Lovely, Dark, and Deep (14 page)

We both resumed our work. I worked through my lunch, since I needed to leave early in order to receive Veronica. Sally and I shared some brownies and cookies to stave off hunger.

I finally paid a visit to Bill. “Hey, boss,” I said. “Will you be coming to the coffee house tomorrow, and bringing your lovely Rose?”

“Sure,” Bill said. He looked distracted, even ruffled.

“And can I leave a bit early to talk to some of Joanna's old friends at the high school? I'm all set here.”

“Yeah, okay. Listen, Madeline, do you and Jack plan to have children?”

This was so entirely unexpected that I actually said, “Huh?”

Bill turned red. He and I had never had a personal conversation, never. “It's just that—I wondered—would you feel that a baby interfered with your work? Would you resent—”

I felt myself reddening, too. “Are you telling me you don't want me to have children?”

Bill looked shocked, and accidentally overturned his coffee mug. The dregs of it dripped onto his lap, and he jumped up. “Shit! No, no, Oh, God, I'm going about this all wrong,” he said, wiping miserably at his pants.

“Bill, what's wrong?” I asked.

“Nothing's wrong, nothing's wrong. Actually, my wife is pregnant,” he said, blushing and arranging things on his blotter as though he'd just explained the facts of life.

“That's great! Oh, Bill! That's wonderful, Rose has always wanted kids!”

Bill looked at me; his red face had gone pale. “She has? I was under the impression that she might—wish she weren't, because it might endanger her job, and—”

“Well, I mean, you guys have talked about this, right?” I asked.

Bill shifted uncomfortably. “Madeline, you know how good I am at discussing . . . things. Rose looked a little upset when she told me and I assumed—”

“You assumed she wasn't happy about it?” I asked. “And if you were looking at her like that, she probably assumed you weren't happy about it. Oh, Bill, I love you, but men can be so dumb,” I said. “Do you want my help, or do you want me to butt out?” I asked him.

“Help,” he said. I had never seen this side of Bill, although Rose had told me how notorious he was about not discussing anything personal. She had wept at the unromantic nature of his proposal of marriage.

I went to his desk, handed him a tissue to wipe up the coffee, and dialed his wife's number at work. Rose had a great job at the district attorney's office; she was an up and coming lawyer. Rose answered the phone, sounding not quite like her normal bubbly self.

“Rose!” I cried. “Bill just told me the good news, and he's just bursting with pride! I'm so happy for you!” I said.

“He did?” she asked dubiously. “He is?”

“Oh, Rose, he's just so happy, but he told me he's worried because he didn't think you were, and he didn't want to celebrate in front of you if that was the case, but he's really just so happy!”

“Madeline,” she said, her voice quavering slightly. “Could you put him on the phone, please?”

I handed Bill the phone. He took it, said, “Honey?” and then he listened. I started to back out of the room, but before I left I heard Bill say, “Don't cry, honey, I can't understand what you're saying. You know I love you. Yes, of course! Honey, it will be the most beautiful baby in the world, if it looks like you.”

I shut the door, and realized that I was smiling like an idiot. I was queen of matchmakers, supreme love goddess. Perhaps I really did need to interfere in Gerhard's life; I obviously knew what was best. In this state of self-confidence, I left the office and drove to St. Roselle High School.

Chapter Eight

Saint Roselle High
School always brought me a stab of nostalgia when I drove past; now I was entering that old familiar parking lot in which so much of my teen angst had been discussed with various friends. Today, though, I parked in the visitors' spot and felt my age and distance from those teenage problems the moment I entered the door. It happened to be class-changing time, and students milled by the front desk I was trying to reach. The first thing I noted was that the students were all taller than I remembered; certainly they towered over me, girls and boys alike. Better nutrition? I mused as I watched them call to each other, often with the salty language of sailors. I finally made my way through the crowds to the main window, where a pretty Hispanic girl with bright purple lips stood observing me with a toothy smile. Her hair, long, black and shiny, fell freely about her face.

“Hi,” she said expectantly.

I realized I had no real excuse to be here, at least not one I wanted to explain. “Hi,” I said. “I have to—uh—give something to Sister Francis, who's subbing here today? I wonder if you could tell me her location.”

“Sure,” said the girl, grabbing a chart from a desk behind her. “Sister Francis McMann,” she read. “She's in the history and English hallway, room 309. I'll get you a visitor's badge, and you need to sign here.” She plopped a clipboard and a pen in front of me, and opened a drawer to dig out my badge.

“Does Mr. Taglieri still teach here?” I asked. “I went here, back in the early 90's.”

She grinned. “You're a Roselle kid, huh? Yeah, he's in the same hallway. Teaches government, you probably know that.”

“I love your hair,” I said as I stuck on my badge.

She smiled her thanks, but, womanlike, she downplayed the compliment. “Oh, it's a mess today. It used to be a lot longer. Down to my butt.” She gestured with her hand to indicate how much had been snipped.

“Wow,” I said. “Well, thanks.”

I made my way to the history hallway and heard various teachers begin their classes. “If you'll take out your workbooks—”

“You need a pen for this test, no pencil.”

“We need to look at his decisions in the context of history.”

The last room was fairly quiet; I peeked in to see an English classroom, with posters of Shakespeare and Bronte and Austen and Dickens splashed all over the walls, and sure enough, Sister Francis presided in black and white splendor at the desk in front. The kids looked, as expected, less than thrilled to see her, but she still had what it took to maintain order, because they were staring sulkily into their books and at the assignment on the board. I waved to her, and she brightened, making her way over to me.

“Hello, dear,” she said in her deep voice. “You know, I really do remember much more being here. I was talking about it in the teacher's lounge today; some of my memories of Joanna are coming back to me. Some things from that last week of her life.”

“Sister, do we have to write out the question?” asked the voice of a rather petulant girl in the classroom behind.

Francis turned with a certain grimness. “What does it say on the board?” she asked, pointing ominously, like the ghost of Christmas future.

The girl huffed, but her pen began moving.

“Is there anything in particular that you—” I began.

Francis held up a finger, glaring warningly at the class. “I don't want to disrupt class now, dear. Can you meet me at the convent after school?” she asked. “Or maybe this evening? I wanted to discuss—” she turned to scowl at a boy who had shot a spitball at his friend across the aisle. I looked at him in disbelief. Spitballs? I thought. Didn't they go out with the little red schoolhouse?

“All right,” I whispered. “I'll come by later. I need to speak with Sister Moira anyway. What sorts of things do you remember?” I persisted.

Francis looked uncomfortable. “There were people she trusted—she was asking me questions about trust, and betrayal. She confided some things in me.” She looked very noble suddenly:
tis a far
,
far, better thing I do, than I have ever done
—that type of look. Then the look was gone.

I walked back down the hallway and peered into various rooms until I spotted Mr. Taglieri. He was only two doors down, on the other side, and apparently this was his free period. He sat at his desk, peering into a large book through a pair of bifocals.

I knocked on his door and stepped tentatively inside.

“Hello, Mr. Taglieri,” I said. My name is Madeline Mann. I was your student back in—”

“Madeline Mann! I remember you, of course! How are you, kid?” he asked, rising from his seat to clasp my hand. “Boy, that's a name from the past, huh? But you write for the town paper, right? I read that sometimes. I enjoyed your piece on the Webley WWII veterans.”

“Oh, thanks. Actually it's for the paper that I'm here—”

Mr. Taglieri got up and shut the door, checking first in the hallway. “Don't want to disturb other classes,” he said, as though I were yelling like a rugby player.

“I just chatted with Sister Francis,” I said.

“Isn't she a hoot? We had lunch with her today. She was jawing away about Rachel, of all things, and some sort of investigation you're doing.” He took off his glasses in a casual way and set them on the chalk ledge. He must have been fifty, but I noted that he was still a handsome man. His gray hair sat attractively on his head, feathered back on the sides. His eyes were dark, his nose straight and bumpless. “Why in the world do you want to know things about her?”

News travels fast, I thought. “Various reasons. Looking into the unsolved hit and run, for one.”

He nodded. “The most tragic thing in our history here, I'd have to say.” We were both standing in front of the room, so he gestured to some student desks, and we sat in them. “Listen, I can't give you the whole period, I've got to grade some tests, but if you have some questions?”

“Yes. Thanks so much. Mainly I wanted to ask about the club you moderated with her—the Students Against Substance Abuse group.”

“Absolutely.”

“I know Sister Joanna was a moderator of that group when she died; but was she a member of that group when she was a student here? That would have been the mid eighties.”

He looked taken aback. “Now you're really going back. Well, yes, I believe she was.”

“And were you the moderator then?”

“When Rachel was a member? Gosh, let's see—I probably was. I've had the group since the eighties.” He traced a word that some bored student had carved into the desk, then smiled at me. “I believe she was a good leader. I can look her up in the yearbook, if you want.”

I shook my head. “I understand Roselle had quite a drug problem back in those days.”

I'd thought he would deny it, but he merely nodded. “It was bad. The administration would never admit it, but I knew things, from working with the kids, from hearing the gossip. I think they were ready to call in Webley Vice, if there is such a thing. And then things kind of died down.”

“No more selling?”

“Not back in Rachel's time, no. We had two big—what you'd call outbreaks, I guess. Years apart. Probably not related, I'd guess. Although the method was the same, but any kid could have copied that.”

“What method?”

“Anonymous notes in their lockers. Leave your money such and such a place. You'll get another note with the location of the drugs. Kids told me they really didn't know who they were dealing with. They made contact by talking to a kid who was already involved, who would leave a name with his own payment. It was like a pyramid scheme. Like Amway or something.”

“The kids confided it to you?”

“They felt safe in the group. They'd share.”

“So this—pipeline, this seller—was never caught?”

“Not to my knowledge. I mean, I think the guy—or gal, let's be fair,” he grinned at me, “just got nervous. People were starting to be aware of what was happening, and it just ended. I'm guessing the pusher was a high school kid, too, and the heat got too intense. Smart to stop while the going was good, I guess.”

“What were kids buying? What did they pay?”

“Marijuana, mostly. But at the height of the madness, some kids were trying coke. The police were called. They tried a little sting operation once, I persuaded a kid to work with them. He left the money, the cops waited, but no drugs appeared. Someone got wise.” He shrugged, leaned back, and grabbed a sheaf of papers off the teacher desk behind him, started leafing through them, occasionally pulling one out.

He showed an essay to me. “Not typed,” he said. “No credit.”

I suddenly didn't miss high school at all.

He smiled at me. “So that piece you did on the veterans. It was great. I had the kids read it in class. Now you have to do one on the Vietnam Vets. I can put you in touch with tons of guys.”

“You're a vet?” I asked.

“Sure am. I got this job a year after I came home with a bullet in my calf. It's still in there. I walked with a cane for a while, but now no one would know.”

“That's admirable.” I meant it, and he saw.

“Good to hear someone say it. We're still kind of the forgotten soldiers.”

“I agree,” I said. “Can I ask you one more thing about Joanna?”

“Sure.” He set down the pile of papers, looked at me.

“Do you know of any romantic involvement she had with someone here? Perhaps as a student, or maybe even as a teacher? As a nun?”

He scowled. “Now why would you ask that? Don't go trying to sully a woman's reputation when she's ten years dead. Rachel was a good person, a fine woman. She didn't look for affairs with men; she was absorbed in her love for God. That may sound hokey to you, but we all knew it was true.”

I could see that I'd alienated him a bit with the question, so I decided to leave. I thanked him, shook his hand, promised to think about the Vietnam story for the spring, and took my leave. I heard the voice of Sister Francis down the hall, answering the question of another querulous student.

I was distracted, thinking about the last interview. It struck me as odd, somehow, that for the majority of my interview with John Taglieri, he hadn't referred to Joanna by her holy name. He'd referred to her as Rachel.

Before I left I looked for Tommy Watson; I stopped a woman in the math hallway, and she informed me that Tommy was in class, and the class had a special speaker today, so I wouldn't be able to disturb it. Her expression suggested I shouldn't try to sneak past her and ignore her advice, so I turned with my figurative tail between my legs. I was back in school, and fearless reporter or not, teachers still intimidated me.