an obsession.”
“I know,” I said. Even the most dim-witted psych major knew that if feelings weren’t dealt with they went underground and after a proper incubation period reemerged as neuroses. But an obsession? With potions?
Miss Heath said, “I’m worried about just how serious this is. He’s drifted off from his fine school record, and he hangs around with only one friend, Todd Druckman. He’s become very touchy.”
“He’s always been touchy,” I offered.
She shook her head.
“I know he’s sensitive,” she said, “but what I mean is different. In fact what happened last week is what made me think I needed to call you.” Another pause, two sips of tea. “The first month of school Arch impressed me as a generous person. He was always there with a pencil or paper clip or whatever for any classmate. But earlier in the week John Hickles started rummaging around in Arch’s desk. He was looking for an eraser, he said later. Arch, who was tending to the classroom gerbils over there”—she motioned to a cage next to the fluorescent light—“came running over, shrieking about leaving his stuff alone.”
“That’s not really typical,” I said. “Although he did accuse me of sneaking up on him the other night.”
Miss Heath nodded. She said, “Not dealing with feelings, and now sudden outbursts of temper. What do you think about seeing if the school psychologist will have a talk with him?”
This was the second time for this particular suggestion in the last twenty-four hours.
“No,” I said, “please. Not yet. Let me try to talk to him a little bit first.”
“I really think it’s a good idea. I truly think he needs counseling.”
“Let me think about it.”
“Okay, suit yourself,” she said, “but I think you’re making a mistake not to set up something right away.” There was a long pause, during which she again smoothed her skirt. “All right. Well. Thank you for coming. The kids will be here soon.” She got up to cue me that we were done. When I didn’t move, she said, “Ah, I have to finish getting the Friday activities ready.”
“Please do,” I said in a leaden voice, avoiding her eyes. “But,” I went on, “I just want to sit here and let all this sink in.” I looked down at Arch’s paper-crammed desk. “Maybe I’ll clean out this mess. Then when Arch or somebody else wants an eraser he won’t have to have a temper tantrum.”
Miss Heath shrugged. Again she said, “Suit yourself.”
I looked at the clock. Eight-thirty. The students wouldn’t be coming in until quarter to nine. I could finish by then. Arch was always grateful when I cleaned things up for him, although I tried not to do it too much. Parenting seminars beat you over the head—a term they would never use—with the injunction to let the children be responsible for their own mess.
In any event, I was wondering if there was more to the eraser story than what I’d heard. I pulled the trash can over and sat back down.
Out came the math papers first. They were stapled in several bundles, with Arch’s wobbly zeros floating across the lines like jellyfish. I smiled, remembering his first-grade habit of chewing his tongue when he wrote the numbers 1 to 100. Then wadded social studies papers cascaded out, on the subject of drugs and avoiding peer pressure. My groping hands pulled out six erasers and a clump of science worksheets on gerbils and their habitats. Pencils, a mitten, multisided dice. Spelling. Book report. More gerbil info.
And then.
A crumpled envelope. Beige stationery. Something inside, which I didn’t look at. Not from school, not from home. I looked at the envelope briefly and then, with the nonchalance that often accompanies being completely stunned, reached for my purse.
The outside of the envelope read, “For Arch, my special friend.” In the upper corner, a scrawled “October 2.” The handwriting I recognized from numerous other communications—progress reports, comments on book reports, thank-you notes for helping on field trips. I dropped the note in my purse.
The handwriting was Laura Smiley’s.
The date was the day before her death.
Perhaps she had left a note, after all.
CHAPTER 15
I walked out of the school building feeling dazed. It was essential that I avoid Arch: my eyes would give me away. Guilt riddled my conscience like bullets. The letter might as well have been burning a hole in my purse. I couldn’t read it yet. I needed time to think and I didn’t have it. My cleaning assignment on the other side of town was due to start in ten minutes; at noon the owner was having a bridge party.
Waves of children were already surging into the school building. With a growl of defiance, the van started. I slapped it into first gear and took off.
The job was in Aspen Hills, a residential area dominated by boxy contemporary houses that looked as if they’d all been popped ready-made from ice cube trays. In the assigned house I put Laura’s letter to my son, her “special friend,” out of my mind while I covered the sunken tubs and tiled floors with cleaning solution before starting on the living room. The architect who had designed this particular dwelling had obviously never washed a window in his life. I propped a ladder against the highest of three stories of glass and began to climb up with a bucket containing a squeegee and squirt bottle of ammoniated solution. Below, the ladder teetered on sculptured chartreuse and pink carpeting.
I wondered A, if dropping the solution on the rug would improve its appearance, and B, if my life insurance would be sufficient for Arch should the ladder tumble. To my vertiginous chagrin I noticed that the ceiling was covered, between its rough-cut beams, with the same pink and green carpet. The architect had been impractical; the designer, insane.
After three hours the house from Atlantis was done and I was famished. The pastry shop beckoned: Cornish pasties and tea. The van once again cut a defiant and dusty path through town, but I was thankful for both the trustworthiness of the transport and the warmer weather. Despite early-morning frosts the month was remaining summery and dry. I could do without snow for a while since the blizzard of difficulties in my life was about all I could handle.
The air in the pastry shop was filled with the scent of fresh brownies. I knew Patty Sue would be down after her appointment with Fritz, sometime in the next hour. This would allow me enough time to balance my guilt with my need-to-know, a term they use someplace like the Pentagon. But I did need to digest lunch and Laura’s epistle before the driving lesson.
I reached gingerly for the crumpled letter and smoothed it out on the table.
“Correspondence?” said Fritz Korman over my shoulder.
He met my upward stare with a conciliatory nod, then lowered himself into the chair opposite mine. His sudden appearance made me wonder if he’d been watching for me from his office window.
“May I see it?” he asked as he reached for the letter, which I quickly stuffed back into my purse.
“No.” I paused. “Why are you so interested? Did the handwriting look familiar?”
He laughed. “Still playing detective, I see. No,” he said, “it didn’t look familiar. I just thought since you took liberties with my files, you wouldn’t mind if I had a look at your letters.”
“Right.” I dug my fork into one of the pasties. The spicy meat and onion scent steamed out. “Fritz,” I said, “do you want to tell me about some mistrial you were involved in?”
“Say,” said Fritz, his handsome face suddenly cheery, “doesn’t that pasty look and smell good. I believe I’ll order something myself. My patients love this place.” He winked at me. “Some of them too much. Mind if I join you?”
I shrugged.
“Listen, Goldy,” he said when he returned in a few minutes with a plate containing two brownies, “I need to talk to you about something.”
“Oh?” I said, cheery myself. “About the time in Illinois? What were the charges?”
“Well.” He tilted his head and gave his serious look. “That was all a long time ago, best left in the past. I guess that’s why I was surprised when you came barging into the office with all your questions.”
I sipped tea, waited. He wasn’t touching his brownies.
“I did know Miss Smiley,” he said. He closed his eyes and bobbed his head. “Of course. That’s why I was at
