Curse of the PTA (11 page)

Claudia snorted and looked up from her phone. “She said there must be a curse on this
PTA. I just got this text from CeeCee. She said she’d heard about the curse from Isabel
Olsen, who’d heard it from Mindy Wietzel, who’d heard it from Lynn Snider, who’d heard
it from Auntie May, and where she heard it from, who knows, but now that Auntie May
knows, everybody in town does.” She glared at Marina. “You just killed any chance
of making this PTA into something special. Who’s going to buy our books now? Who’s
going to come to the dance?”

“I was joking,” Marina said weakly.

“Of course you were,” I said. “Who would believe in a curse? That’s ridiculous.”

Claudia swept her hand around, gesturing at the empty seats. “I’d say more than one
person believes.”

•   •   •

Though I didn’t for one second believe in a curse on the PTA, I could see that Dennis’s
murder might make people a little leery about attending meetings. I said as much to
Marina as we walked to her house. The kids, who’d been in the gym being watched over
by a high schooler, were ahead of us. Each of them had chosen a pebble from the school
parking lot and were now kicking them home.

“You really think so?” Marina was walking with her head down. No spring in her step,
no lilt in her voice, no sparkle of mischief.

“Sure. Curses are just superstition. Who really believes in them these days?”

She started to say something, but I interrupted her. “And don’t start giving me examples.
There’s no such thing as curses or hexes or ghosts.” At least I didn’t think so.

“So it’s because Dennis was killed that people didn’t show up tonight?”

“Absolutely. They’re a little jumpy, that’s all. Things will get back to normal before
we know it.”

“So you’re not mad at me?”

Her voice was small. Her whole attitude of shame and self-doubt was so uncharacteristic
that I started to wonder if she was getting sick. “Not a bit.”

“Claudia sure seemed mad.”

“And you’ve cared about her feelings since when?”

Her laugh sounded startled, as if I’d surprised her into doing something she hadn’t
expected to do. “I should care about them, I suppose. If I were a truly good person.
Like you.”

Oh, please. “If I were truly good, I wouldn’t be wishing that Claudia would move to
a different school district.”

“Hey, here’s an idea.” She hopped over a crack in the sidewalk. “Let’s gather up information
on other school systems and send them to her anonymously.” She started to talk about
a magnet school she’d read about in Oregon. “It’d be perfect for her middle son, you
know, Tyler. Or is Taylor the middle one? Taynor’s the oldest. I think.”

She went on to espouse the virtues of experimental education for other people’s children.
I nodded, smiling, listening as much to her tone of voice as to her words. She might
worry about her self-created and nonexistent curse tomorrow, but for now she was happy.

After I’d tucked the kids into bed, I went downstairs to the study to jot down some
notes about the next PTA meeting. Or, more specifically, how to make sure attendance
at the next meeting returned to normal.

I sat in front of the computer and found a notepad. Underneath an Oliver doodle of
Spot—at least that’s what I thought it was—I started writing. “E-mail Debra O’Connor.”
A bank vice president would be a credible person to spread the word that the so-called
curse was one of Marina’s jokes. “Talk to Flossie.” Another ideal noncurse believer.
“Talk to Ruthie.” If the owner of the most popular diner in town couldn’t convince
people that curses didn’t exist, no one could.

There were other people who might be influential, but I’d start with those three and
see what happened. With any luck, this would all blow over in a week or two.

I sat back. Was believing in luck in the same category as believing in a curse?

“Different,” I said out loud, startling George. The black cat had come in to sit on
my lap, and my voice had woken him out of his sound sleep. “Sorry, guy.”

It took a few pets, but he settled back down into a purr. “Now what do I do?” I asked
him. He didn’t answer. I’d intended on doing a few chores before getting into bed
with a library copy of the latest Sarah Addison Allen book, but now there was a cat
on my lap.

Well, there was always e-mail to read.

I skimmed the thirty or so e-mails in my inbox. Deleted most of them, read a few,
answered a couple. Scrunched my face at the ones from people who wanted to hear all
about the incident at the funeral home.

“Not going to happen,” I murmured, and deleted those, too.

I sat there, thinking about PTAs and Dennis and death and finances and, on impulse,
went to his company’s website.

There was a nicely worded notice about the death of the company’s founder, a commitment
to carry on, and a photo montage featuring Dennis at varying ages. I endured that
for a few pictures, then clicked to another page. This one discussed the different
ways in which Halpern and Company could help your financial portfolio. The next page—and
its associated subpages—went on at length about the different financial vehicles available
to their customers.

My eyes went glassy somewhere in the middle of a description of asset-backed securities
(“a type of debt security collateralized by specific assets”), and I moved on to a
page titled “Investing 101,” which turned out to be a lecture series Dennis had put
together. The entire series had been videotaped and was available online.

“What You Always Wanted to Know About Investing But Were Afraid to Ask,” was lecture
number one. “Good title,” I told George. “Don’t you think?” He didn’t answer, but
his purring did seem to grow a little louder.

My index finger hovered over the mouse. Did I really want to do this? No. Was I being
a coward if I didn’t? Yes. Was there anything wrong with being a coward? I hesitated.
George stood to rearrange himself, bumping my elbow in the process, making my finger
touch the mouse hard enough to start the video.

“Good evening,” Dennis said. The camera focused on his smiling, affable face, panned
out to a roomful of people, then came back to Dennis. “Tonight,” he said, “I’m going
to answer all your questions.” He put on a thoughtful look. “No, let me be more specific.
Tonight I’m going to answer your finance-oriented questions. The easy ones. We’ll
do the hard ones some other time. I stayed up late to watch the football game and
I’m not up to anything too difficult.”

For a minute, maybe two, I watched as Dennis alternately charmed and informed his
audience. In that video he was still living, still breathing, still laughing and talking
and thinking and assuming he had years left to him.

Then I shut off the computer, picked up the sleeping cat, and went up to bed.

•   •   •

The next day was Sara’s day at the store. Thursday was an odd day for her to have
free, I’d thought when she’d told me her schedule, but what did I know about course
schedules for science majors? My major at Northwestern had been journalism, and j-school
majors rarely ventured into the realm of chemistry and physics and biology. Psychology,
maybe, but that was different.

Lois, Yvonne, and I were at the front counter discussing the fall event schedule when
Sara rushed in, red-faced and out of breath. “See? I told you.” She grinned at us.

Yvonne, since she’d had the day off last time Sara worked, looked puzzled. I looked
at Lois. Lois looked at me. Today Lois was appearing downright staid and almost stolid
in a below-the-knee black skirt and white blouse. The only hint of personality showing
was in her pendant necklace. A bright red miniature high-top basketball sneaker. She’d
started to whisper about leopard-print underwear, but I’d cut her off at the description
of the narrowness of the thong.

“Told us what?” I asked Sara.

“That I wouldn’t be late ever again.”

Ah. Right. I glanced at my watch. “You’re actually ten minutes early, which completely
absolves you of your two earlier minutes of lateness.”

“It was three,” she said. “I don’t want to take advantage, or anything.”

And yet you so often heard that today’s youth had no work ethic.

Lois sniffed loudly. “Kids today. When I was your age, you wouldn’t have caught me
coming into work early. Ever.”

I pushed a box of tissues at her. “You don’t come into work early now.”

“Old habits die hard.” She pushed the box back. “And here’s Sara coming in long before
she needs to. I tell you, she’s well on the way to establishing a habit of a lifetime.
Nip this in the bud, child. Nip it in the bud, otherwise you’re dooming yourself to
a life of sweat and labor and toil.”

Sara giggled. “But I don’t mind working hard. Really I don’t.”

“Hard work feels good,” Yvonne said. “You sleep better if you’ve put in an honest
day’s work.”

And she should know. Yvonne had spent a number of years in prison for a crime she
didn’t commit. Freed now for more than a year, she was still grateful for the low-paying,
benefit-less job I’d been happy to give her. Her depth of knowledge regarding picture
books was, as far as we could tell, bottomless, and her ability to match customer
to book was almost frightening in its accuracy. I liked her very much and hoped she’d
never leave.

Lois shook her head, sighing. “You three make me want to run off and play hooky.”

I pointed in the direction of the workroom. “Before or after you unpack the new graphic
novel releases?”

Her face lit up. “They’re here?” She scrabbled in a drawer for the box cutter and
practically ran to the back of the store.

There was a short pause while we watched the supposedly work-allergic Lois whoop with
excitement as she sliced open the boxes. “Here’s the new Matt Phelan. And Vera Brosgol’s
latest. And Nate Powell. And you did order that one about the Louvre! This is just
gorgeous . . .”

Yvonne and Sara and I smiled at each other. Then the bells on the front door jingled,
and the day’s business began in earnest.

•   •   •

The morning passed quickly. A steady stream of customers combined with the regular
ringing of the phone kept us all busy until noon. I sent Sara, who was looking a trifle
pale, off to lunch first. “I brought mine,” she said. “Is it okay if I eat in the
workroom?”

“Of course it is. And take a full hour. Read that new Elise Broach book. Start the
new Rick Riordan. Take a nap. Just don’t come back for an hour.”

“You know, for a mean old slave-driving boss, you’re not so bad.”

I shooed her off. “I don’t want to see you for sixty straight minutes,” I called after
her.

Halfway into her prescribed hour, I poked my head into the workroom. Sara was sitting
in a metal folding chair that I knew for a fact to be remarkably uncomfortable, head
down and hand moving. Her hand held a mechanical pencil, and I was pretty sure she
was working on her chemistry lab, but since the papers scattered across the table
were scribbled with numbers and equations, she could have been calculating the mass
of the earth, for all I knew.

I watched her for a moment. Did her parents know how hard this child worked? Were
they proud of her? Did they rush to hug her when she came home for vacations? I hoped
so; I sincerely hoped so.

•   •   •

Halfway through the afternoon, there was a lull in customers and phone calls. Lois
zoomed back to the graphic novels and Yvonne opened the software documentation no
one had yet read. I looked around. There she was, sitting on the floor in front of
the early readers, alphabetizing. Those books seemed to unalphabetize themselves as
soon as you turned your back.

I called to her. “Sara, why don’t you take a break? It’s a beautiful afternoon. Go
for a walk.” As in, get outside before you fade away from lack of vitamin D. As in,
get some exercise because sitting over books is sapping your muscle tone and giving
your shoulders a pronounced curve that isn’t permanent yet, but might be if you continue
like this much longer.

“Oh, can I?” She put her hands on the floor and pushed herself to her feet. “That’d
be awesome, Mrs. K. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. I promise.” She bounded like
a two-legged blond gazelle to the workroom.

So, not a walk, but another bout of studying.

I went to my office and sat down. Fingered a stack of catalogs. Flipped through a
stack of invoices. Picked up a roll of postage stamps. Tightened it, then released
it, listening to the whispery flutter as it uncoiled.

If Sara were my daughter, how would I feel? Would I be doing anything differently?

Tightened. Released. Tightened. Released.

Truly, there was only one thing to do. I stood and went to the workroom. Sara had
a monstrously thick textbook flopped open in front of her, and her hand was busy writing
notes into a spiral notebook. Her eyes were going back and forth faster than seemed
possible for total reading comprehension, and she was muttering as she read.

“Inhibitors of mRNA synthesis. Yeah, I remember. And if an adenoma shows a bigger
release of aldosterone out of the adrenal gland, you can expect . . .” She frowned.
“You can expect . . .”

I knocked on the doorjamb.

“Oh, wow, I’m sorry.” Sara jumped to her feet. “Is my break over? I’m really sorry.
I’ll get back to work right away.”

I unfolded a chair and sat down across the table from her. “Sit a minute.”

“Sorry about the mess.” She piled up her books and papers and pencils and started
shoving them into her backpack. “I really am.”

“Sara.” Gently, I pulled the backpack away from her. “Sit. Please.”

“Um.” She looked longingly at the bag and sat down slowly. “You’re mad at me, aren’t
you?”

“Why on earth would I be mad?” A new thought popped into my head. “No, I take that
back. I am a little angry.” Her head dropped. All I could see of her face was the
unlined, pale skin of her forehead. This was going to be a difficult conversation,
and I had no idea where to start. “What is an adenoma, anyway?”