Driver's Ed (9 page)

“If I find the kid that took that sign …”

He wiped his eyes with the hand that held the mike. “… If I find out who murdered my wife … who left our son without his mother …”

Mark Thompson did not finish his threat. He stared past the cameras and into his future. He seemed to fold, and become smaller. After a while he let go of the mike and stumbled away.

The camera followed him silently.

The police phone number stayed on the screen.

The number seemed to memorize itself; began playing in his head like lyrics to a song. Morgan looked away from the television, but of course the room was full of televisions: three more of them, their blank gray
screens like coffins. If he turned them on, they, too, would speak of stolen signs and dead mothers.

It was just a sign! he thought. Everybody does it. It doesn't count. It's—

“Whoever took that sign,” said Rafe Campbell, “should be shot.”

“Mac,” said Remy, “you just told Daddy that was decaf.”

Mac grinned. “So he won't sleep well tonight.”

“Mac! Daddy believed you. He had two cups.”

Remy's brother laughed contentedly to himself.

“Mother, does anybody need a person like Mac? Don't you think Mac should be in boarding school?”

“Yes.”

“Then why isn't he?”

“We can't afford it. Otherwise we would have shipped him away years ago.”

Mac loved this kind of talk.

“What if the baby turns out like Mac?” said Remy.

“Don't worry about it,” said Mac. “You're fifteen years older than he is. You'll never know how Matthew turns out. By the time Matthew's in second grade, you'll have your own baby.”

This was thought provoking, but not enough to take her mind off Morgan. He wouldn't telephone this late. She might as well give up. At least she hadn't confided in Lark. She could keep her ruined hopes in her heart,
instead of lying around for Lark to laugh at and pick on.

Being a Marland, Remy consoled herself with a final dose of junk food before bed. She ate the other half of her Heath bar, while Mom had another chocolate-covered doughnut, and Mac, an immense helping of pineapple ice cream. Mac preferred flavors nobody else would touch, thus ensuring there was always enough for him.

The phone rang.

Morgan's been sitting by the phone trying to work up courage! Remy thought joyfully. He forgot the time, but who cares? The thing is to get Mac away from me so I can hold a real conversation.

Naturally at this hour, Mom thought somebody was dead or in a dreadful accident, and she leaped across the food line to the phone. “Lark?” said Mom in astonishment. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

Lark? thought Remy. She must be checking to see if Morgan called. I'll lie. No, I'll tell the truth. No, I don't want to lie or tell the truth. I'll tell her I can't talk.

“Is this important, Lark?” said Mom severely. “Can this wait until morning?”

“Come on, Mom,” said Mac. “We're not doing anything earth shattering here. We're just chewing. On a Friday night. Let Remy talk.”

Mac on her team? That in itself was earth shattering. Remy took the phone.

“Don't talk where they can hear you,” whispered Lark.

“Huh?”

“Did you see the news?” Lark's voice was abnormally husky.

“Me? No. What news?” Unless it was war or her favorite department store leaving the mall, Remy wouldn't be interested. The Marlands were not news minded. They took a local paper, mostly for sports. Remy herself read the comics, Ann Landers, her horoscope, and the ads. Rarely did the Marlands glance at television news.

“Don't talk out loud, Remy!” hissed Lark.

Remy giggled. “What other way to talk is there?”

“Remy, listen to me.” Lark sounded strained and peculiar.

There
is
a war, thought Remy. Which of the many countries they followed in Current Events had finally gone over the edge and drawn the United States in? She considered the senior boys that Lark adored and wondered if they, thrilled by this violent turn of events, were running to a recruitment office to enlist.

“A woman got killed last night,” said Lark. “It was just on the news. Somebody took a stop sign. She drove through an intersection and got pasted by a truck.”

“Oh,” said Remy. “How sad.”

“Remy. Are you listening to me?”

Remy was not. Not really. She was rehearsing how to share everything about Morgan and yet keep the best parts secret in her heart. She was—

—took a stop sign
.

“The police said teenagers probably stole the stop sign,” said Lark.

Remy was listening.

“The husband was on TV,” said Lark. “They had a police information number on the screen.”

“She died?” whispered Remy.

“She died,” said Lark.

“What was the corner?” said Remy. But she knew. She knew right down into her bones, as if she were the dead person.

Remy Marland had just made a dent in the world.

T
he late-night news went on.

Rafe Campbell sipped his white wine and Nance Campbell indulged in two more skinny pretzel sticks.

Anne discussed the economy, which was worse. Irene was distraught over the possibility of precipitation. Chuck could hardly wait for his turn and the details of a locker-room fracas.

“By the way, Morgan, I want to wear the red velvet cape with the ermine trim,” said Starr. “And the biggest crown.”

Morgan had no idea what his sister was talking about.

“Mom, make him give me the best king costume.”

“Why would Morgan make that decision?”

“He's going to run the Christmas pageant.”

“Morgan, darling, how wonderful!” exclaimed his mother. “I'm so proud. You'll do such a lovely job. I adore the pageant.”

Do they let killers run Christmas pageants? thought Morgan. The thing is not to think about it. If I think about it, somebody might see it in my eyes. Be able to tell what I did. So I won't think about it.

Starr was the blackmailer of the century.

I am not thinking about the stop sign, he thought, and faced her. His hands had gotten thick; the swelling was noticeable. If he'd been wearing his class ring, it would have hurt. Did guilt puff you up?

“I'm your sister,” said Starr, “and that means I get first dibs on costumes.”

“Will you let the Marland baby be Jesus again this year?” said Mom.

A woman who pretends her kid is Jesus, thought Morgan. What happens when she finds out her other kid helped kill somebody?

He had known the truth for five minutes. Already he was trying to spread the blame. Remy had never gone near the stop sign. Even Nickie—all he'd done was to choose it. But Nickie was a weakling. Morgan was the only one who had actually used the hacksaw.

“Can't you wait for the ads to talk?” said Dad. Even though it was only weather, he hated distractions when he was receiving information.

Mom, however, talked when she felt like it. “I recommend against it,” said Mom. “He's a toddler now. You can't predict what a one-year-old will do. He might scream or run away or throw up.”

“Neat,” said Starr. “Jesus the vomiter.”

“Leave the room if you have to babble!” shouted Dad.

Whoever did that should be shot
.

Dad would shoot me. But he doesn't know. But he could. Easily. The signs are in the garage! I have to get rid of them.

What if Dad caught him?

His father was a big voice for Law and Order. Would he stick with that? Would Morgan go to prison? Or would he and his father destroy the evidence? Just a little father-son activity on a rainy weekend.

That's right, he thought, think about yourself. A woman is dead, her little kid doesn't have a mother. But don't think about that. Hey. Put yourself first.

He took his father's advice and left the room. He made it upstairs. He didn't fall down or scream or put
his fist through the wall or anything. He shut the door neatly behind him.

They were very privacy minded, the Campbells. Nobody would dream of coming in anybody else's room without permission. They met only in the kitchen, in front of the television, or inside the car.

I'm safe in here, thought Morgan.

And Denise Thompson. She was safe where she was too.

Safe in a drawer at the morgue.

R
emy did not sleep.

It was an event that had never happened in her sixteen years. Total insomnia. Her eyes never seemed to blink, let alone close. She lay in the dark thinking: Don't let it be ruined. Don't let Morgan hate me for being there. For seeing him. For saying yes to the whole thing. I want to have Morgan still!

Nice, Remy.

You kill a woman and all you're worried about is whether Morgan kisses you again.

If Mom finds out …

So tell her first. Face the music.

But it would not be music. It was not music you faced when you killed somebody.

What did you face? Remy did not know.

How could it be me? I don't do bad things. I don't think bad things or say bad things. I can't be part of this!

She tilted the ankle and the foot that had such fun driving. She imagined Denise Thompson's foot on the gas pedal as she followed Cherry Road; Denise Thompson's confusion as she found herself in the middle of—
a truck—where did ? that ? come from?—rip foot off gas
—slam brake—slew to the side—try to avoid—try!—no!—too late—too—

But Remy could follow Denise Thompson no further.

M
idnight passed and Friday turned into Saturday.

No school in the morning; no world to face. He who had not even been able to face guesses about his crush on Remy. How would he face Driver's Ed, where everybody had talked about taking signs? How would he face Lark, who knew which three had gone out sign-stealing when? How would he face Remy, who had been there?

In Current Events, Morgan had been astonished to find half the kids never watched the news. He'd assumed the entire world curled up in front of the TV each night to see what had happened in the last twenty-four hours. But no. Plenty of people couldn't care less. It was entirely possible that Remy did not know about Denise Thompson.

Nickie would almost certainly not know. He had his own television and watched exclusively MTV, cartoons, and sports.

Lark couldn't actually know. But she could make a very good guess.

And the class.

They couldn't know.

But they could guess.

Who had watched that broadcast?

Who had written down the police number?

Who was deciding whether to call? Christine, who thought it was wrong? Would she tell?

The odds, Morgan told himself, are that everybody was at the movies, or a party, or playing Nintendo. If
they were watching TV, it was a talk show, not the news. If they watched the news, it was some other channel. Besides, a car accident. Happens all the time. People probably got up and got another piece of cake while Anne spent time over yet another traffic incident.

Incident.

A woman is dead, thought Morgan, and I who killed her am trying to call that an “incident.”

D
awn was sluggish and reluctant, the death of night instead of the birth of day. Remy left her bed, and stood barefoot and shivering in front of the window. Trees in the yard were thin and brittle without leaves. Already their autumn color had vanished, and only the deadness of coming winter remained.

It was just a sign, Remy said to herself.

Just a piece of wood on a post. That woman was probably a lousy driver anyhow. Maybe the road was slick. Maybe she was reaching down to the floor to get her coffee cup where she'd wedged it. Maybe she was singing along to the radio and not paying attention to the road anyhow. Maybe it was her own fault.

Saturday passed.

Remy stayed home with Henry while everybody else was out doing interesting things. Sometime in the middle of the afternoon, when they were crawling backward down the stairs, which was his new thrill of the week, she thought: Denise Thompson's little boy isn't much older than this.

She isn't crawling backward down the stairs with her baby son. She's dead. She'll never see her little boy grow up.

Remy began sobbing, first soundlessly and then with
huge bawling groans. She actually felt better from it, and cried more, and the hot acidic tears seemed to drain off some of the horror.

Her little brother was stunned. He was the one who cried. Not his big sister! His world split open and he clung to Remy. His tiny clumsy hands patted her cheeks. “Me?” he said frantically. “Me?”

It's his first word, she thought, and it's not
me
, it's
Remy
. He's saying my name.

Bobby Thompson would be calling his Mommy today, trying to find her, looking for her in her usual places, raising his voice. Mommy. Where are you? Mommy would never answer.

Oh, God! thought Remy. Why weren't you there? Why didn't you make me stop? Why didn't you make Denise Thompson stop?

His first word had gotten him nowhere. Her little brother began screaming with her, the center of his world caving in, until he didn't even want Remy to hold him anymore, because it was too scary.

S
aturday passed.

The accident was not on the news again. It was old already. Now Anne of the silver hair was distressed because a football coach had been caught selling drugs and a young housewife had masterminded a mail scam.

Saturday had one use. Morgan had time to move
THICKLY SETTLED
and
STOP
to his cellar. He thought the signs would disappear into the dim corners, but they did not. They shouted their color and size and words even with their backs turned.

Sunday they went to church, as Starr had predicted.