Child's Play

by Jones, Merry;

  We all looked at her.

  “Oh get off it. She was a bitch. Besides, I’m not the only one who did stuff like that. You’ve all done your own shit.”

  “I sure have,” Susan said. “When I was just starting death penalty cases, I messed up. My client went to death row because I let him go on the stand.”

  “Was he innocent?” Becky asked.

  “Doesn’t matter. I don’t know or want to know. But I never should have let him testify. And then there’s Porter Thomas, accused of killing his girlfriend’s mother. Deep down, I knew he was guilty as hell, but I got him off.”

  “That’s your job. You’re a defense attorney.”

  “Even so, as soon as the trial was over, he killed his girlfriend and her new boyfriend. It’s my fault.”

  Wow. “You had to do your job, Susan,” I told her.

  “No, I think it is her fault if she got him off when she knew he was guilty.” Jen diddled with her bangs.

  “Don’t make her feel worse, Jen.” Becky’s face was blotched with scarlet. “I’ve done bad stuff, too.”

  We stared at her, waiting.

  “I dated a married man.”

  “Good God.” Jen’s eyes popped. “Sinful and shocking.”

  “Stuff it, Jen,” Becky said. “I broke it off when I found out he was married, but still.”

  “What about Elle?” Jen grabbed the shrimp, refilled her plate. “She’s been awfully silent.”

  I had been indeed. I was making a list of the worst things I’d done. Starting with the little boy Ty. If I hadn’t been so concerned with maintaining a peaceful classroom and had worked with him more one-on-one, I might have helped him before he got so mad that he killed someone. And what about Mrs. Marshall? If I hadn’t been so compelled to finish my Superstars poster and had stopped by her office a few minutes earlier, I might have prevented her murder. Not that her murder was my fault, but my compulsiveness might have indirectly allowed it. And what about Charlie? Granted, he’d provoked me, but I’d been awfully cruel to him, rejecting him outright, refusing to hear his apologies and promises. Even his death was partially my fault. Because if I hadn’t been divorcing him, I’d have been with him the night he’d been killed so the murder couldn’t have happened. I went on, tracing chains of effects back to their causes, identifying the roles I’d played in drastic outcomes.

  When I tuned back in, our plates were empty. The others were still talking about the worst things they’d ever done. I thought about people I hadn’t saved, about actions I should have or shouldn’t have taken. I couldn’t decide which was worst, there were too many contenders.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The sling was inconvenient. For the next few days, managing with one arm, I was actually glad the opening of school had been delayed—I’d never have been able to teach. Anyone who’s ever injured an arm must know how awkward the simplest tasks become. Dressing, undressing. Fixing coffee. Showering and drying off. Using the computer. Doing anything at all, especially while talking on the phone, which seemed to be all the time. I became expert at balancing the phone between my chin and my good shoulder while using my good arm to, for example, fold laundry or make tuna salad. Or pour myself a drink.

  Which is what I did whenever Shane called. He called almost every day, checking on my shoulder, offering free classes to our group as soon as I was ready. He sounded nervous, no doubt worried about a lawsuit. I thanked him for his concern, assured him that I was fine and that Becky would reschedule the class. Didn’t mention that I’d rather drink drain cleaner than go back on a trapeze.

  I heard from Stiles, too. He had more questions about Mrs. Marshall. Did I know her family? Her husband, her friends? Anyone who disliked her? I answered no, no, and yes. As far as I knew, Sarah Lorraine Marshall had been disliked by pretty much everyone. He asked if I knew of former students other than Ty who might have had a grudge against her. The constant flow of questions pulled at me, a vacuum sucking details from my head. I had little information for him, and promised to call if I remembered anything even remotely relevant.

  That week I’d expected to be in school, so I’d made no plans. Days passed sluggishly. Hotter than usual for September. I reviewed my lesson plans, my class list. I read novels, sent emails, clicked back and forth between daytime television shows. Met Becky and Jen for lunch a couple of times. Talked on the phone at least once a day with Jen and Susan, at least twice with Becky.

  Jerry called repeatedly, his booming voice leaving messages about a property near mine that had just been listed, a comparable sale that had just fallen through, another that had been completed. Most of all, about the need for us to get together over dinner or drinks and discuss curb appeal or changes in the marketplace. Each message was pushier than the last.

  I didn’t take his calls. Didn’t return them. I’d decided to lay down the law with him and define clear limits, but lacked the energy to deal with him or his predictable reaction and kept putting it off. Meantime, he continued to schedule showings. Almost daily, I had to leave the property from ten to eleven or twelve to one or five to six or whenever while potential buyers tramped through the house, commenting on my wall colors, my bathroom light fixtures, my closet space. My home.

  Sometimes, watching the front door from across the street, waiting for a realtor and his clients to leave, I wondered how the house felt about being open for strangers, being up for sale. Could it sense that change was coming? Did it care? Of course it wouldn’t care in the sense that people care, but in a more silent, nuanced way. Before Charlie and I had lived there, an old woman had owned the place. She’d raised her children there, been widowed there. Had still owned it when she’d died. When I’d first seen the house, I’d felt its stable, homey nature. It was warm like an embrace or fresh cookies. The memories of comfort and love held by its walls had been almost tangible.

  But Charlie and I had added our own mix of memories. Betrayal. Lies. Murder. Had those memories altered the house? Could the people wandering its rooms sense lingering darkness and pain? Or did the house feign cheerfulness, putting on its best false face for visitors? Because, surely, homes were more than just walls and ceilings. They must take on the qualities, reflect something of the natures of those who dwell within their beams.

  I thought about the house every time I left for a showing. I wondered if it was angry with me for leaving, or glad to get rid of me and my sadness. I never doubted that it had opinions. Or that it had a soul.

  But even if it didn’t, I couldn’t allow Jerry to wander through at will. At the beginning of the week, I called a locksmith who said he’d come by to change my locks Tuesday at one. He didn’t show at one. Or one thirty. I called him at about two. He said he’d been tied up, offered to come by Wednesday at one. Again, he didn’t show. That night, I Googled locksmiths and wrote down a bunch of numbers. Called one and left a voice message.

  Overall, the week passed quietly, without incident. A few times, mostly at night, the phone rang and, when I picked up, no one was there. But that was no big deal. Those calls sometimes happened to everyone.

  Sunday was supposed to be the last day before school started. I’d left it open, planless, so I could relax and prepare for the semester’s first day. But in fact, I’d had the whole week to prepare, so the day offered lots of free time. I began by grappling with uncertainty. I didn’t know where I was going to live. Wasn’t sure I could sell the house. Didn’t know who’d killed Mrs. Marshall. Plus my shoulder was tender, so I was still relying on the sling part-time, pain medication occasionally. That morning, I sat at my kitchen table with a coffee mug, watching the stove clock until 8:17 became 8:18.

  Maybe I’d call Becky. Good idea. We’d go shopping. Or see a movie. I got my phone, turned it on. Saw a staggering number of texts and voice messages. And before I could punch in Becky’s number, as if the caller had been waiting for me, my ringtone sounded. A number I didn’t recognize, but I answered anyway, the phone already in my hand.

  �
�Elle Harrison?” The caller used my full name. Obviously a stranger.

  “Yes.” Why was I identifying myself to a stranger?

  “Rory Reich from the Inquirer.”

  Oh God.

  “I wonder if you’d answer a few questions regarding last week’s murder at Logan Elementary. I understand you discovered the body—”

  “I’m sorry,” I began. “I can’t talk about the crime.”

  “Understandably. I wouldn’t ask you to. We’re approaching this from the human side of the tragedy. We want to focus on your experience of finding your principal dead in the school. Your thoughts on school safety. And your memories of the deceased, Mrs. Marshall, the effect her death will have on you and the children because of the kind of person she was.”

  The kind of person she was? I recalled her yanking Ty by his shirt collar, hissing at him.

  “I’m sorry.” I clutched my phone. “I can’t do this.”

  Rory Reich persisted until I interrupted him to wish him luck and pushed the END button. I sat for a moment, staring at the phone, wondering how much of my voice mail was from the media. No way was I going to talk to them. I didn’t want the attention, had no desire to discuss the murder or Mrs. Marshall. I would call Becky, make a plan, escape for the day.

  But my phone rang again.

  Eight twenty-three a.m. On a Sunday. And I’d already had two calls.

  This time it was Detective Stiles. He was sorry to call so early but wanted to catch me before I got busy. Once again, he asked if I’d remembered anything else about the murder. Anyone lingering around the administration office? Anyone leaving the area? What did I know about Stan the custodian? Had Mrs. Marshall mentioned any personal conflicts or worries? Was she an Eagles fan?

  “Mrs. Marshall?”

  “An Eagles cap was on the floor of her office.”

  Oh God. Had the killer dropped it? Because no way Mrs. Marshall would own it. I told him I had no idea what it was doing there, but I’d let him know if anything came to mind.

  After the call, what came to mind was the hallway of Logan Elementary. I saw myself leaving my classroom late, after everyone else had gone. Following fluorescent lights down the hall. Seeing no one. I strained to remember. Had I noticed an unnatural quiet? A tension in the air? Had I had even the trace of an inkling of what waited in the principal’s office?

  No. Unless I counted the morning, when the building itself had seemed sinister. Had that been a premonition? Was there even such a thing?

  I poured a second cup of coffee. Stood at the kitchen window, looking out at my little patio, staged with potted geraniums and a few Adirondack-styled chairs. Jerry’s idea. Which reminded me I still had to call him.

  Before I could, amazingly, the phone rang again. A news team from Channel 6 wanted to stop by for a short interview. Sorry, no, I told them. That wasn’t going to happen. But another call followed and, before ten a.m., producers from all three major news stations had phoned for interviews. The timing of their calls confused me.

  “Why are you calling now?” I asked one of them. “The murder happened more than a week ago.”

  “School reopens tomorrow.” That was his explanation.

  “So?”

  “The public cares about what happened,” he said. “We’re committed—actually, we’re obligated—to respond to their concerns and to focus on the implications of the murder, how the violent death of a school principal impacts students and the community.”

  He spoke in media babble. Apparently, the media—not just one, but all of the local news stations—shared his view of commitment and obligation.

  I turned him down. In fact, I turned all of them down. That guy was persistent. He told me to think about it and called back a few minutes later to urge me to change my mind. Another one—I don’t remember which channel she worked for—became outright aggressive.

  “But, Elle.” She used my first name. “You have to do this.”

  I did?

  “If you don’t, you’ll be letting Mrs. Marshall down.” She talked as if she’d known Mrs. Marshall personally, as if they’d been friends. “One of the best ways we can honor her memory is to tell people about her on our program. And, as the person who found her, you are vital to that tribute.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Really? Interesting.” Her voice lost its sweetness. “Most people are eager to appear with us. Those who aren’t usually have something to hide. Do you, Mrs. Harrison?”

  Mrs. Harrison? Not “Elle” anymore? Was she threatening me?

  I hung up on her. Wondered if I’d be sorry. Of course I wouldn’t be. I mean, what could she do? Declare on the air that second-grade teacher Elle Harrison had refused to appear on her show and actually hung up on her? That Mrs. Harrison had been uncooperative and impolite? Probably she wouldn’t mention me. But if she did, what repercussions could there be? I didn’t have time to think about it because my ringtone began again.

  I glared at the phone. It was so small, looked harmless. But then, so did a hand grenade. It kept singing my ringtone. “We’re caught in a trap. I can’t walk out … because I love you too much, baby …” I considered tossing it out the window onto one of the knockoff Adirondacks. Instead, I answered it, deciding to change my ringtone. Elvis’ “Suspicious Minds” was another leftover from my life with Charlie, the sound track for our marriage.

  Caller ID told me Shane was calling. I didn’t pick up. Wasn’t ready to reschedule circus classes. But immediately, another call came through.

  “Was it horrible, Elle, dear?” Joyce Huff used her most sympathetic tone. Kind of like fingernails on a chalkboard. “I would have called earlier, but my husband swept me off to Block Island for the week to get me away from the horror of it. Poor, poor Mrs. Marshall.”

  I told her I was busy, trying to end the call.

  “But, sweetheart, rumors are flying, ghoulish ones, and I don’t know how to respond. People are saying her face was mutilated. Ellen Gallagher said that her ears were cut off. Tell me that isn’t true.” She paused, waiting for me to respond.

  “Which part?”

  “Oh dear God, so it’s true! What did they do to her?”

  I assured her that when I saw her, Mrs. Marshall still had her ears.

  “But they mutilated her face? My God. How?”

  I told her I couldn’t give details. That the police had asked me not to talk about it.

  She went on, thrashing me with questions. Was it terribly bloody? How had the killer gotten into her office? Did I think Mrs. Marshall knew her killer? Who did I think had done it? Because she’d been thinking about that boy who’d just gotten out of jail. How the timing was simply too big a coincidence. How it very likely could have been him.

  She went on until my phone beeped with another call and I managed to escape.

  The calls went on all morning. Apparently the media had been contacting others who wanted to put a lid on what was being aired. I got worried calls from Assistant Principal Frank Royal, Superintendent Dr. James Higgins, school board president Philip Wang, and president of the PTA Evelyn Wright. Jen and Susan also called. So did my anonymous breather. I wondered if it was Jerry. Which reminded me again to call him.

  But that would involve yet another conversation on the phone, and I was done with it. I left it on vibrate and went upstairs to get dressed, still using one arm. I struggled with my bra, perplexed by the avalanche of phone calls about Mrs. Marshall. I fastened the clasps in front and shimmied and twisted them around to the back, slid my right arm through the strap. Tried to lift my left arm to slide it through but, with each movement, my shoulder moaned and hurt, so I gave up, yanked the bra around, undid the clasps, and tossed it onto the bed. I pulled on a loose t-shirt and cutoffs, came downstairs. Found two new voice messages.

  One was from Jerry, a reminder that he was showing the house at noon, which meant I had to be out from noon to one. The other was silence. No message, just a few seconds of quiet breathing.r />
  By a quarter to twelve when the sun was nearly at its highest, I was out walking my neighborhood, the Fairmount section of Philadelphia. Heat shimmered off the asphalt on tight streets packed with parked cars. Rows of townhouses slumped as if melted together. An elderly man wearing a sweater and heavy wool pants hobbled along with his elderly dog. A glistening lithe man jogged by, and a woman bicycled around me, calling out, “On your left” too late for me to figure out which side she meant. I looked around as she whooshed by and thought I saw people a few yards behind me. But when I turned, no one was there.

  By the time I got to Kelly Drive, sweat was trickling down my midriff, and my shoulder bothered me. I hadn’t worn the sling both because of the heat and because I was determined to begin using my arm before school started, which was the very next day. Anyway, my left shoulder ached, I was dripping sweat, and I couldn’t go home for an hour. But walking was a relief. I focused on moving through humid, smothering air. On people passing by. On the present moment, nothing else. At the Museum of Art, I watched eager tourists line up to take selfies with the Rocky statue, and maniacs running up and down the museum steps under the midday sun. At Lloyd Hall, I saw dancers on roller blades, surrey riders, families snacking on the patio. Was I the only one sweltering? The heat weighed on me, slowed my body and mind. I wondered about all those marches in history where people were forced to walk themselves to death. Were they Native Americans? Prisoners of war? If it weren’t so hot, I’d remember, but my thoughts evaporated before I could reach them. I trudged past Boathouse Row and then along the Schuylkill. Its shady path didn’t offer much relief. I stood watching the river, rowers slicing the water with their long, thin sculls. Was it cooler on the water? Did the rowers feel even the slightest hint of a breeze? I smeared sweat across my forehead. Checked my cell phone for the time. Refused to look for messages.

  Forty minutes left.