Identity Issues (5 page)

Friday night is pizza night. We set up the kids at the all–leaves–in, well–worn maple kitchen table with juice boxes and pepperoni pizza. Then, we poured ourselves some of our favorite Zinfandel, and fled to the adult dining area.

"I got a chance to call that detective today," Jon said.

"What did he have to say?"

"He gave the same line to me he gave to you. Nothing to worry about, just happenstance. It took me a while to convince him to listen to the whole story, and he gave me a few more details than what I think he gave you. Evidently," he continued, "that woman’s husband was found at the crossroads of four cities, where Auburn, Worthington, Dubois, and Lexington Heights all come together. I guess this held him up in unearthing the death report. According to McGrath, he couldn’t even locate the medical examiner’s report. Usually, the county sends out the coroner, depending on the city locale. In this instance, since the guy died at the four corners, no one wanted to claim that the case fell into their jurisdiction. The state cops wound up doing the initial reports, so they weren’t where McGrath expected to find them."

"He did mention something about that. Did he think that we have anything to worry about?"

"No." Jon shoved an oversized bite of pizza into his mouth. "He also mentioned that they didn’t retrieve a weapon from the scene."

"Wait, let me get this straight. A guy kills himself, but there’s no gun?"

"They think someone came along and stole the gun after the suicide." Typical of Jon, he seemed more interested in pizza than the fact that this story kept getting weirder and weirder by the second.

"You want more?" he asked, gesturing at the pizza.

I gave him a quick nod. Of course, I wanted more. "I’m still surprised no one’s more interested in this. Does it make any sense? So what, someone just strolls by after this guy offs himself, reaches into the car, and grabs the gun?"

Jon rolled his eyes. "When I told him about the Botswana connection and the Canada call, McGrath conceded that there were some strange coincidences. He suggested we pay close attention if anything else comes up."

"Whatever that might be," I said.

Jon nodded. "Yeah, right." He devoured his third slice of pizza. "McGrath also mentioned that Mrs. Stitsill claimed some lawyer called her about witnessing her husband’s death, claiming it was a murder and not a suicide. Evidently he thinks that’s what prompted her to pursue meeting you."

"This is one of the most incredible stories I’ve ever heard. And why didn’t the detective share this with me?"

"Don’t get your back up," Jon said. "My guess is he didn’t tell you because he doesn’t think it’s credible. Supposedly, the attorney was a drunk at the time."

"A drunk?"

"Maybe the attorney’s moving through the twelve steps. Retribution. Righting his wrongs. You know, just like your alcoholic ex."

I laughed. "Yeah, right. He’s all about retribution. Doesn’t pay child support, never sees his kids, willingly let you adopt them. I told you, remember? My ex attended one AA meeting. He claimed he didn’t meet the criteria for Alcoholics Anonymous."

"He’d have had to admit he was a lush. Probably didn’t suit him."

"Definitely didn’t suit him," I added. "Still, why would this Stitsill woman believe her husband is still alive?"

"Got me."

We shared a good laugh, finished supper, cleaned up the kitchen, and got the kids to bed. It was date night, in any case.

M
Y CLASSROOM USED to be an old storage closet. As an afterthought, it became a classroom. Administration forgot we needed a place for the special education students. They found a closet down the hall. We cleaned it out and squeezed in a few desks. No windows, but we stuck a chalkboard on the wall. We’d get by.

Twelve desks for twenty–two students. My feeble attempts to make the classroom cheerful added to the overwhelming claustrophobia. The board didn’t have a chalk ledge, the public address system didn’t work, and I didn’t have an outlet to accommodate an internet connection.

The only advantage to my space was that no one could find me. If I needed time to plan lessons in peace and quiet, or required privacy to confer with a colleague, I had it.

When I spotted Rosita Stitsill standing outside of my classroom as I returned from my thirty minute lunch, I knew that she’d had to ask someone how to find me. She looked small, as if she wanted to disappear. As I approached my door to unlock it, she asked if I had a minute.

"Just one." My terseness surprised even me.

The cacophony of voices preceded my sixth grade troop and the tromping of their footsteps reminded me of mallets pounding an oversized bass drum. As they wound their way around the corner, I recognized that Rosita and I had sixty seconds or less to wrap things up. We huddled in the doorway, protecting our secret.

"I came to apologize for disrupting your life, but I had to find the truth about my husband’s death."

"Did you really think he was still alive?" I asked.

"I wasn’t sure, and I needed to be certain for our safety."

"Safety?"

"He tried to get rid of the boys and me. I’ve never been able to relax, even after so many years. He is in the back of my mind always. I must stay alert. He may still want us dead." She looked desperate. Panicked.
What did she think I could do?

"I don’t think you have to worry," I told her. "According to the detective I spoke with a couple of weeks ago, your husband is deceased. There’s nothing to be concerned about."

She reached out to hug me. "I’m sorry," she said again.

The students squeezed past us in the entryway, gathering their books for the afternoon. I returned her embrace, and she slipped away.

Our conversation nagged me. Drawn in by both curiosity and empathy, I certainly didn’t need the added headaches. My life stressed me out enough. Why couldn’t I put it to rest?

I found Di, sharing the encounter with her.

"She has a lot of nerve, doesn’t she?" Di said.

"I wish I understood her motivation. At first, I felt sorry for her. Now that she’s told me all this stuff about her husband trying to kill her and the boys, I’m not sure what to believe. The story just doesn’t add up. I don’t understand why, if she thinks her husband is still alive and I’m married to him, she didn’t come forward a lot sooner."

"I totally agree. In her shoes, I’d be checking out every possibility. What about money? How’d she survive? And didn’t Scott Davis at Hillside mention a parent with your same last name a long time ago? Didn’t he tell you he told her to come and see you?"

"Good point. I taught at the same school her son attended and she never stopped by to meet me."

"When were you there?" Di asked.

"Four years ago. That’s a long time to wait to find out if someone is married to your husband."

"It sure is. You know Emilio’s in my third hour class. He’s polite, smart, and handsome. Charming, really. It’s not like she would have minded drawing attention to her kid."

"Exactly. I suspect that there are some skeletons in her closet," I told her.

The bell rang, jolting us from our tête–à–tête.

"Gotta run, darn it." Di squeezed my arm.

"I’ll catch up with you later."

The troops headed our way. We ducked out of the hall and back into our rooms, lest we be run down by the thundering herd of students.

As I headed to Jack’s fourth hour Math class, I wondered why Rosita hadn’t called the cops years ago. Why wait?

"Hey, Stitsill, what’s up?" Jack asked as I entered his room.

"Nothing, Jack. Just a little preoccupied is all."

Jack landed one of his basketball–sized love pats on my back and some advice to go along with it. "Well, snap out of it, woman. Your little buddy, Timmy, has a Petri dish from science class in here. I think he lifted it from Crotchet’s room. You better make sure he doesn’t have another Exacto knife, either. She won’t be happy."

"Got it."

After the last of the kids raced out the door and quiet filled the halls, I wandered down to Di’s classroom. Her door stood open. She sat at her desk, hovering over maps of Canada.

"Got a minute?" I asked.

"Any excuse to put off correcting these monstrosities. What’s up?"

"I’ve been thinking about Rosita Stitsill’s visit. There’s more to this than meets the eye. She’s after something. Think about it. Supposedly, she has a job. Yet she made a special trip over here in the middle of the day, two weeks after she calls the cops on me, and comes in to apologize? It makes no sense."

"I agree. Something’s fishy. And you know what else? Emilio’s been missing a lot of school lately. He’s in my homeroom so I get the absence report whenever he’s out. Get this. The reason for his absence? It’s listed as ‘personal,’ which often translates into an ill parent, or a child custody debate in a divorce, but that wouldn’t be the case with him."

"Can you ask him why he’s been missing so much school lately?" I hated to put Di in a weird position, but hey.

"That’s exactly what I’m going to do. I’ll let you know."

"Thanks, Di." I stood up, then hesitated. "Do you think I’m crazy? I almost feel as if I’m on the verge of paranoia."

"Of course, not. I’d wonder, too." Di giggled. "It’s kind of fun, isn’t it, solving this big mystery?"

"I guess it beats writing lesson plans."

"Too bad we still have to do that."

"Too bad."

After first hour the following morning, I spotted Di racing down the hall. She looked excited.

"Well," she started, "I asked him. Emilio’s been missing school to go to court."

"Why on earth would he need to go to court?"

"It made me curious, too, so I asked him."

"I can’t believe you had the nerve to ask," I admitted.

"I know." Di grinned. "I figured out early on, if I ask the questions, the kids will answer."

"What did he say?"

"You’ll find this rather interesting. I sure did. He’s going to court to have his name changed. He shrugged and said it was his mom’s idea."

"What do you mean? Change his name? You mean changed from Vieira to Stitsill?"

"Yes," Diane replied quietly, reflectively.

"I don’t get it." Pressure rose in my throat. "The woman approaches me and confides that her husband tried to kill her and her kids, and now she’s going to change her son’s name? Change it to the name of the guy who wanted her dead? Tell me this makes sense!"

"It doesn’t." Di’s brow furrowed.

Sure enough, I received a name change notice in my school mailbox from the counselor a week later. Emilio Vieira’s name had been changed to Emilio Stitsill.

I went straight to Di’s room.

"Di, do you have any friends left at Scott’s elementary building?" I asked. She had taught first grade there after my departure.

"Some," she answered.

"Know anyone who’d mind getting us a copy of Joey Stitsill’s birth certificate?"

"Emilio’s younger brother?" Di narrowed her eyes. "Let me think about it."

I felt funny asking her to collude with me. Catholic guilt. Ethics. Again, I surprised myself. Feeling so guilty for doing something not so bad.

"Let me see what I can do."

The following Tuesday Di handed me a sheet of paper as we walked down the hall.

"It took a while, but here you go," she said.

"What’s this?"

"Joey’s birth certificate. I couldn’t ask anyone to fax it to me, because then the secretaries might have noticed. So, I had to find someone I trusted to make a copy and then mail it to me."

"Good thinking," I said.

Joey had been born locally, in July, ten years ago. Rosita’s name and age matched the information on Emilio’s document. But unlike Emilio’s birth certificate, this birth certificate contained the father’s information as well. His name: Jon Lyon Stitsill. His birth date, the same as my Jon’s. At least, the month and day. The year, exactly ten years earlier. Judging from the photos I’d seen, Joey’s father would have been forty years old at his birth. Rosita would have been twenty–seven.

I did a mental recap. She’d had Emilio out of wedlock at the age of twenty–five. Shortly after that, she married a man she hardly knew, moved to the States, and they’d had a child together. Boom. Boom. Major changes for a young woman.

I wondered how and why she’d latched onto the guy. Attractive enough, true, but thirteen years older. I reminded myself that desperate times call for desperate measures. Their marriage had brought her to the States, and it had provided security for her and her son. But what of his motivation?

T
HE REMAINDER OF the school year stayed quiet on the Stitsill front. Jon traveled a lot that summer, so I pretty much had full–time responsibility for our crew. Gratefully, one of the perks of teaching was, when I was off, so were the kids. It meant quality time with them, at home and at my in–laws cottage on the lake. By fall, the mystery of my husband’s stolen identity had faded to the background.

A grueling September followed. By the end of the month, life as working mother left me drained. Jon’s travel didn’t let up, and my students avoided doing their homework and acted out in class. I didn’t teach in a Cadillac district. It was more like a rusted out Pinto. Budget cuts and increased paperwork thwarted me at every turn.

Joey Stitsill, Emilio’s brother, now attended our school. Seemed no matter how hard I tried to avoid it, the Stitsill mystery tugged at me. Hounded me, even.

Jack sauntered into my room on a Friday. I knew what he wanted. It was Payday Friday, which meant libations at the bar across the street. Except I could never go. I had responsibilities.

"Hey, Stitsill, it’s that time again."

"I know. You’re here to invite me to the bi–monthly gathering." I smiled with resignation and shrugged.

"Admit it, woman," he said. "You need it."

I thought for a long moment. Jack was right. I needed to get out. To feel the love and support of my friends. They sustained me. Camaraderie and having a little fun would do me good. But I had kids at home. And no husband. Again.