Schooled in Murder (21 page)

We sat in Scott’s Porsche on Kansas Street in Frankfort.

I said, “I promised I’d go to the game.”

Scott said, “You’re upset. It’s been an awful day. The kids will understand.”

“No. Teenagers don’t. I can’t explain to them I’m hip-deep in murder. I always keep faith with the kids. You know that.”

“I’m more concerned about you than I am about them.”

“I know. I know. It’ll be easier to keep a promise. It’ll feel normal.”

Scott said, “I’ll go with. I’ve got my hat. We’ll take blankets.” We drove back to school. As we walked through the parking lot, he said, “Be nice to anyone you meet. Do not confront any administrators.”

“I’ll be good. I promise. I’ll make sure the kids see me. We’ll watch for a while. Then we’ll go.” I’d played on this same field as a kid. It had good memories for me.

The stadium was a cheapo conglomeration of a concrete structure built in the 1920s, plus an ultramodern press box and uncomfortable aluminum bleachers. These last two were thanks to the sports boosters who refused to support any
building referendums for their children. They were quite willing to dun to death the unwilling members of the community with sales of mounds of pizza and candy. They’d proceeded to erect the so-called improvements. Can they say
priority?

The night was cool. Besides the blankets, Scott had hooded sweatshirts. Some day that man is not going to be prepared for something. On that day I’m going to dance in the streets and cheer, although not while he’s watching. Well, I do love him, and it is awfully handy to have someone around who makes the Boy Scouts look like unprepared pikers, but sometimes Mr. Ready needs to screw up.

The crumbling concrete that formed the walls of the stadium provided numerous nooks and crannies for teenagers to make out, do drug deals, smoke, and engage in nefarious things teenagers have found ways to do since forever.

We used the faculty entrance. The most run-down of all. As you walked up the concrete ramp, a yellow, two-story, concrete-block concession stand barred the view to the field. The aluminum stands that were less than three years old loomed up on both sides around us.

As we neared the field, the crowd erupted in rhythmic stomping on the bleachers and obscene chants interrupted by fits of booing. Scott and I made our way around the edge of the stands. I could hear the stentorian tones of the public address system, but I couldn’t make out the words. I could guess what it was about. Graniento had probably just made his usual appeal for no booing, no obscenities, and no stomping on the bleachers. After he did this, the kids always booed, chanted obscenities, and stomped on the bleachers. Graniento hadn’t caught on yet to the cause and effect.

Parents and kids were streaming in and out of the stands. The lines for food and drink were ten deep. Scott had a baseball hat pulled down low and his hood pulled close around his face. It’s amazing how often this leads to lack of recognition.

I usually went by myself to the games, and I seldom stayed long, just long enough to let the kids know I was interested. Teenagers love it when you notice that they are the center of their universe.

The teachers’ section was near the fifty-yard line. Before I was halfway there, teachers were stopping by, asking how I was doing and adding other kind words. The LD teachers who I worked most closely with came up as a bunch. We exchanged hugs and comfort. Our progress was slow, but I thanked each one.

When we got to the teachers’ section, we stood to one side. Mr. Zileski and a group of parents were conferring about twenty yards away. He was always at the games, always sat in the same place. Mr. Zileski looked kind of like his son. He was a big man with receding brush-cut hair. He wore blue jeans, work boots, and a heavy flannel shirt that hung open, showing a long-sleeve white T-shirt underneath. He spotted me and marched over. He glanced at Scott and held out his hand. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir.” Then he turned to me and asked me if I was okay. I thanked him and said I was.

“They booing Graniento’s usual announcement?” I asked.

“Yeah, they love stomping on the bleachers and booing. Typical administrative moron. Never give a command you know they can’t or won’t obey–or worse yet, that you can’t enforce. Idiot.”

I smiled. I liked Mr. Zileski. Even more now that he’d not made a big deal about meeting Scott.

He said, “I was just talking to a couple of the parents. We want to know why there is a game tonight and why there isn’t more police presence here now. My idiot ex-wife should have announced precautions and then actually taken precautions that people could see, or canceled the game. I don’t see extra police.” He rubbed his hand over his brush cut. “I don’t think the kids are really in danger, but you can’t just
leave things like this. I know why she hasn’t done anything. She is petrified of getting bad publicity.” Several parents had joined our group. They were paying attention to Mr. Zileski and not Scott. Good.

Scott said, “You’d think she’d be afraid of the bad publicity that would come from not acting.” People nodded.

I said, “Or the hideous possibility of something bad actually happening.”

“Will it?” one parent asked.

Mr. Zileski said, “I sure doubt it, but a bunch of us have stationed ourselves around the stadium. We’ve got cell phones with us so we can contact each other or the police if we see anything wrong or out of the ordinary. A few of us are going to confront my idiot ex-wife and those moron administrators. Stomping and booing! They’ve got the safety of children to worry about.”

He and his group marched off.

Scott said, “I like him.”

I glanced around the stadium. The band was on the field. Lots of high school bands had turned themselves into precision machines in the past ten years or so, competing for coveted spots in bowl parades over the holidays. Not Grover Cleveland. Like the football team, they swung between relentlessly average and not quite that good.

Kids said hi. A few stopped and said a few words. Scott stayed in the background. Just as our team trudged onto the field, one of the kids, a slender young man, approached us. Stanley Connors was in my senior honors class and in the gay student group. His acne had begun to clear up, but he still hid his braces-filled smile by ducking his head. He was with another boy I didn’t recognize. Stanley leaned a little more closely toward me than the other kids and whispered, “This is my boyfriend, Joel.” Stanley’s eyes flitted to mine, and he almost smiled. Joel was a skinny kid with long blond hair.

I said, “Scott, I’d like to introduce Stanley and Joel.”

Stanley looked at Scott and did a double take. Then he looked at me and back to Scott. “You brought him to the game. That is so cool. I wish I had a relationship like yours.”

I said, “Maybe you will someday.”

Scott said, “Good luck.”

The two boys moved off. I hoped they wouldn’t broadcast Scott’s presence.

The teams were ready for the kickoff. The underclad cheerleaders bounced up and down the sidelines. Scott and I spread one blanket on the cold seats and one over our legs.

I said, “The rule is, I get to leave when I notice the cold.”

Sitting at a high school football game on a fall night in Chicago can be dull, and the cold seeps in quickly. A few minutes into the second quarter, Mr. Zileski came back. He saw us and came over. I made room for him next to me.

He said, “My ex-wife is in a perfect position in life.”

“What’s that?”

“President of the school board. Her gift for stupidity matches the job.” I smiled. He leaned toward me and asked in a whisper, “Do they really call her Bitch Bochka?”

I whispered back, “Mostly it’s Kara the Terrible, but they avoid saying either one to her face.”

Mr. Zileski said, “A few of the parents want school called off on Monday. That’s too extreme. People need to take sensible precautions. My ex claims the police are already planning an extra presence for Monday.”

I said, “I’m sure things will be fine.”

The crowd roared. We stood up with them. From underneath a huge pile of muddy teenagers, Fred Zileski emerged with the ball. He played defensive line, so I assumed he must have recovered a fumble. He handed the ball politely to an official.

“Go Fred!” Mr. Zileski yelled.

29

Midway through the second quarter, we decided to get to the washroom and leave before the half ended. As we got up, the crowd was chanting and stomping their feet.

The sports boosters hadn’t spent a penny on the washroom facilities. They rented portable toilets from a fly-by-night company in Kankakee. These might have been modern in the depression. The stench was a killer. They’d been plunked past the concession stand in the dim shadows under the bleachers. You had to squeeze past the concession stand to get to them. I always wondered if it didn’t violate some health code or other to have them this close to the food. I never ate any of it anyway. Too much junk food and not enough chocolate.

Finishing quickly, we began making our way back. As we neared the shadows of the concession stand, I could see two people waving their arms at each other. As I got closer, even with the din of the crowd, I could hear them shouting. When we were about ten feet away, the taller person rushed off. Whoever it was turned the corner of the concession stand before I could recognize him or her.

The other person was Mabel Spandrel. She didn’t notice us until we were nearly upon her. I made no move to stop, but she held out an arm.

She said, “Are you sure you should be here?”

The crowd noise had ebbed. A voice behind us said, “What’s going on?” Kara Bochka emerged from the darkness under the stands and planted herself next to Spandrel.

I said, “I promised the kids I’d come to the game.”

Spandrel said, “I’m not so sure someone under suspicion of murder should be here.”

“Do we know someone like that?” I asked. I could play the ignorant asshole as well as any.

“You,” Spandrel snapped.

Bochka said, “Do you know if the police have found out anything?”

I said, “I assume they know by now what colossal assholes many of the people who are running this place are. I assume they know people hated each other. I assume they know that Spandrel and Eberson were having an affair.”

Bochka’s mouth gaped open. She glanced at Spandrel.

“That’s bullshit,” Spandrel said.

Gone was any trace of the lecturer who bored us beyond enduring at meetings. She was pissed and ready to fight.

“I’m not here for a debate,” I said. “You asked what they know. I’m telling you what I assume they know. You want me to stop?”

The crowd erupted in mad cheers. The bleacher stomping started again.

Bochka said, “I thought I told Graniento to put an end to them stomping on the bleachers. Can’t he do anything right?”

I said, “I also assume–and so should you, for that matter–that the police have heard the rumors about the constant warfare in the English department. That each side
in the disputes has attempted, in the past, and presumably will in the future, plot against, smear, tear down, slander, and destroy each other. I assume the police know that the administration was trying to cook the students’ grades and test scores to make the administration and board look better. Also that Peter Higden was boffing as many of the women on the staff as he could, perhaps even Ms. Spandrel.”

Spandrel let fly. “You lying asshole. How dare you attempt to smear me?”

I didn’t lose my temper. I was concentrating on being articulate. I said, “I have no idea if any of this is true. You might. I was asked a question. If you don’t want answers, then don’t ask questions. Were you having an affair with Gracie or Higden?”

“I don’t answer to you.”

“You’ve got to answer to somebody,” I said.

“Certainly not to a faggot.”

The slur pushed me over the edge. I began, “You homophobic–”

Scott put his hand on my arm. He glared at them. When he spoke, his voice was at its deepest thrum. I knew two things from that tone: he was deeply angry and in icy control. He hadn’t pitched in the World Series for nothing. He said, “We need to keep a sense of decency.”