Snow Globes and Hand Grenades (16 page)

“We better move fast,” Mimi said. She darted out of the restroom with the boys right behind her. The hallway was dark except the red Exit light reflecting on the polished tile floor. They hurdled up the staircase, laughing and cussing and almost tripping, toward Miss Kleinschmidt's room on the top floor.

Sitting in the back row of the gym, Miss Kleinschmidt reached in her purse to get a cigarette to smoke outside. Her fingers rooted through makeup and keys and used Kleenex, while Monsignor O'Day—up on the stage—was in a battle scene in the trenches hearing the confession of a soldier.

“I'm afraid I might end up killing somebody, somebody just as scared as me on the other side,” the soldier said.

“There's only one way to stop this terrible war,” O'Day told the soldier.

“What, prayer?”

“No, someone has to get out there between the trenches and dance.”

The crowd applauded. The nicotine receptors in Miss Kleinschmidt's brain were on high alert, having already been activated by the sound of her rooting through her purse. She really wanted a smoke now. But the pack in her purse was empty. She got up and decided to go to her classroom for the school pack she kept in her desk drawer.

Up on the stage, the soldiers from the trenches lowered their rifles to watch the priest dancing in the no-man's land between them.

“Come out boys and join me,” O'Day called out. “The war can wait.”

A lone soldier laid down his rifle and crawled out of the trenches to dance, then another and another. Detective Kurtz rushed up the exterior steps into the gym. He was panting as he glanced at the stage and observed the foolishness all around him. The audience in the dark was laughing and clapping, the piano player plinking out happy chords, while a row of soldiers danced arm in arm with Monsignor O'Day.

“Madness,” Kurtz muttered. He walked into the gym, knowing the boy who climbed in the window was either Patrick or Tony. Or maybe he just saw the shoe of the last one. Hell, they could all three be roaming around ripe for arrest. Breaking and Entering. Trespassing. Charges like that could wrench out a confession on the snow globe—and plenty of other juvenile crimes in the area. Striding into the dark gym, he had to make a decision. He had to think like they would think. Where would they be going right now in this big wide school? Either one of two places. Either into Miss Kleinschmidt's class. He looked up near the ceiling at the row of picture windows above the gym, the windows that ran along the hallway leading to Miss Kleinschmidt's class. If they were going there, he knew he would see them running past the windows. His eyes squinted. Nothing.

Mimi, Patrick, and Tony crawled on the hallway floor beneath the windows.

Or, Detective Kurtz thought, they could be breaking into the interrogation room to try to rifle through some papers and mess with the investigation. That's it! That's where they were headed. Detective Kurtz pushed through
the crowd, spilling drinks, and went into the interrogation room and closed the door and sat behind the desk with the light off. He pointed the dark desk lamp at the doorway like a loaded gun ready to shoot the glaring bulb at the guilty bastards when they sneaked in.

Sister Mathilda could hear the crowd cheering and laughing as Monsignor O'Day danced with the soldiers.

“I'm going to use the restroom now,” she whispered to Sister Helen sitting next to her.

“It's so dark, you want me to go with you?”

“No, thank you, I'm used to the dark. I know my way around.”

The principal nodded and went back to watching the show. Sister Mathilda unpeeled the adhesive from the bottom of her black cataract eye patches, so she could see the floor. She bumped into someone.

“Excuse me.”

“No, pardon me.” It was Miss Kleinschmidt headed through the same doorway into the first floor hallway. She recognized Sister Mathilda by her black habit in the dark. “Where you going? You need some help?”

“No, thanks, I'm just going to the little girls room. Where you going?”

“Oh, I just thought I'd check my classroom for some papers I forgot.”

They parted ways, Sister Mathilda clutching the rosary bag with the Cutlass keys in it, and Miss Kleinschmidt gripping her cigarette lighter.

Kneeling on the floor with Tony and Patrick behind her, Mimi grabbed the doorknob to Miss Kleinschmidt's classroom. It swung right open. She stuck her fingernail in the door jam and plucked out the wadded-up paper towel scrap she had put in there as she left Friday afternoon. “Let's get in and get out,” she said.

Patrick whispered to Tony. “If anybody sees us, run for the tracks. Meet on the bridge.”

“We won't get caught,” Tony said. He had full confidence in Mimi.

Inside the class, they stood up and gently closed the door. It clicked shut. They turned to face the empty desks. Their prison cell looked different at night. The only light came from the three full-length windows facing the front lawn, where floodlights shooting up at the school threw cemetery
shadows from the tombstone rows of empty desks. To be standing there beyond the school day without Miss Kleinschmidt vexing them, they were like three grade school ghosts drifting through a room that no longer held any power over them. Soon it would feel like this forever, when the last bell would ring and the room would empty out.

“I say we trash this place and pee on her desk,” Tony said.

Mimi and Patrick looked at him. But before they could answer, they heard applause and saw a light in the hallway. It was coming from the windows overlooking the gym. The gym lights were on. They listened and heard adults talking and laughing.

“Must be intermission,” Mimi said.

“Wait,” Patrick said snapping his fingers.

They listened again and heard footsteps right outside the door, and then the sound of a key chain jangling at the lock. It was Miss Kleinschmidt.

Sister Mathilda put the cataract eye patch in her habit pocket and peeked her head out of the Girls restroom into the hallway. All clear. She scurried past the knee-high drinking fountain and down a fight of steps to the exit doors. There she paused to kick the throw rug into the door so it wouldn't lock behind her. With a quick glance left and right, she swept down the outside steps into the night. Her Cutlass was waiting.

Father Ernst reached for the doorknob outside the interrogation room. He, too, was hunting for a pack of cigarettes and remembered he'd left one on the leather couch. As he opened the door, he heard a voice from the darkness.

“You're under arrest,” Detective Kurtz said, switching on the lamp.

The desk lamp blasted him with light and Father Ernst fell backwards into the interrogation chair.

“Shit, it's you,” Detective Kurtz said. “I thought you were them.”

“Them?”

“Them, dammit! They're in the school somewhere.”

“Who?”

“I'm not sure, but I saw a boy's shoe going in a window. Run upstairs to Kleinschmidt's room and have a look around for anything unusual. I'll stay here.”

Detective Kurtz switched off the lamp—but not before Father Ernst noticed a dab of blood on the desktop from Kurtz's elbow. He shut the door and ventured out into the dark, first floor hallway.

Miss Kleinschmidt opened the door to her classroom and flipped on the lights. The room was empty. She sniffed the air and moved along the first row of desks toward her own desk to get some cigarettes. Mimi, Patrick, and Tony were crouched behind the bookcase in the corner. They couldn't see her, but they could hear her. Her warden shoes clopped to a stop and then a desk drawer opened. It was quiet and then they heard a cigarette lighter flicking. They heard her breathe in and exhale with relief, and then she started talking to herself.

“The dancing priest! Shit, I could dance every bit as good if I wanted to.”

Mimi, Patrick, and Tony looked at each other, then turned their heads again to listen. They could hear Miss Kleinschmidt dancing around by her desk. She was tapping along just like Monsignor O'Day. She was pretending that she was in the play, that she was preventing World War III. “I'll show them all,” she mumbled. Her shoes clunked along in the dark, scuffing up the floor, and then she went into a coughing fit and sank into a student's desk.

There was a knock at the door.

“Who is it?” Miss Kleinschmidt called out, getting up.

“It's me … Father Ernst, are you all right?”

Sister Mathilda got behind the wheel of her Cutlass. She looked through the windshield, imagining the open road leading west to visit her sister and see her parent's grave. With a shaky hand, she slipped the key in the ignition, pumped the gas pedal, and turned the key.

The 320 horsepower, Jetfire Rocket V8 engine awoke, shooting black smoke out the tailpipe.

Miss Kleinschmidt opened the door a crack, holding her cigarette behind her back. Father Ernst smelled it right away.

“Father, what are you doing out there in the dark?”

“I was at the show and there's been some funny business. Kids in the school. Detective Kurtz suggested I have a look around.”