Don't Cry Now

by Joy Fielding

  “Thank you.”

  “Sam’s in my third-period class,” Tom O’Brian stated. “He’s a real talent, a natural-born actor. How’s he doing?”

  “Better than you might expect,” Bonnie answered, still not sure what to make of Sam’s behavior. The police had released Joan’s car, and Sam had happily volunteered to drive his sister to and from her school in Newton for the balance of the school year. “Did you know his mother?”

  “I met her at parent-teacher interviews back in November. She seemed nice enough.” Tom O’Brian shook his head. “Awful thing. Hard to believe.”

  There didn’t seem to be anything left to say, and the room fell silent. Gradually, everyone returned to whatever each had been doing before Bonnie’s entrance. Bonnie reached for a section of The Boston Globe that lay on the Formica coffee table in front of her chair, flipping through it, relieved her name was no longer front and center on the pages. Other murders, bloodier, more sensational, had rendered her old news: a murder-suicide in Waltham; a drive-by shooting on Newbury Street; a couple stabbed while having dessert at a trendy bistro.

  Bonnie quickly traded the first section for the Life section, scanning the recipes for low-fat brownies and high-fiber apple crumble, ignoring an article on sex and the elderly, and focusing on “House Calls,” an advice column shared by two doctors, general practitioner, Dr. Rita Wertman, and family therapist, Dr. Walter Greenspoon.

  What had Dr. Greenspoon’s name been doing in Joan Wheeler’s address book?

  Dear Dr. Greenspoon, the first letter began. I’m the mother of a hyperactive seven-year-old girl who is driving my husband and me crazy. She refuses to get up in the mornings, screams when I take her to school, and won’t eat her supper or go to bed. My husband and I are exhausted, and are constantly at each other’s throats. I’m afraid our marriage won’t survive this child, and I don’t know what to do.

  Dear Frustrated Mom, began Dr. Greenspoon’s reply. You and your husband need to learn how to act as a unit….

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Wheeler,” a voice interrupted.

  Bonnie looked up, the paper dropping to her lap. Josh Freeman stood before her, tall and lean, a shy smile on his lips, looking appealingly boyish, although there was something about his posture that warned her not to get too close. “Mr. Freeman,” she acknowledged, awkwardly.

  “You said you’d like to talk to me.”

  “Yes. If you wouldn’t mind.” Bonnie nodded toward the chair beside her. Josh Freeman hesitated, then sat down. “How are you enjoying Weston Secondary?” Bonnie asked, not sure how to begin, feeling as awkward as if this were their first date. What was she doing? Why had she asked to speak to him? What exactly did she want to speak to him about?

  “I like it here very much,” Josh Freeman told her. “Lots of talented, creative kids. I don’t have to do much to motivate them. But I don’t think that’s what you wanted to talk to me about, is it?”

  So, he wasn’t one for small talk, Bonnie thought, normally a trait she admired. “I was surprised to see you at Joan Wheeler’s funeral,” she ventured.

  Josh Freeman said nothing.

  “I hadn’t realized you were friends.”

  Still nothing.

  “You’re not saying anything,” Bonnie said, staring at his lips, almost afraid to look into his eyes.

  “You haven’t asked me anything,” he told her.

  She smiled, understanding she would have to be specific if she hoped to learn anything, although what exactly she was trying to learn puzzled her. “How well did you know Joan?”

  “We met in November at parent-teacher night. We talked a number of times after that.”

  “She had your home phone number.”

  “Yes, she did.”

  Bonnie took a deep breath, forced her eyes to his, was momentarily startled by their clarity, by the intensity with which he returned her gaze. “You’re not making this very easy for me.”

  “I’m not trying to be difficult,” he said. “I’m just not sure what you’re getting at.”

  “Have the police contacted you?”

  “I’ve spoken to the police, yes.”

  “May I ask what you talked about?”

  “You may not,” he said evenly.

  Bonnie felt her cheeks grow red. “Did you know about my connection to Joan?” she asked.

  “I know that you’re married to her ex-husband.”

  “Did Joan tell you that, or did the police?”

  “Joan told me.”

  “What exactly was your relationship with Joan?”

  “I’m not sure that’s any of your business,” Josh Freeman said, glancing at the large clock on the wall. “And the bell’s about to ring. I should get moving.”

  “We have another five minutes.”

  “What is it about my relationship with Joan that you want to know?”

  “So, there was a relationship,” Bonnie stated.

  He said nothing.

  “Did she ever talk about me?” Bonnie asked. “Or my daughter? Did she ever tell you she thought we might be in danger?”

  A look of concern flickered briefly through Josh Freeman’s eyes, then disappeared. “I’m not sure what you’re getting at,” he said, standing up, “and I find I’m getting very uncomfortable with this conversation. I really should get to my class.”

  Bonnie rose immediately to her feet. “Can we talk after school?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Please.”

  “We’ll see,” he said, clearly torn. Before she could protest further, he was gone.

  Bonnie took a deep breath and pushed open the door of her classroom. Immediately, those students who were still grouped in front of the long side window raced for their seats. They were a motley group, all hair and denim and pierced body parts, an approximately equal number of young men and women from relatively affluent homes, determined to look as impoverished as possible, their blank eyes reflecting a collective cynicism beyond their years. Whatever happened to sweet sixteen? Bonnie wondered.

  There was some giggling, and many nervous glances, as Bonnie scanned the faces of the twenty-four students in her first-period junior year English class. From the back of the room, Haze winked and nodded his head up and down, like a ventriloquist’s dummy. Bonnie approached her desk at the front of the class and edged herself into her seat, quickly checking to make sure everything was as she’d left it. The chalkboard had been wiped clean; the bulletin board on the east wall was a familiar assortment of maps, signs, and playbills. LITERATURE THROUGHOUT THE AGES, 1400–1850, one sign announced. Next to it were student-drawn posters illustrating some of the things her classes were studying: Catcher in the Rye, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, Cyrano de Bergerac, Macbeth.

  “What did the substitute do with you last week?” she asked, lifting her copy of Macbeth from the top of her desk.

  “Not much,” someone said, and laughed.

  “Out out, damned spot,” Haze bellowed. More laughter.

  “He was pretty incompetent,” one of the girls said from the first row. “He just had us work on our own most of the time.”

  “Good. Then there shouldn’t be any excuses for not having your essays handed in today,” Bonnie reminded them to a series of loud groans. “In the meantime, let’s turn to page seventy-two.”

  A hand reached up, fluttered into the air.

  “Yes, Katie?”

  “What was it like to find a dead body?” the girl asked shyly.

  There was a moment of stunned silence. Well, of course they would be curious, Bonnie realized. They’d read the papers, knew all about Joan’s murder, were aware she’d found the body. “Awful,” Bonnie told the girl. “It was awful.”

  “Did the body feel cold?” another girl asked.

  “It felt cool,” Bonnie told her.

  “Cool,” a chorus of voices repeated.

  Cool, Bonnie thought. Had they misinterpreted the word?

  “Did you do it?” The
voice was male and deliberately provocative. Bonnie knew it belonged to Haze without having to look.

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” Bonnie said, struggling to keep her voice even, “but the answer is no. Now, I think we should turn to page seventy-two.” She flipped through the small text, hands noticeably shaking. “Macbeth’s speech at the top of the page.”

  She glanced toward the window, pleased with spring’s progress. Despite the less-than-seasonal temperatures, the trees were all budding, some already in bloom. It looked as if someone had taken a finger through a chalk drawing, she thought, smudging the boundaries of the branches, engulfing them in a soft green mist. It was her favorite time, Bonnie realized, watching as several girls ran across the large back field, obviously late for class. One of the girls dropped a notebook and had to run back to retrieve it. Bonnie followed her with her eyes, saw the girl bend forward, her short black skirt riding up to reveal a pair of plaid boxer shorts. Bonnie smiled, about to return her attention to the text when something else caught her eye: a man standing at the far end of the field, not quite hidden by the trees. Was he watching the girls? Bonnie wondered. Or something else?

  She walked to the window, leaned forward, pressed her nose almost to the glass. As if he knew he was being watched, the man stepped away from the trees and out of the shadows, affording her a clearer view. He was wearing a tan windbreaker over a pair of blue jeans, large sunglasses covering his eyes. Mirrored sunglasses, Bonnie knew, gasping, taking a step back, bumping against one of the student’s desks.

  “Mrs. Wheeler, are you all right?” someone asked.

  “Tracey, take over until I get back,” Bonnie said, already on her way to the door. “Work on your essays,” she instructed.

  “What’s going on?” someone whispered.

  “Who is that guy?” someone asked.

  Bonnie walked briskly down the corridor, mindful of the sign that cautioned against running in the hall, to the exterior door. She pushed it open, running through the back field toward the trees where she’d seen the man.

  Except he wasn’t there.

  Bonnie stopped, turned in a full circle, then turned again. Goddamn him, she thought, angry tears springing to her eyes. She wasn’t going to let him do this. She wasn’t going to allow him to start playing games with her head. “Nick!” she called out, the wind carrying her voice across the field, like a football tucked beneath a quarterback’s arm. “Nick, where are you? I know you’re here. I saw you.”

  There was a shuffling noise. Bonnie turned, squinting into the sun as a man walked lazily toward her. Bonnie cupped her hands over her eyes, strained to make out the man’s face.

  “Something wrong?” the man asked.

  Even before she saw his face, she knew it wasn’t Nick. The voice was all wrong. It was kind and solicitous, two adjectives she could never apply to her brother.

  Bonnie approached the dark-haired, middle-aged man who was wearing the gray uniform of the school custodian. “Did you see a man lurking around here?” She motioned vaguely toward the trees. “Tall, blondish, mirrored sunglasses,” she continued, positive about the sunglasses even though she really couldn’t be sure. Nick had always favored mirrored sunglasses. That way, no one could see his eyes. The mirror of the soul, she thought. Except that he didn’t have one.

  The custodian shook his head. “Sorry, no. Didn’t see anyone. But I can’t say I like the sound of someone lurking about. I’ll keep my eyes open. That’s for sure.”

  Bonnie took a last look around, then reluctantly headed back toward the school, aware of her students watching her from the classroom windows. Maybe she’d been mistaken. It might not have been Nick. What would he be doing out here anyway? No, it was probably her imagination. A shadow she’d shaped into a man, like a piece of clay. No one really there. Except that others in her class had seen him too. “Who is that guy?” she distinctly remembered someone asking.

  “He left as soon as you ran out of here,” Haze greeted her upon her return to the classroom.

  “Did you see where he went?” Bonnie asked.

  “Toward the parking lot,” someone answered.

  “Who was it?” several voices asked in unison.

  Bonnie lifted her hands into the air. “Someone I thought I knew. Anyway, enough of that. Please turn to page seventy-two, and let’s get started on this speech.”

  At the end of the period, Haze ambled toward her, one hand in the side pocket of his black jeans, the other around a clipboard, from which a few loose pieces of blank paper protruded. He stopped only inches from her face, the omnipresent scent of marijuana covering him like a second skin. “Uh, Mrs. Wheeler,” he began, “I haven’t had a chance to do that essay yet, and I need a little more time.”

  “You’ve had more than enough time,” Bonnie reminded him.

  “Well, the last week was kinda busy, what with the murder and everything,” he said.

  Bonnie opened her mouth to speak, immediately closed it again. Was he really using the murder of his friend’s mother as an excuse for not having his English assignment completed on time? And was she really surprised? “I’m not sure I follow.”

  “I need more time.”

  “You know the rules, Haze. You lose marks for every day your assignment is late.”

  “Look, I really need to pass this course.”

  “Then you really need to start doing some work.”

  “Don’t be such a tight-ass,” Haze mumbled out of the side of his mouth.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Sam’s mother was a tight-ass,” Haze continued, eyes locking on hers. “Look what happened to her.”

  For a moment, Bonnie was too stunned to speak. “What are you trying to say?”

  “I really need to pass this course,” he repeated, and walked out of the room.

  Bonnie sat in the staff room at the end of the long day, drinking her third cup of coffee and trying to relax. She wasn’t cut out for all this intrigue. She liked things simple and straightforward. No beating around the bush, no second guessing. It was one of the reasons she’d always had trouble with poetry. “Why don’t they just say what they mean?” she often found herself asking, the same question she was asking herself now. She thought of Josh Freeman and his refusal to confide in her, of her brother skulking in the bushes like some would-be child molester, of Haze with his guarded threats.

  She should probably call the police, report his strange remarks, although she doubted that would accomplish anything. The police had made it obvious she was still their prime suspect. “What about the danger Joan talked about?” she repeatedly asked them. “The danger to myself and my child?” To that, they said nothing. Was there no one who could provide her with any satisfactory answers?

  She checked her watch. It was after three. Where was Josh Freeman? Hadn’t he agreed to speak to her again after school?

  Well no, she had to admit. He hadn’t agreed to any such thing. In fact, he’d been most reluctant to speak to her again, offering only a tepid “we’ll see” when pressed.

  Bonnie looked around the room, the sun throwing an afternoon spotlight on the aggressively ugly blue-and-beige curtains bunched at either end of the long window. Anthony Higuera, a teacher of Spanish, sat marking papers in the far corner; Robert Chaplin, a teacher of chemistry, was reading the morning paper and shaking his head. Josh Freeman was nowhere to be seen.

  He was an interesting man, Bonnie decided, an enigma, pleasant but aloof, although something in his eyes told her he hadn’t always been that way. He’d kept mostly to himself since coming to Weston Secondary, as if he was afraid to let anyone get too close. She remembered hearing that his wife had died in some kind of horrible accident, but as far as she knew, he’d never discussed this, or any other aspect of his personal life, with anyone. How much of his personal life, she wondered, had he shared with Joan?

  Maybe he was waiting for her in his classroom, Bonnie realized, jumping up from her chair so abruptly she almost knocked it over.
It was certainly worth a shot, she decided, departing the staff room and heading down the corridor toward the staircase at the back of the school. Even if he wasn’t waiting for her, maybe she’d be able to head him off….

  “Oh, Mrs. Wheeler,” a voice called, and Bonnie turned to see one of the secretaries, a plump young woman dressed all in red, running after her. A tomato with legs, Bonnie thought, as the woman approached, hand over her heart to still her breathing. “I’m glad I caught you.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “There was a phone call from your daughter’s day care. They want you to call back as soon as possible. They….”

  Bonnie didn’t give the startled young woman a chance to finish her sentence. She bolted for the office and the first available phone.

  “Problem?” Ron Mosher, asked, stepping out of his office and into the general waiting area.

  “Claire Appleby, please,” Bonnie said into the receiver, acknowledging her principal’s concern with a slight lifting of her shoulders. “It’s Bonnie Wheeler calling.”

  “Mrs. Wheeler,” Claire Appleby’s voice said a second later. “Thank you for calling back so quickly.”

  “What’s wrong? Is Amanda all right?”

  “She’s fine now. I don’t want you to be alarmed.”

  “What do you mean, she’s fine now?”

  “There was an incident.”

  “An incident?”

  “I want to stress that your daughter is unharmed….”

  If the woman said anything further, Bonnie didn’t hear her. She’d already dropped the receiver and was racing down the corridor toward her car.

  10

  The school that housed Amanda’s day care center was a two-story redbrick building with lots of windows, located on School Street, normally a two-minute drive from Weston Secondary. Bonnie got there in under sixty seconds.

  She pulled her car into the long driveway, slamming it into a parking space at the side of the school, then ran along the small alleyway, nicknamed Alphabet Lane, to the day care center, located at the back of the school, next to the playground.