“The first dance of the year? I expect a full house. Four grades, minus the thirty-eight troublemakers who’ve been suspended.”
“It’s that many already?”
“I’m taking a proactive stance here, Lincoln. One false move and they’re out of here for a week. Not even allowed on the school grounds.”
“That will make my job easier. I’m bringing in both Dolan and Pete Sparks for patrol shift tonight, so you’ll have at least two of us here to keep an eye on things.”
The loud crash of a tray made them both turn, and they saw broken cookies scatter across the floor. A blond girl stared down in disbelief at the mess. She spun around and focused on a black-haired girl standing nearby. “You tripped me.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You’ve been bumping into me all afternoon!”
“Look, Donna, don’t blame me if you can’t walk without falling over your own feet!”
“That’s it!” said Fern. “Clean up that mess or you’re both suspended!” Two angry faces stared at her. Almost simultaneously, they said, “But Miss Cornwallis, she-”
“You heard me.”
The girls exchanged poisonous glances, and Donna stormed out of the gym.
“This is what it’s come to,” Fern sighed. “This is what I’m dealing with.” She looked up, at the high gym windows. At the fading daylight.
The first flakes of snow had begun to fall.
Nightfall was the time of day she dreaded most, for it was with the coming of darkness that all Doreen Kelly’s fears seemed to rush forth like demons from their tightly lidded prisons. In the light of day, she could still feel flutterings of hope, and though it was thin as gossamer, she could plot out fantasy scenarios in which she was young again, charming again, and so irresistible she would surely lure Lincoln back home to her, as she had a dozen times before. Staying sober was the key. Oh, she had tried to hold the course!
Again and again, she’d managed to convince Lincoln that this time she was dry for good. But then she’d get that familiar thirst, like an itch in her throat that needed scratching, and finally there’d be one little slip of the old willpower, the sweet taste of coffee brandy on the tongue and she’d be spiraling downward, helpless to pull out of the descent. In the end, what hurt most wasn’t the sense of failure or the loss of dignity. It was seeing the look of resignation in Lincoln’s eyes.
Come back to me. I’m still your wife and you promised to love and cherish me.
Come back just one more time.
Outside, the gray light of afternoon faded, and with it faded the hopes she’d nursed all day. The hopes that, in her more lucid moments, she knew were false.
With nightfall came lucidity And despair.
She sat down at her kitchen table and poured the first drink. As soon as the coffee brandy hit her stomach, she could feel its heat racing through her veins, bringing with it the welcome flood of numbness. She poured another, felt the numbness spread to her lips, her face. Her fears.
By the fourth drink, she was no longer in pain, no longer in despair. Rather, she was feeling more sure of herself with every sip. Liquid confidence. She’d made him fall in love with her once before; she could do it again. She still had her figure-a good one. He was a man, wasn’t he? He could be coaxed. All it took was to catch him at a moment of weakness.
She stumbled to her feet and pulled on her coat.
Outside, it was starting to snow, soft and lacy flakes drifting down from a black sky. Snow was her friend; what better decoration for her hair than a few glittery snowflakes? She would step into his house with her hair long and loose, her cheeks prettily flushed from the cold. He would invite her in-he’d have to invite her in-and perhaps a spark of lust would leap between them. Yes, yes, that’s how she saw it happening, with snowflakes in her hair.
But his house was too far to walk to. It was time to pick up a car.
She headed up the street to Cobb and Morong’s. It was an hour before closing, and the evening rush was on to pick up that extra carton of milk, that emergency bag of sugar, on the way home. As Doreen had expected, there were several cars parked along the sidewalk in front of the general store, some of them with their engines running, the heaters blowing. There is nothing so disheartening on a cold night than to walk out and climb into your car, only to find your engine doesn’t start.
Doreen walked along the street, eyeing the cars, deciding which one to choose.
Not the pickup-it wasn’t a lady’s vehicle, nor the VW, because she had more important things on her mind than wrestling with a stick shift.
The green sedan. That was just the car for her.
She glanced at the general store, saw that no one was coming out the door, and quickly slid into the sedan. The seat was nice and warm, the heater’s breath toasty against her knees. She put it in gear, hit the gas, and jolted up and off the curb. Something in the trunk gave a loud thump.
She drove off just as a voice on the street yelled: “Hey! Hey, come back with my car!”
It took her a few blocks of weaving back and forth to figure out how to turn on the headlights, another block to get the windshield wipers going. At last her view cleared, and she could actually see the road ahead. She accelerated, the sedan fishtailing on the newly fallen snow. She could hear things rolling around in the trunk, the sound of glass clinking together as she swerved around corners. She drove to Lincoln’s house and skidded to a stop in his driveway.
The house was dark.
She climbed out of the car, stumbled onto the porch, and banged on the front door. “Lincoln! Lincoln, I gotta talk to you! You’re still my husband!” She banged again and again, but no lights came on, and the door was locked. He’d taken away her key, the bastard, and she couldn’t get in.
She went back to the car and sat there for a long time with the engine running, the heater blowing. Snow continued to fall, just a dusting of it, fluttering soundlessly on the windshield. Saturday night was not Lincoln’s usual shift, so where was he? She thought of all the places he might be spending the evening, and the possibilities gnawed at her with cruel teeth. She wasn’t stupid; she knew that Fern Cornwallis had always had her predatory eye on Lincoln. There must be other women as well, dozens of women who’d find a cop in uniform irresistible. Agitation mounting, Doreen began to rock back and forth, moaning, in her seat. Come home, come home. Come back to me.
Even the heater wasn’t enough to ward off the chill seeping into her bones, into her soul. She longed for the warmth of brandy, for the welcome flush of alcohol in her veins. Then she remembered the clink of glass in the trunk. Please let it be something worth drinking. Something stronger than soda pop.
She staggered out of the car, went around to the rear, and opened the trunk. It took her a moment to focus her eyes, and even when she did, she wondered if she was hallucinating. So beautiful, so green. Like jars of emeralds glowing in the darkness. She started to reach down for one, then turned at the sound of a car engine.
Approaching headlights blinded her. Dazed, she put up her hand to shield her eyes.
A silhouette stepped out of the car.
Dr. Francis Clevenger was a man in miniature, small-boned, sparrowfaced, his lab coat drooping like a parent’s oversize raincoat on his frail shoulders. That, and his absolutely beardless face, made him seem far younger than he was. He looked more like a pale adolescent than a board-certified pathologist. With quick grace he rose from his chair to greet Claire and Warren Emerson’s neurosurgeon, Dr. Rothstein.
“These slides are so cool,” Clevenger said. “It was the last thing I expected to see. Go on, take a look!” He pointed to the dual-headed teaching microscope.
Claire and Rothstein sat on opposite sides of the scope and leaned into the eyepieces.
“So what do you see?” asked Clevenger, practically dancing beside them in anticipation.
“A mixture of cells,” said Rothstein. “Astrocytes, I’d guess. Plus what looks to me like an interweaving of scar tissue.”
