single book he read was checked out of the public library, which every child in this school has access to.”
Claymore made a scoffing face. “Oh, come on. You’re telling me the kid didn’t use your bookstore?”
“Yes, that’s what I’m telling you. You think I’d allow him to read books then put them back on the shelf to be sold as new? You’ve got a pretty low view of people, don’t you, Mr. Chesley?”
“People cheat all the time, Mrs. McClure.” Claymore glanced at his watch. “Jane!” he called loudly and rudely through the half-open door.
“Yes, Principal Chesley,” said the secretary running to see why he’d bellowed.
“Is my next appointment here?”
“Yes, sir. Mrs. Sereno wanted to discuss the decorations for the Halloween party.”
“Fine. Send her in.”
I couldn’t believe the man’s level of rudeness. I waited for him to at least extend his hand and bid me goodbye, but he simply stood there, glaring.
It took a great force of will for me to refrain from extending my own hand and offering a polite and meek, even apologetic farewell. But I’d already done that more times in my life to count—reacted to overt hostility, even blatant rudeness, with a sort of cowed politeness, pretending the insult never happened instead of facing it head- on.
I was always making excuses for people like Claymore Chesley, telling myself that they were just stressed and emotional because they had problems in their lives. But they weren’t the only ones with problems! I’d had problems all my life and I never stopped striving to display manners, to treat people with respect.
That’s when I realized, I’d been so desperate in the past to reestablish an atmosphere of civility (with my in- laws, my old bosses in publishing, even my own moody, verbally abusive late husband), that I’d let nasty people get a way with…with…
Oh my God, I thought. All those years…. I was simply letting myself get bullied instead of standing up and saying, “Hey! Wait a second. You shouldn’t treat people like that! And you’re not going to treat me like that!”
I cleared my throat, but this time it wasn’t to stall. It was to make sure my voice was loud and clear. “I’m not through here, Mr. Chesley,” I said, not caring that Jane Wiley and Mrs. Sereno were standing only a few feet away.
“Excuse me?”
“You said people cheat all the time. Well, some people do. And some people don’t. Some people are
“What’s that supposed to mean? Are you implying I don’t?”
“You didn’t have the decency to apologize for being late. You never offered me a seat or your hand to shake. And you had the nerve to imply that my son, the
“You’re overreacting—”
“I’m leaving the evidence of that little boy’s destructive bullying on your desk. And by the way, it was only one boy. One bully. Not ‘a bunch of angry kids.’ So I expect that Boyce Lyell will be punished for his actions.”
Claymore nervously glanced at the school secretary and the art teacher watching the scene with wide eyes. The man fidgeted, crossing and uncrossing his arms, clearly embarrassed he’d miscalculated. He’d called his next appointment in to embarrass me into leaving. But I wasn’t leaving until I’d said my peace, audience or not.
“I also expect a letter of reprimand to go to his parents,” I continued, “and I’m expecting to be copied on it, so I know I don’t have to take this matter up the ladder to the school district,
“That won’t be necessary,” he said, my threat finally prying a civil tone out of his mouth. “I’ll make sure the boy is punished and his parents notified. You’ll be copied, as you asked. Anything else?”
I blinked, staring in silence for a few seconds.
“Mrs. McClure,” he prompted. “Anything else?”
I squeezed my eyes shut. “I blew it, didn’t I?” I silently asked Jack. “There’s no way I’m getting anything more out of this guy about his uncle or the rest of his family.”
“There’s nothing else,” I finally declared. “And I’m sure you can understand why I won’t be saying, it was a pleasure.”
Swallowing my nerves, I reached for as much dignity as I could muster, picked up my handbag, secured the strap over my shoulder, and wheeled to face the door.
Ms. Jane and Mrs. Sereno were still standing right there in the doorway. I could tell from their expressions—a striking combination of shock and awe—that I was the last person they’d expected to read Claymore Chesley the riot act.
“Good afternoon, ladies,” I said, polite as can be.
From now on, I decided, civility was going to be a
I heard Jack Shepard laughing and then a little boy’s voice.
“Hi, Mrs. McClure.”
I looked down to see Danny Keenan wiping water away from his mouth with the back of his sleeve. He was standing next to a drinking fountain.
“Were you just in the principal’s office?”
“Yes, I was.”
“I heard yelling. Were you yelling at the principal?”
“Yes, Danny. I was.”
His freckled face broke into a grin. “I can go tell Spencer you’re here, if you want. He’s in the cafeteria.”
“No, Danny. That’s all right. But thank you for being so thoughtful.”
“No problem, Mrs. McClure.” He waved as he headed back down the hall. “Have a nice day.”
Well, what do you know, I thought, as I struck out for the parking lot to inspect Clay Chesley’s vehicle.
That ten-year-old had better manners than his principal.
CHAPTER 17
“If you have something to say at all, tell me where it is.”
“Where what is?”
—Mike Hammer, refusing to talk in
by Mickey Spillane, 1951
WHEN WE WERE teenagers and still in high school, the Parker family’s rambling Victorian on Crescent Drive was a gray monstrosity, surrounded by wild bushes and an overgrown yard. The porch sagged and so did the gutters. The unpruned branches of a century-old elm butted against the three-story building’s paint-chipped walls and drafty windows.
But since inheriting the house in the early 1990s, Brainert had fully restored it to its original grandeur. Gray walls were now sky blue, the trim around the eaves and windows virgin white. Surrounding the house, the
