All the Best People

by Sonja Yoerg

  Janine was careful not to launch too many missiles at once and relied on the nature of people with empty lives to exaggerate any worthy speck of dirt. Sure enough, less than a week into Janine’s campaign, Ruth Singletary buttonholed her in the office after school had let out for the day.

  “I suppose you’ve heard that April Honeycutt left her students unsupervised for a full fifteen minutes today.”

  “No, I hadn’t.”

  “Chatting in the hall, while her poor students did lord knows what.” She tilted her head toward the principal’s office. “I’m considering mentioning it to Ike.”

  Janine feigned disinterest. “Who was she talking to?”

  “Greg Bayliss, of course.” Ruth’s eyebrows darted up.

  Anger exploded inside Janine. She spun her chair around so Ruth couldn’t see her face. Her mind pushed an idea past the bloodred curtain of her rage. Janine glanced at the clock. “Oh! I’m late for an appointment. See you later, Ruth.” She grabbed her handbag and sweater and slipped away.

  As she rushed down the corridor, the clicking of her heels reverberating off the walls, she quelled her anger and frustration by telling herself it was just another rumor. April was too dedicated to those messed-up kids to leave them alone even for a minute. That was April’s problem. She was too selfless. Too young. Too adorable. Too perfect. Too blonde. She’d never had to cope with anything. Janine didn’t have to know her history; she could smell April’s happy childhood on her, that baby-shampoo scent that told her everything. April’s father adored her and called her “princess,” not just at home, but in front of everyone, without a hint of irony or shame. Her mother’s arms were always open, and April depended on and confided in her still. Her older brother stood up for her, and her little sister, her exact duplicate, admired her. She’d gone to Brownies and Girl Scouts and to summer camp, where she’d made friends for life on the very first day. April played tennis, well enough to win a mixed-doubles trophy with her father at the club. He kept the trophy on his office desk. She’d gotten drunk once in high school, and her boyfriend had stayed with her, sobered her up, brought her home. April had gone to a respectable college, but near to home because she would be missed, and, because she loved children and had a big heart, she’d studied childhood education. But not even that had been enough. She’d wanted to help the damaged children, the unfortunates, the ones whom God loved as much as He loved her, perhaps more.

  Janine strode down the hall and pushed open the front door. The air was bright and cold. Her mind was as sharp and clear as a shard of glass. How easy it was to be good. How simple it was to walk through life with sunshine on your shoulders and a breeze at your back. How perfect each day was, the mornings full of hope, the afternoons filled with purpose and the evenings a song of peace. How fucking wonderful it was to be April Honeycutt.

  Several girls crossed the path in front of her on their way to the sports field, arms linked, giggling. Had she ever been that carefree? She doubted it. Her childhood was a haze. She didn’t remember her father, her mother was locked in an asylum, and her husband was dead. What did she have? Carole. Walt, too, she supposed, and their kids, as part of the package. That was it. She deserved so much more. She had a right to what everyone else had. More, actually, because she had so much more to offer. She wasn’t whining or jealous. It was the simple truth.

  Janine rounded the corner of the building and crossed the lot toward her car, in its usual spot, as far as possible from the playground and errant balls. The lot contained more cars than usual—she had left a bit early because of Ruth—and she wove among the vehicles on her way to the LTD. Movement to her left snagged her attention. Two people at the end of the classroom building, the windowless wall facing the empty playground. April Honeycutt, up against the wall, and Greg Bayliss with his hands on her hips, his body pushed onto hers, nearly covering her. If it weren’t for April’s blonde hair, Janine might not have known who it was. But she did know.

  Rumors weren’t going to change a thing.

  A calm certainty spread through Janine as Greg lowered his head and kissed April Honeycutt long and hard. She didn’t know exactly what she would do, which hand she would play, but there was no doubt in her mind what the outcome would be. Her life was going to be absolutely fantastic. And Little Miss Honeybutt? Well, she’d had it too good for too long.

  Janine drove home and poured herself a glass of Chablis, not bothering to cork the bottle, knowing she’d finish it by dinnertime, if not sooner. She paced through the living room, drinking as she went, thinking how much work it was to have to shape your own destiny. She’d had so little help, other than Carole. As much as her sister had done for her in the past, she was useless to her now.

  Janine stopped in front a framed photograph of her parents propped on a bookshelf. Carole had taken it at the beach house in Chatham. The shadow cast by her mother’s hat hid everything except her thin-lipped smile, but her father’s boater was tipped back and he was laughing, presumably at Carole. Janine didn’t remember him at all and it dismayed her. If only he’d not gone off to war and left her with his bitch of a sister. He’d have made sure she was taken care of and ended up with the right man, a man of his own caliber.

  She drained her glass and returned to the kitchen for more. How unfair life was. How damn unfair.

  31

  Carole

  The wall calendar said today was October 27, a Thursday. She’d started making an X in the corner of each day to be certain. Remembering the date wasn’t crucial, but she pinned down everything she could think of right when she thought of it in case her mind went sideways and things stopped making sense, or voices in her head said things she didn’t want to hear but had no choice about. She kept a small notepad and a pen in the pocket of her dress and wrote down everything she needed to know and remember. At least she thought she did. Yesterday she had looked at what she’d written the day before and found page after page of senseless scribbling, random numbers and symbols repeated and crossed out and repeated again. She’d torn out the sheets and stuffed them in the bottom of the trash.

  Dr. Carvalho had given her pills for insomnia. She’d slept better at first but not anymore. Not any more out the door like before. Valium was for anxiety. Everyone knew that. She was anxious all right, but she hadn’t told him about the voices or the things people murmured whispered shouted or the accusations she made of her husband or the way the television had gone inside out and backward so you didn’t see it instead it saw you. She didn’t talk about any of that. She didn’t trust the doctor. He would send her away would take her from her family he had eyes that looked the wrong way like the television and he might have been the devil. She didn’t want his pills and she wouldn’t go back there not even for Walt.

  She marked the X in the corner of the square and kept track with her notes to pin things down nail them down to the ground. Sound. Nail them down to the ground without a sound.

  On Saturday, in two days, it was her mother’s birthday. Carole couldn’t go shouldn’t go. She saw herself walk up to the reception desk asking for her mother waiting to be taken inside going through those doors the double doors made of steel hearing things bad things frightening things and her mother as witness. Witness to the business. And never coming out again.

  She couldn’t go but Janine could. It was just after nine. Carole held the plan firm in her mind and went into the hallway, picked up the phone, called the school. The number came straight from her brain into her dialing finger. One ring another ring another.

  “Good morning, Adams Schools. Janine LaPorte speaking.”

  “Janine. It’s Carole.”

  “Oh, Carole. Is everything all right?”

  Carole never called the school except to excuse one of the children. “Is everything all right?” That was the wrong question an impossible question.

  “It’s Mama’s birthday on Saturday.”

 
“Already? I suppose that’s right.”

  “I’m hoping you would visit her.”

  “Well, I don’t know. I have a lot on my mind at the moment.”

  “You did say you would—”

  “I said I might.”

  “You said you would. And I can’t.”

  “Why can’t you?”

  “I just can’t. I’m not feeling well.”

  “But by Saturday you’ll be fine.”

  “Please, Janine. Please.”

  There was a long pause. Perhaps they’d gotten cut off. Sliced through. Severed. Amputated. Bleeding out. Blood. Bad bad blood. Bad mad blood. Carole grabbed the doorframe time frame no pain no gain. Moored herself.

  Janine said, “I’ve got to make the morning announcement now.”

  Carole hung on to the receiver as if she were underwater and it was a regulator. “Please. This once.”

  Janine sighed hugely. “If she’s acting crazy, I’m not staying.”

  Carole saw light shimmering on the surface. In a moment she’d be through she could breathe she could lie down she could give in. “Come by early. I’ve got something for her.”

  “I don’t know why you bother, but all right. I have to go, Carole.”

  “Thank you, Janine.”

  “Go see a doctor maybe.”

  “Of course. Good-bye.”

  “Bye.”

  Carole hung up the phone and drowned.

  • • •

  The next day, Walt made them each a salami sandwich for lunch. He remembered not to put mustard on hers and he cut them on the diagonal—“restaurant style,” he said with a grin. She wasn’t hungry but ate to please him. She could trust him. None of the nasty voices sounded anything like him. He was a good person the best person. She looked at his strong hands, black in the creases, the gold band. A tide of bittersweet love washed over her. She would be swept away, swept into him. It wouldn’t be a bad thing. If she could melt into her husband and stay safe there. Away there. Away inside him where her mind did not matter.

  “Carole?”

  She could not tell him. What she felt made no sense, not even to her. She pretended to find something interesting outside and went to the window carrying her sandwich. “Yes?”

  “I said I had to go back to work.”

  “All right.” She went to the table, put the plates in the sink.

  Walt came up beside her. “You seem a little . . . Did you take your pill?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, you know where to find me.” He smiled, his voice light, but his eyes were looking behind hers, probing.

  She ran the water and he slipped away.

  Carole washed the dishes, wiped the counter and retrieved the mop and bucket from the hall closet. She filled the bucket with hot soapy water, placed it on the floor, wet the mop, wrung it out and pushed it back and forth across the kitchen floor. Again and again, wet wring mop, wet wring mop, wet wring mop, for too long, she suspected, but the rhythm was like humming and rocking; the voices became part of her movement. Vacuuming was the same except not in the living room because of the television. The house was very clean.

  The doorbell chimed. She paused, questioning if that’s what the sound was. She wasn’t certain—how could she be?—but she would check. She leaned the mop against the wall by the refrigerator, went down the hall to the front door and stood before it. She didn’t want to see anyone. Already the voices were louder, more insistent.

  Carole closed her eyes, put her hands to her ears. “Stop.”

  She turned down the hallway, into the kitchen, and began mopping. Back and forth and back and forth and back and—

  The doorbell chimed.

  She dropped the mop, stepped over the handle and strode to the front door and pulled it open.

  A man carrying a toolbox. Walt’s friend.

  “Hello, Carole. Sorry I’m a bit late.”

  Pete. That was it. “Hello, Pete.” But why was he here?

  “How you been keeping?”

  “Just fine, thanks.” She stepped aside, inviting him in, before she knew she had.

  He started down the hallway. “Wish I could’ve come before now, but I’ve been working every hour God sends.” He rounded the corner and went into the living room. Carole followed but no farther than the doorway.

  Pete stopped in front of the television and set down his toolbox. “On the phone I think you said there’s a problem with the signal. That right?”

  She’d called him. To fix it. When had that been? “The signal. That’s right.”

  “Okay, then, let’s have a look.” He switched on the set and stepped back.

  It hummed to life. A conversation. A man and a woman.

  Pete studied the picture a long moment, frowning a little. He changed the channel. Once, twice. He gestured to her. “Looks fine to me.”

  She shook her head.

  “Have a look,” Pete said.

  He could fix it. She knew he could. He was a good man. He’d always been kind and helpful. He wasn’t like the others, not Pete. He was like Walt, that’s why she’d called him. He knew televisions. He could make it stop. He could stop them. From seeing. She needed to vacuum the room. Even from here she could see the dirt. Pete could fix it. She would clean it. Fix it. Mix it.

  “Carole? You don’t look so good. You want me to get Walt?”

  If she told him he could fix it. He knew the problem it had to be common. He’d seen it before coming in the door. It was his job. And he was a good man. Not like the ones who could see. He was here to help, she could see clearly now.

  “I didn’t explain it right,” Carole said. “It’s when it’s off.”

  “When it’s off?”

  “Except it isn’t off. There’s no picture but if you’re in front of it, they can see.”

  Pete tilted his head. He was listening. He was a good man.

  She said, “You really shouldn’t stand in front of it.”

  He frowned at the television, rubbing his chin, then looked at her. “Have you mentioned this to Walt, by any chance?”

  “Oh no. Walt doesn’t understand televisions. That’s why I called you.”

  Carole heard the door to the garage open. Walt. Her mind had been so clear and calm while she explained things to Pete. He understood her perfectly. Now her mind roiled with mud-spattered thoughts she could not tell apart, much less grab hold of. She gripped the doorjamb.

  Walt appeared and shook hands with Pete. “Saw your truck. How’re you doing?”

  “Busy. You?”

  “Can’t complain. Carole, is there a problem with the set?”

  “Well. I don’t know.” She didn’t know. There was a problem and Pete would fix it but now Walt was there and she wasn’t sure of anything. She’d been so calm and the voices only a crowd whispering low and Walt came and everything was a jumble. Bumble. Humble pie fish to fry.

  Pete cleared his throat. “Carole was explaining it to me. A special problem with the signal.”

  Walt said, “What sort of a special problem?”

  “I’ve seen it once before. You remember Annabelle Carr, Rusty Carr’s mother?”

  “Sure I do.”

  “Before she went to the nursing home in Winchester, her set was the same.”

  Walt went still, his eyes on the television.

  Carole said, “You see it now, don’t you, Walt?”

  Pete reached for the on-off knob. “Here’s the fix when you’re getting transmission in the wrong direction.” He glanced at Carole, then at Walt, to make sure they were watching. “Dead simple. You just switch it on and off three times real quick.” He demonstrated. On off on off on off. “Works like a charm.”

  • • •

  Pete left and Walt wouldn’t leave her alone. He w
anted her to tell him things she didn’t want to tell. Pete was fixing the television and Walt had interfered and she’d gotten so confused and now she wasn’t sure the set was fixed. She wasn’t sure Walt was a good man. He kept pressing on her, his voice joining the others in her mind. She walked away from him, out of the kitchen, into the hall, but she couldn’t go in the living room because she wasn’t sure the set was fixed so she went upstairs and Walt followed her and she went in the bedroom and he followed her there saying tell me tell me. To the doctor next week new pills but she didn’t trust the doctor or the pills and maybe not even Walt. She couldn’t think straight with him there. Carole lay down pulled a pillow over her head made herself small. Walt offered her a pill but it was poison.

  Maybe she slept. Maybe time just passed. The room was dark, the window lighter, silvery.

  She sat up, pushed the hair from her face. The voices were quieter now. Murmuring rising and falling like the breath of a giant animal. She glanced at the clock: 5:16. She should do something, make dinner. Where had the children been all day? She could not remember, if she ever knew, and it frightened her.

  Voices. Singing? The boys in their room. The television.

  Carole got up and went into the hall. The sound wasn’t coming from downstairs. She walked a few steps to the boys’ room. No light under the door. She followed the sound to the attic door. Was Alison singing? It was her voice, Carole was sure now, as sure as she could be lately about voices.

  The door was ajar. Carole opened it and started up. Alison’s voice became clearer, her chanting merged with the voices in Carole’s mind, amplifying them, sharpening them.

  “Ancient moon, lend your power. Bring us peace this very hour. I call upon your strength and might . . .”