Deirdre glanced over her shoulder. “This is pretty weird.”
Lil said nothing. Just trudged up the stairs behind her.
“I mean, who’d have thought I’d be in this situation?” She tried to laugh.
Silence.
Deirdre opened the door to her room. She walked over to her desk and Lil stood in the doorway, arms folded across the front of her beige pantsuit. “I hope you don’t think—”
“It’s of no mind what I think,” Lil interrupted.
“My God. Do you honestly think I would hurt one of these kids? Or jeopardize my job?”
Lil remained silent.
Deirdre was stunned. Had she mistaken their good working relationship all these years? Had she misinterpreted Lil’s friendliness, read into her morning chattiness? Of course, socially they weren’t friends—Deirdre had never invited Lil to her home—but she had been certain that Lil thought well of her and that the two of them were good colleagues.
Deirdre heard footsteps coming up the stairs and there was Forest, arms piled with books. For a moment, she wanted to run, grab him and drag him for a quick coffee at Blue Moon so she could tell him the latest developments, confide in him Martin Loring’s “need” to let her go immediately. She played the conversation in her head—He says he has no choice. Deirdre, laughing, sipping her latte and Forest, downing an espresso, laughing with her—Yeah, no choice. Like he ever does something without kowtowing to those parents. It had always been like that, teachers against administrators, even when you liked them, even when your head of school was someone as basically kind and sweet-natured as Martin Loring. He was still one of “them.” And in conflicts between parents and teachers, the administrators always took the side of the parents. “That’s the way it is in private schools,” SJ had explained when Deirdre first complained. “The parents pay the big bucks and so they have the last word. Who do you think really runs that school?”
Deirdre wanted desperately to have that conversation now with Forest, but there he was at the top of the stairs, at the door to her room, and he didn’t even look in. He didn’t wave or make any motions to indicate that he wanted to speak with her. He walked with his pile of books directly into his own room, and shut the door.
Deirdre felt as if she’d taken a punch to the gut. Of course she was still mad at Forest too, but she had hoped for an instant that he might feel some remorse for their argument, or at least some pity that she was being let go. Then again, maybe he didn’t know. Maybe Martin had not yet announced to the faculty what was going on and so Forest was still stuck in mad mode, couldn’t let go of their fight, the way she still couldn’t. Maybe she should stick her head in his room and let him know what was happening. She felt pretty certain that once Forest knew that Martin had asked her to leave immediately, he would be back on her side. She listened at the door between their two rooms but couldn’t hear anything. If she could just see what he was doing—
“Are you all set?” Lil asked, still in the doorway.
“Just a minute. Let me just check in these drawers.” Deirdre couldn’t think. What would she need at home? What shouldn’t she leave here in her desk? She would feel strange not having her schoolwork with her, or her grade book—her notebook filled with lesson plans. There was no need for that at home and still, Deirdre couldn’t leave it behind; it felt too personal. The grade book she supposed the new teacher would need. She looked up. “Who’ll be teaching my classes, do you know?”
Lil shifted her weight. “Martin has hired somebody, I know that much. Who it is, he hasn’t told me.”
She’s lying. Martin would tell Lil first thing. “Are they . . . coming today?”
Lil took a couple of steps toward her desk. “Do I think you were a good teacher? You gave that impression, yes. Do I think you did what you are accused of doing? I don’t know. I honestly don’t. I know that Mrs. Worthington works hard for this school. I know she wouldn’t want to hurt Brandywine. And I know I’ve got to get back to the office soon or chaos will reign.” Her voice seemed softer to Deirdre, more sympathetic.
“Let me just . . .” And Deirdre was cut off by the sounds of heels clicking their way up the staircase.
Chapter Twelve
Leo Rivera’s face was still everywhere. Smiling in his baseball cap, he looked out from stapled fliers on telephone poles and shop windows. He was plastered to tree trunks. Although no one would say so, or perhaps they were not even quite aware of it themselves, everyone felt there was something sinister about the way the papers flapped in the breeze, corners of the sheets lifting in a kind of careless disregard for the boy. Cats and dogs went missing and that was bad enough—but little boys? Still, people thought, it was absurd to be so surprised—children went missing all the time, their faces stamped on waxy milk cartons—but somehow these fliers stuck to trees and on stop signs seemed less serious. Here a reward for a missing boy, and there, an advertisement for a yard sale.
And, of course, he was no longer missing.
Even though Leo Rivera didn’t live in the same neighborhood as the Brandywine families, he did live in Bradley, a town divided in half by the river, on one side asphalt and more asphalt and triple-deckers so close there was no breath between them, and on the other, renovated Victorians with deep blue hydrangeas and sprawling lawns of lush green, cut thick like a boy’s crew cut. How was it that people who lived on the Victorian side nevertheless felt connected to Leo Rivera and his family?
It was still September in Massachusetts. And for a great many people, that meant time to pay attention to the Red Sox. Leo Rivera had loved the Red Sox with a ferocious ten-year-old’s loyalty. He had never been to a game at Fenway Park, though his father had hoped to surprise him for his birthday. Leo had wanted a bike; his father had wanted an outing to see the Sox in person with his youngest son. It seemed the American thing to do. Just one week after Leo disappeared, the Red Sox swept the Yankees in a three-day series in the Bronx. Normally, a sweep like that in the early fall meant hope for the fans scattered throughout Red Sox Nation, but in Bradley, it was hard to feel anything except a kind of distant longing. Sportscaster after sportscaster reminded viewers how much young Leo Rivera had loved baseball and how, most of all, he would have loved to see his beloved Red Sox win their division and maybe even the World Series. They reminded viewers, too, of how talented Leo was, how he played shortstop for the Wildcats, how it looked like he could have had a future.
When Jason Varitek heard that Leo Rivera’s father was going to be in the stadium on what would have been Leo’s eleventh birthday, he wanted to meet the man. He lobbied for Mr. Rivera to be the one to throw out the first pitch. Leo’s face grinned from the big screen at the start of the game against the Orioles, a somber reminder that you couldn’t let your hope grow too big. It was moments like these that made everyone in Bradley—and throughout Massachusetts—feel connected to Leo and his family.
Leo had disappeared at the very end of Little League season, his own team, the Wildcats, headed for the playoffs. The boys attached white ribbons to their uniforms as a reminder and tribute to their dead teammate. Their coach felt a little guilty about using him as a reason to win, but he rationalized it by thinking that winning would help the boys overcome their grief. For most of the kids, though, it wasn’t grief they were feeling exactly, but something more akin to confusion. How could a boy they knew disappear from their own neighborhood?
“He lives—lived—four houses down from me,” one boy said on the news, the night of the Little League playoffs. “It makes me real sad.”
“I’m scared,” said another, the replacement shortstop.
Frances Worthington’s ten-year-old son, Sam, when asked, stared silently at the reporter and said nothing.
* * *
At the library Monday morning, all the talk was about Mickey and his arrest. How he had been around children in that very library. How SJ was teaching him to read. One of the young catalogers wanted to know if SJ was nervous knowing how clos
e she’d been to a child murderer.
“And molester,” Randall chimed in.
“Innocent until proven guilty,” SJ reminded them. She poured herself a cup of coffee, left the staff room, and ran right into Florence.
“You’re here,” Florence said. “You never returned my call. Didn’t Deirdre tell you it was urgent?”
For a minute SJ thought of using Deirdre as her excuse. “Sorry,” she said, “I . . . time got away from me.” She sipped her coffee.
Florence fiddled with her scrimshaw. “I wanted to prepare you. You-know-who has already called.”
“You know who?”
“The police. They want to interview you again.”
“God. What else can I tell them?” SJ circled her hands around her mug.
“I told them you’d be late—that you’d called in but that I didn’t know when you’d be here. Certainly by noon. Anyway, just FYI. Thought you’d want to know.” Florence straightened her blouse and started to walk on.
“Thanks. Hey, Flo?”
Florence turned around.
“I hate to say this, but I need to leave early. I have to . . . I have some errands I need to run before five. I’ll make it up, okay? The time. I won’t take lunch.”
Florence folded her arms. “Today? It isn’t okay. I have that district-wide meeting at four, remember? You agreed to be in charge? Until six?” Florence slid the scrimshaw back and forth. This one was a horizontal oval shape, with a schooner in black, one of Florence’s favorites.
“What about Elliot? Couldn’t even one of the kids cover the front desk for an hour or so?”
“It isn’t a matter of covering the desk. It’s about being in charge. Is it really that important?” Florence pursued.
SJ gulped down more coffee. “I’m . . . I’ve found an apartment. I need to get to the bank and move some money around.”
The expression in Florence’s eyes changed. Softened. “Wow,” she said.
“Deirdre doesn’t know yet.”
“She doesn’t know?”
SJ looked down into her coffee cup. “I haven’t said anything, but I don’t think she’ll be surprised. We hardly spoke all weekend.”
“Did you have a fight? Why didn’t you call? Is this why you were late? You didn’t even say. You left a message like I was . . . like I was . . . I don’t know, your boss only and not a friend too.”
SJ took a deep breath. “It isn’t that. We didn’t fight. We just . . . I can’t live with her anymore. Come on. Are you surprised? You’re the one who told me what a crazy move I was making to buy the house with her in the first place.”
“The house. Oh.” Florence stopped fiddling with her scrimshaw. “Is this—are you sure you’re making the right decision?”
“You of all people are asking me that!”
“But when did it come to this? I mean, a new apartment. It sounds so drastic!”
“Yes, no. I don’t know. I really don’t want to talk about it right now. But I’m sure,” she added when Florence started to say something else. “I’ve never been more sure.”
As SJ went into the office to take care of orders, she thought first of the new apartment—how small and stingy it seemed. But sufficient, her practical side said. And though it wasn’t anything great, it would be all hers. Then she saw the picture of Deirdre she kept on her desk. Taken years ago at the beach, on the Cape somewhere, Provincetown maybe. It had always been her favorite picture of Deirdre. Back when Deirdre had been a new teacher, before the students had begun to consume her. SJ stared at the photo. Deirdre had that look in her eyes that used to make her melt.
And SJ had wanted to be that person for Deirdre. She had been seduced by Deirdre’s desire, she realized now, and she thought back again to her initial surprise when Deirdre first suggested they look for a house together. More than once, she had half-admitted to herself that what she had with Deirdre was familiar and comfortable—and that was it. But then they started to look at houses. SJ loved the idea of a house, of being in a relationship and living like a family. But she wondered if maybe her expectations about the relationship—about any relationship—had been too high and that maybe comfortable and familiar was the best you could hope for.
Her parents hadn’t really provided a good example. SJ couldn’t even tell if they had loved each other. But what could you tell about watching someone else? When you lived with someone for twenty, thirty, or forty years, what did your love look like to the rest of the world? Could it look boring but be something else? When you were in love with your partner, you certainly didn’t leave them when they were going through a tough time.
SJ put the picture down. She was not looking forward to telling Deirdre that she was moving out. Just thinking about it made her stomach cramp.
* * *
Minutes after twelve, two detectives arrived. A man and woman, both in dark suits, the man wearing a white button-down shirt and a striped tie and the woman more casual, a T-shirt beneath her jacket, pleated pants, both of them looking like they walked right off the set of Law & Order. From her office window, SJ watched them show their badges then shake hands with Florence. The man had that preppy look. Blond crew cut. Square shoulders. The woman was attractive. Her jet-black hair was cut short. She was tall, five ten or eleven, SJ guessed, and slim. The kind of woman Deirdre always pointed to when they were out and said, “I wish I could look like that.” When the detective put her hands on her hips, SJ thought she saw a gun holster. Florence turned and motioned toward SJ’s office, folded her arms, then reached for the scrimshaw, all the while nodding and smiling. SJ could imagine Florence’s tone—concerned, maternal—If there’s anything I can do, if I can be of any help. SJ looked down and noticed her hand was trembling. She hit Save on the computer and stepped out to meet the detectives in her office doorway.
“Detective Mahoney,” said the man, shaking SJ’s hand and then pointing to the woman. “And you’ve met Detective Rodriguez?”
SJ shook the woman’s hand. “No,” she said, “I’ve only spoken to police officers before. The ones in uniform, I mean. After . . . after Leo was first missing. That’s all.” She swallowed, suddenly thirsty. The two detectives shared a brief glance.
SJ ushered them into her office and motioned for Detective Rodriguez to sit in the one chair facing her desk. She dragged another from the corner, removed piles of papers, and stacked them on the floor. “Here,” she said to Detective Mahoney. She walked back behind her desk, happy that it was between her and them and that it concealed her legs that were starting to shake too.
“You obviously know why we’re here,” Detective Rodriguez began, glancing at his partner, who looked directly at SJ. Rodriguez’s eyes seemed warm and encouraging. SJ relaxed a little and nodded. “Tell us, how well do you know Mickey Gilberto?”
“He comes here to learn to read.” SJ sat with her arms folded and willed her legs to be still.
“Since . . . ?” Detective Mahoney asked. Detective Rodriguez sat with her pad of paper unfolded, pencil ready.
“Couple weeks?” SJ said. “He stopped in just after Labor Day . . .” She hesitated. “He was actually one of our movers too, but I didn’t know him then.”
Detective Mahoney nodded and waited.
“I didn’t know him then,” SJ repeated, unfolding her arms. “So I guess it was sort of weird that he stopped in here to see if we could teach him how to read. And that I ended up being his teacher. But he lives in the neighborhood, so I guess it wasn’t that weird,” she added quickly.
“You didn’t question the coincidence?” Detective Rodriguez asked. “Didn’t wonder if he had planned it that way?”
“Absolutely not,” SJ said. She rubbed her palms on her thighs. “I mean, sure, it crossed my mind what a funny coincidence, but not in a strange way. Deirdre—my . . . my partner—she thought it was odd. She made a big deal of it, actually. But I didn’t see anything to it. Deirdre thought he was creepy.”
Detective Rodriguez jotted n
otes on the pad. She looked up. “Your partner, Deirdre. What’s her last name?”
“Murphy. But why do you need to know? She doesn’t know Mickey at all. Like I said, he was one of our movers, but that’s it—”
Detective Mahoney interrupted her: “But she thought he was creepy?”
“Yeah, in a poor-guy-from-the-hood kind of way. That’s it.” SJ chewed on a thumbnail. “Deirdre teaches at Brandywine Academy? So, you know, Mickey doesn’t fit that kind of mold. He isn’t what she’s used to.” She chewed again then folded her arms. “You sure he’s your guy?”
Both detectives looked up then. Detective Rodriguez frowned a little.
SJ went on: “It’s just that . . . people who . . . want to learn to read don’t . . . don’t molest little boys and then kill them.” She was aware of how silly she sounded the minute she had finished speaking.
Detective Mahoney rubbed a hand across his face and coughed, but SJ thought she saw him smirk.
“Of course it might seem that way,” Detective Rodriguez said, leaning forward in her chair. “And it probably is that way for most people. But the criminal mind doesn’t work like everyone else’s.” She tapped her eraser tip on the edge of SJ’s desk. Her nails were manicured, polished a smooth dark red. “The criminal mind is narcissistic, concerned only with itself . . .”
SJ’s mind flashed to the newspaper clippings on Mickey’s desk in the garage.
“. . . intent on its own delusions of grandeur. Which is hard to imagine unless you’ve seen a lot of criminals.” Detective Rodriguez leaned back in her chair, smiled at SJ, and crossed her legs.
“You say Mr. Gilberto took reading lessons from you?” Detective Mahoney unbuttoned his suit jacket.
“Yes,” SJ said. She straightened a stack of papers on her desk.
“What can you tell us about his relationship with his family?” he asked.
Detective Rodriguez sat poised, ready to write again.
“His family? I have no idea.”
“He never confided in you?”
The Year of Needy Girls Page 11