Unsuitable
Authors: Doreen Owens Malek
UNSUITABLE
by
DOREEN OWENS MALEK
Published by
Gypsy Autumn Publications
PO Box 383
Yardley, PA 19067
Originally published as
FIRESTORM
(1986)
Copyright 1986 and 2013
by Doreen Owens Malek
The Author asserts the moral right to be
identified as author of this work.
All rights reserved. No part of this book, except in the case of
brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews, may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, scanning or any information storage retrieval system, without explicit permission in writing from the Author or Publisher.
First USA printing: September 1986
All of the characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Table of Contents
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Chapter 1
Carrie Maxwell glanced at the clock on the wall of her classroom. It was 3:25. John McClain’s father was due in five minutes.
Carrie opened her desk drawer and removed her compact, then powdered her nose and examined the state of her lipstick. She always liked to look neat for interviews with the parents of her students. She replaced the compact and sorted through the papers in John’s file. The school guidance counselor had supplied it, and the information it contained revealed why ten-year-old Johnny was such a problem. He was, in fact, the most troublesome student in Carrie’s fourth grade class, and she was about to have a conference with his dad.
Carrie had begun the school year with a transfer to a new post. The Board of Education in Smithfield, a town in southern Connecticut, had made some personnel shifts due to cuts in state funding. Carrie had been moved to Grovedale Elementary from a school in a different district on the other side of town. It had taken her a while to become familiar with the procedures of her new school. It was already October and she was just beginning to deal with some of the most pressing matters at hand. And John McClain was one of them.
John was different from the boys who had caused trouble in her classes in the past. He didn’t seem to dislike her or resent her at all; in fact, the opposite was true—he appeared to like her very much. But he was unable to get along with the other students. He got into fights all the time: on the playground, in the halls, on the bus. Carrie had finally decided that there was nothing to do but contact his parents. And that’s when she had read his guidance file and discovered that he had only one.
John had never talked about his home life, and Carrie’s gentle questioning had been met with stony silence. Now she knew why.
John’s mother was dead, killed two years earlier in an auto accident that had come close to claiming his life as well. His father had rescued him from the flaming wreckage and had tried to save his mother. But she had died, trapped in the burning car. Carrie could only imagine the impact of such a tragedy on an impressionable child.
Carrie looked up at a knock on her door, which was open. She stood as John McClain’s father entered the room. She stared for a few seconds and then composed herself.
She wasn’t sure what she had expected, but this man wasn’t it.
“Jason McClain,” he said in a deep, controlled voice, extending his hand. Carrie took it, looking up at him and smiling professionally.
“How do you do, Mr. McClain?” Carrie replied. “I’m Carrie Maxwell, John’s teacher.”
He examined her gravely as they shook hands. He was wearing a well cut pinstriped suit of dark blue broadcloth. A white shirt contrasted sharply with his burgundy tie and lightly tanned skin. His hair was short but striking, a shaded mix of amber and gold and russet. His eyes were gray-green, almost hazel, and hard.
“Won’t you sit down?” Carrie asked politely, indicating the chair next to her desk. McClain pulled it out and waited for her to take her seat before he sat himself.
Before Carrie could open her mouth McClain produced the file he had been carrying under his arm and placed it on her desk. “I presume you know John’s history, Miss Maxwell,” he said. “He’s been seeing a family counselor to help him deal with the loss of his mother and the aftermath of the fire. I brought along these transcripts of his sessions with the therapist for you to read. You can keep them.” He sat back in his chair and regarded her with an obvious challenge in his expression, his arms folded across his chest.
Well. It was plain to Carrie that McClain had come prepared for a fight. He clearly thought that Carrie was going to launch into a sermonette about his son’s shortcomings, or institute a campaign to get the boy transferred to another teacher. Thrown somewhat off guard by his opening offensive, Carrie looked back at her visitor, wondering how to begin. She took a moment to think and then said in measured tones, “Mr. McClain, I’m glad to hear that you have sought expert help in dealing with John’s problems. He has been a source of constant disruption in my class, and his current behavior cannot be permitted to continue.”
McClain’s eyes darkened to gunmetal gray and she realized that she had said the wrong thing. He didn’t reply, but waited for her to continue, his mouth a thin line.
Carrie ran her tongue over her lips to moisten them, choosing her words carefully. “I didn’t realize until recently why John found it so difficult to get along with his peers.”
McClain said nothing so Carrie continued.
“After reading his files, I think he resents the other children because of his situation. They have mothers, he doesn’t. Their lives were not altered suddenly by tragedy, his was. His grades are suffering as a result. His test results indicate that he is highly intelligent while his performance doesn’t measure up to his ability. In a case like John’s, close cooperation between home and school is essential. You and I, Mr. McClain, have to show him that we’re on his side.” Carrie spoke forcefully, absorbed in her argument.
McClain’s face went blank with surprise, but he recovered quickly. He shifted his weight and leaned forward intently, his light eyes fixed on Carrie’s face.
“I’ve spoken to the school psychologist,” Carrie went on, “and I’ve come up with a plan. I’m going to appoint Johnny hall monitor. It’s a job all the kids want and it will make him feel special, trusted. But to develop his relationship with the other children I’ll need your cooperation.”
“Anything,” McClain said, shrugging slightly.
“I understand that you have a horse farm a few miles outside of town, is that correct?”
McClain’s brows knit in puzzlement, but he nodded.
“I’d like to arrange a field trip. I can use one of the school buses to take my homeroom on a little excursion to your place, with your permission. The kids would love to see the animals and it would make Johnny the center of attention. He could show the others around, describe the types of horses you have there and so on. He knows a lot about them. He did a book report recently and it was apparent that for his age he’s very well informed. I know children; they will be impressed, and it would open up a line of communication with his classmates that Johnny couldn’t ignore. I’ve spoken to the school psychologist about this and she thinks it’s an excellent idea.” Carrie paused, out of breath, waiting for his reaction.
McClain examined her thoughtfully. “You’ve gone to some trouble, Miss Maxwell,” he finally said quietly.
“Well,” Carrie replied, somewhat startled by his statement, “it was obvious that something had to be done to help him.”
“Not to his previous teachers, apparently,” McClain remarked dryly.
Carrie said nothing, unwilling to discuss them with him.
“Do you mind if I smoke?” McClain asked abruptly, reaching into his breast pocket.
“Not at all,” Carrie answered, offering the glass tray she kept on her desk for the purpose. While she didn’t smoke some of her visitors did.
McClain busied himself lighting a cigarette and Carrie watched the action of his hands, anxious to resume the conversation. Her attention became riveted when she realized that the backs of his hands were heavily scarred, the flesh marred by twisting tracks of whitish tissue. The golden brown hairs on his wrists and the ridges of his knuckles were flattened and distorted by the unevenly healed welts. McClain’s hands stilled suddenly and Carrie raised her eyes. He was looking at her, and she realized that he had caught her staring. She could feel the flush creeping up her neck and didn’t know what to say. He took a deep drag, and then lifted his chin to exhale. There was more faint scarring on his neck, disappearing below the collar of his shirt. He must have been badly burned during the rescue of his son. Carrie swallowed and then said evenly, “Is the field trip all right, then?”
“Of course,” he replied mildly, tapping ash into the tray. “Just name the day.” He took a final puff and crushed out the cigarette, barely smoked.
“I’ll let you know,” Carrie said softly. His gaze held hers directly; there was a lot more going on than their innocuous words would indicate. His lashes were amber, the color of winter wheat. They shaded eyes so changeable that they seemed chatoyant, like a sunlit sea. A woman should have eyes like that, Carrie thought irrelevantly, her pulse rate increasing. They were wasted on a man who undoubtedly didn’t appreciate them.
“Is there anything else I can do?” McClain asked quietly, as if trying to maintain the curious spell that had enfolded both of them.
“No, no, thank you. I’ll be in touch,” Carrie said briskly, shuffling the papers on her desk. “I do appreciate your bringing in Johnny’s files. I’m sure they’ll be helpful.”
McClain felt himself dismissed, and rose. He was tall; when Carrie stood also she was looking into the knot of his tie. She extended her hand and he clasped it between both of his.
“You don’t know how much this interview has meant to me, Miss Maxwell,” McClain said. There was no mistaking the sincerity in his voice. “All I ever wanted was for someone to take an interest in my son.”
Carrie felt her throat tighten with emotion. What on earth had convinced this man that no one at the school wanted to help his boy?
“I promise I will do everything I can for him,” Carrie said, and she meant it. “But I won’t let him get away with anything either.”
“I wouldn’t want you to do that. Fairness is what he needs, and a little understanding of his special problem.”
“Then we’re agreed,” Carrie replied. He was still holding her hand, and she found to her chagrin that she didn’t want to extricate it. He looked down, and then released her fingers reluctantly, stepping back.
“I’ll be looking forward to your call,” he said. “It was a pleasure meeting you.”
“And you, too,” Carrie answered, thinking that their excessive politeness was a cover for feelings not quite so civilized. “Thank you for coming in to see me.
“Goodbye.” Carrie watched his retreating figure from the safety of her desk chair, noting that his carriage was graceful and easy for such a big man. McClain had barely disappeared through the door when Lois Bonner, who taught another fourth grade section across the hall, came hurrying into the room.
“Who
was
that?”
she demanded, her green eyes widening with curiosity. Lois kept track of everything going on in the school as if she were reporting daily to Interpol.
