by Ray Garton
"Well?" Booth asked again. "Any ideas?"
"I'm going to say as little as possible," J.R. replied.
"And what will that include?"
"It depends on what they ask me."
Booth started pacing again. "You saw Brubaker on television this morning?"
"That's why I'm here."
"You will not bring the school into this." It wasn't a question or request, but an order. "As of today…" He went to the window behind his desk and stared out at the murky day. "As of today, you are no longer employed here."
J.R. took a deep breath and sighed. "I expected that."
"Please don't think I enjoy this. But I did warn you." He turned. "Remember?"
"I remember."
"I wish you would've listened to me."
"Well," J.R. said sarcastically, raising his voice a bit, "you'll have to forgive me for not putting the school's image above the lives of—"
"I wasn't talking about the school's image, Haskell, I was talking about the limitations of your job."
"Limitations of my…" J.R. shot to his feet and leaned over the desk, palms flat on its top. "You didn't see what I saw last night. If you had, you'd—"
"I didn't because it did not happen on this campus. Our jobs end, Mr. Haskell, at the borders of this campus. They go no further."
J.R. studied the man's face, looking for some sign that he did not mean what he'd just said. Booth's eyes were surrounded by tiny, deep wrinkles. His fleshy cheeks sagged and would be jowls before long. His mouth drew downward at the ends, and speckles of perspiration glistened on his upper lip. His stern gaze did not waver; he meant what he said. J.R. slowly lowered himself into the chair again.
"How can you be that cold?" he asked quietly.
Booth stabbed his cigarette into the ashtray on his desk, lit another, then turned to the window again, silent for a while.
"Don't damn me for my walls, Haskell," he finally said. "You'll have them, too, one day. You know, I started out like you. I used to teach math in a little junior high in Arizona. I was like a born-again Christian, on fire for education, eager to teach all those young minds." His last words were bitter, dark with disillusionment. "I made a point to get to know each of my students, find out about their interests, their problems, and I tried so hard—so hard—to help them, protect them, keep them happy. I got married, had a son, and we moved to California. As my boy grew up, I lost some of my enthusiasm for my work. Everyone seemed so ungrateful—the parents, the kids…. It seemed that every time one of them stubbed a toe, I was blamed or the school was blamed. It got worse when I became a principal. Then, when he was fifteen, my son developed a drinking problem. Well, I noticed it when he was fifteen; he developed it before that. He'd been filling his thermos with bourbon every morning, taking it to school with him. We didn't even notice until he dropped the bottle one day. Well. I was shocked. My son—my fifteen-year-old son—an alcoholic! It was his school's fault; they weren't watching him closely enough. It was Madison Avenue's fault; they were glorifying booze. Later, it was the fault of the treatment centers and therapists I sent him to, because they didn't help him. They all seemed so cold and uncaring, like they didn't give a damn. And still later—nearly two years after he got a license, drove his brand-new car into an abutment, and opened his skull on the windshield—later I realized the blame belonged on no one's doorstep but mine. Those people weren't cold and uncaring; they were just doing their jobs, protecting themselves from people like me who wanted to blame them for my failures. A little too late to realize all that then, of course. And to this day, I still don't know where we went wrong, but…" He shrugged.
J.R.'s mouth was dry, and he swallowed, wiping his lips with his thumb. Anything he might say seemed inappropriate, so he said nothing.
Facing J.R. again, he said, "We're fair game when it comes to handing out blame, Haskell. Extending ourselves beyond the limitations of our jobs is like standing up in the middle of a gunfight. So please. Don't think of me as cold. Just practical."
J.R. stood, nodding. As he turned to the door he said, "Sorry about your son, Mr. Booth."
"And I'm sorry about what happened last night. Sorry that you had to go through it. And… your job. I'm sorry about that, too."
"I'll clear my things out later today," JR. said as he left the office.
Faye's eyes widened when J.R. walked into her room, and she held a hand out to him. He sat down beside her bed and tried to speak but couldn't. He wasn't sure if it was the warm touch of her hand, the pained sympathy in her eyes, or just his exhaustion, but something cut him open. It was as if he'd been wearing blinders since the night before and they suddenly fell off. In the space of a few seconds, he experienced it all again and felt what he had not allowed himself to feel the first time. At first, he coughed; the coughs became sobs, and he leaned forward, placing his head on Faye's stomach, and cried like a child for a long time as Faye stroked his hair….
After Wednesday night, a haze seemed to settle over Jeff. It was heavy and oppressive and seeped through his pores, into his body, short-circuiting his emotions.
He felt nothing.
He tried to cry the second night. He lay in bed on his back and willed the tears to flow, tried to squeeze the sobs from his lungs, but nothing would come.
He stayed in the apartment and did little more than watch television, aimlessly switching around the dial, staying on no one station for more than a few minutes.
J.R. spent a lot of time with them. It was good to have him there, even though Jeff said little to him.
Late Thursday morning, a doctor came and examined Jeff and his mother, who stayed in bed. The doctor gave her a shot, left some pills with J.R., then went out after mumbling secret instructions. Jeff didn't know where he'd come from or who had sent him, and he didn't care.
By Thursday afternoon, Jeff's grandmother arrived, wailing and sobbing and smelling of Ben-Gay. She sat with her daughter for a while, then came from the bedroom, composure regained, and said confidently, "After everything is taken care of here, you're coming home with me.
Jeff didn't care where they went or with whom. All he knew was that they would be going without Mallory.
He dreamed of her every time he slept, dreamed that she was touching him, gently waking him; and when he awoke he could smell her, as if she'd been beside him but had hurried away before he could open his eyes.
Lily stayed close to him, a quiet and affectionate comfort. She was the only friend from school he'd seen since Wednesday. He thought it odd that no one had called or dropped by to give their condolences. Then it occurred to him that most of his friends were probably dead. He hadn't heard anything and didn't know who had survived or perished; he wasn't sure he cared yet.
Paying no attention to the time, Jeff was surprised each time the sun rose and set.
He had no idea what day it was or how many had passed.
He didn't care….
J.R. played hide-and-seek with reporters for days. Knowing his parents had probably heard about everything, he phoned them, assured them he was okay, and told them he would be home sometime next week.
"What about your job?" his father asked.
"Well, I'm currently unemployed, Dad." J.R. didn't know if his father's silence was reproachful or sympathetic. "I'll find some work up there. I prefer to live up there, anyway."
When he returned from seeing Faye, J.R. had found Kevin still sitting on the sofa, silent and unresponsive.
Jeff was lethargic and distant, but at least he spoke now and then. Kevin seemed to have left his body on the sofa, still functioning but void of any real life. His eyes had lost their rebellious fire and now seemed to be windows looking into an empty room. J.R. repeated the boy's name several times, and finally Kevin turned to him, looked into his eyes, but seemed not to see him.
J.R. called the Donahues and told them where their son was; they agreed to come get him.
"I've called your parents, Kevin," he said after hanging up
the phone. "They'll be here soon. Is there anything you want to tell me… anything you want me to do before they come?"
Kevin's lips twitched and writhed like two agitated earthworms attached at the ends, and he frowned but said nothing.
J.R. hoped the boy would come out of it with a little time, but he feared that Kevin would be taken back to that place, that institution, or one like it. His parents couldn't deal with him when he was coherent; they certainly wouldn't be able to handle this.
Mr. Donahue came alone, looking dapper and uncomfortable. J.R. left Kevin on the sofa and greeted Donahue at the door.
Shaking J.R.'s hand, Donahue said, "I'm terribly sorry for the inconvenience, Mr. Haskell."
"Incon… On whose behalf are you apologizing?"
"Well, my son's, I suppose." He shrugged halfheartedly.
"Don't, Mr. Donahue. Don't apologize for your son."
Donahue cleared his throat nervously and called, "Kevin? You ready to go?"
"Look, I think he should see a doctor right away. He hasn't spoken since last night."
Donahue nodded, then shook his head sternly. "I just… don't understand how such a thing could—could happen. If we'd known, my wife and I, we would've tried to do something. Anything…"
"I'm sure you would have," J.R. said, hoping his sarcasm showed through.
Memorial services for Mallory Carr were held at one p.m. on Saturday at the United Methodist Church in North Hollywood. Erin's mother had made the arrangements. Mallory's remains were to be buried in Stockton.
It was a small service. Kyla stayed close to Erin and Jeff. Several relatives had flown in at the request of Erin's mother. Some of Jeff's classmates came to mutter their condolences, but they all seemed preoccupied; their minds were on other losses.
J.R. arrived late and pushed silently through the photographers and reporters waiting on the steps of the church. They babbled countless questions, but J.R. held up his hands and pressed his lips together until he was inside.
He'd been held up by a phone call from a police lieutenant who wanted to have a word with him. J.R. agreed to go down to the police station at four that afternoon, although he did not yet know what he would tell them.
He stayed in the back of the church during the service, then stepped aside as people slowly filed out afterward. He spotted Jeff walking down the center aisle a step ahead of his mother, hand in hand with Lily.
Jeff's face was a blank, but his cheeks were red and wet from tears, so J.R. knew he'd opened up a little. When Jeff saw J.R., his mouth quivered into a tense and painful parody of a smile, and he led Lily behind the column of pews to J.R.'s side.
"My grandma's reserved a couple seats on a plane to Stockton tomorrow," Jeff said quietly. "We're going up there with her for a while. Moving up there, I guess."
J.R. nodded. "That will probably be good for you."
Lily moved closer to Jeff, and he put an arm around her waist.
"I'd like to keep in touch," he said.
"We'll do that, Jeff. I'll be coming north soon. Maybe we can get together."
"Sure. I…" Jeff looked around at the people slowly passing by, heads bowed, as organ music played softly. "I wanted to thank you for… for everything you did."
"I'm sorry I couldn't do more."
"You did everything you could."
"So did you, Jeff. Never forget that"
Jeff's eyes clouded, and he frowned, fidgeting; he didn't look convinced.
"You were closer to her than anyone, Jeff," J.R. whispered, stepping closer to him. "If you couldn't help her… no one could. She was just out of reach."
Jeff pursed his lips and nodded stiffly.
"Well, thanks again," he said, his voice unsteady. "Take care."
As Jeff led her away, Lily turned to J.R. and said, "'Bye." J.R. stayed for a few minutes, listening to the organ music, thinking about how much Mallory probably would have hated it.
"Should've played Twisted Sister," he muttered, heading for the side exit….
"The police want to talk to me this afternoon," J.R. said, pulling up a chair beside Faye's bed.
What will you tell them? she wrote.
"I don't know. They're going to ask why I was there, how I knew about what was going to happen. Brubaker caused quite a stir with his little remark. They probably would have gotten to me sooner, but I've been making myself pretty scarce."
You didn't know, you suspected. You were there because you were afraid for the kids. Tell them only what you absolutely have to.
"And if I tell them everything?"
I'll visit you on weekends between group therapy and basket weaving.
He chuckled.
What will you do after all of this?
"Move back up north. Look for work. I don't know what kind of work, but… What will you do?"
Get better and go back to work.
"At Valley?"
Where else? Surely you don't intend to change careers now.
"I've thought about it more than once these last few days."
Why? Too much for you? You're going to go sit at a computer terminal in some office and pretend it didn't happen and isn't happening still?
J.R. put the pad down and scrubbed his face with his palms. His body ached with weariness, and he was uncomfortable in the suit he'd worn to the church.
"I don't know," he sighed. "What's the difference?"
Jeff Carr, for one. And the others who left that building. If you hadn't done what you did, they would've been lost.
He stood and went to the window that overlooked the parking lot three stories below. He cracked open the window, and a soft breeze whispered against his cheek.
A long line of cars was slowly rounding the corner in front of the hospital, headlights dim in the afternoon overcast, led by a shiny black hearse.
Four little children playing on the sidewalk stopped to stare curiously as the cars passed.
A tall figure wearing black pants and a blousy powder blue shirt approached the children. The figure had long platinum hair.
A razor-sharp icicle shot upward through the center of J.R.'s body and he pressed his hands to the cool pane, breathing, "No, Jesus Christ, no!" His words appeared as a foggy blotch on the glass before his face, then slowly faded.
The children turned, smiled, and nodded as the figure spoke to them.
A cold sweat suddenly made J.R.'s suit feel like Saran Wrap clinging to his skin and he wanted to scream, wanted to shatter the glass, lean out and scream at the children to run as fast as they could, but the figure turned so he could see it in profile and he noticed the curve of breasts, the glint of a badge…
A meter maid.
J.R. leaned his forehead on the windowpane and closed his eyes, suddenly weak with relief.
"Why do you do it, Faye?" J.R. asked, going to her bedside again. "Year after year, why do you do it?"
I like to keep my summers open.
He laughed as he read her words, and above her bandages, a smiling fudge brown eye winked at him.
Traveling on the breeze, the sparkling clear laughter of children drifted through the window.