by Matt Witten
When we handed over our kids to Barry and Ronnie, they invited us to stick around and play laser tag, too. "It won't cost us anything, we got a package deal," Barry said, putting a hand on my shoulder.
"I'd love to, but Andrea and I are hitting the school board meeting."
"What for? So you can hear endless eulogies of the great leader Sam Meckel?"
"I guess it could get kind of tedious," I acknowledged. I turned to Andrea. "Honey, how about we play just one game? That way we'll miss the eulogies."
So we stuck around and put on our suits of armor, then attacked each other and our kids with abandon for the next forty-five minutes. It was like eating potato chips—we couldn't stop at just one game.
It's amazing and rather scary how good it feels to have a gun in your hand. For the first half minute or so we kind of joked around, pointing our guns at each other's toes and not really trying to "destroy the enemy," to use laser tag lingo. But soon all our circumspectness and pretense at civility ceased. We charged around obstacles and took deadly aim at our enemies' chests.
I blasted Latree repeatedly, paying him back for all those times he'd kept me waiting and failed to even hear me while he read a book. Latree blasted Andrea for all the times she yelled at him to hold his spoon the right way. Andrea blasted Charizard for being stubborn about going to the bathroom right before bed, even though he sometimes peed in his sleep if he didn't. And Charizard blasted me for not buying him Pokémon cards whenever he wanted them.
All in all, it was good clean family fun.
It reminded me of something I heard once: a healthy family is one where the love overcomes the psychological torture.
In the middle of it all, the Richardsons' dog Miata, a large brown Doberman pinscher that you wouldn't want to mess with, wandered in. He took one look at all the crazy humans charging around in the strobe-lit darkness, attacking each other with red laser rays, and ran out yipping like a chihuahua.
Who could blame him?
Eventually Andrea and I tore ourselves away from the carnage and drove down to the junior high school, where the school board was meeting in the auditorium.
In the car we practiced the two-minute speeches we were going to make at the meeting. The school board would be taking audience comments on the budget, and Andrea and I wanted to hit them with our most eloquent shots when we asked for more bucks for the gifted and talented program. We were pushing for a full-time coordinator who would work with teachers and the gifted students themselves to create individualized programs for these kids. Also, we were plugging for special pull-out programs for gifted kids at least three hours a week.
"How about this for a speech?" Andrea said. "'Ladies and gentlemen of the school board, I'd like you to imagine the most horrible job you've ever had. Cleaning toilets for eight hours a day. Telemarketing.
"'Then imagine you were stuck at this job for the next twelve years. Twelve years of getting bored half to death. And there's no escape, because you're not allowed to quit. Sounds like torture, doesn't it?
"'Well, ladies and gentlemen, that's what life is like every day for highly gifted children in our schools.'"
Andrea turned to me. "What do you think? Good speech?"
"It makes me nervous."
"Why?"
"Because it's perfect. How am I ever gonna follow an act like that?"
"You'll think of something. You're the writer."
"Yeah, but you're forgetting my writer's block."
"Something like this oughta be able to get you unblocked."
"I've got it," I said, and cleared my throat. "Ladies and gentlemen of the school board, you better treat my kids right or I'll grab a gun and make you sit there for five hours while I read you Berenstain Bears books."
"Well, at least it’s heartfelt," Andrea said. "But maybe we better keep you away from laser tag from now on."
As it turned out, though, all our speechmaking preparations went for naught. We got there just as the eulogies were ending and the business part of the meeting was beginning. We soon learned that the budget was not part of today's agenda, after all.
The president of the school board, a forty-five-year-old guy with a white shirt and blue tie who looked like an accountant, and in fact was an accountant in his day job, stood behind the podium and adjusted his glasses.
"Fellow school board members, and members of the public," he began, "we have a surprise change in the agenda. I am happy to announce that this week the superintendent's office received the official results of this year's Terra Nova tests."
Instantly the entire audience stopped coughing, undoing candy wrappers, and shuffling in their seats. Everyone realized we were about to hear… drum roll, please… The Test Results.
It’s amazing, the hold that these standardized tests have on the psyche of America. All over the country, everybody from conservative politicians to inner-city mothers use these scores as a measure of how well our schools are doing.
I hate these tests, and not just because George W.'s demagoguery about them helped him get elected president—or should I say, selected. For about one month every spring, our children's school gets fanatical about preparing for the darn things. The kids take practice tests at school and get practice test questions for homework. We parents get inundated with dittos and Xeroxed pages from the teachers and the principal advising us how to get our kids ready for Test Week.
But the reality is, these tests do absolutely nothing to help my kids. No matter how dull their teachers and how worthless their classes, my kids will always pass these tests. They're a waste of time for them, and a distraction.
And in fact, standardized tests are useless for most kids. They don't measure how exciting or fun or truly valuable the school experience is. They're only useful for making sure the lowest common denominator for a certain kind of knowledge doesn't go below a certain level. The tests don't measure the ability to think creatively. They measure the ability of students to do well on multiple-choice tests, and the ability of teachers to "teach to the test."
As I listened to the school board prez describe the results, I realized an even bigger reason why I hated the tests: they encouraged people to get complacent. Like the prez was demonstrating right now.
"Once again," he said, a smug smile playing on his lips, "the Saratoga Springs public schools have shown their continuing excellence. All of our elementary schools, across the board, have either stayed the same or improved since last year. The complete statewide scores are not yet in but it’s fair to predict, based on last year's statewide scores, that our schools finished above the sixtieth percentile in every grade. In reading, our first-grade students scored approximately sixty-eight percent. At the second-grade level, we reached the sixty-ninth percentile. . . ."
The prez went on to rattle off statistics and pass around handouts to all the parents. Most of the parents read their stapled pages with rapt attention. I just jammed them into my jacket pocket.
I guess I was happy that most of the Saratoga kids were scoring above average. And I felt a small surge of pride when I heard that High Rock had finished slightly ahead of all the other local elementary schools this year. As the prez pointed out at great length, Sam Meckel would have been proud.
But mainly, I wished I could burn all those stapled pages. Those pages, and pages like them throughout the country, doom our schools to mediocrity. And it wasn't just my kids who would have to endure years of deadly dull classes; Andrea and I would have to deal with it, too. Sometimes I wished my kids weren't quite so bright.
Unfortunately, private schools weren't really an option. The only ones in Saratoga are Catholic schools and a Waldorf school, and neither choice appealed to us.
The prez kept on rolling with his mighty stats, and the parents kept on reading those heartwarming pages. Andrea and I looked at each other and, by mutual consent, stood up and walked out.
When we got back to the laser tag place, Barry was standing out front with Miata. "The dog and I need
ed a break from all the heavy violence in there," he said. "So how was the meeting? You put in your two cents?"
"Not exactly." Andrea went inside, and I told Barry how the standardized tests had taken over the meeting.
"Sounds exciting," Barry said.
I snorted in response. Then I told him what Irene Topor had said about Susie—namely, that Susie and Meckel had worked out an accommodation about her younger daughter.
Barry just sat there rubbing Miata under her left ear. He was oddly silent.
"Barry," I said, "you're oddly silent."
He bestirred himself. "So the killer isn't Laura, it's not Susie—"
"I haven't ruled Susie out. She still could've bopped Meckel on the head because she was mad about her older daughter."
Barry let go of Miata's ear and started rubbing his own. "Listen, Jake, I have a confession to make."
"Confess away."
"Well, I was in there playing laser tag with the kids. And I was listening to them shouting and screaming, you know?"
He paused. "Uh-huh," I said encouragingly.
"And it hit me all of a sudden. The way they were shouting . . ."
I began to sense what was coming. "Uh-huh," I said, not so encouragingly this time. Miata gave me a questioning look.
"Well, it sounded a lot like the shouting I heard that morning."
"Jeez, Barry. First you think it’s a woman, then maybe a man, then a kid. . . . Remind me never to use you as a witness."
"I'm really sorry, Jake, I was just trying to help."
"Next thing you'll be telling me there was no screaming after all, just a mouse squeaking."
"Look, maybe I could get hypnotized or something, do you think that might help?"
"Skip it."
"I'm serious. My wife knows a doctor at the hospital who was telling her about some guy—"
I stood up. "If you think it’ll help, try it. Listen, when Andrea comes out, tell her I took off for a little while. She can go ahead and drive the kids home."
"Where are you going?"
"To pay a friendly visit to Mark Robinson and his illustrious parents."
"Are you sure that’s safe? Didn't Lou get rough with you the other day?"
"Let's hope he got it out of his system," I said, and walked off.
It was a short five-minute trek down Broadway and up Grand to L & S Copies. The sky was blue, the daffodils were blooming, the girls were wearing miniskirts, and I was on my way to track down a double murderer.
As I passed Kinko's, I looked in. The joint was jumping. Skidmore College students, housewives, elderly folks. . . . There were ten or twelve customers packed in at the gleaming new self-service Xerox machines, and more customers at the big long service desk, manned by fresh-faced young employees.
But when I went up to L & S Copies, it was forlorn and empty. The peeling sign on the window claimed that the store was open from ten to five on Saturdays—unlike Kinko's, which was open twenty-four seven—but nobody was visible inside, not even Lou and Sylvia.
I pushed the front door anyway. It opened. I went in.
At first I couldn't hear anything, except for mechanical buzzing and groaning from the machines, most of which were of early '90s vintage. But then I thought I heard voices coming from the back. "Hello?" I said tentatively.
No answer.
I stepped past the machines toward the back room of the store. Now I was able to identify the voices. They belonged to New York Knicks announcers. Somebody had a television set on.
I rounded the corner and immediately came face-to-face with all three Robinsons. Lou and Mark were sitting on a worn-out sofa watching the game. Except now they were watching me. Sylvia sat in a nearby chair that had some stuffing showing. She was watching me too.
Decidedly unpleasant.
But now was no time to be shy. Or scared. If only one of them were in the room, and that one was a murderer, then I'd be in trouble. But I couldn't imagine all three of them would whack me together. That would be too weird.
I waded in, aiming imaginary lasers at their souls. "I know everything," I said.
Lou turned to Sylvia. "Can you believe this guy?"
"I know about Mark stealing the skateboard. I know they were leaning on you hard to give him Ritalin. And it was all coming to a head on Tuesday."
"You're getting on my goddamn nerves," Lou said.
"I know Mark killed Sam Meckel. There's a witness who heard Mark yelling at him that morning in his office."
I was stretching, of course. But they didn't know that.
The three of them just stared at me in shock. Seconds passed. On TV, the Knicks were losing by fifteen.
Lou came out of it first. "Sylvia," he said. "I hear a customer."
I hadn't heard anything, myself. But Sylvia went out of the room. Then Lou stepped behind me, quick as Latrell Sprewell driving to the hoop, and slammed the door shut.
Now there were three of us alone in here. The room suddenly felt extremely small. There was a greasy smell, like somebody had been eating a burger and fries. I felt like choking.
And Lou felt like choking me. "You're full of crap," he said. "Nobody heard my son screaming. Mark wasn't there."
I looked at Mark. He said nothing.
I spread my palms wide, trying to look conciliatory. "Lou, the sooner you come clean, the better. I'm sure Mark wasn't trying to kill Meckel. They just got in an argument—"
I barely saw Lou's fist coming. It hit me smack in the forehead. I staggered back against the doorknob and fell to the floor. Then he kicked me in the ribs.
Repeatedly. And he was wearing boots.
I tried to protect my sides with my arms. He was screaming at me, cussing, going berserk. Listening to him, it flashed on me that his screams were higher pitched than his regular voice, which was pretty high already. Maybe Barry had been wrong yet again about that yelling. Maybe it was Lou.
And maybe Lou was about to commit his third murder.
His son wasn't doing anything to stop it, that’s for sure. He just cowered there rooted to the spot.
I wasn't doing much to stop it, either. My arms were protecting my ribs from getting kicked, but then he started aiming at my head.
And my head was in no mood for this. It had been only four days since my concussion. One of Lou's kicks landed pretty hard, and my ears started ringing. My brain got fuzzy. The ringing . . . the screaming . . . the Knicks. . . .
Some barely alert part of me noticed a boot coming straight at my eyes. I moved my head just in time and the boot flew by me. It hit some of my naturally curly hair but nothing else.
The close call seemed to knock my brain back into semi-normality. I rolled away from Lou and tried to get up.
But he came at me again, with a primordial yell. He reared back his boot, aimed at my face, and cut loose.
I snapped my face back out of the way. This time, as his boot whizzed by, I swept my arm underneath it and caught it on the backswing. I shoved Lou's foot as hard as I could, and he lost his balance. He tripped and fell.
I jumped up. If only I could make it out the door. I lunged toward it.
But Lou got up, too. He roared and matched my lunge. Now I couldn't open the door and get out, because opening it would take too many precious milliseconds. Lou would be all over me.
But then, magically, the door opened by itself—or that's what I thought until I saw Sylvia right behind it. She must have heard all the screaming.
I didn't waste any time. I threw Sylvia out of the way and ran, holding my side. Lou chased me to the front door, yelling some rather rude remarks. But when I made it out to the street, he didn't follow.
I ran a couple of blocks, then slowed to a walk.
With the danger subsiding, my body began to register all my new pains. I felt like my head was split open and my ribs were broken. Or maybe the other way around. Not the pleasantest way to spend a Saturday afternoon. I stumbled the block and a half to Broadway and made it into Madeline's Espre
sso Bar.
Dave, the cop who was going out with Madeline, was sitting at the front counter eating a sandwich. Brie and sliced pear on a baguette. I doubt he ever ate anything remotely resembling that before he met Madeline. I went up to him. "Hey, Dave."
He looked up and saw the big bruise forming in the middle of my forehead, thanks to Lou's first punch. "What the hell happened to you?"
"I ran into several doors. You think you could give me a lift to the emergency room?"
He put down his baguette and got up. "No problem."
"Sorry to interrupt your lunch."
"Like I said, no problem. I'm sure you've got one hell of a story."
On the way to the hospital I told it to him, as coherently as my addled brain would allow. "So I'm thinking of pressing charges," I said after I'd finished. "Maybe that will stir things up. The cops will start investigating the Robinson family for the murders."
"Which Robinson are you betting on?"
"Before, my money was on the kid, but now I don't know. Lou certainly proved he was capable. He almost killed me just now."
"But maybe he just flipped out all of a sudden because you were getting too close to nailing his kid."
I squirmed uncomfortably and undid the seat belt. My ribs were killing me. "Whoever killed Meckel and Helquist, I need you fearless cops to look into it, not me. My health can't take much more of this."
"I just wish you had more hard evidence against the Robinsons."
I pointed to the bump on my forehead. "Doesn't this count as hard evidence the guy's at least worth checking out?"
"Hey, it’s not me you have to convince. The chief is still stuck on Laura Braithwaite."
"For Helquist’s murder, too?"
"Yup. Sorry to tell you this, but the D.A.'s going to see the judge on Monday about revoking bail."
"Oh, Lord."
"What do you expect? She was found standing beside the dead man with the murder weapon in her hand. And it’s pretty tough to believe Lou or his kid or anybody else could've snuck into Meckel's office that morning with nobody seeing them."