Child's Play

by Jones, Merry;

  And indeed, the next morning, school had opened right on time. Mr. Royal again had stood outside to greet the children, again had failed to have them line up by grade and classroom. This time, though, several teachers had been on hand to monitor the area, herding children into proper zones, showing them where they were to wait for the bell to ring each morning.

  I’d not been one of those valiant teachers. I’d lingered at a distance, watching from the parking lot. Noting the defiant Jolly Jack’s truck at the corner of the playground, the kids skipping over there to talk to Duncan. The uniformed policemen patrolling the schoolyard. The patrol car idling in the bus lane. Stan peering out from the main doorway, holding a broom. I looked for a suspicious character holding a knife. Of course I didn’t see one. No one was going to attack me or anyone else with police everywhere. We were all safe.

  Still, I stayed alert as I inched past the taped-off area where Joyce’s car had been parked. Gradually, the shouts and laughter of children penetrated my haze, bolstered me, and carried me through the teachers’ entrance to my classroom, where eleven seven-year-olds took their seats and watched me, their eyes riddled with questions and fear.

  “Mrs. Harrison?”

  I hadn’t learned their names yet. The girl’s desk was labeled “Pam.”

  “Yes, Pam?”

  “I’m going to be on TV.” She gave a proud smile.

  “You are not,” said a boy. His desk said “Bobby.”

  “Am so. A news lady talked to me—and a man with a camera.”

  What? “When was this, Pam? Where?”

  “Just now, on the sidewalk on my way to school.”

  Seriously? The media were interviewing little children? Exploiting them? “What did the news lady say to you?”

  “She said.” Pam’s chin wobbled ever so slightly. “‘Are you scared to go to school?’”

  “I know why,” Bobby chimed in. “She thinks you’re scared because first someone killed Mrs. Marshall and then they killed Mrs. Huff.”

  “Hold on, Bobby,” I said. Pam and another Elana were crying. Maybe others. “Okay, everybody listen.”

  I didn’t want to talk about murder with them. Instead, I told them that it was true that some bad things had happened, but that they were all safe. No one was going to hurt them. I was watching them and so were policemen. I walked around and touched each one of them on the shoulder or the head, calming them. And instead of a spelling lesson, I assigned another art project. This time, I asked them to draw their favorite places to play.

  As they worked, I glanced out the window, saw a police cruiser in the parking lot. Leaves beginning to turn. Everything seemed under control. I walked around again, looking at their work. Saw pictures of playgrounds with swings and slides. A lake dotted with sailboats. A bedroom floor covered with toys. A child roller-skating on the street. And a blank paper.

  Seth hadn’t drawn anything. He sat at his desk whispering into the air.

  “Seth?”

  He kept whispering, looking down. He didn’t answer me.

  “Seth?” This time, I bent down, spoke into his ear.

  He pulled away as if startled.

  “I thought you were saying something.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “I wasn’t saying anything.”

  A few kids giggled. Seth turned scarlet and stared at the floor.

  But clearly, he’d been whispering. He was only seven, just a little boy. Even so, maybe Seth heard voices. Maybe he wasn’t well.

  More likely, like a lot of kids, he had an imaginary friend.

  I changed the subject. “You haven’t started your picture.”

  He blinked at the blank paper in front of him. Reached for a crayon. Looked around. “Um. I forget,” he said. “What are we supposed to draw?”

  He hadn’t heard the assignment. A familiar chill tickled my back. Seth had apparently wandered off in his mind and missed part of the class. It was as if he’d “pulled an Elle.” Maybe he had a dissociative disorder like mine?

  The thought plagued me even though he didn’t whisper again that morning. On his way outside for recess, though, I stopped him. “Tell me, Seth. Who were you talking to before?”

  Again, he looked at the floor. “Nobody.” His voice was small, bashful.

  “Because I want you to know it’s okay.” I waited. “Sometimes people have secret friends that no one can see except them.”

  He tilted his head, doubtful. “That’s crazy.”

  Maybe. “I thought maybe you had a friend like that and that’s why you were whispering.”

  “Me?” He took a step back, bolder now. “No, I don’t have any secret friend.”

  “Why were you whispering, then?”

  “I can’t tell you.” He turned to go, then turned back, scowling. “You really want to know who I was talking to, Mrs. Harrison?”

  I watched him. “Yes. I do.”

  He took a deep breath, looked away. “My father, that’s who.”

  His father?

  “Sometimes he wants to know what’s going on. Like before, I told him Mrs. Huff was killed.” Seth stood next to my chair, toyed with the armrest. “You think that’s crazy, don’t you.”

  “No, I don’t.” And I didn’t, even though his father had been dead since Seth was a baby. Fact was that if Seth was crazy, I was, too. I’d talked to my husband for a couple of years after he died.

  “You don’t? Honest?” He held onto my armrest, leaning back, swaying. “What if sometimes when I talk to my dad, he talks back to me? Do you think I’m crazy now?”

  I took a breath. How many times after Charlie’s death had I heard his voice whisper that he loved me and was still by my side? And how many times had I gotten angry with Charlie and argued with the voice of a dead man?

  “No, Seth. I don’t think you’re crazy.” Although maybe we both were.

  He cocked his head, shrugged.

  I folded my hands, preparing a simple explanation. I’d say that when people we love die, talking to them is a normal way to try to keep them with us. I looked up, ready to begin.

  Seth was already at the door, running off to recess.

  At the end of the day, Katie and her girlfriends came by to pick up Seth. The three wore identical somber expressions. Heads bent, they moved tentatively. Katie knelt and gave Seth a gentle hug, asked him how his day was. He squirmed, muttered, “Good.” An auto-response.

  She stood and pulled me aside, whispered that she was concerned; her brother had been shaken by the murders. “Did he seem okay in class?” she asked.

  I wasn’t comfortable talking to her about Seth. She was a child herself, his sibling not his parent or guardian. “How sweet of you to ask,” I dodged her question. “Seth’s lucky to have a sister who cares about him so much.”

  She lowered her voice. “And you?” She met my eyes. “How are you doing, Mrs. Harrison? These murders must be awful for you.” She studied me, seemed way older than her age. Poor thing, I thought. Having to grow up so early, enduring so much tragedy, taking on so much responsibility.

  Becky came in before I could answer, her eyes swollen and red, her hanky at her nose. “Oh, sorry. You’re busy.” She turned to go.

  But Katie grabbed Seth’s hand. “No, no. We’re leaving. See you later, Mrs. H.” She let her eyes settle on mine for a moment, letting me know she’d be thinking of me, and led her compadres away, Seth in tow.

  I slumped against my desktop, drained. My legs ached from standing, my shoulder was sore, reminding me that it was still not entirely healed. And my stomach was in knots. Becky was weeping, going on about her kindergarteners. “They’re just babies, but they know what’s happened so they’re scared, which means they’re needy and cranky. At times today, I thought I’d lose it and we’d all sit in a circle and cry. Thank God for Duck Duck Goose. When you’re five years old, nothing—not even murder—is going to interfere with a game of Duck Duck Goose.”

  We laughed sadly at that. Becky blew her no
se, gazed at the bright colors of the classroom. “Mr. Royal managed to get through the day.”

  “Why wouldn’t he?”

  She looked at me. “Well, he hasn’t been in a classroom for who knows how long.”

  I didn’t know what she meant.

  “He filled in for Joyce today.”

  Of course. Made sense.

  “He says he’ll stay on until they find a replacement.”

  I pictured him waving his arms, stammering helplessly at a classroom of second graders. “Let’s hope they find one soon.”

  Becky giggled, agreeing. “He won’t last a week. He’ll be in the hospital with apoplexy.”

  What exactly was apoplexy? Was it a real condition? Something that would land you in the hospital? Never mind. I gathered up papers and my lesson plans, stuffed them into my bag. “Well, at least nobody got killed today. And the cops kept a low profile. I didn’t see anyone who looked like they were undercover.”

  Neither had Becky, though she said she suspected the third-grade teacher’s new aide.

  “So. I’m outta here.” I looked at the clock. “Want to start Happy Hour early?”

  Becky frowned. “You can’t do Happy Hour. You have a date.”

  A date? What was she talking about?

  She watched me, smirking, waiting for me to remember.

  But I didn’t.

  She finally got tired of waiting. “Ty Evans,” she said.

  Ty Evans? Oh God. Ty. I’d forgotten, damn. I’d agreed to meet him at Pete’s for a soda. But that was before Joyce had been killed.

  “I can’t go. I mean—I can’t.” I remembered him leaning against me, breathing on my neck. I cringed.

  “Elle, you can’t just not show up. That’s mean. Plus Ty’s an ex-con—you don’t want to make him mad.”

  “Oh, come on, Becky.” Ty wouldn’t hurt me. Would he? Had he already hurt Joyce and Mrs. Marshall?

  “I’m just saying you need to be careful with him.”

  “Which is exactly why I don’t want to go. Besides, with what happened to Joyce, he’ll understand I’m too upset.”

  Becky shook her head, no.

  “Anyhow. I bet he forgot all about it.”

  She didn’t say anything, just stared at me. We both knew Ty hadn’t forgotten, that he’d probably thought about nothing else.

  Okay. I’d go and explain that because of Mrs. Huff’s murder, I was a mess and couldn’t stay. I’d be out within five minutes.

  “How about I go along? I’ll sit in the booth behind you and be there if you need me.”

  I thanked her, said she didn’t need to come along.

  She frowned. “Okay, but I’m going to call and check on you. When? Half an hour?”

  Half an hour would be fine. If I needed an excuse to get away from Ty, Becky’s phone call would provide it. I’d pretend that a friend needed help because her car had broken down or her husband had walked out or her grandmother had died. Something.

  “And if you’re really in trouble, say a code word.”

  “Trouble? He’s just a kid in a soda shop.”

  “A kid in a soda shop who killed his father and possibly two of our closest associates.”

  My throat clenched. “You don’t really think—”

  “Elle. If you’re in trouble, say the code word.”

  “Okay fine.” What was the code word?

  She shrugged. “Geronimo?”

  Seriously? The only time anyone ever said “Geronimo” was when they needed a code word.

  “Okay.” Becky looked at her nails, thinking. “How about ‘manicure’?”

  Manicure? “Fine.”

  “Fine.” Becky gave me a hug, hurried to the door. “Be careful.”

  I waved.

  She stuck her head back into the room. “And call me the minute you get home.” She blew me a kiss and was gone.

  Ty appeared from nowhere as I approached the soda shop. He was suddenly next to me, matching his steps with mine. Smiling.

  I opened my mouth, started to tell him that I couldn’t stay. But his dimples looked so happy. I decided to wait. I’d tell him after we sat down.

  “How about we take our drinks to the park?” he asked. “It’s beautiful outside.”

  His sunny mood rankled me. No, what rankled me was that I was about to destroy it. His eyes twinkled. His steps bounced. Clearly, he’d been looking forward to seeing me. Well, what was the harm? I’d have a soda with him. One. Then I’d go.

  Ty took his root beer float and I my skim milk latte to the park across the street from Pete’s, less than a block from Logan Elementary. We sat on a bench, sipped.

  “I’m glad you came out with me, Mrs. H.” Ty grinned. “I never thought you really would.”

  I’d never have thought so either.

  “Back in juvey, if someone told me that this would happen? That you’d even talk to me?”

  “Why wouldn’t I talk to you? You were my student.” I tried to reinforce the boundaries of our relationship. To remind him that we were teacher/student and nothing else.

  But he wasn’t paying attention to what I said. He shook his head, stared at a tree. “Did I just say, ‘Back in juvey’? Shit.”

  Silence. He set his jaw.

  “That place, Mrs. H. It ruined my life. You know something? I should have never confessed. If I didn’t confess, they never could have sent me there. Nobody could have proved anything.” The veins in his forehead swelled, blue and pulsing.

  “So why did you?” As I recalled, he hadn’t confessed until weeks after the murder.

  “What, confess? Because my dickhead lawyer said I’d be out in a few years at worst, that’s why.”

  He seemed solely focused on his punishment, oblivious to the reason for it. “Ty, you killed your father.”

  “He deserved what he got.”

  “So, even after all this time, you don’t regret it?”

  “Regret it?” He faced me, forehead veins throbbing. Head tilted. “Really, Mrs. H? You think I did it?”

  I waited a beat. “Ty. You confessed.”

  He looked away, pulled on his soda. Forehead veins pulsed, about to explode.

  What was I doing there? I needed to leave. “Look, Ty. It’s been a tough week. And now there’s been another murder at school.”

  “So? What’s that to me? Those two bitches were nothing. Especially Marshall. Marshall,” he sneered. “She hated me even when I was a little kid. She tortured me. And you know what? Even back then, I could tell she got off on it.”

  “Ty, that’s not—”

  “Don’t you stand up for her, Mrs. H. She used to twist my arm, pull my hair. Gave me wedgies. Bitch deserved what she got.”

  A man with a dog walked by. A woman pushed a toddler in a stroller.

  Ty went on, not caring whether they heard. “And that other one, Mrs. Huff. She taught my sister, so I know about her. She had an attitude. She thought she was better than everybody.” He smirked. “My guess is she found out different at the end.” He leaned over, spat on the ground. “No, like I said, when I got out, you’re the only one I cared about seeing, Mrs. H. You’re the only one who ever treated me with respect.” He looked into my eyes and smiled sweetly, almost bashfully.

  What was I supposed to say? How could I respond? In the course of a sentence, Ty’s demeanor had changed from stormy contemptuous rage to shy flirtation. He was volatile, unpredictable. He’d expressed no remorse for the murder of his father, no empathy for the victims at the school. The killings, in fact, seemed to please him. Almost to make him proud, as if he’d accomplished them himself.

  Oh man. I watched him scoop ice cream out of his drink, wondered if he had any conscience at all. Was he a sociopath, a serial killer? I shouldn’t have come. Needed to leave, get home, call Detective Stiles. I clutched my latte, edged away. A shiver passed through me, and I watched Ty to see what he’d do next. Would he try to take me prisoner, to live out some obsessive fantasy? If I resisted, would he h
urt me? My latte was my only weapon—I could throw it into his eyes, blinding him long enough to let me run away.

  “Yum.” He licked vanilla foam off his lips and smiled, displaying his dimples. And, for an instant, tall, pasty Ty became a scrappy little boy with bruises.

  “Thanks, Mrs. H. This is great.” The little boy disappeared. Big Ty winked, looked me over. Oh God, was he trying to be seductive? “I’ll tell you what, they didn’t have root beer floats in juvey. No ma’am.” He looked at the trees. “They didn’t have trees, either.”

  No trees? I didn’t know what to say. “How sad.”

  “You can’t imagine. All you could see of the outside world was through a five-inch window covered with bars, and that was high up near your ceiling. If you stood on your cot, you could see a sliver of sky, a piece of a cloud. That was it.”

  I faced the bank of hedges across the path, imagined never seeing the sky. Never seeing greenery. After a while, I’d be desperate. And angry.

  Angry enough to kill the people I blamed for my problems?

  Ty sprawled on the bench beside me, his long legs jutting out, crossed at the ankle. He’d picked a blade of grass, was chewing it. The veins in his forehead were no longer protruding. He was relaxed, peaceful.

  He looked like a gawky adolescent, not a killer.

  But that didn’t mean he wasn’t one. After all, he’d killed his father, might have killed Joyce and Mrs. Marshall. Might be planning other killings. Might be just getting started. I recalled his quick mood shifts, his anger, and inched further away. Imagined making an excuse, saying that I had to leave. Or getting up and running.

  “Can you?”

  What? Oh dear. I’d drifted. Missed what he’d said.

  “No?” I figured I had a 50 percent chance of being right.

  The blade of grass twirled in his lips. He got off the bench and traced a rectangle in the dirt. “Well, this was the size. I was lucky. I had a single, no roommate because I was what they called a violent offender. But this was what I lived in. A box just big enough for a cot, a desk, and a toilet. The walls were cold concrete blocks covered with writing.”