I said, “You wanted to see me.”
She gave me an indulgent smile. “Yes.”
There was a pause.
“I’m Archibald’s mother.”
She seemed to be taking me in.
Finally she said, “I know.”
“Well,” I said, casting my eyes around hopefully for a thermos or other sign of coffee, “here I am.”
“I’ve been worried about the way Arch has been acting in class,” she said. “Some of his behavior has been very odd.”
I let out an involuntary groan, and Janet Heath gave me a sympathetic look.
She said, “Let’s get something hot to drink in the teachers’ lounge. They’re finishing up a meeting in there, so we can come back here to talk. We’ll have plenty of time.”
When we came to the smoke-filled faculty lounge, Miss Heath waved at the gray cloud with regal hand motions. I let coffee gush into the biggest Styrofoam cup I could find. Miss Heath fixed chamomile leaf tea, which she strained through a little straw basket, a potionlike beverage to match her outfit.
She took minute sips of her tea as we walked back to the room, then said, “Arch and Laura were close, weren’t they?”
“Yes, they were. He used to stay quite a bit after school, just to work on projects, help around the room, so on.”
“Yes.” More sips of tea. “I have some of the drawings he did for her. They were in with the other things from her desk.”
I said, “I’d love to see them, if you don’t mind. The drawings, I mean.”
We reentered the classroom, more like a cave hung with critters, and I followed her back to her desk. She motioned for me to sit while she shuffled through the desk drawers.
“I’ve made some toffee for the Halloween party,” I said to fill the silence.
Again the ridged brow greeted me as she stopped her search.
She said, “Sugarless?”
“No, afraid not.”
She brought a manila envelope out of the desk.
“This is all there was from Ms. Smiley’s, Laura’s, desk, besides a coffee mug. Arch was helping her with a fifth-grade project on small mammals. It’s all in here. I’m sure it’s okay for you to take his work. Just leave the rest—I’ll have to give it to the principal eventually. Arch does have extraordinary artistic talent, although he rarely uses it in this classroom.”
I drew out drawings of raccoons, mice, prairie dogs, skunks. While I was admiring them Miss Heath got up to open a window. I dumped out the rest of what was in the envelope, a grading book, a sheaf of papers with meeting announcements, a teaching aid called “Science in the Classroom,” odds and ends. The very last was a small wallet.
I glanced up. Miss Heath was writing Bring Halloween Sheets to Music Class on the board. I opened the wallet.
It contained some pictures of students, a very old photo of what I assumed to be Laura and her parents while they were still alive, some faces signed with familiar names from the box of letters and the wall of photos in her home, and then a jolt. There was a picture of a very young John Richard Korman accompanied by his parents, the much younger Fritz and pre-red-haired Vonette. Standing beside them was the same girl, the same teenager, whose picture had been in Ms. Smiley’s living room and in Vonette’s desk.
“What’s that?” asked Miss Heath. She had returned and was again looking for something on her desk.
“Oh,” I said, “I don’t mean to be prying. It’s just a picture of a family Ms. Smiley and I both know. Knew. I wonder who gave it to her,” I said as I slipped the photo out of its plastic folder and flipped it.
An immature female hand, the same as the one on the other two photos, had written “In happier times.”
Angry hot blood flowed into my face, and I was wondering just how well Laura Smiley had known my ex- husband’s family. She had lived in Aspen Meadow, moved to Illinois, then moved back here after leaving Illinois. What her connection had been to them in that state, besides a vague reference to being a nanny, I did not know.
But questions were beginning to form in my mind. Had the friendship between Laura Smiley and my son been a fluke? Had he truly been so special to her? Had she for some reason sought him out? Or had she resisted becoming friends with him, perhaps because of some unfinished history between herself and the Kormans?
“Well?” said Miss Heath. “Someone you know?”
I stared at her, unable to remember what we’d been talking about. I gathered up Arch’s drawings and then slipped the wallet and other papers back into the envelope.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Why don’t we just discuss Arch?”
Miss Heath smoothed the skirt of her embroidered dress.
“I am really very worried,” she said, “by the way Arch is acting in class. His behavior indicates some kind of distress.”
“What kind of behavior?”
“Well,” she said as she stood and picked up another sheaf of papers, “let’s go over to his desk.”
My heart dived. Arch, who was fairly neat at home, never had been one to keep an orderly desk. During parent conferences over the past five years I had always felt compelled to sort through the scrunched-up mess of papers, pencils, crayons, mittens, and overdue library books to bring a little order into the chaos. Today was no exception. The innards of his desk were precariously cantilevered out over his seat. Miss Heath was beginning to talk again, so my cleaning compulsion would have to wait a few minutes, anyway.
“I’ve been concerned about Arch this whole month,” she said. “Of course I know all the children were shocked by the loss of Laura Smiley. Many of them had had her for a teacher. The counselors advised us to have them write about their feelings.”
She shuffled through a small pile of papers in front of her and handed me one. It was written by one Jane Ross: “I feel sad about Ms. Smiley dying because she was nice to me and she hugged me when my bird died.”
Another, from Charlie Johnson: “It’s too bad about Ms. Smiley. I feel sad the way I did when my grandmother died. She was old, though.”
Clarissa Ludmiller had written, “Today is a very unhappy day because of Ms. Smiley dying. She was funny and she always made us laugh. That’s what I will remember about her.”
Then Miss Heath handed me Arch’s.
It said, “I can’t write how I feel about my teacher dying.”
I said, “Hmm.” I knew all about how important it was to get feelings out. But if he wasn’t ready, he wasn’t ready.
“Then,” Miss Heath went on, “I had them write in their journals, which they hand in from time to time, about someone they absolutely hate. It could even include me.”
Now she handed me another student’s journal: “The person I hate is my sister. I was so glad when I went to visit my grandparents and she went to camp instead. Grandma bought me a Hershey’s Big Block and I didn’t have to share it.”
Another journal: “The person I hate is the Iutola Koamainee because he hates Americans.”
Arch’s was next. He wrote, “The person I hate is my grandfather. Not the one in New Jersey, even though he’s a bit strange. But my other grandfather has no respect for human life.”
“What?” I said aloud. “Fritz delivers babies, for God’s sake.”
Miss Heath sipped tea and said, “That was my reaction. But I didn’t ask him about it because the journals, although I see them, are their own reflections. I always tell them that anything goes.” She paused again. “But the most frightening thing to me is the way he’s become so involved in these fantasy role-playing games.”
I let out a breath. “He is very involved with them,” I said lamely.
She went on, oblivious, “He often will stay in at recess to work on a game, or become involved when he has free time.” She gestured to the far side of the room, where a fluorescent light was illuminating a large cluster of plants. “He says he’s growing milkwort over there for one of his potions.” Then came the dreaded words. “It’s like
