Plotting at the PTA (2 page)

Oliver took the passenger’s seat—it was his turn for the front—and Jenna ensconced herself in the back amid blankets, pillows, and handheld video games. I took off my coat, put it and the food in the trunk, then closed the lid. Mom had gone inside and was at the kitchen window. “Take care of yourself,” I told Darlene.

She stepped close and held me tight, then stepped away and opened my car door. “Remember that night I hid under your bed and grabbed your ankles?” she asked as I settled in.

“Gave me nightmares for weeks.”

“I told Jenna about it.” She shut the door on my opening mouth and, grinning, trotted off to the safety of the porch.

* * *

A few hours of driving later, we were over the Mackinac Bridge, past Menominee, into Wisconsin, and past lovely little Peshtigo with its tragic Fire Cemetery and Fire Museum. Every time I thought about the horrific events of 1871, a night of bad dreams followed. Some accounts wrote about flames a thousand feet high and five miles wide rushing forward at a hundred miles an hour. Fire was something else to be afraid of, no question about it.

How could Darlene say I didn’t need to be scared? She was a mother; she knew that we were scared of everything. Maybe she’d forgotten what it was like because her children were grown and gone. Or maybe she’d never been scared in the first place.

I considered the idea, then discarded it. Motherhood equals fear. No other possibility existed. A year and a half ago, when my children had brushed up against the ugly reality of bad guys and death, I’d sworn off poking my nose into things that didn’t concern me. My vow had worked, more or less, and keeping my children safe and sound was the only thing that really mattered. Well, that and having the Children’s Bookshelf turn a profit. And making this year’s big PTA project a success.

Jenna stirred out of her nap. “How much longer?” She rubbed her eyes and flipped over to face me.

“Two hours,” I said, but she was already back asleep.

Softly, gently, I rested my hand on her shoulder. Bone and muscle, skin and ligaments. If love was what it took to see this daughter of mine safely through adolescence, then I was all set. If it needed more than love, well . . .

Maybe I should summon Darlene’s advice and try to apply it. “Don’t be scared,” I told myself. “Don’t be scared.”

It was good advice, really. What had the angels said to the shepherds outside of Bethlehem? “Fear not.” If I’d actually paid attention in Sunday school I’d know the quote exactly, but it was something along those lines.

I caressed Jenna’s hair, and wished I could do the same to Oliver’s. My children, my heart, my life. The whole trip had been a pleasure from start to finish. In spite of the fact that two weeks ago I’d assumed I’d have a week without children and had planned to repaint both their rooms, clean out their closets, and have the carpets cleaned, I didn’t regret one minute of this time away from home.

I’d been sitting at the kitchen table making lists of what to pack in their suitcases when my former husband had called.

“I got a job,” he’d said.

“Oh, Richard, that’s wonderful!” Relief had flooded through me. No more worry about Richard’s severance package running out, no more worry about the child support payments dwindling to nearly nothing, no more worry about selling the house; hardly any worries left at all. “Which job is it?”

“Not the one in Madison, unfortunately.”

A chill had leached into my bones. “The one in Georgia?” The kids would hardly ever see their father. He’d become a near-stranger. They’d never learn the lessons that only fathers can teach; they’d—

“No, not the one in Atlanta. I’m going to be working in Milwaukee.”

Since I’d already been sitting down, I couldn’t sit down again, but the second wave of relief made me want to slide to the floor and find a wall for support. Life was so very good.

“I’ll be on the west side, heading up a new branch of Smithwick Insurance.”

“That’s great, Richard. Just”—I had searched for the proper word and couldn’t find one—“just great.”

“Yes, I’m pleased.”

“Are you going to move?” Richard owned a condominium just outside Rynwood. “That’ll be what, an hour and a half commute?”

He’d chuckled. “The way you drive, yes. The way the rest of the population drives, it’s closer to an hour. But the way the housing market is these days, I don’t anticipate being able to sell for anything close to the purchase price. Besides, it’d be easier on the kids if I stayed.”

“You’re a pretty good dad,” I’d said softly.

“They could do worse,” he’d replied, reminding me of why we’d gotten divorced. “There is one small issue we’ll have to deal with, however.”

“How big of a small issue?” I’d asked cautiously. To Richard, a “small issue” could mean anything from being half an hour late to knee surgery. “On a scale of one to ten.”

“Four.”

Four wasn’t bad. Four I could deal with.

“They want me to start working next week.”

“That’s gr—” I’d stopped. It was great. But it was also bad. “That’s spring vacation.”

“Yes, I know, and there’s a solution. My parents want to spend time with Jenna and Oliver, correct?”

He always did this. Forcing agreement was one of his favorite management tools. Two and a half years distant from our former marriage, it still annoyed me. “We don’t need to build a consensus here, Richard. What’s your solution?”

He changed tactics. “My parents have been looking forward to this visit for months. The kids are looking forward to going.”

My former in-laws were kind and considerate people. They were also the stiff-upper-lip type and about as likely to step out of their comfortable upper-middle-class box as Marina was likely to start wearing pearls and twinsets. But they loved their grandchildren very much and the kids loved their times in Arizona.

“I can’t make the trip,” Richard continued, “so I want you to consider going to Arizona in my stead.”

“You . . . what?”

“It won’t cost you a single dollar,” Richard said. “I’ll take care of the airfare and my dad will pick you up at the airport. No need to rent a car.”

Trust Richard to have the details worked out in advance. And he was doing a good job of selling the idea. But then he made a major error. He said, “You’ll have a wonderful time.”

No, I wouldn’t. I’d be bored to tears. His parents were nice people, but our overlapping interests began and ended with the kids. I grew instantly sleepy when they began describing their latest golf game, and their eyes glazed over when I started talking about the latest Caldecott winner.

“So I take it you agree?” Richard asked.

Off in the distance I could feel my future twisting around. Richard would say that Lois and Yvonne, my two full-time employees, could do without me for a week. I had orders to place, accounting to battle against, and my regular round of book deliveries to make. But I deserved a week off, he’d say. Why not take advantage of his generous offer?

“No,” I’d said, and felt the clouds around my head start to clear. “No, I don’t agree.” It felt so good to say so that I’d said it one more time. “I don’t agree at all.”

“You have another plan?” He’d spoken calmly, but I could hear the irritation growing in the back of his voice. “A plan which will deprive the children of time spent with their grandparents? With their grandmother, who loves them unreservedly?”

“Not at all.” If he heard my smile, all the better. “They have two grandmothers, don’t they? I’ll take them up north.”

Now I pulled into our driveway and saw our house, all safe and sound, and let myself relax. Going away was all well and good, but coming home was even better.

I shuffled the mostly asleep kids inside to bed, tried but failed to pet the cat, who’d stayed home and been taken care of by a neighbor, then started heaving the luggage out of the trunk. Tomorrow was Sunday and laundry day, we had to pick up our dog, Spot, from the kennel, and I’d have to do some grocery shopping. I sighed. Being gone was a lot of work. Still, it had been a wonderful week and I was glad I’d stood up to Richard. I considered the thought that if I’d starting doing that twenty years ago we might still be married.

Considered it briefly, then tossed it aside. If anything, my growing a backbone would have hastened the divorce. And if I’d grown one early enough, there might not have been Jenna or Oliver.

No, things were working out, in a general sort of way. If only I knew what to do about—

My phone rang. I pulled it out of my purse, poked at the
ON
button, and put it against my ear while I extracted Oliver’s stuffed animals from the car. “Hello?”

“Hey, sweetheart. Are you home?”

Evan. If only I knew what to do about Evan.

Chapter 2

T
he next morning—Easter morning—I was out of bed by eight and shepherding the kids into Sunday school almost on time. I scurried into the choir room and was donning my maroon robe when the director started warm-ups. I slid into my seat, church bulletin in one hand, folder of music in the other.

We sang up and down the scale in solfège; “Do re mi fa,” and we did some oooo’s and we did some aaaa’s. Kay tapped her music stand with a slender baton. “The first anthem is in good shape,” she said. “But the offertory is the Rutter and it needs some work. Sopranos, let’s run through your descant at measure one twenty-seven.”

The Rutter. I’d forgotten all about it. “Why do we have to do the Rutter?” I groused to the alto on my left. “Why does he have to write music that’s so hard?”

My complaint, spurred on by driving-induced fatigue, was a bit too loud. Thanks to the proximity of the tenor section—directly behind the altos—Rynwood’s police chief, my friend Gus Eiseley, overheard the comment.

“We sing John Rutter’s compositions,” Gus said, “because he’s the best living composer of choral music.”

I should have kept quiet, I should have nodded and left it alone. Instead, I turned in my seat and faced Gus. “If he writes the best music,” I said, “why isn’t he more popular in his own country? Why don’t the English sing his stuff? Why was the world premiere of his
Requiem
in Geneva, Illinois?”

Cold words. I loved John Rutter’s music and always had. But this particular piece was difficult, I’d missed the last choir rehearsal, and I was deeply afraid of coming in early on one of the alto entrances.

“Just because you always come in early in that middle part,” Gus said, “isn’t any reason to criticize the composer.”

Heat spread across my face. “I do not always.”

He raised his eyebrows. Not an ounce of humor showed on his weathered face. Gus was one of those men whose age was indeterminate; if judging only from the vaguely gray close-cropped stubble showing on his scalp, he could have been anywhere from mid-thirties to mid-sixties. He normally wore a pleasant expression, but right now his obvious irritation was giving me a glimpse at what he would look like at eighty. Worn, lined, and downright cranky.

“Sorry,” he said. “I must have been out of the room the time you got it right.”

I gaped at him. Was he joking? Gus wouldn’t say something like that to me. He must be joking.

“Geez, Gus.” The tenor sitting next to him, a portly man with ever-present onion breath who sang like a brother of Pavarotti, bumped Gus with his elbow. “Give the girl a break. It’s just a song, you know.”

“It’s John Rutter,” Gus said carefully.

“Kay is our director,” I said. “Would you care to tell her the issues you have with my performance?”

The last person who made a suggestion that contradicted her had been lambasted with more music theory than anyone saw outside a master’s degree thesis. It wasn’t an experience any of us wished to repeat.

“For the Rutter,” Gus said, “I might risk it.”

We glared at each other until Kay said, “Nicely done, sopranos. Everyone, let’s start at the beginning.”

I turned around to face her. There was no way, no way whatsoever, that I was going to come in early on that middle part.

That was the foremost thought in my mind, but close behind it was another thought. Gus and I, friends for almost twenty years, had just had our first fight.

* * *

“So?” Lois asked. “Did you come in early?”

It was Monday morning, and Lois, the manager of my children’s bookstore, sat in my tiny office with the toes of her shoes on the edge of my desk. They were red sparkly shoes that reminded me of Dorothy’s ruby slippers, but the clothes Lois wore weren’t anything ever seen in 1939 Kansas.

Lois Nielson, sixty-two, mother and grandmother, had cast off her sensible shoes and cardigan sweaters when her husband died and was well on her way to becoming one of the Characters of Rynwood. Where she’d found a sari, I didn’t know, but she was wrapped up in one that shimmered even in the sickly light cast by the fluorescent light fixtures. Red threads intertwined with pinks and a few blues and greens, all shiny enough that it seemed as if there were movement, even when there was none.

“In that Rutter song,” Lois said impatiently. “Did you come in early?”

I looked away from the sparkly shoes. “Of course I did.”

Lois laughed. “What did Gus say?”

“He didn’t say anything.” After the service I’d tried to talk to him, but he’d looked right through me.

The sparkly shoes whumped to the floor. “That’s not like Gus. Did you talk to Winnie?”

“Didn’t have a chance.” Though Gus and his wife usually stayed for coffee hour, yesterday they’d melted away right after the service.

“Hmm.” Lois fiddled with the pin that was keeping her sari wrapped. When she’d walked in and asked for my opinion on her attire, I’d pointed out that saris were supposed to stay in place all by themselves, and that a kilt pin dangling with tinkly charms wasn’t exactly a normal part of an Indian woman’s attire.

She’d replied that she wasn’t an Indian woman, and did I really want to run the risk of the sudden exposure of sixty-two-year-old skin? There was, of course, no socially acceptable answer to that, so I said she looked wonderful just as she was. Which was the truth.

An even deeper truth was that I was the teensiest bit jealous of Lois’s ability to wear such ensembles. Shy Beth, afraid of breaking out of her blazer and dress pants rut. Cowardly Beth, afraid of having her children giggle at her clothes. Lois, with her nest long empty, didn’t have to worry about that.

“That’s weird about Gus,” Lois said. “You can be a little snotty sometimes, but I wouldn’t have thought he’d get his undies in a bunch over some song.”

“Snotty?” I asked. “What do you mean?”

“You know how you get sometimes. All prim and proper, enunciating every consonant, chin up in the air.” She demonstrated.

“I do not!”

“Oh, please.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Kennedy. Good morning, Mrs. Nielson.” Paoze, one of my part-time employees, smiled at us.

“Hey, kid.” Lois beckoned him in. “What do you think? Does Beth here get snotty sometimes?”

“Snotty?” He touched the tip of his nose.

Though Paoze—who’d come to this country with his parents from Laos—was an English major, there were idiosyncrasies of our complicated language that continued to puzzle him. Lois, trickster that she was, occasionally made the most of this.

“Not real snot,” Lois said. “Snotty like being stuck-up. Like being all high-and-mighty. Thinking you’re better than the rest of us rabble.”

Paoze looked from Lois to me and back again. “I am not certain what you mean.”

I stood up. “Paoze, you are a gentleman and a scholar and will undoubtedly go far in life. Lois, when you’re done dissecting my character, do you think perhaps we can open the store for business?”

Lois nodded. “See, like that. Snotty.” But the accompanying grin took any sting out of her words. “Say, I brought in some new tea. Rooibos stuff from South Africa. Want a cup?”

“Can’t. Not now, anyway.” I picked up the topmost stack of papers from the corner of my desk. Invoices for accounts receivable, my favorite kind of invoice. “It’s delivery day.”

She made a face. “I don’t know why you keep on doing that. People can pick up their own books, can’t they?”

“Yes,” I said, “but perhaps the goodwill generated by my personal selection and delivery service creates customers for life, customers who will recommend the store far and wide.”

Lois nodded. “Snotty, but smart. You’re not so bad for a girl.”

“And you’re not so bad for . . . for . . .”

“For a lady of a certain age.” Paoze smiled, showing his bright white teeth.

Lois and I looked at him. Looked at each other. “He’s catching on,” I told her. “You’d better watch out.”

“Age and treachery always overcome youth and skill,” she said, folding her arms across her chest.

“Always?”

We looked at Paoze again. He was standing as he often did, straight as an arrow, hands clasped loosely in front of him, wearing a gentle smile that warmed the room.

“Harmless,” she said. “He’ll never catch me out.”

I shook my head and shooed them out of my office. I had a feeling Paoze was biding his time, waiting for the perfect moment to spring a trap on Lois, a trap of gigantic proportions that would pay her back for all the tall tales she’d convinced him to swallow over the years.

With any luck, I’d be around to see it.

* * *

I’d been making deliveries for as long as I’d owned the store, but things had changed a few months ago. I’d accidentally put a copy of Brian Jacques’s
Redwall
in a box for a mother who was homeschooling her three preadolescent boys and she’d fallen on it like manna from heaven.

Even marketing-challenged Beth could recognize a brilliant idea when it dropped on her head. Since that day I’d brought along a handpicked selection of books for customers to browse through. At first I’d been surprised at how many of the parents and teachers started ordering middle grade and young adult books for their own reading, but after thinking it through, I realized I shouldn’t have been surprised at all. A good book was a good book, no matter who the intended audience may be. The experiment was not only building an extremely loyal customer base, it was also building my muscles. Carrying boxes of books was almost as much work as toting around a toddler.

I dropped off two boxes at Tarver Elementary’s front office; one full of books ordered by various teachers, the other full of books for browsing that I’d pick up later. Then I did what I often did when dropping books at the school—I tiptoed around to peer into my children’s classrooms.

Seeing the top of Oliver’s head as he busily worked on a math assignment and glimpsing a bit of Jenna as she and two other children were doing something with cardboard and wood dowels gave me a warm fuzzy of the fuzziest sort. I drove out of the school parking lot, smiling.

My last stop, however, always troubled me. Every time I delivered a box to Amy Jacobson, I came away with the impression that I should be doing something more. And every time, I had no idea what that something might be.

I bumped up the long drive, parked, and went around to the trunk to get Amy’s books. My feet didn’t make any noise on the driveway, gravel once upon a time, but now grown over with grass and weeds. Amy cut everything back in October, but since she didn’t drive, she didn’t see the need for much in the way of weekly maintenance. Like, none.

Shutting the trunk with my elbow, I walked up the path that led to the house. Here, with trees growing close and birds singing overhead, it was hard to believe that Amy lived in the heart of Rynwood.

Her house sat perched on a small hill and her bushy backyard tucked up against the largest park in town. There were neighbors on both sides, but far enough away that the sound of voices rarely reached into Amy’s tangle of a garden.

As I approached the house, I once again fell in love. With its diamond-paned windows, ivy growing at the corners, a pert chimney of faded red brick, and a front door arched at the top, it looked like something out of a fairy tale. Its only nod to reality was the asphalt shingle roof. I’d once jokingly told Amy that when she had to reshingle, she should turn it into a thatch roof, and hadn’t known what to say when she’d unsmilingly told me it had been thatch, but her parents couldn’t afford to have it fixed and had had to replace it with something cheaper.

I cast a longing look at the front porch with its friendly set of two facing benches and went around to the back. Amy wouldn’t answer the front door, a fact I’d learned the hard way.

The long grass brushed against my pant legs as I walked around the house. Soon the lilacs that surrounded Amy’s backyard would burst into bloom. Smiling at a scent that hadn’t yet arrived, I rounded the corner of the house and stopped dead. The bird feeders. They were mostly empty and Amy was a stickler for keeping them filled.

I shifted the box in my arms. Maybe she was sick. If she’d fallen sick, she might be out of other things, too. Milk, food, medicine. I knew that Flossie, owner of the local grocery store, sent her great-nephew on weekly delivery runs, so Amy wouldn’t starve to death, but if she was really sick, she might not be able to call in an order.

The back door looked as it always did—in need of paint and new weather stripping. I pulled open the wooden-framed screen door and knocked on the door’s glass window. “Amy?” I called loudly. “It’s Beth.”

There was no answering call, but that was normal. It usually took three sets of knocking and calling to convince Amy to come to the door.

Knock, knock.
“Amy?”

Knock, knock.
“Hello? Amy?”

It wasn’t until the fifth set that I realized what any rational person would have figured out some time ago: She wasn’t home. Which didn’t make any sense, because Amy was always home.

Always.

As a child, I’d pictured people who hid away from the world as men with long gray hair and beards down to their belly buttons, but Amy was female and she wasn’t much older than I was.

I didn’t know if she suffered from agoraphobia or if she was just the hermit type. I had the occasional tendency toward reclusiveness myself, but Amy’s version was extreme. The one time I’d tried to coax her outside—“The park is just the other side of your bushes. Let’s go for a walk. We’ll be careful about bees and we’ll stay out of sun, what do you think?”—tears had started to trickle down her cheeks and she’d covered her face with her hands.

Horrified at what I’d done, I put my arms around her. It was the first time I’d ever touched her. She flinched, then grabbed on to me as if I were the last person on Earth.

I’d murmured nonsense words and stroked her hair, wondering how long it had been since she’d felt the imprint of another person’s skin. Eventually, her crying slowed to a stop. She’d pulled back, blown her nose, and the incident was closed. But ever since, I’d allowed enough time in my schedule to stay with her for at least an hour.