Curse of the PTA

by Laura Alden

  “That it’s both one and two.”

  She was right, of course, and we both knew it. “Option four,” I said. “We could skip the interviewing thing and hire Marcia back.”

  I said it matter-of-factly, as closely as I could to sounding serious. Lois stared at me. “You’re joking, right? Tell me you’re joking. You must be . . . right?”

  “If I called, I bet she’d come back in a heartbeat.”

  Lois fixed me with a hard glare. “Option three it is.” She spun around and marched off, muttering, “Marcia. Ha. Marcia Trommler wasn’t worth the toner her paycheck was printed with, let alone the paper. Marcia. As if.”

  Smiling, I retreated to my office to get ready for the first job applicant.

  • • •

  Twenty minutes later, the office felt even smaller and more cramped than it was. Not only were three people occupying it—two more than the fire marshal would have liked to see—but the comfort level was down to an all-time low.

  “So, April.” I smiled at the girl. Well, young woman, technically, since she was a recent high school graduate and a part-time student at a nearby community college, but she didn’t look much older than Jenna. Her straight dark blond hair parted in the middle, she wore black pants that bore a striking resemblance to the ones I’d tried on the other night and a knit shirt she kept pulling down. That, plus her anxious expression all contributed to an overall impression of youth, innocence, and a complete inability to work in a children’s bookstore. “What books did you like to read when you were in school?”

  The three of us had been sitting here for a fifteen-minute eternity. It had taken me less than sixty seconds to realize that April wasn’t suited for the job, but it would have been cruel to end an interview that quickly. Instead, I’d plowed ahead with my questions, and for the last five minutes Yvonne had been casting me panicked looks that could only mean “You’re not seriously thinking of hiring this kid, are you?”

  I tried to send her comforting glances, but she still looked nervous. Not nearly as nervous as April, though. The poor girl was so soft-spoken that every time she talked, I had to ask her to repeat herself. And even then, I caught her words only half the time. Sadly, I’d found my mind wandering even as the girl was talking about the books she’d loved as a child.

  While April whispered about staying up until midnight to buy Harry Potter books, I worried about my son. Richard hadn’t been able to get Oliver to talk at all, and Pete had been called out of state on a big cleaning job he couldn’t afford to turn down. “I’m really sorry, Beth,” he’d said, talking on his cell phone while he was driving west. “I can call him if you want, but I’m guessing that won’t work as well.”

  I’d reassured Pete that it could wait, but last night Oliver had woken up, shrieking with nightmares that he wouldn’t talk about.

  What on earth was I going to do? My hugs and kisses might help temporarily, but what about tonight? And the next night?

  “After I was done with Harry Potter,” April said, so softly that Yvonne and I were on the edges of our seats, straining to hear, “then I started reading the Twilight books. You know, Stephenie Meyer?” She looked at us doubtfully, didn’t look reassured when Yvonne and I said that we did, in fact, know about Stephenie Meyer, but went on with her recitation of the books that had changed her life. “It was, like, beautiful, you know?”

  Meanwhile, I wondered if Marina’s list of suspects had any value whatsoever. Did clothes really reveal so much about us? Did those FBI profilers—if they actually existed—take clothes into account when looking at . . . at whatever they looked?

  But under all those thoughts was the steady question that ran low and slow and treacherous: What had Lou been hiding? Because as surely as boys loved to play in the mud, Lou hadn’t wanted to talk to Gus. And whyfor would fair Lou not want to talk to law enforcement? One reason only. Because he was hiding something.

  All of which led to the obvious question of: What was he hiding?

  I tugged at my lower lip. I liked the man, I really did. But people had liked Ted Bundy, too, and if Flossie was in danger . . .

  “Beth?” Yvonne asked.

  I blinked. Both Yvonne and April were looking at me. Um. “Thanks so much for coming in, April,” I said, putting on a fast smile. “We have a number of applicants to interview. We’ll let you know.”

  We watched her make a fast exit. Yvonne hummed a few notes of indecision, then said, “She seems . . . like a very nice girl.”

  I sighed. “Yes. Unfortunately, nice isn’t enough.”

  “No.”

  We sat a moment longer, thinking our own thoughts, which for both of us probably ran along the lines of “It’s too bad that nice isn’t enough, and wouldn’t it be a wonderful world if it was?”

  Finally I pushed back from the desk. “I’ll call the library. They’re doing a complete inventory next month. She’ll be perfect for that.”

  Yvonne’s smile brightened the room. “You’re a nice lady, Beth,” she said. “I’m proud to work for you.”

  She left, but I continued to sit in my chair, staring at nothing.

  Nice. It wasn’t enough, and never would be. I needed far more than nice, and I was afraid I didn’t have any idea how to get it.

  Whatever “it” was.

  • • •

  That night was the first meeting of Summer’s committee. I’d called her on Saturday from the bookstore. “Summer, it’s getting to be the end of September. Your committee is supposed to have a proposal to the PTA board by the November meeting, remember?”

  “Oh, so you think we should meet soon?”

  I couldn’t decide whether to shriek at her like a harpy or fall to my knees sobbing. “Yes,” I said, with all the patience I could muster. “We should meet soon.”

  Another pause. “Are you mad at me?”

  Apparently, the patience at my disposal hadn’t been enough. Deep, calming breath. “No, I’m not angry. All I’m saying is we need to get going. Putting together a proposal like this could take a lot of meetings.”

  “Oh. You really think so?”

  More deep breaths.

  “Beth?” she asked. “Are you still there?”

  “Let’s just say this could take a lot of meetings. Maybe not, but we have to assume it will.”

  “Okay. I guess I see what you mean.”

  I rubbed my forehead. The Summer I knew was smart and sharp and quick to pick up on things. This indecisive, please-give-me-direction Summer I was hearing at the other end of the line was not the woman I’d come to consider a good friend. “Are you okay?” I asked. “You’re not getting sick, are you?”

  “What? Oh. No. I’m fine.”

  “You sure?”

  “Sure, I’m sure,” she said. “It’s just . . .”

  I waited for her to finish. Nothing. “Just what?”

  “Oh, nothing.”

  I’d started to ask her what was wrong, if she was troubled by the murder accusations hanging in the air, if Claudia was becoming too much for her, to say that if she needed someone to talk to or a shoulder to cry on, I could do the job. But just as I’d started to say so, she’d chirped up. “Okay, committee meeting. You and me and Marina and Carol Casassa. We can meet at my house first, then decide if we want to rotate. How does Monday night sound? Let’s say seven.”

  And now it was Monday night at seven and the four committee members were seated around a card table in Summer’s living room, four notepads in front of us, each with a pen in hand. Summer and her husband, Brett, were in the middle of expanding the kitchen and dining room of their 1960s ranch house, and the dusty evidence of renovation was everywhere. Summer had apologized for the mess, but why would I mind mess in someone else’s house? As long as I wasn’t responsible for the cleanup, I didn’t mind a bit.

  I glanced over at Marina’s pad. She’d written “Artsy Ideas” at the top of the page and was playing tic-tac-toe everywhere else.

  Carol was sitting across f
rom me, but even from that distance I could see that her pad was empty. To my left, Summer’s pad looked a lot like mine. “Ad Hoc Committee for Fine Arts Expenditures” at the top, then nothing.

  I glanced at the clock. Almost seven thirty. All the kids were downstairs in the Langs’ family room. Laughter and random thumps filtered their way up the stairs, but so far there’d been no screams and no crying. Long may the peace reign.

  “So,” I said. Three heads popped up. “We need some ideas. Some inexpensive things, some expensive things. Priorities. A short-term plan and a long-term plan.” As I talked, Summer was scribbling away. When I paused, she stopped, and I could see that she’d been writing what I’d said. “Summer,” I said, “we don’t need verbatim minutes of this meeting.”

  “We don’t?”

  “No. A summary will be fine.”

  “Oh.” She drew lines through her handwriting. “Sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “No need to apologize,” Carol said. “It’s the first committee you’ve chaired. There’s no way to know how it’s done until you’ve done it.”

  Summer looked at her notepad. “But the chair should be doing something, right?”

  “Leading discussion,” Marina said, letting her X’s beat her O’s. She drew another frame and put an O in the middle square.

  I looked at her. That had been a little harsh.

  Summer’s face crumpled, then smoothed out. “You’re right. I should be. So . . . does anyone have any ideas? About fine arts spending of the storybook money, I mean?”

  “Music teacher.” Marina added pointy ears, a nose, and whiskers to the O, making it a tiny cat face.

  “That’s right.” Summer nodded vigorously. “Music teacher,” she repeated, writing the words.

  “We’ll need to find out how much hiring one costs,” Carol said. “And what instruments and any other equipment she’d need.”

  I started making a list. “Wouldn’t hurt to work costs for a full-time teacher and a teacher at half-time. Maybe at a quarter-time, too.” Was there such a thing as quarter time?

  Marina drew another circle and turned that one into a puppy face. “Percussion is big with kids. We should make sure the music teacher can teach drums.”

  “Great idea. Boys especially do that drum thing,” Carol said. “I know mine was crazy for us to get him a drum set. Nick got him a weight set instead. I’m not sure he used it much, but at least it was quiet. Drums?” She closed her eyes and shuddered.

  Marina laid her palms flat on the table, then starting a rolling drum solo. “In a gadda da vida, baby,” she chanted.

  I raised my voice to be heard over her unauthorized cover of the Iron Butterfly song. “Any ideas other than a music teacher?”

  Marina’s drum solo decrescendoed to a dull patter. “In a gadda da vida, honey.”

  “Um . . .” Summer looked around her living room. “Um, I know I had a bunch of them. Ideas, I mean. And I thought I wrote them down, but I can’t find them anywhere.”

  Carol shrugged. “I can come up with estimates until the cows come home, but I’m not an idea person. You know that.”

  When Marina and I and the kids were walking over, I’d asked her for her ideas and she’d said I was the guts and she was the glue of the operation, which I’d interpreted to mean that I was supposed to be doing the brainstorming.

  “Summer?” I asked. “You can’t come up with any more ideas?”

  “Um, I think one was something about an August . . . no, that can’t be right. We don’t have PTA events that time of year.” Her voice was strained.

  I slid a look at her. Were those tears? “Let’s call it a night,” I said. “We’ve made a decent start.”

  Marina looked at her notepad. “We have?”

  “Summer, what do you think about meeting a week from tonight?” I asked.

  “Um, sure.” She rubbed her face. “I mean, yeah. Next Monday at seven. That sounds good.”

  I put on my best Erica voice. “And next week we’ll each bring a list of ideas, right, ladies?”

  The three of them blinked at me.

  “A long list,” Summer said.

  Carol nodded. “Sure. I’ll think of some things.”

  “Aye, aye, Cap’n!” Marina saluted.

  I crossed my eyes at her. “Then I say this meeting is done. I hope someone brought treats.”

  • • •

  We walked back to Marina’s through a soft dusk that filtered both light and sound to a golden hue. The stuff of memories, I thought. Marina was at my right, and Oliver was at my left, holding my hand. Jenna and Zach were up ahead of us, playing some sort of tag game with the maple trees that lined the street. The slanting light held dust motes that sparkled and danced. I watched as Oliver tried to catch one with his free hand.

  My son, my love. What is making your heart sore? Why won’t you talk about it to the one person who will love you unconditionally the rest of your life and beyond? When will I see that brilliant smile of yours again, the smile that lights up the world?

  I held his hand tight. He looked up at me, question marks in his eyes. I smiled at him. “How are you doing, Ollster?”

  He looked down. “Okay,” he said, then pulled his hand out of mine. “I’m going to play with those guys, okay?” Without waiting for an answer, he ran ahead.

  Marina watched him. “Still no change, is there?”

  No change, no hint of what had caused the change, no nothing. “Richard couldn’t get a word out of him last weekend.”

  She hummed a short, tuneless song. “Think it’s girl trouble? And don’t tell me he’s only nine years old. Zach had girls calling him in kindergarten.”

  “I asked him about that, but he said no.”

  “What does his teacher say?”

  I’d called Mrs. Sullivan this afternoon, but she hadn’t had any insights either. I told Marina as much. “Weird,” she murmured. “This is not like the kid at all.” We walked half a block in silence, watching our children circle around maple trees, their backs to the bark, then dash onward to the next tree and circle the tree trunks with their fronts to the bark.

  “About the meeting,” I said.

  “Yeah. Is Summer going to work out as chair? We didn’t get a whole lot done. One idea? We need a freaking truckload of ideas.” Marina spread her arms wide.

  “They’ll come,” I said. “Summer just needs to focus.”

  “Good luck with that. Everyone’s still saying that she’s the one who killed Dennis. Must be driving her nuts, being talked about like that.”

  I nodded. Being the object of gossip was an awful thing. I’d run into my share of it and knew well how the sideways glances, smirks, and choked-off conversations could sneak into your dreams and ruin your sleep.

  “Plus there’s the whole curse thing,” she went on. “I can’t believe anyone’s taking it seriously, but I keep running into people who ask what horrible thing is going to happen next. It’s just nuts. This is the twenty-first century, for crying out loud!”

  I nodded, agreeing with her wholeheartedly. “What’s with the drums?”

  Marina looked about, frowning. “I don’t hear any drums. Maybe you need your hearing checked. Matter of fact, when was the last time you saw a doctor? Since before the divorce, I bet. Richard may be as boring as a beach with no water, but at least he made sure you took care of your health.”

  I bypassed the impossibility of calling something a beach if it lacked water. “I’d like to talk about your insistence that the music teacher be able to teach drums. Is pushing for that the reason you volunteered for the committee?”

  “Moi?” She laid her hand flat on her chest. “Would I do something like that?”

  “Just tell me the truth.” I wasn’t in the mood for her game playing.

  “You are no fun.” She scuffed at the sidewalk. “Would you believe me if I said being on the committee was a guaranteed way to spend more time with you?”

  “No.”

  “Then
I guess you’ll have to live without knowing the answer. Say, I’m pretty sure I know who killed Dennis.”

  I gave her a stony stare.

  “C’mon, don’t be mad. Guess who I think it was?”

  “Claudia.”

  Her face fell. “How’d you know?”

  “Precedent. You always want it to be Claudia. Every time there’s a death in town, even if it’s a ninety-five-year-old man who died in his sleep, you want it to be Claudia’s fault. If some kids spray paint their names on the school wall, you want it to be because of Claudia. If a baby cries, you figure it’s because Claudia is in the neighborhood.”

  “Could be her perfume. Did you smell that stuff at the last meeting?” Marina held her nose. “Hope it was a gift,” she said nasally.

  “Claudia didn’t kill Dennis.”

  “And you know that how?”

  “She’s too self-centered.”

  Marina started to object, so I said, “Claudia thinks too much of herself to mess around with anything as icky as murder. She wouldn’t go to the trouble, that’s all. She’s passive-aggressive with a reflex to retreat to passive whenever there’s anything anywhere close to a confrontation.” Marina didn’t look convinced. “And what happened to your theory that the clothes tell the tale? Your names of people from the video, remember? On Friday you said to leave it to you.”

  “That’s right, dah-ling, Ah did.” Marina had sashayed straight into Southern-belle mode in a single step. “And Ah meant every last word of it.”

  I counted on my fingers. Four words weren’t very many words to mean.

  “Trust me,” she said, threading her arm through mine.

  And, strangely enough, I did.

  • • •

  The next day began as one of those mornings in which nothing whatsoever goes right and you get that tumbling, neck-tightening feeling that the day is going to get worse. Sure, you know that you’re creating a self-fulfilling prophecy, so for a time you do your best to fight the pull of negativity, but the evidence continues to pile up and by midmorning you’ve accepted your unfortunate fate.

  This particular Tuesday began with the classic homework argument. We were at the kitchen table eating a marginally nutritious breakfast of cold cereal and reconstituted orange juice. “Is your homework packed?” I asked, glancing at the bulging backpacks.