Home Song (9 page)

When no answer came, she said, “Tom?” Then she pulled back and said, “Tom, are you listening to me?”

He cleared his throat and sat up straighter. “Sorry, honey.”

“I was asking if you're in the mood for Chinese food tonight.”

“Chinese food . . . ah, sure.”

“So how does The Chinese Lantern sound?”

“Great!” he replied with synthetic brightness. “Just great.”

But she was not fooled. He was worrying about something, and she was unsure whether to prod or let it be. She'd been snuggled close to him with her head against his chest for some time when he finally said, “Claire . . .”

A knock sounded at the door. “Afternoon tea,” someone called. “I'll leave the basket out here.”

Tom rolled out of bed and reached for his robe, and whatever he might have said was waylaid by the interruption.

* * *

They went to The Chinese Lantern and ate an exotic meal served in stupendous portions. Afterward they snapped open their fortune cookies. Tom half expected Claire's to read:
Your husband will be telling you a secret soon that will hurt you
. But he didn't tell her that night. He lay awake with the secret burning within, stealing all the joy he should have been having on this beautiful getaway with Claire. Fear was something new for him. Apart from the occasional near-traffic-accident, or the times when the children were babies and hurt themselves, his life had been relatively fearless. Procrastination, too, was alien to him. He was a man whose very position as the school principal forced him to make decisions daily, and he did so with wisdom and self-confidence. To find himself fearful and procrastinating revealed to Tom Gardner a side of himself he had not known before, one he did not like. No matter how many times an inner voice said, “Tell her,” when he drew breath to do so some stronger force held him silent.

 

In the deep of night Claire rolled over and stretched an arm toward Tom. The sheet was cold on his half of the bed. She rolled onto her back and opened her eyes, realizing she was not at home, but in Duluth, at an inn. She saw his profile at the window and, startled, lifted her head from the pillow. “Tom?” she whispered, but he did not hear. All he needed was a cigarette to complete the picture of a tormented man, like a scene from some old Dana Andrews picture—his silhouette a black cutout against the moonlit sky beyond the open casements. She sat up, bracing on one hand, her heart suddenly racing as she watched him stand motionless, staring out at the night and the lake.

“Tom?” she said, “what's wrong?”

This time he heard her and spun. “Oh, Claire, sorry I woke you. I couldn't sleep. Must be the strange bed.”

“You're sure that's all it is?”

He crossed the room into the shadows and got in beside her, drew her close, and wriggled himself into a comfortable position, flattening her hair so it wouldn't tickle his nose. “Go to sleep,” he said, and sighed and kissed her hairline.

“What were you thinking about by the window?”

“Another woman,” he answered, rubbing the base of her spine and fitting one of his legs between hers. “There, now are you satisfied?”

She'd have to be patient and hope he'd tell her in his own good time.

 

He said nothing the following morning when they made love again in the glow from the wide east windows, then ate breakfast in the spacious formal dining room, then walked the grounds and wended their way down the many steps to the overlook where the incoming waves off Lake Superior battered the shoreline and speckled the air with rainbows.

Nor did he tell her that afternoon, while they drove farther up the North Shore Drive, and stopped to admire rock-strewn rivers and gurgling waterfalls, wondering in which one his father had gone smelt fishing. They talked of other things, of how often they'd do this when the kids were gone from home. They speculated about which college Robby would choose, and how the new teachers would work out at their school. They both admitted how they were dreading Tuesday, that horrendous first day when the whole building turned to chaos.

But in between conversations Claire often found Tom distracted and off in a world of his own. At one point she said, “Tom, I wish you'd tell me what's bothering you.”

He looked at her and she saw love in his eyes, but something else, too. Something that brought a sharp spike of fear as she added it up—his frequent distraction, his sleeplessness and outright worry, his opening the car door for her when he hadn't for so long, the way he'd kissed her in her classroom, this entire romantic weekend, which he'd suggested after so many years of being too busy for such a getaway. He acted like a man who felt guilty about something.

It was shortly before they headed home that the shattering thought hit her broadside:
Oh God, maybe it really is another woman
.

I
T
rained the first day of school. Chelsea and Robby picked up Erin Gallagher, parked the Nova in the student parking lot, and ran through the downpour with portfolios over their heads. By the time they got inside, Chelsea's bangs had drooped, her chambray shirt was damp, and her white jeans were spattered at the hems.

“Oh, rats!” She stamped her feet on the metal grid inside the front door. “Look at my jeans! And my hair—ugh!” She plucked at her bangs and stomped further inside as students pushed in behind her. At the intersection of the corridors beside the front office her dad was standing in his usual spot, monitoring the halls as all the teachers did between classes. She barely paused as she passed him.

“Hi, Dad. Okay if I use the mirror in your office?”

“Sure, honey. Hi, Erin. Feel different coming in as a junior?”

“Sure does, Mr. Gardner. We're the big kids now.”

Robby lifted his hand in greeting as he rounded the corner near his dad. The girls went into the office.

“Hi, Dora Mae. Hi, Mrs. Altman.”

“Hi, Chelsea, Erin. Kind of wet out there, isn't it?”

“I'll say. We're going to fix our hair.”

In Tom's office they plugged in a curling iron and opened his coat-closet door.

“Oh, look at this mess! I worked on it for forty-five minutes this morning!” Chelsea wailed.

“Well, at least you can put the curl back
into
yours. When it rains I can't get it
out
of mine.”

They took turns before the mirror.

“Let's hurry and see if we can find Judy,” Erin said. Judy Delisle was their mutual friend.

“Can't.”

“Why not?”

“Something I've got to do.”

“What?”

“You know that boy I told you about?”

“What boy?”

“The one I took on the orientation tour? I told him I'd stop by his homeroom this morning . . . just to say hi, see if there's anything he needs. I mean, there might be some . . . some questions he's got, or maybe he's feeling a little spooked being in this mob of strange kids or . . . or whatever.”

Erin used one shoulder to butt her friend off-balance. “Chel-seeea! Is
that
why you're spraying about a ton of that hair spray on your hair and you're all bummed out about your jeans getting wet?”

“No, y' geek.”

“C'mon. You can tell me.”

“Nothing's going on, and I'm not bummed out. And they're more than wet.” Chelsea cocked one knee and looked at the back of her pantleg. “They got mud splattered
on them and it's going to leave spots.” She unplugged the curling iron and they headed out.

“What's his last name again? Kent what?”

“Arens.”

“Oh, yeah. Tell me about it at lunchtime. You got
A
lunch?”

“Yes, but I'm supposed to show him the routine in the lunchroom—part of my job, you know?”

“Which you don't mind a bit, I can tell.” They parted in the hall, Erin walking backward, sing-songing, “Good lu-uck!”

The air in the halls was clammy and smelled of damp denim. The squeak of wet rubber soles on the freshly waxed floors punctuated the babble of young voices. A boy whistled through his teeth at his friend and yelled, “Hey, Troy, wait up!” The smell of perfume wafted from some girls who'd just run through the rain. About eighteen kids said hi to Chelsea on her way to Mr. Perry's room. She reached it in a state of anticipation.

In Mr. Perry's room half the desks were full while clusters of students stood talking in the aisles. One of Robby's friends, Roland Lostetter, spied Chelsea in the doorway and raised an oversized hand. He was a tall, burly guy with a baby face and springy brown curls cut close to his scalp. “Yo, Chelsea! You're in the wrong class, kid. This is
seniors
social studies.”

“Hi, Pizza. Just passing through.”

At the sound of Chelsea's name, Kent Arens swung around and found her in the doorway while Pizza Lostetter dropped a notebook on a vacant desk and sauntered toward her. “So, what're you doin' in here?” he asked, grinning—the upperclassman indulging his friend's little sister.

“I'm on the partners committee to help new students get
acquainted with the school. And this is the one I'm helping. Hi, Kent.” He, too, had moved to the door and stood by waiting.

“Hi, Chelsea.”

“Have you two met?”

“Sort of,” Pizza said, giving a half shrug. “On the football team.”

“Kent Arens, meet Roland Lostetter, better known as Pizza.”

One said, “How y' doin',” the other said, “Hello,” and they shook hands.

“Excuse us, Pizz', I've got to talk to Kent.”

“Sure.”

When they were alone by the door she smiled and said, “So . . . how's it going?”

“Okay, I guess. I found my homeroom.” He glanced at it over his shoulder then back at her.

She had to look up to meet his eyes. His shirt, like hers, showed damp spots, but his hair was too short to succumb to rain damage. It sprouted up from either side of a center cowlick and glistened, as if he'd spiked it with styling gel.

“Anything you need?”

“Yeah.” He pulled a small blue card out of his shirt pocket and underlined a word with a cleanly groomed thumbnail. “Can you tell me how this teacher's name is pronounced again?”

“Bruhl,” she answered, the name rhyming with
rule
.

“Oh, that's right, thanks.” He slipped the schedule back in his pocket.

“You'll be getting assigned a locker here in homeroom today, and everybody has to buy their own locks. My first class is just around the corner in room one-ten. I can stop by after first period and help you find your locker if you
want, then I'll meet you there at lunchtime. Part of my job is to show you the ropes in the lunchroom. It's all sort of automated here, so I guess you're stuck eating lunch with me today.”

“Sounds all right to me,” he said, giving a little half smile. “What time is lunch?”

“We're on
A
lunch—eleven forty-three. Makes for sort of a long afternoon, but at least the food is hot.”

He had incredible brown eyes with thick, dark lashes that made her feel unsteady inside, yet she hid it well and put on a perky air for his benefit. “Well . . . guess you're okay for now. See you after first period.”

“Yeah, see you. And thanks, Chelsea.”

She turned away, then changed her mind. “Oh, by the way . . . Pizza Lostetter's an all-right guy. Anything you need to know you could ask him.”

“Thanks, I'll remember that.”

She signaled goodbye to Pizza, who bellowed “Yo!” as she left Mr. Perry's room.

When classes broke after first period Kent was waiting by the door of his homeroom. Working her way toward him she found she'd already grown familiar with his low-key form of greeting: nothing more than the suggestion of a smile while he fixed his eyes on her as she moved toward him. It wasn't intended to be sexy but it was. There was a way boys waited for girls in the hall that she'd witnessed many times: standing motionless and watching the girl approach, smiling as she reached him, then merely turning his shoulder just behind hers and looking down at her as they spoke for the first time and continued along together. Kent Arens did it just that way, the way steadies did with their girls. And she indulged in the momentary fantasy of going steady with him.

“So how was your first class?” he asked.

“Organized like a military drill. Mrs. Tomlinson is known for that. I'm going to like her a lot. How was yours?”

“All right. Sounds like we'll be reading lots of newspapers this year if we want to get good grades in there.”

They shuffled along in an ocean of kids.

“What's your locker number?” she asked.

“Ten-eighty-eight.”

“That's down here.” She led the way, shouldering around a cluster of students moving toward her. Sophomores were running. Seniors were strolling. Teachers stood beside their open doors. Claire Gardner was in front of hers and smiled as they came into range.

“Hi, Kent. Hi, Chelsea.”

“Hi, Mom.”

“Morning, Mrs. Gardner.”

“Is she taking good care of you, Kent?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Good. See you fifth period.” The kids moved past and Chelsea led Kent to his locker, located in the center of five long banks of lockers annexed in an “L” off the main hall. At the end of each bank a tall, skinny window looked out over the cinder roof. Rain furrowed the exterior view. Overhead fluorescent lights put blue flecks in Kent's black hair.

He opened locker number 1088. “Empty.” His voice echoed inside the metal cubicle as other students crowded in behind them. A girl came by, turning sideways to squeeze past, nudging Chelsea—“Oops, sorry”—and bumping her into Kent's back.

When her breasts hit him he peered over his shoulder.

“Sorry,” she said, drawing away, embarrassed.

“Crowded in here,” he remarked, closing his locker door while a dozen others opened or closed around them.

Chelsea retreated without blushing, but he was hiding his face for the same reason as she.

By lunch break the pattern was even more familiar—Kent looking over heads, watching for her; Chelsea smiling in the crowd as she approached him.

On their way to the cafeteria she asked, “Did you get your PIN number?”

“My what?”

“Your personal identification number. You should have gotten it in homeroom.”

“Oh, that. Yes.”

“And you brought a check from home?”

“Yes.”

“Good, because everything's computerized in here.” The cafeteria smelled like spaghetti and swarmed like an anthill. “Today's the only day you'll deposit your check at noon. After this you should bring it in in the morning, before school. The cooks are here thirty minutes before the first bell every day, and you give them your check and they'll deposit it in your PIN account, then the computer keeps track of your purchases every day and tells you how much you've got left. Hi, Mrs. Anderson,” she said to a chubby strawberry-blond woman in a white uniform and hair net. “This is a new student, Kent Arens.”

“Hi, Kent.” Mrs. Anderson took his check and his PIN card and punched buttons on her machine. “You're in good hands with Chelsea.”

“Yes, ma'am,” he said quietly, and once again Chelsea felt a flutter of attraction for him.

She showed him the routine. “There are four serving lines and four computers. Main serving line, à la carte line, malt and cookie bar, and salad line. You can go through as many of them as you want, then after you've picked out your food
the cook enters the amount of your lunch in the computer and you punch in your PIN number. That way nobody's got to handle any money.”

They went their separate ways to pick up their lunches, then met in the middle of the noisy room, holding trays.

“Are you really going to eat all that?” The volume of food on his tray dwarfed hers.

“Are you really going to live on that?”

Someone called, “Hey, Chelsea, over here!”

“It's my friend Erin. Mind if we sit with her?”

“Fine with me.”

Chelsea made introductions and sat down. To Chelsea's dismay, Erin ogled Kent with her mouth hanging open. She noticed other kids casting curious glances, too.

Erin started yakking. “I hear you're from Texas, and you play football, and you live in that swanky new addition out by Lake Haviland, and you've got Chelsea's mother for English, and you're in a lot of honors classes and want to go to Stanford on a football scholarship, and you drive a real cool aqua blue Lexus.”

Kent stopped eating, a forkful of spaghetti two inches from his mouth. He looked from Erin to Chelsea, then back again.

Chelsea said, “Er-
in
!” and to Kent, “I didn't tell her all that, honest I didn't.”

“Hey, he's a new kid, after all. The girls will be curious,” Erin said.

“Erin, honestly, cool it.”

Erin shrugged, dug into her lunch, and the meal proceeded under a mantle of tension. When Erin finally finished and left with her empty tray, Chelsea said, “I didn't tell her all that stuff, Kent, honest. I don't know who she heard it from.”

“Don't let it bother you. What she said was true. New kids always get scrutinized at first, and what does it matter where she heard it?”

“But she embarrassed you. I'm sorry.”

“No, she didn't.”

“Well, she embarrassed
me
!”

“Forget it, Chelsea. It was her, not you.”

“So you believe me?”

He tipped his head back finishing the last of his milk, then wiped his upper lip with the edge of one hand. “Sure,” he replied, swiveling his head to meet her eyes while his hands were busy squashing the milk carton.

Across the room, Tom Gardner stood at one end of the salad bar, overlooking the lunchroom. He tried to spend two out of the three lunch periods in the cafeteria; it was his theory that in order to establish a good relationship with his students, a principal should be visible as much as possible. His hall and lunchroom monitoring were a big part of his visibility.

Here kids felt they could approach him.

Here they joshed with him the way they wouldn't at other times.

Here he overheard conversations that told him much about their home lives.

Here he often halted trouble before it started.

But the trouble he was watching today might have already gotten a jump on him. Chelsea and Kent Arens. They were sitting together already, though—thank heavens—they were with Chelsea's friend Erin. There wasn't much conversation going on at the table. Still, how in tarnation had she managed to double up with him in the first place? Out of all the new students in the library on orientation day, why him? There was no denying it: the boy was
handsome, athletic, well proportioned, and neatly groomed and dressed. What girl wouldn't look twice? And Chelsea was cute, too. What boy wouldn't do the same?