No Time for Goodbye (5 page)

I stopped reading and looked up. “Comments?”

A boy behind Bruno said, “I like my eggs runny.”

A girl on the opposite side of the room said, “I like it. You want to know what this guy is like, like, if he cares about her breakfast, maybe he’s not an asshole. All the guys my mom hooks up with are assholes.”

“Maybe the guy’s making her breakfast because he wants to do her
and
her mother,” Bruno said.

Laughter.

An hour later, as they filed out, I said, “Jane.” She sidled over to my desk reluctantly. “You pissed?” I said.

She shrugged, ran her hand over the bandage, making me notice it by trying to keep me from noticing it.

“It was good. That’s why I read it.”

Another shrug.

“I hear you’re flirting with a suspension.”

“That bitch started it,” Jane said.

“You’re a good writer,” I said. “That other story you did, I submitted it to the library’s short story contest, the one they have for students.”

Jane’s eyes did a little dance.

“Some of your stuff, it reminds me a bit of Oates,” I said. “You ever read Joyce Carol Oates?”

Jane shook her head.

“Try
Foxfire: Confessions of a Girl Gang
,” I said. “Our library probably doesn’t have it. Bad words. But you could find it at the Milford Library.”

“We done?” she asked.

I nodded, and she headed out the door.

I found Rolly in his office, sitting at his computer, staring at something on the monitor. He pointed at the screen. “They want more testing. Pretty soon, we won’t have any time to teach them anything. We’ll just test them from the moment they get here to the moment they go home.”

“What’s that kid’s story?” I asked. He needed to be reminded who I was talking about.

“Jane Scavullo, yeah, shame about her,” he said. “I don’t even think we have a current address for her. The last one we have for her mother has to be a couple of years old, I think. Moved in with some new guy, brought her daughter along, too.”

“The fight aside,” I said, “I think she’s actually been a bit better the last few months. Not quite as much trouble, a little less surly. Maybe this new guy, maybe he’s actually been an improvement.”

Rolly shrugged. He opened up a Girl Scout cookie box on his desk. “Want one?” he asked, holding the box out to me.

I took a vanilla.

“It’s all wearing me down,” Rolly said. “It’s not like it was when I started. You know what I found out behind the school the other day? Not just beer bottles—if only—but crack pipes and, you won’t believe this, a gun. Under the bushes, like it had fallen out of someone’s pocket, or maybe he was hiding it there.”

I shrugged. This wasn’t exactly new.

“How you doin’ anyway?” Rolly asked. “You look, I don’t know, off today. You okay?”

“Maybe a bit,” I said. “Home stuff. Cyn’s having a hard time giving Grace any kind of taste of freedom.”

“She still looking for asteroids?” he said. Rolly had been over to the house with his wife, Millicent, a few times and loved talking with Grace. She’d shown him her telescope. “Smart kid. Must get that from her mother.”

“I know why she does it. I mean, if I’d had the kind of life Cyn’s had, maybe I’d hold on to things a bit tight, too, but shit, I don’t know. She says there’s a car.”

“A car?”

“A brown car. It’s been by a couple of times when she’s been walking Grace to school.”

“Has anything happened?”

“No. A couple months ago, it was a green SUV. Last year, there was a week or so there, Cyn said there was some guy with a beard on the corner, three days in one week, looked at them funny.”

Rolly took another bite of cookie. “Maybe, lately, it’s the TV show.”

“I think that’s part of it. Plus this is twenty-five years since her family vanished. It’s taking a bit of a toll on her.”

“I should talk to her,” Rolly said. “Time to hit the beach.” In the years after her family’s disappearance, Rolly would occasionally take Cynthia off Tess’s hands for a while. They’d get an ice cream at the Carvel at Bridgeport Avenue and Clark Street, then stroll the shore of Long Island Sound, sometimes talking, sometimes not.

“That might be a good idea,” I said. “And we’re seeing this psychiatrist, this woman, you know, once in a while, to talk about things. Dr. Kinzler. Naomi Kinzler.”

“How’s that going?”

I shrugged, then said, “What do you think happened, Rolly?”

“How many times you asked me this, Terry?”

“I just wish this could end for Cyn, that she could get some sort of answers. I think that’s what she thought the TV show would do.” I paused. “The thing is, you knew Clayton. You went fishing with him. You had a handle on the type of person he was.”

“And Patricia.”

“They seem like the types to just walk out on their daughter?”

“No. My guess is, what I’ve always believed in my heart, is that they were murdered. You know, like I told the show, a serial killer or something.”

I nodded slowly in agreement, although the police had never put much stock in that theory. There was nothing about the disappearance of Cynthia’s family that was consistent with anything else they had on their books. “Here’s the thing,” I said. “If some kind of serial killer did come to their house, took them away, and killed them, why not Cynthia? Why did he leave her behind?”

Rolly had no answer for me. “Can I ask you something?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said.

“Why do you think our fabulously engineered gym teacher would put a note in your box, then go back a minute later and take it out again?”

“What?”

“Just remember, Terry, you’re a married man.”

6

After Rolly finished telling me
what he had observed while sitting on the far side of the staff room, supposedly reading a newspaper, he had some good news for me. Sylvia, the theater arts teacher, was doing an early morning rehearsal the following day for the school’s big annual production, which this year was
Damn Yankees
. Half the kids from my creative writing class were involved, so my first-period class was effectively wiped out. With that many missing, those who were still obliged to show up would not.

So the next morning, as Grace picked at her toast and jam, I said, “Guess who’s walking you to school today?”

Her face lit up. “You are? Really?”

“Yeah. I already told your mom. I don’t have to be in first thing today, so it’s okay.”

“Are you really going to walk with me, like, right next to me?”

I could hear Cynthia coming down the stairs, so I put an index finger to my lips and Grace immediately went quiet.

“So, Pumpkin, your dad’s walking you today,” she said. Pumpkin. It had been Cynthia’s own mother’s pet name for her. “That okay with you?”

“Sure!”

Cynthia raised an eyebrow. “Well, I see. You don’t like my company.”

“Mom,” said Grace.

Her mother smiled. If she was actually offended, she showed no signs of it. Grace, less sure than I, backtracked. “It’s just fun to walk with Dad for a change.”

“What are you looking at?” Cynthia asked me. I had the newspaper open to the real estate ads. Once a week the paper had a special section filled with houses for sale.

“Oh, nothing.”

“No, what? You thinking of moving?”

“I don’t want to move,” Grace said.

“Nobody’s moving,” I said. “Just, sometimes, I think we could use a place with a little more space.”

“How could we get a place with more space—hey, that rhymes—without moving?” Grace asked.

“Okay,” I said. “So we’d have to move to get more space.”

“Unless we added on,” Cynthia said.

“Oh!” Grace said, overcome with a brain wave. “We could build an observatory!”

Cynthia let loose with a laugh, then said, “I was thinking more along the lines of another bathroom.”

“No, no,” Grace said, not giving up yet. “You could make a room with a hole in the ceiling so you could see the stars when it was dark out and I could get a bigger telescope to look straight up instead of out the window, which totally sucks.”

“Don’t say ‘sucks,’” Cynthia said, but she was smiling.

“Okay,” she said. “Did I commit a fox pass?”

Around our house, that was the deliberately dumb pronunciation of
faux pas
. It had been an in-joke between Cynthia and me for so long, Grace had genuinely come to believe this was how you described a social misstep.

“No, honey, that’s not a fox pass,” I said. “That’s just a word we don’t want to hear.”

Switching gears, Grace asked, “Where’s my note?”

“What note?” her mother asked.

“About the trip,” she said. “You were supposed to do a note.”

“Honey, you never said anything about any note for any trip,” Cynthia said. “You can’t spring these things on us at the last minute.”

“What’s it for?” I asked.

“We’re supposed to visit the fire station today, and we can’t go if we don’t have a note giving us permission.”

“Why didn’t you tell us about this soon—”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I’ll bang off a note.”

I ran upstairs to what would be our third bedroom, but was a combined sewing room and office. Tucked into the corner was a desk where Cynthia and I shared a computer and I did my marking and lesson planning. Also sitting on the desk was my old Royal typewriter from university days, which I still used for short notes since my handwriting is terrible, and I find it easier to roll a piece of paper into a typewriter than turn on the computer, open up Word, create and write a document, print it out, etc.

So I typed a short note to Grace’s teacher giving our daughter permission to leave school grounds to tour the fire station. I only hoped the fact that the “e” key looked more like a “c” didn’t create any confusion, especially when my daughter’s name came out looking like “Gracc.”

I came back downstairs and handed Grace the note, folded, and told her to tuck it into her backpack so she wouldn’t lose it.

At the door, Cynthia said to me, “Make sure you see her go into the building.” Grace, out of earshot, was in the driveway, twirling around like a ballerina on crack.

“What if they play outside for a while first?” I said. “They see some guy like me loitering around the schoolyard, aren’t they going to call the cops?”

“If I saw you out there, I’d arrest you in a minute,” Cynthia said. “Just get her to the schoolyard then. That’s all.” She pulled me closer to her. “So when exactly do you have to be to school?”

“Not till start of second period.”

“So you’ve got almost an hour,” she said, and she gave me a look that I did not get to see quite as often as I like.

“Yes,” I said very evenly. “You are correct, Mrs. Archer. Did you have something in mind?”

“Perhaps I do, Mr. Archer.” Cynthia gave me a smile and kissed me very lightly on the lips.

“Won’t Grace seem suspicious when I tell her we have to run the whole way to school?”

“Just go,” she said, and ushered me out the door.

“So what’s the plan?” Grace asked as we started off down the sidewalk, next to each other.

“Plan?” I said. “There’s no plan.”

“I mean, how far are you going to walk me?”

“I thought I’d go right in with you, maybe sit in class with you for an hour or so.”

“Dad, don’t joke.”

“Who says I’m joking? I’d like to sit in class with you. See if you’re doing your work properly.”

“You wouldn’t even fit in the desk,” Grace pointed out.

“I could sit on top of it,” I said. “I’m not particular.”

“Mom seemed kind of happy today,” Grace said.

“Of course she did,” I said. “Mom’s happy lots of times.” Grace gave me a look to suggest that I was not being totally honest here. “Your mom has a lot on her mind these days. This hasn’t been an easy time for her.”

“Because it’s been twenty-five years,” Grace said. Just like that.

“Yeah,” I said.

“And because of the TV show,” she said. “I don’t see why you guys won’t let me see it. You taped it, right?”

“Your mother doesn’t want to upset you,” I said. “About the things that happened to her.”

“One of my friends taped it,” Grace said quietly. “I’ve sort of already seen it, you know.” A kind of “so there” tone in her voice.

“How did you see it?” I asked. Cynthia kept Grace on such a short leash, taking her to and from school, supervising playdates. Had Grace smuggled home a tape, watched it with the volume down while we were up in the study?

“I went to her house at lunch,” Grace said.

Even when they were eight, you couldn’t keep a lid on things. Five years and she’d be a teenager. Jesus.

“Whoever let you see it shouldn’t have,” I said.

“I thought the cop was mean,” she said.

“What cop? What are you talking about?”

“The one on the show? He lives in a trailer? One of those shiny ones? Who said it was weird that Mom was the only one left? I could tell what he was hinting. He was hinting that Mom did it. That she killed everybody.”

“Yeah, well, he was an asshole.”

Grace whipped her head around and looked at me. “Fox pass,” she said.

“Just swearing isn’t a fox pass,” I said, shaking my head, not wanting to get into it.

“Did Mom like her brother? Todd?”

“Yes. She loved him. She had fights with him, just like lots of brother and sisters do, but she loved him. And she didn’t kill him or her mother or her father, and I’m sorry you saw that show and heard that asshole—yes, asshole—detective suggest such a thing.” I paused. “Are you going to tell your mother that you saw the show?”

Grace, still a bit dumbstruck by my shameless use of a bad word, shook her head no. “I think she’d freak out.”

That was probably true, but I didn’t want to say so. “Well, maybe you should talk to her about it sometime, when everyone’s having a good day.”

“Today’s going to be good,” Grace said. “I didn’t see any asteroids last night, so we should be okay at least until tonight.”

“Good to know.”

“You should probably stop walking with me now,” Grace said. Up ahead, I saw some schoolkids about her age, maybe even her friends. More kids were funneling onto our street from side streets. The school was visible three blocks up.

“We’re getting close,” Grace said. “You can watch me from here.”

“Okay,” I said. “Here’s what we’re going to do. You start pulling ahead of me. I’ll do my old man walk. Like Tim Conway.”

“Who?”

I started shuffling, and Grace giggled. “Bye, Dad,” she said, and started pouring on the speed. I kept my eyes on her as I took my tiny steps, being overtaken by other children walking and on bikes and skateboards and inline skates.

She didn’t glance back. She was running to catch up with friends, shouting, “Wait up!” I slipped my hands into my pockets, thought about getting back to the house and having a few private moments with Cynthia.

That was when the brown car drove past.

It was an older American model, fairly generic, an Impala I think, a bit of rust around the wheel wells. Windows tinted, but it was one of those cheap tint jobs, the glass covered with air bubbles, like the car had measles or something.

I stood and watched as it headed down the street, down to the last corner before the school, where Grace was chattering away with two of her friends.

The car stopped at the corner, a few yards away from Grace, and my heart was in my mouth for a moment.

And then one of the brown car’s rear taillights started to flash, the car turned right and disappeared down the street.

Grace and her friends, aided by a crossing guard in a bright orange vest and wielding a huge stop sign, made it across the street and onto school property. To my amazement, she looked back and waved at me. I raised my hand in return.

So okay, there was a brown car. But no man had jumped out of it and run after our daughter. No man had jumped out and run after anyone else’s kid, either. If the driver happened to be some crazed serial killer—as opposed to a perfectly sane serial killer—he wasn’t up to any serial killing this morning.

It appeared to be some guy going to work.

I stood there another moment, watched as Grace was swallowed up by a throng of fellow students, and felt a sadness wash over me. In Cynthia’s world, everyone was plotting to take away your loved ones.

Maybe, if I hadn’t been thinking that way, I’d have had a bit more of a spring in my step as I walked back in the direction of home. But as I approached our house, I tried to shake off my gloominess, to put myself into a better frame of mind. My wife, after all, was waiting for me, very likely under the covers.

So I sprinted the remainder of the last block home, walked briskly up the driveway, and as I came through the front door I called out, “I’m baaaaaack.”

There was no response.

I thought that had to mean Cynthia was already in bed, waiting for me to come upstairs, but as I hit the base of the stairs I heard a voice from the kitchen.

“In here,” Cynthia said. Her voice was subdued.

I stood in the doorway. She was sitting at the kitchen table, the phone in front of her. Her face seemed drained of color.

“What?” I asked.

“There was a call,” Cynthia said quietly.

“Who from?”

“He didn’t say who he was.”

“Well, what did he want?”

“All he said was he had a message.”

“What kind of message?”

“He said they forgive me.”

“What?”

“My family. He said they forgive me for what I did.”