Driver's Ed

by Caroline B. Cooney

  Morgan marveled that she could say this out loud. Girls could do that, figure out what they were thinking and then use words to tell you. Morgan would have preferred to lift weights the rest of his life than say stuff like that out loud.

  Remy was the only person in the world he could really talk to, and yet he wasn’t really talking to her; she was talking to him.

  Tomorrow would be the talk that counted.

  What would he say to Mr. Thompson? I’m sorry? Of course, he could throw in I’m sorry. Like it would matter that he was sorry. Like Denise would be less dead or something.

  On Sunday, Mrs. Willit had read from the Book of Job, in spite of the fact that it was the week before Christmas, and she was supposed to concentrate on the coming of baby Jesus. Mrs. Willit had never really caught on to the religious year. Job was from the Old Testament, was thousands more years ago than Jesus, and moreover, was the Bible story most likely to make you detest God, and here she was babbling about Job instead of the Magi or the Star.

  Job, pronounced Jobe, was your basic nice guy. So what did God do with the poor slob? Used him as a punching bag. Entertained himself for years by slowly and cruelly destroying the guy’s life. It was a bet. God had actually taken a bet that Job would love him anyway.

  The Old Testament had a really tough God. He dished it out. You made a mistake, you paid. Even if you didn’t make a mistake, like Job, you paid.

  Mrs. Willit had her usual spazzed-out interpretation. For her, God was this friendly guy who would say, Hey, listen, I know you feel bad about the whole sign thing, so let’s call it even. Now get a good night’s sleep and don’t torment yourself.

  Morgan didn’t know about God, but the humans in his life certainly didn’t plan to call it even.

  He’d wanted his father to do the right thing, and he thought maybe Dad was, but what would happen now? If only he could get a sense of what would hit him and Remy.

  A singing tree-decoration electronically twittered “Silent Night.”

  He had a sense that he had forever lost “sleep in heavenly peace.” Because whether Dad handled things right or not, She. Was. Still. Dead.

  CHAPTER 13

  “Are you sure this is the right thing to do, Mr. Campbell?” said Remy.

  Morgan’s father parked the BMW. He took a long time to set it in park and pull on the emergency brake. “No,” he said. “I’m not.”

  Remy had figured a person running for office was always sure of the right thing to do. She felt even sicker than she had during the last twenty-four hours.

  The Thompson house was a small ordinary ranch, plain and solid. Its tiny front stoop was the kind where in order to open the door you practically fell into the bushes.

  The rain came down. If the temperature dropped a degree or two, it would be snow, and then it would be beautiful and white and pristine; it would be romantic and Christmasy.

  But it was only rain.

  “Should we have a lawyer with us?” said Morgan.

  “I’m a lawyer,” Mr. Campbell pointed out.

  Remy had thought this was why you had lawyers: so that they had to have the meetings.

  “You’re not a criminal lawyer,” Morgan pointed out.

  Mr. Campbell looked thinner. His cheek lines were deeper, his voice more tired. “You and Remy are not criminals.”

  “He thinks we are.”

  Remy did not ask the God of Tight Situations to help. It would be cheating. Besides, no such god had come through for Denise in her tight situation. Who needed a god who played favorites?

  In a split second this door would open. A man would be standing there. She would have to speak. Hi, I’m Remy Marland, how are you, nice to meet you, I’m the one who is partially responsible for your wife’s death.

  Remy had started saying that to herself. Partially responsible. Anything to slide Denise Thompson’s death over a space or two.

  The door did open.

  And Remy didn’t care if God played favorites or not. She wanted him around and she wanted him on her team.

  Morgan made himself smile at Remy, although he was afraid of being responsible for her; of having to hang on to her as well as himself.

  She was composed. She’d worn a skirt, which she didn’t often do. Just as Morgan had worn a tie, which he didn’t often do.

  Dress code for meeting the man whose wife you’d killed.

  It’ll be over eventually, Morgan told himself. It can’t last any longer than your average dentist appointment. Course, it could hurt more. This was, after all, a man who on television and in the newspaper had accused Morgan of being a murderer.

  Morgan had looked up Mrs. Marland’s quote. Did the Bible actually say you had to repay your crimes “an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth”?

  The Bible instruction was a bit more detailed than that. “If any mischief follow, then thou shalt give life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burning for burning, wound for wound, stripe for stripe.”

  That was pretty clear.

  The first thing Remy thought when she was able to think was Mr. Thompson is so young. He looks as if he could be in high school with us.

  And the little boy!

  How much bigger and sturdier the Thompson child was than Remy’s brother. A year made an enormous difference. Henry was a big baby; Bobby Thompson was a little kid.

  Bobby was happy to see visitors. “Hi,” said Bobby cheerfully. Unlike Henry, whose smile was still partly gums, Bobby had teeth. He waved, although Remy, Morgan, and Mr. Campbell were only a few feet away. “Merry Christmas,” added Bobby. In the voice of one giving away a splendid secret, he whispered, “We have stockings.”

  The Thompsons’ tree was short and stocky, ornaments on the bottom branches, eye level for a toddler. There was a fireplace, and two stockings hung from the mantel.

  Not three.

  * * *

  Mr. Thompson was the kind of thin that comes from hyperactivity. Fourth-grade-boy thin. Even his hair was thin. Even his speech. “I’ve thought of every possible punishment for you two,” he said. His thready voice broke and then knit itself back. “I’ve thought of killing you. I went through a stage of wanting to buy a gun.”

  I don’t want to be here, thought Remy. I don’t want to carry any more demons.

  “I’ve thought of prison,” said Mr. Thompson. “Prison and walls and cells and bars. You surrounded for twenty years by terrible people who would hurt you.”

  Mr. Thompson didn’t want to look at them any more than they wanted to look at him. The living room received careful scrutiny.

  The Thompsons had been too new to housekeeping to have nice furniture. Mismatched cast-offs cluttered the room. Only the windows were newly dressed. Perky starched ivory curtains with cobalt blue bows and a single coordinated lampshade. Cobalt blue and ivory. The color scheme Denise Thompson had been aiming for. But she’d run out of time.

  Mr. Thompson’s laugh looped around like a strand of yanked-out cassette tape. “I’ve had crazy ideas too. Like tattooing her name on your arm, so you’d always have to carry Denise with you.”

  Remy tightened herself against this. It was only a sign. She was not going to carry as much guilt as they wanted her to. He’s not tattooing Denise Thompson’s name on my arm, thought Remy, and not on my mind or my heart either.

  She stole a glance at Morgan, and saw that he, at least, was going to ruin his entire life over a sign. He looked as if Mr. Thompson had already begun stabbing him with needles.

  If Morgan still likes me, she thought, which—how could he? But if he still does, I can’t let him know what kind of person I really am. Because Morgan is a truly better person. I think he’s a Mr. Willit. And I’m a Nickie Budie. Myself first.

  All his life Morgan had been taught to say he was sorry.

  Sorry for breaking the dish. Sorry for yelling at his sister. Sorry for not mowing the lawn. Sorry for flunking a quiz.

  Morgan said, although it was useless,
and maybe even insulting, “I’m sorry, Mr. Thompson. I’m sorry she’s dead and I’m sorry I can’t undo it.”

  Mr. Thompson grew more taut, and closer to snapping. “I’ve talked to lawyers. When I realized the police could only charge you with stealing a sign, nothing but a little fine, I thought of bringing a civil suit instead of criminal. I’d lose, but I could muddy your name. At least make it hard for you to go to college in this state. But the lawyers said …”

  Morgan Campbell was chilled. He did not look left or right; he certainly did not look at his father.

  What lawyer had Mr. Thompson spoken to?

  The same lawyer Morgan had brought along?

  A lawyer with lots and lots of money? A lawyer with lots and lots of experience at changing people’s minds?

  His father had been here twice, setting this meeting up. The Campbells had money. Clearly the Thompsons did not. Would Dad offer money? Would Mr. Thompson take it? Would a man who had offered a reward on television turn around and accept a reward himself for backing off?

  “Tell me what happened,” said Mr. Thompson.

  Remy appeared to have gone into a coma. Morgan had to do it all. “People were talking about signs,” he said carefully. He could not get other kids into trouble with him. That was chicken. It was okay to play chicken, but never okay to be chicken. “Like, a kid who rides his bike wanted BIKE PATH and one of the city kids wanted a country sign, THICKLY SETTLED. It sounded like fun, it didn’t sound like a bad thing, and so one night … Remy and I went out.”

  Last night and again this afternoon his father had said, “Morgan, if you’ve ever listened to me, listen to me now. Tell. The. Truth.”

  But the truth was, they’d had too much fun to think. Could anybody want to hear that his wife’s death was part of a fun time?

  “We were having a wonderful time,” he said, obeying his lawyer father, and telling the absolute truth. “The first sign we took was THICKLY SETTLED. There was something scary and exciting and even sexy about taking it. Running the risk of getting caught. And the second sign was just a road sign, my name, it was Morgan Road. Remy and I … um … weren’t dating, but we were … thinking about it, I guess.”

  I’m trying to get his sympathy, thought Morgan. Re-create the night so he’ll say, Oh well, young love—foolish pranks—not to worry.

  “And the road sign was”—he had trouble with this word, but plunged on—“romantic.” His throat was dry enough, he was afraid of coughing, and that would be cheating.

  “We were flirting,” said Remy. He was desperately thankful that she stepped in. “We were in the front seat and giggling and we had our first kiss and even though the word stealing went through my mind once, it didn’t go through twice, because … it was a really neat night.”

  Remy’s doing it too. Building a case that we’re really great kids. The stop sign was just a minor slip, let’s shrug, okay, because we have our lives ahead of us, and it’s too bad that Denise doesn’t, but these things happen. No fair pulling any of this burning for burning, stripe for stripe, life for life stuff.

  Yet he almost wanted to burn.

  “I wanted the Morgan Road sign,” said Remy, “because I had a crush on Morgan. Then I thought maybe we’d get ice cream. But somehow we ended up at the corner of Cherry and Warren, and somehow—we took the stop sign.” Remy’s voice broke and her tears began. Definitely cheating. Begging with weakness. “We didn’t mean to hurt anybody. We didn’t think taking the sign was … well … we didn’t think.”

  There. That was it, really. They, honor students, chorus members, churchgoers, didn’t think. What made you stop and think, then, if that didn’t?

  Mr. Thompson’s voice was cold as death. “The only reason you kids are here is to put it behind you.”

  The raging frustration from his television ads came back. He was on his feet, he was glaring into their faces, clenching his fists.

  “Do you think I haven’t tried to get that night back too?” he shouted. “Do you think I haven’t shouted into the void, Denise! Look twice! Put on the brakes! Go the other way home!” Mr. Thompson’s face was so close to Morgan’s that Morgan breathed in the air Mr. Thompson exhaled.

  “You’re going to get away with it! Because anything I could do to you I’d go to prison for. And Bobby needs me. So I can’t shoot you. I can’t stage car accidents for you.” He brought his fist down on the arm of his chair, but it was upholstered, and there was no noise, no impact, no result. “Why didn’t you tell when you saw the newscast?”

  Remy wiped her weeping eyes with both hands. “I was afraid. I’m still afraid. I know that your wife was the most afraid of all, because she’s the one who died, and it must have been so scary and painful for her, and I’m sorry.”

  Baby Henry picked up any emotion in any person at any time, and generally made the Marlands miserable reflecting them back. Bobby, on the other hand, seemed completely insensitive to what was going on. He started a tape in his Fisher-Price cassette player. A husky, recognizable voice sang, “Silly, willy, nilly, old, stuffed with fluff …” while Bobby danced and sang along as tonelessly and happily as Winnie the Pooh himself. “… Silly, willy, nilly old bear.”

  Little kids always took to Remy. In spite of the emotion in the room, and three strangers, Bobby got comfortable, and climbed in Remy’s lap, wanting to see the funny little silver charms that swung from her necklace.

  Remy hugged him, because she could never help hugging little kids. Even when Henry was his most infuriating and wet and sticky, she adored him. And Bobby was so cute.

  With clumsy fingers—but so much more adept than Henry’s—Bobby separated the charms and stared wonderingly at each. “A chair!” he said excitedly.

  “Three chairs,” said Remy, touching each tiny silver seat. “And in between the chairs are music notes. Eighth notes. It’s a musical chairs necklace.”

  Mr. Thompson began to cry. “Denise loved stuff like that.” His tears were for a woman he had loved. Remy’s tears were for herself. “Bobby’s forgetting her. It’s so quick. He’s perfectly happy with his baby-sitter and his grandmother. In a few months he won’t have a single memory of her, and when he’s a teenager she’ll be nothing but a photograph on the wall.”

  Mr. Thompson’s tears stopped but didn’t dry; they lay on his cheeks like tiny creek beds.

  Remy took the necklace off to let Bobby play with it. He set it on the coffee table to see if the charm chairs would stand, and they did. He crowed happily.

  “I want you to pay,” said Mr. Thompson drearily. “But what’s going to happen is, you will forget. You have to forget, in order to survive. Bobby will forget. My sister thinks I’ll remarry. And Denise will evaporate.”

  Bobby climbed onto his lap so daddy would admire the neat necklace. Mr. Thompson brushed his son’s hand away. “This is a two-holiday murder,” he said. “A Thanksgiving and a Christmas death. Every Thanksgiving dinner and every Christmas morning as long you live, I want you to remember Denise. Who doesn’t have holidays now. I want your Christmases ruined.”

  Mr. Thompson peeled the necklace out of Bobby’s fingers, and Bobby wailed and fought for it.

  “He can keep it,” said Remy quickly.

  Mr. Thompson looked at her incredulously. “I think we have enough souvenirs of what you did to us.”

  * * *

  Outside the rain was still falling.

  The same monotonous heavy rate as before.

  Puddles filled low spots in the yard.

  Mr. Campbell got in the driver’s seat and turned on the engine and the wipers. The wipers clicked arhythmically, the left one earlier than the right.

  In the comfortable warm backseat of the BMW, Morgan took Remy’s hand. “Dad?” he said.

  “Yes?”

  “Can you still run for office?”

  “Yes,” said his father. Without excitement. Without enthusiasm. His fuel, like Mr. Thompson’s, was used up. Nobody got into office without tremendous energy. If M
organ had consumed his father’s energy, the campaign was doomed.

  “This isn’t a skeleton in your closet?” Morgan asked.

  “No, it isn’t, Morgan,” said his father quietly. “It’s a skeleton in your closet.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Remy rested her fingertips on the chair seats of her necklace, as Bobby had. I’ll always wear it. It’ll be Denise Thompson for me. She’ll be my musical chairs. Maybe she’ll make me a better person. Or at least a thinking person.

  What a simpleminded idea. Jewelry improves the soul. Right.

  Remy yearned to be in her own bedroom, door tightly closed. Flat on the mattress, staring up at the ceiling, letting the nightmare drip out of her, like a reverse intravenous.

  Her mother obstructed the path to the stairs. Her mother seemed immense, impassable, like a falling-rock zone in the mountains. My mother doesn’t like me, thought Remy. It was worse than knowing that Denise Thompson was dead.

  Remy clung to the necklace. What if life itself was musical chairs? Nothing but chance?

  Mom demanded that Remy repeat every word of the visit to Mr. Thompson.

  Mac listened silently. Dad stayed in the TV room with the baby. Remy had hardly seen her father since the night she’d told her parents. Mom was taking her solace in screaming at Remy. Dad was burying himself in television.

  “Do you need me to help with dinner,” said Remy carefully, “or may I go to my room?”

  “And what do you plan to do in your room? Decide which wall to decorate with stop signs?”

  Remy no longer had any temper. There was no anger in her, no rebellion, no lashing back. She wondered if this would last the rest of her life, or if she would recur, like a cosmic event, and explode. “I need to empty my mind.”

  “Empty your mind?” repeated Remy’s mother. “Excuse me, Remy.” Her mother said that a lot now.

  Oh, Mom, please excuse me, thought Remy.

  She wanted to shake her mother, demand love, demand to be excused.