by Gayle Wilson
“He’ll let us. Especially if you ask him, Ms. Sloan.”
Valerie Jacobs wasn’t in the gifted program, but she hung out with a lot of Lindsey’s students, including Renee.
“I’m not sure I want to ask him, Val.”
Renee’s eyes revealed her puzzlement at Lindsey’s lack of enthusiasm. “But why? You’re our teacher. And Andrea’s.”
“Because I’m not totally sure it’s a good idea. That it will be good for the school. Or for y’all.”
Lindsey racked her brain trying to come up with a reason that would make some sense of her reluctance. Since it was more a gut reaction than anything else, she was having a hard time articulating her reservations about this impromptu memorial.
“It’s just a way to say we care. And that we’ll miss her. We have to do something,” Renee pleaded.
The girls’ earnestness made it hard to belittle the gesture. Candles and a prayer. During their lifetimes, they’d seen this sort of thing on every occasion from Princess Diana’s death to 9/11. It was all they knew about expressing grief.
“I can’t be the one to speak, Renee,” Lindsey capitulated. “Maybe Mr. Campbell will.”
“If you think that’s better. We just need somebody to say something. Oh, and be sure to tell them to cut out the lights after we get out on the field.”
“What about Coach? Have you talked to him about this?”
“About letting the team stay on the field, you mean?”
“No, I meant…” Lindsey didn’t bother to finish.
She’d realized nothing she said now would break through their determination. And maybe it was better this way. Let them do this here, away from the school. The funeral next week would be bad enough. Maybe if they got to carry out this public expression of their grief, offer their goodbyes, it would speed the healing process.
“I’ll ask Mr. Campbell, but if he says no, that’s it. Okay? Everybody is upset enough. We don’t want to cause trouble or make Andrea’s family feel any worse.”
Renee’s eager nod assured Lindsey that she didn’t question the logic of that. Of course, Renee wouldn’t buck authority. She usually just found a way around it.
“Will you ask him now so we can hand out the candles and tell everybody what to do before the game?”
“If I can find him,” Lindsey promised.
“Thanks, Ms. Sloan. We knew you’d understand.”
“Y’all come back and check with me in fifteen minutes, okay? Right here. And don’t do anything until I tell you it’s all right with Mr. Campbell.”
If Dave were here, he’d be in the field house. In the meantime, if Shannon showed up, she could open the booth. If she didn’t, it wouldn’t hurt to be a few minutes late. The gates to the stadium were still locked.
As Lindsey walked toward the new cinder-block building, the first cars were beginning to pull into the parking lot. Volunteers from the Boosters Club directed them with flashlights, although it was still twilight. She was relieved to see that most of those early arrivals were disgorging band members, who always assembled on the practice field before they marched into the stadium.
The door to the field house was ajar, but no sound came from inside. By now, the team and the assistant coaches would probably be in the dressing room under the stadium.
Dave usually picked up a pizza or something quick on his way over from the school. He and Coach Spears shared the meal in the coach’s office, a ritual that had developed early in their long relationship.
She stepped inside, pulling the door closed. She wasn’t sure what Dave’s mood would be after the day they’d all had.
If he was going to chew her out for not thinking this proposal through, she’d just as soon no one else heard him.
As she turned the corner to the hall that led to Coach Spears’s office, she heard voices. They were low, but definitely masculine. She couldn’t decide if having Coach there while she explained the cheerleaders’ plan would be a plus or a minus, but there wasn’t much she could do about it now. She’d made the commitment to the girls that she’d ask.
The voices grew louder as she approached. Still trying to frame the request she was about to make, she paid little attention to what was being said.
The door to the office was also ajar. She raised her hand to knock, for the first time becoming aware of the words being spoken inside. As she did, she stopped the motion she’d begun.
“It’s out there. I thought you should know.”
“And just what am I supposed to do about it?”
Dave’s voice. She hadn’t recognized the other one, but it didn’t sound like Coach’s low rumble.
“Not a goddamn thing, Dave. I didn’t come here to get you to do something. I came because I consider you a friend.”
“Yeah, well, you’ve got a hell of a way of showing it.”
“You’ve been around long enough to know how this works, so don’t try to pretend you don’t.”
“What does that mean?”
“That there are no secrets in a place like Randolph. You should remember that.” The voice Lindsey hadn’t yet identified grew louder on the last phrase.
Before she could lower her fist or move away from the door, it swung away from her, opening inward. Walt Harrison’s eyes widened when he saw her standing on the threshold.
“I—I need to see Dave,” she stammered. “Is he here?”
Walt said nothing for a moment, his eyes searching her face. She tried to pretend she hadn’t overheard, but guilt at having eavesdropped on what was clearly a private conversation was probably written all over it.
Finally Walt tilted his head toward the office. Then he stepped by her and continued down the hall.
She waited until the echo of his footsteps against the concrete walls faded before she again raised her hand and tapped lightly on the wood.
“What?”
The barked question was not the most auspicious opening. Given that she’d interrupted what could only be described as a heated exchange between her principal and a coworker, she couldn’t blame Dave for being less than thrilled to have to deal with her right now.
Despite that realization, she stepped inside. Dave’s head was between his hands. After a moment, he looked up.
“Lindsey?”
“I’m here to convey a request from the cheerleaders.”
“What kind of request?”
“They want the student body to go out on the field at halftime holding candles. They want you to offer a prayer or read a poem or say something about Andrea.”
“Good God,” Dave said, taking a deep breath.
“I know.” She did. She knew exactly how he felt.
The endless day at school had been surreal. They were all trying to get through the game tonight, hoping everyone could regroup during the weekend and then make it though the emotional trauma of the funeral next week.
“You think that’s a good idea?” he asked.
“I didn’t, but…I don’t know. Maybe it will help them cope. I’m not sure how much it can hurt.”
“You don’t think it will just get them all stirred up?”
“Look, if you don’t think it’s smart, just say no. I only agreed to ask. I didn’t come up with this. The cheerleaders bought the candles and are waiting for permission to hand them out. And they want the field lights off while they do this.”
“An invitation to disaster right there.”
Normally she would have agreed. When you have several thousand people congregated in one place and turn out the lights, you’re asking for trouble. But for something like this…
“I doubt anyone will take advantage of the situation.”
“It’s not your job that’s on the line.” Dave ran his hand though his hair. “You hear what Walt was saying?”
“Not enough to understand what he was upset about.”
“Is that the truth, Lindsey?”
“Of course. I heard the two of you arguing, but not the gist of it. I w
as too busy trying to figure out the best way to ask your permission for what the kids want to do. If you have doubts, maybe you could call the superintendent.”
“It’s still my school. You think this will go all right?”
She figured Dave wanted to let the kids have their tribute. He just wanted someone’s assurance it was the right thing to do. All she could do was to give him her honest opinion.
“I didn’t. Not at first, but…I think maybe it will give them some closure. They had to listen today to people they didn’t know or particularly like tell them how they should feel and what they should think about Andrea’s death. This is something they want to say. Something they want to do for someone they cared about.”
Dave’s eyes held on hers a moment. “Okay. Tell them we’ll have a minute of silence. And tell them to get on and off the field as quick as they can.”
“They want you to say a prayer.”
“I don’t want to get sued as well as fired. A moment of silence, and we’ll kill the lights. That’s the best I can do.”
“I’m sure they’ll be very grateful.”
Dave nodded, tiredness etched on his features.
“You okay?”
“Are you?”
“No,” she said truthfully.
“Me, either. And I didn’t even know the girl. You hear the rumors?”
“About her being pregnant? I heard.”
“Anything else?”
“About Andrea?”
“About the pregnancy.”
“Just that she might be.”
“Okay.” He seemed relieved. “Tell them I said okay, but with those stipulations.”
“Thanks, Dave. You need to get some rest.”
He nodded again. After a moment she left him there alone, the desk lamp shining down on his bowed head.
As the second quarter wound down, the team was behind, but not far enough they couldn’t rally in the second half. If they could manage to get their minds on the game.
Almost everyone who had come to the ticket booth wanted to talk about the suicide. A lot of those had been worried parents, looking for a reason for Andrea’s death that would have nothing to do with anything their own child might feel or think. Some had been her former students, home from college, who’d heard about the suicide as soon as they’d arrived in town. To all of them, Lindsey said the same meaningless sentence. She had no idea what had caused the girl to take her own life.
At the end of the first quarter, Jim Wells, whom she’d roped into replacing Shannon, had gone back to his normal duties at the concession stand. She’d thought a couple of times about calling Shannon on her cell, just to check on her. She hadn’t because she hoped her friend had cut off her phone and taken a couple of sleeping pills. And if Lindsey had any, she would have done the same thing as soon as she got home.
As the play clock ticked down on the first half, she thought about locking the booth and walking through the gate of the stadium to watch the ceremony. Maybe if her emotions had been more controlled, she would have. Instead, she opted to stay where she was and listen to whatever Dave said over the public address system. No court ruling could prevent her own prayer for Andrea.
She forced a smile for the man approaching the booth, two little boys in tow. “Can I help you?”
“We still need tickets to get in?”
She couldn’t remember seeing them before. The little boys’ eyes shone with such excitement as they looked up at her, she suspected this might be their first time at the stadium. And if money was an issue…
“Tell them at the gate Ms. Sloan said to let y’all in. The band’s about to perform. Want to see the band march out on the field?” she asked the youngest child, who nodded solemnly.
“You sure it’s okay?”
She smiled again at the father. “It’s fine. Just tell them I said to let you in.”
“Ms. Sloan?”
“That’s right.”
“Thanks.”
“I’ll never forget the first game my dad took me to.”
“Thank you,” the man said with an answering smile. “Okay, let’s go, guys. Stay close to me, now, you hear?”
She almost called after him to warn that the lights would go out soon. The two little boys had run ahead to the gate. She watched as the dad caught up with them, taking each by the hand. She waved at Albert Markham, who allowed the trio to go through before he waved back at her.
The people who had been milling around outside all seemed to have disappeared into the stadium for the halftime show. Of course, the band was part of the spectacle, and many parents came as much for this as for the game itself.
Lindsey blew out a breath, and then glanced down at her watch. Almost eight-thirty. Another thirty minutes and she could legitimately close up shop and head home. She couldn’t remember a night when she’d looked forward to that more.
As the band played on in the background, she thought about having to unlock the door to her house, after being away for several hours, and walking inside. She hadn’t been comfortable there since the incident Tuesday night, no matter how many times she told herself she was being ridiculous.
She could always spend the night at her parents, who would welcome her with open arms. And of all the people on earth, she could be surest of their response to her worries about how she’d handled Andrea’s request yesterday afternoon.
She suddenly realized that the music had been replaced by the PA system. Although she strained to hear, she was unable to distinguish Dave’s words, distorted by the amplification and by the bulk of the stadium between.
She could visualize what was going on, though. In response to the invitation to join the band and the cheerleaders on the field, students would be pouring out of the stands, candles in hand. And as soon as they were all lit, Dave would announce the moment of silence.
The stadium grew quiet as the crowd waited. She felt isolated and alone here, second-guessing her decision to stay in the booth. Maybe she, too, needed the kind of closure publicly saying goodbye to Andrea would provide.
I’m so sorry. Tears blurred the familiar scene through the ticket window. I didn’t know. I didn’t understand. If only you’d told me…
The lights blinked out, eliciting a drawn out ahhh from the crowd before silence again fell. As it did, Lindsey realized that not only had the switch for the field lights been thrown, someone had cut off the lights outside the stadium as well.
Across the parking lot, the glow from a streetlamp glinted off the tops of the rows of cars. Here, in the shadow cast by the overhanging bleachers, it was as dark as pitch. Then, in that overwhelming darkness, she became aware of the smell of smoke.
She turned from the open window, looking toward the door at the back of the booth. Although she couldn’t see the smoke she smelled, there was a flicker of red visible along the crack at the bottom of the frame. Fire?
She tried to picture the area behind the booth. There was nothing back there but the steel Dumpster where the cleanup crew put the trash left in the bleachers after the games. No grass or weeds grew in the mixture of sand and dirt around the small wooden building.
Wooden, she realized with a sense of horror.
And by now there was no doubt it was on fire. She could not only hear the crackle of the flames, but the smoke she’d smelled was seeping inside the booth.
She glanced back toward the window. Although the opening was large enough for her to crawl through, at some time in the past steel bars had been installed three quarters of the way down it. The space left under them was sufficient for money and tickets to be passed back and forth, but it was not nearly large enough to offer a means of escape.
Which meant the only way out was the back door. The one that seemed to be on fire.
A moment of silence. That’s what Dave had said. Which meant that in sixty seconds, the lights would come up and someone would notice what was happening.
There was no need to panic. There were thousands of people w
ithin shouting distance. Somebody would look around. Or somebody would smell the smoke and come out to investigate. Somebody—
With one last glance through the ticket window, she ran to the door. She put her hands around the knob, its metal already heated from the fire outside. If she opened it, the flames would come in. And there were a lot of combustible items stored inside the building.
It would be better just to wait. To go back to the window and breathe the air that was still pouring in. And start screaming for someone to extinguish the fire and let her out.
Despite the logic of all that, she couldn’t force her fingers to release the knob. She wanted out before the fire got any bigger. If it was just at the bottom of the door, she could jump it. Even if she got burned a little it was better than taking the chance that someone might discover what was going on before it was too late.
She turned the knob and pulled. The door moved slightly inward and then caught. It refused to open wider even under her repeated and increasingly frantic efforts, until finally she came to the only possible conclusion as to why.
Someone had slipped the padlock she’d unlocked earlier back through the hasp. Someone—clearly the same someone who had started the fire—had locked her inside the burning booth.
Twelve
Jace watched the sea of candles waving slowly back and forth in time to the sole trumpeter’s mournful rendition of “Amazing Grace.” Someone in the stands had begun singing the words to the hymn, and the sound spread around the stadium as more and more of the crowd joined in.
Although the principal had announced there would be a moment of silence, either the band director or the kid with the trumpet had taken it upon himself to extend the tribute. And in spite of his self-avowed cynicism, Jace had to admit the whole thing was moving. And far too late to matter to Andrea Moore.
Did you tell her you cared while she was alive? Or did you make fun of her because she didn’t wear the right kind of clothes or was ten pounds over the latest anorexic standards of Hollywood? Or maybe you didn’t do any of those things. Maybe you just ignored her as unworthy of your attention.