Why Isn't Becky Twitchell Dead?

by Mark Richard Zubro

  Scott entered the room and yawned good morning. He was in jeans, a University of Arizona sweat shirt, and white socks. I wore my school clothes. Jeff had on the faded blue jeans, navy blue sweater, and gym shoes from the night before. Scott rummaged in the refrigerator. We found enough food to make an adequate breakfast.

  Over last cups of coffee, Jeff said, “You’re Scott Carpenter, the baseball player.” Introductions the night before had gotten muddled in the cold and immediacy of the rescue.

  Scott smiled and nodded.

  “You live here with Mr. Mason?”

  “Sometimes. I have a place of my own. Other times, he stays there with me.”

  “Oh,” the kid said.

  In my home, there’s one bedroom with one king-size bed. It used to be a three-bedroom home, but I converted the other two into a one-room office-den filled with books in floor-to-ceiling bookcases and with the ultramodern electronics—computer, printer, and copier—that Scott had bought me. No other bedroom existed. The night before, Scott and I had made no secret of going to the same room. We also hadn’t pranced to bed naked in front of the kid.

  However, I explained briefly about us: how we’d met; how long we’d been together.

  Scott said, “We’re lovers.” He sipped his coffee.

  Jeff said, “You guys don’t look gay. I mean you don’t act swishy or anything. I never thought an athlete would be gay. And Mr. Mason, you said you played sports in high school and college.” Toward the end of his statement, he’d begun to stumble over his words and turn red. He finished with, “I don’t get it, you guys don’t have earrings in your right ears.”

  We didn’t burst out laughing at his misconceptions, and there wasn’t time for a lengthy lesson on stereotypes and prejudices. I gave him a short course, but gently—to ease his embarrassment.

  I asked, “How do you feel now that you know about us?”

  “Okay, I guess. It’s your business, not anybody else’s. I still don’t believe it.”

  “It’s true,” Scott said.

  Silence ensued for several minutes. Finally, Jeff said, “What’s going to happen today?”

  “I’m going to school,” I said. “You and Scott can meet me afterward.”

  “What about tonight?” Jeff asked.

  “I’m going to talk to your dad and mom today,” I said. “If either one will take you back, would you go?”

  “No way. Can’t I stay with you guys?”

  I let it drop. I wasn’t going to argue about it. During the day, I’d check with the police and maybe the social worker.

  At any rate, he seemed content enough with Scott for the moment. How many kids could say they spent the day with Scott Carpenter, baseball megastar?

  Outdoors, the wind had died. Bitter cold gripped the depressingly white landscape.

  The announcer on WFMT, a major fine-arts station in Chicago, droned in his usual calm voice that it was twenty-three below zero, a new record. Somehow I expect that if an incredible disaster occurred, the WFMT announcer would say in the same calm drone, “The entire state of Kansas disappeared today, and in fine-arts news, a new recording of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony will be previewed during the seven-o’clock hour this evening.”

  For teachers, the day before Christmas vacation is perhaps the toughest day of the year, rivaled only by the last day of school. The kids are nuts, hyper, and off the wall. You’d think that by high school, the excitement of Christmas coming would have faded in their jaded minds; but no, vacations’s coming and they’re ready. The only ones worse than the kids are the teachers. By Christmas, we’re more than set to escape.

  I found my classroom door unlocked. Another rude awakening was Oliver Sandgrace perched on the edge of my desk. Who needs superintendents at seven-thirty in the morning? I’d never met him. I introduced myself. He didn’t invite me to sit. I sprawled in the chair behind my desk, causing him to twist uncomfortably and finally to reseat himself.

  A prissy little man in his late fifties, he has a birthmark in the middle of his bald forehead, about three inches to the left of where Mikhail Gorbachev has his, only Sandgrace’s is rounder. It looks as if he’s gotten sunburned on the one spot, while the rest of his head gleams pinkly. He wore a black business suit with a red tie.

  He said, “Several board members have brought complaints about you, Mr. Mason.”

  “And why is that important?”

  “We’re here to serve the public. Dealing with the community is part of our job.” This was delivered in a severe tone.

  “I thought we were here to teach kids.”

  “I’m not going to argue with you, Mr. Mason, I’m telling you.”

  I interrupted. “Have I broken the contract, state law, or school code? Is there a problem with my performance in the classroom?”

  I got a frosty “Don’t interrupt me until I’m quite finished. I don’t like your attitude.”

  “I apologize for interrupting. I don’t care if you don’t like my attitude.”

  “We may be talking about your status as a teacher in this district,” he huffed.

  “You threatening to fire me?” I laughed. “Let’s call in the union president, then. Make your threats in front of him. I’ll stack my sixteen years of excellent evaluations against anything you’ve got.”

  He got off the desk, paced the room a moment. When he resumed talking, he switched tactics. “You haven’t given me a chance. Maybe I started out overly harsh. I’ve read those evaluations. You are a good teacher. But you’re meddling in murder, for which you have no expertise or training. And you’re upsetting people in the district.”

  “Who?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  “Then you’ll need to familiarize yourself with Article Seven, Section A, paragraph two of the current board-union contract. It says that a teacher has the right to know the name of the complainant and the nature of the complaint.” Being union building rep, I’d had to read the damn contract several million times. I can quote parts of the stupid thing in my sleep.

  “I don’t need you to tell me what’s in the contract,” Sandgrace said.

  “Obviously you do.”

  “Why are you so hostile?” he asked.

  We stared at each other a moment. He broke the contact first. I watched his gray eyes dart about the room. They came back to rest on mine.

  “I’m here representing the Board of Education. They are your and my bosses, whether we like it or not. They told me to tell you to cease your activities connected with Jeff Trask. Specifically, not to talk to the kids, teachers, or parents involved.”

  “On what authority do they make that demand?”

  He looked nonplussed.

  “They have no jurisdiction over my activities outside of school. I have broken neither the law, which you are in no position to enforce, nor have I violated school code, union contract, or job description.”

  “You can’t keep harassing parents. I won’t have it. If necessary, I’ll talk to the police about your activities.”

  “Then it’s the police’s problem, not yours, isn’t it?” I asked.

  “I can’t have one of my staff involved in a criminal investigation,” he said.

  “Is there a job-related issue here?”

  “How dare you defy me? You teachers and your union are not all-powerful.”

  “Neither are you and the board.”

  He gave up trying to sound reasonable. “You realize there will be repercussions for you, Mr. Mason?”

  “What will those be?” I asked.

  “The board will decide at its next meeting.”

  “Keep your idle threats, but do remember: if necessary, the union can tie you up in hearings for years if you try harassing me.”

  He shook his head and left.

  Administrators are such assholes. I suspected a cover-up of some kind before; now I was sure of it. I knew I’d keep digging. I’d also need to be more careful. I might sneer at Sandgrace’s threats, bu
t I didn’t want to push anybody too far beyond their limits. He was just a guy doing and protecting his own job.

  The instant the bell rang for lunch, Meg appeared outside my classroom door. She waited for the kids to leave. She wore a wicked grin. It usually meant somebody was in deep shit.

  She closed the door and motioned me over to the windows. She looked over her shoulder.

  “A little melodramatic, Meg?”

  “You won’t believe this. I’ve got hot gossip, and I mean torrid.” She gave a dramatic pause. She’d studied drama in college before getting her library degree. “First, you must understand this is from an unreliable source.”

  “Then what good is it?”

  “Listen,” she said, thumping my elbow. “George Windham and Pete Montini are the major source of drugs in the school. They’re part of a major drug network. I can’t prove they sell directly to kids. They have students doing the actual selling. They work through intermediaries so the kids at school won’t know who’s behind it.”

  I told her what I’d heard from Eric and what George had told me without revealing my sources.

  “It’s true, then,” she said.

  I shrugged. “You say your source is unreliable. Do I believe George? He claims he’s stopped, and that he only bought drugs. Certainly, I think he and Pete are up to something. At least Pete is.” I told her about the chase and the house.

  After numerous warnings to be careful and a reconfirmation of lunch Saturday, she left.

  I phoned Mr. and Mrs. Trask. Dad said keep the kid. Mom wanted to calm down a bit yet. She asked whether we’d keep him a while longer.

  After my tutoring group left, I got hold of Frank Murphy at the police station. He listened to all I told him. He said he’d check it out, but he told me whatever I had was speculative and circumstantial, although if I wanted, he’d arrest Montini for trying to run us off the road. I didn’t want that for now. I let it go.

  I was late for meeting Scott and Jeff, so I hurried to my classroom for my coat. They stood in the doorway.

  Scott said, “Instead of letting the car run, I thought we’d meet you here.”

  “I’d like to talk to Paul Conlan before we go,” I said. We walked down to the gym. They stayed in the hall while I stood inside the doors waiting for a pause in movement. The basketball team ran plays, shouting and calling encouragement to each other. Montini caught my eye and turned his back. With that, instead of waiting, I marched across the floor and told him I needed to see Paul. While he hesitated, I beckoned Paul over. I told the boy what I wanted. He looked to Montini for approval.

  With a snarl, Pete said, “Who gives a shit?” and walked away.

  In his faded orange practice uniform, dripping sweat and breathing hard, Paul followed me into the hallway. The two boys nodded coolly at each other.

  “Paul,” I said, “I wanted to ask a few more questions about your party.”

  He pointed at Jeff. “Ask him. He was there. The cops questioned me. They said I didn’t do anything wrong. I’m in the clear.”

  Jeff said, “Come on, Paul. You’ve got to help me. I didn’t kill Susan. Mr. Mason might be able to find who did it. Why won’t you talk to him?”

  “He’s just a schoolteacher. He can’t do anything.”

  “Paul, we were buddies. I need help,” Jeff said. The sounds of slapping basketballs and running feet echoed around the plaintiveness of Jeff’s plea.

  “You may have needed my friendship,” Paul said, “but I was never a buddy of yours. You hung around like a wimp. You were never really one of the guys.”

  “What happened since we last talked?” I asked. I would never have expected such cruelty from Paul Conlan. Whenever I’d seen him around school, he was always the big-deal athlete but with plenty of time to be generous to the adoring hordes. He’d managed to pull this off without seeming condescending or phony. Now his face showed anger and hate, and yet underneath I thought I detected a note of fear.

  Paul said, “All of you stay away from me. I don’t need this murder shit to screw up my chances for college and a pro career. I’ve got a chance to go to a top-rated school. Leave me out of this. Leave me alone.”

  Jeff quivered with anger. “You bastard,” he said. “All the times I trusted you. All the dreams we had about our futures.”

  “Forget it,” Paul interrupted. “That was kid stuff. I got nothing to say about the party or anything else. I have to get back to practice.” He yanked open the gym door and left us.

  “He’s not like that,” Jeff said. Tears waited at the edges of his eyes. “He didn’t mean that stuff. He’s scared.”

  “Of what?”

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  I wondered what had hardened Paul’s attitude since I’d talked to him last.

  Outside, the early evening was clear and very cold. No wind blew. They predicted another record cold night. The announcer for WFMT informed us that the high temperature for the day had been seven below. We drove my Chevette because it had a backseat.

  We went to my place to work out. With bits and scraps of extra weights, we found enough to set up Jeff. He got tired first and went upstairs to take a shower. Scott and I finished at the same time. While he showered, I turned on the evening news. The lead story: The Chicago City Council passed the Gay Rights Ordinance after thirteen years. I wanted to go to town and go out for at least one drink to celebrate. I mentioned it to Scott as I got dressed. We decided that it was as reasonable to have Jeff stay at Scott’s apartment as it was to have him stay at my place. Jeff thought it was great. He’d get to see where the famous baseball star Scott Carpenter lived.

  The passage of the Gay Rights Ordinance had the usual to do with making it as palatable as possible to the religious bigots by adding a smorgasbord of discriminated-against groups, and then tailoring it so that the religious bigots wouldn’t have to obey it. And if a huge chunk of the aldermen hadn’t been running for mayor in the special mayoral election, it still probably wouldn’t have passed. I guess we aren’t supposed to question the motives of our straight friends when they condescend to give us what should have been ours years before. Nonetheless, I’d worked on committees to get the damn thing passed, and I did feel good about it.

  First, we stopped for dinner at Lawry’s the Prime Rib. The amount of trouble we have with Scott’s fame when we go out varies. When we first met, he was hesitant about being seen out with a guy. That much of a closet, I refused to accept. He’s gotten much better about that over the years. However, as his fame has grown, so have the hassles. We go out less busy days of the week and at an hour when restaurants aren’t likely to be crowded. Sometimes, we’ve been in the middle of vast crowds on the lakefront and haven’t been recognized, and yet in the most intimate and expensive restaurants, we’ve been forced to leave because of obnoxious patrons. This night, because of the weather, the restaurant wasn’t crowded. Except for one waitress, whom Scott signed an autograph for, we had a quiet meal.

  At Lawry’s, they’ve got three entrées on their dinner menu: thin, medium, or thick-cut prime rib. Here’s a tip. Order the end cut. Eating it is almost better than sex. While we ate, Jeff satisfied more of his curiosity about the life of a professional sports player. They’d obviously already discussed a great deal during the day. Jeff returned several times to the subject of the World Series three years ago. Scott’s fifth-game no-hitter was a phenomenal work of art. His seventh-game no-hitter was a thing of beauty, as well as being the highest-rated TV show ever.

  After dessert and over coffee, I said, “I’ve got a few more questions about Sunday, Jeff.”

  He squirmed slightly but looked cooperative.

  “First, I want to know how everybody got along with each other,” I said.

  “Okay. Becky pretty much runs things. She’s got a mean mouth. Even Paul’s a little afraid of her, I think. She makes plans for the group. If she wants to go to a movie, then we all go to a movie. If you disagree, she cuts you off, you’re nothin
g, and the group goes along with her. Doris and Roger are basically an audience for her. Eric hung around mostly, I think, because he and Paul were teammates and sitting at home bored Eric. Paul and him are good friends.”

  “What about drugs and alcohol at the parties?”

  “Kids drank.” He did a more pronounced squirm. “And we did some drugs. Almost always pot. Once or twice, we did coke. I did a couple lines once.” He stared at his hands as they smoothed the tablecloth.

  “Who brought the drugs?”

  “Every time I saw, it was Becky, although Paul usually rolled the joints or cut the lines.”

  Maybe Paul the saint had a few more flaws. I asked, “Did you ever buy any?”

  “Once in a while, some of us would chip in for a little extra. Usually not, though. Nobody mentioned money much at all. We always had enough drugs. It wasn’t a big deal. Nobody was an addict or anything.”

  Teenage whine and defensiveness had crept into his tone. I asked, “Do you know why Paul cut you off so badly today?”

  “No.” He shook his head miserably. “I thought he was my friend.”

  “He was the last one to see the two of you together. When I talked to him, I thought he might be hiding something.”

  Jeff defended his friend. “He’s not like that. He’s a good guy. I don’t have a lot of close friends. I’m pretty quiet. I don’t like to do stuff.”

  “He told me that.”

  “It’s true. I’d rather sit home. Lots of times, Susan and me would go to her house and baby-sit her little brother and sister and watch TV. Especially lately, she wanted to go and do stuff.”

  “Was she different in any other way recently?”

  He thought a moment. “Not that I noticed.”

  “About Paul, then.”

  He fiddled with a spoon and fork left from dinner. “We’re buddies. He’s a good teammate. He could get us to do better in a game even more than Coach could. Everybody likes him. He’s great to be around when it’s him and me and just the guys. When Becky’s around, it’s awful.”