The Consultant

by Sean Oliver

  She couldn’t manage thinking about these issues for more than ten seconds before she felt the gates opening on her panic. She slammed her mind shut, and moved on to grading the next essay on her desk. That’s how it would go today.

  As she read, Trisha’s classroom door was pulled open, nearly causing her to scream. She flinched and gasped.

  “What’s with the door?” It was Deanna standing in the doorway with her bags, having just arrived.

  “Oh, just…I’m feeling a little sick. Coughing a lot. I didn’t want to disturb anyone.”

  “Don’t worry about them. Cough.” Deanna gestured to the neighboring classrooms. Trisha forced a smile and went back to the essay. She wasn’t reading, really. Deanna was still standing there and she knew something was up. Trisha could tell her. But, God, the explosion that would come. It would be like trying to bottle up Vesuvius once she got going. Knowing Deanna, she’d make Trisha call the cops and she’d probably head out and start looking for the guy herself.

  Looking for who? She didn’t really see him and couldn’t describe anything.

  But beyond all that, she knew Deanna would provide one thing she needed more than the capture of a predator—a hand to hold. Her blanket may have sufficed last night, but she was so very alone and terrified. She needed someone on her island.

  She opened her mouth and raised her head to speak but saw an empty doorway. The door was now propped open, and Deanna must’ve left after doing so. She never would have left without saying good-bye, but she probably did mutter it below the dialogue running in Trisha’s head. Just as well.

  Trisha turned back to the essay before her that she’d actually begun reading three times already. One sentence in, she realized she’d need a fourth start as she thought about the police again. Calling them would do nothing for her at this point, but what if this guy was going to do it to someone else that night? What if this girl didn’t bite him? What if she froze in the darkness and allowed fate to take course? What if she had no fight in her, if she were too old?

  Or too young?

  Trisha pushed away from her desk and walked to her purse across the room. She pulled out her cell phone and opened her Internet browser. She typed: Carson police phone number. A Google search page returned a photo of the bureau’s front entrance, with the address and phone details below it. The ten digits to an army of cops popped up on her screen.

  Call, the button read. One tap.

  Trisha stood in the center of her classroom holding the phone. She sat at the student desk beside her and put the phone down.

  She had just five minutes before the 8:30 a.m. bell would ring and kids would fill the classrooms and hallways. Trisha needed to hit the restroom and freshen up her face a little. She could only imagine what the honest little ones would say upon seeing a face that had been crying through the night and was wrinkled in a scowl all morning. A little rejuvenation was due.

  Trisha got up form her desk, grabbed her purse, and headed for the door and the teachers’ lounge. She was reaching down into the bag to fish out her makeup pouch, so she didn’t immediately see Principal George standing in her doorway.

  “Knock, knock,” he said.

  “Hi, Mr. Anastas.” She hoped he didn’t see her jolt when she looked up.

  “Did I scare you?”

  “No, sorry. Just thinking. Getting ready.” She stood in the center of the room, aimless. He nodded.

  “Sure,” he said, leaning his shoulder on the doorjamb, his right hand tucked in his pocket. “I just wanted to check in on you. Transitions can be rough.”

  “They can.”

  “I know teachers can be territorial. Might not trust you yet, and I just wanted to make sure nothing out of the ordinary was going on.”

  Tell him.

  She wanted to let loose and unload the whole episode. She lost her chance with Deanna before, but she knew she’d explode soon. But the kids were due to arrive in just a few minutes. She couldn’t go there. She swallowed hard and forced a calm on herself that her heart was fighting.

  “I’m getting through it,” she said. “I have Deanna.”

  “Good.” He came into the room and sat on the edge of a student desk, hand still in his pocket. He looked down and saw he’d nearly sat on Trisha’s cell phone. He slid it aside as he brought his leg up. “I started in this district when I was twenty-four, more than thirty years ago. I was at P.S. 32. Tres-deux is what all the gangbangers called it. You’re too young to remember, but back in the 80s there were gangs in these buildings. All wore the same denim jackets with logos on the back. The principal in my building tried to enforce a ban on the jackets, then he went outside to leave one day and his car was upside down—literally. They rolled it right onto its roof.”

  “My God,” Trisha said out of politeness, listening to a story in which she had no interest.

  “Rough place. Kids liked me, for some reason. But I would break up fistfights, confiscate drugs, just a lot of crap I didn’t want to do. I wanted to teach. But you couldn’t. Not in that environment.”

  “How long did you stay there?”

  “Almost ten years, Trisha. Ten wasted years. I was stressed all the time.” He grabbed at his midsection. “I was skinny when I started.” Trisha smiled and looked away with a quiet chuckle. “I’m serious, don’t be embarrassed. Ask Deanna to show you old pictures if she has any. Those ten years in that building made me lose half my hair and gain another person. The stress was incredible. But I stayed. I thought it was the same everywhere. But it wasn’t.”

  Above them, the 8:30 a.m. bell bleated its chime, and the first sounds of heavy, metal doors and stomping feet echoed into the hallway beyond the classroom door. A couple of small faces peered into Trisha’s room. She looked over and smiled at her students. George turned and looked at the doorway.

  “Come on in, guys,” he said, waving the children into the room. He leaned off the desk and stood as the class filtered into the room around him, dropping book bags on desks and greeting each other.

  “These guys are the same everywhere,” George said, looking at Trisha but opening his arms to indicate the entirety of the room. “And they are the reason we’re in it.” He kept looking at her. “But the buildings, the personnel, the area—those are not the same everywhere in Carson.”

  Her mind was still so heavy with everything going on lately. She couldn’t imagine adding more to the plate by transferring out to another new school. She didn’t see it as the alleviation of anything, rather the adding of more. She didn’t respond to him; she just nodded. He looked around at the children preparing for the day. He smiled at them and back up to her.

  “If there’s anything you need to talk about, you know where I am.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Anastas.” He winked at her and headed for the door, passing a little boy on his cell phone.

  “No phones in school, partner,” he said to the boy on his way out, and was gone.

  Trisha shook herself from the spot in the center of the room to which she’d nailed herself. There were already a couple of students waiting at her desk with questions, homework in hand.

  “Give me a moment, guys,” she said. She still had bags and her coat atop the desk, which she grabbed and brought to her closet. She was distracted. She’d be useless giving instruction that day, unless she could somehow immerse herself in the work.

  She wouldn’t leave this school. She could keep her head down and plow through. Trisha could hear laughter in the back of her head as she tried on the persona of the strong, unshakable woman of the new millennium.

  She was still shaking and she wanted very badly to cry again. But she didn’t. She gritted her teeth, swallowed back the girl she didn’t want to be and just portrayed the one she needed. She put everything in the closet and closed the door.

  “Miss McAllister,” a student called. Trisha walked to her.

  “Yes, Hannah?”

  “This yours?” Hannah held up a cell phone she’d found on her desk. Trisha
took it and saw that the Google screen with the Carson Police Department was still displayed.

  Call? it asked.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Hudson County Dispatch

  January 24, 2019

  Carson Teacher Reported Missing

  By Lloyd Kelly

  Carson police are investigating the disappearance of a city elementary school teacher. Trisha McAllister, 30, a teacher at P.S. 21, has not been seen or heard from since Friday, said Carson police Lt. Arvin Martinez. Her parents reported her missing yesterday.

  McAllister reported to school Friday, January the 19th and worked the entire day, but hadn’t made contact with anyone for several days afterward. On Tuesday McAllister’s family called Carson police and requested they force entry into her apartment.

  “Officers responded and gained entry,” Lt. Martinez stated. “They didn’t find anyone home, nor was anything out of place or visibly disturbed.” Police did find McAllister’s locked vehicle parked on the corner of Dewey and Grove Streets. Martinez said they aren’t sure how long the car was there.

  McAllister was well liked and career oriented, said her mother, Beth McAllister.

  “Trisha was a kind soul and someone that would go to the ends of the earth to help another person,” Mrs. McAllister began. “She was in the perfect profession and a gift to all of her school children. We all want to see her return safely.”

  Lt. Martinez is asking anyone with information to contact the Carson Police at their toll-free tip line.

  “We need the community to get together on this one and help out,” he said. “Particularly anyone that saw her or anyone else park that car on Grove Street.”

  Carson Public School Board Superintendent Martha Woods issued a statement stating “Our entire board prays beside the family and friends of Ms. McAllister for her safe and speedy return.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  GEORGE STOOD IN his office holding the business card in his left hand. His right hand had been in his pocket most of the morning, and certainly for the duration of Detective John O’Malley’s visit and brief discussion with him. Now George stood alone in his office, holding the detective’s card, looking down at the gold shield emblazoned in the upper left corner.

  The room swayed around him. He reached out and steadied himself against his desk, his eyes fixed on the graphic of the badge. This was real.

  He put the card down on his desk and slid into his chair. George hadn’t slept at all the night before after receiving the call from Superintendent Woods. She’d informed him the police had been in contact because one of George’s young teachers was the subject of a missing persons’ investigation. She reminded him to refer all questions to Ms. Baines at the board’s legal department.

  George heard—or at least comprehended—very little she said after hearing that Trisha was reported missing. Deanna began texting and then calling shortly after. He didn’t have answers for her. She was coming apart.

  George stayed behind closed doors since coming in that morning, and Deanna did everything but kick his door down to get in and see him. Mariana kept her at bay, promising she’d have him call her when he was available.

  Then the detective came with questions about stuff George didn’t know. Boyfriends, girlfriends, routes home, drug habits—George just had a shrug for each. There was a young lady upstairs who would know better, of course. But George couldn’t get his head to cooperate. He couldn’t focus, his mouth was too dry to speak at times.

  Did the detective see George’s hand? He could’ve been careless and taken it out of his pocket. He talked with his hands all day long. Surely he unwittingly flashed the bandaged finger.

  No, he didn’t think he did. He was so cautious in front of the cop, he probably didn’t even raise a finger, much less gesticulate. He was too scared even to send O’Malley upstairs to Deanna. But the detective said he’d be back to speak with teachers the following day. George could mention it then.

  Mariana stuck her head in the open door. He looked up.

  “Everything okay?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “McAllister?” she asked, wincing as she did. George nodded, looking down at his desk.

  “You hear anything?” he asked.

  “Nada.” She watched him lean back in his chair and fold his hands above his head. “Lotta calls?” he asked.

  She nodded and bugged her eyes out, a big Oh, yes.

  “Parents,” she said. “They saw the paper this morning and they want to know what the hell is going on.”

  “So do we. Tell them to call the board. How many times was Deanna down here?”

  “About five,” she said. “Should I page her?”

  He wanted to talk to her, but he didn’t want to see her. He knew he could hide his injured hand, but not his telltale face.

  “No,” he said to Mariana. “I’ll call her on the intercom.” Mariana turned and headed away. “Close my door,” he called to her. She did so and he picked up his desk phone and dialed Deanna’s room.

  “Dad,” she said into her classroom phone after one beep. “What’s going on? What did they say?” She sounded like she was on the verge of losing it, her voice pitchy and trembling.

  “Nothing, Dee. No one knows anything right now. They wanted basic information.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “Anything they asked, I told them. But I haven’t seen her since Friday.”

  “What do they know? Who do they think—”

  “Dee, Dee…stop. Get back to work. If you think of anything, let me know. I have the detective’s number.”

  “Fuck that. Something is wrong.”

  “And they will find out what it is. Let them investigate.” A long silence. “Dee?”

  “Trisha doesn’t go to the frigging movies without telling me, her mom, and then tweeting it. It’s been five days now. Something is wrong.”

  George’s head was in his hands. He had nothing left. Deanna was sharp and particularly frantic today. He needed to cut her off.

  “Dee, I’ll get up to you later. I have to go. I have to call Beth McAllister.”

  “What are you going to tell her?”

  He hadn’t really thought about specifics. He just felt it was his duty to reach out.

  “I don’t know.”

  “And where’s her missing laptop? Did you ever find that?” She was in rapid-fire mode, assaulting him in desperation.

  “I don’t know anything about a missing laptop and I have to get back to work. Please go teach your students. I’ll fill you in later.” He hung up and shook his head to switch gears. He was swiping though his phone to find the McAllisters’ number.

  A monster ache began in his midsection as he looked down at the names of two people who had a daughter missing in the world. Their names, in that long list on the display, seemed to be reaching out to him. They were begging him for an answer. He just looked at his cell, unable to tap the name and initiate the call.

  What would he say? All the clichés would work fine in this situation, so he’d go with them. All the principal shit: So very sorry. Thoughts and prayers. Anything we can do, don’t hesitate to ask.

  There was something else working behind all this. There were numbers in George’s head and he was trying to ignore their significance. He fought to keep sight of the humanity in the situation, but there was something he couldn’t let himself totally ignore. Without Trisha, the roster was nearly where it needed to be. Of course, she wasn’t taken off the official staffing list yet. But he knew the total faculty count in his building by heart. And that number potentially just went from sixty-two down to sixty-one. It was splitting him emotionally.

  The matter of Deanna’s transfer out would still need to be resolved, as well. Both girls had to go, and it seemed that job was half done.

  That thought propelled him out of his seat and into his office bathroom to unload his guts into the toilet. When he was finished he rolled to the side and leaned his back
on the tile wall. He looked down at the detective’s card, which he was still holding. Tomorrow would likely bring more questions he couldn’t answer.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  JARED STARED AT the business card in the drink holder of his car’s center console. If he was going to get the call, it would most likely come from the 908 area code that was listed on that card.

  He closed his eyes and rested his head on the steering wheel at the red light. He drew in a deep breath to try and quash the pains in his stomach. He’d been so nervous earlier that morning, but the ride back had been okay so far. But now his stomach was kicking at him again.

  Things had gone well earlier—there was no reason to feel like this, especially now that it was over. He was almost at school and he’d be signed in before eleven, like he’d told Principal George.

  George, however, was under the impression that Jared needed this half day for a doctor’s appointment and not a job interview in the neighboring Elizabeth Township school district.

  That morning Jared considered blowing off the interview. He was unprepared to present himself to prospective employers and unprepared to leave P.S. 21 if he got the job. It was an impulsive act, the interview, and he was going by the seat of his pants. He’d seen the job posting on a website, then emailed and scheduled an interview for the next day. The confirmation email came through while he was sitting at dinner with Deanna the previous night. He didn’t mention it. He was scared to broach the subject with the, at times, unpredictable little lady. She could be wild.

  That morning he wrestled with his nerves like never before. He wasn’t the type that went to pieces like this, but the interview carried with it a vague foreboding. His body was reluctant to even go out the door, and his mind was cranking to find out why.