mamaw Lizzie had painstakingly made for her. She wasn’t in the cheeriest of moods.
As Carol pulled into a vacant parking spot, two ambulance attendants wheeled a stretcher through the front glass doors into the portico, followed by a host of curious onlookers. A woman wearing a lime-green dress climbed into the back of the emergency vehicle, the attendants chasing her in with the stretcher. The victim appeared briefly as a blur of white face covered with an oxygen mask, his body wrapped in a dark green blanket laced with straps. One of the attendants followed the stretcher inside; the other closed the rear doors and rushed up front to the driver’s seat. Blue and orange lights swirling, siren blaring, the vehicle sped off. Luke, fascinated, followed it with his eyes.
“Mom, will you make Luke stay in the car?” Lana cast a scathing glance in her brother’s direction. “He’ll go in there an’ act like a jerk, an’ I don’t want anybody to know I’m related to him. Please?”
Luke had every intention of seeing what the inside of the high school looked like. “Hey, that’s not fair!”
“It’s after eight,” Carol said dryly. “I’m sure most of the kids are in class by now.” Obviously all were not; there were several teens standing among the adults in the portico, still staring after the ambulance as if reluctant to accept that the show was over; their faces bore looks of anticipation, perhaps revealing morbid hopes that the speeding truck would overturn rounding a corner. “An’ he won’t act like a jerk,” she continued, “because if he does, he can spend the rest of the weekend in his room.” She caught her son’s reflection in the rearview mirror. “That understood, boy?”
In lieu of a verbal response, Luke jerked the left rear passenger door open and bolted for the glass entrance. Lana moaned. “Why can’t he ever just walk?”
Carol and Lana followed the small crowd back into the building; Luke had already found his way to the offices. The buzz of conversation within the heart of the educational facility simmered down in the presence of the three strange faces, but a young girl sporting a bonnet of blond ringlets, whom Lana judged to be a snotty office aide/lifelong teacher’s pet, continued in a high-pitched, airy voice: “He just couldn’t breathe…oh my gosh, it was just horrible. I thought he was going to die, right on the spot!” Her audience murmured softly in agreement.
A short, beefy man with a pleasant face and an obvious toupee broke away and strode up to greet the Bremmerses. His skin was etched with a good number of laugh lines, but his usual smile was hidden behind a cloud of concern.
“Hello, I’m Richard Greer, principal. You must be Mrs. Bremmers.” He held out a pudgy hand and gave Carol’s a brief, clammy squeeze.
Carol nodded bleakly, empathizing with the tragedy. “I guess we could have come at a better time. We saw the ambulance…was it a student?”
Overhearing her heavy southern accent from across the room, the teacher’s pet and one of her fluffy friends began to giggle.
Greer rubbed his bloated jowls, his bushy eyebrows furrowing. “No, one of our teachers. Don’t know what happened, really—he was fine one minute, then the next…” His voice trailed off as he puzzled over the bizarre occurrence. “Don’t think it was a heart attack. Just couldn’t seem to get his breath, and I guess his stomach was cramping—”
“Did he eat some poison?” Luke blurted with his usual diplomacy. Lana jabbed him with her elbow.
“Shut up, you little creep. They don’t know what happened. Didn’t you hear what the man said?” She cast a withering look at the two socialites who were now giggling at her, whispering behind their hands, branding her with the name HICK. It was all over their faces.
“Mom, she hit me!”
Carol sighed with exasperation. “My children get along about as well as two pit bulls. But I trust you’ll find Lana acts her age when she’s in school.”
Incensed that she had been placed on the same level as her brother, Lana sulkily turned her attention to some bulletins on a wall behind them, her arms crossed, foot tapping impatiently on the tiled floor. Unmistakable body language. Screw you, Mom. Screw this new school too. Carol pretended not to notice.
Luke, feeling triumphant, skipped out into the hall to examine some trophies in a glass display case. Greer excused himself to collect the papers he needed Carol to sign; his secretary had gone to the hospital with Montgomery. Lana’s school records had already been transferred by mail from her previous school, Edgewater High, thus making the Bremmerses’ appearance little more than a formality.
Lana wondered what Greg was doing at that moment back at Edgewater. She’d written him a nine-page letter the night before, sprinkling some of her favorite perfume on it before sealing it in the envelope. It was in her purse, stamped and ready to go; the obituary of a love that wasn’t meant to be. She’d decided to be adult about the situation, to cut the cord cleanly so they could both get on with their lives. No doubt he was going to have an easier time of it.
Her mother was ready to leave. Mr. Greer walked with them to the double doors facing the faculty parking lot, his face still pinched with worry. He was concerned, of course, about Albert Montgomery, but he was also aware that upstairs in Room 208 there were thirty unsupervised teenagers. Picturing a human missile being ejected from one of the upper windows, he ushered Carol, Lana, and Luke to the door without offering the standard tour. Priorities. Human life outweighed protocol.
Outside, Carol handed Lana her sche
dule. “They pretty well matched the classes you were takin’ at Edgewater…I guess some of the time slots will be different, but Mr. Greer is certain you’ll be able to adjust to the transition easy enough, considerin’ your SAT scores. Your teachers will issue your books on Monday.” Lana, still miffed by her mother’s earlier comment, jabbed a finger at some figures penciled on the bottom of the paper. “That my locker number?”
“Yes, they have combination locks. Yours is—”
“I can read, Mom.”
Carol’s jaw set. “Watch your tone, Lana.”
“Yeah, watch your tone,” Luke echoed tauntingly. With the Bremmers, it was business as usual.
Someone was knocking on the trailer door, impatiently, relentlessly. Jane finally gave up trying to ignore it and pulled herself out of the lumpy double bed she had shared with her husband for fifteen years. Theirs was a perfect marriage: he worked days and she worked nights, so their affection had not suffered the bitter erosion often seen when couples endured too much time together.
It seemed she had heard him get up and leave for his custodial job at the high school only minutes before, but a sleepy glance at the alarm clock on the nightstand revealed he had been gone for over two hours. She languidly pulled a beige quilted robe over her cotton teddy and dragged herself through the tiny cluttered room. The mirror over a dresser that had seen better days had no reason to feel shame in the presence of the human standing before it; Jane had also seen better days. She still hadn’t quite come to grips with the lines that had become a permanent part of her once-flawless complexion, but she’d ceased to agonize over them. Her auburn hair, once the envy of her school chums, now looked as though she’d spent several hours with her head in the microwave oven. The years spent living in high altitudes had certainly taken their toll.
Whoever was knocking also kept trying the doorknob, which narrowed guilt for the intrusion down to two suspects: Jane’s mother, or Edna Crassfield, next door neighbor and world-class gossip monger. Yawning, Jane peeked through the faded print curtain over the door’s window. Suspect Number One was getting red in the face. Jane wearily opened the door.
“Hello, Mother.”
Rose Hester heaved her balloon breasts in relief. “Mercy, thought you never was gonna get up,” she sputtered as she propelled her massive figure toward the narrow door-frame. Jane scuffled into the kitchenette to make a pot of coffee.
“What are you in such a tizzy about? You know I’m always asleep at this hour.”
“Let me sit down an’ catch m’breath,” Rose huffed, her sight set on her son-in-law’s favorite chair. She plopped onto it like a wet bag of cement. Her first words, as always, were, “Aren’cha never gonna get a phone?”
Jane knew if she had one, it would be constantly glued to her head; between her mother and Edna Crassfield, she’d never get anything done. “You know we can’t afford one,” she answered, her standard response to the telephone issue. Rose dropped the subject with a grunt.
“Had prayer meetin’ last night. Brother Gibson had a message for you.”
Jane gritted her teeth. Her mother was a faithful member of a small fundamentalist church whose members’ main objective was to convert the “lost” of their own fold before moving on to save the world at large. Jane was the last survivor.
“Oh, really? And what did God have to say this time?” Brother Gibson’s last message from “On High” was that if she didn’t repent, something terrible would happen to her. The next day she’d received a pay raise at the nursing home.
Rose looked at her daughter sternly. “He says you’re a’headed right for the pit, Jane Rachel. God’s warnin’ you. The evil days are upon us, and whosoever’s not a’washed in the blood of Jesus is a’goin’ into the pit.”
“You want some coffee, Mother?” Jane reached into the cabinet for a coffee cup, her mother’s warning shooting through her head like a greased spear without leaving a trace of residue. She might just as well have told Jane that the valley was about to be squashed underfoot by Godzilla or King Kong; Jane would have been every bit as worried.
“My baby’s goin’ ta be lost forever,” Rose blubbered. “It were my only wish on this earth that my children would go to their graves right with Jesus. I pray every night He’ll soften that hard heart of yours. You don’t know the tears I’ve a’cried.”
Jane estimated that her mother’s tears over her hard heart could just about fill the Yankee Stadium by now. “Listen, Mother, I’m happy just the way I am, okay? I don’t think I have to spend twenty hours a week in church to go to Heaven. Don’t you worry about it; I’m sure we’ll be together in Eternity.”
A comforting thought…
Rose took a yellowed hanky from her oversized purse and honked into it loudly. “You gotta give your whole heart, girl, not just a little piece,” she argued, weeping. “An’ when you do that, you’ll wanna be in church gettin’ fellowshiped.”
A lewd picture formed in Jane’s mind. She brushed it away. Carrying her steaming cup of coffee with care, she sat down at the Formica dinette table which still contained dirty dishes from her husband’s breakfast and last night’s dinner. She was thankful they were both slobs. They excused their slovenly domestic habits as an occupational hazard, since their working hours were spent cleaning up other people’s messes. It took away the zeal for wanting to come home and do more of the same.
“You’re wasting your time, Mother. I’m thirty-nine-years old, and I’ve got the right to make my own decisions. I believe in God and everything, but I just don’t feel the need to make religion that big a part of my life. And nothing you or Brother Gibson or God says is going to change that. Besides, if I suddenly got a dose of the Holy Ghost, Harry would leave me. You know how he feels about all that. Is that what you want? You want me to get divorced?”
Rose shook her gray head and remained silent with her eyes closed, her lips forming unspoken words. When all else failed, she always started praying.
Jane’s lips curled up in a slight smile as she sipped her black Sanka. The evil days are upon us…
When had they ever not been?
Third period, study hall in the cafeteria. Marla and Nancy, unable to get a table by themselves, endured the presence of three other seniors: Jess Staples, Brad Hendrickson, and Lisa Chambers. But since talking wasn’t allowed anyway, the two friends passed their comments back and forth on notebook paper. Marla had written first: What do you think happened to Doom? Did he have a heart attack or something?
Under which Nancy had replied: Who cares? Just be happy about it.
Marla read the reply, then looked across the table at Nancy’s face. Somehow it was different, but Marla couldn’t quite decide how so. Harder, maybe. Like she was angry about something but trying not to show it. Perhaps Jay, her boyfriend, had said or done something to upset her during the previous class period; the two had biology together. Marla wanted to ask what the matter was, but Nancy suddenly seemed interested in actually doing some schoolwork. Marla tucked the note in her English textbook and turned to her reading assignment, trying to take her friend’s advice and “just be happy about it.”
Mr. Montgomery had been rushed off to the hospital that morning, saving them from possible suspension. How terribly convenient for them.
Dr. James Prescott studied the constricted pupils of his lethargic patient before returning his attention to the medical chart he held before him. His expression hinted only vaguely of his puzzlement; Albert G. Montgomery was exhibiting all the signs of cyanide poisoning (sans death): blue lips, breathing difficulty, numb extremities, severe headache—but not a trace of the poison had been found in his bloodstream. It didn’t make sense.
Montgomery’s lungs, even with the aid of an oxygen mask secured to his face and air tubes running into his nose, labored erratically for breath; the chronic headache had been eased by Percodan, but his limbs continued to feel like d
ead logs. He lay terrified in the body that had suddenly turned against him, not understanding, only knowing it was a fight to the death.
Prescott hung the chart back on the foot of Montgomery’s bed and left the intensive care unit, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his lab coat. A pretty candy striper named Cindy nearly bumped into him.
“Oh, excuse me, Doctor. Guess I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
Prescott smiled tiredly, his steel-gray eyes moving perfunctorily over the girl’s form. “Quite all right, Cindy. Just don’t let it happen again.”
She giggled and hurried away, her cheeks flamed with color. It occurred to Prescott that with very little effort he could have his way with her, but the idea didn’t appeal as much as it would have in his younger days, when his sexual appetite and yearning for variety was seemingly insatiable. For the past few years he had been sticking mainly to his wife.
Montgomery’s case crept back into his consciousness, retarding the growth of further fantasy. Prescott didn’t like mysteries, and especially didn’t like to say the words “I don’t know,” which was all the answer he presently had for Montgomery’s condition. But he would hardly admit to that in writing. His prognosis on record was Acute Stress-Related Trauma. Let any of his colleagues study Montgomery’s test results and argue with that.
Seven
By two p.m. on Saturday the Bremmerses’ new home was in acceptable order, the empty packing boxes stashed in the garage. They were now officially “planted,” and the absence of Hugh Bremmers was far less noticeable in surroundings with which he had never been associated. Carol was thankful for that; she’d requested the transfer, hoping it would aid in her emotional recovery. She was still absorbing the impact of the divorce, that forbidden cutting asunder of what God had joined together. They had vowed “Till death do us part.” She wasn’t dead, and neither was Hugh. Why had they even bothered to say the words?