Child's Play

by Jones, Merry;

  “If you land on them, you might bounce,” I said.

  “Unless Becky’s right and they pop.” Susan smirked.

  I pictured them smashed, hanging limp and deflated on Jen’s chest. Oh dear. Could they really pop? Maybe Jen shouldn’t go with us.

  Jen stuck her tongue out. “Wait ’til you see me in a leotard, you bitches. My girls aren’t going to pop, but your eyes will.”

  Susan shook her head.

  “Seriously,” Becky said. “Maybe we should cancel.”

  “Because of my boobs?” Jen asked. “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”

  “Not everything is about you and your body, Jen. I meant because … you know.” Becky lowered her voice and eyed me. “Because of what happened today. Elle might not be up for it.”

  They all looked at me, assessing whether I would be up for it. I tried to smile, to act as if I wasn’t seeing Mrs. Marshall and her open throat as the centerpiece of the table.

  “I’m fine,” I insisted. “Besides, we’ve already paid.”

  “Big fucking deal,” Jen said. “It’s only money.”

  Becky and I looked at each other. We lived on teachers’ salaries, didn’t have a rich husband like Jen.

  “No, we have to go,” I insisted. “Becky chose circus school. The deal is that we try each other’s choices, no excuses.”

  They watched me, still uncertain, still deciding.

  “Besides,” I went on, “it’ll be good to focus on something besides the murder.”

  “Good point,” Becky agreed. “So we’ll go.”

  “We should be proud of ourselves,” Susan said. “People never follow New Year’s resolutions. But we have. Eight months and, so far, nobody’s canceled even once. So, if Elle’s okay with it, I say we go ahead.”

  I raised my glass. “To circus school. It’s got to be better than hot yoga.”

  “You fucking wimps whined through the whole class,” Jen complained.

  “It was hellish.”

  “Becky almost passed out.”

  Jen’s perfect nostrils flared. She poured herself another glass of wine. “My ass. You’re a bunch of losers.”

  Becky lifted a glass, cheerful. “Here’s to us losers. And to keeping our New Year’s resolution.”

  Each month, we’d taken turns picking new experiences to share. So far, we’d taken wine tasting, ceramics, sailing and dragon boat classes. Attended an opera, toured an archaeological museum, ridden in a hot air balloon, and sweated through hot yoga.

  Next was circus school. I didn’t like heights and had been privately dreading it. But a promise was a promise, and I’d be with my friends. Compared to the day I’d just had, how bad could it be?

  The dishes were almost done, the third bottle of wine finished. I poured coffee and passed a mug to Susan.

  “Elle.” She met my eyes. “About before. Sorry. I shouldn’t have been so hard on you.”

  At first, I didn’t know what she was talking about.

  “It’s just that I’ve always felt bad for Ty.”

  Oh, that. I swallowed coffee. “Susan, why don’t we just let it go?”

  “Fine, but I want you to understand why I reacted like I did.” She paused, cleared her throat. “At trial it came out that Ty’s father had been abusing him. Ty committed the murder to protect himself and his family. That fact should have helped his defense, but Ty got the maximum sentence for a juvenile because his attorney blew it and didn’t emphasize the history of violence. Ty endured a brutal childhood, and then he got a rotten defense attorney and a raw deal.”

  Susan went on talking. I recalled Ty the second grader with scabby knees. At seven years old, already a bully, mocking and hurting other kids. I saw myself consoling his victims, sending Ty to the principal’s office. Banishing him so I could restore order in the classroom.

  I tried to remember talking to Ty. Had I ever done more than just punish him? Had I tried to find out why he was so angry, asked about his scabs and bruises? I must have. Of course I had. And he must have made up stories, hidden his abuse. Claimed he’d fallen off his bike. Been smacked in the face with a baseball. And since he’d kept the truth from me, how could I have known what was happening to him? I’d consulted the principal, contacted his parents. What else could I have done?

  Oh, hell. I could have done a lot more. I could have made sure he was safe.

  He’d been a little boy in my charge, and I hadn’t helped him. I’d left him to his abuser, so that his desperation and rage had continued to build. Until finally, with no one else to protect him, he’d protected himself.

  And, since I’d overlooked his desperation, wasn’t I partly to blame for what had happened? Weren’t all the adults who’d let him down? His mother. His teachers. And Mrs. Marshall. Had Ty killed her because she’d failed him back then? And, if so, was she just the first in a series of revenge killings? Oh God. Was I on his list?

  No. Ridiculous. Ty wasn’t tracking down and killing every adult who’d ever neglected him—there must be hundreds of us. Probably he didn’t even remember most of us, least of all some woman who taught him fourteen years ago when he was just in second grade.

  I drifted back to the conversation. No one had interrupted me, telling me I was pulling an Elle. But somehow, without my noticing, the coffee mugs had been washed, the dishes put away, and Becky and I had both received texts and emails formally notifying us of Mrs. Marshall’s death and informing us that Logan School’s opening would be delayed for a week so that staff and students could grieve. And besides, the building was closed; it was an active crime scene.

  The buzz that the wine had given me was gone. My friends were ready to go home. Jen asked if I’d be all right alone in the house. Becky offered to stay the night. Susan offered me her guest room.

  I thanked them all, declined the offers, promised to bolt the door. And did as soon as they left.

  Then I grabbed my cell phone and, just to be safe, the carving knife. I went upstairs, filled the bathtub. Got in and soaked, but not before taking a fresh towel from the closet. And examining it closely, making sure it was clean.

  I slept so deeply that, when the phone rang, I didn’t know what it was. Didn’t recognize my own ringtone. I slapped the nightstand randomly, trying to turn off some radio. When I finally identified the sound, fumbled for the phone, and answered, I thought I heard a faint, high-pitched giggle, but no one was there.

  What time was it? The screen on the phone said 2:47.

  Who calls someone at 2:47?

  I tried to go back to sleep, but the phone call had jangled me. I kept hearing noises. A continuous electric hum. The occasional tiny thunk of an insect against the window. A passing car, a distant train, a police siren. All normal. But wait, what was that creak? A floorboard? Was someone in the house?

  Of course not. I’d bolted the doors. The creak was just beams or eaves settling, something like that.

  But there it was again. Coming from downstairs.

  I sat up, grabbed my knife. Listened. Heard nothing.

  Was it Jerry? Getting up the nerve to come upstairs? But I’d bolted the doors. No one could come in, even with a key.

  Unless he’d broken a window and climbed in.

  Another creak, quieter this time. Almost inaudible.

  It’s nothing, I told myself. Go back to sleep. But I knew I wasn’t going to sleep. Clutching the knife in one hand, the phone in the other, I got out of bed, crept out of the bedroom along the hall to the stairs. If someone was there, what would I do when I confronted him? Assuming it was a him. How sexist of me, to expect a burglar to be male. But probably he was male. Could it be Jerry? No, not in the middle of the night. Jerry wasn’t that crazy. Was he?

  I tiptoed down the steps, pausing at each level, peeking down into the darkness, trying to see a moving shadow or a shape. At the bottom of the steps, I stopped, body rigid. Was someone watching me? Waiting to pounce on me from behind?

  Was it Mrs. Marshall’s killer?


  Her bloody grin hovered in front of me, her eyes aimed behind me. I raised the knife and whirled around, bellowing, “Back off!”

  Even the empty stillness of the hallway didn’t persuade me that I was alone. I stood ready to strike, waiting. Heard the clunk of the refrigerator making ice cubes. Bit my lip.

  Nobody’s here, I told myself. Relax. You’re hearing normal sounds. The phone call rattled you.

  Still, I had to check. I stepped along the hallway, looking not just ahead, but also behind me and to the sides. Peeked into the powder room. Stopped at the door to the study where, two years ago, I’d found Charlie slumped on the sofa. My stomach clenched, remembering.

  “Turn on the lights,” I whispered aloud. Nobody’s here. You’ll see. It’s just your imagination.

  My limbs were stiff, unwilling to move, but I forced my hand, the one holding the cell phone, to lift itself and flip the light switch. Light flooded the room, and my eyes, accustomed to the dark, reflexively clamped shut.

  “Elf!” Charlie sounded jolly. “Come in. Join me.”

  I blinked, saw the empty room. The new plush sofa. The desk, bookshelves, mahogany bar.

  “There’s plenty of Syrah,” Charlie’s voice said. “Open a bottle. You can use a drink.”

  “Go away, dammit,” I said out loud. “Get out of my head.”

  I’d been told the phenomenon wasn’t uncommon. That widows and widowers sometimes talked to their lost loved ones for years. But I couldn’t continue. I needed to stop imagining Charlie. Had to sell the house and free myself.

  I left the study, went from room to room, double-checking windows and doors. Making sure everything was intact and locked. I opened the door to the basement, looked down into its empty blackness, felt its dampness and chill. Didn’t go down. Never did. No one could be down there anyway—the only windows were in the back of the house, under grills.

  Finally, I decided that there had been no unusual noise, that the phone call had jarred me and, already shaken by the murder, I’d overreacted to some benign sound. I went back upstairs to bed.

  When I closed my eyes, Mrs. Marshall’s corpse greeted me. Her smiling lips didn’t move but she gurgled, “See you soon.”

  What?

  She nodded, her carved grin fixed. “No point hiding. Killer’s already got you.”

  I sat up, turned on the light. It had only been a dream. But weren’t dreams messages from the subconscious? So my subconscious was warning me that I was in danger. But from whom? Ty? A harsh scrape at my window startled me. I grabbed the knife.

  Probably it was the oak tree. Its branches had been trimmed, but might still hit the window in the wind. Or it might be a squirrel. Did squirrels climb trees at night? I didn’t think so, wasn’t sure. Maybe it was a bat, then. Or a raccoon.

  But what about my dream? Was it about Ty? I saw Mrs. Marshall towering over him. “Why do you continue to defy me with this behavior?” she demanded. “You can’t win, you know.” His eyes gleamed with hatred. Had that hatred endured all these years? He would have come into the office, found her at her desk, unsuspecting. Would have chatted with her until she’d been comfortable enough to let him come close. His knife must have come fast, slashing before she could resist. And the smile—why would he have carved it? Why not just run away?

  But it might not have been Ty. Could have been anyone. Stan, for example. He’d had opportunity. And so had the assistant principal, Mr. Royal. Or what about an angry parent—Ty’s mother, Rose Evans, for example? How many times had she accused Mrs. Marshall of singling Ty out, punishing him unfairly?

  And what about Mrs. Marshall’s husband? Statistically, the killer was usually the spouse. Hadn’t I been accused of killing Charlie just because I was married to him? So maybe her husband had done it. I tried to remember his name. Fenton? Philip? Something unusual with an “f.”

  So many possibilities. I closed my eyes, saw Mrs. Marshall lecturing the suspects. They sat in a classroom, and she stood before them in her blood-drenched blouse and skirt, demanding to know, “Who did this? Come on, whoever it was, admit it. Raise your hand.” She paused, waiting.

  No hand went up. Stan looked at the floor. Ty, seven years old again, picked a scab on his arm. His mother examined her fake nails. Mr. Royal drummed his fingers on the desktop. Fenton or Philip gazed at the window.

  “If the guilty person doesn’t admit it,” Mrs. Marshall warned, “I’ll have to punish all of you.” She paused. “Okay, that’s it. Line up against the wall. I’m going to measure your shoes and compare them to the footprints.”

  Footprints? Wait—the ones in my rug? I was getting mixed up. Dozing. It was after three when I reached over and turned the lamp off. A few minutes later, the phone rang. The screen said, “Unregistered number,” and when I answered, no one was there.

  It’s possible that I nodded off for a while. But when the sun came up, I was wide awake, staring at a crack in the bedroom curtains, watching light fade into the sky.

  CHAPTER THREE

  On Saturday morning, our class was held in an open field in Bucks County. As we drove up, we saw an expanse of high ladders, platforms, and complicated multileveled nets.

  My head ached, hungover. The day before, trying to numb the shock of what had happened to Mrs. Marshall, I’d imbibed too much wine. And the last few nights, I hadn’t been able to sleep. Even though I’d dozed in the car while Susan drove, I was still unquestionably woozy when we arrived at circus school. I stared up at the platforms, imagined being high off the ground standing on a narrow plank. Rode a wave of dizziness.

  “WTF, Becky,” Jen gasped. “What have you gotten us into?”

  Becky beamed. “This is going to be great.” She bounced, almost skipped ahead to meet the instructor.

  His name was Shane. Shane was about five foot eight, solid like a gymnast, maybe twenty-six years old. His hair was golden and he wore tight Spandex. He welcomed us warmly and promised an experience we’d never forget, led us to a grouping of folding chairs. Then he gave some background information about the trapeze.

  “As you probably, know,” he said, pointing up high in the nets, “a trapeze is a short horizontal bar hung by ropes or metal straps from a support. You’ve no doubt seen it at the circus. But there, you usually see the flying trapeze. There are other forms—static, spinning, swinging, as well as flying.”

  We were signed up for the flying kind.

  Flying? I swallowed, looked up at the nets. A woman was swinging high above the ground, hanging from the trapeze by her arms, gaining momentum, going higher and higher until, poof, she let go and flew, somersaulting, whirling head over heels in the air, finally landing in the net below. Good God. Were we supposed to do that? My stomach hopped into my throat, splashed the morning’s coffee back into my mouth.

  Shane was still talking. Telling us about the flying trapeze. A French acrobat named Jules Leotard had invented it in his father’s gym, over the swimming pool. Who the hell cared who’d invented it, let alone where? Then again, we were all wearing tight clingy garb obviously named for the guy. I’d never heard of him, but he was evidently very famous. Oh man. My stomach was still flipping. I eyed the ladder leading up to the platform. Was I the only one who felt physically ill? Were we seriously going to go ahead with this?

  Jen stood to my right, unfazed, focusing on Shane, posing to display her surgically tightened tummy and enhanced bust. On my left, Becky glowed with anticipation, and Susan stood next to her, frowning in concentration, as if memorizing Shane’s every word. Were they all crazy? What were we doing there, four fortyish women with, except for Jen, our belly bulge and midriff flab? We weren’t acrobats. We weren’t even athletic. True, Susan had been on swim team in high school almost thirty years ago. But the rest of us? We sometimes went to the gym. Jen did occasional yoga. And I had zero upper body strength, had never been able to do two consecutive push-ups. Could barely even do one.

  Shane talked on. Listed things we were going to do. In the next eig
hty minutes, we were going to learn to take off from the platform, to swing, to transfer to the catcher, Velda—apparently—the woman I’d seen swinging before, and finally, to drop to the net. Velda was up on a platform again. She was going to demonstrate the first moves we were going to learn. She held the trapeze, hopped off the platform, swung her legs up and back a few times, and finally dropped to the net.

  As she dropped, so did I. My body caved and I bent forward, head on my knees. I smelled moist soil and sweet weeds. Sensed insects scampering in all directions around me. My gut lurched.

  “You all right, Elle?” Becky asked.

  Everyone looked at me.

  “Fine. Just tired.” What else could I say? That heights made me dizzy? That I felt sick and terrified and wanted to get in the car and speed away? That I’d spent the last few nights listening for prowlers and dreaming of my murdered principal? I got to my feet, asked if there was a lady’s room nearby.

  Shane smiled at the term, pointed out a row of portable toilets.

  I had no choice. Took off toward them, stomach wrenching, I told myself that there had to be worse things than throwing up in a Porta-Potty, even though I couldn’t imagine what they might be. As it turned out, I didn’t make it there, got sick behind a bush.

  When I emerged, Becky was waiting with a water bottle. Asking if I was all right.

  I thanked her for the water, rinsed my mouth. Assured her, then the others, that I was fine. And except for being embarrassed, I was. I felt a lot better, well enough to join in some warm-up exercises and climb the ladder thirty feet or so up to the platform. Determined to be tough, I didn’t look down. The whole way up, I kept my eyes on Jen’s ankles and the prongs of the ladder. Finally, we crowded onto the platform. I clung to the rope fence, told myself that the breeze wouldn’t blow me off. Took deep breaths. Told myself not to get dizzy. Wondered how nobody else had a problem being up there.

  “Holy effing smokes.” Jen gazed around. “Look at this goddamn view.”

  Susan moved to the very edge of the platform. “Wow. Must be incredible when the leaves turn.”