When He Fell (7 page)

And then, when I was fourteen, there was Esme. Esme was a career foster mother who always had a couple of kids in her duplex in Haddonfield, New Jersey. She was cheerful, brisk, and didn’t take any bullshit. She saved me from spiraling down like my mother did, into depression or drugs or worse. With her help, I finished high school and got into Rutgers for college; I completed a degree in Business Studies, admittedly overwhelmed by college loans, and then an internship at Alwin.

She’s the closest thing I’ve ever had to family, but we aren’t even that close. Esme has had a dozen foster kids go through her home since I was there, and she tries to keep in touch with them all but there’s so many, and besides, the ones she really cares about are the ones currently living with her. I’ve seen her a few times over the last ten years; I took Ben to see her when he was a baby, and she cooed over him before being distracted by the hell-raising five-year-old twins she’d taken on board. I understand the limitations placed on her, and I’ve been okay with that. I’ve had to be.

But now I break down and call her, because there is no one else.

“Maddie!” She sounds genuinely pleased to hear from me. “How are you, sweetie?”

“Not so good, Esme.” I take a shuddering breath. “Ben’s in the hospital.” Quickly I explain what happened, and Esme clucks her sympathy before saying, quite sincerely,

“I wish there was something I could do.”

Which says it all, really. Because she is acknowledging there isn’t.

We chat for a few more minutes and then I hang up the phone, feeling worse than before. Who else is in my life? Ben’s father has never, not even remotely, been in the picture. Juliet was my best friend but she’s clearly not all that interested; I have a few acquaintances from work with whom I’ve eaten lunch or grabbed a coffee during a break, but they’re hardly people I’d go to in an emergency. None of the parents from Burgdorf are on more than quick-smile-by-the-school-door terms, except for Lewis.

And as much as I want to, I know I can’t call Lewis. Not again. He didn’t respond to my one-word voicemail except to cancel our plans. Which means, I realize, that he must not know about Ben’s accident. But Josh must know. Josh might have seen him fall. They always play together at recess. Why wouldn’t Josh tell Lewis that Ben fell?

I grab my phone and press Lewis’s number. My heart is beating hard as I prepare for a conversation, perhaps a confrontation, but the phone just switches over to voicemail, and disappointment crashes through me. This time I don’t leave a message.

6
JOANNA

Her words hang in the air as Lewis, Mrs. James, and I all look at each other. Lewis shifts in his chair; his hands have balled into fists.

“Why,” I finally manage, “do you think Josh pushed Ben?”

“I spoke to Mrs. Rollins this morning and several children have mentioned it,” Mrs. James says. “They are…concerned.”

But Josh is not a pusher. He’s never aggressive. Ben is the one who is hyperactive, who bounces around, who has no boundaries.
Ben
is the one who would push.

“I think,” Mrs. James says, “we should call Joshua in here to speak with us.”

“I’d like to discuss this a little more first,” I say as firmly as I can. “I don’t want Josh to be intimidated—”

“There is no intimidation involved, Mrs. Taylor-Davies,” Mrs. James says in quelling tones. I give her a disbelieving look and she has the grace to look slightly abashed. “We all want answers,” she says in a quieter tone.

“You’re acting like you’ve already found them.” Lewis’s voice is even and measured but I can feel the latent anger underneath it. I think Mrs. James can too.

“Based on what I’ve heard this morning, it seems quite clear that Joshua pushed Ben,” she answers.

“So you mean it was an accident,” Lewis says after a moment, his voice so very even.

Mrs. James’s purses her lips. “I’m not sure about that, Mr. Taylor-Davies.”

My whole body goes rigid and I can’t speak, can’t process what she is implying. “That’s bullshit,” Lewis says calmly.

Mrs. James stiffens. “Mr. Taylor-Davies, please.”

“Two nine-year-old boys messing around in a playground, and there is an
accident
. What are you trying to turn this into?”

“I am simply trying to find the facts of the matter,” Mrs. James answers with chilly dignity. “Ben’s mother, Madeleine Reese, has some questions. We, as a school, need to give her the right answers—”

“I know Maddie,” Lewis cuts across her. “She’s not behind this. You’re looking for someone to pin this onto, God only knows why, and it’s not Josh.”

“All I’m suggesting is that we talk to Joshua and see what he has to say for himself, so we can deal with the matter appropriately.”

“Appropriately?” Lewis repeats disbelievingly. “What the hell does that mean?”

Mrs. James draws herself up. “Naturally Burgdorf does not tolerate violence of any kind.”

“My son is not violent,” I say quietly. “If Josh pushed Ben, it was nothing more than an accident as my husband just said. A very unfortunate and tragic accident.” My voice trembles and I gaze at her, daring her to contradict me. “I can’t believe you would suggest otherwise.”

“I am not suggesting anything,” Mrs. James says primly, “other than that we ask Joshua to join us so he can explain himself.”

“Fine,” Lewis says, biting off the word. “Go get Josh.”

Mrs. James calls for her PA and we wait in tense silence while our son is fetched. My mind is racing, racing.
Why
wouldn’t Josh tell us about Ben’s fall? I’m afraid of the answer:
because he pushed him
. But why would Josh push Ben? He doesn’t push. He doesn’t get angry; he goes quiet. Nothing makes sense.

A few minutes later Josh appears in the doorway, his eyes huge and dark in his pale face. I rise from my chair and go to hug him; his shoulders are bony and thin under my hands and he leans into me for a second before he moves away.

“Josh, sweetie,” I say quietly. “Mrs. James and Dad and I want to talk to you about what happened yesterday.”

He nods slowly, and a sigh escapes him, a sound of defeat. “Okay.”

“Joshua, why don’t you sit down,” Mrs. James says. Her voice is brisk and to me it sounds unwelcoming. I grit my teeth, wishing she could try a little harder.

Josh takes a seat next to Lewis and rests his hands on the armrests of the chair; they look pale and thin, his fingernails bitten down to the quick. I wonder if that is recent; I don’t remember Josh biting his nails before.

“Joshua, can you tell me what happened yesterday at the playground?” Mrs. James asks.

Josh doesn’t answer. Seconds tick by, and no one says anything. I can feel tension knotting my shoulders, dread pooling like acid in my stomach.

I take a deep breath. “Josh,” I say softly. “Please answer Mrs. James.”

He takes a deep breath. “Ben fell,” he finally says, his voice so soft we all strain to hear it.

“How did he fall?” Mrs. James asks. Josh doesn’t answer. “Joshua?” Impatience sharpens her voice. “Did you and Ben have an argument? Were you fighting on the playground?”

“Talk about leading questions,” Lewis mutters.

“No,” Josh says softly.

“No, you weren’t fighting?” Mrs. James clarifies. She sounds like a lawyer.

“No,” Josh says again, and this time his voice is clear. He looks up at Mrs. James and meets her narrowed gaze unblinkingly. “We weren’t fighting.” And then he sets his jaw and I know we’d have an easier time pulling teeth rather than words from his mouth.

“Joshua, this is quite serious, you know,” Mrs. James says. “Some children in your class have said they saw you talking heatedly with Ben. They say they saw you push him.”

“And you trust their word over Josh’s?” Lewis demands.

Mrs. James swings towards Lewis to look at him severely. “When it is several children, yes, I do, Mr. Taylor-Davies. Yes, I do.”

“We weren’t fighting,” Josh says again. He sounds obstinate.

“Please,” I interject. “No matter how it came about, this was clearly an accident. Children push each other all the time. It’s just that a brain injury doesn’t normally result.”

Now I’m on the receiving end of one of Mrs. James’s chilly stares. “We take bullying very seriously here at Burgdorf, Mrs. Taylor-Davies.”

Bullying?
The idea that Josh could be bullying Ben is ludicrous, laughable. Surely this woman realizes that.

“My son is not a bully,” Lewis says.

“We have policies in place to deal with physical aggression,” Mrs. James continues. “An act of this nature results in one week’s suspension. Any further infractions will require the Board to reconsider Joshua’s place at Burgdorf.”

It’s as if she’s lobbed a grenade right onto our laps. Lewis and I gape. Mrs. James sits with her hands primly folded in front of her and waits.

“Are you saying,” Lewis finally asks in a low voice, “that my son might be expelled? For
possibly
pushing
one
kid
one
time?”

“No, I am saying he will be suspended for one week, starting immediately,” Mrs. James answers. “If there is a repeat infraction, then we will be forced to consider expulsion.”

Her face is a bland mask as she holds our incredulous gazes. What has happened, I wonder in disbelief, to Burgdorf’s nurturing the whole child, ‘place of positivity’ atmosphere? It’s all a crock of shit, apparently, just as Lewis has said.

“This place is full of kids with syndromes and learning difficulties and all the rest of it,” Lewis says. His voice is still low, but furious. “There are kids pushing other kids all the time. I’ve been on playground duty, and I’ve seen it.”

Lewis has been on playground duty? This detail snags on my brain, because he never told me that. Why would he do playground duty? We paid the two thousand dollar exemption from the mandatory parent volunteering; both of us were realistic enough to acknowledge that we wouldn’t be able to manage it.

“Even so, Mr. Taylor-Davies,” Mrs. James says, which is no response at all.

Lewis stares at her for a long moment and then he rises from his chair in one abrupt movement. “Fine. We’re leaving.”

We are?
I rise too, because what else can I do? “I have some serious questions about your handling of this situation,” I tell Mrs. James. I don’t want to say more in front of Josh.

“You will find,” Mrs. James answers, “we are acting in accordance with our published policy, the policy you signed upon Joshua’s admission to this school.” A policy they hardly ever enforce. So why now? Why Josh? I don’t trust myself to say anything civil so I just nod tightly.

“Come on, Josh,” Lewis says, and with one hand on our son’s shoulder, he steers us out of the headmistress’s office. School is letting out as we head down the halls to the double doors. A teacher is on duty; I don’t recognize her, and it isn’t until Lewis strides up and gets in her face that I realize this must be Mrs. Rollins.

“Do you know Josh has been suspended?” he asks quietly, but with menace.

Mrs. Rollins blinks several times. “No, I…I wasn’t aware,” she stammers. She can’t meet any of our eyes.

“Do you think that’s fair?” Lewis demands. “Considering?”

“It’s not my place to decide on disciplinary measures, Mr. Taylor-Davies,” Mrs. Rollins says. She’s still not looking at us.

“You were there on the playground?” Lewis presses. By now children are staring; a knot of mothers has gathered by the door, their highlighted heads bent together as they whisper and dart looks toward us. They remind me of a flock of blonde crows. “You saw it happen?”

Finally Mrs. Rollins looks at Lewis. “No, I didn’t. There were two parents on playground duty yesterday.”

“Which parents?”

She hesitates, and I sense she’s nervous, even afraid. “I’m not sure…” she hedges.

“Bullshit,” Lewis snaps, and the crows outside whisper furiously. It sounds like hissing.

“You’d have to ask Tanya,” she says, and she shoots Josh a look that seems full of apology. “She has the schedule.”

Without another word Lewis marches out the doors and past the whispering mothers, his hand still on Josh’s shoulder. I follow alone. My face burns with both anger and shame.

On the corner of Fifty-Fourth and Sixth Avenue Lewis hails a cab. Thankfully one screeches to a halt in front of us within seconds; I can feel the stares of all the Burgdorf mothers boring holes into my back from halfway down the block. We all climb into the cab in silence.

Josh sits between us, his arms and legs folded up as if he’s trying to make himself smaller. I wrestle the seatbelt over his inert form as Lewis stares out the window, his jaw clenched, and the taxi inches through the midtown traffic.

I put my arm around Josh, but he remains rigid and unyielding. “We’re going to have an amazing week, doing all sorts of cool stuff,” I say firmly, and no one answers.

When we get back to our apartment, Josh disappears into his bedroom. I want to go after him, but I decide he could use a little time alone. I’ll try talking to him later. Lewis shrugs off his jacket and strides to the living room window overlooking the park, bracing one hand against its frame.

“This whole thing is bullshit,” he says. “That school is crazy.”

“They seem to have taken against Josh,” I admit quietly. The last thing I want is for our son to hear us talking like this.

“They don’t even know for sure that he pushed Ben, and
if
he did push him, it was obviously an accident. He and Ben were just messing around. You know how Ben is.”

Not really, actually. Ben is boisterous; I know that. When he came over one Saturday when I happened to be home—often I’m at work on a Saturday—he was zinging around our apartment like a pinball in a machine. Lewis finally took the boys out to the park. I offered to come, but they didn’t take me up on it and I was relieved. I didn’t think I could handle Ben’s energy, which was a whole other ball game from Josh’s quiet intensity.

“Why would Josh push Ben?” I ask. “He’s not a pusher.”

Lewis shrugs. “They’re nine-year-old boys. Even Josh roughhouses a little bit. When we’re all out together.”

“But then why wouldn’t Josh tell us about Ben’s fall?”