The Body in the Bonfire (13 page)

As if she didn't have enough on her plate. Faith was annoyed, but she reminded herself that this was not the Fairchild men's area of expertise—relationships, communication, espe
cially close to home. Tom was great with other people. She punched in her in-laws' number and Marian answered. After the hello, how are yous, Faith asked her mother-in-law to come for the weekend.

“We haven't seen you in a while, and there's a big bonfire at Mansfield Academy on Sunday night. They sit around, drink cocoa, and sing songs. I know the kids will love it, and it would be even more special if you were there.” Faith meant it. She was very fond of both Tom's parents, and the kids adored them.

“That's very sweet of you to think of us. Of course we'll come, but I'm afraid I can't get away for the whole weekend. I'm in the middle of replacing the living and dining room drapes. I never really cared for the old ones, which I cut down from some my mother was getting rid of when we moved here. As I'm sure Tom told his father when they had lunch yesterday, I'm leaving soon for a little trip and I want them up before then, so Dick will have a place to sit down. Right now, fabric is spread out all over the place.”

No flies on Marian.

“How—”

“Left the credit-card receipt on his night table, and who else would he be meeting there?” Marian said before Faith could finish her question. “Now, I must be going. I have a million things to do to get ready. We'll see you at church.”

“Are you sure you won't come earlier—Satur
day afternoon? We could go shopping.” Marian loved to shop.

“No, but thank you. I've ordered everything I need from TravelSmith. See you soon, darling. Bye.” Marian Fairchild, explorer, world traveler. She reminded Faith of all those wonderful female Victorians who scaled mountain peaks, penetrated jungles, and shot rapids with aplomb—and always took time for tea.

She had no sooner hung up than the phone rang again. It was Pix.

“I was just about to call you,” Faith said truthfully. “Amy's napping. Why don't you come over?”

“I can't. I have to pick up Sam at Logan. I don't know when I've been more glad to have him home. Danny wouldn't talk to me last night or this morning, except to say I was getting bent out of shape about nothing and that he wouldn't be answering to ‘Danny' anymore.”

“Not answering to Danny?” Faith was confused. Had the boy adopted one of his computer passwords as his name to drive his mother even more crazy?

“Dan. We have to call him Dan now. Of course, when we named him, I assumed he'd be Dan at some point, but not until he was older. We'll just have to get used to it. My mother said it was about time when I told her, that he wasn't a little boy anymore—which I know—and it's easy for her to say, since she's always called him Daniel anyway, and I assume he'll respond to that.”

Ursula Rowe, Pix's octogenarian mother, was invariably correct, although not in a Millicent McKinley sort of way. Ursula was more circumspect, and this quality of gentle omniscience was one Faith treasured—at the same time, she was glad her own mother lacked it entirely.

Having ranted, Pix spoke more calmly. “He's going to be getting extra help in math at school, and I've hired a tutor to work with him on Saturdays on math and whatever else he needs.”

The Pix machine had gone into action.

“But won't that interfere with hockey?” Danny—or rather, Dan—was on the JV team.

“No,” Pix said wearily, “apparently he left the team before Christmas. Why one of the coaches didn't get in touch with us, I am at a loss to understand. But I do understand why Danny, Dan, hasn't been eager to have us come to his games lately. I feel bad, because I've never been a big hockey fan and was just as glad to stay home. I should have suspected something.”

“Oh, Pix, how could you know? And you've always gone to everything.” Too late, Faith realized that that was the point.

“Exactly. All three of us have to look at how we've been behaving. I should have been in closer touch with his life, particularly regarding school. One thing is clear, though. The computer goes. I told him at breakfast. If he needs to do research or write a paper, we can plug it in and ei
ther I or Sam will monitor what he does. He's addicted and it has to stop.”

Faith did not feel in a position to give child-rearing advice to the woman on whom she depended for her own, but this did sound a little like Big Brother, or Big Mother—and Dan would view taking away his computer like cutting off a limb. She immediately decided not to say anything about the sound system, but she'd tell Tom about the whole mess. Pix was scared. And when people are scared, they'll do anything. Especially when it comes to their kids.

“The traffic is going to be terrible coming home. I have to go. Sam offered to take a cab, but I want time alone with him to tell him what's been happening.”

“Let's talk more tomorrow.” Faith said good-bye and hung up the phone. She picked it up immediately to call Patsy. Dire as the Miller situation was, it was nothing compared to Daryl's.

 

“The whole point is that we
are
different. There was this girl on my hall in college who used to say, ‘Patsy, I wouldn't care if you were purple with polka dots. Color is only skin-deep.' After a while, I gave up trying to make her understand that it wasn't. She'd worked the whole thing out for herself and felt just fine about the race thang.”

Patsy was at Faith's, Ben was at a friend's, and Amy was sitting in her old high chair, finger painting on the tray. After she'd shown
Patsy the Aunt Jemima ad, Faith had tried to describe how she'd felt—sick, angry, and guilty. Ashamed for her race, and that had led to Patsy's statement.

“All I could say was, ‘I'm sorry.' I couldn't say I knew how he felt, because I don't know how he feels. I can suppose, but not presume. Does that make any sense?” Faith asked.

“Lots,” Patsy said, and reached for a piece of shortbread. Faith always had good things to eat. “I've done some workshops with teachers who tell me proudly that they don't see color. They treat all their students alike. Well, bullshit, excuse me, madam. If you don't see what color your students are, you are missing the whole picture. And nobody treats everybody alike.”

“So, what I do is…” Faith frowned.

“What you do is what you've been doing. You didn't choose being white, but you can choose the kind of white you are. Now, should we take this pile of sorry stuff to Harcourt and have him haul the little bastard in, or do we give Daryl some more time?”

“We give Daryl some more time—and me, too. But a deadline. Monday. I'd like to have a look at the other kids' rooms, including this boy John MacKenzie, who makes me a little uneasy. I can slip away during the bonfire on Sunday night.”

“Sounds reasonable. Now, we'd better clean that child up. She's got more paint on her face and in her hair than anywhere else. She's the whole
Rainbow Coalition in one.” Patsy laughed and Amy joined her. After a moment, Faith did, too.

When Patsy left, Faith realized she hadn't checked her E-mail and should have while her friend was there. Daryl had said he'd keep in touch that way when he couldn't see her. Normally, Faith checked it every morning, but more frequently now. There were three new messages. One was from Sandra Katz, a member of the very informal Uppity Women's luncheon club. The group was meeting at her house next week and she said the only thing she wanted on the menu was fresh raspberries; otherwise, Faith could surprise them. “We need fruit—and color—at this time of year!” she'd written. Faith quickly replied that Sandra could consider it done. Maybe she'd build the whole luncheon around the fruit—salad with a framboise vinaigrette, game hens with a raspberry glaze, and for dessert, raspberries—au naturel, with slightly sweetened crème fraîche for those who wanted it and plates of
friandises
—chocolate truffles, oatmeal lace cookies, bite-sized macaroons, and shortbread hearts.

The subject of the next message was “Not Your Average Sheila” and Faith didn't recognize the name of the sender, Patrick McClaine. It was from Niki.

Faith sent a chatty message back, omitting virtually everything that was currently going on in her life. For a moment, she'd let herself relax and join Niki gazing out at the ocean and feeling the sun on her face—she didn't care how hot it was.

She almost overlooked the last message. No subject, and the name of the sender was “Cyberite.” She assumed it was some sort of spam and hesitated for a moment. The last thing she wanted was to unleash a virus, yet, like Pandora, she couldn't resist. She clicked, but it wasn't plagues, sorrows, and misery for mankind that appeared on her screen; it was one very specific, very terrifying message just for Faith herself:

 

MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS AT
MANSFIELD, BITCH, OR YOU'LL BE VERY,
VERY SORRY.

 

Tom did come home early, and Faith took the opportunity to run back to Mansfield to replace the ingredients with unadulterated ones. Her ini
tial frightened reaction to the anonymous E-mail she'd received had abated as she realized that it had to have come from Sloane, warning her not to get involved in what she'd observed between Daryl and him in class. And perhaps he knew she'd searched his room. He was the type to slip a hair in the door or some other James Bondian trick to tell if anyone had been there. It could have been on his computer—the files would have shown when they were last opened. Normally, people didn't notice this, but then, Sloane was definitely not normal. “Cyberite”—a play on words for
Sybarite
? She wouldn't put it past him.

“I won't be long, honey,” she said as she left. Friday night was pizza and salad night at the Fairchilds', and Faith had prepared the dough already, stretching it into shape. They always made two: one Amy and Ben's creation, one Tom and Faith's. She had some chorizo sausage, mushrooms, caramelized onions, and ricotta cheese for theirs; tomato sauce, sliced peppers, pepperoni, and Parmesan for the kids. Ben had recently demanded pineapple and ham after tasting Hawaiian pizza at a birthday party. Faith explained that this was not a native Hawaiian dish and he'd have to eat it elsewhere or wait until he was a grown-up with his own kitchen. “Yes,” she'd told Tom, who looked as if he were about to protest, “I am a food snob and I intend to raise my children without American Chop Suey or Hawaiian pizza.”

There were a couple of kids at the computer
terminals in Carleton House's former dining room when Faith walked into the room on her way through to the kitchen. She smiled and said hi to the first group, causing obvious consternation to the one farthest from the door.

“Mrs. Fairchild!” Zach Cohen jumped out of his chair and stood in front of the screen, turning off the power button on the surge protector with his foot. The computer obligingly crashed instantly. The boys on either side of him were no less dismayed.

“I left a message for my mother telling her where I was,” Dan Miller said defensively, blushing. He always blushed when he was upset—or angry.

Of course he knew his mother wouldn't receive it until she got back from the airport with his father.

Faith didn't want the boy to think she was spying on him—and she wasn't. “I had to bring some things over. Mrs. Mallory is taking the class tomorrow and I thought she might need them.” Zach and Brian—it was Brian Perkins who rounded out the group—nodded.

“That should be interesting,” Zach said, and everybody looked at each other for a few seconds more before Faith said, “Well, I have to be going. Do you want a ride home, Dan?”

“You've been talking to my mother,” he said, not defensive now, but accusatory. Didn't mothers in Aleford have better things to do than talk to
one another about their children? It was written all over his face. He was blushing again.

“She did mention something about your wanting to be called Dan, yes. I happen to think it's a fundamental human right to be called anything you want to be called, so long as you don't scare the horses.”