Not Guilty (13 page)

A
ll the way home, Keely alternated between anger at her former mother-in-law and outrage at the audacity of Maureen Chase. She was going to confront Maureen Chase. She was certain of that. She only had to find someone to look after Abby and then she would march into that office and let Maureen have it. Mentally, she rehearsed what she was going to say, wanting to make sure that her feelings about this were crystal clear.

As she turned into the driveway, still muttering to herself, she saw Ingrid’s white Toyota parked underneath the basketball net. Ingrid, who was sitting in the front seat of her car, struggled out at the sight of the SUV turning into the driveway.

One look at the old woman, and Keely’s anger, toward Ingrid, at least, began to seep away. Ingrid was dressed, as usual, in a two-piece pants ensemble of her own creation, the top a cheerful flower print, the elastic-waist pants a coordinated fabric broke over a pair of dark brown shoes with thick soles. She was working the handle of her brown pocketbook like a set of worry beads, and her face was contorted into an expression of utter misery.

Keely got out of the car and opened the back door, leaning in to unbuckle the baby and lift her out. Ingrid marched purposefully up to the Bronco and then glanced in and saw the newspaper on the passenger’s seat in the front. Her rounded shoulders sank.

“Ingrid,” Keely said coolly.

“I see you have the paper,” Ingrid said.

Keely nodded, holding Abby close. Abby’s eyes lit up at the sight of a friend.

Ingrid shook her head. “Keely, I’m sorry. I was a fool. I had no idea.”
Her chin trembled. “If I had known they were going to do this to
Dylan . . .”

Keely’s felt like shouting that Ingrid should have thought of the possibility before she spoke to that reporter, but she forced herself not to say it. “I know you wouldn’t hurt him intentionally,” Keely said.

Ingrid looked up. There were tears in her pale blue eyes. “Not for the world. I tried to call you as soon as I found out. I would never have talked to that man if I thought—”

“It’s all right,” said Keely. “I know.”

“He just plain deceived me,” said Ingrid, stamping one of her

Wallabe-clad feet on the driveway. Then she shook her head. “How will I ever explain it to Dylan?” she cried.

“He’ll understand,” said Keely. “He knows how much you love him.”

“But all the same, I did it. Oh, I feel sick.” She fumbled in her pocketbook for a handkerchief, which she wadded up in front of her mouth.

“Take it easy now,” said Keely. “Dylan wouldn’t want you getting yourself sick over it. Are you okay?”

Ingrid gulped in some air and nodded, but she winced, and there were little beads of sweat at her thinning hairline. “It’s nothing,” she said.

“You’d better come in and sit down,” said Keely.

The faint sound of ringing came from the back seat of the car.

“What’s that?” Ingrid asked, looking around.

“My cell phone,” said Keely. “It’s in Abby’s diaper bag. Could you get it for me, Ingrid? I’ve got my hands full.”

“Well, I’m not sure . . .” Ingrid reached into the bag in the backseat and fumbled through it.

“It’s red,” said Keely.

Ingrid pulled out the cell phone. “Got it,” she said, holding it at arm’s length as if it were alive.

“Press the bar button,” said Keely.

Ingrid squinted at the panel of buttons and then carefully pressed the central one and held the phone awkwardly to her ear. “Hello?” she said. “What?”

Keely frowned, wondering who would use her cell phone number.
Ingrid held out the phone to her, eyes wide and anxious. “It’s the school,” she said,

Keely snatched the phone from her hand, and answered it, her heart pounding.

I
T WAS DIFFICULT
to concentrate on driving. Dr. Donahue, the principal at Dylan’s school, had tersely informed her that Dylan had been involved in a fight in the cafeteria and that Keely had to come to the school immediately. She’d left Abby with Ingrid. All the way to the school, Keely kept thinking,
Where do you draw the line? When do you offer understanding and when do you punish?
She had taught in a junior high school—it had all seemed so clear to her then. But that was before her life had veered out of control. Before the D.A. and the police and the newspapers started suggesting that Dylan was somehow to blame for all their misfortunes. She was embarrassed to have her child causing trouble at school. But in another way, she thought, wasn’t it understandable? She didn’t want to be too easy on him, but she also didn’t want to scold him. She wanted to shield him from all this cruelty. He felt so guilty already. Why did everyone have to make it worse?

She jammed her brakes on as she got near the entrance to the school parking lot. She had driven over so fast that she had almost ignored the blinking speed limit signs in front of the school. Slowly and deliberately, she angled the SUV into a space, then jumped out and hurried up the sidewalk and the steps to the building. She rang the buzzer and was admitted.

The glass-fronted office was just inside the vestibule, opposite the auditorium. She pulled open the inner door and walked in. Dr. Donahue was standing in front of the office, her back to Keely, her arms folded over her tweed jacket. She was listening to one of the custodians, who was speaking in a loud voice that Keely could clearly hear.

“The Bennett kid claimed the other kid started it, but I’ll tell you what—that one’s got a bad attitude. I told him that. I said, ‘You’d better work on your attitude, son.’ And he says, in a real snotty tone, ‘I’m not
your son.’ I was thinking, ‘Lucky for me.’ I read that article in the paper today. I wouldn’t want him for a son. I like living.”

Keely reddened and clenched her fists.

“All right, Mr. Curtis,” said the principal. “Thank you.”

“Dr. Donahue,” Keely said.

The principal turned and looked at Keely. Her gaze was businesslike behind her horn-rimmed glasses.

“I’m Keely Weaver. I’m Dylan Bennett’s mother.”

“Mrs. Weaver, thank you for coming.”

“What happened, Dr. Donahue?”

“Well, as I told you on the phone, there was a . . . little fracas in the cafeteria. We’ve got one kid over at the hospital getting stitches over his eye.”

“Is Dylan all right?” Keely asked.

“Yes, Dylan is fine. He’s the one who cut the other boy. Hit him in the head with his food tray, from what I understand.”

“Oh God,” said Keely. “Dylan did that?”

“This is a serious infraction,” said Dr. Donahue. “This could have been a police matter. Luckily the other boy’s parents didn’t want to pursue it. But I have to tell you, Mrs. Weaver, your son has a problem controlling his temper.”

Keely felt the words as a criticism of her, of the way she had raised
Dylan. She could feel her cheeks flaming. “I’m so sorry.” She felt the need to try to explain. “He’s had to deal with a lot of . . . stress, changes,” she said, although what she wanted to say was
death and tragedy.
But it seemed melodramatic, even though it was true.

“I know about Dylan’s situation. Very unfortunate,” said the principal crisply. “But we can’t have this going on in school. We have to maintain order.”

“I understand,” said Keely humbly.

“I’ve suspended Dylan for three days.”

“He’s suspended?” Keely asked weakly.

“He was unrepentant,” said the principal. “He refused to apologize.”

Keely shook her head. “I don’t know what to say. Lately, I’ve had trouble getting through to him . . .”

“Well, I think he’s under a lot of strain,” Dr. Donahue conceded. “That article in the paper was . . . inflammatory. And kids can be very cruel. One girl who saw the fight said that the other boys were taunting Dylan.”

“I knew it,” Keely muttered.

“Mrs. Weaver, I think it’s important that you get Dylan some professional help. Someone he can talk over his issues with.”

“I’ve been thinking of doing that.”

“It’s time to do more than think about it. We in school administration-have had to attend a lot of emergency seminars to acquaint ourselves with the characteristics of students likely to resort to violence. And I’m sorry to say that your son fits the profile.”

“That’s not fair,” Keely protested. “Is this about that article in the paper? Because if it is—”

“Mrs. Weaver, this has nothing to do with any newspaper stories, other than the ones about the tragedies occurring in schools across this country. We’ve seen this scenario repeated again and again. A lonely kid who is being bullied by some of the other students, who has a problem with anger . . . I hope Dylan does not have access to a gun.”

“No!” Keely cried. “I can’t believe what you’re suggesting.”

Dr. Donahue’s eyes flashed. “Don’t be naive, Mrs. Weaver. Just last month at the high school, one student threatened the school nurse with a knife. There was a bomb scare at the special services school, called in by a student. This stuff is happening right here, in sleepy little Profit County.

“I am responsible for the safety of all the students in this school. All of them. That is a burden that keeps me awake nights. I cannot afford to take a chance. When I see a problem brewing, I have to assume the worst. Your son hit another student over the head. I’m not going to wait for him to show up here with a gun.”

Keely stared straight ahead, trembling from head to toe.

“Mrs. Weaver,” said the principal more gently. “I’m not saying that I expect Dylan to do such a thing. I’m just trying to make sure that it never comes to that. That’s why I’m recommending counseling. I would rather err on the side of caution.”

Keely nodded. “I understand.” She felt numb.

“We’ve referred a number of parents to Dr. Evan Stover at the
Blenheim Institute. He deals almost exclusively with adolescents. He’s very capable. Here’s his card.”

“Thank you. I’ll call him,” Keely promised. “Where is Dylan now?”

“He went to the rest room.” Dr. Donahue glanced at her watch and frowned. She opened the door to the office and called in to her secretary. “Wendy, did Dylan Bennett come back yet?”

The secretary shook her head. “I didn’t see him.”

The principal pursed her lips.

“What’s the matter?” Keely asked.

“Nothing,” said Dr. Donahue. She spotted the boys’ gym teacher, complete with clipboard and whistle, coming down the hall on squeaky, very white sneakers. “Mr. Taylor,” she called out, “can you help me?”

The coach jogged up to them. “What can I do you for?”

“Check in the rest room for Dylan Bennett. He’s been in there . . . for a while.”

The coach obediently walked around the corner and pushed open the door to the rest room.

“Was this fight about the article in the paper?” Keely asked after an awkward moment of silence.

Dr. Donahue did not pretend she didn’t know what Keely was talking about. “I think so,” she said, “although there’s been some ongoing harassment.”

“Dylan never said anything,” Keely cried.