THE WORD OF A CHILD

by Janice Kay Johnson

  The thirteen-year-old nodded again, meekly.

  "In the meantime, you won't be going to Computers second period. We'll worry next year about you completing the requirement. For now, I'm going to have you work here in the office second period. Is that okay?"

  A damp, muffled, "Yes, Mrs. Patterson."

  Sounding more kindly, the principal said, "You may go use the rest room and wash your face, Tracy, then go back to class as soon as you feel presentable."

  Tracy fled.

  Once the door shut behind her, Noreen shoved a hand into her curly hair. "That poor kid."

  "I don't envy you, having to decide how to deal with her," Mariah said frankly.

  "I don't see how it can be more than a slap on the wrist, given that she was raped. And that, if she's to be believed, Gerald treated her with a real lack of sensitivity."

  Mariah nodded. Tentatively she said, "I'm afraid he's not alone. I've overheard kids talk about other teachers teasing in a way they resent."

  The principal gave a frustrated sigh. "It's an unsolvable issue. We don't want to get to a point where teachers have to be so careful all the time, they can't relate naturally to kids. Here we are saying, Don't touch. Don't hug. Hide your anger. Phrase everything as an 'I' statement. 'I felt hurt when you deliberately smashed my favorite mug.' Oh, and don't laugh at them. Don't tease." She gave another puff of air that stirred her now wild hair. "We'll end up with automatons at the head of the classroom, droning on and not interacting on a personal level with the kids at all."

  Knowing she was just venting, Mariah only waited.

  Noreen made a face. "Thanks for being here, Mariah. I'm going to write a 'Dear Parent' letter explaining, in a terribly veiled way, why their kids' computer teacher was suspended for a few weeks and is now back. I don't want to leave any doubt that he's innocent, but I also don't want Tracy's identity or other problems compromised. Can I run it by you?"

  Mariah smiled wryly. "Sure." Hey, she was an expert, wasn't she?

  Noreen had picked up a pencil and was fiddling with it. "If Tracy talks to anybody, it may well be you."

  "I hope she chooses to. My guess is, the last time she talked to me had such horrible consequences, she won't try again."

  Her suspicion was reinforced by the way Tracy acted in class later, not volunteering and keeping her gaze downcast. Afterward, Mariah stopped her on the way out. Tracy waited, her stare fixed on her sneakers and her face sullen.

  Mariah made sure the last student was out in the hall before she said quietly, "I just wanted to say that I know how tough all this is, but you'll get through it." She straightened from where she'd been half sitting on the desk and violated her own rule by giving Tracy a quick hug. "You're a good kid. You'll make the right choices."

  Tracy's face crumpled, her eyes filled with tears, and she backed away. "I… Thank you," she mumbled, and fled.

  Mariah spent the rest of the day trying to put Tracy Mitchell's problems out of her mind. It helped to be anticipating having Connor over for dinner tonight. She made mental additions to her grocery list—she'd stop at the store before she picked up Zofie. It was easier to do a big shop then than on the weekend, when she had to drag the six-year-old along. This way she could avoid the "Mom, why can't I have this kind of cereal?" battles.

  Stir-fry? she debated, the one with cashews that Zofie loved? She gazed at the bent heads of her last period class, who were taking a quiz on To Kill a Mockingbird. Somehow a quick stir-fry didn't seem very substantial for a big man; Simon had liked his meat and potatoes. Maybe she should stick with something as simple as spaghetti? Only, what if she found out Connor was a vegetarian, or hated tomatoes, or…

  "Ms. Stavig." One of her students waved his hand in the air. "Can I go to the bathroom?"

  She glanced at the clock. "You only have five more minutes to work on the quiz. Can't you wait?"

  He looked disconsolately down at his paper. "I guess."

  Watching out of the corner of her eye, she noticed that he didn't write another word. He hadn't seemed enthusiastic lately. She struggled to remember his academic record coming into her class. Was he having problems? She'd have to check her grade book…

  The bell rang overhead. A flurry of quizzes rained onto her desk, some floating over the edge to the floor, as the students stampeded out.

  They couldn't be any gladder to be gone than she was to have them depart. Briefly ashamed of her ignoble relief, Mariah wrinkled her nose and decided to forgive herself. She loved to teach, but today had been stressful. Scooping up papers from the floor, she thought, Thank goodness it was over. "Mariah?"

  She started and banged her elbow on the desk. "Gerald!"

  The lanky, raw-boned man took a tentative step into the classroom. "Got a minute?"

  What could she do but smile and say, "Of course?"

  He closed her classroom door. "I just wanted to apologize for lashing out at you that day." He sounded awkward. "You were right—you had to report what Tracy told you."

  "I could have warned you," she said, standing and putting the quizzes in her hand onto the pile of others, more to give herself something to do than because it mattered right that minute. "I just didn't know how."

  "It wouldn't have made any difference." He grimaced. "It was just that … I felt blindsided."

  She nodded. "I really didn't blame you for being angry."

  He hesitated. "I'm back to work tomorrow."

  "I'm glad." Mariah meant it. "I know Tracy has retracted her story."

  He shook his head, his face haggard. "I still can't believe it happened. I can't believe how easily it happened, and how little I could do to prove my innocence."

  "I've read that some people think kids never make false accusations, and that others think they do all the time."

  "Thank God it's over!"

  Mariah bit her lip. "You know," she said quietly, "there'll still be rumors. You need to be prepared. Some people are going to think Tracy was telling the truth then, and has somehow been railroaded into lying now. Or they'll figure authorities couldn't prove her story, but there must have been some basis to it."

  He stared at her. "You sound like you know. Has something like this happened to you?"

  "To my ex-husband," she admitted. "He ended up changing jobs and then, after our divorce, moving. He hated the whispers."

  Gerald said nothing for a long moment. Then he muttered a profanity and sank into a student chair, bowing his head and tugging at his short hair. "I wanted to think it was over," he said in agony.

  Mariah felt helpless, useless, sitting behind her desk with her hands clasped on the blotter. Should she be hugging him? But they had never been that close.

  She had to say something, at the very least. "Maybe I'm being pessimistic. Noreen is writing a letter of explanation. There wasn't anyone who could do that for Simon." Or who would, she didn't add. Even his wife couldn't quiet her doubts.

  His head lifted and from behind his glasses his wild eyes sought hers. "You believe I never touched her, don't you?"

  "Yes." She was glad to be able to answer honestly. "I never believed it. I urged Detective McLean to look into other possibilities."

  "Thank you," Gerald said hoarsely.

  She moistened her lips. "I hope you can forgive Tracy."

  Pain and anger and shame flashed on his face, flushing it with red. "Apparently I ticked her off."

  He gave an angry laugh. "What a way to pay me back."

  "She's a troubled girl."

  "Oh, yeah. She's that. I can even see why. Have you met the mother?"

  The mother. Mariah had been guilty herself of putting it that way, as if Sandy Mitchell were not quite the right kind of mother, the one you'd say warmly was "Tracy's mother."

  "Yes," she said slowly. "I think she dresses the way she does because she works in a bar. She seems genuinely concerned about Tracy."

  Squeezed into the student-size desk, his knees poking up, his elbows akimbo, Gerald said, "And irritate
d with her for being an inconvenience."

  "Wouldn't you be irritated if you were called to conferences every few weeks?" Mariah said, in all fairness.

  He shrugged.

  He hadn't said whether he'd forgive his accuser.

  "Tracy looks more brazen than she is," Mariah tried to explain, knowing it might not be what he wanted to hear right now, but hoping he would understand. "Sometimes she wears her mother's clothes. I think she knows, though, that her mother looks different than the other kids'. She wants to be proud of her and even to be like her, but then she doesn't, too. It's a hard spot to be in at her age, when a girl is trying to find her identity."

  "That excuses her trying to ruin me?" he said incredulously.

  "No. No, of course not." Would she feel the same, in his situation? Think how she'd hated Connor and the now faceless woman who had come at his side to accuse Simon! She had been too selfish then, too absorbed in her own family's crisis, to feel the compassion or pity she should have for Lily, the girl who had set it in motion. She had tried very hard not even to think about her or what she had suffered or why she had chosen to name Simon. Would she have wanted explanations, justification?

  But, remembering, Tracy's small, tear-clogged voice that morning, Mariah had to try.

  "I just want you to remember that she's a kid. She had no idea what she was setting in motion. She was scared, and hurting…"

  "You know, I'm just damn glad I don't have to face her." Gerald Tanner fought free of the desk, shoving it clattering to one side. His eyes were angry. "Give me time, and maybe I'll cool off. Right now, frankly, I'd like to see her expelled."

  "I understand…"

  "Do you?" He fairly bristled, pain radiating from his pores like the sweat that beaded his forehead. He blinked, shook his head like a baffled bull, and said in a choked voice, "Maybe you do. Or you're trying. Remember—it can happen to any of us. Just like that." He snapped his fingers.

  Goose bumps stirred on her skin; he was right, as she'd known the day Tracy first came to her. If Tracy had denied talking to her, or claimed they'd talked about something else entirely, or that she'd touched inappropriately, she would have had no defense.

  But there was something else they had to remember, too. "Rape happens just like that, too," she said.

  He didn't hear her, didn't care. He was looking inward. "Why me?" he asked. "I can't be the first teacher who made a student mad."

  "Will you keep teaching here at the middle school after this year?"

  "I guess," he said bitterly, "that depends on how loud the whispers are."

  She nodded. Knowing it was inadequate, still she repeated, "I'm sorry."

  "I am, too," he said, and opened the classroom door. "See you," he threw over his shoulder, and left.

  Mariah stared after him, all her vulnerabilities stirred. Why did this happen? she had asked, and never gotten an answer.

  She never would, and that scared her.

  Why was she dating the one man who reminded her most of the frailty of her family and her inadequate ability to foresee with confidence the path of her life?

  But even shaken as she was, Mariah knew she wouldn't call Connor to make an excuse.

  * * *

  Chapter 12

  « ^ »

  "Remember the police lady who came to talk to our class?" Zofie told Connor. "She showed us all the stuff she had hanging from her belt." She leaped up, puffed out her belly and put her hands at her waist, looking stern, then plopped back onto the couch. "Do you have a belt like that?"

  "Yeah, but I never wear it," Connor said. "I used to. I drove one of those marked cars you see with the lights on top and I gave tickets for speeding and arrested bad guys for stealing and I even talked to classes like yours. But now I drive a car you can't tell is a police car, and I don't wear a uniform anymore except for dress-up."

  "Oh." Her brow furrowed. "How come?"

  He glanced for guidance at Mariah, who had stuck her head out of the kitchen and was eavesdropping. She gave an almost imperceptible shrug indicating—he hoped—a "why not."

  Connor answered, "I'm what's called plainclothes. Some people aren't very comfortable talking to a uniformed officer, and they're more comfortable with me in my sweatshirt and jeans. Also, they can't look out their window and think, Oh, no, a policeman is coming! I won't answer the door."

  "That's sneaky," she marveled.

  He grinned. "Yeah. It is."

  Zofie was as easy to like as he'd expected. The kid was a wonder, not shy at all with adults, her gaze sometimes disconcertingly direct, her choked giggle infectious. He could tell she was smart from the kind of questions she asked, and from what Mariah said she was an athlete, too.

  He admired Mariah even more as he got to know Zofie. Kids were supposed to struggle after divorce in a single parent household. There had to be hard feelings between Simon and Mariah; she'd hinted as much. Yet none of that had tarnished this pretty, energetic girl's bright smile or made her inquiring mind hesitate.

  When Mariah called them to dinner, he stood and stretched, thinking how much he liked her apartment, too. Hers was rented, just like his, with the same bland carpet, countertops and kitchen and bathroom vinyl. White walls—her rental agreement probably said she couldn't paint or paper them, just as his did. God forbid a tenant put any permanent stamp on one of these apartments.

  But while his still, after four years, looked as if he'd just moved in, hers looked like a home. Her books didn't sit unpacked in boxes, they crammed bookcases. Her couch overflowed with batik pillows in South Sea Island hues of blue and green and teal, colors she'd picked up in a hand-loomed wall hanging and a colored pencil drawing of a child playing in a dreamlike jungle setting. The refrigerator was covered with Zofie-artwork, her kid-size easel was squeezed into the corner of the dining nook, and big baskets of Lego and Barbie dolls fit comfortably under a coffee table that had once been a crate, he guessed.

  His unrequited desire for a home was intensified by settling even for an evening into hers.

  "You've given this place character," he said, nodding at the plants on a rack in front of the window, the pretty place mats and woven runner on the table, the colorful, casual bouquet in a celadon-green pitcher that sat on the bar dividing kitchen from eating area.

  Zofie had a damn cute smile. Her mother's was beautiful.

  "Thank you. Why don't you sit over here?" She set a basket of warm rolls on the table. "After Simon and I divided what we had… Well, I had to start over. Zofie and I like to shop, don't we, punkin?"

  "Mommy likes 'tique stores. With old stuff," her daughter agreed. Her hand snaked toward the basket and snagged a roll.

  Reappearing from the kitchen, Mariah placed a huge, stoneware bowl filled with a great-looking stir-fry on the round table and sat down, her movements contained and graceful. "Connor, help yourself."

  "This looks wonderful," he said. "I eat out too often."

  "You're not a cook?"

  As he spooned cashews and chicken and a medley of vegetables onto his plate, he said, "Actually I kind of like to cook. I just don't do it often. Sometimes for my family. When you live alone, it's easier to nuke a frozen dinner or grab a burger on the way home."

  "What's nuke?" Zofie asked, predictably.

  "Microwave." Mariah's gaze was as direct and friendly as her first-grader's. "Where do you live?"

  He told her about his apartment in a complex with a garden courtyard and wrought-iron balconies and a peekaboo view of the strait. "I'd shared before with other cops—with my brother Hugh for a year, until we decided we had to go our own ways before we killed each other." He bent his head and lowered his voice conspiratorially for Zofie's benefit. "Sometimes it's great having a brother or sister, but you don't want to share a room."

  She nodded solemnly, her eyes wide.

  "Anyway, I decided it was time I had my own place. I like the privacy but not the loneliness. I bought the basics of furniture, but I've never completely unpacked. I d
on't spend a lot of time there." Despite his matter-of-fact tone, he knew how sad that sounded.

  "You need an interior designer," Mariah said briskly. "The right chair, the right lamp, a rug underfoot, colors that soothe…"

  "Maybe you and Zofie could help me."

  "We could shop for Decktiv McLean," Zofie said around a mouthful of biscuit.

  Amused at the way she mangled "detective," he suggested, "Why don't you just call me Connor. If that's okay with your mom."

  She smiled, bringing that quiet radiance to her face. "Why not?"

  "I can call you Connor?" her daughter asked happily. "Like we're friends an' everything?"

  He had the strangely pleasant sensation of his chest being squeezed. This kid could get to him. "I call you Zofie, don't I?"

  "I call my friend Laura's mommy Shari," she told him. "But I don't know her daddy that good. All the grown-up men that I know are Mr. something. You're the only decktiv."

  "Yeah, there aren't so many of us." He met Mariah's merry eyes and felt his heart lurch. Oh, he was falling in love, all right.

  Sure you are. The sardonic comment seemed to be in Hugh's voice. You're in love with mother, daughter, apartment and the simple, delicious dinner in front of you. Just think. A ready-made family and home. Exactly what you've been craving. Hey, bro. Snap it up.

  Ready-made, since he'd singlehandedly gotten rid of Mariah's hubby and Zofie's daddy.

  He swore silently. Way to give himself credit. He was the cop who'd come to her house. That was all. He hadn't named Simon Stavig himself, and he'd investigated fairly.

  The fact that he'd been stirred by Mariah's glorious hazel eyes from the first moment she opened the door and looked at him with friendly, puzzled inquiry had never influenced him.

  He wanted to believe that.

  "Would you like more?" Mariah asked, jolting him from his submersion in dark self-doubts. "There's plenty."

  "Thanks. Sure."

  Zofie, he noted, had neatly separated the stir-fry into piles of carrot, onion, green bean, celery and chicken. The cashews on her plate were gone. She was presently working on the chicken. The onion and celery had been squished by her fork into unappealing blobs that he expected would not be eaten. Mariah stole an occasional glance at her daughter's plate, but said nothing.