Authors: Joanna Campbell Slan
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I lied. As she drove off, I touched my nose to see how much it had grown.
Jennifer hadn’t mentioned Sissy’s murder even once. But then, everyone thought the killer had been found. Everyone but Detective Chad Detweiler.
Hmmm.
Anya and I watched a little TV before I forced her to go to bed. With puberty on her horizon, I’d noticed she wanted to stay up later and later. I’d read that this was a natural chemical reaction in teens’ bodies, a shift in their circadian rhythms. However, normal or not, she still had to get up early for school. So we went two rounds about “silly” bedtimes, treating her like a child, and so on until I rang the bell with, “Bed now or you’ll stay home next weekend.”
She slammed her door. I puttered around, too revved up by the adrenaline from our scuffle to settle down. I ironed clothes for her and me. Set out what I needed for the next day. Let the dogs out, carefully unwrapping and rewrapping Mr. Gibbes’ wanker. Then I headed down the hallway to my room.
The light was on and seeping out from under Anya’s room. I opened her door and reached for her computer, swiftly turning it off.
“Mooo-oom,” she wailed.
“Last warning. I catch you using it after bedtime again, and it’s gone.” I closed the door and headed to bed. I knew I shouldn’t have let her keep George’s old laptop in her room, but the house was small and she’d argued she needed a quiet place for homework.
Another day, another worry.
___
After hustling Anya through her breakfast, pushing her to get into her school clothes, letting the dogs out for a piddle, wrapping Mr. Gibbes’ boy parts, and cleaning up after breakfast, I drove my daughter to school in preparation for my real job. My daughter had resisted every portion of our morning ritual. I’d gulped two large mugs of coffee which I badly needed after my late-night computer intervention, and the caffeine caused me to move double-fast while Anya poked along.
But I bit my tongue and didn’t fuss at her. I knew she was worried. “You all right?” I asked a couple of times until she said, “You going to let me stay home?”
“No.”
“So what difference does it make?”
I swallowed hard. Pick your battles, I told myself. Of course she’s worried.
I glanced at her and thought: You and me both, kid.
Mr. Gibbes bounced around the back seat of my car, crawling over a patient but irritated Gracie. My dog’s droopy jowls left a thin trail of drool on the window. I thought about my “to do” list. I needed to add “clean car windows.”
“Anya, grab Mr. Gibbes, please.” She did, and I noticed that stroking the canine puffball seemed to give my daughter some comfort.
CALA’s parking lot was filled with squad cars. A new security gate (as promised) blocked our entrance, and we sat in a long line for fifteen minutes. Clearly, the new obstacle was an impediment (but to whom?) and obviously, the new routine was not going smoothly. Mr. Beacon, the security guard who oversaw much of the traffic flow, waved to me. However, it wasn’t a friendly invitation to talk, more of a get-your-bumper-out-of-here type of motion.
“I’m going to be late,” whined Anya. “I am not going to detention because of this. You call them, Mom.”
“Yes, your majesty.”
The closer we moved to the front of the line, the more agitated Anya became.
“Are you scared, sweetie?”
“Wouldn’t you be?”
I dodged that. “Look at all the security. I can see them searching backpacks at the doors.”
“Goodie. That’ll help if someone brings in a brick. Otherwise, we’re on our own. It’s every kid for herself.”
I didn’t know how to respond to that. She obviously knew more than I’d given her credit for.
“Chief Holmes assured me—”
“What else could he say? I’m sleeping with your mother-in-law? Of course he’d say it’s under control. That’s what CALA wants him to say.”
Whoa.
She was right. CALA was a great teaching institution. All the kids memorized one equation early on: Money = Power = Privilege.
I’ve never felt so incompetent and helpless in my life. I searched my arsenal of parenting tips gleaned from all the books I’d read, all the videos I’d watched, and all the seminars I’d attended. Nowhere could I find words to help us. And I wanted to lie. I wanted to say something cheery and bright and Donna Reed-ish.
Instead, I grabbed Anya’s hand. “I’d be worried too. In fact, I am worried. But there are a lot more eyes watching the place today, and I truly think this was about Ms. Gilchrist. I mean, I don’t think her death was a random occurrence of violence.”
“Yeah,” Anya sighed. “I think so, too. She used to be really mean, Mom. Sneaky. And a flirt. I heard she came on to a couple of the seniors.” Her fingers gave mine a squeeze.
“Senior boys?” My voice rose an octave.
Anya rolled her eyes. “Mom! They aren’t boys. They’re grown men.”
That was debatable. Did facial hair and big feet make them men? Hardly. “Which boys?”
“I’m not telling you!” Anya pulled her sweater across her chest in a defensive gesture. “That’s private.”
“Private or not, it was wrong. Whatever the age of the student, teachers should not have … uh, romantic relationships with them. It’s illegal and immoral.”
My daughter shrugged. “Why’d they let Ms. Gilchrist stick around then, huh?”
I couldn’t answer that. We pulled up to the gate, I showed my driver’s license, the newly hired “guard” waved me through, and I stopped at the walkway to the middle-school cluster. “If you’re really worried, you could stay home.”
Anya wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “Nope. Chief Holmes told me to stick with other kids, not to go anywhere by myself, to sit close to doors, to get on the floor if I heard a loud noise, and to keep my cell phone on.” She pulled her backpack out of the foot well and hoisted it over a shoulder. “Onward, Christian Soldiers, huh?”
Before I could respond, she was bouncing along the walkway, pausing only long enough to chatter to a friend as they fell in step.
Where on earth had she heard that hymn? Certainly not in temple. I chuckled to myself. Anya was really a terrific kid. How quickly my child discovered a world beyond me. A world I had no knowledge of, no access to. It started the first day I took her to preschool. From then on, she had her own life, experiences unknown to me unless someone reported them. As the years went on, more and more of her life would happen without me, which was as it should be … a thought that suddenly caused my heart to ache.
I prayed God would watch over my baby and help her through the day.
The dogs and I were the first denizens of Time in a Bottle that morning. I hustled Gracie and Mr. Gibbes into their playpen and turned on all the lights. I opened the briefcase and started to examine the photos for my confidential project.
None of the photos included people. I found photos of clothes (with labels on the back of the snaps detailing the name of the designers and the price tags), interior shots of a home, photos of a second home in Aspen (so said the label) and its interior (plus a clipping detailing the sale price and a list of furnishings and their cost—with the buyer’s name blacked out), vacation pamphlets, and shots of cars.
At the bottom of the pile was a letter typed on what I assumed was a laser jet printer. “When you finish with these photos, tell your boss. More photos will be sent to you. Remember to keep your mouth shut.”
Deee-lightful.
I started by selecting a three-ring binder style of album. This would allow for shuffling the layouts around. I chose Bazzill Basics’ Oslo for the background of each page. The navy paper featured a fine cross-hatching on the surface that added subtle texture. That was enough to get me started. Right after I locked the loaded briefcase in my car trunk, I flipped our store sign to “OPEN.”
I had lots more to do. I’d designed the coolest bookmarks using brightly colored paper and die cut letters spelling out the name of our store on one side. On the other, my co-worker Bama had written vital information: hours, crop days and times, services, address, phone, blog info, and so on. Bama’s fantastic script was whimsical and artsy but very readable. Then we duplicated the image onto strips of cardstock.
Now I punched a hole in the top and tied a ribbon through it. At the foot of the bookmark was just enough room to attach a punched flower with a brad. The final result was a piece that combined handmade art with a ready-made base. Dodie suggested we number the bookmarks to create additional value.
Today I would punch flowers and holes until my palm would be sore, but I wanted plenty of these customized promotional pieces to take to the CALA Middle School mothers’ book club at Jennifer Moore’s house. Bama, Dodie, and I had discovered these pretty pieces were passed from one admirer to another, creating a wonderful “word of mouth” with a paper backup.
A smarter woman would have punched out one flower from a contrasting solid, punched the hole for the brad in the center, affixed the flower to the bookmark and been done with it.
I am not that smart.
I chose two punches: one with long individual petals like a daisy and one with shorter rounded petals like a violet. Punching the flowers from contrasting shades of patterned paper, I layered the petals (long in back and short on top) and curled the edges over a pencil after attaching them with the brad.
I was exceedingly proud of my handiwork. Here’s the deal: Being creative can’t fix everything that’s amiss in your world, but it gives you a modicum of control. Somehow. Someway. By someone.
At noon, I was joined by Bama. “Dodie has her biopsy tomorrow,” she reminded me. She brought in a small locally made chocolate bar and a lovely arrangement of curly willow branches and bittersweet. “How about you making a card to go with and say this is from both of us.”
It wasn’t really a question.
Over the summer, Bama and I had come to this mutual respect. I was still prickly about her MFA and my NADA, but she’d proved herself willing to teach and share what she knew. Besides, her calendar was full because she was teaching adult ed classes in art, so I didn’t feel so threatened, so worried she’d take my job.
But for all our “togetherness,” she drew the line at sharing any personal information. “That’s none of your business,” she said when I asked her if she was married or had anyone special. Ditto with: “Do you like dogs? Cats? Did you grow up here? What do you like to do in your free time?” And on and on.
Shoot, I was lucky to know her first name.
Or was it really her name? My hand hovered over the punch as I wondered. More than likely “Bama” was a nickname. I sank back into my seat.
I knew nothing about my co-worker. Nothing at all.
Despite the fact we’d worked together for more than six months, the woman was a cipher to me.
___
I finished the get-well card we’d concocted for Dodie shortly before she arrived. Bama and I then presented her with our gifts
“We’re thinking positive thoughts,” said Bama. She continued with, “Dodie, don’t worry about a thing here at the store. We’ve got it covered.”
After that, I drove to CALA and picked up my daughter.
“Tilly said the killer is out on bond, whatever that is.” Anya turned worried eyes on me.
“But the police are still on the case,” I said. “Detweiler is involved. He’ll get to the bottom of this.”
“Good old Detweiler,” she said. “I miss him.”
I did, too. Inside me were warring factions: 1) I did NOT want to hear about his marriage. 2) I desperately wanted to hear about his marriage.
I couldn’t go there.
I had to. Try as I might, I couldn’t believe the man was a cad. That he’d lead me on. He was too fair in all his other dealings. It just didn’t make sense.
How I wished I could turn my back on his marriage. Pretend it didn’t exist. I knew from my own situation that you could be married in the eyes of the law and of society, and not have that connection that we all dream of. But I also knew I couldn’t break that sacred trust. Especially not after what happened to me.
My heart knew Detweiler to be a good and honest man. So why hadn’t he told me he was married? Did he have strong feelings for me? Did I want to know what those feelings were? If I knew, would it make my resolve stronger? Or would I weaken?
Really, I couldn’t take the chance. My best hope for doing the right thing was to stay away from the man. Oh, I might try to fool myself into thinking we could be friends, but my body was having none of it. Every cell kept shouting, “Friends—with benefits!” And I knew better. I couldn’t live with myself if I slipped.
Living this way was pretty miserable, too.
I clenched and released my hands as I held the steering wheel. I rubbed one palm on my thigh. All in an effort to ground myself.
My grandmother’s voice floated to me, unbidden, from decades ago. “The right action is often the hardest. But living with yourself after the wrong action is much more painful.”
Giving myself a small shake, I turned on a local station to hear a police spokesperson explain that the Major Case Squad was working to put a case together to convict Corey Johnson, and he had every confidence the murderer would be brought to justice. Surprisingly, a reporter managed to snag an interview with “a representative” from CALA, someone I’d never heard of—maybe a public relations wonk brought in just for this—who said, “Security has been reviewed and increased at the school. We have every confidence this was an isolated, personal matter, but we’re using this as an opportunity to strengthen our already extensive system for protecting our CALA community.”