Danny's Mom (22 page)

“Cal, I can't go up on stage and have Peter congratulate me. Not with everything that's been happening.”

“Sure you can. You're a terrific counselor. I'm glad the kids recognize that.” She raised her coffee cup. “So here's to you. Congratulations! And by the way, what lame excuse did they use to rope you into the assembly?”

“Steve just said Peter needed a representative from the counseling center.”

“And you didn't know why?”

“Uh-uh. Guess I've been trying so hard to tune everything out I didn't even pick up the clue.”

“Well, just enjoy the honor. No one deserves it more.” Callie put down her cup, still full, and got up to leave. “The next time I spill the beans, though, I'll bring milk and sugar. How can you drink this stuff?”

Hours later, seniors raced into the auditorium like unsupervised sixth-graders. Bob stood by a microphone at the front of the stage. “People, people. Settle down, people. The sooner you get quiet, the faster you'll get your yearbooks.” Girls filled in the seats toward the front of the room, leaving the first six or seven rows empty. Boys scattered in groups toward the back and sides. I chose a seat in the third row next to Alice Hansen, retiring from the science department. “Guess it's your year, Beth,” she said. “Congratulations. Well deserved.”

Bob tapped the mic. “Come on now, people. Settle down or you'll be the first graduates without yearbooks.”

“No way, Mr. Andrews,” Brian McKenny called from the back. “We already paid for those yearbooks. They're ours.”

Laughter spread through the room. “You're right, Brian,” someone shouted. “You tell him, man!”

“They'll be yours in a few minutes if you listen up.” Bob talked over the noise. “Now, Mr. Stone's going to give instructions for graduation, and then we'll turn the program over to Zach Stanish, your yearbook editor. Mr. Stone?”

Peter, who'd been leaning against the wall in the back of the auditorium, ambled up the aisle and onto the stage. When Peter got to the mic, Brian yelled again, “Just give us the fuckin’ books!”

“What's the rush, Brian?” Peter said, his voice filling the room. “You're not getting yours today anyway. When you behave like a graduate, you'll get your yearbook.”

“Fuck you!” Brian stormed from the auditorium. Bob followed him out as boys applauded and cheered.

Peter ignored the disruption. “I need to go over a few things about graduation. So listen up.” He gave directions for cap and gown distribution and announced two rehearsals. “There'll be reminders on the back of the exam schedule. So no excuses for not knowing where you're supposed to be.”

When Peter called for Zach, boys from the baseball team shouted: Sta-nish! Sta-nish! Sta-nish! Their chant took me back to the night Danny won Bay View's Athletic Leadership Award. Mal-ler! Mal-ler! Mal-ler! Danny at the front of the auditorium. Joe and I seated together, hands lightly touching as Danny accepted his plaque.

A deep voice slashed the memory. “Shut the fuck up and let him speak!” a boy yelled when Zach took the mic. Zach looked down for a second, then slowly raised his head and thanked the editorial staff and the yearbook adviser. Next, he asked Alice Hansen to come up. “In keeping with Meadow Brook tradition,” Zach said, “the senior class acknowledges teachers who will retire when we graduate.” He took a yearbook from the carton on the floor by his feet, opened to a page in the front, and read a message of appreciation to Alice.

When she sat down, yearbook in hand, Zach called me forward. Peter, in the first row now, turned and stared as I came up. Avoiding Peter's gaze, I looked out at the students about to honor me. I longed for Danny and Joe—the Joe from the first years of our marriage, the one who would have lifted me off the ground in a hug. Of course, I couldn't have anticipated what was going to happen.

Zach picked up a yearbook, opened to the dedication, and read:

The graduating class of Meadow Brook High School dedicates this yearbook to Beth Maller, a counselor who knows the true meaning of guidance. Throughout our four years here, Mrs. Maller has championed our right to a well-rounded education and has cheered for our personal growth. Her door has been open to all of us, even those who are not her students.

Mrs. Maller knows our performance in the classrooms and on the playing fields, and our skill on the stage and behind the scenes. She has applauded our efforts by attending concerts, plays, exhibits, and athletic events. Mrs. Maller has encouraged us to look at our abilities and to work hard to develop our potential. By example, she has motivated us to overcome hardships and to meet life's challenges.

Therefore, it is with great pleasure that we dedicate this yearbook to our friend, Beth Maller. As we leave Meadow Brook and head out into the world, Mrs. Mailer's lessons of compassion and caring will continue to touch our lives.

Zach passed me the yearbook and shook my hand. And as he did, a male voice, one I didn't recognize, called from the back of the room: “You've got that touching part right, Zach. We all know what she does with your grandmother.”

Laughter erupted like a tidal wave, growing louder as it rolled through the auditorium. My eyes caught Peter, who grinned from his seat.

Zach didn't move. I ran from the stage.

Chapter Twenty-Three

T
hat voice stayed with me as I drove home:
You've got that touching part right, Zach. We all know what she does with your grandmother.

I wasn't surprised to see Joe's car in the garage. He had said he'd be home early to go for a run. I found him seated at the kitchen table, an open beer bottle in one hand, the phone in the other. 

“Don't call here again, you punk!” Joe yelled.

“Who was that?”

Joe looked at me, confusion tightening his face as if I were one of his masonry suppliers showing up for a meeting on the wrong day. “You tell me.”

“I don't understand.”

“I don't either, Beth.” Sweat ran down Joe's neck, soaking the top of his T-shirt. He took a long swallow of beer, then swiped the back of his hand across his forehead. “But I'm sure you can explain it. That was the third call already, and I only came in a few minutes ago.”

The phone rang. “Hello?” Joe answered, his voice chilled with anger. “Tell her yourself, you pervert!”

“Hello?” I said softly.

“Dykes should die!” the caller whispered. “That means you, Mrs. Maller.”

How could this be happening? And how could I tell Joe what had been going on in Meadow Brook? I hadn't even told him about
Kate. I had kept my time with her a secret. It hung like a curtain between Joe and me.

“Wait,” Joe said as I turned to leave the kitchen. “You're not going anywhere till you explain these calls. And who the hell is Kate?”

“What do you know about Kate?” I kept my voice even, hoping to hide my alarm.

“Who is she?”

“Not now, Joe. I don't want to talk about it.”

“Well, why don't you listen to the message on the answering machine. Then maybe you'll feel like talking. And you'll tell me what the hell's going on.”

I pushed the button. “Beth, it's Kate.” I stiffened at her harsh sound. “Zach's quite upset about the assembly. How could you have left him standing there while his classmates laughed at him? How could you let them ridicule him like that? And now these threatening calls. Horrible things they're saying. Awful things. I don't even want to pick up the phone. Why didn't you tell me how bad it had gotten in school?

“I can't believe you didn't do anything to stop this gossip about us. You should have stopped it before it came to this—if not for yourself, then for Zach, for me. Meadow Brook's our home. I've always felt safe here. But this … this changes everything, Beth.” Silence settled in the kitchen before Kate's last words broke through. “You got us into this by not stopping those rumors. So now you'd better think about getting us out.”

Why was Kate blaming me? I wanted to feel angry so losing her wouldn't hurt so much. But sadness pushed me down.

I reached for the phone. Joe grabbed my arm. “You're not calling anyone. You're not talking to anyone until you talk to me.”

“I have to call her.”

“Who is she?” He tightened his grip.

“Give me the phone.”

“Not till you tell me who she is.”

I pulled away. “No! Give me the phone. I have to talk to Kate.” The threat of tears filled my voice.

“No, you don't. Why would you even want to? Why would you call anyone who speaks to you like that?”

“You don't know who she is. You don't know what's going on. So just give me the phone.”

“Not until you answer me. Who the hell is she?”

I left the kitchen and headed for the stairs, for the phone in the bedroom. Joe followed. “You can't keep running away from me.”

“Who's running from whom? You're the one who's never home anymore.” I raced up the steps. “Maybe that's why I've been spending so much time with Kate. At least she cares about me.”

“Oh, yeah. That message sure sounds like it's from someone who really cares about you.”

Joe's sarcasm released my anger. “Fuck you, Joe!” I screamed.

He took the stairs behind me, the cordless phone from the kitchen still in his hand. It rang as I passed Danny's room. Joe answered in an icy voice. I looked back as he slumped on the top step, as if socked in the stomach. “You've got it wrong, you pervert. The only one who should die is you, you fuckin’ creep. And if you call here again, I swear I'll make that happen.”

I ran for the phone on the bedroom nightstand. Joe came up behind me and slammed it down. “Who is she, Beth?”

“It's none of your business, dammit!” I squirmed from his hold and moved toward the dresser, took off my earrings. They clinked in the porcelain dish as the voice from the assembly came again.
You've got that touching part right, Zach. We all know what she does with your grandmother.

Joe sat on the edge of the bed. His sneakered feet jiggled on the floor. “Oh, you think this is none of my business? Well, let me tell you something. This is
my
house,
our
house. And you're my wife, for
Christ's sake. So how can you tell me this is none of my business? And just look at you. You look like you've had the living daylights punched out of you. You have to tell me what's going on.”

“No. I don't have to tell you anything. I have to make a call.”

“Not until we talk. We need to talk now! What's going on, Beth? You have to tell me.”

“You won't understand.”

“How do you know if you don't even try?”

“I can't tell you. I haven't been able to tell you anything in a long time ’cause you don't listen, Joe. You didn't even listen when I said it wasn't safe for Danny to drive.”

“Jesus, it was an accident! It wasn't my fault. And the only reason we can't talk anymore is ’cause you won't. First you beg me to go to some shrink with you, to work things out, you say. And now you won't even tell me what's going on. We don't stand a chance if you won't talk to me. We don't stand a chance if calling this Kate person is more important than talking to me. So, who the hell is she?”

Silence filled the room, amplifying outdoor sounds: the whir of a sprinkler in a neighbor's yard; the bouncing of a basketball. I looked at Joe, hunched like an old man, and kept my distance as I spoke. “She's the grandmother of one of the Meadow Brook kids. I met her at the art fair. Remember, that night you refused to go with me?”

“And?”

“And nothing. She's a friend, that's all. A good friend.”

“Well, let me tell you something. I have a good friend too. Mike. But no one calls here accusing me of anything because Mike and I are friends.”

“It's different. Kate and I are really close. Maybe some of the kids misinterpreted our relationship.”

“Those phone calls aren't the result of any fuckin’
maybe
, Beth.”

“I told you, you wouldn't understand.”

The phone rang again. Joe grabbed the receiver on the night-stand, though the cordless lay on the bed. He listened to the caller for a moment and then said, “What the hell do you want with my wife, lady?”

I jumped to take the phone from Joe. “Yes, she got your message, and she can't talk now.” Joe slammed down the handset before I could snatch it, before I thought of reaching for the other phone.

“How dare you, Joe!”

“Who is she?”

“I told you. Her name's Kate. And you can't keep me from talking to her.”

Joe held my wrists and looked at me hard. His face reddened. “And what do you do when you're together? Tell me, Beth. What is it the Meadow Brook kids know about you?”

I tried to free myself. “I don't have to answer your questions, dammit! And get your hands off me.”

“So Kate Whoever-She-Is can touch you, but I can't?”

I pulled until Joe loosened his grip. “It's not like that.”

“Then what
is
it like? I'm asking you one more time. What's going on?”

I couldn't find words for my relationship with Kate. Truth is, I didn't know what we had become to each other. Had we been playing mother-daughter? Best friends and confidantes? Or, had we tapped into a longing I had chosen to ignore? Is that what the Meadow Brook kids had picked up? What Callie had sensed from the beginning?

Anything I'd tell Joe would make my time with Kate sound wrong to him, dirty somehow. I couldn't define it. I wouldn't discuss it. “Nothing's going on. But I know you won't believe that.”

I turned to leave, to go downstairs to call Kate. I had to explain what had happened—that when I had tried to tell her things were heating up, she dismissed my concerns. “Zach's a popular boy,” she reminded me. “Silly rumors don't bother him.” And now I had to tell
Kate that, despite everything—despite the rumors and the assembly, despite her anger and her blame—I still needed her in my life.

“So, you're really not gonna tell me?” Joe's voice grew louder as I left the bedroom. “Okay. Then go run away again. That's what you always do. It's you who runs from me, you know—not the other way around. So run downstairs and call your precious girlfriend, the one you think cares about you. And then just keep running. Run all the way to the city, to Rayanne's apartment, if that's what you want. And don't you worry, I won't try to stop you. But look who's throwing away our history now. Throwing it away like garbage. Garbage! Isn't that what you once said? So here's what I have to say.” Joe's fury filled the house. “Good riddance to bad rubbish! Good riddance to bad rubbish, Beth!”